‘Moron.’
‘Now, now,’ said the Yank. ‘Let’s not be harsh. We can all get what we want out of this situation. You know what I want.’ He pointed to the gold coin on the counter. ‘And I’m willing to pay top dollar for it.’
‘If I—’ started Paulo, but he stopped. He looked at the Yank, who rolled his eyes and nodded. He could feel Vinny’s grip on his throat loosen slightly. He drew in a breath before continuing. ‘Selling a Knife of Carathan – if the Council finds out, that’s an automatic death sentence.’
The Yank looked from Paulo to Vinny and back again. ‘Let’s not underestimate the chances of Death in the next thirty seconds. I just have to think it and this moron will pop your head clean off.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Vinny. The Yank blinked and Vinny punched himself in the face again.
‘This place has cameras,’ said Paulo.
‘Good point,’ replied the Yank. He put his hand back into the pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a second item. Paulo saw only a flash of blue light as whatever it was zipped around the room. Then came a sizzling noise and the smell of burning circuitry.
‘Ahhh, those were nearly new.’
‘I hope you filled out the guarantee.’
Paulo gulped. His mouth was getting dry. ‘What are you going to use it for?’
‘That’s none of your concern.’
‘It is if—’
Paulo winced as the Yank slammed his fist on the counter, the mask of joviality having fallen from his face. ‘I’m done pretending this is a negotiation. My preference is to do this the easy way, but if I have to leave bodies and waste hours breaking through whatever security you have, I will. Now, there’s one for the knife and’ – he tossed another gold coin on the counter, where it rolled to a stop beside the first – ‘another for you to forget I was ever here. Now, are we done pussy-footing around?’
The small part of Paulo’s mind that was not filled with terror at the prospect of his imminent death looked down at the two coins and whooped for joy. It was more than he had ever seen.
‘OK,’ said Paulo, ‘but I’m going to need some assurances.’
The Yank clicked his fingers and the shop’s entire stock of baubles, crystals and other pseudo-mystical nonsense simultaneously rose a foot off the shelves it had been sitting on. Every last item was now floating in the air.
‘The only assurance you’re getting is that this is happening. You can choose the hard way or the easy way.’
‘All right,’ said Paulo. ‘OK, don’t … There’s no need to.’ He looked down the length of Vinny’s massive arm where his soon-to-be-former bodyguard watched on in confused silence. ‘And you’ll leave the doll.’
The Yank snorted. ‘Like I have a use for this idiot after today.’
Paulo took a final moment to consider his options, not that there was any real choice to be made. ‘OK, fine.’
He performed a series of gestures with his hand, under the counter and out of sight. There followed a soft ripping noise.
‘Ah,’ said the customer. ‘A Negari pocket. That takes me back.’
Paulo looked at the seam that had appeared in the air to his left and dipped in his hand. He had only ever rented the knife out to customers he knew really well, and for specifically agreed uses. There were many things it could be used for that nobody minded. The Council turned a blind eye on certain matters. The problem was that there were a few things it could be used for which a lot of people minded an awful lot. That was why objects such as the knife were banned. Paulo agreed with the ban, even if he didn’t actually respect it.
He reached into the pocket, arm in up to the elbow, felt around for a few moments, and then pulled out a foot-long mahogany box. He placed it on the counter and carefully snatched up the two coins.
The Yank opened the case and his face lit up. ‘Oh yes, this will do nicely.’ He snapped it shut and beamed a smile at Paulo. ‘A pleasure doing business with you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Paulo, resisting the urge to say anything that might antagonize his customer.
‘Don’t forget our deal.’
The Yank smiled as he tucked the box inside his overcoat and began to move towards the door. ‘I was going to say the same thing. I was never here.’ He tossed the small brown doll on to the counter, just out of Paulo’s reach.
With a final wave, the American backed out of the shop’s door, the bell above it tinkling as he did so.
