Counter Culture

by JL Merrow

  “What on earth are you doing?” Azrah’s voice was a discordant note in his happy reverie. She stood beside his table with a plate full of pasta and an incredulous expression.

  Robin started, and his well-dunked biscuit reached the point of catastrophic failure, landing with a splat in his cup of tea. “Now look what you’ve done. And I thought you were with Gail?”

  She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat. “I was. We finished. Because women are efficient. And if you ask me, that soggy biscuit needed warming up anyway. You were staring at it for at least as long as it took me to walk over with my lunch. And I stopped to say hi to Mary-from-Haberdashery. She’s fine, by the way. Her knee’s giving her gyp, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and the customers haven’t been putting the lace trim away properly so now the ivory’s all mixed up with the white. It’s basically lace anarchy there. So why were you staring at that biscuit?”

  Robin flushed. “I was practising.”

  “Practising what? Looking like you’ve discovered the secrets of the universe in a soggy digestive?” She forked up some pasta with a derisory air.

  Okay, possibly Robin was feeling a little oversensitive. “Tea duelling. It’s a steampunk thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Would I want to? And anyway, what?”

  “So . . . I might have gone to Archie’s house at the weekend.” If that didn’t make her stop grilling him about biscuit dunking, nothing would.

  Azrah bit. “What, just walked up to the front door, rung the bell, and asked if Archie could come out to play?”

  “Not exactly. Um, I had to stop to tie my shoelace—”

  “Pull the other one, it plays the Johnny English theme tune.”

  “—and his mum saw me out there and invited me in.”

  She raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Because she’s got a soft spot for saddo stalker types?”

  “I think she was lonely,” Robin said honestly. “Archie wasn’t back from work yet.”

  “Oh. Oh.” Azrah drew in a deep breath. “She wasn’t wearing leopard print, was she? Or something inappropriately tight and revealing?”

  “What? No. Just . . . normal clothes.” Robin somehow didn’t want to mention the jumping-out-of-the-window-in-her-socks part.

  “Uh-huh? But when you went in, did she sit down on the sofa and pat the seat next to her?”

  Robin was beginning to view the soggy biscuit conversation in the rosy hues of nostalgia. “No! Nothing like that. She was just really friendly. In a very innocent way. Not everything’s about sex, you know.”

  “Eh. Sometimes it’s about money. Did she offer you money for sex?”

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.” Robin took an absentminded gulp of his tea and gagged on a mouthful of biscuit slurry.

  Azrah gave his spluttering an unsympathetic look. “Is that a yes, then?”

  “No!” Robin made up his mind there and then that he was never, ever going to tell her about Lyddie inviting him in the next day as well. She’d only misunderstand—and honestly, it was laughable. Lyddie didn’t fancy him.

  Did she?

  No. No, that couldn’t be it. She wanted him to go out with Archie, not her.

  Didn’t she?

  Azrah smirked. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”

  “Nothing further from my mind.” Shit, she’d ask what he had been thinking about, now. Robin had a flash of inspiration. “I was thinking about Heath, actually.”

  “Why? Fancy him, do you?”

  “No, but I think he fancies you. Think about it. He’s worked at Willoughbys over a year and he’s never taken any notice of me, but the minute you get a job here, he starts hanging around all the time.”

  “I’ve been working here two months. That’s not exactly the minute.”

  “So it took him that long to notice your finer qualities. Or to get up the nerve.”

  “Just as likely it took him a year to notice yours. I’ve known you most of my life and I’m still looking for them.”

  “You wouldn’t know a finer quality if it bit you on the bum. So anyway, what do you think? Snog, marry, or avoid?”

  “What, out of Heath, Heath, and Heath?” She made a face. “Avoid. You know what I think about marriage. And snog? Not if he was the last bloke on earth and he came wrapped in tinsel with a bow tied in his ginger—”

  “Oh, hello, Heath.” Robin sent a welcoming smile over Azrah’s shoulder.

  She froze.

  Robin smirked. “Oh, sorry, not him after all. Just a shadow on the wall.”

  “Arsehole.” Azrah glared at him.

  “Ah, but I’m your arsehole. Okay, that came out sounding wrong.”

