The Writer and the Rake Page 14

  “The polis are here. And while they’ve already been in here and been through everything, brought some stuff back, they said nothing must be touched. What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like, darling? Turfing everything out of this bin bag onto the bed here, so I can find—”

  She cast her glance over the heap on the bed. Shoes. Tights. Hairbrushes. Bracelets. All jangling in a tangled heap. Where the hell was it? The thing she was looking for? Maybe she should get out of this robe and these stays first? Get into something more comfortable along with the jeans? But first things were first. She threw the bag on the floor and emptied another.

  “So I can find . . . can find this.”

  “Brit, what . . .?”

  “My wig, darling.”

  “Wig?”

  “Oh, don’t look so vague. The one I wore to that Halloween bash last October when I went as a witch.”

  “But what do you need that for?”

  She pulled it onto her head. A few tweaks, a slight adjustment. She stepped over the edge of the bed to the mirror. The fact the wig was black was good when her hair was chestnut.

  “Hmm. Actually, I’ll probably need more than this. I’ll need my sun-specs too and probably a headscarf. I mean this thing doesn’t make me look that different.”

  “Why would you want to look different? Where have you been?”

  “Oh, nowhere in particular.” She grabbed her handbag. That was still there. So were one, two, three, packets of fags. Bliss incarnate. Was this the time though? Sebastian had been arrested. She must do her duty.

  “Brit . . .”

  “Keys, purse, specs. Fags.”

  She checked each off although she’d not be needing the keys. It wasn’t as if she could take the car. As for her purse? She tore it open. Empty. Not even a proverbial moth.

  “I don’t suppose you have any money from that God-awful job you’re in?”

  “Why would I have money?”

  “Good question. What am I going to do?”

  “If it’s the polis you need to see, there’s one outside at the top of the path.”

  “Great. That means I will have to go over the fence and through upstairs’ garden.”

  “How?”

  “Why do you think? Who were brains handed to the night you were born? Obviously I don’t want to be seen. Not by them, not by anyone.” Clothes. She dragged at the front of her gown. “I need to get out of this damned thing.”

  “But . . .”

  “Sebastian Mutch has been charged with my disappearance. So I think we can dispense with the buts. The ifs too. Now, I need to let him sweat. How else can I do it, but by finding somewhere to hide? To do that I also need to get out of here without being seen. It means not going out the door. But that’s all right, there’s another way.”

  “Brit . . . Come back.”

  She squeezed through the living room, the kitchen, flung open the door to what had once been their bedroom—her and Sebastian’s. Her shoulders sagged.

  On a sliding scale of one to ten, with one being completely impossible and ten being perhaps in terms of letting him sweat, this was definitely a minus.

  The window opened onto the upstairs’ neighbor’s garden. The trouble was seeing the window behind the mountain of clothes so she could escape.

  He and Helga didn’t have a wardrobe. A bin either. Empty lager tins and half-eaten takeaways were strewn everywhere like a modern work of art. The smell of fusty tomato ketchup and week old greasy chips would fell a nose-less rhino. She’d have to move the bloody lot to get out of here. Find a clothes peg too.

  “Brit.”

  She jerked up her chin. Rab was at her elbow. He could surely help though.

  “Yes.”

  “Christ, what a mess. What a slob.”

  “Oh, what’s new? Here.”

  The dent she made in his stomach with the nearest handful of clothes was deeply satisfying.

  “We need to move fast.”

  “But why would you do this?”

  “What? Tidy this heap? Well, I’m not, you are, but I will help.”

  “Not the room. Brit, I’m not tidying the room.” The pile of clothes flumped onto the rug. “Why would you do this?”

  “Disappear again?” She dragged a deep breath and gathered up the clothes. “Why do you think? Sebastian is helping the police with their inquiries.”

  “Well, I see the logic, but then you cannae use a credit card. You cannae use anything that will trace back to you. Heavens, you’re top of the best-seller lists. Your moosh is everywhere.”

  “My—?”

  “Your face. Go online if you don’t believe me.”

  Disbelief flickered in her mind. How could she be top of the best-seller lists? Unless she was dreaming? Yet Rab sounded quite pleased. Smug almost.

  “Aye.” He dug in his pocket for his phone. “You, darling.”

  She fought not to finger her neck. Mitchell Killgower had insinuated her writing was crap. Here was vindication.

  “But . . . but why? How?”

  “How do you think? You disappeared and Sebastian had good reason to get rid of you after all. Then there was that other bloke. You know the one?”

  Mort? Yes she did. Unfortunately. When she was back without his help, did it matter whether she knew him or not? In fact if he was stuck in 1765 so much the better. Then he couldn’t come here and bother her with bits of paper she didn’t want to sign.

  “Sort of.”

  “Well, obviously it was difficult to get the polis to take your disappearance seriously at first.”

  “The damn cheek.”

  “But then, then when they did, they thought Sebastian had the most to gain. I was the one who told them about your number one fan. I mean that bloke was a serious creep. Do you mind how he went up in—”

  “So? Who’s s been arrested?”

