Barking (30 page)

‘After you'd bitten them.'

‘Afterwards, yes. Pete was a slight problem.' Luke frowned. ‘He did so want to be a teacher, the stupid sod. Even after I'd recruited him he made a hell of a fuss, to start with. I told him, regardless of his personal feelings in the matter, that now that he was one of us the one thing he most definitely couldn't do, in all conscience, was work with kids. Well, obviously. He had to admit I was right about that, though he did get rather pissy when I explained it. But anyhow; that's how Ferris and Loop came about. It was Loop and Co to begin with, until we'd all done our two years and were ready to join the partnership. But already by then—' Luke sighed, and shook his head.

‘Problem?' Duncan asked.

‘You could say that.' Luke clicked his tongue. ‘Poor old Wesley. It was always meant to be
his
firm,
his
pack. But the plain fact was, he wasn't alpha material. Not a born leader. Clueless. I stuck it out as long as I could, out of simple respect, but it couldn't go on. He was making a bog of everything, both in the office and - well, once a month. He annoyed the clients, nearly started a turf war with the Dulwich pack, and he was getting on all our nerves. Also, he was obsessed with—' Pause. Deep frown. ‘He was obsessed with a certain horse-like creature, to the point where he only survived because he was too weak and feeble to run long enough to kill himself. We were going nowhere as a pack, and the others made it pretty clear that I had to do something. So I did.'

Another pause. Duncan took a deep breath.

‘You challenged him, then,' he said quietly. ‘You killed him.'

‘Fucking hell, no.' Luke's horror was genuine enough. ‘After all he'd done for me? Absolutely not. No, I took him on one side and told him, straight out: Wesley, you can't cut it as pack leader, you know that as well as I do. And we both know who ought to be doing your job; so let's quit screwing around and face up to it. Credit where it's due, he didn't make a fuss; just hung his head, looked sad. To save his face, we kept his name at the top of the notepaper: him and me, joint senior partners. Ferris and Loop. And he was nominally Number Two in the pack, though it was pretty clear he wasn't up to it. We carried him, though, in work and fun. It was the least we could do. And he was very nice about the whole thing, very realistic. Wasn't long before everything found its own level, so to speak, and we were able to carry on with our lives and not think about it.'

Again he fell silent, and Duncan had to cough quite loudly to snap him out of it. ‘So,' Duncan said, ‘what happened to him? In the end, I mean.'

‘He died.'

Duncan knew that already; but the way Luke said it shocked him. He'd expected a matter-of-fact, law-of-the-jungle, Darwin-knew-best tone of voice. Not bitterness. Not anger.

‘Oh,' he said. ‘What happened?'

Luke stood up and walked to the window. With his back to Duncan, he said, ‘He was chasing the unicorn. Like I told you just now, he was obsessed. I'd warned him often enough. I told him, she's out of your league, she'll be the death of you. And he said, yes, I know, I'll be more careful. But he couldn't help it, poor bastard. One sniff of the scent and he'd be off. But I wasn't all that worried. He'd chased her before, and we'd found him, all crumpled up in a heap, passed out from exhaustion. So I told myself, he won't come to any harm, he's a wimp. Wimps can't run themselves to death even if they want to. And so, when he picked up the scent, I let him go. Oh, I told him not to; but I didn't stop him. I mean, I didn't grab him by the scruff of the neck and hold him down on the ground, like I should've. I know the others couldn't understand why I let him get away with it, disobeying a direct order; thought I'd gone soft, I guess, which isn't so far from the truth. But it's hard when you start off thinking someone's the leader of the pack and it turns out he's not meant to be - you are. There's always that mental block. And so I persuaded myself that he couldn't come to any serious harm. And you know what they say. Spare the tooth, spoil the pup. Only, he was five years older than me. It shouldn't have been my responsibility, it wasn't fair.' Suddenly Luke laughed. ‘Fair,' he repeated. ‘Not a word I have a lot of use for, except when I'm being ironic. I let him chase the unicorn one night, and he died. We found him, flaked out, dead as a doornail, on Ham Common. Of course, soon as he died he turned back into a human. I can picture him now, lying there in the moonlight with this really comical look on his face, glasses hanging from one ear, white as a sheet. We had to leave him for the humans to find. I mean, we couldn't very well carry him - no hands, go figure - and eating him would've been
tacky
. The local paper said he'd been jogging and had had a heart attack. Death of prominent local solicitor. He got a whole inch and a half, jammed in between a planning application and a flower show. I loved him dearly, but honestly, it was about what he deserved. Rule number one in our little community: don't bite off more than you can eat. And that's the Wesley Loop story,' he added, shaking his head. ‘Very sad, but in all fairness you couldn't call it tragedy.'

