The Perfect Friend
Lorna Dounaeva
Contents
Prologue
Saturday
The Book Signing
Sunday
The Captor and the Captive
The Pigeons of Portobello Market
The Jug
Relish
Cut
The Muse
Waiting
Inspiration
Fighting the Cravings
Drifting
Too Stupid to Live
Bleeding Out
Twists and Turns
The Pool
Freedom
The End
Farmyard Battle
Home Sweet Home
Also by Lorna Dounaeva
Afterword
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
I stood outside the bookshop, my long, grey coat wrapped snuggly around me. I pulled my hat down low and watched him through the window, as he sat at a table, piled high with books. I saw him sip a glass of Chardonnay, then bite into a generous slice of his favourite pink and yellow Battenberg cake. I planned to hide behind one of the bookshelves and watch without his knowledge. He was unlikely to notice me there, sharing in his moment of glory.
But as I took a step towards the entrance, a rough hand clamped itself over my mouth. I let out a gargled sound. I could barely breathe, let alone scream. A sack came down over my head and I almost inhaled it in my panic. It had a strong odour, like kerosene. With horror, I realised I was being bundled into a car. I squirmed inside the small, confined space until I felt the lid of the boot slam shut. I lay, staring into the darkness, as we sped off into the night.
Saturday
The snores emanating from Robbie’s room would have rivalled the Eurostar rumbling through the Channel Tunnel. Jock padded into the kitchen, his forefinger automatically flicking on the kettle. He lifted the teapot out of the dishwasher and took the caddy down off the shelf. It was empty. He rummaged desperately in the cupboard. Not only were they out of tea, but there were no biscuits either, unless you counted those disgusting fig things they kept for visitors.
“This just won’t do!”
He pulled his coat on over his navy blue pyjamas and grabbed his bag.
Leaves flew at his face as he crossed the muddy street. He walked past Tesco and into the Sugar Bowl. There, that was better. He plugged in his laptop and reviewed what he had written the previous day, over a fresh pot of tea and a Chelsea bun. He couldn’t believe the drivel he had written. He scanned the page. It was more like the ravings of a madman, than the work of an award-winning novelist. He banged his head on the table. He couldn’t have writer’s block, he didn’t believe in it. And yet, the longer he stared at the screen, the less inclined he felt to write.
A man came in and stood at the counter.
“I’ll have a tall, skinny decaf latte, please, and an iced bun for the homeless fella outside.”
Jock watched idly as the man paid and walked out. A little later, a well-dressed woman came in. A designer handbag dangled from the crook of her arm and her blouse was buttoned all the way up to her long swan-like neck.
“A cup of Earl Grey and a cinnamon bun, please.” Her voice was slightly too loud, as if she wanted everyone in the shop to hear her. “And a drink for the homeless chap outside. Does anyone know how he likes his tea?”
Jock wrinkled his brow. He hadn’t noticed a homeless man when he’d come in. He looked out the window. There, on the pavement, with a large holdall on one side, and his shoes on the other, sat Dylan.
He shoved his computer back in his bag and rushed outside.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“And it’s good to see you again, too!” Dylan took a sip from the styrofoam cup in his hand. “I was just waiting for you.”
“Well, why didn’t you come inside?”
“I didn’t want to disturb your writing. And people keep bringing me tea and buns. Friendly lot, your neighbours.”
Jock shook his head. “Have you never heard of phoning?”
Dylan ran a hand through his long, spiky hair. “Now where would be the fun in that?”
Jock shrugged, and tucked the loose wires back into his laptop bag. He wasn’t going to get any work done this morning, that much was clear.
“It’s so good to see you,” Dylan said, slipping on his shoes, which he never seemed to wear for more than ten minutes at a time. “You’re looking…healthy.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Jock patted his stomach. He had overindulged a little in recent weeks. Trips to the corner shop were easier than sitting in front of his computer, wringing out sentence after painful sentence.
Dylan shrugged. “Do you mind if I kip on your floor for a bit?” he asked, as they walked into Tesco to pick up the groceries Jock had come out for.
“For how long?” Jock asked. Pleased as he was to see his old friend, Dylan was not to be trusted. He knew that better than anyone.
“Ah, not long. Just till things blow over.”
“What things?”
“You know, just things.”
Jock narrowed his eyes. “How’s the boat?”
“A bit cold in the winter.”
Dylan slid a bottle of ginger beer and a packet of pickled onion crisps into Jock’s shopping basket. He stood at Jock’s side at the till, but did not contribute any money. Nor did Jock expect him to.
The cold nipped Jock’s ears as they walked back to his flat.
“Bit fresh today,” Dylan commented.
“Would help if you wore a coat.”
“Coats are for losers.”
Jock punched in the code to get back into the building, then led Dylan upstairs to Number Six.
The minute he turned the key in the lock, Dylan barged inside and headed straight for the bedroom.
“Nice en-suite,” he whistled.
“That’s my room,” Jock told him, in the same tone you’d use on a dog.
