by Trevor Veale
“That’s understood. We’d better not say any more here, though – I’m sure every room is bugged. What time do you finish, Sharon?”
“I get off at midnight,” Sharon said.
“Okay, I’ll see you in the parking lot downstairs, at quarter past twelve. I’ll be in a cab.”
The two women parted company and Sharon continued serving drinks until her tray was empty. She retreated into her cubbyhole beside the bar, where she listened to people laughing good-humoredly in the other rooms. The sounds of festivity from the living room reached a crescendo, and drunken voices boomed all around her. Someone was screaming “Oh my God, what am I doing? I’m so drunk!”
A woman came running past, her face chalk white. She bolted for the bathroom, where Sharon could hear her being sick into the toilet. She knew it would soon be time to turn off the lights, clean up the kitchen and leave for her meeting with Arabella.
She had finished cleaning and was putting on her jacket when Joe Steel, in a flimsy kimono and flipflops, suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“You’ve done a good job tonight, Sharon – so good I’m going to give you a hundred moons extra.”
“Oh thanks, Mr Steel,” she mumbled.
“Call me Joe, love – all the others do!”
He threw a silk-sleeved arm around her shoulders. “I’ve got just one more job for you, Sharon – in the bedroom.”
She heard him say “one more job for you,” but after hearing “in the bedroom” wondered if he had left out a word, such as “hand” or “blow.”
She was reaching for the door. “I’m really sorry, Mr – er, Joe. I have to go right away. My son’s sitter has to go home – “
“It’ll only take a few minutes – why don’t you take your jacket off?”
Oh God, she thought. I wonder what else he wants me to take off?
“Look, Joe, my dad’s really sick –ever since he fractured his skull. I have to get back in case he takes a turn for the worse. A friend is waiting for me downstairs – ”
He dropped his arm and made a coaxing gesture. “Well, she can come up here and wait – there’s plenty to eat and drink!”
His voice was soft and wheedling, a complete contrast to his looks.
“Let me go to the loo first.”
She decided to buy time. His reputation as a party hard man made her afraid to provoke him. He went on into the bedroom.
When she entered the bedroom he was sitting naked on the vast bed, one hand massaging his erection, the other scrabbling inside a bag of nachos. She felt a sudden access of courage, and an anger that he could be so blatant in how he wanted to use her.
“I’m going now,” she said.
“Like fuck you are – I’m as hard as a rock!”
He stood up and reached out with nacho-coated fingers, trying to pull her down, but she shook him off.
She ran down the hall and flung open the door. She could hear his pleading voice as she slammed it shut. She took the elevator down and tottered into the parking lot, confused and angry, and wandered about until a voice called “Sharon!” She climbed into the cab next to Arabella.
“Joe Steel tried to rape me!” she blurted out. “I want to get as far away from this place as possible!”
“Where would you like to go?” Arabella asked once they were clear of the mansion.
Sharon’s anger had subsided and she was in a more emollient mood. “Oh, God knows. Somewhere where I can have a large vodka!”
“What about going to a pub I know?” Arabella said. “We could have a drink while we talk.”
Sharon laughed. “All right, let’s go!”
They found a table in a quiet corner of the pub. At twelve forty-five the place was almost empty. Looking around, Sharon realized it was the pub her dad used to go to and everything about the place choked her up. Stained into the woodwork were the ancient remains of beer, sweat, dried blood from long-forgotten fights, and other intangible reminders of the pub’s history. There was something evocative, almost nostalgic, about the place. She felt a strange sadness, though, knowing it was where her dad had sunk his last half-liter.
Arabella felt pleased she had brought Sharon here, because it was a typical East City pub and she thought it would make her feel at home. She also hoped it would sharpen her memories of her liaison with King Godfrey. She went up to the bar and ordered a Cosmopolitan for herself and a large vodka tonic for Sharon. The barman flashed her a weary smile as he poured the drinks. He looked tired, as if he’d been rushed off his feet all night by clamoring beer-swillers.
