Feeling slighted but certainly not dejected, C.A. watched as generous souls rummaged in their purses and pockets, some delving more deeply than others.
‘Bloody fools,’ he muttered. What was the point of giving money away and getting nothing in return?
He licked at the dryness forming around his mouth, took out his lemonade bottle, and sipped.
Never mind, the girl had been pretty but there were plenty more fish in the water. No doubt he would find a more gullible damsel in need of his undoubted charm and sexual prowess. In the meantime, it was lunchtime and crowded outside – quite warm too. People were making the most of the sunshine and the cut-price shopping. C.A. liked neither warm sunshine nor shopping. He headed for the shade of the Roman Baths where he could be sure of some respite from the hustle and bustle outside.
The water that bubbled up from deep within the earth was on sale, decanted in small plastic cups. C.A. Wright – who tried never to think of himself as Colin – wrinkled his nose. He’d tried the waters once and once was enough. OK, it was said to be packed full of minerals that could only do you good, but seeing as in his opinion it tasted like bad eggs, he’d stick to Highland malt, thank you very much.
‘The guided tour has already left,’ someone said to him. She further pointed out that he was left with the choice of waiting for the next one or going it alone.
‘Well, that’s no big surprise, and I don’t need someone to tell me what I already know,’ he said imperiously.
Snatching one of the brochures from a rack near the payment desk he examined it closely before buying a ticket to see around the baths.
The brochure was OK by local standards, he decided, after checking who’d designed and printed it and where it had been produced. Glancing through it he came to the conclusion that a top-flight London outfit could do far better. Nothing could be done better than the people he knew in London. In his view provincial towns just weren’t in the running when it came to style.
He hung around to give the tour plenty of time to get ahead of him. The general public might digest his reviews with trust and enthusiasm, but he certainly didn’t feel the same about them. In any case, he preferred to peruse the site alone and without being rushed. He didn’t want to be jostled. He didn’t want anyone to interrupt his enjoyment.
Luck was on his side. There was a lull in ticket purchases; most people coming in were making their way into the Pump Room for lunch. He couldn’t have timed it better.
Once he was sure he’d be on his own, he purchased his ticket and proceeded to follow the signposted route into the shade. Not that he would necessarily stick to the designated route. He’d been contrary all his life.
Inside was cool, full of inscriptions, information, and artefacts. Bumping into people coming from other directions, he took it slowly past where the orange-coloured water poured from a slit in the rocks smelling of iron and sulphur; all things mineral. He breathed it in: far better than drinking it.
Close to where the water steamed hot and rust-coloured from the earth, he paused by the tomb of a child. According to the inscription the child had been British and had been adopted by a Roman couple. She’d died at three years old. How odd, he thought. What would possess a couple to do that? I mean, he thought to himself, some scruffy little kid smelling of mud and pigs living with a cultured pair of Romans. He didn’t like kids himself. If drawn on the subject he’d testily reply that he preferred them roasted; his little joke and as nasty as he was.
Pausing next to a display of what remained of some Roman central heating, he brought himself to attention, saluting as though he were a centurion. He quite fancied himself in that role, telling others what to do, flogging the odd errant legionnaire or being bestial with a female slave.
Finding a comfortable corner with a convenient stone to sit on, he settled down, brought out the lemonade bottle, and proceeded to get well and truly drunk. The more he drank the more he fantasized. He was back in time, not here at all. The rumbling hum of conversation, kids shouting and footsteps sounded far away. Even the resident stonemasons who spouted bits of Latin were gone for lunch.
For a while he relished the feeling of isolation and being somewhere else. Unfortunately it didn’t last. The sound of raucous voices came from behind him, tumbling like gravel and loose stones along the passageway.
‘Damned tourists,’ he hissed.
At first he saw only their shadows elongated and black, the light behind them.
Four young men swaggered into view, their loudness and size destroying the other world he’d been so comfortable in, their voices echoing off the ancient stones.
One of them was wearing a Bath University scarf. He was dark-haired, red-faced, and battled forwards like a full-back. The others too looked as though they were good at rugby; Bath did well at the game. C.A. had no time for games or sport of any kind – except war games, but they didn’t count.
