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She smeared the baby lotion over her skin leaving a film like milk. Wonderful stuff – she paused to give a silent hiccup of laughter then frowned in irritation as she exposed the lines at the corner of her mouth. That didn’t help either. She sighed as she went through the ritual one more time, taking care to smooth out the ancient creases she’d missed.
She wondered how the family had ever got by before this magical substance was invented – all right she had never believed the old wives’ tales that said ‘baby’ lotion referred to the original ingredient – but whatever the truth that gave rise to such unnatural rumours she and generations of her kind had reason to feel grateful to the founders of the company.
The nails were also a problem. She had varnish in all the colours of the rainbow, including vials labelled ‘sunflower’ and ‘buttercup’ – garish yellow shades that worked like foundation to correct the underlying pallor of bloodless nails. A dead giveaway that sold in limited editions to the cognoscenti, the formula passed down from father to son and blended only for the firm’s original customers.
She thought back to the days when saffron had been dearer than life and shivered a little as she remembered the first time they told her the tribute was due and it was her turn to pay
She took one last lingering look at her reflection in the glass, dissatisfied as ever with the image it revealed. The sunglasses were a help though she felt absurd wearing them after dark – and the pearlescent hue she painted on her teeth. Appearances were important. Even on Halloween, with all the masks that hid the skull beneath the skin, people were apt to flinch and turn away from a woman with no eyes.
The clock struck the hour and she listened for the knock in time with the first chime. Punctual as ever – she expected no less. She heard a key turn in the lock, a courtesy she appreciated. Just because you could walk through doors didn’t mean you should. She took time to draw up her fur-lined hood, making her guest wait until she was ready to face him.
Fur was unpopular these days but she had never brought herself to accept the new fashion of wearing victims’ hair, even though the children laughed at her for her old- fashioned scruples.
She didn’t remember this one but she recognised him as one of her own. He was ‘family’; the dark hollows of his eyes confirmed it. His hair, at least the hair he wore hung in thickly clustered braids, plaited close to his skull, myriad shades, twined together, faded, dyed and occasionally the soft swatches of infant hair that betrayed his extreme youth. He noted her disapproval of this display, glanced disparagingly at the hood she wore.
‘Are you ready?’
She sighed and opened the mirrored door. Something soft cascaded in waves to the carpet, continued to spill until she stood circled in coils like a snake. She picked up a silver fruit knife, cut off a rope then weighed it on a scale. The measure was exact. She stepped out of the enfolding coils and settled the sinuous braid around his neck, wrinkling her nose a little at the scent of decaying hair.
She smiled at him. ‘You, my young friend, have much to learn. Shall we go pay the rent?’
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