The bells above the door jangled as the first customer of Sally’s new salon and spa walked in.

  “I love what you have done with the place, Sally,” said Mrs McCloud. “Is this fish tank new?”

  “Yes it is,” replied Sally. “We had a break-in while the place was closed and they smashed one of the tanks.”

  “The bastards,” said Mrs McCloud. “Well I hope something really terrible happens to whoever hurt my precious little pedicure perch.”

  “Mrs McCloud, you didn’t happen to…” Sally hesitated. Whoever had been helping her out, as strange as they seemed to be, had so far done so anonymously.

  “Didn’t happen to what, dearie?” asked Mrs McCloud. “What’s the matter – fish got your tongue?” The old lady let out a short cackle and sat down in the hairdressing chair beside Sally.

  “Never mind,” said Sally, beaming a smile at the old woman. Sally had a full day of appointments booked for her first day back. Mostly regulars, but one or two new names. “Thank you Mrs McCloud. I’m happy to welcome you to the Mr Whiskers Fish Spa, Salon and Cat Petting Center.”

  “Christ, I see the name of the shop hasn’t improved,” said Mrs McCloud.

  Sally just smiled. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I need you to make me look tolerably fuckable. I have a funeral to celebrate. Where’s Mr Whiskers?” said Mrs McCloud, who then started making kissing sounds and trying to entice Mr Whiskers to her lap by pretending to have a treat.

  Sally almost dropped the pair of scissors she was holding. Hearing that kind of language from such a little old lady always took her by surprise. She also had to do some mental gymnastics to not stumble on the ‘celebrate’ comment; the old woman probably just misspoke. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs McCloud. Is the ceremony for someone close?”

  Mrs McCloud laughed. “No, not close at all dearie. Just my late husband.”

  Sally almost did a spit-take.

  Mrs McCloud let out a cackle and continued. “The ceremony. Ha. A turd that takes two flushes gets more ceremony than he deserves. We’re having bagpipes. He always hated bagpipes. I think they’re growing on me.”

  Sally felt like someone who thought they had been petting a housecat for ten years, only to look down and realize it had been a tiger the whole time.

  “We’ll have you looking lovely for the ceremony,” said Sally meekly.

  “The hair and nails aren’t for him, I always rather fancied his brother, and I have half a mind to think he fancies me too. What with the affair and all,” said Mrs McCloud casually.

  “I’m glad to see you’re taking it all in your stride. You’re a very resilient woman,” said Sally, still somewhat at a loss for words.

  The bells above the door chimed again.

  “Please take a seat, I’ll be with you in one moment,” said Sally without turning around.

  “I’m a busy woman. I’ve not got time to wait on a hairdresser,” said the woman standing by the door. Half of her looked about Karen’s age, late forties as a guess. Her lips and tits were oversized and her face looked stretched over cheekbones sculpted by someone who had only read about faces.

  “I’m Katherine Allister, Assistant to the Vice President of Requisitions and Acquisitions at Crust Corp,” said Mrs Allister. Apparently working at Crust Corp was enough to afford a plastic surgeon, but not a good one. “Karen told me she had sold the business. That makes Crust Corp your new landlord. Bad news, a new tenant means a new rate, and inflation has been a bitch.”

  “Oh, Karen told me that there was still ten months on the lease and that I could just pay her five-hundred a week until it ran out.”

  “Ha!” responded Mrs Allister. “That sly devil. For starters, I gave Karen a special deal because we’re old friends. Secondly, that deal is worse than you think, but better than what you’re going to get. The going weekly rate is nine-fifty.”

  “Umm, I’ll have to speak to Karen. We have a contract,” replied Sally, somewhat on the back foot. This was the last thing she was expecting today.

  “Null and void. No subletting. Full stop.” Mrs Allister, who was in fact the third such woman to call herself that in the past five years, began to walk around the newly refurbished shop as if she owned the place. Technically she sort of did, but even still, poking her head around every corner while slowly walking around with her hands behind her back made her look like a policeman waiting for a bribe.

  “Now, even though the place is going to be torn down next month, you’ll still have a ‘good as new’ clause in the contract you have taken over from Karen, and I see a lot of corrosion and water damage around the place from all that salt water. I’ll have to get my son around to do a building inspection.”

  Sally didn’t know where to start. “Torn down? Torn down. What are you talking about?”

  “Torn down, torn down,” the woman mimicked Sally mockingly. “Yes, torn down. We own every building in this complex bar one. Soon we’ll own that one too and this whole block will be leveled and turned into a processing plant.”

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  “Karen never mentioned anything about the complex being torn down… Hold on, you said something about salt water. We don’t use any salt water,” Sally said distantly, still struggling to process what she had just been told.

  “The salt water in the tanks, girl. Wow you really are as thick as Karen said you were. No wonder you bought the business from her a month before it’s being torn down.”

  “They’re freshwater fish you daft bint,” interjected Mrs McCloud. “Take your fake tits and fuck off.”

  Now trapped between a tiger and a spitting cobra, Sally didn’t know what to do. She felt so stupid, Karen hadn’t mentioned any of this when she had bought the business. She had thought the contract covered rent for a few months at least. Why hadn’t she mentioned the demolition? Oh God, thought Sally, I’m in so far over my head.

  “Twelve-hundred a week and my son will be around for an inspection first thing tomorrow to look for any damage that you are now on the hook for. If he finds any structural damage from all that salt water, you will have a big liability on your hands. And I, I mean Crust Corp, will insist that any damage is made good, whether it’s going to be demolished or not.”