Colin scowled. He resented their intrusion. The acid rose on his tongue as much as from the booze as from the resentment.
They turned their cheery faces in his direction. He smelled the drink and guessed they’d had far more than a tipple. Funny that he could always tell when someone else had been drinking even though he himself was well-oiled.
One of them slapped his shoulder. ‘All right, mate.’
Colin slapped his hand away in the same manner as he would a basking bluebottle.
‘I am not your mate.’
‘Ooow. Touchy.’
Wright scowled. He’d been enjoying himself. These boys had probably been enjoying their drink too, though in the company of others whereas he preferred to drink alone.
One side of his mouth curled upwards into a sneer. ‘You know what mate as a verb means? Well that’s what I’m telling you to do. And the word that goes with it is “off”.’
The four young men stopped, their grins frozen on their faces. One broke first.
‘Are you telling me to eff off?’ asked the guy with the pink cheeks and the dark hair.
‘You’ve got it, Snow White,’ said Colin turning his back.
Behind his turned back, the young man frowned. Wright was right about one thing. He had been drinking – quite a lot in fact. So much that he hadn’t noticed the stink of drink on Wright’s breath because it had been cloaked in his own. Not that it mattered that much whether this man who’d annoyed him was drunk or not. His anger had fuel to feed on. Booze and bad words. Like Wright his common sense was on hold, his anger hot.
‘Snow White? What the bloody hell do you mean by that?’
‘Let it be, Deke.’
One of his friends tried to lead him away, placing a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.
Deke shrugged off the restraining hand. He was a young man with black hair and naturally pink cheeks, the kind that burst into thread veins with age. Already, as a result of his anger, they were turning to flame and his black eyes were blazing.
‘He’s taking the fucking piss.’
His outburst reverberated off the subterranean roof and walls. Ordinarily he might have ignored the long streak of humanity standing with his head held high as though there was a stink beneath his nose, but not now. Time spent in the Saracen’s Head, the Pulteney Arms and the Foresters had a lot to do with it – that and the fact that he’d taken an instant dislike to this guy. Head down, shoulders braced, he charged forward. Luckily for Wright his friends grabbed him.
‘I’m warning you,’ he snarled, fronds of slicked black hair falling damply on to his forehead. ‘Shut your stupid mouth or it gets filled with my fist.’
Fired up with booze and confident that Deke’s friends could hold him, Wright’s verbal abuse was undiminished. Sober he wouldn’t have dared. Courage didn’t run in his veins but Scotch did. He was enjoying this.
‘Animals are not allowed in here, certainly not without a leash or a keeper. Best make for the exit where some kind human might give you a bunch of bananas and a pat on the head – or a kick up the back
side.’ He pointed along the walkway.
The pink cheeks flushed to purple. The man named Deke leapt forward. ‘You …!’
Three pairs of hands grappled to hold him back.
‘Deke! Come on, you bloody fool. Let it be. He’s as drunk as we are.’
Wright’s snarling smile was undiminished.
As the four young men left one of them commented on Wright’s breath.
‘Phew! Did you smell that guy’s breath? He stunk like a Highland distillery.’
‘I did.’ The spokesman was Johan, a tall blond with the longest reach of the lot of them. It was his arm that remained around Deke’s neck, frogmarching him all the way to the exit.
‘Hey! We were supposed to be having a look round,’ Deke complained once they’d reached the more brightly lit foyer. ‘I haven’t seen enough dead Romans yet.’
Johan, his arm still round Deke’s neck, gave him a shake. ‘There aren’t any dead Romans, you prick.’
‘So what were we s’pose to see?’ Deke was as surly as his speech.
Johan shook him. ‘Leave it out. Bits of stone. Artefacts.’
‘Nothing dead in there – though there could have been,’ said the fourth member of their group. Dominic was from Samoa, over six feet tall and weighty. The university had chosen him rather than the other way round; he was a brilliant scrum half. Bath was up for bringing in new blood for its top-quality rugby team.
