The old professor! Brownlow’s mind raced. That’s who she was talking about; his old adversary, Cheese... What had she done to him? And why the actual fuck?
She stood and laughed. “If you think I’m going to explain my motives to you, like a villain in a tawdry novelisation of a poor quality motion picture, you’re going to be disappointed. If I swap with you - and I might; you’re in pretty good shape for a middle-aged man - I’d risk losing your expertise and specialist knowledge... So, I’m going to leave you be, Mr Brownlow. As long as you give me no trouble. Is that understood?”
Brownlow was still bristling from her comment about ‘middle-aged’ but he did his best to nod. He looked at the silhouetted figure in front of him. It was in the form of a young woman but he knew now it was something very, very different. Movement at the sides of her throat caught his eye. Gills! She has gills for fuck’s sake! Clearly, there were more things in his philosophy than he had bargained for.
He looked directly at the glint in the darkness where her eyes would be.
“I’ll be no trouble at all” he said, already wondering if this - this thing - would be played by an actor in a suit or CGI...
***
Jeremy watched the news in his office. Live reports from outside Cheese’s cottage, which was all taped off and lit by police sirens. Very dramatic!
The poor old sod.
Jeremy chewed his thumbnail. The timing was all wrong. He should have died hereafter!
The screen showed a close-up of the late professor in that silly straw hat and the blazer that made him look like a walking deckchair. Jeremy raised his cardboard coffee cup in tribute.
Goodbye, old foe, he toasted. A great pity you won’t be around when I am vindicated. When I show once and for all that the upstart William Shakespeare did not pen a word of his supposed works. When I prove beyond a shadow of a doubt the true identity of the playwright and poet, the man who has been overlooked and forgotten for centuries. When I -
A knock at the door stalled his train of thought.
“Come in.”
It was Nigel.
“All right, Nigel. Just watching the news about old Cheesy. Shocking business, eh? Now, what can I do for you, my darling?”
***
“More tea, Harry?” Dickie Mainwaring was poised with a teapot that was a scale model of his B and B, Goosegog Cottage. Harry nodded. Drinking Dickie’s tea delayed the time for talking. Harry knew he had a lot of talking to do - if he was going to persuade Dickie to let him spend the night there, free, gratis and for nothing.
“Ginger nuts?” Dickie proffered a plate on which half a dozen biscuits nestled on a doily. Dickie’s eyebrows remained in an elevated position until he realised Harry was not going to make a saucy comeback along the lines of ‘same as the hair on my head.’
Harry ignored the biscuits. Ariel was perched cross-legged on the tablecloth, invisible to Dickie.
Dickie put the plate on the table within Harry’s reach. He pulled out a chair and sat, a little too close for comfort, framing his face in his hands and peering at Harry with a theatrically concerned expression. Dickie was a former (aka failed) actor himself but liked to think of himself as in touch with the theatre world by opening his house to visiting thesps and sometimes normal punters too. Every wall of Goosegog Cottage was adorned with framed posters of productions Dickie had been in or, more commonly, had seen - or wished he had seen.
He watched Harry drain the bone china teacup for the third time. “Tell your Uncle Dickie all about it,” he pouted.
Harry met Ariel’s eyes. The spirit shrugged. Ariel could have provided shelter for them both with less than a click of his fingers but Harry had insisted on keeping things as normal as possible. Magic for me is normal, the spirit had countered, feeling decidedly put out.
“Women!” Harry began. “Or rather, that woman!”
Dickie pushed the plate of biscuits closer. “Go on,” he urged. “My interest is piqued.”
Harry told him of Alicia’s treachery in getting the locks changed. It felt good to get things off his chest. Dickie listened, nodded, shook his head and pouted wherever he thought appropriate.
“She’s never liked you,” he concluded.
“She’s never liked me,” Harry agreed. “I don’t know what Olly sees in her.”
“Ah,” Dickie nodded sagely.
“What do you mean ‘ah’?”