She took the drinks back to their table and placed them on the formica top. An old Patsy Cline song Walkin’ After Midnight was playing on the juke box.
“Here, drink up – we can talk about what happened tonight if you like. If not, that’s okay too.”
Sharon nodded and drank deeply.
“Thanks, I feel better for that.”
In the silence that followed, Arabella counted out a wad of money from her purse. She passed it to Sharon. “Here’s the down payment. I want you to be properly paid,” she said.
“Thanks, Arabella,” Sharon said, slipping the money into her clutch bag. “I think I’ll pass on talking about what happened tonight. I just wanna put it out of my mind.”
“Okay, Sharon. Well, I guess we’d better get down to the nitty-gritty then,” Arabella said. She got out her iPad. “Is it okay if I take notes?”
On the other side of the bar an old man sat upright, his mouth open, asleep with his empty glass in his hand. A young couple, whispering over their Appletinis, were the only other people in the pub.
Sharon drank more of her vodka and began talking. “About ten or eleven years ago, I was working for His Grace the Duke of Mellinda, who’s a big pal of King Godfrey. They were always going out on the town together – ” “And both cheated on their wives,” Arabella murmured.
Sharon flashed a knowing smile. “Well’ they had had plenty to drink one night when they came back from one of their sprees. I was just locking up for the night and getting ready to go home, when the duke told me to get him and the king one last drink. The king started flirting with me when I gave him his brandy, and made me drink some. He told the duke to put on some dance music, real quiet and slinky. Then he said he wanted to dance with me and started showing me steps. One-two-three. One-two-three. Twirling me round the room. He would step away, then pull me toward him, snapping his fingers. I wanted to go home really, but I was getting drunk and didn’t have the confidence to say no. Anyway, we did a slow sexy tango.
“Then the duke put some traditional Mellorian tunes on the stereo and we danced Mellorian-style, clinging very close together. Round and round the room we twirled, till the duke who’d been working his way through a bottle of brandy, started taking his clothes off. So the king started taking his off. He was really into it. First his shirt, flinging it at the duke who sat watching us, stark naked and playing with his thing – ”
Arabella gave a sharp intake of breath.
“Yeah, it was really gross, but there was no stopping the king – he kept twirling as he stripped. One-two-three. Soon he was totally naked. I was losing my inhibitions after what I’d drunk, so when the king started taking my clothes off – moving to the beat while he did it – I just laughed and let him strip me. He took everything off except my watch. That stayed on my wrist. It made me look a bit tarty, but I didn’t care. Then the duke really started slamming his thing. I couldn’t look – it was so awful, but the king just grinned. I was getting a bit brazen and I twisted myself around him, teasing him. He grabbed my arm and spun me and we smacked together. He grabbed hold of my bottom, his fingers buried right in the cleft.” “’Scuse my language,” she added.
Arabella smiled. “So, to cut to the chase,” she said, “you and the king did it. Did he keep in touch with you after the event?”
“Nah,” Sharon laughed. “Wish he had! After it was all over, they called me a cab to go home, and I ne
ver heard from the king again. The duke must’ve said something to his wife, because Her Grace started to get a bit funny about me working there, and a month later, I got my notice. Well, I missed a couple months and realized I was expecting. It was just before Christmas, and I was pregnant! I went to church and prayed for a miracle. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I didn’t want to get rid of it. So right after Christmas I plucked up the courage to write to the king. I knew lots of other people wrote to the king for money when they needed it, and some of them got some. So I told him I needed some help because he and the duke had taken advantage and I was pregnant. I named the night and what went on and the next thing I knew I got a hand-written note to meet someone at the palace. I went and saw one of the king’s advisers and he paid me some money and offered me a maid’s job if I kept my mouth shut. I needed the money since I was carrying, so I started working at the palace right after. I took a couple days off when Craig was born – my dad looked after him while I was working – and that was that. Then I got laid off when the revolution came, and here I am.”