  Sally looked at Mr Whiskers, who was happily licking his paws atop Mrs McCloud’s lap. Twelve-hundred a week? That’s going to bankrupt me, thought Sally.

  “And no pets!” shouted Mrs Allister the third before walking out of the shop in a huff and attempting to slam the front door. The pneumatic door closer hissed under Mrs Allister’s effort, then bounced back open, oscillated a few times and closed softly by itself a good ten seconds after she had stormed off.

  “What a thoroughly unpleasant woman,” said Mrs McCloud. The old woman turned to Sally, who stared at the closed door and was clearly struggling to hold back tears. “Oh come on. Don't let her get you upset.”

  “I think I’m in over my head,” said Sally.

  “Nonsense. This is no problem at all. Nothing that a tray of brownies wouldn’t fix,” replied Mrs McCloud.

  “I wish I had your optimism, Mrs McCloud.”

  “You’re a real gem, Sally. Don’t you worry. I have a feeling that everything is going to work out just fine for you. Now come on, let’s finish my hair up. I don’t want to miss the bit where they put him in the oven.”

  Two well-fed little garra rufa fish swam at the top of each tank, appearing to pay closer attention than the rest of the fish who just milled around aimlessly until somebody walked past or stuck their foot in the tank.

  What a waste, thought Murder. All those memories will go up in smoke. The Murders had been split up when half the fish were moved to populate the new tank. Ten people had used the tanks on the first day. While Hatred was still too small to get more than a few glimpses into somebody’s life, Murder found that eating the skin on a heel, or a really nice corn, would give him something more substantial. A recipe here, a skill there, and a very helpful lesson on firearms from a woman with feet that had an earthy terroir and a parmesan finish.

  While the memories that Murder absorbed were often fragmented and at times insignificant, even a nibble gave him a sense for who the person was and how they were feeling at that moment. It was as if their living experience flowed through the flesh, and the more significant or ingrained the memory, the longer it lingered.

  Other than the questionably useful firearm lesson, none of the other customers that day stood out, except one: one woman who was new to Murder, and Sally too from what they could garner. The customer tried to make small talk but it came off as probing, asking about money and odd specifics. She tasted nervous, like she was concealing something, and she had a violent energy that left a sour taste in Murder’s mouth. Unfortunately it was only Hatred working away at some dry skin on the ankle, so Murder couldn’t get much from her, but something about her drew Murder’s curiosity. He swam to the edge of his tank to get a closer look at the woman. She was older than he had expected, maybe mid-sixties by the look of her. Her legs were covered in tattoos of skulls, robed bony figures, a rather incongruous Christmas reindeer and a spine-crested fish flexing a human-looking arm with the words ‘Hell’s Spawn’ written under it.

  That evening when Murder, Spots and Dr Flibbles were watching Sally clean up after the last customer had left, a bored-looking Mr Whiskers jumped onto the vinyl cushion that sat atop the bench seat that ran alongside the tank.

  “Finally,” said Murder. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you since this morning.”

  “I could tell,” said Mr Whiskers. “You hang around like you want to get eaten when you have something to say to me.”

  “We have a problem,” said Murder. “Sally is only good at being nice to people and performing grooming services. She needs to absorb business knowledge if we are going to expand.”

  “I’m a luxuriating indoor cat now. I’ve got everything I could ever want. I have my own shop, a well-stocked jar of treats and an unending stream of attention from humans who adore me. Why should I help you?” asked Mr Whiskers.

  “Didn’t you hear the woman with lips like a baboon’s ass?” replied Dr Flibbles. “She wants to tear the whole building down. That means no more adoring humans, and no more treats.”

  “And what would you like me to do? I’m officially an indoor cat now; ever since our little Escobarian escapade I’ve not been allowed out at night. I’ve not even killed a bird in what feels like weeks and they’re starting to mock me from behind locked windows. It’s taking all of my energy not to run for the door and teach one particularly smug parrot a lesson.”

  “We just want you to help us get Sally into a school,” said Murder. “There is a community college nearby, and one of the girls I have eaten studies business there. You’ll never even have to leave the salon.”

  The cat sighed. “What do you want me to do? Sit an exam for her? I can probably manage the sitting part. I want you to know that we’re not doing the mouth thing again. Ever.”

  “Oh come on,” said Murder, “not even on my birthday?”

  Mr Whiskers ignored the question. “I don’t see how I can help get Sally into college. Besides, education is expensive and we’re fresh out of drug dens to raid. So unless you can pull a—”

  “We’ve got diamonds,” interrupted Spots. “They’re shiny.”

  “No, no, no,” said Dr Flibbles. “We don’t have diamonds. I have diamonds. You have a misunderstanding.”

  “Mr Whiskers, would you like an early dinner? Or just the diamonds?” asked Murder.

  A tiny, high-pitched, immature voice could just be heard from the other tank; “Your diamonds, or your life,” squeaked Hatred.

  “Fine,” said Dr Flibbles. “But I want an iPad.”

  “Very well,” said Murder. “Mr Whiskers, we will supply the diamonds, you just need to put them on the reception desk with a note requesting that she seek higher education.”

  “And an iPad,” added Dr Flibbles.

  “Yes,” squirted Murder in agreement. “And an iPad for Dr Flibbles.”