The Little Country

by Charles de Lint

  “She’s on salary, the same as you.”

  “I’ll get right on to it, Mr. Bett.”

  Bett cut the connection and stared at the phone for a moment before calling the operator again. He made a half-dozen other long-distance calls, then finally dialed a local number. Tom Little answered and put his granddaughter on the line.

  “Janey? Mike Betcher here.”

  “Oh, hello, Mike. Did you sleep well?”

  Bett put a smile in his voice. “Sure. I slept great. Listen, about our getting together today . . .”

  “Something’s come up and I was just on my way out. Can I ring you up a little later in the day?”

  “I wanted to cancel myself,” Bett said. “Actually, I didn’t want to so much as I have to.”

  “Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

  “It’s not me‌—I’m fine. It’s . . . Christ, I don’t know how to tell you this, Janey. It’s the strangest thing. I got a call from my editor canceling your participation in the article. He wouldn’t talk to me about it, he just said he didn’t want you in the piece, period.”

  There was a moment’s silence on the other end of the line, then Janey asked, “But. . . why?”

  “That’s what I want to find out. I’m heading back to London today to see if I can’t straighten this all out. You haven’t been making any enemies lately, have you?”

  “What?”

  “The thing is, he seemed pretty pissed‌—my editor, that is. The last time I heard him in a mood like this was when he got a lawsuit thrown at him by that guy in‌—well, never mind who. It got settled out of court. But he’s not happy with you, Janey, and I can’t figure out why. I’m kind of pissed off myself‌—not at you, naturally‌—and I’m going to go to bat for you, but if there’s anything you can tell me about what’s going on that could help . . . ?”

  “I‌—I don’t know anything about this.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t think you did. Look, I’m going to straighten this out, but it might take a few days. Can I call you when I get back in town?”

  “Of course. But‌—”

  “I have to get going, Janey. I’m sorry to hit you with all of this, but I figured that if you didn’t know, then you should.”

  “I appreciate that, Mike. Only could you‌—”

  “That’s the thing I hate about this business,” Bett went on. “All these feuds and vendettas and crap. You’d think people could carry on their business with a little maturity, but it’s worse than dealing with toddlers in a day care sometimes, you know what I mean?”

  “Not really. I‌—”

  “I’ve really got to run. I’ll call you in two days‌—three at the max. Don’t worry, Janey. We’ll get this all straightened out. In the meantime, you take care of yourself, okay? And try not to worry.”

  “But‌—”

  Bett cradled the receiver and thought about what he’d said.

  Try not to worry.

  He smiled to himself.

  Like she was just going to forget about this call. And when the other pieces of the puzzle started to fall into place and she found out just how easy it could be to lose it all . . .

  A mind, he thought, was almost as much fun to take apart as a body.

  Replacing the phone where he’d found it, he went back up to his room to get dressed.

  Time to pay a little social call on the Ice Princess, he thought. Maybe play a few games with the tiny excuse for a mind that she had. Apologize for last night. Come on all sweetness and light. Vow to help her get back together with her sailor, if that was what she really wanted.

  By the time he was done with her, she’d be telling him how sorry she was that she’d screwed things up. And when Madden and “Daddy” showed up, well Lena and he’d just be the best of pals, now wouldn’t they?

  Sure they would.

  Everything was going to go his way again because he was back on the edge.

  Back on the edge and looking good.

  6.

  Janey slowly cradled the telephone receiver, her face paling as what Betcher had told her sank in.

  It made no sense.

  Not a smidgen.

  “What is it, my robin?” the Gaffer asked.

  “That was Mike‌—Mike Betcher,” she replied.

  “The Rolling Stone writer?” Clare asked.

  Janey nodded. “He said that his editor canceled the article. No, that’s not right. He just canceled my part of it. Mike asked me if I have any enemies; he said that the editor was mad at me. . . .” She looked from her grandfather to Clare and Felix. “I don’t even know the man.”

  “There must be some sort of a mistake,” the Gaffer said.

  “Or maybe it’s just the opposite,” Clare said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe it was deliberate. If we’re postulating conspiracies . . .”

  Janey gave a halfhearted laugh, but no one else joined in.

  “Oh, come on,” she said. “Think about what you’re saying. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I don’t know,” Felix said. “Maybe Clare’s got something there. So far they’ve already tried to alienate you from me and to kill Clare. That sounds to me like they’re trying to cut you off from your friends. Now they’re working on your career. . . .”

  “I can’t believe Mike’s involved in it as well,” she said. “He just told me that he’s going up to London to argue my side of it with his editor.”

  “His editor’s in London?” Clare asked.

  “Well . . . I don’t know. That’s just what he said. Maybe they have a branch office or something there.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense that he’d be involved. Or his paper.”

  “People can be bought,” Felix said.

  “But. . . ?”

  Clare took her arm. “The sooner we see if we can find out something about these people, the better, Janey.”

  Janey looked at Felix.

  “She’s right,” he said.

  “I don’t know what Peter Goninan can do to help,” the Gaffer added, “but we’d best get to the bottom of this quickly, my gold.”

  “I suppose. Gramps, would you ring up Kit and ask her if she’s heard anything?”