“Just ‘ah’.”
“No, go on. Why ‘ah’?”
“Didn’t you have a thing going on? You and Olly?”
Harry reddened. “Well, I wouldn’t say it was a thing exactly. We were both drunk. Very, very drunk.”
“Oh...” Dickie nodded towards the curtains. “It’s just that I see him on his run; goes past this window on a twice-daily basis. Bit of a health nut, you told me. Never touches a drop of the hard stuff.”
Harry opened his mouth but couldn’t speak. He tried to cast his mind back to that blurry night. Olly had been knocking it back at least as much as Harry had... Hadn’t he? Or had his vodka tonics been nothing more than water with ice and a slice?
Dickie’s eyebrows were raised again and he pursed his lips significantly.
“No...” Harry dismissed the idea. “You’re making it up.”
“Perhaps,” Dickie got to his feet. He left the room and came back with a room key on a bright plastic fob. “Here. Double room at the top.”
“A single would do,” Harry said.
“What? And have you complain in the morning about the cramped accommodation at Goosegog Cottage? Not on your nelly, chicken.”
“Cramped...”
“You didn’t think I was going to put you and your pretty friend in a single bed, did you?” Dickie jerked his head towards Ariel.
“You can see him?” Harry stood up. He sent the spirit a panicked look. Ariel pulled a face as if to say, ‘Beats me’.
“I didn’t say anything because you were remiss in introducing us and he wasn’t scuffing my tablecloth so I let it slide. Honestly, Harry; you didn’t have to give me that sob story about being locked out. If you just wanted a knocking-shop for you and your bit of trade, it’s fine with me.” Dickie cast a wistful look at the ceiling. “It’s about time this old place saw some action even if I’m not invited to the party - I’m not invited to the party, am I?
“No!” Harry cried with a little too much vehemence. “I mean, there is no party. This is my friend, um -“
“Robin,” said Ariel, extending a hand towards Dickie. “Robin Goodfellow.”
Dickie shook his hand. “Nice firm grip,” he observed. “Seems a waste... Oh!” he seemed to remember something. “Have you heard the news about dear old Auberon? Shocking! Absolutely shocking!”
“Um, yes,” said Harry. He didn’t want to go into all that again. He felt a pang of guilt for being so absorbed in this Alicia bullshit. He hadn’t given poor old Prof Cheese a thought for at least a couple of hours.
Dickie bustled away, taking the teapot, cups and biscuits with him.
Harry grabbed Ariel by the sleeve and pulled him close. “He can see you?” he hissed. “Can he see you as a person or are you in your so-called invisible mode?”
“I don’t know,” Ariel looked worried. “He seems to think I’m a real person. And what did he mean about my grip being firm?”
“Forget it,” Harry paced the carpet. “Oh well, at least we’ve got a room for the night. I’ll go to the lettings agent in the morning and see what can be done about my tenancy agreement.”
“Shall we to bed, then?” Ariel toyed with the key.
“I suppose. But not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“Forget that as well. And,” Harry paused as they climbed the stairs to their room, “Who the fuck is Robin
Goodfellow?”
“Ha! Ha! Very good, Harry!” The spirit laughed like jingling bells. “Who the puck, indeed! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Keep your voice down! And what do you mean, puck?”
“Forget about it,” Ariel grinned. “Now, which side of the bed do you want?”
***
“You did what?” Olly stormed into the hallway. He’d had to wait on his own front doorstep for Alicia to let him in. “You changed the fucking locks? Without telling us? What does Harry have to say about this? Does he know about this?”
He followed her into the kitchen where she gave a saucepan of pasta a stir.
“Oh, he knows about it,” she muttered.
“What? Is he in? Is Harry in?”
“No,” she grinned. “I can safely say without fear of contradiction, Harry is definitely out. Your new key’s on the table.”
Olly stared at her. “What’s the matter with you?” He ran up the stairs and into Harry’s room. Then he ran back down to the kitchen again. “His stuff is still here.” He sounded relieved.
