The Dreaded Mr Greig

Mr Greig had shed himself of his coat and stood right beside Archie and me in the sitting room, though he didn’t notice us.

“What can I do for you, Mr Greig?” Mistress asked.

Her voice wobbled and she had a hard time keeping upright.

“I’m looking for Mr Marek Czcibor,” Mr Greig replied.

He kept rubbing his hands as he spoke. They moved like large weights and to my delicate nose, smelt of cheap soap. I could see from Archie’s expression that he was not impressed. Mr Greig was one of those men who had been built too tall for his own good. His eyes were everywhere. Finally, he looked down at the pair of us and gave his trousers a flick as if to rid himself of any canine evidence.

Lesley was now flat out on the sofa. She waved a hand in Mr Greig’s direction.

“I expect Marek’s gone to the pub,” she slurred. “Being the holiday season and all that.”

Mr Greig stood stock still.

“I wish to talk to him about a few matters,” he said.

Archie and I peered up at Mr Greig, the man from the Council. As we did so, he shook his mop of hair and tiny white specks fell towards us.

“Dandruff!” groaned Archie.

By contrast, the room had gone dark in the space of minutes.

Outside the window, the snow was falling fast.

Was it pugs to the rescue yet again?