Fic: Not A Pretty Story, 5/?
Title: Not A Pretty Story, 5/?
Summary: Vince and Howard have some important decisions to make
Rating: NC-17 overall, this chapter R maybe?
Warnings: overall the story contains accusations of bestiality, non-consensual sex, anatomically canon!Naboo, blood, violence and a more than usually convoluted plot. This chapter is fairly harmless by comparison
Length: about 2400 words
Disclaimer: I don’t own these lovely (and not-so-lovely) characters, I just borrow them to play with and nobody pays me for doing so
Notes: thanks for the encouragement, dear reader - we are nearing the end now although I still don’t know exactly where that is. Sometime before the start of series 2, I guess.
Meanwhile it’s been a while since I posted, so here are links to previous chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Not A Pretty Story, 5/?
Vince wanders restlessly round his cluttered living room, picking up random things from the shelves and putting them down again.
He wants to ask Howard what to do. He wants to ask what the plan is. He wants Howard to be the Man of Action and take charge.
But right now Howard is slumped on Vince’s black-and-white-patterned sofa, doing a pretty good impression of someone who is as clueless and plan-less as Vince himself. He’s apparently turned into a Man of Total Inaction and looks likely to stay that way for some time, staring silently at the life-sized poster of Gary Numan on the opposite wall.
Vince had explained about Naboo and the photos on their way here, and when Howard didn’t say anything Vince explained it all again, and then Howard said he didn’t want to talk about it, and Vince asked whether he wanted to talk about anything else, and Howard just said, ‘No.’
That ‘No’ is hanging in the air between them, heavy and discouraging. Vince shuffles the pile of David Attenborough books on the coffee table, puts a couple of Twix wrappers in the bin, picks up a banana and looks at it, then puts it back in the fruit bowl.
The plastic bag he brought with him from the zoo is on the floor beside the sofa. For something to do, Vince starts unpacking it. There’s not much in there really, just the few bits he’d grabbed during his hasty final visit to the keeper hut: his Mick Jagger icon, the bottle of Bailey’s out of the fridge, a few of his favourite photos from the pinboard, and their tea-break mugs.
‘D’you want a cuppa?’ Vince asks automatically, as he puts the mugs on the table.
Howard looks up, and nods. Well, at least that’s a start.
When Vince comes out of the kitchen with the tea, Howard is looking through the photographs. In his hand is the one of them in Wales.
‘I dunno if you want to keep that one, after what’s just happened,’ Vince says, peering over Howard’s shoulder.
Howard shrugs. ‘Maybe not. But it was a good trip, eh?’
‘Certainly was. That ice-cream was genius. You said you didn’t want one, but it looks like you changed your mind. You’re lookin’ at it like you want to fuck it into the middle of next week.’
‘I wasn’t looking at the ice-cream,’ Howard mutters, then blushes beetroot red and puts the photo face-down on the table. ‘Erm, what about that cup of tea?’
Vince files that reaction away for later investigation as he hands Howard his blue-and-white mug.
They progress seamlessly from the tea to the Bailey’s, and although there is still no plan, they are at least talking to each other again.
Half-way down the bottle, Vince decides that he is hungry after all, so he fetches cheese and biscuits from the fridge. He realises his mistake very quickly - Howard takes one look at the cheese and starts to sing one of his wailing tuneless songs about Tommy Nooka and his big wide head, and it’s every bit as bad as Vince had feared it would be.
It takes Vince half an hour and most of the rest of the Bailey’s to shut Howard up. But at least by the time he does shut up, his arm is around Vince’s shoulders without either of them making a big deal about how it got there or whether it should stay there, and Vince is just starting to think that perhaps it’ll all be all right now and they can leave the planning until tomorrow morning, when a brick comes through the window, shattering the peace and quiet along with the glass.
‘They’ve found us.’ Howard’s voice is high and panicky. ‘We have to go, Vince. We have to go now. You have no idea what they’re threatening to do... and if they find you’ve been sheltering me...’
Another brick crashes onto the floor. This one has a copy of the faked badger photo wrapped round it.
