by Ian Edwards
‘How’s Alan after the quiz night?’ Harry asked.
‘He hasn’t mentioned it,’ Rosie grinned. ‘I think he’s in denial. He does that a lot. It’s his coping mechanism. If you refuse to acknowledge something it will go away.’
‘Does it work?’ Katherine asked.
Rosie shook her head. ‘Not normally, no.’
Harry laughed. ‘Here’s to denial,’ he offered his glass in a toast.
The three of them clinked glasses and Harry continued. ‘Guess what Katherine’s doing later this year?’
Rosie looked at Katherine, who had the good grace to blush. Going to big school? She thought, but instead said, ‘I’ve no idea, what is it?’
‘She’s going to Antarctica to build a refuge for orphaned baby penguins,’ Harry beamed with pride.
Could she be any more perfect? Rosie thought to herself.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Katherine said.
You really don’t, Rosie thought.
‘The way Harry says it makes you think I’m building the refuge single-handedly. But I’m not…’
‘You’re not?’ Rosie said sarcastically.
Katherine laughed. ‘Gosh, no. I’m just one of serval volunteers working on the project.’
Harry put his arm around his girlfriend. ‘I’m so proud of her.’
Out of the corner of her eye, Rosie could see Old Man Ernie sitting on a stool grinning manically at the scene in front of him. There’s no question. Rosie thought. He’s the sanest one in this house.
*
Alan squinted at the picture of Giles Monroe and moved his fingers to enlarge the image on his phone.
‘Right, here you go,’ he said and crouched down on the floor.
Mr Licky stared at him.
Alan held the phone so the dog could see the screen. ‘Kill,’ Alan urged, growling and making a fist to prove to the dog how serious this all was.
Mr Licky looked around the kitchen, stared at Alan and then gazed hopefully at his bowl.
Alan showed him the picture again. ‘Kill. Seize!’
Mr Licky barked and scampered out of the kitchen.
‘Brilliant,’ Alan muttered under his breath as he heard the dog climbing the stairs.
A couple of knocks on the patio doors drew Alan’s attention to the other side of the room. Frankie was standing outside looking in.
‘What are you doing out there?’ Alan asked as he opened the doors.
‘Making sure that the hound from hell isn’t around.’ He looked over Alan’s shoulder. ‘It’s not around is it?’
‘No, he shot upstairs when I showed him a picture of Giles Monroe.’
Frankie frowned. ‘I’m sure there’s a very good reason why you were doing that.’
‘I’m training him to kill Giles Monroe.’
‘Why?’
‘I think the question you should be asking is why dog owners across the UK aren’t training their animals to kill Giles Monroe.’
‘You are quite mad, you know that, don’t you?’
Alan shrugged. ‘Fair point.’
Frankie stepped into the kitchen and Alan closed the doors behind him.
‘I need to talk to you about something,’ Frankie said.
‘Can it wait?’ Alan asked. ‘As I was telling you earlier, I found evidence that Dawn and Joy are actually witches...’
Frankie rolled his eyes. ‘Not this again?’
‘Don’t be like that,’ Alan whined. ‘Upstairs. There’s actual evidence. And we now know what they’re doing with my post.’
Frankie sighed. ‘Really..?’ He said, wondering if being attacked by Mr Licky was such a bad option after all.
‘They’re using it to put a voodoo spell on me.’
‘And you know that because?’
‘James found evidence upstairs.’
Frankie leaned against the counter. ‘Why on earth would they put a voodoo spell on you?’
‘I don’t know, they’re witches. Who knows what goes on in their covens? Maybe they need a male sacrifice..?’
Frankie sighed again. ‘OK, so they’re witches. What are you going to do about it?’
‘James said I could do a deal with them, but it’ll probably mean selling my soul.’
‘And how does he know that?’
‘He saw it on TV.’
‘A nice, reliable source for dealing with the occult,’ Frankie pointed out. ‘Tell me, is there a plan B?’
Alan frowned. ‘James also said that I should be nice to them so maybe they would lift the spell. Though I’m not quite sure how I’d go about doing that.’
