Figgis 3: What's your name again?

Posting it a bit late tonight, but here it is. By the way, I'm tagging these as FTB, just for ease of finding them.

What's Your Name Again?


“So this is your pad?” The ghost asked. “Looks like you’ve been burgled, mate.”

They stood in the back garden, the kitchen window wide open and a rather new set of boot-prints on the lawn. Figgis sniffed at them. They had an odd scent, a heady mix of special brew and cannabis with a dash of something else. Something familiar.

The ghost walked through the back door. A few moments later her head appeared, the rest of her body invisible. “Hey look,” she said. “I’m a door knocker!” She stepped back into the garden “By the way, have you got a really nice TV and a games console?”

Figgis nodded his head. Not an easy feat for a dog. It looked more like he had water in his ears.

“Not any more, mate.”

Figgis hung his head. He didn’t suppose losing the games console mattered. Controller pads were not designed for paws. He was gutted about the TV though. He supposed he could attempt to claim on his house insurance, but the odds of them believing his shaggy dog story were slim to none. 

“Are we going inside?” Theresa asked.

Figgis scratched at the door, Theresa tried the knob.

“It’s locked,” she said.

“Presumably that’s why the window is open,” the ghost said. “Isn’t that right, Lassie? Did you come out through the window? Is that how the nasty burglars got in?”

Was there a canine equivalent of flipping the bird? Figgis wondered. He favoured the irritating phantasm with a low growl. This amused her and she laughed. To hell with it, he cocked a leg and peed on her. Or rather through her, the stream soaking the grass. She stepped aside and muttered something he didn’t catch.

“So how are we going to get in?”

“Same way he got out,”

“I can’t fit through,” Theresa said, “not with the wings.”

“Get the dog to fetch the keys,” the ghost suggested. “Want to play fetch, Lassie?”

Figgis growled again.

“Have you got a better idea?” Theresa asked him. “No? Come on, let me lift you up, can you get the keys?”

He wasn’t really keen on that idea. Not until she actually scooped him up and he found himself nose to nipple with her cleavage. At that point it seemed the best idea of the day. He was rather sorry when she shoved him back through the window. Although realising he was now high enough to stare down her top without her assistance was an unexpected bonus.

“Go get the keys Lassie! Fetch!”

He jumped down from the kitchen counter, wondering if it was possible to find a priest and get the ghost exorcised. He wouldn’t even mind, but Lassie was a girl.  Or rather, a bitch. Much like the ghost in fact.

Fortunately (and unusually) he knew exactly where his keys were. They were still in his jeans pocket on the bedroom floor. He trotted through the kitchen and raced up the stairs. The burglars had been opportunists, apart from the electricals in the front room, they’d barely touched the rest of the house. They certainly hadn’t been handling his clothes, they were exactly as he’d left them. He nosed through them until his keys tumbled out, snatched them up with his teeth and returned to the kitchen. One good leap later and Theresa’s soft hands were scratching his ears and rubbing his chest..

Figgis felt an overwhelming urge to throw himself to the floor and expose his belly for her.

Theresa unlocked the door and let herself in. She turned to take in the filthy grothole stereotypical of the bachelor male and knocked a cup off the draining board with the tip of her wing. It bounced but did not break. Figgis groaned inwardly when he saw the motif of the bunny girl on the side.  “Sorry!”

She picked the cup up and placed it carefully on the work-top. Took another long, lingering look around the kitchen. “I’ll clean up a bit when I’ve had a cup of tea,” she offered. Figgis wagged his tail. She wandered over to the kitchen notice-board, a repository for all the shit Figgis received through the post and planned to deal with at some point. She pulled a letter off, a dental reminder he suspected he didn’t need any more.

“Oh, your name is Figgis!” Theresa exclaimed. “Not Iggish. That makes more sense.”

Figgis cringed, there was a reason he used his surname. Namely he hated his forename, which, he suspected, she was going to reveal any second...

“Is that really your first name?”

The ghost looked suddenly interested. “Can’t be as bad as mine.”

Theresa raised an eyebrow. “What’s yours?”

“Bellamy Jones. Bel to my friends.”

“And are we your friends?”

Bel laughed, “I guess you are.”