InsaneJournal

“I dare you to just --” there is a pause as Grace’s hands flail, a string of mumbo jumbo and oddly mixed sounds rapidly escaping her lips. “Touch the tray. Oh, oh, no wait! Touch one of the instruments.”

“Grace, don’t be ridiculous. Don’t you know that ---”

“Touch iiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttt.” The second word stretched into a long hiss as Grace hopped up and down on one foot.

“This is --”

“Touch it! Touch it, touch it, touch it! I dare you! I bet you a million dollars you can’t do it without screaming.”

Grace smirks, still fidgeting, her eyes traveled from the door to Belinda’s face and back again impatiently. This is a familiar game, one that Bee pretends to hate. Grace is sure she’s only pretending. She’s been sure for nearly twenty years. Belinda grimaces, the interview is over, technically they should not be in this part of the building. This had certainly not been her idea.

“You don’t have a million dollars, Grace.”

“My firstborn?”

“I am not Rumpelstiltskin, Grace. Also, I don‘t think you should reproduce.”

A flamboyant eye roll and irritated gestures irrupt as Grace paces forward and back, a sort of shuffle. Her dark coat flaps out behind her as she quickly leans forward. Her hand smacks the slab with a sudden burst of speed, like a contestant on Jeopardy going for the buzzer. The outstretched palm rests in perfect stillness for five seconds. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. Four one-thousand. Five. Five. Five. The blonde steps back, face filled with something like glee. Her eyes dart to the door as the photographer standing opposite her looks on disgustedly. So showy. Grace is always so showy.

“You know dead bodies touched that.”

There is no reply. For a full minute Belinda stares despondently at mental surface on which her friends hand had rested. When she looks up Grace is watching something in the distance, directly behind Bee. The look of puzzlement is what’s worrying.

“What?”

When there is no reply the question comes again, a quiet hiss, Belinda does not move. Moving might prove fatal.

“What is it?!”

Grace raises one pointed finger. The hand that has just touched the slab points at Belinda. She squints, pauses, widens her eyes and blinks before looking again.

“I think … it moved.”

“What is … ‘it’?”

The reply comes in a hiss, irritated. There is not a pause before Grace answers.

“What do you think!”

“You had better not be talking about the body-bag, Grace.”

Grace lifts one finger to her lips, the international sign for ‘silence’ Belinda looks exasperated. Mouthing ‘it can’t hear you’ before going absolutely still, after all, what if it can? A silent conversation ensues, pantomime that quickly dissolves into gibberish, Grace looks like a graceless Charlie Chaplin, Belinda wonders it this makes her Edna Purviance. The prospect is somewhat disturbing but not distracting enough to remove her from her current surroundings. They are in a morgue. This was not her idea, but much like all things Grace related, Belinda had not learned her lesson the first time.

A sudden booming voice echoes in the hall, a low rumble that doesn’t sound like it should be heard anywhere outside a cinema. Charlie dances. Doing a quick shuffle and step toward the door, pausing only to grasp Edna’s hand on the way out. Belinda’s slapstick comparison quickly becomes a reality. The pair slam into two men in white coats. Grace stumbles backwards like a drunk, rights herself at the last second.

“Oh, Thank God you’re here. I’m Curious George and this is my associate Amelia Bedelia. I think you have a rat problem. Rat and or mouse problem. In there.”

They disappear down the hall, out of the corridor - fading into the parking lot in search of Belinda’s car. They are gone before questions can be asked. It’s one of their few skills, speedy exits.

“It was a mouse?”

“And/or rat.”

“You were going to let it crawl on me, weren’t you?”

“If I say ‘yes’ you’re going to leave me here. So lets go with ‘no.’”

“Really mature, Grace. At least it was only a mouse.”

“Only a mouse?”

“It could have been a zombies You know my brain would be delicious, Grace.”

There’s a choking sound. Grace slaps the hood of the car in an effort to stop the sudden tongue twisting. Too many words want out.

“I know? I know? Why is no one here to witness this?! Can you hear yourself? Oooh shotgun.”

“There’s no one else here.”

“It still counts.”

“Well, who is going to challenge you?”

“A ghost? If there are zombies why not ghosts?”

The banter continues on the drive. By the time they reach their office aliens and werewolves have been called into play. Vampires have been off the table since the great Dracula debate of '07. It’s a game they often play, which of them can out reference the other. Surely bringing up Teen Wolf is the ticket. The problem is always the same, it has been for years, since high school, since primary school. They work from the same source material.