“Ah, yes. There’s some bin bags under the sink. You could start filling them while I finish dinner.”
“Filling them? What with? Oh!” Realisation dawned on Olly’s face. “You mean with Harry’s stuff, don’t you?”
“Gold star for my bright boy!” Alicia laughed. She moved towards him with steam rising from her wooden spoon. She invited him to taste it. Olly pushed it away.
“Disgusting,” he said. He stormed out. A second later, the front door slammed. Alicia returned to the pasta. Like the saucepan, she knew Olly was only letting off steam. He’d be back in an hour or so and she would win him over with a tasty meal. In the meantime, she could make a start on packing Harry’s things into black plastic sacks.
She turned down the hob and opened the cupboard under the sink. She was pulling bags off the roll before she realised she was singing to herself.
Fifteen.
Ms Benn had gone. Where she had gone, Hank Brownlow didn’t give a fuck. All he cared about was making good his escape before she returned. His mind was racing - not with possible means to get free from his bonds and flee the boathouse - but with the exciting reconstruction, complete with pulsating suspenseful music. It would be a highlight of the TV show. Brownlow was looking forward to filming it already.
There was only the troublesome matter of being taped to a chair to overcome.
He glanced around; his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness but there was nothing much to see. Reflected light from the river played on the ceiling. Brownlow had already decided that would be his egress: via the water. It would look great on screen, with his shirt clinging to his pecs - he would take up residence in the gym before shooting began, natch.
The chair wasn’t heavy. Brownlow found he could bounce around the boathouse like a crab playing hopscotch. He investigated the corners. There was a boathook, a long pole with a curve of metal on its end. The hook didn’t look sharp enough to spread butter and the pole was too cumbersome and heavy for him to wield with any efficacy, given that his wrists were affixed to the armrests.
He hopped across to the opposite corner. There were oars and paddles on the wall and - fortuitious find! - a broken one! It had snapped to leave a sharp edge. It would be ideal for sawing through the sticky tape.
If only he could pick it up.
But what then?
Brownlow figured if he could somehow hitch the broken paddle under his armpit, he could rub the splintered end against the tape around his right wrist. When that hand was free, Bob would indeed be his mother’s brother.
But how to get the stick off the floor and under his arm?
It was a real head-scratcher - which was something else Brownlow couldn’t manage.
He swore; his words were muffled by the tape that gagged him. Sweat coursed down his face, stinging his eyes and - and - loosening the tape!
Brownlow laughed. The tape wasn’t waterproof!
He had a vision of sweating and crying his way out of captivity, like Alice, filling the place with moisture from his body.
Fuckwit, he scolded himself. You don’t need to sweat, cry or even piss.
He bounced across to the edge of the floor where the river was accessible from inside the boathouse.
I can tweak the details of my escape in the shooting script, he told himself. He imagined bursting out of the tape from brute strength alone and then diving, to Olympic standard, into the murky depths. These images inspired him as he leant over in the chair until gravity took hold of it and toppled the TV presenter, chair and all, into the water.
***
Kelly Benn hadn’t wanted to leave the human behind but a call to Mother had necessitated her departure. Now, making her way back to the river, she hoped the fool hadn’t done something stupid and hurt himself or attracted the attention of other humans - and there were plenty of them about - which would bring about harm to them as well.
Mother had annoyed her, more than anything. Why she couldn’t be trusted to get on and do what was necessary, Kelly couldn’t understand. You have given me this task, Mother, she’d wanted to say but had been unable to interject a word sideways, leave me to get it done.
Mother had done nothing but express her impatience. Things weren’t happening fast enough for her liking. Time was, apparently, of the essence. She didn’t say why. Planetary alignment or some shit, Kelly supposed. Mother was big on astrological significance. Kelly didn’t know about that - her human host had a publication in her handbag, a magazine in which the horoscopes of the entire population were encapsulated on half a page of brief edicts. Amazing! Unless of course, it was all a load of horseshit. What fools these mortals be!