Duncan let it sink in. Very sad - Luke was right about that. Certainly no tragedy. But that wasn't the important point. The crucial thing was - and maybe Luke hadn't realised - it was only half a story, if that. There was more to it, Duncan was absolutely sure, but he had no idea—

‘What about her?' he said.

‘What? Oh, you mean the unicorn.' Luke shrugged. ‘Who knows? She's been around since the year dot—'

‘How do you know that? And about her having killed all the natural wolves in Britain . . .'

‘Not all, obviously.' Luke frowned. ‘I mean, some of them died of mange or getting run over by stagecoaches, or old age, whatever. But she finished them off, when there were just a handful left. Someone told me—' He tailed off, looked blank for a moment, then went on: ‘Someone from another pack; the Epping Forest lads, I think, or the Hornchurch lot.'

‘And how did they know?'

Clear from his face that Luke hadn't stopped to consider. ‘Dunno,' he said. ‘Maybe it isn't true, at that. But all the other packs I've talked to over the years know her. They've had bad experiences with her, too. Does it matter? She's trouble, that's all you need to know. Stay clear. Maybe next time you won't be so lucky.'

That bit of advice seemed hard to find fault with. Still, Duncan couldn't help wondering—

‘All right,' Luke said. ‘I've answered your question, now would you mind answering mine? Keeping us all out of your head. I rather fancy you're about to tell me you don't know how you do it.'

Duncan nodded. ‘I didn't even know that was what I was doing till you told me.'

Luke yawned. ‘Well,' he said, ‘that's possible, of course. I've heard of cases, though they're bloody rare. Sort of like a natural inbuilt ability. Probably you can also bend spoons. The thing is,' Luke went on; he was trying to be quietly terrifying, but he wasn't succeeding. ‘There's a time and a place for bending spoons, right? On a prime-time TV chat show, excellent. Having dinner with the Duke of Westminster, not such a good idea. He may be impressed by your uncanny abilities, but he's going to be really pissed off about all the buggered-up antique silverware.'

Duncan looked at him. He seemed a little smaller than usual. ‘Fine,' he said. ‘Tell me how to stop doing it, and I'll stop. Right?'

He'd watched dogs having this kind of staring match. They growled, too, but in this case there was no need of a soundtrack. It wasn't that Duncan felt stronger. It was Luke who was being diminished. After a second or two Luke looked away.

‘You suit yourself,' he said quietly. ‘After all, we're supposed to be
friends
. Like, you know, on the same side and everything. But you go ahead and do what you want. Just don't expect us to be there every time you wind up half-dead on the common.'

He started to walk out of the room. ‘Luke,' Duncan heard himself say, but obviously he'd said it too softly for Luke to hear. Odd, considering.

The door closed, and Duncan flopped back into his chair as if he were a test pilot pulling twenty Gs. There had been a question in there at the end of the scene that he couldn't answer, and it was bothering him like toothache—

- Because, yes, they
were
supposed to be friends. That was the natural choice of word to use for the Ferris Gang, wasn't it? Friends, mates, buddies, ever since Year Ten. If there was anybody he should feel comfortable with, it ought to be Luke and Pete and Clive and the others. They'd grown up together, done it all together, heard the car alarms at midnight together; and yes, people change when they grow up and go their pathetic little separate ways. But always, buried deep inside under the cave-in of experience, there's the essential sixteen-year-old still alive, still keeping the faith, waiting for the others to come back and for things to be right again. So why hadn't he told Luke about the unicorn? Properly told him: all the weird and unsettling stuff she'd said, including the very pertinent stuff about Lycus Grove and their joint origins? If anybody could shed some light on all that, surely it'd be Luke. Instead, he'd faced him down (his pack leader; a retrospective chill froze his blood for a moment) and sent him away with his tail between his legs. Why, for crying out loud? Didn't make sense.