The guided tour that had preceded them were milling around, some asking their guide for bits of information before filtering off.
Caught in the crowd, the young men, all university students, bided their time.
‘Calm now?’ Johan asked Deke. Like the others, he’d joined the university to play rugby – as well as doing a little studying. Hailing from Johannesburg, his main love was rugby, his aim to play for the national side, the Springboks, one glorious day. Apart from his passion for sport he was a steady guy, the anchor of common sense to the rest of them.
At first Deke did not respond.
‘Are you?’ Johan asked again.
Deke gave a feeble nod and Johan released him. ‘Good boy,’ he said, patting Deke’s shoulder.
‘Hey!’
Before he could stop him, Deke shot off, straight back into the Roman Baths.
Johan swore under his breath. ‘What the hell’s got into him?’
Stefan, the Polish member of their little band, belched tellingly. ‘Seven pints of premium lager.’
‘Christ!’ Johan tore back in after him. Shouts went up from those manning the ticket office as the others attempted to follow.
One of the attendants, thinking they were trying to get in without paying, raced in after them, her voice and her face ripe with alarm.
‘Excuse me, but returns are not allowed! You’ve only paid to go round once.’
Dominic, his shoulders almost filling the gap, turned round to reassure her. ‘It’s all right, Miss. One of our mates had too much lunchtime. We lost him in one of those dark corners. Don’t mind if we go in to fetch him do you?’
The woman looked unsure at first, but he was young, had twinkling eyes and a ready smile. Besides that his broad shoulders filled the gap like a made to measure door. Blushing, she patted her hair just a little too self-consciously and lowered her voice.
‘All right. But be quick.’
Led by Johan, the three of them rushed back in to find their friend. Retracing their steps over stones worn shiny from the footfall of nearly two thousand years they found Deke kneeling beside C.A. Wright.
Deke was looking down at the flat-out figure as though not sure what either him or Wright was doing there.
Thinking the worst, Stefan muttered another expletive, only this time in Polish.
Johan said what they were all thinking out loud. ‘Oh Christ. You’ll go down for this, Deke, you drunken sod.’
Deke looked up at him, a confused look in his eyes. ‘I found him like it. Honest.’
Stefan bent his knees and peered closer. ‘Is he dead?’
Deke shook his head. ‘Of course he fucking ain’t. He’s pissed. I can smell it from up here. He smells like a bloody brewery – correction – a distillery.’
‘He may have slipped and bumped his head,’ Stefan added.
Deke grunted. ‘Serves the old bugger right.’
Johan was used to taking charge of situations and of people. It was the way he’d been brought up.
‘Well we can’t leave him here. The old biddy outside is sure to call the police if we don’t get our asses out of here and him too. Here. Help me get him up.’
C.A. Wright groaned as they hitched his arms around their shoulders so he could hang there between them. He muttered something as they carried him along, his feet dragging at times between a few unsteady steps.
‘What’s he say?’ said Johan.
‘Not a clue.’ Deke was annoyed.
‘Bollocks,’ Wright muttered. ‘Fucking perverts. Pansies, the lot of you.’ He slumped a bit, his feet beginning to drag.
Stefan yanked Wright’s arm and none too gently. This guy didn’t know when to quit, the ungrateful bastard.
‘Did he just call us what I think he called us?’
‘Chuck him in the water. That should sober him up,’ said Deke, accompanying his statement with a scowl.
‘Are you sure you didn’t hit him?’ Johan sounded alarmed.
‘No. But I was tempted.’
Another mumbled expletive.
Johan leaned him against a wall, cupped Wright’s jaw with his hands, and shouted into his face. ‘Look mate, we’re trying to help you.’
‘Piss off.’
‘Friendly sort of bloke,’ murmured Stefan.
Eventually they were out of the Baths, through the Pump Room entrance, and heading towards the shade of the colonnade between Abbey Square and Stall Street.
The girl Wright had propositioned saw them coming and recognized who they were carrying.
Her bottom lip curled as she looked Wright over. ‘What happened to him?’
