Commotion from Olly’s room as the actor was dragged out of his sleep by his agitated girlfriend. Harry slipped into the bathroom and closed the door, locking it quickly behind him.
The door rattled as Olly’s fist battered against it.
“Harry!” he roared using his best drama school projection, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Harry ignored his flatmate’s cries and, singing to himself, enjoyed his shower. He didn’t know what Ariel had done but perhaps it wouldn’t be all bad to have a tricksy spirit on one’s side.
***
Hank Brownlow woke in his Birmingham hotel, a tall black edifice not far from the library. He showered and contemplated going down for breakfast. The Brits prided themselves on their breakfasts and called them the Full British or something, but in Hank’s opinion, they were doing it all wrong. Waffles made out of waffles were what he craved, not waffles made out of reconstituted potato. What the Hell was that about? Pancakes! He longed for pancakes with maple syrup. Just like the short order cooks make back home.
He dressed in a reverie of bygone breakfasts, humming to himself. He almost didn’t register the telephone was chirruping.
“Brownlow,” he said to the receiver. He listened. “Oh, really? Is that so? I’ll be right down.”
He put on a sweater and checked it hadn’t mussed his hair too much. Over the sweater he put on a casual jacket. It was the outfit he tended to sport onscreen; he expected the number of encounters with breathless fans to increase accordingly.
He watched the numbers illuminate and fade as the elevator conveyed him down to the lobby. A young woman saw him as soon as the doors slid apart; she rose from the sofa and approached.
Cute, Brownlow observed, in a cold, businesslike way. Pull off those huge spectacles, shake out that ponytail and you have a walking cliché. Why, Ms Whatever-your-name-is, you sure are hot!
The young woman extended a hand and waited for him to be close enough to take it. Her grip was stronger than he was expecting.
“Kelly Benn,” she said with the serious expression of a newsreader announcing war.
“Hank Brownlow,” he replied, “But you knew that already, am I right?”
“You can stop twinkling, Mr Brownlow; your flimflam won’t work on me.” She tapped away on high heels towards the dining room where breakfast was being served. She paused at the door. “You haven’t had breakfast? You may eat while I fill you in.”
“Um, no; sounds good. I eat, you fill me in. And maybe later I can return the favour?”
She held the door open for him but caught his sleeve as he passed. “Attempt to sexually harass me again, Mr Brownlow and I’ll cut your bollocks off. Figuratively speaking. Perhaps.”
She selected an empty circular table in a corner while he trawled the buffet bar. As he suspected: no ‘proper’ waffles and definitely no maple syrup. There were fried eggs stacked up like a monument to grease and a vast tray of fried tomatoes like something leftover from an autopsy. Brownlow’s stomach flipped and he felt a sour taste arise in his mouth. He opted for cereal with plenty of sugar and a pitifully inadequate cup of O.J.
The young woman - Ms Benn was it? - was waiting patiently. When Brownlow was settled she produced a paper bag from under the table and slid it towards him.
“What’s this?”
“Have a look.”
Brownlow peered into the bag. His expression changed to one of delight and wonder. He pushed his cereal bowl aside and began to tuck into the waffles - proper, American waffles - instead. Ms Benn slid a plastic pot towards him.
“Is that...?”
“It bloody well is,” she smiled.
Brownlow tore off the lid and poured maple syrup onto his waffles. He grinned as he munched on this manna from heaven.
“You know something?” he asked through a mouthful of sweet, sticky pleasure.
“I know lots of things,” Ms Benn said coolly.
“I think I’m going to enjoy having you as my new personal assistant.” He held up his hands in surrender. “No harassment intended.”
“None perceived. Now, listen to me, Mr Brownlow. I believe I can save you a lot of time and energy.”
***
“Jesus, Harry. I don’t know what you were thinking.” Olly was pacing the shared kitchen like a disappointed parent. Alicia was sitting opposite Harry, with her hair turbaned in a towel, having been able to use the bathroom at last without an attack of the screaming abdabs.
Harry crunched his cereal dispassionately while Olly had his rant. “I mean...” Olly continued without actually saying what he meant. “Christ, Harry.”
“Bathroom was all right when I went in,” Harry sniffed. “There were certainly no signs of - what was it? - scorpions and spiders when I went in.” He became aware of Alicia’s leg swinging under the kitchen table. She’s trying to kick me but she’s too short! Ha!
“And you went in too, Olly. Did you see these alleged creatures?”
“I’ll fucking give him alleged in a minute,” Alicia muttered. “Tell him, Olly.”
“No, let me tell you, Olly.” Harry stood up. He took his bowl to the sink. “Where would I get scorpions and spiders from? And where are they now? You know what I’m like with anything smaller than a kitten - or bigger than a kitten, for that matter. I think your girlfriend’s seeing things. Probably still half asleep when she barged her way in there. If she’d waited her turn, she might have been awake and not dreaming up bugs and creepy crawlies that just aren’t there.”
Alicia growled and slapped the table.
“Ally, he has got a point -” Olly’s words were cut short by a second slap to the table. Alicia stood up.
