“You see why we call him the Professor.” Liam laughed. “He knows everything.”
“Poor old Henry,” Davey said. He’s a public school boy—a throwback to another time—when riff-raff like us knew our place.”
Tom let out a roar. “Poor old Henry? I’ll tell you when you can pity that wanker. When I kick his arse back to Nottingham, is when. Peter needs to get him sorted.”
Liam gave me an eye roll while I turned the sausages.
Davey opened another beer. “Don’t hold your breath on that. Remember last time Peter got a yen for sunny beaches—he was gone four years.”
Tom jumped up. “Don’t say that, mate. Don’t even say it.”
I didn’t like the fear I heard in Tom’s voice. It fed my own. A lot of things didn’t quite fit. Like the Professor saying Peter had been in the army, when Charlie said he was RAF. And Plant thinking he was an aristocrat, when Davey saw him as fellow “riff-raff.”
I was going to have to do some advanced Googling when I got back to my computer. I hoped I’d find some explanation—and also the magical source of his funds.
Liam dished the potato-vegetable mixture onto a platter with the sausage links.
“Tea’s on.”
“Bollocks!” Tom said. I had no idea if this was in reference to Charlie, tea, or the snooker, but I went ahead and set the table with an assortment of battle-scarred flatware, folded some paper towels for napkins and everyone came to the table cheerfully enough.
I didn’t want to think what all the pork products I was consuming would do to my figure, but the food was actually quite tasty.
The platter had been scraped clean and I was on my second beer when there was a heavy knock on the outside door.
Everybody froze. I could tell we all had the same thought.
Tom gave Liam a triumphant look.
“Peter?” he called. “Decided to drop in on Lincolnshire, you jet-setting bastard?”
My chest constricted as I felt equal parts apprehension, anger and…something more primal.
Damn. Mr. Peter Sherwood definitely had a grip on my heart.
Chapter 24—Lost Boys
After more agitated knocking, Tom opened the canteen door. But it wasn’t Peter—just Karaoke Alan, looking slimier than ever in a squeaky new leather jacket and tight jeans.
“Mr. Sherwood here? I wanted to talk to him about that manuscript. Has he read it? From the lady in California.”
I started to speak, but Liam stopped me with a sharp look. He turned to Alan and spoke in a flat voice. “Peter’s not available.”
Tom went back to the couch as the others kept their eyes on the snooker.
Peter’s disappearing act was apparently not to be shared with outsiders.
Alan was undeterred. “She’s coming here—my authoress friend—flying into Heathrow from Los Angeles next week, and she plans to come straight to Swynsby.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I may have given her the impression I work here…I did read English literature at Balliol, you know.”
The Professor gave a hoot—only half-pretending to address it at the snooker players. Alan did not project the image of an Oxford scholar.
But Alan took a belligerent tone. “Google me. Alan Greene, Balliol College, Oxford.” He turned to me. “What about you, Duchess? Maybe you could put in a good word with Peter? It’s exactly what this place needs—a Robin Hood book or two. That’s what the tourists come for—the home of Lincoln Green: Robin Hood’s haberdashers. Rosalee’s got a publicity campaign planned. She worked in marketing for Hollywood. Her dad was in films.”
I didn’t know the exact location of Buttonwillow CA, but I was fairly certain it wasn’t a major hub of the film industry.
“How fascinating,” I said with a polite smile. “I’ll tell Peter.” I was a co-conspirator now.
“She have big tits, this authoress?” said Tom, over his shoulder.
Alan chortled and took out his cell phone. He brought up a picture of a woman in what looked like a Renaissance Faire costume. He passed the phone around the room.
“Oh, yes. I see immense literary talent there,” said Tom.
“Two immense literary talents,” said Davey, lifting a furry eyebrow. “Does Brenda know about her?”
Alan gave a wounded shrug. “The book’s a damned good read. How about Peter’s partner? That Weems bloke. I want to talk to him.” His phone rang. “That’ll be me ball and chain. When’s a good time to stop by and talk to Mr. Weems?”
“He usually comes in around half ten,” Davey said.
