Jeremy smiled wanly. He tried to usher the enthusiastic actor to the door. Turning off his desk lamp had been too subtle a clue.
“And when I’m carrying the wood, should I exaggerate what a chore it is? Like a moody teenager forced to take the bins out when he’d rather play Grand Theft Whatsit or something. And when Miranda is there, perhaps I should straighten up, as though the logs don’t weigh much at all, and show her what a strong, heroic figure I can be - or is that more Ferdinand’s shtick? Do you think?”
Jeremy was holding the door open and yawning almost as widely himself. Olly seemed oblivious.
“Listen, Oliver,” Jeremy put a hand on the actor’s shoulder to stop him mid-flow. Olly nodded, keen to hear the pronouncement of the director. “It’s marvellous, darling, that you’re so thrilled and you’re taking it so seriously.”
“Oh, I am!” Olly cried, “And I do! I can’t thank you enough for the opportunity.”
“But still you try...” Jeremy sighed. “Look, please direct any further questions to the DSM. She’ll show you the Book and you’ll see how Nigel does it. You’ve seen Nigel do it dozens of times. Just do that.”
Olly took these enlightening words on board, nodding. His grin broadened.
“Gosh, thanks, Jeremy. That’s amazing.”
“Goodnight, Olly.”
“Um, yes, goodnight, Jeremy. And thanks.”
“Don’t mention it!” Jeremy snapped. “Seriously, please don’t. Goodnight.”
Olly breezed out of the office. Halfway along the corridor he stopped and turned, finger raised to herald another question.
But Jeremy was nowhere to be seen. He had locked his office in double-time and skedaddled down a fire escape while Olly’s back was turned.
***
Harry couldn’t sleep. Ariel didn’t sleep. The presence of the spirit in the bed alongside him unnerved Harry. It wasn’t the first time he had gone to bed with imaginary figures but the crucial difference with this one was that Harry hadn’t thought him up for the purpose of his own gratification.
He couldn’t get the image of old Cheese lying dead out of his head and tried to focus his mind’s eye on the unfinished message the professor had been in the process of writing as he kicked the bucket.
Where the b -
Where the boys are? - That was all Harry could come up with and he didn’t know where he got that from. He made a mental note to run a Google search when he woke up - if he ever got to sleep, of course.
He propped himself on his elbows. “I’m sorry; can’t you disappear or something? Or go somewhere else so I can get some kip?”
Ariel pouted. “I could put you to sleep if you like.”
“No, thanks. That makes you sound like a vet. Can’t you go and sit in the en suite or something?”
“Don’t you like being in bed with me?” Ariel looked disappointed. “I thought you liked this kind of thing.”
“Well, yes, yes, I do, but -”
“Am I not handsome enough for you, Harry?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s not that. You’re kind of cute, I suppose.”
“What then?”
“You’re not human enough. Sorry but there it is.”
“Oh.”
“Now, don’t get in a mood. Get in the toilet.”
“Master used to call me that.”
“What, toilet?”
“Moody.”
“He wasn’t wrong, was he?”
“What became of him? My master?”
“He went the way of all flesh. Now, please, let me get some sleep!”
“I should have stayed with him. I should have looked after him.”
“You can’t stop people dying - You can’t, can you? Can you stop people dying?”
“No. Alas.”
“Ariel...” Harry rolled onto his side to look at the spirit.
“Harry?”
“What have you been doing all this time? For the past four hundred years, I mean. Your master set you free - just like in the play - and then what? Where did you go? What did you do?”
Ariel lay in silent contemplation of the air below the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I remember flying away - the happiness, the joy, you can’t imagine! - but then the next thing I can think of is climbing out of the river and meeting you.”
“Odd,” said Harry.
“I get that a lot,” said Ariel sadly.
“Come on,” said Harry, bounding out of bed. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“At this hour?”
“It’ll help us get to sleep. Well, it’ll help me.” Harry stepped into his jeans and buttoned them up.
“Where will we go?”
Harry shrugged and pulled his shirt over his head.
“It doesn’t matter. Come on.”
***
“Look who it is!” One of the cowled figures who was dragging Brownlow towards the centre of a circle of chairs announced to the others.
“Who is it?” said a female voice. She brought a fat, dripping candle over and held it in the intruder’s face.
“It’s him off the telly. Does the quizzes!”
“I do not do the quizzes!” Brownlow protested.
Several gasps of recognition sounded all around him.
“It’s that American,” a long-sleeve pointed at him. “From the history programmes.”
From beneath the cowls came several coos of admiration.
“What’s he doing here?” asked the female with the candle. She leaned towards Brownlow. “What are you doing here?”
One of her fellow nut-jobs pulled her by the sleeve and whispered something.
“Oh...” said the woman. “Oh! Right! Oh, yes, of course!” She put the candle back where it belonged. Brownlow was lowered onto a chair.
“Who are you people? What the fuck is going on here? Listen; I’m no prude. Believe me on that score but what do you say, I just wander out of here and pretend like this never happened?”
