by JL Merrow
“Might be important.”
“Fine, fine, I’m going.” I heaved myself up from his side—I’d been comfortable there—and plodded over to the house phone, overdoing it a bit to make a point. “Yeah?”
“Tom? It’s me. Cherry.” Not a telemarketer, then. My sister. Right: family. That’s why I still had a landline. I hoped they appreciated how they were costing me fourteen quid a month plus call charges. She sounded worried—at least, as far as I could tell from the unfamiliar voice on the phone.
To say my sister never calls would be—well, not an understatement, obviously, because that’d just be daft. I suppose the word I’m looking for is “accurate”. Until now, that was. I hadn’t even been sure she had my number, but then it wasn’t exactly a state secret. Mum had probably divulged it without any need for excessive fingernail-pulling or waterboarding.
“Cherry? What is it, love?” I cringed a bit at the endearment that had just slipped out. Put it down to consoling one too many housewives after a domestic disaster.
“Mrs. Morangie’s died.”
“Who?” I wasn’t winding her up. I genuinely didn’t have a clue.
“Don’t be wilfully obtuse. Mrs. Morangie.” She huffed. “Mrs. Next-door.”
I managed to tamp down my irritation. But seriously, who uses the phrase “wilfully obtuse” on the phone to close family members? “Which one? You mean from Mum and Dad’s, right? Not yours.” I was fairly sure there were people living in the houses either side of Cherry’s, and that they hadn’t all moved out in horror when she’d moved in. Maybe she even cared if they lived or died. But I couldn’t think of a single reason why she’d be calling up to let me know one of them had popped off to the Neighbourhood Watch meeting in the sky.
Her tsk crackled down the phone line in a burst of static. “Auntie Lol,” she said as if it pained her.
“Ohhh. Oh. She died? How? I got a card from her at Christmas, same as usual,” I added, feeling a bit lost. That’d only been a few weeks ago. I mean, yeah, people died, but Auntie Lol was well young, relatively speaking. Younger than my mum and dad, anyhow. Although, to be fair, so were most people. “And hang on a mo, since when has she been Mrs. Morangie?” I’d addressed the envelope to Ms. Fernside, same as always.
“Since she married Mr. Morangie, perhaps? I thought you knew she got married. It was while you were still living at home.”
Actually, as I recalled, it’d been while I was mostly living in hospital having bits of metal screwed into my pelvis. It was a lot less fun than it sounded. “Yeah, but it’s not like it lasted. Didn’t he die years ago? But what happened, anyway? You never said. To Auntie Lol, I mean. Was it an accident?”
“If you’d let me get a word in edgewise…” Cherry’s voice trailed off. When she spoke again, it was softer. “Well, she killed herself.”
“What?” I sat down hard on the sofa. From his position on Phil’s lap, Arthur opened his eyes a crack and flicked his tail at me. No respect for the recently bereaved, our Arthur.
As Cherry spoke again, I felt a large, warm hand massage my shoulder. Going out on a limb and assuming Arthur hadn’t suddenly acquired opposable thumbs and, more to the point, a heart, I deduced it was Phil’s. “I don’t know all the details, but apparently she had cancer. I suppose she didn’t want to go through chemo or surgery or whatever. At any rate, she’s supposed to have told her doctor she’d had trouble sleeping since the diagnosis, and then sat down one evening with a bottle of sherry and took all the pills he gave her at once.”
“Fuck.”
“Charming. Well, anyway, I’m named as executor of her will, so there are some practical things we need to sort out.”
She’s not actually a heartless bitch, my sister. Well, not totally. She just didn’t know Auntie Lol like I did. Which begged a bit of a question, now I came to think about it. “How come you’re executor, anyway?”
“The law degree? It was all sorted out years ago. Anyway, we need to meet. Tomorrow morning? Around eleven? You can come to my office.”
That’d be nice for me. I mentally ran over my schedule while Merlin physically ran over my feet and started clawing his way up my legs. “Can’t. Got a washing machine at ten, and every time I go round to hers, she’s always got another nineteen jobs that’ll only take a minute, honest. I’ll be lucky to get away much before twelve.” I patted a sleek, furry head as Merlin nuzzled into my thigh. I appreciated the affection but not the line of cat snot he’d probably left in his wake.