Yes, Mother; I am listening!
As she walked back to the boathouse, Kelly went over Mother’s latest instructions, most of which were iterations of her original plan.
Everything centred around the staff. Two pieces were safe and secure; two were still unaccounted for. The old professor had shuffled off this mortal coil without revealing the whereabouts of his piece. Kelly had turned the house upside down but had only been able to use the human abilities of her host. Her access to Mother’s enhanced powers had been inhibited by the arcane symbols the wily old man had inscribed all over his house. She - and Mother, although she would never suggest as much - had underestimated the celebrated Mr Cheese. He must have known more about the staff than he had let on.
What in hell’s name had he done with it?
And where in hell’s name was the other piece?
Kelly began to reconsider her capture of the American idiot. Perhaps she should swap with him - it was a gamble but some of his specialist knowledge just might survive the exchange...
No; it was too big a risk. Mother would never forgive her.
As she neared the river, her gills swelled and opened, yearning for the water. There were too many people around; the theatre was just letting out its hordes. Damn it. The old sorcerer still had his disciples, even though they worshipped him for his scribbles rather than his occult power. The shining eyes and excited voices of the theatregoers, clutching souvenir programmes to their chests and babbling enthusiastically about what they had just seen, made Kelly reflect. Perhaps there was other magic in the sorcerer’s words. Perhaps you could form enchantment in other ways than with a magic staff.
Be that as it may - she could not dive into the Avon without giving rise to commentary or even intervention. She would have to enter the boathouse on foot. She would try another tack with the American, who must be hungry or thirsty or something by now. She would exchange food and drink for information. She must find out everything he knew about the pieces of the staff and then - and then, perhaps she would do the swap, or perhaps she would...do something else.
She unchained the boa
thouse door and went inside. She did not need time for her eyes to adjust to the dimness within. She could see right away the American was no longer there.
The dropsy drown this fool, she cursed him. And that made her cotton on to what had happened. It wouldn’t take the dropsy to drown him, she considered. The river could do that job for him well enough.
***
The Avon did not drown Hank Brownlow. Rather it aided him in his escape. The water loosened the sticky tape until it was sticky no more and Brownlow was able to wrest himself free and swim up to the surface, while the chair sank to the riverbed. The current was strong but, driven by thoughts of what a great sequence it would make for the TV show, Brownlow fought his way to a landing jetty downstream from the theatre. He was afraid that Benn woman would be after him. The streets were too quiet - there was the pub, the Filthy Fowl, but that was closing up for the night. Brownlow headed to the town centre. The streetlights gave him comfort - until they made him feel more exposed.
There was no one around. Stratford is such a quiet town after dark. Give me Manhattan any day, Brownlow pined for a city that never sleeps. He wove through the streets seeking out other people. Surely that Benn woman wouldn’t try anything with other people around?
There were lights on in an old chapel. Dim and flickering but lights all the same. Brownlow saw a couple of figures go inside. From a distance it looked like they were wearing hoodies. It was a youth club, he figured. He ran along, crouching low like he was on manoeuvres, and huddled in the shadows of the entrance. That Benn woman had called him ‘middle-aged’ - she would never think to look for him at a youth club meeting.
He slipped inside.
***
Over at the theatre, Jeremy was keen to get away but one of the understudies was making a nuisance of himself and asking the kind of awkward questions with which actors often bamboozle directors.
“In the drunk scene,” Olly hadn’t even removed his make-up, “When I take my first swig - should it be a swig? Or more of a sip? Like I don’t trust it? Or should I just knock it back, careless? And then, do I like it? I mean, I know I’ll feel the kick but do I like it? Does it make me sick? Or do I take to it right away - like a - like a fish to water? Yes! Because I’m half-fish, aren’t I? I should drink like a fish. Do you think?”
Where The Bee Sucks Page 14