  She was assuming Sebastian because Mort had turned up at Mitchell Killgower’s. What if it wasn’t? What if Mort was somehow here? The sliding scale had not been invented that would register just how bad it could be. What if she ended up back in 1765?

  “Oh, Sebastian was taken away last night. But there’s been reporters round, camping on the doorstep. TV crews too. You’re famous. Your books are on sale everywhere. Even the local shops have copies.”

  She tried to stop the smile that fingered her mouth, the butterflies that brushed the inside of her ribcage. Yes, they should be. She should be. Not on sale everywhere. She should be famous. Perhaps 1765 wasn’t so bad as a sort of holiday destination after all? She flicked her gaze over the floor.

  “And Helga?”

  If she was famous it was all the more reason to turn the screw on Sebastian for even longer. Another week, say? Maybe two?

  “She’s helping the police with their inquiries.”

  Two birds with one stone.

  “Good. It’s time she helped someone with something as opposed to helping herself to whatever she can get.”

  “They don’t think she’s involved but . . .” He gave a shrug, held out his phone. “That other guy, there’s a photo fit for him.”

  She stared at the phone. The photo fit wasn’t amazing. The photo fit was just Mort, even down to the markings on his head. The fact she was famous was something else though. Think of the chat shows she could appear on, the books she could write and sell, of the newspaper interviews she could give.

  Fame, success, riches.

  Mort wasn’t wrong. This was it. She’d miss out if she hid away in some grotty hotel room. It would mean letting Sebastian off the hook. But Mort had also said something about choice.

  “Oh, very well.” She fingered the ends of the wig. Then she tore it off. “You’re
right. I do need to speak to the police. If they’re here, so much the better. I mean my feet are killing me and I don’t fancy trailing anywhere, right now. Besides, I’m gasping for a voddie and a fag.”

  Rab grinned. “I’m glad you’re seeing sense. I mean Sebastian’s a jerk but if he didn’t murder you, it does seem wrong to let him sweat. Her too.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Besides, I can’t go anywhere looking like this. I know you probably think it’s the latest fashion but it’s not.”

  “I don’t think anything.”

  “We know.”

  Not a word about this awful dress. Even Mitchell Killgower had noticed her clothes. When she thought of the way he’d often stared in that shuttered way, he’d over-noticed them.

  “Fine. Fine. But where the hell were you?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Didn’t you have any idea about this?”

  “I—”

  That was a going to be a problem. Say 1765 and she’d be as likely to be incarcerated now, as then. Say she’d needed a break, had no idea of the fuss and it would make her look bad when Sebastian had been arrested though. She didn’t want chat show hosts inviting her to their program to throw rocks at her. Her newfound fame and riches disappearing down the sink.

  She scratched her head. It really was inconsiderate of Sebastian to get himself arrested.

  “Well . . . I . . .”

  Rab switched the phone off. “You can tell me. Come on. Off the record.”

  There must be some other way, one that would let her keep her fame and riches but deal with the matter of her disappearance and her return. An idea flashed. One that was watertight. Even down to this God-awful dress.

  “Yes I can. Yes and no. That man, that awful ‘fan’. Do you know he must have followed me here? I don’t know how, but he did. All I did was nip out for a fag. It’s the last thing I remember before he kidnapped me.”

  ~ ~ ~

  How wonderful to stand on a neon floor and feel the invigorating boom, boom, boom of ten audio speakers, gyrating through her head, frying her brain, sizzling her veins. How good to be surrounded by friends. Sasha, Luce, Megan. Now she was a bestselling author, they’d been in touch. Obviously the drinks were on her but her plastic burned, itched to be run up as never before, so she could overlook the fact she hadn’t heard from them in months and they never bought her books.

  Voddie. Voddie. Voddie. Her throat and gullet sizzled along with her palms. Another round of shots. Another. The last was a bit excessive, but she was making up for lost time. Lots of it. Besides she’d had that radio interview earlier and it had been amazing. This was celebration time.

  After the stodginess of Georgian England and the servants, the bloody servants and Aunt Christian, this was the life. Imagine the svelte figure she cut sashaying across the floor. Was going to cut, as soon as she’d downed this next shot. She’d always been thin but this? This could be her next project. ‘The 1765 Diet Plan. How to drink as much as you want and still stay trim.’ Why stop at fiction?

  “So this is your choice?”

  She paused mid-swallow. The voice, the deep rumble was wholly familiar despite the staccato booms blasting holes in her eardrums. What it was doing here though? Unless she’d transported to some other galaxy?

  She swallowed—why waste the booze after all—set the glass down, and raked in her bag. She’d look for Sasha and company, but they’d vanished earlier into the purple neon lights criss-crossing the floor in all directions, so a fag, even though smoking was banned, would have to do.

  “May I sit there?”

  The voice continued, low as the bottom of the river, yet audible as a foghorn above the sway of speakers and dancers.

