Things on Chairs

 Cheryl cut some half-hearted shapes on the patio as she listened to "Smooth Criminal" for the umpteenth time on her ancient Walkman.  Michael Jackson she most definitely was not.  Neil Armstrong could have done better on the actual Moon in his full astronaut get-up!  But after squeezing Scarlet's glands, she wasn't convinced she could execute a proper Moonwalk without throwing up.  Besides, the tape was crinkled and distorted after having to be painstakingly unravelled from the Walkman's innards on more than one occasion, and the resulting sound distortion played havok with her inner ear which only made things worse.
 So intent was she on not vomming as she awkwardly stumbled around on the faux Yorkstone slabs, all the while trying to avoid the stinkeye from Scarlet at the far end of the garden, that she didn't notice the figure sidling up to her from behind the laurel...

 Iris took off her glasses with one hand, unpinned her severe bun with the other, then shook her head to release her long, dark hair.  It tumbled in waves around her shoulders and halfway down her back as, almost in slow motion, she stepped forward towards the lurching, zombie-like figure.
 "Oof!" she grunted as she recoiled from the impact with the whirligig washing line.  Iris put her glasses back on and flinched.
 "Hullo, Iris."  Cheryl had turned around and was facing Iris with a look on her face that, despite her slightly narrowed eyes, could only be described as gormless.  "Why are there two of you?"
 "What?"  Iris was momentarily flummoxed.  Had Cheryl been at Martharine's cooking sherry again?  The girl was so weird.
 "You're so weird, Iris" Cheryl said matter-of-factly.  "Are you the robot one?"
 "I...  Well...  You see..."  How did she know about the Irisbot?  No one knew about the Irisbot.  Well, except for all the people who knew about it, that is.  And Cheryl was most definitely not people!  Although, the fact that she did know made what Iris was about to say next easier.  "Cheryl, I need your help."
 "Um, no."
 "No?  What?"  The flummox came back to taunt Iris.
 "I've got to show Auntie Tina out.  Bye" Cheryl said, then turned and lumbered across the patio and back into the house.
 "But..."  Iris stood in the middle of the patio for a while before realising that she was on full view should Aubrey or Martharine look out of their dining room window.  Or if Douglas Manning decided to stop doing whatever it was he was doing with the Irisbot and look out of her bedroom window which overlooked the Stoads back garden.  She moved to the side of the house and lurked near the rubbish bins while she pondered her next move.  Who else could she get to help her who was weird enough not to be believed if they blabbed about it?  Her train of thought was derailed by Cheryl's voice coming from the front.  She was saying something about cat biscuits before the front door was slammed and Tina Cruet's distinctive harsh laugh rang out.
 "Hullo, Iris."
 "Eeep!"  Iris jumped, her heart in her mouth, along with a kidney and part of her small intestines.  How had Cheryl managed to sneak up on her?
 "I can help you now."

 Ten minutes later Iris and Cheryl stood in Douglas and Annie Manning's small but spotless study.  Well, it was spotless before Cheryl had walked flakes of dried mud - and possibly dog shit -  from her green, frog-eyed Wellington boots into the pale carpet.
 "She's not here" Cheryl pointed out.
 "She must have rescued herself"  Iris muttered, mainly to herself.  Annie Manning had always struck her as a resourceful, if brassy, woman. "She's not long gone though, as her computer is still warm to the touch."
 "Is it?"  Cheryl reached out impulsively for the computer and knocked over a small vase of past-their-prime flowers with her inelegant sausage-fingers instead.  "Oops."
 "Come on.  Let's go" urged Iris.  "I need to get something from my house before we can move to stage two."
 "Okay."
 Cheryl slammed the door shut after them as they left the Mannings' house.  Neither of them heard the Geordie-accented male voice pleading for HP sauce and a new red felt-tip pen floating down from the attic...

 Five minutes after that in Iris's spacious but dark living room, made darker and more oppressive by the heavy wood beams that crossed the ceiling, Cheryl picked her nose as she slowly turned on the spot as if in a trance.
 "He's still upstairs!"  Iris hissed appearing from the hall.
 "Huh?"  Cheryl continued to turn with her finger up her lightly freckled, round nose.
 "I can't get to my boxes - Douglas Manning is still in my bedroom with the Irisbot!"
 "Huh?"  Cheryl finally withdrew her finger and, after examining the blob on the end, rolled it between her finger and thumb then flicked it off into the darkness.  Iris winced.
 Suddenly, the sound of car tyres aggressively driven on gravel cut through their whispering.  Iris narrowed her eyes in annoyance - Whoever they were had better not be churning up her driveway!  Then rapid footsteps filtered down from above their heads.  Douglas Manning was on the move.  And he was coming down the stairs!
 "Cheryl!  We've got to go!"  Iris bundled Cheryl towards the inglenook fireplace at the far end of the room.  A dull glint of gold amongst the dust on the wine-red carpet in the corner caught Iris's eye as she made a complicated gesture with her right hand.  At the side of the inglenook, an opening appeared.
 "Huh?" said Cheryl.
 "Go!" Iris pushed Cheryl into the door-sized hole and followed her through, the hole closing behind them.  "And wipe your feet."
 Inside, a long corridor stretched off into the distance - far too long to fit within the confines of the mansion, even though it was the largest house on Frigwell Crescent.  Iris began to walk briskly down it.
 Cheryl absentmindedly wiped her wellies on the roughly bristled doormat that lay beneath her as she looked at her surroundings.  The low-lit corridor was lined with ornately carved wooden chairs - a row on either side facing inwards, with a gap of about three metres between each chair.  As Cheryl slowly followed Iris, she noticed that every chair had something on it.  Most contained books of various descriptions: The Visitors by Sally Beauman, neue möbel 6 by Gerd Hatje, The Days Are Just Packed by Bill Watterson, Fucked-up Fondues by Delilah Smythe, to name but a few.  However, as she progessed, she also saw things other than books: a neatly folded towel, a small collection of sea glass, a spindle-shaped vial of irridescent blue liquid impossibly balanced on its tip, a pink fondant fancy, an old clay pot with mould growing inside it, a universe, a bottle of greed, and the most perfect, golden Ferrero Rocher she had ever seen.  Cheryl stopped to gawp at it.  It glimmered and sparkled with every slight turn of her head.  In fact, it practically glowed.
 "Come on, Cheryl!" Iris sounded quite stern.
 The Rocher spell broken, Cheryl trudged after Iris.