After several more minutes of conspiracy thinking, the taxi stops. “Oy! We’re here. King’s Crescent. There’s an inn around the corner, too. Rooms aren’t fancy, but they’re cheap.”
“Great.”
“And listen. I don’t know what kinda trouble you’re in, and I don’t wanna know. But you’re shaking like a dog shittin’ razor blades.”
I look down at my hands, surprised by how much they’re trembling.
“So first thing you need to do is go in there and ask Lil for a shot of moonshine. It’s the best way to silence those nerves of yours.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“But just one if you know what’s good for you.”
I nod and reach for my wallet.
The driver refuses payment. “No need, boy. Hold on to your money.”
“You sure?”
“As I live and breathe. I know a lost soul when I see one. Now go have yourself a drink and some nosh on me. The Crescent’s got the best fish and chips in London. Just tell Lil that Tom sent you.”
“Thank you.” I exit the car.
“Any time, mate. Godspeed,” he says, driving away.
A sign saying King’s Crescent, Free House Pub hangs above a peeling red and beige doorway. Below that, a smaller yellow sign: CCTV is watching.
Great.
The King’s Crescent is cozier and more inviting than I thought it would be. The walls are decorated with vintage war posters, and there are about a dozen wooden tables crammed in the center of the floor, each surrounded by a collection of mismatched chairs. Older couples, young adults, and even children occupy the seats, eating, drinking, or having a casual chat.
I take a seat at the bar, and a homely barkeep with curly gray hair and a pink knit sweater greets me. “What can I get you, love?”
“Are you Lil?”
She crosses her arms. “Who’s asking?”
“Tom said you had the best fish and chips in London and that I should ask you for a shot of moonshine.”
Lil smiles. “He did, did he? That Tom, always sending us new business. God bless him.”
“He also said to put it on his tab?”
“Oh, I believe it. He’s a generous one. Coming right up.”
“Make it two shots,” a man behind me says. It’s Wolfgang Schmitt, along with his ostentatious cane.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“You sure?” Lil asks.
“Most definitely. I can’t let the Torero drink alone,” he replies, gesturing to my cap. I remove it, placing it on the bar.
Here we go… “Mr. Schmitt, hi.”
“Good afternoon. And no mister, remember? Just Wolfgang.”
“Sorry. Wolfgang.” I conceal my shaking hands below the bar.
He takes the seat next to me and fastens the gilded head of his cane to a hook underneath the counter. Lil retrieves two shot glasses from an overhead rack and fills them with a clear liquid from an unmarked silver bottle. “Leave the bottle,” Wolfgang requests.
Lil does, a hint of suspicion in her expression. “Your fish and chips’ll be right out,” she tells me.
“Thank you.”
“I must say,” Wolfgang continues, “you’re the last person I’d expect to see wandering about London unaccompanied. May I ask what brings you this far from Devil’s Dyke?”
“Just taking in the sights.” I down my shot, and it enters my throat with a kick, causing me to gasp and beat my chest.
Wolfgang grins. “I assume this is your first time drinking moonshine?”
“Yeah.” I slide the empty glass forward and notice my hands have stopped trembling. Tom was right.
Wolfgang smiles and slides his shot toward me. “You should have another. On me.”
“Thanks.” I down his shot, too. Not only does my body feel more relaxed but there’s an unexpected quiet that settles over my restless mind. It’s just like magic.
“There’s no need to lie, Emmanuel, especially to me. I know exactly why you’ve stayed.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Everyone knows why you’ve stayed. To take your father’s place. And because we’re being honest, I feel obliged to tell you Isidore was no friend of mine.”
“So why come to his funeral?”
“To see you, of course. There’s a position opening up at Woodland Imports that I think you’ll be perfect for, and I was hoping we could discuss your terms of employment.”
I laugh. “You came to my father’s funeral to offer me a job?” That’s pretty ballsy. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know you’re a man of character. And I also know you’d never stand for the corruption within Stockton Farms, dealings that your late father was not excluded from.”
“What kind of corruption?”
Lil reenters from the kitchen door and sets a loaded plate down in front of me. “Bon appétit.”
“We’ll talk more once you’ve had sufficient time to consider my offer.” Wolfgang rises and tosses a few pounds on the counter. “You have my card. And forty-eight hours. Enjoy your meal.” He exits the pub, cane in hand.
Why does everyone want to give me a job?
After eating, I thank Lil for her service and leave King’s Crescent in search of the inn Tom mentioned. When I round the corner, I see a black Phantom parked along the curb. Gabriel emerges from the driver’s side.
“How did you know where I was?”
“It’s part of my job.” He opens the passenger door. “Come, come. Time is precious.”
I hesitate. “Do James and Micah also know that I’m here?”
“No. Would you prefer I not tell them?”
I nod. “For now.”
“Very well.” He holds the door open wider.
“Thank you.” I climb into the car, recognizing that same scent of incense from my first night in Gabriel’s Phantom. It must be his air freshener. “Where are we going?”
“Weston Manor.”
“I don’t think Lucy wants to see me right now.”