‘Oh god, oh god,’ Howard wails, scrambling up off the sofa and grabbing his box of records, ‘I can’t die now, I’ve got so much to give... and nowhere to go, Vince, where can we go?’
‘I know where.’ Vince pulls Naboo’s business card out of his pocket, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. ‘Naboo’s got a new place, he said we could stay there, maybe he can magically hide us or something.’
‘Great. Let’s go.’ Howard is in the hall already.
‘Hang on a minute.’ Vince rushes into the bedroom, grabs his biggest suitcase and begins frantically packing.
‘Leave it, Vince, there’s no time.’
‘I’m not leavin’ this, it’s got my entire wardrobe in it, all my looks, hair straighteners, product, the lot.’
He squashes the lid shut; heaves the case into the hall. But already there are shouts outside the door, angry knocking, the stomp of many seriously unfashionable boots.
Howard shakes his head at Vince; whispers ‘We’ll have to go down the fire escape.’
Vince tugs at the heavy case, and lets out a sob of frustration. ‘I can’t leave this. Howard, help me, why aren’t you helping me?’
‘Shush.’ Howard dumps the box of records next to the suitcase, grabs Vince’s wrists and pulls him into the living room.
‘Lemme go, you ballbag!’ Vince struggles, but Howard’s grip is too strong for him.
‘Vince. Look at me, Vince.’
Vince stares up at Howard through a haze of tears.
‘There are lots of clothes in the world. And lots of records. They can be replaced.’ Howard’s voice is deep and reassuring: he sounds like a Man of Action at last. ‘But there’s only one Vince Noir, and he - he’s irreplaceable.’
Vince sniffs, and tries to smile. ‘Cheers, Howard.’
‘Come on, little man. As soon as we’re settled, we can go shopping for new outfits and more jazz.’
‘An’ hair straighteners?’
Howard lets Vince go, pulls the back window open and clambers onto the rickety platform of the fire escape. ‘Those too. I promise. Prickly Bark or whatever they are. Hottest you can get.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ Vince takes a deep breath, and climbs out to join Howard. ‘Here we go, then.’
It’s dark, it’s drizzling, he’s got no job and no spare clothes, his future is uncertain, but as he picks his way down the fire escape Vince is happier than he’s been in a long time.
He’s got everything he needs. It’s right there in front of him, grumbling about the unsafe state of the steps.
And they’re on their way to see Naboo. Naboo can sort everything out. He’s a genius.
...
‘I’m not a fuckin’ genius.’ Hands on hips, Naboo glares at Vince and Howard through the falling rain. ‘Sort your own shit out. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment.’ He starts to push the shop door closed. Howard’s heart sinks into his soggy shoes.
‘B-but you gave me your card.’ Vince shoves his foot into the doorway, just in time. ‘You said to come and look you up.’
Naboo’s frown deepens. ‘I meant in, like, five years’ time, yeah?’
‘You said, though, if we needed your help...’ Vince is dripping and shivering, his hair plastered flat to his scalp. ‘An’ we do. There’s a crowd of nutters tryin’ to break into my flat, we got nowhere to go except here...’
Naboo looks deeply unimpressed by Vince’s pleading, even though Howard can feel his own knees growing weak at the desperation in Vince’s voice.
He puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Vince. We’re not wanted here.’
‘You not wanted here, Harold.’ A big black shadow has appeared behind the tiny shaman. ‘But Naboo no put precious Vince out on street. Not on night like this. His hair not survive it.’ Bollo pulls the door fully open again. ‘And shaman word is shaman bond.’
‘I’m beginning to have second thoughts about havin’ a familiar,’ Naboo growls. ‘OK, you can stay the night at least, come on upstairs.’
‘An’ Howard too?’
Naboo shrugs. ‘S’pose so. The two of you come as a package. An’ I guess I did tell you to go and find him. Or did I dream that part? What the fuck, who cares. Howard, you ballbag, get in here.’
Howard stumbles over the threshold and mutters clumsy thanks.