  “Too right.” Azrah looked queasy. “Moving on . . .”

  “Moving on . . .” Was now a good time to ask? Probably not. But then again, probably no worse than usual. “I sort of need you to do something for me. And no, it’s not about sex.”

  “That’s a bit of a letdown,” Heath said, appearing from nowhere—did he have a stealth mode? Had he been there all along?—and sitting at their table with his tray. Today he’d gone for Pasta of the Day and a jacket potato, which was at least technically a vegetable.

  “Is it about Archie?” Azrah asked, effortlessly ignoring Heath’s lanky, overelbowed presence, although Robin was almost sure there was a faint flush on her cheek.

  “Maybe.”

  “Then it’s about sex.”

  “No! I just want a chance to get to know him better, that’s all.” Did she have to do this in front of everyone? Meaning, obviously, Heath.

  “Don’t mind me.” Heath blithely picked up his jacket potato in his fingers and took a bite, which was all kinds of wrong.

  Azrah snorted, and turned a few degrees further away from him. “Where ‘get to know him better’ is a euphemism for ‘have lots of steamy, hot, naked sex.’”

  “Not . . . exactly. I mean, not yet. But . . . we were getting on so well, Az. And then his ex came in with the baby and it got all awkward. I think he felt bad about, you know, moving on from her so soon.” Robin turned on the puppy eyes at both of them, figuring if he could only get one of them on side, the other might topple like the world’s shortest domino run. “I just need you to come out for a drink, that’s all. If I’d asked him to go out with me on my own, like on a date, he’d probably have said no.” More like definitely. “So I told him it’s with mates, just a pint after work, so he’d say yes. I’ll look like a liar or a total saddo if I turn up on my own, won’t I? Please? This is my only hope. I can’t keep hanging around his house.”

  Heath nodded. “Restraining orders can be a proper bastard. And what if he goes and gets himself murdered? No one would ever believe it wasn’t you.”

  “Nobody’s getting murdered, Heath. We’re simply going for a drink. And, um . . .” Robin squirmed in his seat, which all at once was too small and too hot for him. “We need to pretend we don’t work here.”

  Azrah and Heath turned eerily identical narrow-eyed expressions on him.

  “Look, it . . . Hah, funny story, but, guess what, it turns out his mum’s a founder member of the Community Over Consumerism group.”

  “What?” Azrah’s tone could have cut steel.

  Heath shook his head sadly. “Fraternising with the enemy. Not cool, man. That’s like feeding the hand that bites.”

  “Feeding the— That doesn’t even make sense. How can a hand bite? Or eat, for that matter? Where are the teeth, for God’s sake?”

  “I knew a girl once with wicked sharp fingernails,” Heath said dreamily, forking up some pasta. “Course, the tetanus shots were less fun.”

  “Last I heard,” Azrah’s voice dripped acid, “it wasn’t his mum’s pants you wanted to get into. So what’s all this about?”

  “Because I told his mum I’m an accountant, and then obviously I had to keep up the pretence with him.”

  “Why would you even—”

  “I panicked, okay?
She had a knife. Um, it was a cake knife, but still. I saw all the campaign stuff at her house, she came in with a knife and asked me where I worked, and I panicked.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Azrah said flatly.

  “No, on second thoughts I like it.” Heath tapped his nose. “You could get him to spill all their secrets in bed.”

  Azrah’s lip curled. “It’s not secrets he wants this bloke to spill in bed.”

  Robin looked briefly up in the direction of heaven, but the cafeteria ceiling appeared to be currently out of divine inspiration. “This isn’t The Spy Who Loved Me. So his mum and me have different opinions on certain issues—so what? My mum and me have different opinions on nearly all the issues.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Azrah put down her fork. “This issue might cost us all our jobs. And what’s going to happen when he finds out you lied to his mum?”

  “Which is why I want you to pretend we’re all accountants. Look, it’s fine, Archie and his mum never come in Willoughbys. He said so. His mum hates the place, remember? So there’s no chance we’ll be recognised.”