It was me got you fired, actually
. And then she'd gone on to say something even stranger.
I fixed it so Luke Ferris came back into your life
. But that was simply insane. According to Luke (and if the story of Wesley Loop was true, he was quite right) the unicorn was their mortal enemy, their greatest and only natural predator. Why the hell would she go to all that trouble—?

More to the point,
how
had she done it? Solicitors are fairly broad-minded people, but he had difficulties with the mental picture of a white horse with a horn in its face prancing into Jenny Sidmouth's office and saying
I demand you sack Duncan Hughes immediately
. What had she said about that? Something about blackmail, taking all her business away from the firm. Even more surreal: exactly what would a mythical deformed horse need solicitors for? And where (more pertinent still) would she get the huge sums of money needed to pay them?

You know how it is with toothache. Unless you can take your mind off it, the pain grows until you can't think about anything else. Duncan sighed, and picked up the phone.

‘Yes, hello. Jenny Sidmouth, please.'

Reception didn't seem to have recognised his voice. On the other hand, she hadn't asked who was calling, either. That wasn't standard operating procedure.

‘Duncan.'

Who'd have thought so much spite could be packed into a name. ‘Jenny,' he said. ‘Sorry to bother you—'

‘Really?'

‘What?'

‘Are you really sorry? No offence, but I'm a bit sceptical about that. Bastard,' she added, by way of clarification. Precision is everything in the legal profession.

‘Sorry to bother you,' he repeated quietly, ‘but I was wondering. Could you spare me a few minutes? Lunch, say.'

(Get him; chatting so casually to Jenny Sidmouth, the five-foot-two-eyes-of-blue Darth Vader of Craven Ettins. He was almost proud of himself.) ‘Are you serious?'

‘There's something I need to ask you about.'

‘You are serious, aren't you?'

‘Oh, come on.' He was turning on the charm. Query: since when had he had any charm to turn on? ‘You're the one who sacked me, not the other way around, and I'm not holding any grudges. I take it something's happened that's ticked you off a bit, since I left.'

He'd forgotten the particular noise that only Jenny could make. A bit like a snort or a laugh; also a bit like a lion roaring, or a saw cutting bone. ‘You could say that.'

‘Fine. Come to lunch and tell me about it.'

‘Like you don't bloody well know. You bastard,' she added (repetition is sometimes necessary in the interests of absolute clarity). ‘Talk about vindictive, treacherous, sneaky - How long did it take you? You were hardly out of the door five minutes, and you stole my best fucking client.'

Puzzled. ‘Excuse me?'

‘No explanations. Didn't give me a chance. Just a one-line letter:
kindly forward all files and documents to our new lawyers, Ferris and Loop, FAO Duncan Hughes
. Wouldn't take my calls. After all the years I spent on them. Gone, just like that.'

‘Excuse me,' Duncan said mildly. ‘Who are we talking about, please?'

‘Oh, don't. Please don't pretend that you don't know. Oh, and while you're at it, rot in hell. That's after we sue your arse into the ground for seduction of trade and breach of restrictive covenant. I trust you've briefed your insurers, because by the time we've finished with you—'

‘Seduction of trade?' Duncan asked, curious. ‘Don't think I've heard of that one.'

‘Well, no, I just made it up. But we'll have you for it, whether it exists or not. You know what you are, Duncan?'

‘A bastard?' he hazarded.

‘You're a disgrace to the profession,' she snarled, and slammed the phone down on him.

He raised a stately eyebrow and put the receiver back. Threats aside (and putting aside a lawyer's threats is like plucking a chicken; what you're left with is scrawny-looking and much smaller than you'd expected) he wasn't particularly bothered, but the implication that was left sticking up out of the mud after the flood-waters had rolled back was pretty bloody fascinating.