North London. A row of tall townhouses, in what had once been a smart street. In time, it would be again, but here and now, in the early Seventies, it was a shabby, rundown area. A couple of the houses were knocked together, a hostel for foreign students, but the population in many of the others was equally transient.
Weak sunlight tried to creep around the cloth pinned up over one attic window, but gave up the struggle, probably horrified at what it might reveal.
The room beyond was a stuffy, untidy little space up under the eaves, the shabby wallpaper covered in posters and pinned up sketches. One wall had been half-stripped and painted with a sequence of angular symbols. It looked, and smelled, exactly how anyone would expect the room of an impecunious young male with a fervent interest in art and the occult, and a tenuous relationship with housework, to look.
The door opened violently under the pressure of a foot. The pile of sheets on the bed gave a yelp and disgorged a young man onto the floor, where he raked dark hair out of his eyes and glared up at the incomer.
A big, fit-looking young man, public school haircut grown out, the sleeves ripped off his shirt, grinned down at his friend, all teeth and suppressed mayhem, and poked him with a boot.
The other growled, slapped the offending foot away, scratching at a thin chest as he got to his feet. A wiry, quicksilver youth, a pair of tatty jeans hung low on his slim hips, he had unruly dark hair, and eyes that were already too old for his face.
Geographically, they had been born and raised a few miles from each other. In practical terms, different worlds. But for some strange reason, they had formed an instant friendship.
"Fuck's sake, Rip, what if I'd had a girl in here?"
"When have you ever had a girl in here?"
"It could happen." Squinted at him. "...is that blood on your shirt?"
"S'alright, isn't mine." He started digging through a pile of clothing. "Do you ever do any laundry?"
"Do you?..." Grabbed the t-shirt back. "Not the Led Zep...what d'you want, anyway?"
"Run out of fags, haven't I?"
"Go nick some off Tommo."
"Can't, the bastard's blocked his door." Nasty grin. "Dee's round."
"Shit. Was that the screaming earlier?"
"No, Philth's Tuesday popped back round and ran into Friday."
Ethan emerged from pulling on the t-shirt, sardonic amusement and a dash of contempt in his face.
"One day, that charm's gonna run out and they'll all turn on him." He sighed, scrabbled in the heap for a moment, and found a pack of cigarettes, managed to get one of his own before Rupert took the rest. Flicked his thumb with a murmur, and they both lit up.
'Charm' in this case had a literal meaning. Rupert relied on his own natural charisma, and, it must be admitted, alcohol, to attract women. Phil didn't.
By common consent, once nicotine had been obtained, tea was next on the agenda. They ambled downstairs, stepped over a couple of slumbering bodies on the half-landing, past a doorway with a pile of discarded bottles outside it, another half ajar, emitting the sound of giggling and the stink of joss sticks. There was a tawdry decadence overlaying the faded grandeur, the tall windows still had moth-eaten velvet curtains pulled across, even if the panes were deeply grimed or spray-painted black. The plaster mouldings were chipped and cobwebbed, but there were heavy solid floorboards beneath the thin, tatty carpets, and the entrance hall still had the original tiles, under the dirt. The sound of high heels on them cracked like gunshots.
"You!"
A terrifying vision stalked towards them. Madam Arcati as dressed by Vivienne Westwood. Ethan tried to hide behind Rupert, who grinned.
"Dee. What's got your knickers in a twist, luv? Tommo not up for it this morning?"
"Sod off, Rip. I want a word with him."
"What have I done?" Ethan looked genuinely confused, but vaguely guilty on principle.
Dee put her hands on her hips, bangles clashing on her thin wrists, kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed in anger.
"There's something moving in the kitchen sink. Deal with it."
"Why's that my problem?"
One sharp crimson nail jabbed dangerously near his face.
"The whole room stinks of that filthy crap you were both smoking, that's why." The talon scythed round and pointed at Ripper. "If any of you lazy bastards bothered to do the bloody washing up..."