For what seemed like a very long moment, Paulo and Vinny stood there, Vinny’s hand still wrapped around his boss’s throat. Then, the silence was broken by a cracking, smashing, shattering cacophony as the shop’s stock came in to land.
Vinny’s hand dropped from Paulo’s throat. He leaned over to look at the mass of debris on the floor.
‘Oh, shit.’
Paulo snapped up the small brown figurine from the counter and closed his eyes.
‘What are you—’
The troll was interrupted by his own fist slamming into his face really hard.
CHAPTER 11
Grace looked down at the shelf and pursed her lips. ‘I do not know, I just do not know.’
Hannah stood behind her with the shopping trolley, trying to be patient.
Grace sucked her teeth. ‘It is tricky, very tricky.’
‘Could you maybe just get a selection?’
Grace looked back at her. ‘If only it was that simple.’
‘They’re just biscuits.’
‘Biscuits are never just biscuits. They send a message. Offering someone a rich tea is a slap in the face; a chocolate Hobnob is downright solicitous. You have got to strike the right balance.’
‘OK, so what message are we trying to send? I mean, who are these people? What is Loom Day?’
‘Loom Day? Loom Day is not a thing. Today is Loon Day – when the paper opens its doors to allow the public to bring us their stories of the weird and whatnot. Tradition. First Tuesday afternoon every month, come rain, come shine, is Loon Day.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘I don’t like the name, personally, but that’s what everybody else calls it so I have no choice. It’s not exactly inappropriate – we get some … unusual people, no doubt.’
‘And we give them tea and biscuits?’
‘Yes. It is tradition. The first month Vincent was here, he tried to stop it. There was nearly a riot. One gentleman tried to set himself on fire.’
‘Oh my!’
Grace waved her hand dismissively. ‘He did not have petrol or anything; he just tried to set his anorak alight with a box of matches. He didn’t even manage to set off the smoke alarm. Still though, we have to get biscuits.’
‘OK. Well, I vote for chocolate Bourbons, then.’
‘Are you insane!’
‘What? They’re nice.’
‘Exactly. Too nice. We cannot have people enjoying the biscuits too much – then the timewasters will keep coming back every month. We will be overrun!’
‘Digestives, then?’
‘We are not trying to insult people either. Damn it, there will be complaints, but I am going to get ginger nuts again. It is a good, God-fearing biscuit, but nobody is crossing a road to get one.’
Twenty minutes and a discussion about instant coffee – into which two members of supermarket staff had to be brought as arbiters – later, Grace and Hannah were walking back from the shops, weighed down with inoffensive snacks, toilet rolls and antiseptic wipes. The Tuesday-morning traffic rolled by on Chester Road and clouds hung overhead, not threatening rain but at least insinuating the ever-present possibility.
‘So,’ said Hannah, searching for a conversational gambit, ‘how long have you worked at the paper?’
‘Oh, me? About ten years now.’
‘And is it always like this?’
‘Like what?’
‘With Banecroft being such a …’ Hannah paused, keenly aware of Grace’s stance on bad language. ‘I’m struggling to come up with the right word.’
‘Yes. He is quite something. The man needs his mouth washed out with soap and water.’
‘And the rest of him too.’
Grace nodded. ‘It is not right, a grown man living in his office like that.’
‘Wait – he lives there?’
‘Oh, yes. He has done since he took the job about six months ago.’
‘I take it he hasn’t got a wife or, well, anything. I can’t say I’m surprised.’
‘He used to.’
‘Really? And I thought I needed a divorce.’
‘She died, heaven rest her.’
‘Oh.’ Hannah winced. ‘Sorry. When …’
Grace waved away her discomfort. ‘Before he worked here – a few years ago now. I take it you didn’t google him?’
Hannah shook her head. The idea had never even occurred to her.
‘You should. It would be most educational. The man was a big deal on Fleet Street – editor of tabloid newspapers. Real highflyer. Look …’
Grace shifted her shopping bags into one hand, fished out her phone and started to thumb something in nimbly. Having found what she wanted after a couple of clicks, she held out the phone to Hannah.
