Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. (17 page)

“What are you talking about? I signed a contract. It had Peter’s signature on it—and yours.” I clutched my manuscript to my chest as if it were a sick child. “If you’ve lost it, I’ll be happy to show you my copy.”

“Really?” Henry’s voice relaxed a bit. “Well, I suppose if you have a copy of a valid contract….” He turned to Alan Greene, like an actor looking for his prompter.

I finally managed to stop shaking.

“Yes, I do. And you owe me two thousand dollars, by the way…”

Henry looked chagrined, but Alan’s mocking expression didn’t change. He leaned down so close I was afraid his spit might land on my face.

“Sorry, Duchess, but I don’t believe you. Nobody, not even one as randy as Peter Sherwood, would pay good money for that bit of bangers and mash.” He pointed to the manuscript and said in a mocking, sing-song voice: “
Good Manners for Bad Times
? What is this, nineteen-bloody-forty-three? This company can’t afford to print something that won’t sell to anyone under the age of eighty.”

I managed to stand and plunked the manuscript back on the desk in front of Alan.

“No, it is not 1943, but the reason this country survived that horrible time is that the English all worked together. Working together takes good manners. Without them, you’re on your own.” I turned to Henry. “And Mr. Weems, I’m sorry that you’ve misplaced your copy of my contract. Mine is in my…”

That’s when I remembered where I’d put the contract—in my computer case. Which Davey had sent to his friend in Newcastle. I felt my face flush.

“Yes?” Alan’s tone dripped mockery. “Where is this supposed contract?”

“It’s…with Davey,” I said, backing toward the door. “I’ll go see if he’s in.”

“It can wait.” Henry called, returning to his usual dithery mode. “I’m terribly late. I must get to get back to Nottingham…”

I ran as fast as I could from the office.

Alan Greene had finally retaliated for the bucket incident. And in this, as in everything else, it looked as if he was going to get his way.

I was grateful to find Davey, Liam and the Professor congregated in Davey’s lair. Liam strummed his guitar while the three of them worked on a bottle of whiskey and a six pack of beer. Much was curled on a pile of dirty underwear at the foot of Davey’s futon.

I walked in and immediately burst into tears.

“Duchess, whatever is wrong?” said the Professor. “Has someone hurt you?” He reached into a pocket of his wheelchair for his phone. “Shall I call 999?”

I shook my head as I sniffed and worked on controlling my rage.

“Davey, did you send my computer to your friend in Newcastle?”

Davey nodded and offered me a beer. “Good English ale this time,” he said. “None of that Tesco piss. Liam bought it at the offy.”

“While Davey nicked us the bottle of whiskey,” Liam said with a laugh.

I tried to ignore the last remark. Thieves. I was living in a den of thieves. Best not to dwell on it. I needed to find my contract.

“Davey, did you send the case, too?”

“Of course. It was well padded, that case. I’m afraid I can’t guarantee anything, Duchess. He’s a bit erratic, and…”

Tears stung my nose again. I plunked down on the futon and roared.

“I hate Alan Greene!”

Liam’s music stopped.

Much nudged me with a cold nose.

Davey picked up an empty beer bottle by its neck and peered out into the hallway.

Liam offered me the bottle of purloined whiskey, along with a grimy glass.

I shook my head. He was being generous, of course, but I’d never learned to like straight alcohol. Besides, drinking wasn’t the wisest thing to do when one was about to be thrown out into the streets of a foreign country without a penny.

“I know it won’t actually help, but it will seem to, and that’s half the fight.” Liam grinned as he poured a good three fingers of whiskey in the glass. “Come on, Duchess. We may have the manners of cave men, but we’ll never get disgusting like the bloody Baron.”

It was true. Davey and Liam and the Professor had always treated me like a lady. I took the glass and, after a brave gulp, told them of my meeting with Henry and Alan and how Alan called my book bangers and mash—apparently Cockney slang for “trash.”

“That wanker is looking for a good beating,” Liam said. He strummed an ominous chord.