  Skinny Joe’s was packed. Right now the seat at the bar beside her was empty, though. If she wasn’t so set on having the fag, she’d probably drop it on the floor at his cheek and audacity when his face was plastered all over the news. But what a waste if she was hallucinating. He’d told her he couldn’t get back from 1765. His hand was splayed on the bar top though. Mort. She even recognized the smell of hot exhaust.

  “Be my guest.”

  She stuck the cigarette between her lips, raked for her lighter.

  Easing his raincoat open—funny he was wearing that again—he sat down, leaned over to whisper.

  “I don’t think that’s allowed in here.”

  “What this?” Deliberately she flicked the lighter. Held the flame to the ciggie tip.

  “I don’t think you’re allowed in here either, but no-one’s complaining.”

  The drag was long and satisfying. So was the smoke she wafted in his face. He wouldn’t help her. Now he was here. She hoped his eyes watered.

  “Fame, success, riches. Is this what that does to people?”

  “I wouldn’t know, darling. I’ve never had any till now. And if you’d had your way, I’d still be waiting. Where’s Mitchell? Is he here too?”

  He reached towards her mouth.

  “I need you to listen.”

  “And do you need to take my fag while I do?”

  He scrunched it under his boot. Even with the barman thundering towards her it was as good as committing murder. Now she was back there were plenty more where that came from though. The last time she’d seen Mort, she’d tried to ally herself with Mitchell Killgower. Not only had he pinpricked her cool, she’d shagged him. Even though he wasn’t here she wasn’t making certain mistakes twice. She was known now. She didn’t want to be known for pulling randoms.

  Mort hunched over the bar.

  “I’m only going to say this once.”

  “Really? And why’s that? Because you’re incapable of saying anything twice?”

  “You’re sore at me for not bringing you back here. I get it.”

  “Perish the thought, that you get it or I’m remotely—”

  “Brittany, you have the capacity to be great.”

  This she knew. Would he like to tell her something she didn’t? She held out her glass for the barman to fill.

  “But you’re not. And that’s why you bite your nails.”

  “I bite my nails darling, because it was as much as there was to bite in 1765.”

  “Why you live this way.”

  “What way.”

  She tilted the glass back, wiped vodka dibbles from her chin. Her face was spinning in the gleaming gantry opposite, tangled up in Malibu and blue liquor. Another drink would put her on her feet.

  “Certainly I don’t live any way that you need concern yourself with. Now, then.” She thrust out the glass. “Fill it,” she instructed the barman.

  Mort’s hand descended on her arm. If he didn’t remove it she’d scream the place down. His face was plastered all over Britain’s Most Wanted after all.

  “I couldn’t bring you back.”

  “And my head zips up the back.”

  “That’s not how this works. Not how I travel. I can only do that alone. It’s because of what I am.”

  Where was that drink? Mort and his darkly impassioned face were just too much. Even his shaven head seemed impassioned. Either that or it was the beams of lights exploding around her.

  “But, I bet . . . I bet you want my signature?”

  “I told you, you interrupted a process.”

  “A process? When I’d never seen you before in my entire life?”

  “The process is that I die.”

  She glanced at the clear white liquid spilling into the glass. It was that or snort with laughter. Die? He was such a misery guts he’d be doing the world a favor. This was more fanciful than anything she wrote. “And that was why you set your head on fire?”

  “I never set my head on anything.”

  “Well, darling, it was burni
ng.”

  “That’s what happens when you’ve lived for thousands of years.”

  Perhaps after all it wasn’t wrong of her to have concocted that fanciful tale of her kidnapping? The man had either escaped from somewhere, was a deranged lunatic, on drugs, or just possibly, all three. She threw some pound coins on the bar top.

  “And how’s that, Mort?”

  The shrug he gave was deep and painful. “Because I have. And I’m tired.”

  “You certainly look it.”

  “I certainly feel it.”

  His lips cinched. She shook her spinning head. A smile from Mort was as likely as her hitting the best-seller lists, yet she had hit them. Why she was listening to this when she didn’t need to was a mystery to rival the Turin Shroud. Maybe she’d had too much to drink? He spun his weary-eyed gaze over her.

  “I just need your signature to end it.”

  “Well, here’s the thing, Mort, you’re not going to get it.”

  “If it’s answers you want, I can give some of them.”

  “Unless it’s the name of the particular institution you’ve escaped from, so I can let them know you’re here, we don’t have a deal.”

  “You’re not listening, are you? Our paths were always destined to cross. Why do you think you’ve kissed men before and stayed right here?”

  She mustered a smile. Another drink and she’d end this. Walk away, call the bouncers, maybe even what Rab called the polis. “I don’t have the foggiest. Oh please . . .” He’d reached in the cavernous pocket of his overcoat. There was no doubt about what he was about to produce. The piece of paper floated into her vision. “I’m not signing that. Before you get too despondent, or try breaking my fingers, have you thought that I like you too much to watch you die a horrible death?” She widened her eyes. “Especially in here, darling. There’s reasons I might get the blame. And there’s such a thing as bad publicity.”

  Another smile.

  “Brittany, this is all about choices. Now, I’m going to put this here, while you think about yours.”