“I’m going to dry my hair,” she smiled in a rather shark-like manner. “While I’m drying my hair, you, Oliver my darling, are going to tell this fucking weirdo he’s got to move out.”
She left the room. There was a brief silence before her bombshell exploded.
“What? What did she say? I’ve got to move out! Fuck that!”
“Now, Harry; steady on -”
“No, you ‘steady on’. My name’s on the tenancy agreement. Hers isn’t. She doesn’t get to say who lives here and who doesn’t.”
“Harry, listen...”
“I knew she was bad news as soon as you met her.”
“Now, that’s uncalled for.”
“Is it? She hates me. Always has.”
“Not this again. Just listen to me, please.” Olly gestured to a chair but Harry ignored it. “Right, then. Here’s the thing. Our rental agreement is up at the end of next month. Landlord’s happy for us to renew.”
“Well, there you are then.”
“No, no; happy for us to renew. Ally and me, that is. We’re the us.”
Harry was dumbstruck. “You’ve talked to the landlord about this? Without me?”
“You won’t be out on the streets. I’ll help you find somewhere else. You’ve still got a month.”
Harry shoved Olly out of his way and stormed out of the kitchen.
“Harry...”
“You can stick your month up your arse!” was Harry’s reply, punctuated by the slamming of the front door.
“Shit, Harry...” Olly sighed. From upstairs, the sound of Alicia’s hairdryer... She’d been listening all along.
Damn, Olly ran the tap into Harry’s dish. If you didn’t soak it right away, the cereal would harden to the bowl and it would take an industrial chisel or whatever to get off.
Out on the doorstep, Harry regretted his dramatic exit. He was still in his carpet slippers and dressing gown.
“Shit,” he muttered. He was locked out. He would have to ring the doorbell and get Harry or worse, Alicia, to let him back in. What a twat.
Where was that tricksy sp
irit when you needed him?
“Master?”
Startled, Harry looked around. Ariel was perched on a gatepost.
“What are you doing? Get down from there!”
“Worry not, Master. I am invisible to all eyes but yours, inaudible to all ears but yours.”
“In general or just at this moment?”
Ariel floated up the garden path to stand in front of Harry.
“Just for now.”
“Well, I’m not sure I like that. Me standing out here in my slippers talking to thin air.”
“Might I suggest you go back indoors, Master?”
“Might I suggest you don’t ask stupid fucking questions? I’m locked out, dummy.”
“Would you like me to open the door for you, Master?”
“I’m not going back in there. I know where I’m not wanted. Time I was somewhere else anyway. Can you do something about...this?” Harry gestured at his attire. “Well, can you?”
“But, Master, tis done.” Ariel grinned. Harry looked down and saw he was wearing his jeans, a Bard To The Bone T-shirt and his jacket.
“That’s incredible!” he gasped. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”
“I even cleaned your footwear, Master.”
“I noticed, yes. Thank you. Now, if you could sort yourself out into a similar outfit...”
As soon as the words were formed, the wish was granted.
“No!” Harry laughed. “Not identical to me. People will think we’re a couple. The jeans can stay. But how about a hoodie and a sweatshirt?”
“Master knows best.”
Harry looked the spirit up and down. “You do look a bit of a chav,” he stroked his chin. “But it will do until we get to Cheese.”
Ariel frowned. “Cheese is a verb, Master, or a place?”
“Neither, my tricksy spirit. Cheese is a man. In this town, Cheese is the man. Come on.”
He held the garden gate open but Ariel dissolved through the hedge and materialised on the other side.
“You can cut that out for a start.”
“Topiary, master?”
Before Harry could clarify, the hedge was shaped into a range of animals. Harry shook his head. Then he giggled. Let Alicia flip her wig over that!
“Come on. And behave yourself.”
They set off around the block to Henley Street.
***
“How come you know so much?” Hank Brownlow looked across the round table to the young woman. “How do you know what I’m up to - what my show is about, I mean?”
Ms Benn gave him another of her cool smiles. She reached under the table and pulled out a tablet. She swiped the screen a couple of times and then turned it towards him.
“This is Janine’s. My predecessor. She was more meticulous than you perhaps credited. She kept detailed records of all your comings and goings, took note of just about everything you said, even recorded you a couple of times.” She swiped again and an audio file surprised Brownlow with his own voice, “..sake, Janine. I said First class to Oxford not a fucking donkey ride to Blackpool.”
Ms Benn muted the file. “It is my belief one takes a donkey ride in Blackpool not to it.”
“I don’t give a fuck; gimme that thing,” Brownlow snatched the tablet. He looked at it from every angle and then tried to open a couple of apps. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I recalibrated the fingerprint recognition to respond only to me,” Ms Benn held her hand out. Brownlow handed back the device.
“The priority as I see it is to secure the final piece of the staff before anyone else gets their hands on it. With that piece, we - that is to say, you - have a bargaining chip. Without the other pieces, each piece is useless.”
“And where is that final fucking piece? Don’t tell me you’ve got that under the table too!”
Ms Benn hummed a little laugh.
“Not exactly.” She swiped through a document. “Janine had arranged for you to interview the possessor of the final piece, although she didn’t know at the time that was who he is. I have telephoned him already this morning and brought forward our meeting to today. We have a train to catch.”
