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by C. K. McDonnell


  ‘What in the …?’

  In a rather nifty manoeuvre, the patient managed to evade his pursuers and dashed back the other way, leaving one of them holding the article of clothing that hadn’t been covering much anyway.

  All three of them watched in silence as the naked man trotted out on to Oxford Road, scurrying along the pavement with his thumb out.

  ‘Now that,’ said Hannah, ‘is optimistic.’

  ‘Is it me,’ said Banecroft, ‘or does this city get weirder by the day?’

  CHAPTER 50

  Hannah opened the box of doughnuts and watched as the one-eyed homeless man’s face lit up.

  ‘Really?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely. And you get first pick too.’

  He gave her a suspicious look. ‘What’s wrong with them?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with them,’ said Hannah. ‘I promise. In fact …’ She balanced the box of a dozen doughnuts in one hand so she could free the other. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said the man, ‘never say that. There are enough things around here that can kill you.’

  A week ago, Hannah would have dismissed his comment, but it had been a very long week. Nothing looked the same now.

  ‘I … No offence, love, but I probably shouldn’t accept sweets from strangers.’

  ‘OK,’ said Hannah. ‘Well, my name is Hannah and I work just over there, in that building that used to be a church.’ They were beside the same bench and bin that Hannah had first stood next to a week ago. It felt like another life now.

  ‘You work at the loony paper?’

  ‘Yep!’ she said with a grin. ‘I do.’

  He shook his head. ‘Well, you seem trustworthy. Nobody would lie about that, for a start.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘They call me Two Eyes,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Hannah. ‘That doesn’t seem like a very nice name.’

  ‘Ah no,’ he said, ‘it’s fine. It’s because I wear glasses to read, you see.’

  ‘Oh, right. What’s your actual name?’

  ‘Paul, but nobody calls me that.’

  ‘Well, they do now. Hello, Paul – pleased to meet you properly.’

  He nodded. ‘You’re all right, Hannah. I’ve decided I like ya.’

  ‘Likewise, Paul. Now take a doughnut.’

  ‘I’m going to take the pink one, if that’s OK?’ He still looked unsure.

  ‘Excellent choice.’

  Just then, Hannah’s mobile rang. She flapped her free hand around, trying to find it.

  ‘D’you need some help?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Hannah gave Two Eyes the box and dipped her hand into her coat pocket, finally locating the phone.

  An unknown Manchester number.

  ‘Hello, Hannah speaking.’

  The voice on the other end was female and posh. ‘Hi, Hannah, my name is Chelsea Downs, I’m calling from the Storn boutique here in Manchester.’

  ‘Oh right, yes. Thanks for calling but I already know I didn’t get the job.’

  ‘Oh no. I’m ringing to apologize. I was out last week and my second-in-command took the interview without checking her emails. Joyce Carlson recommended you highly, and frankly, you’re exactly what we need – as this bloody screw-up shows. If you’d consider it, the job here at Storn is yours. I should add that the package is very competitive.’

  Hannah looked at the box of doughnuts and Two Eyes’s face as he bit reverently into the pink-glazed doughnut. Then she looked across at the church.

  ‘Hello? Hannah … Are you there? Hannah?’

  ‘I’ve got doughnuts!’ This revelation was met with great approval from the occupants of the bullpen. ‘But I’m going to hold off handing them out until the meeting starts.’ This was met with less approval. ‘Think about it – it might actually cheer up Old Grumpy Pants.’

  Hannah took a seat beside Grace. The office manager had plasters covering some cuts on her face and a bandage on her wrist, but other than that she looked well. ‘And how are you doing?’

  ‘I am super, thank you, darling. A nice man came around to the house yesterday, said the insurance company would cover all the costs of the repair, no questions asked.’

  ‘That’s brilliant news,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘especially as I did not have any insurance.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Hannah.

  Grace raised her hands towards the sky. ‘The good Lord moves in mysterious ways.’

  Hannah lowered her voice. ‘And how is …?’ She glanced over to the corner, where Stella was sitting behind her computer, phone in one hand, book in the other.

  ‘She is doing OK. There is a way to go.’

  Hannah nodded. She imagined there was. While their chat outside the hospital had at least cleared the air, there was still a lot to figure out.

  ‘Ox!’ That came from Reggie, on the far side of the room.

  ‘What?’ came Ox’s response.

  ‘Don’t you “what” me, you base ruffian. I said you could only sign my cast if you didn’t monkey about.’