Everybody was silent until Alan went out the door.
“Except tomorrow,” Davey said in the direction Alan had gone. “Never comes in on Wednesdays, Henry.”
I couldn’t help laughing with the rest of them.
The snooker was only marginally more interesting than watching fungus grow, but I wanted to stay amidst the comraderie in the canteen rather than go back to my little hole. When the match finally ended, the Professor took his leave.
“My taxi will be here soon. Better get myself assembled. I’ve work to do tonight.” He picked up his messenger bag from a nearby table. “Henry’s got me reading the slush. If I’m not in tomorrow, you’ll know I’m dead of a toxic overdose of bad prose.”
This was disturbing news. Had Henry given my job to the Professor?
“You’re reading the slush too? How many submissions does the company get?”
“Too many,” the Professor said. “But you’re reading for Major Oak, aren’t you? If you run into any pervy ones, save them for me. Dominion’s my job, more’s the pity.”
With relief, I told him about The Prisoner of Zelda and offered to run down to fetch it. I’d be happy to have the thing out of my sight.
Down in the neat little room, I grabbed the envelope. Next to it was the manuscript from Buttonwillow, CA. I wondered if I’d been too hasty in my judgment of Rosalee’s book. Alan had a point about the probability of Robin Hood stories selling well to tourists. I grabbed both manuscripts and caught the Professor on the street outside as his taxi pulled up to the curb.
“This is Alan’s friend’s novel—the Robin Hood thing. Since the author is arriving so soon…it’s full of awful mangled Elizabethan syntax, but maybe you can find some good in it.”
The Professor stuck both envelopes in his messenger bag, “The overwrought will provide a nice break from the oversexed. But I doubt there even is an authoress from California. You’ll soon learn that nothing that man says is true.”
I laughed as I watched the taxi took off into the night. But as I looked down the street, I saw a shadowy figure on the corner, watching.
It looked a lot like Alan Greene.
Why would a man lie so openly and not expect to get caught?
I made a cup of tea and took it down to my little room. I hoped there would be another message from Plant—a link to my own reality from this unfamiliar world.
Plant had indeed written—mostly about Silas buying Felix’s store and how the anxiety of getting a loan was making Silas impossible to live with. They’d had another fight. Silas was staying at a hotel and Plant was on his third Grey Goose.
He was amused by my Robin Hood tales, but added, “It sounds as if the English legend you’re living isn’t Robin Hood but Peter Pan. You certainly had a terrifying encounter with Captain Hook. Funny, isn’t it—how similar the Robin Hood and Peter Pan stories are—both lending themselves to gay fantasies of untamed men in cute green tights. But your Englishmen don’t sound all that merry to me. More like Lost Boys. Don’t start casting yourself as Wendy, darling. Maid Marian had more fun.”
He was right. I had no idea if my Peter was Robin Hood or Peter Pan or simply a disappearing con man. I tried Googling him, but I didn’t get any farther than I had last time. The London club picture, a few mentions from the Frankfurt Book Fair, and…nothing.
My panic came back, full force. This was the Internet Age. Nobody’s private life was that private. If Peter wa
s a war hero, there would have been news stories.
The one thing I knew for sure was that Peter was a liar. His whoppers might be worse than Alan Greene’s. And if Lance’s death hadn’t been a heart attack—I still had to consider the possibility that Peter was a cold-blooded killer.
Chapter 25—Vermin
I woke to odd, scratchy noises in the windowless dark. I reached for the lamp. When I clicked it on, I saw them.
Rats.
Dozens of them. All attacking the white paper bag I’d left on my desk—the one with the rest of the poacher cheese and chocolate digestive biscuits. They were crawling all over the manuscripts—and my laptop.
When my scream came out, it was full throated and sopranic.
Davey came running down the stairs, followed by Liam.
“What’s wrong?” Liam said.
“Open your eyes,” said Davey, pointing at the seething mass of rat. “Duchess, didn’t we tell you not to bring food down here?”
They hadn’t, but it wouldn’t help to say so. Besides, I couldn’t make my mouth do anything but scream. The rats were still crawling all over the desk, ignoring the light and the presence of so many humans.