“Let her be the judge. Did your mum catch her flight?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
We reach the outskirts of London, and I finally ask Gabriel, “What’s your story?”
“My story?”
“Yeah, with my mom. Why are you two so close?”
“We’ve always been close. Minerva and I met at university. We were best mates.”
“At university? But she’s got to be fifteen years older than you. At least.”
Gabriel smiles. “I’m a lot older than you think.”
“Okay. And how do you go from best mates to her driver?”
He sighs. “Halfway through her last term, your mum met a boy. The man of her dreams, she called him. I warned her to not let the relationship interfere with her studies, but she wouldn’t listen. After then, we began to drift apart. And no, I wasn’t jealous. I was concerned. I’ve witnessed plenty of American girls swept off their feet by men like your father, only to be discarded when they were no longer a novelty.”
“So you didn’t trust my dad?”
“Not particularly. Especially not after they eloped.”
They eloped? Mom’s never mentioned eloping.
“I didn’t see her again for more than a decade after that.” Gabriel immerses himself in the recollection. “Minerva looked radiant. Untouched by time. And I was furious,” he laughs. “I scolded her for abandoning our friendship and for not affording me the courtesy of a proper farewell so long ago — and she apologized, naturally — but my bitterness was short-lived. I was too excited for her return and too fascinated by the woman she had become. I couldn’t bring myself to stay angry, or to lose her again, not after realizing the bond she and I shared. So I followed her… Believe me, it was never my inten
tion to enter a work of service, but neither was it to meet a woman like your mum. Minerva was my rock.”
“So what you’re saying is you’re in love with my mother?”
Gabriel chuckles. “Of course not. I meant your mum saved me.”
“Saved you? From what?”
“From myself. From my stubbornness. I was much like you, in a way.”
“What makes you think I’m stubborn?”
The Phantom pulls up to the entrance of Weston Manor. “It’s just an observation.”
Iused to ride my bike every Saturday morning along Devil’s Dyke Road to get to the Westons’ property — wore through several pairs of training wheels in the process, too. I would arrive thirsty and sweaty from the trek, and Lucy always had refreshments waiting in the backyard — freshly squeezed lemonade and white chocolate biscuits. Sugar was an essential part of our playdates.
Her father converted one of the yellow storehouses near the manor into a clubhouse. But it wasn’t just any clubhouse. Our “headquarters” had all the amenities of a functioning home — minus a stove and oven, of course — and it left us little reason to play in the main house, which Lucy’s mother preferred.
When the Phantom pulls up to the manor’s walkway, Lucy emerges from the front door. “You stayed? I can’t believe you stayed,” she squeals.
“You’re not still mad at me?”
“Mad at you? There’s no time to stay mad at you.” She wraps her slender arms around my neck, and the scent of her hair sends my heart into a frenzy. It smells sweeter than before, and more distinct — like orange blossoms.
I pull away, half-dazed. “Okay, look, I’ve thought a lot about what you said, and before anything, I want to get two things straight. One: Don’t lie to me.”
“Manny, I would never — ”
“Let me finish. No lying, no cryptic responses, and no answering any of my questions with other questions. If I ask you something about my father or anyone else in my family, I want a direct answer. You got it?”
“Got it,” she replies, stifling a smile.
“Why are you smiling?”
“I’m not smiling.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Are, too.”
She snorts, covering her nose with her fingers.
“Dammit, Lucy. I’m trying to be serious.”
“So am I,” she laughs, clutching her stomach. “And what’s the second thing?”
“Huh?”
“You said you had two things to get straight. What’s the second?”
“Oh, yeah. And two: I’m sorry.”
“For?”
“For being so stubborn earlier. I’m sorry.” I sense Gabriel smirking behind me.
Lucy grins. “Apology accepted.”
“All that said, I think you’re right about my father’s death.”
She looks over my shoulder. “Gabriel, did you...?”
“No. I thought I should leave that to you.”
“Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”
“Good luck,” he replies, retreating to the Phantom.
“Okay, what am I missing here?” I inquire.
Lucy puts her hand on my back. “Come inside, and we’ll discuss it over tea.”
“You got anything stronger?”
The next hour is spent with more drinking than talking: tequila-lemonade cocktails — my favorite brand, too. The alcohol wears down my defenses and starts to make me more honest than I’d like.
Lucy takes a seat on the leather couch in the sitting room. “Where’s your mum?”
“Halfway across the Atlantic, I hope. Thank God, too. I want her as far away from here as possible.”
She sits up straighter and pulls her shoulders back. “How much did she tell you about Isidore before she left?”
“Oh, my God. You’ve already asked me that, and clearly, I don’t know what you know. So just tell me.” I lower my empty cup to the glass table harder than intended. “Sorry.”
“Before I continue, on a scale of one to ten, how tipsy are you right now?”
“Well, between the three tequilas and the two shots of moonshine, I’d say I’m a hard eight.”
Lucy’s eyes widen. “Moonshine? When did you have moonshine?”