‘Don’t thank me, thank the tealeaves.’ Naboo’s face is impassive once more.
‘Are you high?’ Howard asks.
‘As a fucking kite, yeah. Otherwise you’d both still be out on the street, Bollo or no Bollo. Talkin’ of which, where is Bollo?’
Vince looks round the shop. ‘He was here a minute ago. Maybe he’s gone upstairs. Nice place, Naboolio, by the way.’
‘It’s not bad. It’ll do. Till I can find something better. Or maybe - no, don’t wanna tempt fate.’
‘Maybe they’ll let you go home now?’ Vince asks.
‘I said, I don’t wanna tempt fate.’ Naboo turns abruptly away and starts to climb the stairs, Vince following close behind.
Howard pauses a minute in the gloomy, dusty shop. There are boxes piled everywhere, a dentist’s chair, clothes racks, a piano, lamps and vases and ornaments and a distinctly judgemental-looking cheese plant. Not much, compared with the zoo. But at least it’s dry and relatively warm. Naboo’s right. It’ll do.
‘You comin’ or what?’ Vince calls down from the landing.
‘On my way.’ Howard picks his way cautiously around the various cartons, framed pictures and folded hangings that litter the narrow stairs, and emerges in a sort of open plan living room with a kitchen at one side.
Vince is already seated at the kitchen table and Naboo is grudgingly brewing a pot of tea.
‘You got any biscuits?’ Vince asks hopefully, as Naboo plonks a mug down in front of him.
Naboo scowls. ‘Don’t push it.’
Howard pours his own tea into the cleanest of the chipped mugs on the side, and joins them at the table.
‘Not enough chairs in there yet,’ Naboo mutters, pointing to the living room, where there are a couple of shabby armchairs and a TV, and more boxes piled in the corners. ‘We’re still settlin’ in.’
‘We could help you unpack,’ Howard suggests.
‘S’pose so.’ Naboo stares into the depths of his tea.
‘You’re not likely to find any answers in there,’ Howard says.
‘That’s exactly where you’re wrong, you ballbag. Look.’
Howard takes the empty mug from Naboo and obediently looks. Blinks, and looks again.
It says: THEY’LL NEVER LEAVE.
‘Unless I throw you out,’ Naboo says thoughtfully.
‘Which you’re not gonna do.’ Vince gives Naboo a pleading glance, one that would have made Howard do anything, anything at all... ‘You invited us. C’m’on, Naboolio, we’re all in this together.’
‘We could help in the shop,’ Howard suggests.
Naboo shakes his head. ‘I don’t fink so. You’re zookeepers not shopkeepers. An’ don’t imagine you can live here without payin’ rent. I’m not a charity. I’m not the Good Fairy neither.’
‘What’re we gonna do, then?’ Vince’s eyes are still pleading. ‘Put suits on an’ work in Dixons? Howard, think of something.’
It’s nice, being relied on like this. It’s also a terrible responsibility. Howard’s mind remains stubbornly blank in the matter of potential earning opportunities. ‘I’m thinking, Vince,’ he says, putting on what he hopes is his expression of Total Swiss Reliability. ‘Give me time, I’m sure I can come up with something, a man of my wide experience has many options.’
‘You’ve got a week,’ Naboo says flatly.
‘Right.’ Howard drinks his tea and tries not to meet Vince’s worried gaze.
There’s a sudden clatter downstairs; the shop bell jangles and the door slams. Heavy footsteps come slowly up the stairs.
‘Climbing up fire escape was easy for Bollo. Climbing down with Precious Vince’s things not so easy. Bollo hope nothing broken.’ The gorilla plonks down both Vince’s ridiculously oversized suitcase and Howard’s record box.
Vince leaps up from his seat and flings himself at Bollo, pulling the big (and very wet) gorilla into a wordless hug.
‘And you brought my records, too. Thank you, Bollo, that’s... very decent of you.’ Howard holds out a hand.
‘Would have left box behind if Bollo knew it was Harold’s.’ Bollo ignores the proffered hand, instead taking the teatowel that Vince is now holding out to him to dry his fur.