“Much!” Davey shouted. “Here, boy!”
The little dog came tearing down the stairs, wagging the whole back half of his body along with his stubby tail. He jumped up on the desk and grabbed one of the rodents in his sharp teeth as the rest scurried to escape. The captured rat hissed, but Much gave it a quick shake and dropped it to the floor, its neck broken. Most of the other rats escaped behind the wardrobe, save one, who was trying to drag a whole digestive biscuit back into its lair. Much captured rat and biscuit with a quick paw, but sacrificing his prize, the creature escaped, leaving Much with the chocolatey bag.
“Get the biscuits,” Liam said. “Chocolate is poisonous to dogs.”
I grabbed the bag, but it seemed weightier than I remembered. Then it moved. A rat hissed from inside. With a scream, I tossed it back on the desk. Much took a running leap and pounced, as he, the rat, and the bag landed on the floor.
So did the stack of manuscripts. And my laptop. I dove for it, but I was too late. It slid to the floor with a thunk, nearly landing on the deceased rodent.
Davey picked it up, his eyebrows furrowing.
“Not good,” he said. “This floor is bloody brick. But I’ve seen laptops survive worse. I’ll give it a look in the morning.”
I stared with horror at my beloved computer. My only link to the world.
“Don’t despair, Duchess,” said Liam, putting a brotherly arm around me. “Davey’s a genius with computers. Get some sleep and he’ll sort it in the morning.”
“Sleep? Where?” I felt my voice crack, tight with anger and lurking despair. “I can deal with most things,” I said, trying to choke back tears. “My husband abandoning me for hookers; my mother dying and leaving me destitute; drunken sailors threatening me with knives, and publishers who promise advances and then evaporate without a word. I can even deal with living in a hole at the bottom of a pornography factory. But I cannot sleep with vermin. I simply can’t.”
Davey and Liam took me to the canteen and offered beer and reassuring words, although at this point I didn’t believe them any more than I would a couple of lost boys.
But they did have a key to the main office and the inner office door wasn’t locked, so by three AM, I was back on Peter’s futon, trying to sleep, with Much curled at my feet. However, even with his watchful canine presence, every creak of the building made me flinch. I burrowed under the duvet and prayed for morning.
And for Peter to show up soon, with a damned good explanation for everything.
Chapter 26—Three Times Naught
Unfortunately, morning only brought Henry Weems. At precisely eight-thirty AM he pulled the door open and marched in, with Vera Winchester trailing behind.
“You never come in on Wednesdays, Henry. I wish you’d told me,” Vera said. “Everybody but me seems to have been informed. Alan Greene from the pub apparently knows all about it. He’s waiting outside. He says it’s urgent. I told him you never come in of a Wednesday, but here you are…”
“Somebody has to run this bloody company. I’ve got a book to print and ship by the end of the week.” Henry scowled at Vera, who had stopped to give Much a pat. “Where’s Mowbray? Get him in my office now. If he doesn’t have a new cover for me, he’s sacked.” He turned to glare at me. “This is a place of business, Miss Randall. Not a hostel for waifs and mongrels. Find yourself a room and get that beast out of here. Vera, make sure this door is locked before you leave this afternoon.”
I pulled the duvet tighter, as if it might protect me from Henry’s scattershot anger. Vera gave me a quick, but sympathetic smile.
I escaped, trailing the duvet. I’d have to get my things out of the rat hole in order to dress. I was thankful for little Much, who trotted along at my side.
I managed to get myself clothed, packed the rest of my things and carried my luggage upstairs. I’d rather face Henry’s wrath than set foot in that hole again. There had to be a nook somewhere that was both rat and Henry-free.
As I climbed the stairs with my luggage, I nearly bumped into Liam, emerging from the factory with a cup of steaming tea.
“You’re not leaving us, Duchess? Please don’t. We’re counting on you. We need a good mainstream book in the worst way. Otherwise we’ll be stuck publishing nothing but smut the rest of our lives. Please stay.”