“At the King’s Crescent. In London. Tom told me to get it. Said, ‘Put it on my tab.’ His taxi smelled like cat piss, but he was nice. Wolfgang, not so much.”
She turns ghost white. “Wolfgang Schmitt? You were drinking moonshine with Wolfgang Schmitt?”
“The one and only. Just showed up at the pub. He was not a fan of Isidore, by the way. Did you know that? He also said he came all the way to the funeral just to offer me a job. Said Stockton Farms was a bad place to work. Corrupt was the word he used.”
“What else did he say?”
“Not a whole lot.” I lean in closer. “Do you think Wolfgang’s the one who killed my father? God, it’s hot in here.”
“Manny, listen to me very carefully. Did Wolfgang scratch you? Or bite you?”
“Eww. No. Why would he do that?”
“Because. You’re special, Manny.”
“No. You’re special, Lucy. Lucy-Goosey.”
She blushes and turns away.
“So where’s your Henry at?”
“My Henry? Why do you ask?”
“Because I gotta be honest; I don’t like him.”
“Manny,” she snorts.
“He’s smart, and he’s tall, and he played rugby. I don’t like him.”
“That’s insane.”
“Trust me, Lucy. Take it from someone who loves you. You shouldn’t trust a guy that perfect.”
“What did you say?”
“I said you shouldn’t trust a guy that perfect.”
“No. Before that. You said you…”
Crap! “No, I didn’t.”
“Emmanuel, don’t be embarrassed. Did you — Did you just say you loved me?”
I sigh. “Yup” — here goes nothing — “and I’ve also kind of thought about you every day for, like, twenty years. It’s definitely too hot in here.” I open the French doors overlooking the back patio, allowing the crisp valley air and sharp stench of sheep manure to circulate through the sitting room.
Our yellow clubhouse stands in pristine condition a mere stone’s throw away. It’s as beautiful as I remember, the only part of our past untouched by time. I wonder what life would be like if I never left Devil’s Dyke. Would Lucy and I be together? Would we be married — with children by now — and would my father be alive to meet them?
“I’m not obsessed with you or anything. But I do think about you. I dream about you, too. Not all the time,” I quickly say. “Just around our birthdays. Nostalgia, I guess.”
“And what do you dream?”
“It’s always the same. You wake me up, at midnight, and you’re upset. Then you cry and run away. And it kills me.” I sigh. “It kills me every time.”
Lucy puts her hand on my back. “You shouldn’t feel sad, Manny. I drea — ”
The front door swings open, and Henry enters. He’s out of breath, shirtless, and covered in sweat. “Manny. What a pleasant surprise.”
I pull away from Lucy and walk back to the couch. Henry uses the entrance to the sitting room as a stretching post, flaunting his glistening physique.
I like to think I’m a fit guy — way more than my gym buddy, Andrew, that’s for sure — but Henry’s body is sickening. He’s the kind of athlete you see in a health magazine and secretly hope has an eating disorder. “Henry. You’re looking” — I hate you — “thirsty. Can I pour you a drink?”
“That’s awfully thoughtful of you, mate, but I’d best not.”
“Henry’s on a cleanse,” Lucy says, �
��very strict.”
“Too bad.” I mix myself another cocktail in the kitchen and return to the sight of Henry using the wooden doorframe as a chin-up bar. My anger mounts with every repetition.
He counts aloud, “…twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…”
Okay, Henry, we get it!
My grip around the glass tightens — clink! The cup shatters between my fingers, and tequila-ade spills down the front of my pants. “Dammit.”
“What happened?” Lucy exclaims.
“Glass was cracked.”
Blood oozes from a gash in my thumb. Henry abandons his chin-ups and rushes to my side. “You all right, mate?”
“Totally fine, mate. Just a nick.”
The bleeding becomes more profuse.
“Let’s have a look-see.” Henry grabs my hand and pulls my thumb close to his face. He examines the wound, hypnotized. Blood drips onto his hands.
Lucy grows anxious. “Henry, what is it?”
He brings my hand closer to his eyes and pinches my finger — ahh! — extracting a broken shard from beneath the skin. “There we are.”
“Thanks,” I huff, masking the pain.
“Luce, would you fetch the sewing kit from your room? I can have him stitched up before our eight thirty.”
“That’s right, our eight thirty. I almost forgot.” Lucy runs up the stairs.
“What’s your eight thirty?”
“Our work anniversary. I started here with Luce one week ago today.”
Just one week? “Well, that’s…cool. Happy anniversary.”
Henry takes me into the kitchen and holds my hand over the sink. He empties the remaining tequila over my open gash. I groan from behind my clenched jaw.
Lucy returns with the sewing kit. “Here we are.”
“I’ll have you stitched in no time.”
“You know how to do that?”
“Oh, yes. Henry is very good with his hands. I’ll be ready in half a tick.” She leaves.
Henry sutures my thumb with impressive skill, paying no mind to the blood staining his hands. The pain becomes worse the more sober I become.
“So where are you guys going tonight?” I ask, trying to distract myself from the procedure.
The Afterliving (His Blood & Silver Series Book 1) Page 10