Arabella chuckled, reached over and squeezed Sharon’s hand. “That’s an amazing story, and I’ll make sure it gets published, but obviously not in Melloria – not yet, anyway. I think there are several Bulimian newspapers that would be interested.”
Sharon groaned and finished her vodka. “I’m beginning to have second thoughts now – do you really think I should tell the world about it? I mean, it would be a terrible thing for the queen to hear about.”
Arabella sipped her drink reflectively. “Yes, I think you should tell your story, Sharon. As for the queen, well, she’s got a pretty thick skin and she knows her husband’s no saint.” She stopped drinking and challenged Sharon with her eyes.
“If all goes well, you’ll get a pretty good payment for your story. Have you thought about what you and Craig will do when the story breaks?”
“I guess we’ll have to leave Melloria – my dad too,” Sharon sighed. “I hate the thought of having to go, but I don’t want people calling my son the king’s bastard.”
“Actually,” Arabella said, dropping her voice, “I’m arranging to transport some people to Bulimia in a few weeks’ time. All I need is a car, and we’ll be ready to go. Would you - “
“I know somebody who’s got a car, a big Mercedes!” Sharon jumped in. “I could ask him to be your driver. You’d have to pay him, of course.”
“Yeah? What’s his name?” Arabella asked.
“Simpkins.”
Chapter 39
The Plan Firms Up
Arabella Scott-Natterson arrived at the screened-off corner of the ICT unit carrying fruit and a bunch of irises. She was taken aback at the sight of the archbishop. The oxygen tubes protruding from his nostrils like weird rubber tusks trembled while he breathed listlessly. His eyes were closed and he was frowning as if having a fierce dream.
“Archbishop Lesot?” she said, as if doubting his existence.
“Oh hello,” he said, opening his eyes and managing a weak smile. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Arabella Scott-Natterson and I write for the Melloria City Bugle.” She put the fruit and flowers on his nightstand and thrust out a hand.
“Oh please, no interviews – I think I’m going to die!”
Arabella’s face tightened. The archbishop’s death, at this delicate stage of the plan to liberate the royals, might be a setback.
“Surely not, you’ve just had a heart attack, that’s all,” she said. “You’re a man with a lot of life in him – and I thought as much when I heard your inaugural speech to the Church Party.”
The archbishop blinked. His eyes grew indistinct, as if sinking into a pool of blue water. Each eye released balls of water that rolled down his cheeks until the oxygen tubes caught them. “I don’t think I’m that man any more,” he said sadly. “I want to be allowed to go.”
“But you’ve so much to live for!” She lowered her voice. “Your Grace, a great many people want to restore the monarchy, and we need your help. It’s absolutely crucial.”
The archbishop began to sob. “I’m so sorry, Miss Natterson. Helping to bring back the monarchy would be a wonderful thing, and now I’m going to die.” His hands were shaking and Arabella looked at her own hands. Was she going to lose this important link in the chain?
“Listen, Your Grace,” she said desperately. “Before you die, would you do me one enormous favor?”
The archbishop nodded, through his sobs.
“I need you to visit His Majesty in the place where Their Majesties are being confined. The daughter of one of the queen’s bedchamber ladies and the handyman who works there are willing to help the royal family to escape and flee to Bulimia. We need someone with your authority to deliver a vital message to the king.”
The archbishop stopped crying and looked startled.
“Escape?” he quavered.
“Yes, escape!” she asserted. “Your Grace can deliver the note to His Majesty – then he’ll know help is on the way.”
“I’ll do it,” he said softly. “By God, I’ll live long enough to do it.”
It was late in the evening when the doorbell rang. Sharon was angry when she saw Simpkins’s red face. He was drunk and had obviously come straight from one of his drug runs. Now he intended to get more drunk and stoned, and be entertained. He had gone back to wearing a black leather jacket and was carrying a brown holdall. He had taken to dropping by unannounced, getting loaded and stoned and showering her and Craig with gifts from his bag. Craig’s consisted of a PlayStation and a bunch of games. For her he had brought some lingerie and a jar of Estee Lauder Age-Correcting Crème, which she took to be a very backhanded compliment.
