It was such a relief to get out of the City. Layers of wrapped up frustrations I never knew I had peeled away via the rumble of the wheels and the browns and beiges of the fields rolling by. I’d forgotten what the horizon looked like.
My phone buzzed. It was Freda, the social worker in charge of Grizzy’s case; a precocious young black male I’d kinda taken under my wing since our misadventure with The Coffee Cup Killer.
But that’s another story (available on Amazon).
“Freda,” I said.
“Jake.”
“What’s up?”
“Grizzy’s in trouble again.”
“What’s happened?”
“Another fight. Group of whites in the gym hall. Not sure how it started.”
“Is he okay?”
“Few lumps and bruises. Cut above the eye.”
“Sounds like a bit o’ healthy rough and tumble.”
“‘Cept he put two of the other kids in the hospital wing. He’d filed down a sharp piece of metal he got from somewhere. Used it as a knife.”
Dusty, abandoned office down at the docks. Grizzy and Latte tower over me. The shine in Latte’s eyes matches the gleam on his blade. “I’m gonna cut you up.”
Hell of a role model.
“Self defence?” I hazarded.
“End of the day it doesn’t matter who started it. You know the house rules. He’s getting his privileges taken away.”
“Shit, Freda, I gotta get him outta there.”
“No time soon. Not with this going on.”
“What’s he supposed to do, let himself get beat up?”
“Jake, one of those kids is in a critical condition.”
“Putain branlette!” I said, punching the headrest in front of me. Then I took a breath, got hold of myself. “Pardon my French.”
“It’s okay. Just thought you ought to know.”
“Thanks Freda, I appreciate it.”
I hung up and watched a combine harvesting a field of corn spit it down a chute into a trailer being pulled alongside.
I’d barely hung up before my phone rang again. The screen announced, ‘Roger Dingwall’.
“Jesus Christ, Jones!”
“Nice to hear from you too, Roger.”
“What the hell just happened?”
“A combine harvester spat a bunch of corn down a chute into a trailer being pulled alongside.”
“I been getting calls, emails, texts up the wazoo!”
“Sounds uncomfortable.”
“Yeah, it was. Who the hell are The Luminari?”
“Don’t know yet. That’s what I’m on my way to find out.”
“Listen Jake, I’m all for helping you but I’d appreciate a little warning next time you promise my firm’s gonna invest in some shady religious cult.”
“A million bucks.”
“A million what now!?”
“Come on Roger, it’s a nice round number. Or rather one short thin number followed by six nice round numbers.”
“Are you out of my tiny mind!?”
“Look, calm down Roger before you pop a valve. I didn’t make any promises. I’m just danglin’ ‘em in front like a carrot. A gold carrot. A million gold carrots.”
“Well make sure it stays that way. For God’s sake don’t sign anything!”
“Come on Roger, gimme some credit, I’m not a total moron.”
“You’re not? When did that happen?”
“Putain de connard ingrat!” I shouted, punching the headrest in front of me.
“Huh?”
“Pardon my French,” I said, taking a breath to calm down. “Look Roger, are we forgetting I saved your life during ‘Nam?”
“Yeah you saved my life once. Once! And you’ve called in about a hundred damn favours!”
“Would you rather I’d just left you lying there with your toe stuck in the tap?”
“It woulda come out eventually! It was just swollen!”
“Said the priest to the hooker.”
“This is the last time, Jake, the last time, got it!?”
Click.
Things were moving along nicely.
Then the guy in front of me stood up, spitting vitriol at me in French, quickly followed by his female partner, a tour guide and most of the other passengers.
Suddenly the coach screeched to a halt throwing up a plume of dust. Peering out the dirt-smattered windows it was clear that we were far from civilisation. The empty road stretched for miles towards each horizon.
But it was hard to appreciate the view with a bus load of Frenchies hot under the collar, berating me unforgivingly for my bad French.
I glanced up to see the driver — a grey-skinned, lithe, wiry chap in a uniform three sizes too big for him — stomping speedily down the aisle towards me.
“Allez!” he barked, gesturing abruptly with his thumb towards the coach door.
And that’s how I found myself stranded in the middle of nowhere at the side of a long deserted road.
Excerpt from The Puppy Master © Chris R Young 2020. All rights reserved.
