Mikheika asked in a whisper: ‘Speedy, what shall we nick? A suitcase?’
‘A suitcase? Don’t be daft,’ Senka hissed, curling up his lip. ‘Take a gander at the tight hold he’s keeping on that stuff.’
The Chinee was holding a travelling bag and a little bundle –chances were they were the most valuable things, which couldn’t be trusted to anyone else.
Mikheika hissed back: ‘But how do we get it? Why would he let go, if he’s holding on so tight?’
Senka thought about that for a bit and had an idea.
‘Just don’t you start snickering, Night-Owl, keep a straight face.’
He picked a small stone up off the ground, flung it and knocked the Oriental’s hat straight off his head – smack! Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and opened his mouth – a real angel, he was.
When Slanty-Eyes looked round, Senka said to him, very respectful, like:
‘Uncle Chinaman, your hat’s fallen off.’
And good for Mikheika – he didn’t even twitch, just stood there, batting his eyelids.
Righto, now let’s see what this pagan puts down on the step so he can pick up his hat – the travelling bag or the bundle.
The bundle. The travelling bag stayed in the servant’s left hand.
Senka was at the ready. He leapt forward like a cat pouncing on a sparrow, grabbed the bundle and shot off down the lane as fast as his legs could carry him.
Mikheika set off too, hooting like an eagle owl and chortling so much he dropped his cap. But it was a rubbishy old cap anyway, with a cracked peak, he wouldn’t miss it.
The Chinee stuck with them, though, he didn’t fall behind for a long while. Mikheika soon darted off into a gateway, so the Oriental had only Senka to chase after. He obviously wasn’t going to give up. Those little wooden benches kept clacking along the roadway, getting closer all the time.
By the corner of Sretenka Street, Senka felt like flinging that damn bundle away (he wasn’t feeling quite so bold without Mikheika), but then there was a crash behind him – the Chinee had caught one of his stupid sandals on a bottle and gone sprawling flat out.
Oho!
Senka carried on, dodging and twisting through the alleys for a while, before he stopped and untied the bundle to see what precious treasures were hidden inside. He found a set of round green stones on a string. They didn’t look like much, but who could tell, maybe they were worth a thousand.
He took them to a dealer he knew. The dealer fingered them and tried gnawing on them. ‘Cheap stuff,’ he said. ‘Chinese marble, jade stone it’s called. I can give you seventy kopecks.’
Senka didn’t take the seventy kopecks, he kept them for himself instead. The way those little stones clicked together was much too dainty altogether.
But never mind the blasted stones, we were talking about Death.
So, Senka was mooning around in front of the house, still trying to think of a way to lure Death to the window.
He took out the string of green beads and clicked them together –clack, clack, clack, they went. Like little china hammers, he thought, but what kind of hammers could you make out of china?
Then suddenly something clicked inside his head – clear and crisp just like those beads. Right, that’ll catch her eye! Dead simple.
He looked round and picked up a piece of glass. Then he caught a ray of late summer sunlight and shot a bright beam in through the gap in the curtains.
And who’d have thought it? Less than a minute later the curtains parted and Death herself glanced out.
Senka was so dazzled by the suddenness of it all, he forgot to hide the hand that was holding the piece of glass and the patch of sunlight started dancing about on Death’s face. She put her hand over her eyes, peered out and said:
‘Hey, boy!’
Senka took offence: I ain’t a boy, he thought. I ain’t even dressed like one: with my shirt and my belt, corduroy pants, these fancy new boots and a decent cap too, I took it off a drunk just two days back.
‘You can stick your boy up your . . . joy,’ Senka hissed back, although he didn’t like rude words, and almost never used them –they used to laugh at him for that. But this time the phrase just slipped out by itself – he was so blinded by the sight of Death, as if she