“I suppose it’ll have to be lunch, then. One o’clock, Carluccio’s?”
“Or we could just meet up for a sarnie in the park.”
“In January?”
“Okay, so maybe it’s not peak picnic season, but fresh air is fresh air. And dodging those gangs of Canada geese that always try and mug you for your lunch will keep you on your toes. Can’t be good for you, working in an office all day.”
“Don’t be daft. I’ll see you at Carluccio’s. Oh, and Tom? Don’t say anything to Mum and Dad about this, will you?”
“Why not?”
“Mum and Mrs. Morangie were quite close friends at one time. I, well, I haven’t told her she’s dead yet. So don’t say anything. I don’t want Mum upset.”
I supposed it was good she was worried about someone’s feelings. “Fine. Mum’s the word, that all right?”
“Very funny.” She hung up.
“So who’s Auntie Lol?” Phil asked, his hand still on my shoulder. It was nice, but I felt a bit uncomfortable, to be honest. We hadn’t exactly been together all that long—then again, how many dates do you have to go on before you get to the emotional-support part of the relationship?
Now I came to think about it, I wasn’t really sure how many actual dates we’d been on anyway. Do sneaky house searches and near-death experiences count?
Probably, if you’re going out with a private investigator.
Limericks, lies, and puppy-dog eyes…
Slam!
© 2013 JL Merrow
Jude Biggerstaff is all the way out and loving it—mostly. The Anglo-Japanese university graduate is a carnivore working in a vegan café, an amateur poet with only one man in his life. His dog, Bubbles.
Then there’s “Karate Crumpet,” a man who regularly runs past the café with a martial arts class. Jude can only yearn from afar, until the object of his affection rescues him from muggers. And he learns that not only does this calm, competent hunk of muscle have a name—David—but that he’s gay.
Jude should have known the universe wouldn’t simply let love fall into place. First, David has only one foot out of the closet. Then there’s Jude’s mother, who lies about her age to the point Jude could be mistaken for jailbait.
With a maze of stories to keep straight, a potential stepfather in the picture, ex-boyfriends who keep spoiling his dates with David, and a friend with a dangerous secret, Jude is beginning to wonder if his and David’s lives will ever start to rhyme.
Warning: Contains a tangled web of little white lies, a smorgasbord of cheesy limericks, a violin called Vanessa, some boots that mean business, and the most adorable little dog ever. Poetry, it’s not...
Enjoy the following excerpt for Slam!:
There were three of them, all dressed in hooded jackets, as if they thought clichés were the best thing since sliced victims. Their hoods were pulled down low over their faces like cowls as they stalked towards me. The monks who mug, I thought, letting out a mortifying little hysterical giggle and desperately trying not to panic. I sped up a bit, but they sort of milled around me, and I found myself crowded into an alleyway.
My stomach roiled, and not just because I was crammed in next to an overflowing plastic rubbish skip with a pungent reek.
“What you got, Chinkie?” the biggest one asked. “Let’s have it.”
I hate that. I really ha
te it. I mean, if you’re going to be racist, at least get your facts right. “I’m not Chinese, I’m Anglo-Japanese. And I know martial arts,” I added desperately.
“Go on, then—let’s see you.” They stood around, laughing at me while I tried to remember the karate-kid pose and—crucially—what you were supposed to do next. Get your head kicked in, probably.
“You’re just a skinny little poof,” the big one said. “Come on, hand it over.”
“What?” I clutched my violin case a little tighter.
“Everything. You can start with that—might fetch a few quid on eBay.”
Another one laughed. “It’d make a good fire.”
I stepped back in horror, wincing as the back of my head cracked against the brick wall. Bright sparks of pain spread across my vision. “Please don’t hurt my violin!”
This time, they all laughed and came towards me.
I’ve never learned to fight. Always relied on my height to make people think twice about attacking me, and my long legs to get me out of any sticky situations that might nevertheless arise. All I could think of was protecting my violin. I hugged it close to my chest—which was apparently as good as painting a big Hit Me sign on my stomach, because that’s what the biggest one did.
My lungs seized, and I doubled over. I managed not to fall, but only because the wall was right behind me and the rubbish skip propped me up on one side. My violin was easily pried from my weakened fingers as I struggled to breathe.