  Kit Angelina was Janey’s booking agent who worked out of London.

  “Her number’s in my little red phone book,” she added.

  “I’ll ring her straightway,” he replied.

  “Ta.”

  Janey hesitated a moment longer, but then Clare took her arm again, so she followed her friend out to the car.

  As she got in behind the wheel, she looked around at the familiar sight of Chapel Place‌—her grandfather’s garden, the Methodist Chapel, the friendly houses all leaning close to the street. Suddenly everything seemed distant, strange. As though they were all part of one world, and she was in another.

  It was a horrible, lost feeling.

  “Janey?” Clare asked.

  She looked at her companion, not seeing her for a moment, then slowly nodded and started up the car.

  But as she pulled away, she couldn’t help but wonder, why was this all happening to her?

  7.

  Davie Rowe was sitting in the King’s Arms, waiting for Willie Keel to arrive. The pub was in Paul, across Mousehole Lane from St. Paul’s Church. Silver-haired Harry was in his usual spot behind the bar, talking to a pair of old lads who farmed up Trungle way. Their gum boots were still muddy, but both men were wearing their Sunday best‌—cloth caps and clean jackets and trousers, ties knotted under their chins. Other than them, Davie had the pub to himself, although the dining room next door was rapidly filling up. Snatches of conversation and laughter spilled through the open partition behind the bar that led to the other bar in the dining room.

  But on this side it was still quiet. The inevitable Fruit machine was silent for a change. Davie was tempted to play it for a while, but he never won much with the gambling machines and he was low on cash, with no mor
e than the price of another half in his pocket until Willie came ’round with his money. So he sat on a bench by the billiards table and nursed his pint.

  And waited another half hour.

  Willie showed up just after Davie had finally finished his pint and ordered a half of Hicks bitter from the barman. He was returning to his table when Willie came in, grinning expansively. Keel got himself a pint of bitter from the bar and brought it over to where Davie was sitting. He took a long swig from his pint, draining the glass by a third, then set it down on the table between them.

  “How’s the lad, then?” he asked.

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Well, this’ll cheer you up.”

  Keel glanced towards the bar, then drew a folded sheaf of ten-pound notes from his pocket that he handed over to Davie. Davie pocketed them quickly, not bothering to count them. Whatever extra Willie might have made on the deal himself‌—taken out of Davie’s share, to be sure‌—Willie wasn’t one to go back on a deal. If he’d promised Davie two hundred quid, then the bills he’d just handed over would amount to two hundred quid, not a farthing more nor less.

  “Not bad for a quick spot of work, eh?” Keel said.

  “Not bad at all,” Davie agreed.

  It was very good money.

  “And I don’t doubt that there’ll be still more where that came from,” Keel added.

  Davie leaned forward on the table. “What’s this all about, Willie?”

  “Well, now, you know my feeling on that. You do the job and you collect your pay, but you don’t ask questions.”

  “I know that,” Davie said. He’d learned that and a great deal more from the time he’d spent in prison. “But this woman‌—what could she want with Janey and Clare?”

  “What do we care? Just so long as she pays.”

  “Yes, but‌—”

  “I’ll tell you this.” Keel leaned closer as well. “Our Miss Grant isn’t alone in this business. There’s not just money behind her, but more manpower as well. Now we have the in, Davie my lad. It’s our backyard, as it were, and the Americans can’t move about as freely as we can. But”‌—he tapped the table with a finger for emphasis‌—“I’ll tell you this. If we go about talking out of turn and shoving our noses in where they don’t belong, they’ll step in themselves, and then how will we profit?”

  “But you just said that they can’t get about the way we can.”

  “And it’s true. But there’s others’d like a cut of this easy money, Davie. And come nightfall, who can tell the difference between a local man and some American? They may want to step easy, but they’re not above doing a little dirty work their own selves. And maybe, the first bit of work they’d take on would be to quiet a flapping gob, if you get my meaning.”

  Davie shook his head. “I’m not looking for trouble. It’s just that. . . well, Clare. Why would anyone want to harm her?”

  “There’s a thing you need to learn,” Keel said, “and that’s the plain and simple truth that everyone has their secrets. Some are darker than others, but we all have them. You might have known Clare Mabley all your life‌—”

  “I have.”

  “But that doesn’t mean that you know her. I could tell you tales . . .”

  “What? About Clare?”

  Keel laughed and shook his head. “Not about her. But there’s many a fine and upstanding citizen in these parts that’s done worse than either you or I could even think of, Davie. I tell you, I know a secret or two.”

  “Like what?”

  “Now that would be telling and then what sort of secrets would they be?”

  “That’s easy to say.”

  “Then think of this: Why is it that I’ve never been sent up to prison, my lad?” Keel patted his upper arm. “That’s because I know things that important people would rather not see made public.”

  Davie was still curious, but he let his questions ride. It was true that the law never seemed much interested in Willie Keel, but he doubted that it was due to any hold the little man held over various and sundry important citizenry. Who’d listen to, little say believe, tale-telling when it came from the likes of him? It was far more likely that Keel was simply an informer.

