Come to Harm by Catriona McPherson Page B

shop bell sounded and a man strolled in. Fishing in his jacket pocket for his wallet, he joined the woman at the counter.
    â€œWell, what’s the damage, then?” he said. “What are you after from us today?” He looked at Keiko and chuckled. “Aye, they’re doing all right are the Pooles.”
    â€œWe’re managing, Mr. Glendinning,” said Murray, in a level voice. “The three of us.”
    â€œOch away, I’m just havin’ a laugh with you,” said the man. “Let’s just hope this one lasts, eh?”
    â€œWheesht, Eric,” said his wife. She smiled tightly at Keiko. “Just ignore him, lovey.”
    â€œIgnore what?” said her husband. “I’m saying I hope she stays. I’m hoping the luck’s turned. Where the harm in that?” He grasped the bag that Murray held over the counter to him, groaned at the weight of it, and walked out. Mrs. Glendinning took the change with another tight smile and followed him.
    â€œTosser,” Murray said when they had left.
    â€œWhat did he mean?” said Keiko.
    â€œNothing, he’s just a stirrer,” Murray said.
    â€œDid he mean me? This one ? Is that me?”
    â€œNow why would you think that?” Murray said, very still and staring at her.
    â€œI—” She gulped. There was no reason, except jet lag and dreams she could not quite remember and just the strangeness of everything. Except …
    â€œGirls leave,” she blurted out. The weird niece, Dina .
    Murray’s eyes widened.
    â€œDo you cook?” said Malcolm’s voice suddenly, making her jump. He had reappeared at the back of the shop, holding a tray. She composed herself and answered him gently.
    â€œA little. Easy things Soup, noodles.”
    â€œWhat about this?” Malcolm said, shuffling forward and showing her the tray. On it were three skewers threaded with pieces of chicken curved like little seashells, perfect white cubes of mushroom flesh, slices of garlic—sheer and glistening—and discs of baby sweet corn like the wheels of a toy car. The skewers were finished off at each end with tiny onions.
    â€œFive ingredients,” said Malcolm, “because four is unlucky.”
    â€œYou made kebabs?” she said.
    â€œThey were supposed to be yakitori,” said Malcolm, looking down at them. “Off the Internet.”
    â€œWell, you must come upstairs after work and help me eat them,” Keiko said, looking at Murray. “Both of you.”
    â€œThese were meant for you,” said Malcolm. “But I could make some more, I suppose.”
    â€œJust a wee snack, eh?” said Murray. “From the king of portion control.”
    Mrs. Poole had appeared in the doorway to the back shop and looked intently at Keiko before she spoke. “There’s no need for you to be laying on catering up in the flat,” she said. Then with a visible effort she continued, “You should come to our house.”
    â€œThank you,” said Keiko. She had no phrases in her repertoire to help with such a reluctant invitation. She waited to see if Mrs. Poole would say any more, and it seemed to her that both sons were watching their mother too. The woman said nothing. How , thought Keiko, do you leave in silence if you can’t bow? I must ask or look it up . Then with a flush of relief, she thought of something to say.
    â€œThe Internet!” She turned to Malcolm. “You have it here in the shop?” He nodded. “Ah! I think I’m picking up your connection in the flat then.”
    All three of the Pooles looked up at the ceiling.
    â€œWhat?” said Mrs. Poole. “What are you picking up? What have you seen?”
    â€œNothing,” said Keiko. “Goodness, no. Just a prompt. And I wouldn’t— I don’t know the password anyway. I’ll get my own service, naturally.”
    â€œNo need for that,” Malcolm said.