“Be silent!” a hooded man stood up. “And await your punishment!”
The others whispered and murmured among themselves before deciding they liked the sound of that. “Await your punishment!” some of them repeated, not quite in unison.
“This is bullshit,” Brownlow stood up. Hands on his shoulders shoved him roughly back onto the seat.
“Then - um -” the hooded man was floundering. He took a few steps towards the American and, lowering his voice, said, “What say we break for coffee and you can give us some notes?”
Brownlow was baffled. Notes?
“This is your audition, is it not?” the hooded man whispered anxiously. “For your television series?”
“What the fuck?”
“He’s still in character!” cried one of the others. “We should be too!”
“Await your punishment!” one boomed out in a sonorous voice. Others took up the chant. Brownlow’s head sank to his hands. British eccentrics! The whole country was riddled with them.
Sixteen.
Harry and Ariel’s walk led them, perhaps inexorably, to the river. Without the tourists milling around, it was a different place. You could actually hear the water. Ariel found it soothing but Harry was troubled.
“I can’t get my head around it all,” Harry said.
“The river?”
“The whole situation. Everything.” Harry made an expansive gesture that took in the town and Ariel and the sky.
“It’s new to me too, mate.”
Harry blinked. “Did you just call me ‘mate’?”
Ariel shrugged. “Is that not correct usage, Harry? I heard Master Oliver say it.”
“Master Ol- oh, you mean Olly! Th
at treacherous rogue!”
“Would you like me to punish the traitor, Harry?”
“What? No!” Harry panicked in case Ariel did something irreversible to his erstwhile friend. “I was just being melodramatic. It’s that girlfriend of his. She’s come between us. And no - I don’t want you to punish her either.”
“I was only going to give her a bit of a pinch. Mate.”
“Knock it off with the mates, will you? It doesn’t sound right coming from you.”
“Am I not your mate then, Harry?” Ariel looked stricken.
“I don’t know what you are!” Harry said a little too quickly. “Look, all I meant was it doesn’t suit your pattern of speech. You’re more of an ‘aye, verily’ type than I am!”
“Aye,” Ariel said sadly. “Verily.”
“I’m just trying to make sense of it all,” Harry repeated his expansive gesture. “Don’t be all moody, moody.”
But Ariel wasn’t listening. He was staring along the river, against the current.
“What’s up?” Harry tried to follow the spirit’s gaze. Ariel stepped in front of Harry as though to protect him.
Emerging from the water was a woman. By the light of the moon and the antiquated lampposts, her skin looked pale, almost green in hue. She walked as though crossing a street while balancing books on her head, belying the strength of the current. She half-stepped, half-levitated onto the little jetty near the theatre - the very spot where Ariel and Harry had first met.
Ariel, shimmering with unease, whispered to Harry. “Keep back. Don’t let her see us.”
He steered Harry backwards. They moved behind the wide trunk of the tree that was older than the theatre itself. Harry peered over Ariel’s shoulder. The spirit had faded and was taking on the colour and texture of the bark.
He’s afraid of her! Harry was startled.
Who the fuck is she?
They watched Kelly Benn pause on the jetty to squeeze her hair dry. Harry gasped to see the gills at the base of her throat move as she adjusted her breathing to the air.
A hand like a branch, heavy with leaves, clamped over Harry’s mouth. “Ssh!” Ariel urged, his eyes like knots in the wood. “He’ll hear us!”
Kelly Benn walked by, leaving wet footprints on the pavement. Ariel moved Harry around the tree as she passed. She strode past the theatre frontage and continued on up Sheep Street.
“Come on!” Ariel sprang from the tree like a fallen branch and resumed his usual shape and texture. “Let’s see where he’s going!”
“Um,” Harry had to jog to catch up with the spirit. “I know all this is new to you, but that was most definitely a she!”
“Illusion and trickery!” Ariel grabbed Harry by the cuff of his jacket. “Now, stop dawdling. But keep back! And your gob shut!”
Harry was confused and amused at the same time. He chose to say nothing and let Ariel take the lead. They padded up Sheep Street. There were no longer any footprints but Ariel, nostrils flaring, seemed able to track the mysterious water-woman--thing without difficulty.
At the top, Ariel paused and tasted the air again.
“Who is it?” Harry whispered. Ariel waved at him to be quiet.
“An old foe,” he said grimly. “This way!”
Ariel moved off and again Harry had to move fast to keep up. Rather than clearing his mind, the walk had presented more confusion, more questions - like how had it happened that they had been at the water’s edge the precise moment that woman had stepped out? It could be coincidence, Harry supposed, but with Ariel’s unworldly powers, Harry suspected coincidence didn’t enter into it. He hoped the spirit knew what was going on and could handle it. He just wished he’d said old ‘friend’ rather than ‘foe’.
***
In the chapel, things were getting out of hand. The hooded figures were arguing among themselves while several of them tried to maintain an atmosphere of seriousness and ceremony. At the centre of the confusion, Hank Brownlow plotted his escape. If only the two heavies at his shoulders would get distracted, he’d be able to sneak away and ‘leg it’ as the Brits called it.