‘Well,’ Frankie said. ‘You could start by not calling them lesbians, not accusing them of stealing your post and not trying to kill their dog.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Actually, forget what I said about the dog.’
‘And flowers, do you think I should get them flowers?’
‘Absolutely,’ Frankie nodded. ‘In my day flowers made everything better. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve ruined someone’s life, a bunch of cheap flowers will fix all ills.’
Alan looked at his friend. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’
Frankie raised his hands. ‘Of course not,’ he said sarcastically.
‘Great,’ Alan replied. ‘I’ll pick some daffodils up from the petrol station on the way back from the supermarket.’
Any further comment from Frankie was interrupted by the sound of something thumping on the stairs. He looked over at the door. ‘What’s that?’
Alan pursed his lips. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say it sounds like a small evil dog running down the stairs as fast as he can.’
Mr Licky appeared at the door, let out a screech and started scampering towards Frankie.
Alan opened his mouth to suggest that Frankie get out of there, but the ghost had pre-empted him and had already disappeared. Mr Licky hurtled into the space where Frankie had stood several seconds earlier, looked around, whimpered and slipped into his basket.
Alan got back on the floor, picked up his phone and once again presented the picture of Giles Monroe to the dog.
‘Kill,’ he said.
*
Rosie opened the front door and stepped into the hall.
‘Is that you?’ Alan called out from the living room.
‘No, it’s the RSPCA,’ she called back.
Alan gave her a wave as she walked into the living room. He was sprawled on the sofa flicking through the pages of a large hardback book.
‘What are you reading?’ She asked as she dropped onto the sofa.
He tilted the book so that she could see the cover.
‘A History of Music Hall and Variety. Are you looking for more modern material?’
Alan sighed, closed the book and put it on the floor. ‘How did it go with Harry? Has he seen the error of his ways and dumped that young pretty charity worker?’
‘Not a chance. He’s obsessed.’ Rosie sunk back in the sofa and looked up at the ceiling. ‘I don’t think it’s a healthy relationship.’
‘Well I wouldn’t worry too much. I’m sure she’ll knacker him out soon enough,’ he grinned.
‘Anyway, ‘Rosie said, choosing to ignore him. ‘How did it go next door? Are the girls still talking to us?’
‘Unfortunately they are. The dog has made a complete recovery. I replaced the gammon, I aired the house so there was no evidence of Mr Licky’s excessive farting, and I got them flowers as a welcome back present.’
‘Why did you get them flowers?’
‘I just thought it would be a nice gesture,’ he said, smugly. ‘A way of thanking them for the faith they put in me.’
‘Wow. I’m genuinely impressed. Well done,’ Rosie said. ‘What did the girls say?’
‘They’ve no idea.’
Rosie frowned. ‘Why?’
‘The dog ate them.’
Chapter 29
Sarah nodded patiently as the man sitting across the desk continued to outline his proposal.
‘Are you really sure about this, Cyril?’ She asked.
Cyril Bloodaxe was the recently appointed chairman of the Mime Group. He had been voted into post on a promise of opening mime up to the masses and now considered himself to be the public voice of mime artists everywhere.
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘There’s never been a better time for it.’
Sarah grimaced. ‘I’m sorry Cyril, I don’t think a mime version of Hamlet is something that the Arts Council would promote,’ she inhaled deeply. ‘Especially the full four hour version.’
‘How about the abridged version? It’s only two hours long.’
Sarah shook her head. ‘I think it’s the concept of interpreting Shakespeare to mime which is the issue here.’
‘Don’t you like Shakespeare?’ He asked.
‘It’s not a question of whether I like Shakespeare or not,’ Sarah insisted. ‘I just can’t see a four hour mime performance bringing in too many people.’
Sarah watched as Cyril considered her words. Never had a man looked less like his name. She had no doubt that one of Cyril’s ancestors was a medieval knight who lopped the heads off his enemies and drank pints of mead while cavorting with buxom tavern wenches. However, evolution had not been kind to this particular ancestry. Unlike his forefathers, Cyril was a small man in his late forties with a neat haircut and a neat suit, and, who Sarah doubted, had ever drunk a pint of anything.
