A tall man stepped quickly into the room and closed the door behind him. He wore dark clothing, and a plastic face mask bearing the queen’s face. “You,” he gestured at me with the gun in his left hand. “Sit on the chair.”
“There’s nowt here to steal,” I said, easing myself into the chair. “My great-aunt has no money, nor any—”
“Shut it,” he said.
“Oi, rude!” Aunt Phil waved her stick at him. “Bloody monarchy! Sod off!”
“You’re her,” the man said. “The White Mouse. Philomena Wake.”
“Please,” I tried. “My aunt is old and frail. Please leave her alone. I think I have about thirty pounds in my wallet, please just—”
“She’s old and frail now, yes,” the man said, “but in 1943 she was a force to be reckoned with.” He turned to face Aunt Phil. “Weren’t you, White Mouse?”
Seven short Michael Wombat stories of wonder and delight that you can slip into your pocket.