Open Sesame by Tom Holt Page A

in with the JCB and the blasting powder and see if we can’t make a better fist of it this time. This’ll probably be agonisingly painful, but you won’t mind that.’
    The drill shrieked and ‘put on the ring’ Mr Barbour leaned forward over her, his face set in that deadly serious expression he always wore when setting sharp instruments to human tissue. Not that she could feel a thing, of course, with her face the size and texture of a sofa cushion and ‘put on the ring’ of all the people she’d ever trusted in her life, the only one who’d never let her down was nice Mr Barbour. Slowly, acting on their own initiative, her fingers groped in her pocket and found the ring.
    ‘That’s better,’ said the drill, ‘I hate having to shout. You do know who he is, don’t you?’
    ‘Mmmmh?’
    ‘Sorry?’ Mr Barbour switched off the drill and looked up. ‘Problems? If I’ve struck oil I insist on forty per cent.’
    ‘Mmm.’
    ‘If you say so.’ The drill screamed again, but not for long.
    Maybe it was simply clearing its throat.
    ‘You don’t, do you?’ it said. ‘Know who he is, I mean. Sister, have I got news for you!’
    Michelle made a peculiar noise and scrabbled with her left hand at her right. Alarmed, Mr Barbour cut the drill again.
    ‘I’m making rather a hash of this, aren’t I?’ he said apologetically. ‘Let’s have another look and see what’s going on.’
    ‘Mmm!’ Michelle said urgently; but he only smiled, gently prised down her lower jaw with the mirror and said, ‘Open sesame.’
    Michelle screamed.
    She screamed, because the drill let out such a terrifying yell that she couldn’t stand it any more, and just then all the other weird and wonderful machines and devices that surrounded the chair like the instrument panel of the Enterprise joined in and started shrieking and wailing and caterwauling, and it was all too much. Then she managed to yank the ring off and crush it tight in her left palm, and suddenly it was very quiet.
    Mr Barbour was staring at her, as if her head had just come away in his hands. She felt awful. ‘Hime ho horry,’ she mumbled, forcing the numb muscles to work. ‘Hawl hy hault. Hot hoo.’
    There was a long silence. Suddenly, she wanted to explain, tell Mr Barbour (who she’d known most of her life, God knows) all about it, Aunt Fatty’s ring and the horrible voices, and maybe he’d know what it meant, being a sort of a doctor. And maybe she would have done, if her face wasn’t fifty per cent made of heavy rubber, and as manoeuvrable as a concrete pillar. Using sign language, she did her best to communicate remorse, shame and abject apology.
    ‘Shall I go on?’ Mr Barbour said. ‘I don’t have to if you don’t want me to.’
    ‘Ho, heeze. Hall hawhight how.’
    ‘Sure?’
    ‘Haw.’
    Michelle was all alone in the world because - well, she wasn’t actually sure why. She could remember bits and pieces from her childhood; oddly enough, one of the earliest memories was sitting in this very chair, solemnly promising to be good on the understanding that virtue would be remunerated in apples. Other snippets and fragments; bits of school, falling over in the playground, the death of the nature studies rabbit, a firework display. She could remember the headmistress looking down at her as she lay in bed and saying there had been an accident and she must be very brave. She could remember wondering what there was to be brave about, since she hadn’t a clue what was going on or what was happening. She could remember boarding school, staying on in the holidays when the other girls went home, but that was all right because everyone was so nice. She could remember being taken to a stark, clean place and shown a strange old lady they said was her only relative. Most of all she could remember taking the decision not to think about it, because things seemed to work all right as they were. She lay back in the chair and listened for the drill, which screamed