She had been feeling sharp and irritable all day. She had decided to spend Arabella’s down payment on her story setting up her dad’s nursing home care. To supplement it with a government care allowance, she had waited hours in drafty benefit offices and endured the truculent questions of insolent bureaucrats, so when Simpkins attempted to smother her with a hug she shook him off with contempt.
“I’ve had enough of this crap,” she said. “You’re sozzled, just like my dad used to get.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, that pleading look on his face. “It goes with the territory, kind of. I’m really sorry, Shaz,” he repeated. “Look, I’ve brought you, Lusher and Craig some presents.”
She didn’t ask him in. “Oh for Christ’s sake,” he said. He brushed past her and walked into the living room.
“I’m trying to quit, I really am.” Simpkins looked at her. His serious look. She thought about it. “Try harder,” she said finally.
“Okay, I will,” he offered. There was a long silence. “Get the brandy out,” he said. “Let’s have a drink, to celebrate my safe return.”
“I don’t need a drink,” she said, annoyed.
“You need to lighten up,” he said. He went to the cabinet where the liquor was kept and took a bottle.
She noticed him go to the sofa and sit down in front of the TV. Soon she joined him, bringing two glasses. He filled both, and when they were empty he filled them again.
“Are we just going to sit here getting drunk?” she asked.
He looked past her into the kitchen. Craig was sitting at the table, eating and watching the portable TV Sharon had bought with some of Arabella’s money.
“Wotcha, Craig!” Simpkins shouted. His voice hit her ear like a radio, blatant after weeks of being switched off.
“Give me that bottle – you’re pouring too slow,” he said to her. “Don’t look like that. You look like you’re going down for the count. Here.” He handed the glass to her. She could smell the brandy. She opened her mouth and took a sip. Then she took and lit one of his cigarettes and took a drag, then another sip.
“I need you to help me,” she said.
“Right,” he said. She took another sip.
“First off, you gotta stop this drug running business. Before you ge
t yourself killed.”
“That’s the difficult part.” He was lighting up a joint now. “Like I told you before – ”
“You’re a fucking idiot!” She stared at him, bug-eyed. Drunk as he was, the panic in her voice frightened him. “At the very least you’ll end up in jail,” she added.
“Okay, then, I’ll walk away from it,” he said, rattled. “God knows what I’ll do for money.”
“That’s just it,” she said. “You don’t need all that grief – you can do other things. You were a good butler once and you could be again.”
This government don’t need no butlers – too lah-dee-dah for ‘em. Skivvies, yes. Butlers? They can fuck off.”
He lit the joint, took a drag, exhaled slowly and handed it to her.
“Thanks. Well, actually, there is something you can do… I know this journalist lady – she writes for the Bugle, and she gave me some money – ”
“Oh yes?”
She took a toke and blew out a thick blue jet of smoke.
“– and she’s got a plan to smuggle the king and queen and their sons outta the country.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“She needs somebody to drive ‘em away from that rathole where they been banged up – it’s out on West Gorm Road – and take ‘em across the border to Bulimia – “
“Holy shit!”
“ – and then they can help the Church Party to get rid of this bleeding government, and we can all get our jobs back!”
He fell silent, took a long pull on the joint and sucked in the smoke he’d exhaled.
She took a sip of brandy and launched into her argument. “You’ll be doing it in the early hours, Sim, when nobody’s about. You only have to drive ‘em up to the border. They got family on the other side.”
“Wait a minute! You’re asking me to do this? You must be crazy, my girl. That’s serious danger!”
She snorted. “What about that drug running you do? That’s about as dangerous as it gets!”
“Look, I’ve only got one more trip and then I’m done, honest. I told you, I’ll walk away.”