‘Well, I suppose,’ Cyril began. ‘We could look at another of our projects.’
‘OK, what have you got in mind?’ She asked, not hoping for the best.
‘We’re working on a version of the Battle of Britain,’ he said proudly.
‘OK, that sounds a bit more promising,’ Sarah lied. ‘Why don’t you contact me when you have a few more details?’
‘You think so?’
She nodded. ‘Absolutely. That sounds much more like something the arts council would be interested in.’
A far happier man than he was five minutes earlier, Cyril said his goodbyes and hurried out of the office.
Sarah sat at her desk and sighed. The Mime Group had never been easy to be deal with. They were far more militant than the other groups that sought arts council funding; groups like the Clown Society and Independent Poetry Readers rarely made a fuss and were much less demanding. Whereas the Mime Group were constantly, and ironically quite vociferous on many subjects.
Sarah unlocked her PC and read through her emails. In the absence of anything that required an immediate response she decided to get herself a coffee. As she stood up, her phone vibrated and buzzed on her desk. One word filled the screen – Kris – her boss.
‘Hi Kris,’ She said. ‘Everything OK?’
‘Sarah, Hi. Do you have a minute?’
She dropped back down into her chair. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve just had a call from the local MP…’
‘Oh…’ Sarah rolled her eyes. Contact from the local MP was never a good thing. ‘What does he want?’
‘He wanted a progress report on the theatre redevelopment.’
‘Well…’ Sarah began. ‘There’s…..’
‘And...’ Kris interrupted. ‘He wants to perform the opening ceremony.’
‘Why?’
‘Why does he want an update, or why does he want to open it?
‘Both.’
‘He wants an update because some of the funding is coming from central government, and he wants to open it because there’s an election next year and he’s currently struggling in the opinion polls.’
Sarah laughed. ‘He’s an obnoxious toad. Opening a theatre is not going to win any hearts or minds.’
‘I’m not going to disagree with you Sarah, but he’s diverted funds in our direction so we should at least be seen to play ball.’
Sarah peered into her empty coffee cup. ‘OK. I’ll contact the council and the developer and check that they’re still on target.’
Kris seemed happy with that, asked her to stay in touch and hung up.
Sarah groaned. This would mean speaking to David Crozier again. Picking up her phone, she scrolled through her list of contacts and called his number.
*
Crozier was already in the café when Sarah arrived. She saw him as she pushed the door open, sitting alone in a corner of the busy café which was otherwise full with the lunchtime crowd.
Sarah threaded her way past the tables and slipped into the chair opposite him.
‘I got you a coffee,’ he said nodding at a mug of cappuccino on the table in front of him.
‘Thanks,’ she smiled and reached for the mug. It was warm, not hot. ‘Have you been here long?’ She asked, taking a sip.
‘Not long. To be honest I was glad you called.’
‘Really?
‘It’s Self–Awareness Awareness Day at the council.’ He drained his mug and continued. ‘An unbearable pain of a day. HR wandering around giving talks about some touchy feely nonsense they learned on a course, and to top it all…’ he stuck his hand into his pocket and slapped something onto the table.
Sarah peered at it. ‘It’s a badge.’
‘Not just a badge, look at it.’
Sarah did as she was told. ‘I’m David and I’m self-aware,’ she read.
‘So I took the first opportunity I could to get out of the place.’ He waved his arm across the room. ‘I’m currently on important council business. So, you wanted to talk about the theatre?’
Sarah handed the badge back. ‘The local MP is chasing us for an update. I haven’t heard anything, and I assume you haven’t either.’
Crozier shook his head. ‘The council released extra funds so they could work through the night. That was the last I heard.’
Sarah looked out of the window at the theatre. From the outside it didn’t look as though any work had taken place since the last time she was there.
‘I suppose we should just go over there and…’
‘Knock on the door and ask him what’s going on?’ Crozier added.