Stefan locked eyes with her. ‘Do you know him?’
‘No. And I don’t want to.’ The interest she saw in Stefan’s eyes wasn’t unwelcome. She told it as it was, rattling her collection bucket as she did so. ‘I asked him for money but he wanted a lot more than charity in return.’
‘A creep?’ asked Johan.
She jerked her chin in a resolute nod. ‘The worst kind. A drunken creep!’
In a bid to impress her, Stefan rattled off the info. ‘And now he’s out cold. At first we thought he’d slipped and bumped his head. He might have done. First and last his liver’s had one hell of a hiding. Not a bloke likely to make old bones. Dead by the time he’s fifty-five, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Couldn’t happen to a better bloke,’ grumbled Deke.
‘You lot got a cheek calling him a drunken bum. You’ve been drinking yourselves?’ asked the girl.
Stefan grinned. ‘We’re students. What do you think?’
‘I think you’ve been drinking.’
‘Wanna come for a drink with us?’
‘Possibly. So what are you going to do with him?’
Deke shook his head. ‘Well we can’t take him with us. Wouldn’t want to. We experienced instant dislike when we met.’
‘Me too,’ said the girl. ‘So what do you do with a drunk you don’t want to go drinking with?’
‘A bit of a lesson wouldn’t come amiss. Would it?’ Deke’s eyes travelled to the gigantic teddy bear. A wicked grin spread across his face. ‘Is that teddy bear hollow?’
The girl eyed him quizzically. ‘Yes.’
The others, knowing Deke was a great one for cracking practical jokes, laughed and joked as they tried to read what was on his mind.
Deke’s grin widened. ‘Lads. I have a dastardly plan; something we wouldn’t do if we were cold sober.’ He paused. ‘Well. Perhaps I would.’
By the time they’d finished and to the amusement of a fe
w passers-by who noticed, they had stuffed C.A. Wright inside the giant teddy bear. Laughing and looking pleased with themselves, they brushed off their hands. Someone suggested they head for the nearest pub.
Stefan was looking at the girl.
‘Are you up for coming with us?’
‘I might be.’
‘Are you alone?’
Her sidelong glance met his. Her lips were pale pink and smiling. ‘Yes. Everyone else has gone off for lunch.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Tracey Maplin.’
When he bowed he clicked his heels together. ‘Tracey, would you care to join our merry band for a sub and coffee, the latter liberally laced with best quality Courvoisier?’
Tracey Maplin had dated quite a few students in her time. Most of them were stony broke. A student who offered her coffee laced with brandy wasn’t short of cash. ‘You sound flush.’
‘Won a bit spread betting online,’ he replied.
It was good enough for her. Smiling she hooked her arm through his. ‘I think that’s the best suggestion I’ve had all day. It beats keeping company with a teddy bear. Anyway, Teddy Devlin is quite capable of taking care of himself.’
Chapter Four
Honey looked up at the sound of the applause coming from the conference room and smiled. Doherty’s ordeal was finally over.
‘He’s done it,’ she breathed, sounding as though she’d had no doubt that he’d sail through his talk.
Lindsey chuckled. ‘That brave policeman looked as though he were about to confront a pride of lions, not a group of old ladies from Somerset. But old ladies can be very intimidating.’
Honey was inclined to agree with her. ‘I’ll buy him lunch. That should make up for it.’
‘He could probably do with a cuddle or two.’
Honey found herself blushing like a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl.
‘Lindsey!’
Her daughter grinned up at her from beneath the triangular-shaped fringe that covered one side of her face. The geometric style was coloured a fetching shade of light orange, Lindsey’s colour of the month.
‘Relax, Mother. You were a woman before you became my mum, and you’re still a woman now. Plus you’re single, plus you could do with some male company now and again. And don’t point out to me that you’ve got male company. Smith the chef does not count. Now I know things have moved on in the world since your day, but don’t hesitate to ask if you need any relationship advice. I can keep you up to speed on the sexual front, like how to react when he wants you to do stuff you don’t fancy doing.’
Wicked Words: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 4