Hannah looked at the photo. ‘Wow.’
Before her was a picture of a couple, one half of which was Banecroft. It took a few moments for that to sink in, as the difference from the foul-smelling, foul-mouthed and foul-tempered individual she knew was vast. He beamed a smile out of the screen, and was immaculate in a sharply tailored suit. The reason for his demeanour and appearance was, quite possibly, the other person in the picture: a stunning blonde woman in dazzling eveningwear. They were every inch the power couple.
‘Wow,’ Hannah said again, handing back the phone.
‘Yes. Such a sad thing. She died and he – well, you have met him. Apparently he lost his mind after she passed, gave up on any and every thing, obsessed with trying to contact her. Getting taken in by every quack and charlatan in the book. There used to be an article about it online, but it got taken down. Maybe some of his old friends from back in the day did not like it. Who knows?’
‘And he went from Fleet Street to here?’
Grace nodded as they turned the corner. ‘Yes, via the gutter. We needed an editor after poor Barry died. He was the previous editor – a nice man. He died when …’ Grace looked away.
‘What?’
‘Well, he was engaged in … unchristian behaviour.’
‘Such as …?’
‘Let us just say he was doing something inappropriate with himself of a sexual nature and it did not go well. May he rest in peace, the poor little pervert.’ Grace blessed herself.
‘Ah …’
‘Even before that, we were in trouble. Barry was nice, but he was not exactly the world’s greatest newspaperman. The paper was tremendously dull – not to speak ill of the dead.’ Grace blessed herself again as her bracelets jangled out a brief rhythm break. ‘Say what you want about Banecroft, and I could say plenty, but it has not been dull since Mrs Harnforth dumped him on our doorstep.’
‘Who is she?’
‘She is the lady who owns the paper. A very fine woman. She is a bit of an oddball, but very “proper English”. Refined. She drops in occasionally. You will see what I mean. I do not know where she found Vincent, but she plonked him down in that office, drunk as a skunk and smelling as bad. She said he was in charge, and then she was gone.’
‘That doesn’t seem like any way to run a paper – putting a drunken lunatic in charge.’
‘It has worked, though. He has increased our circulation three hundred per cent.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. The man has a nose for what people want and he is very good at giving it to them. Ox and Reginald moan about him, but we all thought we were going to lose our jobs under Barry, God rest his soul. The last edition he produced had the headline “Inside: Eight-page Pull-out on Ancient Rituals of the Druids”. Banecroft’s first was “Three-headed Chicken Predicts End of Days”. It might not be very God-fearing, but it does get people’s attention.’
‘And do you …’ Hannah was unsure how to ask what she wanted to ask.
‘What?’
‘Do you believe in all this stuff?’
‘Oh, no. I abide in the Lord. It is not about that, though. You heard Banecroft: we are not saying any of it is true, we are cataloguing all the crazy nonsense happening in the world. There is nothing wrong with it. Have you seen a normal newspaper recently? It is nothing but war and hate and people being awful to people. A rain of frogs in Cambodia, a man who thinks a ghost stole his car, and all kinds of people thinking aliens are sending them signals? I’d much rather that kind of crazy than the other kind, thank you very much.’
‘I suppose.’
‘It does not matter if you believe it or not. Reginald believes in ghosts but thinks UFOs are nonsense; Ox believes the exact opposite. Vincent does not believe in anything. At least not now.’
‘But you said he—’
‘Oh, he wanted to believe, back when he was going to all those mediums and whatnot, but we ran an article on them a few weeks ago. I did not say anything, but let us just say he has clearly decided there is nothing to it. I had never met a man who believes in nothing until I met him. May God bless his soul.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t have one!’ Hannah meant it as a joke, but the look on Grace’s face was one of outrage.
‘Everybody has a soul.’ She almost whispered it.
‘Right.’
As they turned on to Willoughby Street, Hannah was painfully aware she had killed the conversation stone-dead. The silence hung between them for an uncomfortably long time, until Grace decided to break it. ‘Can I ask a question?’
