Louis Beside Himself by Anna Fienberg Page A

pocket of his shirt. God! What do I do now? He was probably a serial killer who enjoyed talking with his victims first, like a cat playing with a mouse. He might be a serial killer with . . . something that wasn’t quite right.
    I looked closer . . . a serial killer with bosoms?
    Was I dreaming again? The burglar ran his hand through his hair. Short reddish-blonde spiky hair. I peered at his face. No beard shadow, fine features, large brown eyes like a possum, soft pale skin . . .
    â€˜You’re a girl!’ I told him. Her.
    She put her cap back on, and grinned. ‘Yeah, but don’t let it get around.’
    Then we both heard it – the metallic snap of the front gate. The burglar jumped.
    â€˜That’ll be my friends coming back from their various sporting activities,’ I said, rolling my eyes to show my interests were much more mature. Then I stopped. Just because this burglar didn’t mind being corrected about her use of lugubrious , which was actually very generous and broadminded of her, there was no reason to think she was harmless. Never be fooled , Dad said, by the many disguises your opponent might adopt .
    But the burglar wasn’t reassured by the mention of my friends. ‘Ssh!’ she hissed, and put her finger to her lips.
    Silence. The hair on the back of my neck prickled. If the gate had closed behind Hassan and Singo, wouldn’t they be talking and laughing? Or, if it was Dad, wouldn’t he be through the front door by now with, Why is it so dark in here? Where are my wrestling buddies?
    No, definitely, the silence was wrong.
    The burglar suddenly pushed her face into mine. ‘Start yelling at me,’ she whispered.
    â€˜But why . . . what should I say? I mean, you kind of deserve a good talking-to, breaking in here, giving me a dreadful fright but . . .’
    â€˜Say, How dare you break into my house, I’m calling the police! Stuff like that. Look, there’s someone after me, you’ll just have to believe me. Jimmy’s mean as hell – he’ll do anything.’
    There was a footfall on the concrete, and another right after it. A short hard word, spat out like something poisonous.
    â€˜Jimmy?’ I whispered.
    She nodded. ‘Go on, now !’
    â€˜How dare you break into my house!’ I squeaked.
    She slapped a hand over my mouth. ‘Talk like a man, can’t you? You sound like a frightened mouse!’
    That’s what I seemed to her – a frightened little mouse.
    My throat closed up. My voice box was empty. I just sort of stared at the burglar, helplessly. I had a choking feeling, and I didn’t know if I was breathing or not.
    Was Jimmy the serial killer? I was paralysed. Weak. Not even a mouse, more like one of those little squishy transparent animals in the sea without backbones, just wanting to glide along the bottom, leading an unchallenging invisible life.
    I couldn’t find my voice.
    I couldn’t find my words.
    â€˜. . . er,’ I gasped weakly. I tried again. ‘Err- ugh !’ My voice squeaked then dropped down to my feet, like a duck in hunting season. What was this?
    The burglar swore and pulled me over to the window, shoved my back against the glass. ‘Stand on tiptoes, make yourself taller,’ she hissed. ‘Fluff up your beret.’
    I couldn’t help noticing she smelled sweet and tangy, like mandarins.
    I was trying to find my feet when a voice – fierce and male and full of strange vowels – filled the room.
    â€˜ What do ya mean by ut, ya dirty little thief? Comin’ enta m’ house like thus? Who invited ya? I’ll ’ave t’ chop ya, d’ye hear me, bro? Chop ya enta little pieces.
    â€™ What the? The girl’s mouth was moving but the voice seemed to be coming from somewhere else . . . Suddenly there was a bang like gunshot and the kitchen chair flew from the girl’s hand and hit the hall door. Now she gestured