‘Come on then,’ Sarah said. ‘If we don’t do something, I’m going to have to tell my boss that I have no idea what’s going on. And you’re going to have to go back to the office and wear your badge.’
Crozier smiled. ‘That’s good enough for me,’ he said, pushing his chair back and standing up. As he followed Sarah out of the café, their attention was drawn to an ambulance, blue light flashing, and siren blaring. The vehicle came to a juddering halt outside the theatre, wheels bumped up onto the pavement. They exchanged looks and hurried across the road.
Two paramedics climbed out of the ambulance. The male paramedic went straight to the theatre door, knocking several times while the other went to the back of the vehicle, grabbed two large bags and joined her colleague.
‘What’s going on?’ Crozier asked as he and Sarah joined the paramedics at the door.
‘Do you have access to the site?’ The paramedic who, according to his name tag, was called Nick, asked while continuing to bang on the hoarding.
‘No, we don’t,’ Sarah explained. ‘We’re just visiting.’
‘We’ve had an emergency call logged against this address,’ the paramedic with the bags told them. ‘No details given.’
Nick turned back to his colleague. ‘Rachel, can you call back and check that we’ve the right address.’
‘Hang on,’ Crozier said as the door slowly opened to reveal Hander covered in dust and blood. ‘Looks like you’ve got the right place.’
*
Despite his appearance, Hander confirmed he was unhurt. Instead he quickly lead Nick and Rachel along the corridors and back to the site office. Crozier and Sarah slipped in behind the paramedics, following them along the corridor.
‘I can’t see that too much work’s been done since our last visit,’ Sarah said, looking around the corridor.
Crozier pulled at the plastic sheet covering the walls. ‘Look at this.’
Sarah ran her hand over the wall. ‘I
t looks cracked.’
‘It is,’ Crozier confirmed. ‘Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe Hander’s been doing it on the cheap.’ He tapped the wall, sending a small cloud of dust and debris tumbling down the wall.
Sarah followed Crozier to the end of the corridor and down into the theatres entrance foyer. The two paramedics were standing over Fingers, who sat on the floor leaning against the wall. Like Hander, he appeared to be covered in a mix of blood and dust. Unlike his boss, the blood was actually his. A large gash on his forehead spouted blood at, what seemed to Sarah, to be an alarming rate.
‘What happened here?’ Crozier asked.
‘He slipped and banged his head,’ Hander said, appearing from the office with a plastic bottle of water. He gave his employee the bottle. ‘Try and drink this.’
While Nick and Rachel attempted to clean Fingers’ wound, Sarah stepped closer to Hander. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ She hissed.
‘Nothing. He slipped coming up the stairs. That’s all.’
Crozier pulled Sarah to one side. ‘Look at these…’ He gestured at the architect’s plans on the wall. ‘It looks like they’ve been torn down and stuck back together.’
‘Not very well either,’ Sarah whispered.
Crozier turned to Hander who was quietly talking to Nick. ‘What happened here?’ He asked again.
Hander looked over at the plans. ‘Oh, they’ve been…err…’
‘OK,’ Rachel said as she applied a large dressing and bandage to Fingers’ forehead, making him look like Mr Bump. ‘This cut is going to need looking at in A&E so we’re going to have to take him in just to be sure everything’s alright.’
Hander gratefully stepped away from Crozier and his awkward questions. ‘I’ll lock up here and come along to the hospital. Which one is it?’
‘St Reapers,’ Rachel said as she packed her bag.
‘I won’t be long mate,’ Hander called after Fingers as the Paramedics helped him down the corridor.
I’ll just get the keys,’ Hander said and stepped towards the office.
‘Before you go anywhere Mr Hander,’ Crozier said. ‘I think you owe us an explanation.’
‘Nothing to explain, it was just a simple work place accident.’
Mr Hander,’ Sarah said firmly. ‘Unless you provide us with an adequate explanation as to what’s going on, we will cancel the contract and sue you for breach,’ she paused letting her words sink in. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