‘What’s in there?’ Naboo asks, not as though he really wants to know.
‘My jazz record collection,’ Howard says enthusiastically. ‘Charlie Parker, Charlie Mingus, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley... all the greats.’
Naboo frowns. ‘You’re not playin’ that rubbish in here. Could sell them in the shop to offset the rent, though.’
Howard sees the tiny flicker of hope in Vince’s eyes, and turns the ‘No way!’ on his lips into ‘I suppose so.’
Vince bites at his lip, and fidgets a bit, before muttering: ‘An’ I’ve got, maybe, one or two things I don’t wear any more, but they’re still well cool, you might get a bit for them...’
Howard stares at him in astonishment. Vince flushes a little. ‘Only fair, Howard, don’t you think? An’ if it means we can stay here... Hey, Naboolio, you said you needed more seats, I’ve got this really cool sofa in the flat, I reckon we’d all fit on it, you wanna give it a try?’
Naboo and Bollo exchange a glance; Naboo gives the smallest of nods.
The gorilla pats Vince clumsily on the shoulder. ‘Tomorrow, Vince. Tomorrow Bollo carry sofa. And wardrobe, and full-length mirror, and hair products...’
‘How long d’you think he’s - d’you think we’re going to stay?’ Howard asks.
‘That not Bollo’s place to say.’ And now both Bollo and Vince are looking pleadingly at Naboo.
Naboo gives another long-suffering sigh. ‘Alright, I give up. The tealeaves are never wrong, and anyway I can’t stand everybody makin’ cow eyes at me. Vince and Howard, welcome to the Nabootique. You can stay here as long as you pay your way. Oh, and if you don’t mind sharing a bedroom. It’s this way, we might have to shift a few boxes, come an’ lend a hand...’
‘This place is genius,’ Vince whispers, as they follow Naboo down the hall. ‘I hope he’s right about the tealeaves.’
‘So do I, little man,’ Howard whispers back, staring through the spareroom door at the sagging double bed just visible under a mound of binbags and boxes. ‘So do I.’
Summary: Vince and Howard have some important decisions to make
Rating: NC-17 overall, this chapter R maybe?
Warnings: overall the story contains accusations of bestiality, non-consensual sex, anatomically canon!Naboo, blood, violence and a more than usually convoluted plot. This chapter is fairly harmless by comparison
Length: about 2400 words
Disclaimer: I don’t own these lovely (and not-so-lovely) characters, I just borrow them to play with and nobody pays me for doing so
Notes: thanks for the encouragement, dear reader - we are nearing the end now although I still don’t know exactly where that is. Sometime before the start of series 2, I guess.
Meanwhile it’s been a while since I posted, so here are links to previous chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Not A Pretty Story, 5/?
Vince wanders restlessly round his cluttered living room, picking up random things from the shelves and putting them down again.
He wants to ask Howard what to do. He wants to ask what the plan is. He wants Howard to be the Man of Action and take charge.
But right now Howard is slumped on Vince’s black-and-white-patterned sofa, doing a pretty good impression of someone who is as clueless and plan-less as Vince himself. He’s apparently turned into a Man of Total Inaction and looks likely to stay that way for some time, staring silently at the life-sized poster of Gary Numan on the opposite wall.
Vince had explained about Naboo and the photos on their way here, and when Howard didn’t say anything Vince explained it all again, and then Howard said he didn’t want to talk about it, and Vince asked whether he wanted to talk about anything else, and Howard just said, ‘No.’
That ‘No’ is hanging in the air between them, heavy and discouraging. Vince shuffles the pile of David Attenborough books on the coffee table, puts a couple of Twix wrappers in the bin, picks up a banana and looks at it, then puts it back in the fruit bowl.
The plastic bag he brought with him from the zoo is on the floor beside the sofa. For something to do, Vince starts unpacking it. There’s not much in there really, just the few bits he’d grabbed during his hasty final visit to the keeper hut: his Mick Jagger icon, the bottle of Bailey’s out of the fridge, a few of his favourite photos from the pinboard, and their tea-break mugs.