‘Sure,’ said Hannah, trying to sound bright and cheerful, although she had a strong idea of where this was heading.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘You asked me to come help with the—’
‘No, no,’ said Grace, ‘but thank you very much for that. I mean, you are a rich lady, what are you doing coming to work with us?’
And there it was. ‘I’m not rich.’
‘But …?’
‘I was rich. Or at least I was married to a rich guy, but we’re getting divorced.’
‘Right, but you can get a lawyer and …’
Hannah took a deep breath. ‘I decided I didn’t want any of his money. I want an entirely fresh start – on my own. I want nothing from him.’
Grace’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘Why would you do that?’
Hannah was taken aback. ‘What do you mean? I’m standing on my own two feet.’
‘But you could have done that while also kicking him right in the … you-know-wheres. In financial terms, I mean.’
Hannah shook her head. ‘I’d rather do it in real terms. Besides, I don’t care about the money.’
Grace tutted. ‘Forgive me, but the only people who say they don’t care about money are those who have always had it.’
‘Well, that was the decision I made.’
‘It was a terrible decision.’ Grace held her hand up in apology. ‘Sorry. The good Lord has blessed me with a very truthful nature.’
‘Yes, he certainly has.’
Grace stopped walking and placed her hand on Hannah’s arm. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to be disrespectful to you.’
Hannah shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not like you’re the only one. My own mother thinks I’ve lost my mind. She keeps ringing to ask if he’s taken me back yet.’
‘Oh dear.’
They started walking again. ‘Maybe I’ve made a terrible decision. I mean, I’m living in my old housekeeper Maggie’s spare room on a fold-out bed next to a half-built matchstick model of Tower Bridge, which her husband, Gordon, is no doubt livid about being unable to work on while I’m in the way.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ve gone from getting my food delivered by Selfridges to hunting around
Lidl for bargains. A woman tried to fight me for the last box of frozen crispy pancakes last night. I didn’t even want them – I was just looking at them in disbelief. I didn’t know crispy pancakes were a thing!’
‘I see.’
Hannah took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I’m rambling, aren’t I?’
‘It is fine. Ramble away.’
Hannah gave Grace a brittle smile. ‘I’ll tell you something else, though – I might’ve made a terrible decision, but at least I made a decision. You’d be amazed how long it’s been since I made one of those for myself. At least one that wasn’t “Where shall we have lunch?”’
‘Well, now I feel bad,’ said Grace, causing Hannah to turn and look at her. ‘I should have let you pick whatever biscuits you liked.’
Hannah laughed harder than the joke warranted, but she was holding in a lot of pent-up tension that needed releasing somehow. ‘Anyway, enough about my train wreck of a life. Let’s talk about something else, like what’s the deal with Stella?’
Grace shook her head. ‘That girl will be the death of me, Lord as my witness.’
‘Did Banecroft really catch her breaking in?’
‘Yes, he did. I came in one morning a couple of months ago and he had taken the child prisoner with that evil crazy gun of his. He said either we handed her over to the police or she started working for us.’
‘And her family are OK with that?’
‘She is a runaway. She will not answer any questions about it. I tried to find out, but she said she’d run away again if I kept asking.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘She can be difficult, but she is a good girl deep down. Very bright too. She needs to clean her room, though.’
‘Wait, she stays with you?’
‘Yes. She wanted to stay in the office but I put my foot down. No way, no how. A young girl living there with two grown men, it is not decent. I am not having that.’
‘Right. Hang on, two …?’
As they turned the corner on to Mealy Street and the church came into view, all thoughts dropped out of Hannah’s head. The building itself, even with the grimy windows and air of disrepair, still looked impressive. Its red-brick façade, faded as it was, gave it a certain presence amidst the humdrum houses and vacant lot that surrounded it – like an ageing Hollywood icon that nevertheless could still command a room.
The Stranger Times Page 9