  ‘I’m drawing your favourite meal – cooked breakfast. That’s a sausage and two—’

  ‘It’s a penis.’

  ‘Reginald!’ said Grace, outraged. ‘Please. There are children present.’

  Stella spoke without looking up. ‘If Ox’s thing looks like that, he wants to get it seen to.’

  Hannah laughed, as much at Grace’s outraged face as at Stella’s response.

  The door to Banecroft’s office slammed open and Hannah glanced at the clock on the wall: 9 a.m. precisely. He limped out, minus his crutch, but with his blunderbuss perched jauntily on his shoulder.

  ‘Laughing?’ said Banecroft. ‘Why on earth are people laughing?’

  ‘They’re enjoying the company of their co-workers,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Oh, how lovely. I’m amazed you all think we have the time. In case you’ve forgotten, you all missed Friday’s meeting.’

  Ox raised his hand. ‘I was in a cell.’

  ‘I was in hospital.’

  ‘So was I.’

  ‘I’d been kidnapped by a maniac.’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Banecroft, ‘you’ve all got your excuses. None of which change the fact that this bastion of inability still has to produce a newspaper on Friday. Right, we’re going around the room.’

  Groans.

  Epilogue

  Banecroft awoke with a start.

  Had it been the nightmare again? He was having it with increasing frequency. Throughout the day, it had become, well, not exactly easy, but at least possible to keep Charlotte out of his mind. In the night, though, his memory of her had free rein.

  The dream was always along the same lines. It would be a replay of some happy moment from their life together – their wedding day, the holiday in Rome, the weekend in Cornwall. Or just mundane moments. They would be sitting together on the sofa, or at the kitchen table eating breakfast, or in any other number of everyday locations. He would be happy – that was the worst part. He would feel an echo of what his life had been and then it would stop and Charlotte would turn to him and say the same line every time.

  Why didn’t you save me?

  He would plead. Beg. Explain how he’d tried and tried and tried. She would sit there, watching him without any reaction save for repeating those words again and again. He would reach for her but he was never able to touch her. And then he would wake up with that horrible empty feeling. The nightmares had never gone away, but now, after recent events, they seemed more vivid than ever.

  He automatically reached for the bottle on his desk – and then he heard it. The noise. Someone was in the main office.

  He looked at the clock on the wall: 4.23 a.m. Nobody who worked here was that keen, and though Manny slept downstairs, he kept himself to there, the kitchen and the bathroom. He would have no reason to be wandering around the bullpen.

  Banecroft was about
to dismiss it as the work of his imagination when he heard it again.

  He got to his feet and picked up the blunderbuss. In light of recent developments, he was aware that the word ‘intruder’ covered a lot more ground than he had previously imagined. Still, someone or something was in the offices of his newspaper, where they shouldn’t be, and that was not something he could let stand. Slowly, trying to avoid putting too much pressure on his still-bandaged left foot, he limped towards the door.

  He took a deep breath, and in one fluid motion opened the door and walked through it.

  ‘Freeze, motherf—’

  He stopped. Someone was sitting at the desk in the far corner – one of the empty desks that had never been occupied in Banecroft’s time as editor. The person was quietly reading through something, not even looking up at Banecroft’s shout.

  Banecroft walked slowly towards where the figure sat. A part of his brain was shouting in recognition, but the rest was studiously ignoring it. It couldn’t be. It literally could not be.

  He noticed as he moved forward that the first rays of morning light were seeping in through the large stained-glass windows, and that they appeared to pass through the figure. Banecroft realized he was still pointing the gun, and slowly he took it down and placed it on the table.

  Only then did the figure look up and seemingly notice him for the first time. And when he did, Banecroft saw a face filled with irrepressible excitement, like that of a child on Christmas morning. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Banecroft.’

  Banecroft sighed and leaned on another of the empty desks.

  ‘Hello, Simon.’

  Free Stuff!

  Hello, C. K. (or Caimh) here. Thanks very much for reading The Stranger Times – I hope you enjoyed it. If you’d like to download an exclusive, not-available-in-the-shops ebook of my short story collection In Other News, full of tales from The Stranger Times world, then hot-foot it over to thestrangertimes.com right now and sign up to the newsletter. You can also find The Stranger Times podcast wherever you get your podcasts – each episode features stories narrated by many of the finest comedians available in my price range.

  If you’re reading this in 2021, you can look forward to another book in The Stranger Times series coming out next year. If you’re reading this in 2061, then let’s be honest, the planet lasted way longer than any of us expected. If you’re reading this while standing in a bookshop because you’re one of those people who likes to read the end of a book before starting it, then, on behalf of authors everywhere, stop it!

