“Peter’s going to be looking for blood when he comes back,” said Davey. “What with this and that cow from California.”
Would Peter be looking for actual blood? I never knew how literally to take these people.
“Rosalee’s a little brash,” I said. “But not a bad person. She bought me a nice meal. She’s just a pawn in Alan’s scheme, whatever it is.”
“I see she’s taken a liking to you,” Davey said. “I’m surprised she didn’t smother you to death. Those breasts need their own post code.” He turned to his computer. “Here Duchess—do you want to see if there’s any news from your friend with the poncy name? Forget the Baron. We’ll get your book sorted.” He vacated his desk chair and motioned me to sit.
But as usual, my inbox held nothing from Plant or Silas. The thunk of disappointment was getting to feel routine now. It was as if I lived inside some computer game where everything in my life was being systematically deleted.
The Professor popped open a beer. “I told Henry that if Ms. Beebee is not prepared to rewrite, I’ll damn well do it myself,” he said. “The company can’t print that thing as is. A whiny vampire Maid Marian and a poofta werewolf Robin. We’d have the tourism bureau of Nottinghamshire sending a cease and desist order.”
I found if I swallowed the whiskey in gulps, I could almost get past the taste. I wondered how the British government dealt with foreign homeless people. There didn’t seem to be anyone living on the streets here, they way they do in the US. I’d probably be deported.
Liam went back to playing. “That Nottingham-Robin Hood thing is bollocks. Robin Hood were a Yorkshireman: Robin of Loxley. Loxley is in Yorkshire. Full stop.”
Davey refilled his glass and shook his head at Liam.
“The town of Loxley used to be on the Northumbrian border before they moved the line—so we could claim him for a Geordie. And the Yellowbellies think he’s one of theirs. He’s been put nearly everywhere on this island north of the Trent. That’s because he never lived anywhere, Liam, me lad. He’s a myth. A fairy tale.”
A fairy tale. That’s what I’d been living in. A crazy concoction of myths of merry old England and my own need to feel anchored somewhere—to feel I had some value. But I didn’t—not to Sherwood, Ltd., or anybody, really.
Liam dismissed Davey with a strum of his guitar. “The bloke’s buried in Kirklees Priory in Hartshead, West Yorkshire. You can go see his grave.” He picked out a haunting melody in a minor key, then began to sing in a high, sweet tenor. It was an ancient song, in a mostly incomprehensible dialect, but I could recognize the names Robin Hood and Little John. The chorus ended with the line: “And there they buried bold Robin Hood/Within the fair Kirklees.”
When Liam finished, the Professor gave a ponderous harrumph. “Real or not, Robin Hood is the archetypal independent Englishman. He survives because he can be re-invented for every era. Cavaliers made him anti-Puritan; 1950s writers made him a socialist, and Michael Praed made him a pagan tree-hugger.”
I gulped more whiskey, joining the discussion to keep my panic at bay.
“How do you suppose a werewolf Robin Hood speaks to our era?”
“Actually, that’s a rather clever conceit on the part of Miss Beebee,” the Professor said. “The medieval ballads called him a ‘wolfshead’—an expression meaning outlaw, so it’s a simple transition to werewolf. I don’t know why she makes him out to be such a nancy-boy though. Or how she came up with a vampire Marian. A vampire and a witch as well. Got her folklore a bit muddled.”
Liam refilled my glass. “Her heroine’s a witch? Perhaps it’s an autobiography.”
The Professor laughed. “Perhaps. Her descriptions of shagging the Devil are pretty detailed.”
Davey rolled himself a cigarette. “At least she’s not shagging the Baron, or Brenda would never let us back in the pub.” He turned to me. “He’s quit as Brenda’s entertainment director, the Baron has. Brenda’s spitting tacks about it. And she’s had a letter from Gordon Trask. He’s coming back for the things he left in his room—which she’s already sold to pay his bill. That’s why we’re drinking at home this evening. We want to avoid the dramatics.”
Gordon Trask. Jonathan had him on his show once. Maybe he could help me get back home safely.