“I say we slit his throat,” said Davey, brandishing the bottle again. “And let him bleed out slowly…”

“Murder’s a bit untidy,” said the Professor. “Although I have no doubt the world would be a better place without the Baron. But first we might ferret out what’s wrong with Henry. I’ve already put in time editing your book. The company will be out the amount I’ve been paid, contract or no contract. I can’t fathom why Henry would waste the money.”

“And you have Peter’s word,” said Liam. “That’s as good as a bloody contract. Whatever people say about him, Peter’s never gone back on his word to his mates.” He played another guitar riff in a minor key. “I don’t know what the bloody hell going on with Henry. He weren’t such a bad bloke, before the Baron made his entrance.”

“Peter’s going to be looking for blood when he comes back,” said Davey. “What with this and that cow from California.”

Would Peter be looking for actual blood? I never knew how literally to take these people.

“Rosalee’s a little brash,” I said. “But not a bad person. She bought me a nice meal. She’s just a pawn in Alan’s scheme, whatever it is.”

“I see she’s taken a liking to you,” Davey said. “I’m surprised she didn’t smother you to death. Those breasts need their own post code.” He turned to his computer. “Here Duchess—do you want to see if there’s any news from your friend with the poncy name? Forget the Baron. We’ll get your book sorted.” He vacated his desk chair and motioned me to sit.

But as usual, my inbox held nothing from Plant or Silas. The thunk of disappointment was getting to feel routine now. It was as if I lived inside some computer game where everything in my life was being systematically deleted.

The Professor popped open a beer. “I told Henry that if Ms. Beebee is not prepared to rewrite, I’ll damn well do it myself,” he said. “The company can’t print that thing as is. A whiny vampire Maid Marian and a poofta werewolf Robin. We’d have the tourism bureau of Nottinghamshire sending a cease and desist order.”

I found if I swallowed the whiskey in gulps, I could almost get past the taste. I wondered how the British government dealt with foreign homeless people. There didn’t seem to be anyone living on the streets here, they way they do in the US. I’d probably be deported.

Liam went back to playing. “That Nottingham-Robin Hood thing is bollocks. Robin Hood were a Yorkshireman: Robin of Loxley. Loxley is in Yorkshire. Full stop.”

Davey refilled his glass and shook his head at Liam.

“The town of Loxley used to be on the Northumbrian border before they moved the line—so we could claim him for a Geordie. And the Yellowbellies think he’s one of theirs. He’s been put nearly everywhere on this island north of the Trent. That’s because he never lived anywhere, Liam, me lad. He’s a myth. A fairy tale.”

A fairy tale. That’s what I’d been living in. A crazy concoction of myths of merry old England and my own need to feel anchored somewhere—to feel I had some value. But I didn’t—not to Sherwood, Ltd., or anybody, really.

Liam dismissed Davey with a strum of his guitar. “The bloke’s buried in Kirklees Priory in Hartshead, West Yorkshire. You can go see his grave.” He picked out a haunting melody in a minor key, then began to sing in a high, sweet tenor. It was an ancient song, in a mostly incomprehensible dialect, but I could recognize the names Robin Hood and Little John. The chorus ended with the line: “And there they buried bold Robin Hood/Within the fair Kirklees.”

When Liam finished, the Professor gave a ponderous harrumph. “Real or not, Robin Hood is the archetypal independent Englishman. He survives because he can be re-invented for every era. Cavaliers made him anti-Puritan; 1950s writers made him a socialist, and Michael Praed made him a pagan tree-hugger.”

I gulped more whiskey, joining the discussion to keep my panic at bay.

“How do you suppose a werewolf Robin Hood speaks to our era?”

“Actually, that’s a rather clever conceit on the part of Miss Beebee,” the Professor said. “The medieval ballads called him a ‘wolfshead’—an expression meaning outlaw, so it’s a simple transition to werewolf. I don’t know why she makes him out to be such a nancy-boy though. Or how she came up with a vampire Marian. A vampire and a witch as well. Got her folklore a bit muddled.”