Dylan was not easily put off. “Why don’t you go into the kitchen and whip us up some grub? I’ll just dump my stuff in the spare room.”
He opened the next door and peered in. “There’s someone in here.”
“That’s my nephew, Robbie.”
“When you mentioned a nephew, I thought you meant, like, a kid.”
“He is a kid. He’s 18.”
“God, you were born old, weren’t you?”
Robbie sat up in bed, his sandy coloured hair all over his face. He brushed it aside, revealing a pathetic attempt at a beard. “What’s going on?”
“This is Dylan,” Jock said. “He’ll be staying with us for a few days.”
Robbie rubbed the crusts from his eyes. “Right-ho.”
Jock could quite equally have said, “He’ll be taking control of our minds,” and Robbie’s response would have been about the same.
“Right, well I’m off to visit the Queen,” Dylan said, pushing open the door to the bathroom. Jock waited until he was inside.
“Quick, get up!” he urged Robbie. “We have to clear out all the booze, and I mean all of it!”
“What are you on about?” Robbie asked, reaching for his mobile phone to check the time.
“Dylan’s a recovering alcoholic. The last thing he needs is a fridge full of beer.”
“Well, where will we put it all?”
“I don’t know – your room?”
“Suits me.”
Lightning quick, they shifted dozens of cans and stowed them in the bottom of Robbie’s wardrobe, along with a bottle of whiskey, one of Malibu and two of Chardonnay.
“I’ve never had a bar in my room before,” Robbie said, in awe
. “What was I thinking, keeping clothes in the wardrobe, when I could have been using it for drink?”
The bathroom door opened and Dylan walked out. “Er, I wouldn’t go in there for a few centuries, if I were you, lads. Nasty explosion at the gasworks.”
He walked through to the kitchen and opened the fridge, which was now completely devoid of alcohol. He was looking for it, Jock knew he was.
“Wow,” he said, staring at the huge wheel of cheese, which was virtually the only thing that remained. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these outside a deli.”
“Robbie eats a lot of cheese sandwiches,” Jock explained.
“Still.”
Dylan lifted it out and felt the weight of it in his hands.
“This thing must weigh a couple of stone.”
Robbie emerged from his room, now dressed in a crumpled rugby shirt and a pair of jeans that hung too low on the waist, revealing his SpongeBob boxers.
“Shall we go down the White Hart for lunch?”
Jock glared at him. “Like I told you, Dylan doesn’t drink.”
“But a couple of pints won’t hurt, surely?” Robbie said.
“I’ve not long had the liver transplant,” Dylan said, with regret. “Drinking alcohol would put the new liver under a lot of strain and it might not be able to break down the alcohol effectively.”
“So not even a swift half?”
Dylan shook his head. “If I have one, I’ll want another. That’s just the way I am.”
“He mustn’t drink,” Jock said firmly. “Not even a thimble.”
Robbie looked perplexed. “What are we going to do with ourselves then?”
“What about a trip to the West End?” Dylan suggested.
“You want to see a show?” Jock asked. “A new show opened last week. Sloths the Musical, I think it was called.”
“No, I was thinking more of the casinos. I could really go for a game of blackjack.”
“Probably not the best idea,” Jock said. “Besides, I’ve got an author event tonight, at the local bookshop.”
“What fun!”
“You don’t even read,” Jock pointed out. “Unless you count lads’ mags.”
“I read your last book.”
“Did you?”
Dylan nodded. “A shocker it was, too!”
Did that mean he liked it or not?
“All the same, I don’t think it will be your cup of tea.”
“Poppycock! It’s right up my street, a book signing. I love a bit of culture.”
Jock rubbed the ache that had begun to gnaw at his stomach.
“If you come, you have to promise not to get in the way.”
“You won’t even know I’m there.”
Jock rubbed his stomach some more. In his head, the evening was already turning into a disaster.
“I can pretend to be your agent,” Dylan offered.
“No thanks.”
“Assistant, then?”
“Better.”
“I thought I was your assistant?” Robbie said.
“No, you’re my Director of Sandwiches.”
Robbie grinned. “I like that. Do you mind if I print up some business cards?”
Jock ruffled Robbie’s hair, fondly. “You’d never know he was doing a degree, would you?”
The Book Signing
Jock fiddled with his cotton shirt, and wished he’d bought something new to wear. The shirt was a relic of the not-so-distant past, when his mother had bought, or worse, knitted, all his clothes for him. He’d been writing cosy mysteries then, and his audience had primarily consisted of sweet little old ladies who appreciated a good starch. But he had recently transitioned to dark, gritty thrillers. His new work involved a lot less whimsy and a lot more death. The result of this was that he was now drawing a much younger, edgier crowd. The young set favoured the more casual look, the less put together, the better. He would have been better off clothing himself in garments he found on the side of the road, or borrowing something of Robbie’s.
“Who’s that?” Dylan asked, as another author set up at a table across the room.