The Professor sighed. “I fear there will be nothing but dramatics until Peter comes back and makes good his last check.”
Davey’s fierce eyebrows knotted. “I ain’t sure he’s coming back. Henry wouldn’t be trying to send the Duchess away if he thought he’d have to answer to Peter. I wonder if he knows something. Remember what Peter pulled in Tobago…”
The Professor looked as panicked by this remark as I felt.
“Tobago? What did he do?” the Professor said. “Should I know about this?”
Liam shot Davey a warning look, but Davey went on. He must have consumed most of the whiskey, since his speech had begun to slur.
“He died, Peter did.” Davey stopped for a dramatic eyebrow lift. “Our fearless leader sailed off on his own into the Caribbean night, and his yacht was discovered a few days later, deserted. A yacht the bank was trying to repossess, as it happened. He resurfaced a few months later, back in Blighty, calling himself Sherwood. His name used to be…”
Liam strummed louder. “Shut the fuck up, Davey. That all happened a long time ago. Peter had nothing to lose then, and those Columbians were after him. He’s a legitimate businessman now. You think he’d give up this building? He owns the place.”
The panic that had been lurking in my stomach now moved to my throat. Columbians. Staging his own death. How could I have fallen for a man like that? Maybe, like Rosalie’s character, I’d been shagging the Devil
“No. The bank owns the Maidenette Building,” Davey said. “Henry and Peter own a piece of it as long as they can keep up the payments. And right now, they can’t.” He held the whiskey bottle toward me.
“You mean we all have to leave?” said the Professor.
Davey and Liam nodded.
“We’ll all be out in the streets. As early as two week’s time,” Davey said.
I took another swallow of whiskey.
Chapter 38—Wolfshead
I got through the rainy weekend with the help of Ivanhoe and the telly in the canteen. Because Liam and Davey were staying away from Brenda’s wrath at the Merry Miller, they were eating in, and I was happy to cook and clean in exchange for food. And drink. Way too much of the latter. Half the food and liquor had probably been shoplifted, but I was learning to turn off the part of my brain that was bothered by such things.
I was an outlaw now, living illegally in a warehouse that might be foreclosed on at any moment.
On Sunday night, after another attempt at quelling panic with neat whiskey, I woke feeling as if my head had been battered by brigands with quarterstaffs. I heard odd noises in the warehouse outside. Footsteps. I froze as I heard—could it be? The scratch of claws. The smell of wet fur. Something was out there. Something not human. My head pounded, but I couldn’t move. Something rustled right outside my curtain/door. I thought I could see the skinny nose of a big dog—or was it a coyote?—pushing through the curtain.
But there weren’t any coyotes in England, were there? How did it get in? Barely breathing, I reached for Davey’s panic button, but couldn’t find it in the dark. My fingers grasped empty air.
But now I could see what poked through the curtain wasn’t a nose but an elbow, clad in black. A man’s elbow. It pushed the curtain aside. I heard a click as a flashlight beam blinded me. I lay paralyzed on my futon as the man came closer. I thought I could make something out behind the beam. Daffodils? A man hovered above me—holding a bouquet of daffodils in one hand and a flashlight in the other.
He spoke from the darkness behind the beam.
“Why are you sleeping out here, Duchess? It’s fucking freezing. Me office too cramped for you?”
“Peter?” I could just make out his face above the bouquet. His hands
ome face—grinning. “Is it really you?”
“Of course it’s me.” Peter set the flashlight on the night stand. He wore the tuxedo he had on the night I met him, complete with the silly bow tie.
“The tie’s too much, isn’t it?” he said, pulling an end to unloose it. He slid it off his neck and dropped it to the floor. “In fact, it’s all too much.” With a laugh, he began to strip. “Mind if I join you? I’m freezing me bum off.” He scrambled under the duvet, enveloping me in his arms.
I kissed him with all the longing and hunger I’d been feeling for so long. I wanted him to know how I’d been starving: for food, for hope, for him. I reached up to stroke his long, silky hair, but instead felt…a claw.
It scratched at my face. I screamed, but no sound came out.