Liam refilled my glass. “Her heroine’s a witch? Perhaps it’s an autobiography.”

The Professor laughed. “Perhaps. Her descriptions of shagging the Devil are pretty detailed.”

Davey rolled himself a cigarette. “At least she’s not shagging the Baron, or Brenda would never let us back in the pub.” He turned to me. “He’s quit as Brenda’s entertainment director, the Baron has. Brenda’s spitting tacks about it. And she’s had a letter from Gordon Trask. He’s coming back for the things he left in his room—which she’s already sold to pay his bill. That’s why we’re drinking at home this evening. We want to avoid the dramatics.”

Gordon Trask. Jonathan had him on his show once. Maybe he could help me get back home safely.

The Professor sighed. “I fear there will be nothing but dramatics until Peter comes back and makes good his last check.”

Davey’s fierce eyebrows knotted. “I ain’t sure he’s coming back. Henry wouldn’t be trying to send the Duchess away if he thought he’d have to answer to Peter. I wonder if he knows something. Remember what Peter pulled in Tobago…”

The Professor looked as panicked by this remark as I felt.

“Tobago? What did he do?” the Professor said. “Should I know about this?”

Liam shot Davey a warning look, but Davey went on. He must have consumed most of the whiskey, since his speech had begun to slur.

“He died, Peter did.” Davey stopped for a dramatic eyebrow lift. “Our fearless leader sailed off on his own into the Caribbean night, and his yacht was discovered a few days later, deserted. A yacht the bank was trying to repossess, as it happened. He resurfaced a few months later, back in Blighty, calling himself Sherwood. His name used to be…”

Liam strummed louder. “Shut the fuck up, Davey. That all happened a long time ago. Peter had nothing to lose then, and those Columbians were after him. He’s a legitimate businessman now. You think he’d give up this building? He owns the place.”

The panic that had been lurking in my stomach now moved to my throat. Columbians. Staging his own death. How could I have fallen for a man like that? Maybe, like Rosalie’s character, I’d been shagging the Devil

“No. The bank owns the Maidenette Building,” Davey said. “Henry and Peter own a piece of it as long as they can keep up the payments. And right now, they can’t.” He held the whiskey bottle toward me.

“You mean we all have to leave?” said the Professor.

Davey and Liam nodded.

“We’ll all be out in the streets. As early as two week’s time,” Davey said.

I took another swallow of whiskey.

I got through the rainy weekend with the help of
Ivanhoe
and the telly in the canteen. Because Liam and Davey were staying away from Brenda’s wrath at the Merry Miller, they were eating in, and I was happy to cook and clean in exchange for food. And drink. Way too much of the latter. Half the food and liquor had probably been shoplifted, but I was learning to turn off the part of my brain that was bothered by such things.

I was an outlaw now, living illegally in a warehouse that might be foreclosed on at any moment.

On Sunday night, after another attempt at quelling panic with neat whiskey, I woke feeling as if my head had been battered by brigands with quarterstaffs. I heard odd noises in the warehouse outside. Footsteps. I froze as I heard—could it be? The scratch of claws. The smell of wet fur. Something was out there. Something not human. My head pounded, but I couldn’t move. Something rustled right outside my curtain/door. I thought I could see the skinny nose of a big dog—or was it a coyote?—pushing through the curtain.

But there weren’t any coyotes in England, were there? How did it get in? Barely breathing, I reached for Davey’s panic button, but couldn’t find it in the dark. My fingers grasped empty air.

But now I could see what poked through the curtain wasn’t a nose but an elbow, clad in black. A man’s elbow. It pushed the curtain aside. I heard a click as a flashlight beam blinded me. I lay paralyzed on my futon as the man came closer. I thought I could make something out behind the beam. Daffodils? A man hovered above me—holding a bouquet of daffodils in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

He spoke from the darkness behind the beam.

“Why are you sleeping out here, Duchess? It’s fucking freezing. Me office too cramped for you?”

“Peter?” I could just make out his face above the bouquet. His handsome face—grinning. “Is it really you?”