‘D’you want a cuppa?’ Vince asks automatically, as he puts the mugs on the table.
Howard looks up, and nods. Well, at least that’s a start.
When Vince comes out of the kitchen with the tea, Howard is looking through the photographs. In his hand is the one of them in Wales.
‘I dunno if you want to keep that one, after what’s just happened,’ Vince says, peering over Howard’s shoulder.
Howard shrugs. ‘Maybe not. But it was a good trip, eh?’
‘Certainly was. That ice-cream was genius. You said you didn’t want one, but it looks like you changed your mind. You’re lookin’ at it like you want to fuck it into the middle of next week.’
‘I wasn’t looking at the ice-cream,’ Howard mutters, then blushes beetroot red and puts the photo face-down on the table. ‘Erm, what about that cup of tea?’
Vince files that reaction away for later investigation as he hands Howard his blue-and-white mug.
They progress seamlessly from the tea to the Bailey’s, and although there is still no plan, they are at least talking to each other again.
Half-way down the bottle, Vince decides that he is hungry after all, so he fetches cheese and biscuits from the fridge. He realises his mistake very quickly - Howard takes one look at the cheese and starts to sing one of his wailing tuneless songs about Tommy Nooka and his big wide head, and it’s every bit as bad as Vince had feared it would be.
It takes Vince half an hour and most of the rest of the Bailey’s to shut Howard up. But at least by the time he does shut up, his arm is around Vince’s shoulders without either of them making a big deal about how it got there or whether it should stay there, and Vince is just starting to think that perhaps it’ll all be all right now and they can leave the planning until tomorrow morning, when a brick comes through the window, shattering the peace and quiet along with the glass.
‘They’ve found us.’ Howard’s voice is high and panicky. ‘We have to go, Vince. We have to go now. You have no idea what they’re threatening to do... and if they find you’ve been sheltering me...’
Another brick crashes onto the floor. This one has a copy of the faked badger photo wrapped round it.
‘Oh god, oh god,’ Howard wails, scrambling up off the sofa and grabbing his box of records, ‘I can’t die now, I’ve got so much to give... and nowhere to go, Vince, where can we go?’
‘I know where.’ Vince pulls Naboo’s business card out of his pocket, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it before. ‘Naboo’s got a new place, he said we could stay there, maybe he can magically hide us or something.’
‘Great. Let’s go.’ Howard is in the hall already.
‘Hang on a minute.’ Vince rushes into the bedroom, grabs his biggest suitcase and begins frantically packing.
‘Leave it, Vince, there’s no time.’
‘I’m not leavin’ this, it’s got my entire wardrobe in it, all my looks, hair straighteners, product, the lot.’
He squashes the lid shut; heaves the case into the hall. But already there are shouts outside the door, angry knocking, the stomp of many seriously unfashionable boots.
Howard shakes his head at Vince; whispers ‘We’ll have to go down the fire escape.’
Vince tugs at the heavy case, and lets out a sob of frustration. ‘I can’t leave this. Howard, help me, why aren’t you helping me?’
‘Shush.’ Howard dumps the box of records next to the suitcase, grabs Vince’s wrists and pulls him into the living room.
‘Lemme go, you ballbag!’ Vince struggles, but Howard’s grip is too strong for him.
‘Vince. Look at me, Vince.’
Vince stares up at Howard through a haze of tears.
‘There are lots of clothes in the world. And lots of records. They can be replaced.’ Howard’s voice is deep and reassuring: he sounds like a Man of Action at last. ‘But there’s only one Vince Noir, and he - he’s irreplaceable.’
Vince sniffs, and tries to smile. ‘Cheers, Howard.’
‘Come on, little man. As soon as we’re settled, we can go shopping for new outfits and more jazz.’
‘An’ hair straighteners?’
Howard lets Vince go, pulls the back window open and clambers onto the rickety platform of the fire escape. ‘Those too. I promise. Prickly Bark or whatever they are. Hottest you can get.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ Vince takes a deep breath, and climbs out to join Howard. ‘Here we go, then.’