Of making good his escape, Brownlow had Bob and no hope. A new figure arrived whose hood was larger and trimmed with embroidered designs. The newcomer stepped up onto a chair and blew a whistle. The shrill sound penetrated the woolly cowls and the heated discussions of the celebrants and they all stood to attention and froze.
“That’s better!” the whistle-blower spoke in the rich, mellifluous tones they recognised. He was the one who had read out the scroll about the octopus symbols. “Now, kindly be seated.” The celebrants complied. Only then did the scroll-reading, whistle-blowing newcomer see the stranger in their midst.
“What the blue fuckery is he doing here?” he pointed an accusatory sleeve.
The hooded figure to his left leant towards him and whispered. “That’s him! He’s the one we have to impress.”
“What?”
“He’s American,” the whisperer continued. “And off the telly.”
“On the contrary!” the leader jumped down, almost tripping on the hem of his robe. He composed himself quickly and approached the American who was off the telly. “He is an intruder in our sacred rite and must be dealt with.”
Gasps and oohs went around the circle.
“He’s good!” cowled figures nudged each other. “He’ll get the part for sure.”
The leader produced an ornate, curved dagger and brandished it for all to see. He pressed it to the American’s throat. A spontaneous round of applause burst out, although some of the claps were muffled in cases where overlong sleeves fell over hands.
Brownlow’s eyes were wide and rolling. Hands clamped his shoulders, keeping him on his chair.
“You’re insane!” he sneered through gritted teeth. The blade was pushing against his neck but had yet to break the skin. “You’re all fucking crazy!”
This outburst earned the American a standing ovation. He tried to back his head away from the knife wielded by the maniac.
“We are the Sons - and um, daughters - of Setebos!” the knife-wielding maniac announced.
“Setebos!” the others took up a chant. “Set-eb-os!”
Their voices rose to the rafters as the chanting became more insistent. With his free hand, the leader conducted his congregation. The noise built to a climax which he silenced with a sweep of his sleeve.
All eyes, although hooded, were on the American in the middle. No one breathed. Brownlow was aware of his pulse against the sharp metal.
“Well,” one figure raised a hand and broke the moment. “Did we pass? Are we through to the next round?”
The question was addressed to the American. The figure stepped towards him and lowered her hood. Brownlow frowned in vague recognition of the girl’s face.
“It’s me, Trish,” said Trish. “We met at the Birthplace...”
“Sit down, Trish!” the leader barked.
“Well?” Trish stayed where she was. “Did I pass the audition?”
“What fucking audition?” Brownlow squirmed in his seat. Sweat was coursing down his face.
All around him, hands reached into opposite sleeves and pulled out identical pieces of paper. They held them towards him, moving in tighter unison than they had evidenced in any of their entire charade. Trish, ever helpful, held her copy of the flyer for the American to read.
“OPEN and SECRET audition!” Brownlow read. “Report to Ye Olde Chapel...” There followed the date of a few days ago.
“We heard you were in the country and thought it must be for one of your telly programmes,” Trish continued.
“That’s right,” said someone else. “It’s all over Twitter. You’re doing Shakespeare this time.”
The nut-jobs began to remove their hood
s. They’re just ordinary people, Brownlow observed. Ordinary people with an eye on their big break.
“I’m sorry,” Brownlow tried to shake his head but couldn’t risk slicing his own throat. “It’s not me.”
The disappointment in the room was immediate and audible - and gratifying to Brownlow’s ego. The hands lifted from his shoulders but the pressure from the blade remained constant.
“Then who -” Trish began to ask but was interrupted by the arrival of Darren Daley. The lettings agent strode into the hall, shouting.
“Right, that’s your lot, people. Let’s break it up. Party’s over. Time’s up.” He rattled his keys for good measure. He approached the one who appeared to be the leader of this mob of weirdoes, the one in the fanciest robe. “I’ve bent the rules and bent over backwards to accommodate you lot. Time to decide whether you’re going to take out a long-term lease or not -”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. The embroidered sleeve swung away from the American’s throat and plunged the dagger into the lettings agent’s belly. Darren Daley was lifted by the impact. He teetered on tiptoe, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. A red line of blood spilled from his mouth and down his chest. Darren Daley glanced down. Not only had his shirt a hole in it - from which the dagger was still protruding - it was now also stained. It would be a bugger to get out.
That was Darren Daley’s last thought. The dagger was pulled out. The lettings agent collapsed in a heap, spreading a pool of blood across the floor.
Trish screamed. She sprang back to avoid the spreading blood. Others caught her panic and began to flee, all clamouring for the exit at the same time. One, slower on the uptake, stood his ground, applauding the special effects, until it dawned on him that this was no piece of theatre and he too joined the mass of bodies pressing through the doorway.
“What the fuck?” Brownlow launched himself from the chair, then snatched it up and used it like a lion tamer to fend off the knife-wielding murderer.
Where The Bee Sucks Page 15