  “We could don disguises just in case,” Heath suggested. “Azrah could wear a headscarf—”

  “You wear a bloody headscarf. You’re the one with hair you could spot a mile off on a foggy day.”

  Heath nodded sagely. “It’s true some of us stand out in a crowd more than others.”

  Robin could feel the conversation, not to mention his lunch break, slipping away from him, possibly never to return. “All I want you to do is have a drink with the bloke and pretend you’re accountants. Is that really too much to ask?”

  Azrah folded her arms and sat back. “You’re buying the first round. And the second. And probably all the rounds until the apocalypse, which for some of us can’t come soon enough.”

  “And a packet of pork scratchings,” Heath added.

  “You’re the best mates ever,” Robin said with heartfelt relief.

  On Tuesday night, Robin went through things one more time with Heath and Azrah before they got to the pub.

  “Right, who do we work for?”

  Azrah rolled her eyes. “A firm of accountants, it’s very boring, we don’t like to talk about it,” she parroted.

  Robin glared at Heath, who was busy putting on a pair of owlish spectacles he’d acquired from somewhere. “And the name of the firm is?”

  “Smith and Wesson?” Heath said airily, as if none of this really mattered. He pulled out a comb and a small mirror, and started giving himself a side parting.

  “Jones and Gunn. Three syllables, Heath. How hard can it be to remember?”

  “Yeah, but why that one?” Azrah put in. “Why not Hewitts & Co., or Wilson Freemantle?”

  Robin took a deep breath and counted to five. “Because those are real firms, so there’s a chance he might know someone who actually works there.”

  Heath pursed his lips. “I’m not convinced about that name. Seriously. Who do you know with an “and” in their name anymore? That’s totally last century, man.”

  “Jones and Gunn were established in 1989,” Robin ground out from between clenched teeth.

  “Which means they’re well overdue for a rebranding. And old Jones, well, since the stroke he’s only been a silent partner, so I’m thinking Gunn Jones.” Heath nodded to himself, looking smug.

  “Old Jones doesn’t exist! I made it all up!”

  “He’s got a point,” Azrah said. “I’d be much more likely to take my accounts to Gunn Jones than to Jones and Gunn. You don’t want the firm to go down the pan just cos you’re fuddy-duddy about names.”

  “There is no firm! No firm, and no flippin’ pan!”

  Heath tutted. “Mate, you’re getting nowhere with that attitude.”

  Azrah fixed Robin with a steely glare. “The way I see it, for the three of us to be employed at a similar level at one and the same time, this nonexistent firm’s got to be doing pretty bloody well for itself—not doddering along with one foot in the grave. Of course, if you don’t want this story to be believable . . .”

  “Fine.” Robin’s shoulders slumped. “We work for Gunn Jones.”

  Heath, who’d been scribbling on a napkin, held it up for inspection. He’d done a surprisingly succinct, stylised illustration of a handgun and a calculator. “Quick rough-up of the logo. What do you think?”

  “I think it makes us look like contract killers,” Azrah said flatly.

  “Hey, at least it’ll get the fees paid on time. Tell you what, after I get home tonight I’ll pull out the old graphics tablet, do a proper job of it, and knock up some letterhead.”

  “We don’t need letterhead! Or a logo.” What Robin really needed right now was a lie-down. “It’s just a story. A cover. In case you get asked point-blank.”

  Heath shrugged. “Got a mate who can do you a website on the cheap.”

  Robin hid his face in his hands. He had the worst mates ever.

  Archie headed to the pub after work, anticipation and, despite his best efforts, a touch of guilt fluttering in his stomach as he walked down the lamp-lit streets. He’d half thought of calling Robin earlier and saying he wouldn’t be able to make it after all. Coming here tonight meant he’d be late back to look after Jerrick. Maybe Bridge was right, and he really should concentrate on the lad while he was so young.

  But he’d already agreed it all with Bridge: she was fine with Lyddie minding Jerrick for an hour until he got home. And an hour was all it would be. A quick drink after work. It couldn’t hurt, just going out for a drink with Robin and his workmates, could it? It wasn’t like it’d be a date. Just a friendly drink. With friends.