What was in my bed wasn’t Peter: it was a coyote. And I wasn’t in the warehouse, I was in a tent in the woods—a forest like Rosalee’s Sherwood, full of terrifying creatures: vampires, werewolves, demons—attacking and eating each other.
I heard a snort as the claw came at my face again.
I reached to push the claw away, and woke. I’d been dreaming, but the claw—it was real.
Much’s claw. The little dog was asleep beside me on the bed.
Finally coming to full consciousness after the nightmare, I realized Much must have crawled onto the futon sometime during the night and now slept beside me, his paw waving only inches from my face, in pursuit of some dreamworld prey.
I was safely in my Wendy House in the factory. The panic button was within reach. I could see it in the yellow light from the parking lot outside. No woods. No coyote. No demons. And no Peter. I took deep breaths to still the thumping in my chest.
My mouth felt dry and nasty from last night’s whiskey. No wonder I was having bad dreams. No. It wasn’t entirely bad, that dream. Peter’s presence had felt so soothing, so erotic, so right.
I got up and opened a water bottle. I gulped it down with a couple of aspirin, hoping to alleviate the hangover I knew was coming. How odd I’d dreamed of Peter as some were-coyote. I hadn’t thought of that coyote since I left San Francisco. It all seemed so long ago and far away—like some book I’d read in childhood. I shivered and crawled back into bed, glad of Much’s body heat and comforting presence.
Now I understand the lure of the werewolf romance. It was a fantasy of a lover as fiercely protective and loyal as a dog.
Chapter 39—A Handy Dungeon
Morning came too soon, along with excruciating hammering in my head. Not only from the hangover—which was intense—but something else. The whole warehouse shook. Something noisy was going on in the Rat Hole. On my run to the loo, I saw two workmen emerging from the hole carrying Ratko’s futon. On my way back, I saw them carrying his desk.
Liam and Davey, both looking awful as I felt, stood staring from their doorways as the furniture piled up.
“Anybody need a nice bed?” said Alan Greene. He climbed up from the stairwell and smoothed back his greasy mane “Some if this ain’t half bad. It’s all going to the charity shop if you don’t want it.”
I waited for him to say something about my need to move out, but he seemed to have moved to bigger prey. He was taking on Jovan Ratko now—maybe trying to erase all traces of Peter and his friends from the building.
Liam watched the workmen take their burden out to the parking lot. “You’re mad to fuck with Ratko’s gear.” He shook his head. “That bloke has killed people, mate.”
“But he’s pulled a runner ain’t he?” Alan said. “He’ll never make it back from Croatia. He was here on an illegal visa. And we happen to be in need of a dungeon, and here we have one—right handy.” One of the workmen came in from the lot with a dolly loaded with several boxes. His cohort followed, carrying a tripod.
Davey wiped his eyes as if he thought he might still be dreaming.
“You’re chucking Ratko’s gear to make yourself a photography studio?” Davey was still dressed in his clothes from the night before and stank of stale whiskey. I felt queasy. “I take it the bank’s been paid on this place?”
“Correct,” said Alan. “But we have to save every penny to keep up payments. Shooting our own covers will do that. My photography is widely published, you know. Lots of girls willing to pose for a free portfolio from an artist who shows in London galleries. Now look at these manacles I bought on e-Bay…”
Davey’s brows rose with dark eloquence, but he said nothing as he headed off to the canteen.
Liam shook his head again. “Don’t underestimate Jovan Ratko, Alan. Or Peter. You’ve no idea who you’re dealing with.”
Alan chortled. “I’ve a fine idea who I’m dealing with. So does Henry.” He opened another box, full of paddles and whips.
I escaped to the office to use the computer and ask Vera if she might know what Peter had done with my contract, but the atmosphere in the office was tense. Meggy came in to announce that the milk had gone off, but a tight-lipped Vera kept her eyes on her computer screen.
The Professor’s voice came from the inner office, arguing loudly with Henry about Fangs of Sherwood. He kept repeating the words “Paranormal pooftas” at increasing decibels.
