Maybe I’ll create a few beginnings and see if any of them have legs.
Although he’d heard the clang of the front door being closed rather more forcefully than necessary and heard the stomp of their boots up the hallway, Brinkley didn’t so much as glance up from his newspaper when the pair entered, bringing with them the unwelcome scent of petrichor.
Seeing that the incumbent in the armchair was singularly uninterested in his return home and with rain still dripping from lank hair, dyed a bright blonde in shame at advancing years, David ‘Jake’ Jacobs interposed himself between the fireplace and the sitter. His companion, the equally blonde but more youthful of the two went in search of a warm towel with which to dry off.
Brinkley affected noticing Jake for the first time, before returning to his broadsheet. "Trouble in London, I gather?" he asked, knowing full well that there had been. Jake briefly considered snatching his blasted paper and hurling it into the fire, but knew that this would only elicit the broadest grin from beneath Brinkley’s elaborate moustaches. The man enjoyed getting a rise out of the older man, enjoyed getting a rise out of everyone. Brinkley took only three things seriously; gambling, clothing and afternoon tea. He realised that he’d been dwelling on the conflagration of The Racing Post for a beat too long because Brinkley answered his own question, "Shoggoths was it? They loused up the Bakerloo line something awful two summers ago. You can still find bits of them between the tiles at Charing Cross if you know where to look."
Jake waited until Manny returned with a couple of towels before responding. "Crouch End. The living dead again."
"Really?" said Brinkley with what Jake felt was a certain amount of mock surprise, "But you didn’t have Finton with you or Father Boyle. How did you get rid of them?"
This was the part that the older man hadn’t been looking forward too. He knew what they’d had to resort to and he knew how Brinkley would react. Condescension and reproval. He’d even put his paper down now, giving them his undivided attention. Oh yes, Brinkley sensed that it had all gone south and couldn’t wait to hear every rotten detail. Well, he wasn’t going to get it this time, Jake would give him the plain facts and nothing more as long as Manny knew to keep his mouth shut, something which the rangy American could only sporadically be relied on to do.
"Wait!” interjected their suddenly-willing listener, “I’ll make some tea first. You must need it after your journey in this frightful weather. I’m afraid that this is typical for England Manny, but I’m sure you’ll eventually get used to it!”
As Brinkley hurried kitchenwards, he didn’t hear Manny growl “I’m from Chicago you damn limey, I’ve seen winters that’d freeze your moustache off."
With their interlocutor out of earshot, after a few minutes Jake felt that it might be worth counselling the American about not divulging quite all that had happened in North London. Manny’s reaction was as unwelcome as it was predictable, "Why the hell shouldn’t we tell him? It’s not pretty but it’s the truth. Just because he always thinks he could have done better, the pompous prick!"
Jake hissed at him to keep his voice down, "That’s just it! He thinks he can do better and thinks that I’m losing it. Over the hill. Not cutting the mustard. I’m fifty this year, Manny and not a good fifty either. I struggle now, I struggle bec-" Brinkley cut him off, re-entering with a tray of tea and a variety of chocolate biscuits. "Sorry there”s no sandwiches chaps but Jones is still on Pluto. Inscrutable Oom insisted that he stay on for a week or two."
Jake resisted the urge to ask why putting a slice of ham between two pieces of bread was beyond him. This was going to be difficult enough without getting his back up even before he’d begun his story. In silence they completed the English tea ceremony of deciding who was ‘mother’ and apportioning biscuits before they were finally all reclining in front of the fire. With a soundtrack of wind in the chimney and rain against the window, Jake began. "So" he said, "The living dead again."
Seeing that the incumbent in the armchair was singularly uninterested in his return home and with rain still dripping from lank hair, dyed a bright blonde in shame at advancing years, David ‘Jake’ Jacobs interposed himself between the fireplace and the sitter. His companion, the equally blonde but more youthful of the two went in search of a warm towel with which to dry off.
Brinkley affected noticing Jake for the first time, before returning to his broadsheet. "Trouble in London, I gather?" he asked, knowing full well that there had been. Jake briefly considered snatching his blasted paper and hurling it into the fire, but knew that this would only elicit the broadest grin from beneath Brinkley’s elaborate moustaches. The man enjoyed getting a rise out of the older man, enjoyed getting a rise out of everyone. Brinkley took only three things seriously; gambling, clothing and afternoon tea. He realised that he’d been dwelling on the conflagration of The Racing Post for a beat too long because Brinkley answered his own question, "Shoggoths was it? They loused up the Bakerloo line something awful two summers ago. You can still find bits of them between the tiles at Charing Cross if you know where to look."
Jake waited until Manny returned with a couple of towels before responding. "Crouch End. The living dead again."
"Really?" said Brinkley with what Jake felt was a certain amount of mock surprise, "But you didn’t have Finton with you or Father Boyle. How did you get rid of them?"
This was the part that the older man hadn’t been looking forward too. He knew what they’d had to resort to and he knew how Brinkley would react. Condescension and reproval. He’d even put his paper down now, giving them his undivided attention. Oh yes, Brinkley sensed that it had all gone south and couldn’t wait to hear every rotten detail. Well, he wasn’t going to get it this time, Jake would give him the plain facts and nothing more as long as Manny knew to keep his mouth shut, something which the rangy American could only sporadically be relied on to do.
"Wait!” interjected their suddenly-willing listener, “I’ll make some tea first. You must need it after your journey in this frightful weather. I’m afraid that this is typical for England Manny, but I’m sure you’ll eventually get used to it!”
As Brinkley hurried kitchenwards, he didn’t hear Manny growl “I’m from Chicago you damn limey, I’ve seen winters that’d freeze your moustache off."
With their interlocutor out of earshot, after a few minutes Jake felt that it might be worth counselling the American about not divulging quite all that had happened in North London. Manny’s reaction was as unwelcome as it was predictable, "Why the hell shouldn’t we tell him? It’s not pretty but it’s the truth. Just because he always thinks he could have done better, the pompous prick!"
Jake hissed at him to keep his voice down, "That’s just it! He thinks he can do better and thinks that I’m losing it. Over the hill. Not cutting the mustard. I’m fifty this year, Manny and not a good fifty either. I struggle now, I struggle bec-" Brinkley cut him off, re-entering with a tray of tea and a variety of chocolate biscuits. "Sorry there”s no sandwiches chaps but Jones is still on Pluto. Inscrutable Oom insisted that he stay on for a week or two."
Jake resisted the urge to ask why putting a slice of ham between two pieces of bread was beyond him. This was going to be difficult enough without getting his back up even before he’d begun his story. In silence they completed the English tea ceremony of deciding who was ‘mother’ and apportioning biscuits before they were finally all reclining in front of the fire. With a soundtrack of wind in the chimney and rain against the window, Jake began. "So" he said, "The living dead again."