I thought they were going to hit me again, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I curled up tight, my empty arms over my head. Oh God. I was going to die. I wondered if Stinky Cheese Guy would cry at my funeral. Would he even bother to turn up, the bastard?
Then a new voice rang out in the alleyway. A strong voice, booming with masculine authority. “Oi! Leave him alone!”
I risked opening one eye. Oh. My. God. It was Karate Crumpet. He stood at the mouth of the alley in front of a throng of gleaming white suits, bouncing on the balls of his bare feet, fists clenched in front of him and a snarl on his face.
I managed a gasping, wheezing breath. He’d come to save me, and brought the pyjama posse with him. I could have kissed every single one of them. Even the ugly ones, and the hard-faced girl with the Essex face-lift up-do.
The looks on my muggers’ faces was priceless, as they went from menacing thugs to would-be innocent bystanders in nought point three seconds. “Nuffin’ to get worked up about,” one of them said, holding up his hands. “We was just talking, all right?”
“Conversation’s over, gents. I suggest you be on your way.” There was a brief staring match, which Karate Crumpet won hands down—not that he ever did put his hands down; sensible man. I wouldn’t trust those bastards as far as I could throw them. Which was probably nowhere near as far as Karate Crumpet could throw them. The trio did that we’re going now but we could take you easy if we wanted to swagger out towards the main street.
“My violin!” I croaked, realising one of them still held it.
The hard-faced girl stepped forward and held out her hand, the ends of her black belt swinging with subtle menace. The hoodie thrust the case at her sullenly. She managed not to drop it, thank God, and cradled it lovingly as she brought it back to me. I felt horribly guilty about judging her earlier. “Here you go,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“F-fine,” I stuttered, hugging my violin.
Karate Crumpet came up to ask the same thing, his clear blue eyes staring into mine from about six inches away. I wondered briefly if a manly swoon was in order, but I didn’t want to drop my violin after they’d gone to so much trouble to keep it safe. Then I tried to take a step forwards and realised I might not have any choice in the matter.
His arm was around me in an instant. Warm. Solid. Supporting. Comforting. My libido decided it’d be willing to get mugged every day of the week if this was the outcome. My midriff, pain blossoming across it, wasn’t so sure.
“Did they hurt you?”
“M-my stomach,” I managed.
“Let’s have a look.” There was a tug on my violin case, which I resisted for a moment before common sense reasserted itself and I let it go, back into the capable hands of up-do girl.
And then—oh my God, Karate Crumpet was pulling up my T-shirt. I was caught between arousal, desperate hope no one would notice my arousal and fervent regret I hadn’t done a few more sit-ups lately. We all peered at my middle, as if it had suddenly sprouted a TV screen like a Teletubby. There was a reddish patch, but no obvious signs of massive internal haemorrhaging. “I’m okay, honest,” I protested a bit more strongly now.
“Anything else?”
“Well, I hit my head…” I put my hand up to the back of my head—and stared when it came back smeared with blood. “Oh. Ow.”
“Right, that settles it. I’m taking you to A&E.”
“I can’t!” I blurted out. “I’m meeting Keisha.”
He gave me a startled look. “You can text your girlfriend on the way.”
“She’s not…” I cursed as I remembered something more important than setting him, as it were, straight. “She hasn’t got a phone. It broke, and she can’t afford a new one.”
“She’ll forgive you. Come on, let’s get you looked at.”
“I could just go to the slam first…”
“No arguments. Lauren, can you take over with the class?” At the hard-faced girl’s businesslike nod, he turned back to me. “I’ll take you. I’m parked not far away. Right, Lauren, everyone, I’ll see you on Tuesday.”
He gave a little bow. The posse bowed back and chorused something that sounded like “Ooss”.
“But…” I held out a hand, my fingers clutching violin-wards.
“Don’t worry. Lauren will take good care of it, and you won’t have to worry about dropping it if you come over a bit faint, okay?”
“O-okay,” I quavered.
The posse jogged away, up-do girl carrying my violin, which added a nice surreal touch to the already weird sight of them all bounding through the streets. I hoped I’d get it back, but on the other hand, if I got to keep Karate Crumpet instead, it was probably a fair trade.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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Caught!
Copyright © 2014 by JL Merrow
ISBN: 978-1-61922-225-0
Edited by Linda Ingmanson
Cover by Kanaxa
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: August 2014
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