I set down my suitcases. Didn’t they understand that I had nowhere to go?
“I need a place to sleep. To put my things…”
He gestured at the big double doors at the end of the corridor.
“I don’t see why Tom wouldn’t be willing to share the warehouse. Plenty of room in there.” He knocked on Davey’s door. “What say we move the Duchess to the warehouse?”
Davey, also clutching tea, opened his door.
“Fine with me, but Tom may not be in the best of moods. He’s been summoned by Rodd Whippington.”
Liam picked up a suitcase and led me through the double doors, revealing an industrial space, stacked high with cartons, old sewing equipment, and pallets of books. At one end, where big windows looked over the river, were several easels and paintings in various stages of completion, plus a sleeping bag unrolled on the floor.
Davey, following with the rest of the luggage, nodded in the direction of the windows.
“That’s Tom’s studio. But maybe we could make you a room behind the book pallets—over here.” He walked toward a corner to the left of the doors.
“I think there’s probably an extra table somewhere around here,” said Liam. “And I can give you my futon. Hate the bloody thing. Only Much uses it.”
I sighed as Davey and Liam set down my luggage between two pallets stacked with Amber’s Agony, and Beauty in Bondage.
So this would be my new life: Snug amidst the smut; sleeping on a dog’s cast-off bed. But it was the only thing on offer. I attempted a smile and thanked them.
The doors burst open and Tom stomped in, looking as if he might hurt anybody who got in his way.
“I’m off, mates,” he said in a fake-cheerful voice. “My services are no longer required.” He took a painting from an easel and slammed it against a large piece of machinery, ripping a hole in the center of the canvas. “Tell Peter I’ll be back to get my paintings from the office after Rodd fucking Whippington has left the premises.” He folded the easel and threw it to the floor, scooping up his paints and tossing them into a battered case. “I’ll have to go home by train, which means I’ll be able to take fuck-all with me. If Peter ever brings his bloody car back, tell him to bring my gear up to Leeds.” He grabbed an empty box from a stack and started tossing clothes inside.
“Just pack for a week or two,” said Liam. “Peter’s bound to re-hire you as soon as he gets back. He won’t be half wound up when he hears what Henry’s done.”
Tom shrugged. �
��I wouldn’t work here now if Peter offered me three times the money. Three times naught is naught. Henry did me a favor. This place is going under. Sooner than you think, mates.”
Davey started packing up Tom’s things with angry efficiency.
“The only thing that surprises me about Henry,” he said. “Is how far he can crawl up his own arse. He wanted to sack me as soon as he heard I’ve been inside. Luckily I’m the only one what can take care of the bloody machines.”
Tom shouldered his backpack and lifted his artist’s kit.
“I want to make the next train. Ring me when Peter gets back. If he gets back.”
He let both doors slam as he stomped out.
Henry had fired Peter’s best friend. I wondered what he knew that we didn’t.
Chapter 27—The Wendy House
I looked around the warehouse as Davey packed boxes of Tom’s things. I tried to help by picking up a box, but I didn’t quite know what to do with it. I stacked it on top of several others, then piled another on top. I felt useless.
“Are you building a wall?” Liam looked at my stack of boxes
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Davey. “We could build your room here in this corner by the windows, instead of over in the dark. There’s a nice view.”
A view—a glimpse of the river through iron bars and filthy glass—over a wall topped with razor wire. But yes, the river was magnificent. I would make the best of it. But Peter would have a lot to answer for when he got back.
If he got back.
A few hours later, with the help of a couple of hand trucks, the three of us had built a comical structure in the corner of the warehouse. Against one wall was Tom’s work table, which, although paint-spattered, made a serviceable desk. Against the other, we put Liam’s discarded futon, covered with the duvet I had used as a robe when escaping Henry that morning. The other two walls were constructed of cartons of books stacked six feet high and covered with old blankets. We’d pinned some of Tom’s sketches to the fabric, which gave it the look of particularly quirky avant-garde art gallery. My suitcase sat on a cast iron stand from an ancient sewing machine, and an old office chair faced the view of the river.
Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Page 9