I would have liked some non-spoiled milk, since the tea table carton was my main source of protein these days, but I put a couple of sugars in my black tea and went to the computer desk. I had once held carbohydrates in such contempt. Now I was grateful for any calorie I could find.
I tried to block out the chaos, and reminded myself to be happy the bank wasn’t going to evict us all. And grateful that Henry’s attention was on the Professor instead of my missing contract. With Alan busy with dungeon construction, the computer was mine for the day. After my usual heartbreaking visit to my gmail, I gulped my too-sweet tea and decided it was time to fight the despair.
My odd dream had somehow calmed me. I started to write a nice, long message to Plant, acting as if things were perfectly okay—as I’d often advised my readers to do in a time of crisis. After all, “as if” sometimes turns into reality.
And even if it doesn’t, a little self-delusion always makes things easier to bear.
I wrote as if Plant would soon be home, recovered from his heart attack—and my book would soon be lucratively published by Sherwood, Ltd.—and I was not sleeping in a seedy warehouse soon to be shared with a sex dungeon.
I worked on picturing Plant reading my message on his old Mac when he got home from the hospital. Maybe with Silas in the kitchen cooking something low-cholesterol, but delicious. I even pretended I wanted that relationship to work, although right now, my anger at Silas bubbled up every time I thought about him.
But I stifled it and wrote paragraphs filled with stories about Davey and Liam and the Professor, and Rosalee and her cowboy lover. I described the last weekend of alcohol abuse as a great lark, and even made the dungeon seem like a silly joke.
If I could only convince myself of some of it, I might be able to banish my feelings of dread and doom.
Chapter 40—Out of the Woods
Over the next few days, when nothing was done to evict me from the Maidenette Building, I went back to work on my editing and kept my hopes up for Peter’s return. But the atmosphere in the office continued to be so gloomy that I was actually pleased to see Rosalee bounce in for her editing conference with the Professor on Thursday.
She stopped at my desk and beamed a sunny smile.
“I hope Alan Greene isn’t here,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “I do not want to see that creep. Do you believe he keeps calling me trying to have phone sex? The first few times I went along with it, because Colin was out doing some sales thing, but Alan’s fantasies get so perverted. Gross me out!”
I tried to look sympathetic.
“Maybe providing him with phone sex the first few times gave him the wrong idea. Have you thought of telling him you have a boyfriend?”
Rosalee had no time to respond, as the Professor wheeled by and summoned her into He
nry’s office.
“I feel like I’m being sent to the principal’s office in school,” she whispered. “Wish me luck.”
I tried to look wishful. At least the phone sex incident provided me with a new Rosalee story to tell Plant. I almost felt compassion for Alan. Rosalee’s mixed signals would befuddle any man.
But my compassion waned when Alan himself showed up a few minutes later, looking slimier than ever. He had slicked his hair back into the rat-tail again and changed from his work clothes into an Italian-cut jacket and Gucci knock-off boots. He gave me a contemptuous smile on his way to join in whatever dramas were taking place in Henry’s office. Now my fears were for Rosalee.
But when Rosalee emerged about an hour later, she was all smiles. I was afraid to ask what had transpired, for fear of triggering one of her mood swings.
Instead, I showed her a map of Swynsby-on-Trent I’d found on the town website.
“Do you want me to print it out for you? This area is full of fascinating places to explore. Did you know that King John stayed here—in the building next to what’s now the Green Man?”
Rosalee looked at me blankly.
“You know, the King John who was Prince John in the Robin Hood stories? Who signed the Magna Carta? There’s a copy of the original Magna Carta in Lincoln. We should take the bus into the city so we can see it—and the real King John’s own handwriting. Almost like being close to Robin Hood.”
Rosalee dismissed all this with a grunt.
“Na. Let’s go to the Green Man. I need a drink, baby girl.”
So now I was her drinking buddy and “baby girl.” I decided to take that as a compliment. But as soon as we were out of earshot of the building, her happy mood faded. She launched into a tirade about Alan. She said he kept trying to “cop a feel.”
Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. Page 13