It’s dark, it’s drizzling, he’s got no job and no spare clothes, his future is uncertain, but as he picks his way down the fire escape Vince is happier than he’s been in a long time.
He’s got everything he needs. It’s right there in front of him, grumbling about the unsafe state of the steps.
And they’re on their way to see Naboo. Naboo can sort everything out. He’s a genius.
...
‘I’m not a fuckin’ genius.’ Hands on hips, Naboo glares at Vince and Howard through the falling rain. ‘Sort your own shit out. I’ve got enough on my plate at the moment.’ He starts to push the shop door closed. Howard’s heart sinks into his soggy shoes.
‘B-but you gave me your card.’ Vince shoves his foot into the doorway, just in time. ‘You said to come and look you up.’
Naboo’s frown deepens. ‘I meant in, like, five years’ time, yeah?’
‘You said, though, if we needed your help...’ Vince is dripping and shivering, his hair plastered flat to his scalp. ‘An’ we do. There’s a crowd of nutters tryin’ to break into my flat, we got nowhere to go except here...’
Naboo looks deeply unimpressed by Vince’s pleading, even though Howard can feel his own knees growing weak at the desperation in Vince’s voice.
He puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Vince. We’re not wanted here.’
‘You not wanted here, Harold.’ A big black shadow has appeared behind the tiny shaman. ‘But Naboo no put precious Vince out on street. Not on night like this. His hair not survive it.’ Bollo pulls the door fully open again. ‘And shaman word is shaman bond.’
‘I’m beginning to have second thoughts about havin’ a familiar,’ Naboo growls. ‘OK, you can stay the night at least, come on upstairs.’
‘An’ Howard too?’
Naboo shrugs. ‘S’pose so. The two of you come as a package. An’ I guess I did tell you to go and find him. Or did I dream that part? What the fuck, who cares. Howard, you ballbag, get in here.’
Howard stumbles over the threshold and mutters clumsy thanks.
‘Don’t thank me, thank the tealeaves.’ Naboo’s face is impassive once more.
‘Are you high?’ Howard asks.
‘As a fucking kite, yeah. Otherwise you’d both still be out on the street, Bollo or no Bollo. Talkin’ of which, where is Bollo?’
Vince looks round the shop. ‘He was here a minute ago. Maybe he’s gone upstairs. Nice place, Naboolio, by the way.’
‘It’s not bad. It’ll do. Till I can find something better. Or maybe - no, don’t wanna tempt fate.’
‘Maybe they’ll let you go home now?’ Vince asks.
‘I said, I don’t wanna tempt fate.’ Naboo turns abruptly away and starts to climb the stairs, Vince following close behind.
Howard pauses a minute in the gloomy, dusty shop. There are boxes piled everywhere, a dentist’s chair, clothes racks, a piano, lamps and vases and ornaments and a distinctly judgemental-looking cheese plant. Not much, compared with the zoo. But at least it’s dry and relatively warm. Naboo’s right. It’ll do.
‘You comin’ or what?’ Vince calls down from the landing.
‘On my way.’ Howard picks his way cautiously around the various cartons, framed pictures and folded hangings that litter the narrow stairs, and emerges in a sort of open plan living room with a kitchen at one side.
Vince is already seated at the kitchen table and Naboo is grudgingly brewing a pot of tea.
‘You got any biscuits?’ Vince asks hopefully, as Naboo plonks a mug down in front of him.
Naboo scowls. ‘Don’t push it.’
Howard pours his own tea into the cleanest of the chipped mugs on the side, and joins them at the table.
‘Not enough chairs in there yet,’ Naboo mutters, pointing to the living room, where there are a couple of shabby armchairs and a TV, and more boxes piled in the corners. ‘We’re still settlin’ in.’
‘We could help you unpack,’ Howard suggests.
‘S’pose so.’ Naboo stares into the depths of his tea.
‘You’re not likely to find any answers in there,’ Howard says.
‘That’s exactly where you’re wrong, you ballbag. Look.’
Howard takes the empty mug from Naboo and obediently looks. Blinks, and looks again.