  Keel finished his bitter and stood up.

  “Well, Davie,” he said. “I’ve work still to do.”

  “Anything for me?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Stay near a phone and I’ll give you a ring if something comes up.”

  Davie didn’t want to leave it at that. He wanted to know more about the American woman‌—how she could know that Clare was in danger and, more important, who the threat was coming from. If Willie wouldn’t tell him, straight out, then tagging along with him would have been the next best thing. Because Willie liked to talk and sooner or later, over the course of the afternoon, he’d let some tidbit or another slip. But he also knew he couldn’t push.

  “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ve got an errand or two to run myself, but then I’ll be at home.”

  Keel gave him a broad wink. “Here’s to Americans and their money,” he said and made for the door.

  Davie watched him leave the pub, then settled back on his bench. He finished his half. Fingering the money in his pocket, he thought of buying another, then decided against it.

  It felt wrong to spend this money. Wrong to even have it.

  Oh, he’d earned it, no doubt about that. He’d saved Clare and sent her attacker running. He’d done his job.

  His job: That was exactly what bothered him. Clare had never been unkind to him‌—not like some others he could name. Helping her shouldn’t have been a job. It should have been something he’d do simply because it needed doing. Because she was in trouble and needed help. Not because there was money to be made.

  It was an odd thought, he realized, coming as it did from a man who made his living nicking what he could from the tourists who flocked into the area every summer. But they were different. They were rich, or at least richer than he was. They weren’t anybody he knew. They . . .

  They weren’t Clare.

  A couple of local lads came in then and started up a game of billiards. He watched them play until the one who was losing began to complain in a loud voice that he was missing his shots because a certain ugly face was throwing off his concentration. His friend grinned and Davie could feel the red anger come rising up inside himself when he looked into their smirking faces.

  He stood up and both lads backed up a little at his size, holding their pool cues more tightly. Davie’s hands formed meaty fists at his sides and his eyes narrowed. He started to take a step towards them, but then he glanced at the barman, he thought of Clare, and he let his fists unclench. Nodding stiffly to Harry, he left the pub, laughter ringing in his ears.

  They knew he wouldn’t fight. Once he had‌—every time they sniggered or called him names‌—but not anymore. He couldn’t. Not if he didn’t want the law on him again. And not fighting made him feel better than them. But it didn’t stop the hurt, nor the anger.

  As he walked back down the lane towards Mousehole, hands thrust deep in his pockets, he allowed himself the pleasure of imagining how it would feel to smash those smug grins of theirs, but that only made him feel worse.

  Think of something cheerful, Davie, he told himself.

  The first thing that came to mind was sitting with Clare at her kitchen table. He wondered what it would be like to hold her. If they made love. . . .

  What kind of strength did she have in that lame leg of hers? Was it strong enough to wrap around him, holding him tight against her, drawing him in deeper?

  You’ll never find out, he told himself.

  But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. Perhaps he could go over and borrow a book from her.

  He fingered the wad of ten-pound notes in his pocket.

  Or he could just talk to her. About what he knew. Perhaps she was in trouble and she could use his help. It would be the two of them against her enemies�
��—just like in the films. He’d be Dennis Quaid and she’d be his Ellen Barkin. And when her enemies were defeated, she would be so grateful. . . .

  He could feel himself get hard, his penis pressing painfully against his trousers.

  No, he told himself. You’d only be friends.

  But that would still be something, wouldn’t it? To have a real friend?

  He thought of what Willie had said, back in the King’s Arms.

  Everyone has their secrets.

  What were hers?

  Some are darker than others. . . .

  How dark could hers be?

  What did it matter? He knew that however dark her secrets might be, they would never be so black that they would make him turn away from her.

  Bloody hell, he thought. The whole thing was hopeless.

  But when he got to Regent Terrace, he took the right-hand turn all the same‌—the one that would lead him across the back of the village to Raginnis Hill where Clare lived.

  Touch Me If You Dare

  Yield not to evils, but attack all the more boldly.

  ‌—VIRGIL, from Aeneid, Book VI

  The Tatters children began to arrive while Henkie, Taupin, and Lizzie were blocking off the windows of the warehouse. The three of them took turns standing on a rickety ladder, covering the panes with squares of cardboard that they then taped into place. Window by darkened window, the warehouse took on a gloomy air as the only light inside now came from the handful of oil lamps that Henkie had hung about the cavernous room.

  Taupin had gone out earlier to leave word with Kara Faul about how they needed the help of the Tatters children and she was now the first to arrive, flinging the door open without so much as a knock and marching inside. Sunlight streamed in through the door, cutting a bright swath of light down the center of the warehouse while deepening shadows beyond.

  “Hello!” she cried, blinking in the doorway. “Shall I bring in my bike?”

  “Shut the bloody door!”

  Henkie’s voice boomed from the far side of the warehouse‌—loud enough to make Jodi wince. She sat on Denzil’s right shoulder, because that was the best way for her to stay out of the way, yet still make herself heard to at least one of her co-conspirators. She hung on to his collar to keep her perch, grumbling whenever Denzil bent too far over the table to work on the task that Henkie had assigned to him.