  It is both traditional and entirely proper that I now thank all those people without whom this book would not have been possible. I thought I’d give that process an update nobody asked for by assigning the task to The Stranger Times’s resident pre-emptive obituarist. The results are on the following pages and I’d like to apologize for them now.

  Cheers muchly,

  Caimh (C. K.) McDonnell

  Acknowledgements

  (Written by Minty Van Der Flirt – psychic

  obituarist for The Stranger Times)

  The author has asked me to thank the following people:

  Simon Taylor, editor extraordinaire, who dies in a boating accident while on holiday in 2076. The accident is especially tragic as the UK is still in lockdown at the time, and he will be sitting in his front room reading a book when it happens. Authorities will initially be baffled as to how a speedboat hit his landlocked apartment.

  Rebecca Wright, a different but equally important type of editor, who dies while trying to scale the Forth Bridge, in an effort to correct a particularly egregious misspelling of the word ‘transcendental’ in some graffiti.

  Judith Welsh, all-seeing, all-knowing managing editor, who dies while riding an enraged bull through the streets of Leamington Spa, dressed as all of Henry VIII’s wives and being chased by a pack of irate, one-eyed Boy Scouts on mopeds. There’s a fascinating story behind how that comes to happen, but sadly, space in this publication is limited.

  Marianne Issa El-Khoury, genius cover designer, who dies a tantalizing six feet from the summit of Mount Everest – a particularly galling way to go as she’d initially only nipped out to the corner shop for tea bags, and things sort of escalated.

  Sophie Bruce and Ruth Richardson, for their marketing expertise. Sophie will die tragically when the skywriting plane she is piloting runs out of fuel in the middle of a promotional stunt for a book she is launching. The inquest will agree that The Sequel to the Previous Book Where What’s-His-Face and Thingy-Me-Bob Look Like They’re About to Finally Get It On But Somehow Don’t But At Least They Manage to Solve a Crime Amidst All the Sexual Tension and There’s a Good Bit with a Dog – is really too long a title for a book. Ruth dies when the aforementioned skywriting plane lands on her house, which really is spectacularly bad luck.

  Tom Hill, for his PR brilliance. He will die when crushed by a stampede of delirious readers, desperate to get hold of a copy of a book he is promoting. He shall be remembered as having died from a job well done, although the autopsy will go with the rather less prosaic ‘massive internal injuries’.

  The author would also like to thank all of the other wonderful staff at Transworld, who live long and happy lives before dying in weird and interesting ways, all inexplicably involving cauliflower.

  Gushings of thanks to super-agent Ed Wilson, who is initially feared dead when swept up in an avalanche of unsolicited manuscripts from would-be writers. However, it is later discovered that he merely used that as an opportunity to start a new life with his family. He renames himself Eddie ‘Big Ideas’ Monchengladbach and embarks on a new career as an inventor. He eventually dies by execution, being the first person in over a century to do so, when it is discovered he was behind a tragically ill-conceived ‘speedboats delivered to your door’ scheme. His wondrous partner in crime and foreign rights, Helene Butler, goes on to enjoy great success writing, directing and producing the hit film Speed Kills – The Ed Wilson Story. She dies from a particularly bad glass of champagne at the Oscars.

  Thanks to Scott Pack, who shuffles off this mortal coil while disrupting and reinventing the publishing world in general, but in particular from not looking up from his phone while simultaneously tweeting and walking.

  Thanks to Kahn Johnson, Sam Gore, Graham Goring and Gary Delaney – who join the long line of people who unsuccessfully reinvent the submarine. And to all of those who would go on to contribute to The Stranger Times podcast and website – before being tragically hunted down and killed by some guy who was, ironically, a big fan, because people in general, and men in particular, are weird.

  Thank you to Mammy and Daddy McDonnell, who die as they lived, spelling out the name McDonnell to people over the phone who will still inexplicably write it down wrong anyway.

  Finally, thank you to Elaine Ofori aka Wonderwife for a list of things far too long to be contained in print. She lives for ever but never remarries.

  THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

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  Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

  First published by Bantam Press in 2021

  Copyright © McFori Ink Ltd 2021

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, liv
ing or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Cover imagery © Shutterstock and Getty Images

  Cover design by Marianne Issa El-Khoury/TW

  ISBN: 978-1-473-57730-5

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

 

 

 


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