"That's what birds are for." Ripper, deliberately provocative, ducking the fist she swung at him with a smirk.
"Sort. It. Out." Dee snarled at them, backing them towards the doorway in a ferocious swish of fishnet and tattered velvet.
The kitchen was a dingy, dark disaster of a place. Exposed pipes and wiring, an ancient gas cooker squatted malevolently amidst mismatched cabinets. They'd found a way to jerry-rig the meter, but plumbing was an arcane art, even by their standards. The sink was still the original masonry monstrosity, piled high with the festering detritus of the household. There was a faint stale odour underneath the oily tang of pot.
"Reckon it's a rat?"
"Shouldn't be, I renewed the wards a few days ago."
Ripper gave him a sideways look, mingled surprise and suspicion.
"Wards?"
"Well, last month after we got chucked out of that pub? I nipped back and put a summoning sigil on the walls. He's had rats through the cellars ever since." He puffed up proudly when Ripper laughed. "I reckoned reversing it would keep the little buggers out..."
Something rattled in the sink. They both stopped and eyed it. Ethan deflated.
"...or not."
"Might not be rats." There was a thread of worry under the words. "We've mucked about with some nasty shit in here."
They looked at each other.
"Bollocks." Ethan said, weakly. "Perhaps we should've washed up?"
"If we've summoned up a gremlin, it'll take more than bloody Fairy Liquid to shift it."
They edged further into the room. The rattling stopped, but in a way that suggested something was looking back at them.
Rupert picked up a saucepan, hefted it. Ethan grabbed wildly, menaced the heap of dishes with a ladle and a shouted invocation.
There was a slightly embarrassed pause.
"Do you think it's gone?'"
"I don't bloody know..."
Which is when the orange... thing erupted out of the washing-up bowl. Ripper swore, pulled off a forehand smash Bjorn Borg would envy. It splattered up the wall with a squelch and vaguely human yelp.
They both froze.
The blob peeled off the wall, plopped onto the counter, and formed up into tiny humanoid figure, shaking its head and grumbling.
Ethan blinked at it.
"Ru..."
"..." Rupert's cigarette dropped out of his mouth.
The little figure looked up, eyes wide, and made a sound that was definitely "Uhoh".
"You made a plasticine golem."
"...yes?"
"You made a fucking golem and it's living in our sink!"
Ethan made a grab, yelped and dropped it.
"Fuck! It bit me!"
"How can it have bitten you, it hasn't got any fucking teeth!"
"My thumb is bleeding, it obviously has, ohgod, maybe it's rabid."
"It's animated clay, you pillock." Ripper poked at it with a fork. The figure burbled shrill protest and fenced back at him with a spoon. "How the hell did you manage this?"
"I don't know, the last thing I remember..." Ethan waved his hands. "You'd got that fucking awful grass off that bloke Danny, and we were talking about the Kabbalah and those mad bastards in Deptford..." He flailed some more. "On the bright side, not a gremlin."
The figure jerked a hand in an unmistakeably rude gesture, the tone of the burble equally profane. Then it rolled into a ball, dropped off the counter and shot off rapidly into the pantry.
They looked at each other for a moment. Then Rupert reached for the kettle.
"Cuppa?"
"Yeah." Ethan sank into a chair, still cradling his hand. "It explains what's been eating all my bloody Jaffa cakes, anyway."
Ripper looked shifty for a moment.
"Yeah." He said. "Thieving little git."
"Maybe I'd better dump the rest of the clay, just in case."
"Good idea."
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The clay...remembered, somehow. Art. Anarchy. And the fact that you should always have a best mate to get into trouble with you...
"It's uncanny, sometimes." Peter wiped his hands and frowned.
"Hmm?" David poked an arm into line. "What?"
"Well, it's almost like..." A laugh. "The shape was just waiting. He's a cheeky little chap, isn't he?"
They both looked at the oddly expressive little face.
"Maybe we should make him a friend." He picked up a lump of cream-coloured clay.
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I don't own BtVS or Morph. Which is probably just as well, considering.