“That’s Wanda Duvall,” Jock said into his sleeve. “She writes the same sort of books as me, but with a bit more glamour.”
“By glamour, do you mean sex?”
“I suppose so.”
“I like her banner. Why haven’t you got a banner?”
“I don’t know. No one bothered to make me one.”
“She’s got other stuff too. Look at those bookmarks.”
“I know. It looks like she’s setting up shop over there.”
“I like her hat. Why haven’t you got a hat?”
“I don’t know, all right? They just told me to turn up.”
Wanda’s dreadlocks were tied back in bunches and she wore a pink cowgirl hat on her head. She was small, loud and American. Texan, to be precise. Her voice boomed across the room, and her laughter filled the air like an infectious gas. When the bookshop started to fill up, she walked up and down a couple of times, handing out gifts to random people in the queue, which wound all the way round the shop, and out the door. No wonder she was selling more books than Jock.
His own fans formed a long, grim line in front of him. Most of them were dressed as if they were going to a funeral, and they wore expressions to match.
“So, what did you think of the last book?” Jock asked a young woman with a stud in her lip, and another one in her tongue. He found it hard to look at her without wincing.
“Totally sick!”
He had learnt by now that this was intended as a compliment, rather than an indictment of his work. All the same, the woman failed to muster a smile as she handed him a book to sign.
“What do you want me to write?” he asked.
“To Monica, R.I.P.”
He met her jaded eyes.
“I’m going to be buried with all my books,” she explained. “So no one else can read them.”
“Wow, I’m leaving mine to my cats,” said the woman behind her.
“I’m being buried with my cats,” Monica returned.
She waited for Jock to finish writing what she had asked, then snatched her book back, as if she thought he might steal it.
“Tough crowd,” Dylan whispered. “And these are your fans!”
Robbie handed Jock a glass of wine. As per Jock’s instructions, he had filled Dylan’s glass with elderflower cordial, a substance which smelled similar to vase water. Dylan didn’t attempt to drink it, but he didn’t drink anything else, either, in spite of the fact that one of the booksellers was perpetually topping up everybody’s glasses.
“Studies show people spend three times as much after just one glass of alcohol,” he murmured in Jock’s ear, with a gleeful twirl of his bowtie.
Jock nodded politely, but kept his distance. He did not trust anyone who wore a bowtie.
Looking up, he spotted Keeley at the door. Only an hour late. Not bad, really. He cringed slightly as the crowd parted to let her through. Her orange crochet dress clung to her tall, willowy frame. She was a woman who was not afraid to wear lipstick and her eyes defied anyone to comment on the not-so-subtle shade she had chosen.
“She’s one of the finest looking women I’ve ever seen!” Dylan said, gazing at her in admiration. “I didn’t know such dresses existed. I’ll have to update my fantasies.”
Keeley walked towards them.
“Told you I’d make it,” she purred, leaning so hard on Jock’s table that a pile of books slid off and landed on the floor with a thump.
Jock quickly leaned down to retrieve them. He placed the books back on the display. Dylan was still staring at Keeley, who had settled herself on the chair beside Jock, swinging one Amazonian leg over the over.
“Dylan,” Jock said sharply. “This is my sister, Keeley. Robbie’s Mum.”
“Sister!”
Dylan gazed from one to the other in absolute shock. “But she’s so fine! An absolute goddess.
And you’re...well, you’ve a nice disposition.”
“How very Jane Austen of you,” Keeley smiled, shaking out her wavy brown hair. “Now where’s my boy?”
“Robbie went out in search of a sandwich,” Jock told her. “He thought he could hold on till dinner. Turns out, he was wrong.”
“He’ll eat us all one day.” Keeley muttered. “Never run out of cheese, Jock. It’ll be your downfall.”
She eyed up his fans, silently decaying in front of them.
“What’s going on here? Have the old lot finally carked it?”
“I have a different readership these days.”
“Lost souls, the tortured and demented,” Dylan observed.
“You know, I passed a cemetery on the way here,” Keeley said. “I think I saw a couple of them claw their way out.”
“Sh, they’ll hear you.”
“I must admit, I’m looking forward to your next book,” she said, as he signed an autograph for a young lad with a fringe that came down past his nose. “The last one was surprisingly good. And that dedication. Wow, it was brutal. I can’t believe you wrote those things about Mum. Ouch!”
“I didn’t write anything that wasn’t true.”
“Still, I’m surprised the publishers let you!”
“Well, they did take a bit of convincing.”
“Still, it’s no wonder Mum’s not speaking to you!”
“I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing,” he said. “I can finally live my life the way I want it. Robbie too. She hasn’t been round since it came out.”
“I bet it didn’t hurt your sales, either,” she said, a little snidely.
“No.”
The trouble was, his new fans were ravenous for more. It wasn’t enough to release one book a year any more. They wanted him to speed the process up. Wanda released a new Wild West thriller every month. Every month! He couldn’t understand how she did it. He suspected she had superpowers.
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