  But if it was all so innocent, why hadn’t he mentioned to Bridge that Robin would be there? Archie sighed. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, for God’s sake. So why did it feel like he was?

  Sheppy’s Mum was bundled up against the wind with her dog in their usual doorway. Archie stopped to say hi. Actually, he’d intended to make sure she had something warm to eat, but she was already clutching a cup of hot soup. Apparently a young man who worked in Willoughbys had bought it for her. Archie made a mental note to mention that to Lyddie. She ought to know that not everyone who worked at Willoughbys was totally lacking a social conscience.

  As Archie walked into the Millstone, Robin glanced up by some sixth sense from where he was sitting with his mates and broke into a smile. Somehow all Archie’s doubts seemed to melt away. He’d have been crazy to let a few worries stop him coming along tonight. He waved a hand and made his way over to their table.

  Robin stood up, still beaming, made an abortive move as if he was about to give Archie a hug, then sat down again, pulling out a stool next to him. Archie wasn’t disappointed. “Glad you could make it. Guys, this is Archie. And, um, that’s Heath, and that’s Azrah. Azrah’s my oldest friend, and Heath . . . works with us.” An adorably confused expression crossed Robin’s face for a moment.

  No. Not adorable. Cute? No, that was just as bad.

  The tall, bony redhead saluted Archie with a raised pint glass and an “All right, mate?”

  The petite girl in the trouser suit looked him over as if sizing him up for a shallow grave in the woods. “So give: what’s with the Dick Dastardly moustache and the grandad gear? And what do you really do with looted fridge innards?”

  Robin groaned. “At least let him get a drink in before the interrogation starts!”

  The redhead stood up. “My shout. G&T, mate? They’ve got Lincoln in here, or there’s Tanqueray.”

  Archie guessed Heath must have encountered steampunks before. “I’ll have the Lincoln, cheers.” He shrugged off his jacket—it was warm in the pub—and folded it neatly before putting it on the shelf under the table.

  “No worries. Same again, fellow wage slaves?”

  Robin and Azrah nodded. As Heath sauntered off, Azrah turned very deliberately to Archie and rested her chin on her hand. “You were saying?”

  Archie had to laugh. “Okay
. I’m a steampunk.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “If you think that’s an explanation, I’ve got news for you.”

  “We’re . . . sort of retro-futurists. It’s like dressing for science fiction, but the science is based on that of a bygone age? Typically, it’s the Victorian era, so, well, steam.”

  “So where does the ‘punk’ come in? Because no offence, but I really don’t think Sid Vicious would recognise you as a kindred spirit.”

  Thank God. Archie had nothing against the music, but getting drugged off your head and stabbing your girlfriend was taking rebellion a step too far in his opinion. “It’s a counterculture. Rejecting both current social norms and those of history. And honestly, anything goes. Most people base their outfits around Victorian clothes, but you get Edwardian gear, steampunk Vikings, postapocalyptic stuff—you name it. If someone tries to tell you that your flintlock pistol or your Nerf gun’s from the wrong century, you just tell them you picked it up on your travels with your time machine.” Archie paused. Had he forgotten anything essential? “Oh, and goggles are a bit of a thing too.” And cogs, and clocks, and the colour brown, but he didn’t want to completely overload her with information right at the start.

  “And there’s tea duelling. And teapot racing. And Moriarty,” Robin added helpfully if not particularly comprehensibly.

  “So Sherlock Holmes is steampunk?” Azrah asked, presumably latching on to the one bit she recognised.

  “Well, he’s definitely steam. And the Robert Downey Jr. movies played up the punk.”

  “And the gay,” Robin put in. “Not that I was watching them for that.”

  Archie couldn’t help a smile. “But actually Are You There, Moriarty? is a Victorian parlour game.”

  “You have to hit each other with a rolled-up newspaper,” Robin explained.

  “I’ll be sitting here thanking God I live in the age of Netflix, ta very much.” Azrah took a long drink of her Coke. “So . . . you all dress up like Victorian science-fiction characters? And play silly games?”

  “Pretty much,” Archie agreed with a shrug. “Nothing wrong with a bit of daft fun. And there’s gadget makers, and bands, and loads of festivals up and down the country.”