She pulled out a couple of return tickets from under the table and slid them across to Brownlow, who blinked at them.
“Stratford upon Avon...” he read.
Of course!
Eleven.
“Now, please, Ariel,” Harry lifted a warning finger, “Try to appear normal - if you have to appear at all. We don’t want to attract attention. We need to get Cheese alone.”
“What, no bread, Master?” Ariel wiggled his eyebrows to show he was joking.
Harry grunted. “Come on.”
He led the spirit to the entrance of the Birthplace. Ariel paused to look at the building.
“Is there a problem?”
Ariel pulled a face. “Familiar and unfamiliar. Why do you live here no longer, Master?”
“What? Look; how many times do I have to tell you, I’m not who you think I am?”
“Oh, I understand. The move to London for the theatres, but there are theatres here now, Master. You could move back in.”
“I think the trustees might have something to say about that. But, you know this house? You’ve been here before?”
“Once, Master. Don’t you recall? You sent me when you were writing that one about the girl who dresses as a boy. You know: the one about the lovers. Anyway, what’s of import is that you commanded me to go home and fetch your slippers, only I got the wrong end of the stick, so to speak, and came to your old Stratford home and not your Southwark lodgings. You didn’t half give me a drubbing when I brought you your father’s slippers.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Perhaps it’s best if you don’t say a word from now on. Not until I tell you, okay?”
“Very well, Master. I shall be as silent as the very grave.”
“Shut the fuck up then!”
He led Ariel to the box office where Trish was stationed, cheerfully taking money from a group of Danish pensioners.
Trish... This would make things easier in one way and considerably more awkward in others. Her relentless flirting was the price Harry would have to pay for access to areas denied to the general public. He’d better not phrase it in those terms; Trish would have a field day with “access to areas” - she’d have a field day with ‘field day’ as in ‘day in a field’.
“Morning, Harry,” Trish smiled. She gave Ariel a cursory onceover and adopted a decidedly frostier countenance. “Who’s your friend?”
“Um, this is... Ari - This is Colin. He’s staying with me for a while.”
Trish nodded then decided to ignore this Colin altogether. “Come to show him the sights, have you?”
“He’s seen them. But Trish...”
Trish was dismayed to hear Harry’s wheedling tone. “What?”
“Colin here’s a bit of an expert and he’d like to meet the Big Cheese. Is he in?”
“Do I look like some kind of cheese keeper?”
“Could you give him a ring? Please...”
“I’d give you my ring.”
“Trish, please!”
“Oh.” Trish snatched a phone. “I’ll try Sue. She’ll know... Hello, Sue. Trish. How’s the ointment working out for you? Stick with it. Cleared me up a treat. Got an ‘expert’ hear wants to talk to the Prof. Is he in or...?” She listened, expressed her thanks to Sue and hung up. “He’s not in. He’s out.”
“Oh.” Harry was crestfallen. ‘Colin’, for his part, seemed oblivious. Harry gave his ankle a swift kick. Ariel stuck out his bottom lip to signify his disappointment.
“He’s at Anne’s Gaff,” Trish couldn’t bear their sad little faces
a second later. “You might catch him there. Or, guess where he’ll be at lunchtime.”
Anne’s Gaff was a nickname for Anne Hathaway’s cottage, also in the care of the Trust. It was a bit of a walk from the town centre and Harry didn’t feel willing or able to stump up for a taxi.
“The Fowl!” Harry said. “Yes, we’ll catch him there. Cheers, Trish.”
“How come you never take me up the Fowl?” Trish pouted.
Harry blenched. “Um...”
“Relax,” Trish laughed. “I know you don’t climb my side of the ladder. Enjoy yourselves, boys.” She turned her attention to a German couple. Harry bundled Ariel out into the street, feeling he had got off lightly.
“Cheese will be in a fowl, Master?”
“You make him sound like a chicken kiev. It’s a pub. You know, a tavern, an inn, a hostelry.”
“Ah. And Master likes to frequent such places. I remember.”
“Who doesn’t? It’s an Englishman’s prerogative.”
“You’re sounding more and more like your old self, Master. And what of this Anne and her gaff? Is she some courtesan or woman of the town?”
“Anne Hathaway. Old Bill’s trouble and strife.”
Ariel’s mouth formed a round O, although not a wooden one. “Mistress Anne! Is she yet living? I should not like to encounter her.”
“Relax. She’s long gone.”
Ariel put a consoling hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Verily I am sorry for your loss, Master.”
“Get off. The question is what are we going to do for a few hours?”
Ariel gave an eloquent shrug.
Harry looked at his phone; it had effectively replaced his wristwatch. And his propensity to read books and his social life into the bargain. There were hours to go before opening time.
“Coffee?”
Ariel was nonplussed.
“Tea then? An infusion of herbs.”
“I don’t drink, Master.”
“You don’t drink... Come on, then. Let’s go for a walk. Let me show you the town.”
“More ghost stories, Master?”
“No, no; I’m off the clock. Let’s just have a stroll.”
“Yes, Master.”
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