It says: THEY’LL NEVER LEAVE.
‘Unless I throw you out,’ Naboo says thoughtfully.
‘Which you’re not gonna do.’ Vince gives Naboo a pleading glance, one that would have made Howard do anything, anything at all... ‘You invited us. C’m’on, Naboolio, we’re all in this together.’
‘We could help in the shop,’ Howard suggests.
Naboo shakes his head. ‘I don’t fink so. You’re zookeepers not shopkeepers. An’ don’t imagine you can live here without payin’ rent. I’m not a charity. I’m not the Good Fairy neither.’
‘What’re we gonna do, then?’ Vince’s eyes are still pleading. ‘Put suits on an’ work in Dixons? Howard, think of something.’
It’s nice, being relied on like this. It’s also a terrible responsibility. Howard’s mind remains stubbornly blank in the matter of potential earning opportunities. ‘I’m thinking, Vince,’ he says, putting on what he hopes is his expression of Total Swiss Reliability. ‘Give me time, I’m sure I can come up with something, a man of my wide experience has many options.’
‘You’ve got a week,’ Naboo says flatly.
‘Right.’ Howard drinks his tea and tries not to meet Vince’s worried gaze.
There’s a sudden clatter downstairs; the shop bell jangles and the door slams. Heavy footsteps come slowly up the stairs.
‘Climbing up fire escape was easy for Bollo. Climbing down with Precious Vince’s things not so easy. Bollo hope nothing broken.’ The gorilla plonks down both Vince’s ridiculously oversized suitcase and Howard’s record box.
Vince leaps up from his seat and flings himself at Bollo, pulling the big (and very wet) gorilla into a wordless hug.
‘And you brought my records, too. Thank you, Bollo, that’s... very decent of you.’ Howard holds out a hand.
‘Would have left box behind if Bollo knew it was Harold’s.’ Bollo ignores the proffered hand, instead taking the teatowel that Vince is now holding out to him to dry his fur.
‘What’s in there?’ Naboo asks, not as though he really wants to know.
‘My jazz record collection,’ Howard says enthusiastically. ‘Charlie Parker, Charlie Mingus, John Coltrane, Cannonball Adderley... all the greats.’
Naboo frowns. ‘You’re not playin’ that rubbish in here. Could sell them in the shop to offset the rent, though.’
Howard sees the tiny flicker of hope in Vince’s eyes, and turns the ‘No way!’ on his lips into ‘I suppose so.’
Vince bites at his lip, and fidgets a bit, before muttering: ‘An’ I’ve got, maybe, one or two things I don’t wear any more, but they’re still well cool, you might get a bit for them...’
Howard stares at him in astonishment. Vince flushes a little. ‘Only fair, Howard, don’t you think? An’ if it means we can stay here... Hey, Naboolio, you said you needed more seats, I’ve got this really cool sofa in the flat, I reckon we’d all fit on it, you wanna give it a try?’
Naboo and Bollo exchange a glance; Naboo gives the smallest of nods.
The gorilla pats Vince clumsily on the shoulder. ‘Tomorrow, Vince. Tomorrow Bollo carry sofa. And wardrobe, and full-length mirror, and hair products...’
‘How long d’you think he’s - d’you think we’re going to stay?’ Howard asks.
‘That not Bollo’s place to say.’ And now both Bollo and Vince are looking pleadingly at Naboo.
Naboo gives another long-suffering sigh. ‘Alright, I give up. The tealeaves are never wrong, and anyway I can’t stand everybody makin’ cow eyes at me. Vince and Howard, welcome to the Nabootique. You can stay here as long as you pay your way. Oh, and if you don’t mind sharing a bedroom. It’s this way, we might have to shift a few boxes, come an’ lend a hand...’
‘This place is genius,’ Vince whispers, as they follow Naboo down the hall. ‘I hope he’s right about the tealeaves.’
‘So do I, little man,’ Howard whispers back, staring through the spareroom door at the sagging double bed just visible under a mound of binbags and boxes. ‘So do I.’