Paddy Bostock - Chosen

“Look, why don’t we all go inside and get settled in?” said Barry. “It’s late, but a drop or two of my nettle brandy, or the burdock version if you’d prefer, would do us no harm. Plus maybe a slice or two of pizza? What d’you reckon?”

Jeremy reckoned that was a very good plan. And so it was that he and Pete took their first steps into a new life.

Shirley was delighted, planting both paws on Jeremy’s shoulders—on hind legs she was as tall as him—and slurping at his nose and chin, before saying hi to Pete, who rolled over on his back and kicked his four trotters in the air.

“So, here’s to us all,” said Barry, after dispensing the burdock brandy Jeremy had opted for as a change. “Let only good things come of this.”

“Hear, hear to that. And thanks so much for all your help,” said Jeremy.

“ De rien . Je t’en prie ,” said Barry raising his glass. “ À ta bonne santé .”

The French surprised Jeremy. But that was only the first of the surprises Barry had in store.

It was two days later when Sir Magnus Montague returned to Jeremy’s ex-house and pulled the rope that operated the wind-chime bell. Gloria and Ron had returned to their own place, so a fidgety Sophie was home alone, dusting things that didn’t need dusting because Nina, her eager-to-please Bulgarian “housekeeper,” did all that. And the vacuuming, and the bathroom scrubbing, and the kitchen parquet floor swabbing, and indoor window cleaning, and the floor-to-ceiling mirrors polishing. And anything else Sophie instructed her to do while the mistress of the house sashayed off to relax in the jacuzzi. But this was Nina’s day off, so, with nobody to boss about and her breadwinner having relocated to the barn, Sophie was at a loose end and twitchy.

“Who the bloody hell’s that ?” she muttered, dropping the dustless duster on the bedroom floor, primping her platinum-dyed hair, checking her eyeliner in her vanity case mirror, marching over to the window, and peering out.

Sir Magnus tugged the bell rope again, this time holding it while the wind chimes hit their mega-decibel levels.

“Bloody woman,” he grumbled, thrusting a hold-it-right-there hand behind him at his hastily assembled army of Jeremy healers, which consisted of two sex-and-death Freudians, plus two Jungians just in case Jeremy were to be tempted by a spot of the collective unconscious. Behind them stood three further shrinks clothed in battle dress. These were not real military personnel because, despite his fictitious boasts of involvement in the “freeing” of Iraq and Afghanistan, Sir Magnus didn’t know any real military people, so he’d hired these guys—Kevin, Duncan, and Caitlin—from an out-of-work actors Internet site called JFJA (Jobs for Jobless Actors). He hadn’t expected a girl to be included in the deal, but she looked good in khaki and green, even Sir Magnus had to admit, a bloody sight fiercer than Kevin and Duncan, that was for sure. Despite their crew cuts, faux scowls, stick-on war wounds, and toy AK-47s, Kevin and Duncan didn’t look frightening at all. Especially not when holding hands, which a furious Sir Magnus had forbidden them never ever to do again while they were in his employ or they’d be fired , civil partnership or no bloody civil partnership.

“Bloody hell,” said Sophie, gawping through her bedroom window. “Who are that lot?”

Sir Magnus tugged at the bell rope yet again. Chimey, chimey, chimey it went. Then the rope came off in his hand and the chiming came to an abrupt halt.

Behind him, the troops were getting restless at the delay. And quarrelsome. You know how it is with Freudians and Jungians, how little respect for their rival philosophies they have at the best of times. Well, this bunch—Friedrich and Marcus, the Freudians and Carl and Milly, the Jungians—were already swapping snide glances when first introduced to each other on what Sir Magnus had described as “a joint mercy mission.” Now, despite the currency-stuffed brown envelopes in the pockets of their white coats, they were barely on speaking terms.

When Marcus said, “What the fuck’s going on here anyway?” for example, Carl told him to calm down and shut his gob.

“Calm down? Calm down ?” sneered Friedrich. “Just the sort of unhelpful, unempathetic, un-thera- peut ic bollocks one would expect of a Jung ian.”

Behind them, Kevin and Duncan continued holding hands despite Sir Magnus’s homophobic command. Some bum job this was for act or s who had once played Hamlet (Duncan) and Iago (Kevin). Okay only the once in both cases because of their disastrous first-night performances at repertory theatres in Middlesborough and Slough respectively. But even so, they had trodden the boards. And now they were reduced to this .

Caitlin and Milly stared off and tut-tutted. It was Milly who broke the ice.

“Boys, eh? Don’t s’pose you’ve got a ciggie on you?” she asked Caitlin, who said she didn’t have a regular one, she rolled her own. But she’d be happy to make them both one.

“With a little extra?” she asked, nodding at the cellophane pouch of weed she took from her pocket. “Always find it helps.”

Milly giggled. “Go on then.”

To calm the “boys,” Caitlin also rolled them what she termed “wee mind enhancers” to keep their spirits up and, in the case of the shrinks, bury hatchets. Which, once they were all toking happily, they agreed to do… at least pro tem .

By the time Sophie eventually managed to teeter downstairs and open the door and be commanded by Sir Magnus to lead his “army” to the barn to confront Jeremy, his army was in a pretty playful mood. Glassy-eyed and giggly.

It was little wonder, when there came no response from Jeremy even after repeated hammerings, and the soldier shrinks Duncan and Kevin and Caitlin were reluctantly, and now on wobbly legs, dragooned into breaking down the door, that Sir Magnus’s grand plan met its fruitless end.

“Come out, come out, you bastard, wherever you are,” he called.

And called. And called . But to no avail.

“Even the bally pig ’s gone,” grumbled Sir Magnus, striding around the barn, tossing hay bales hither and thither.

Following in behind him, Sophie tugged at her platinum-dyed hair and wept.

“Oh, my poor Jeremy,” she snuffled hypocritically. “Where have you gone ?”

Mind you, she calmed down a bit after a couple of puffs on the spliff Caitlin offered her.

Sir Magnus didn’t calm down at all though, far from it. Stamping up and down, he fired all his “trick cyclists” and “military men” on the spot, and then, swearing he’d come back with sniffer dogs, stalked off in a huff, banged on the roof of his waiting midnight-blue Bentley 4x4, opened the passenger door, and told the driver—Boris, a distant cousin of Nina’s—to hit the road.

Which would have made for a powerful and dramatic exit for Sir Magnus had Boris’s idiomatic English been up to scratch. But, while having an excellent command of the regular everyday aspects of the language, Boris hadn’t bothered much with idioms and, interpreting his new master’s order literally, leapt from the driver’s seat and took to beating the asphalt and shale with his fists, thereby rendering Sir Magnus’s departure even less powerful or dramatic.

His by-now pretty well stoned mishmash of shrinks and actors loved it. Even Friedrich, Carl and Marcus linked arms and punched air, while Milly, Caitlin, Duncan, and Kevin hopped about in Kevin’s idea of The Dance of the Clowns in the last act of Midsummer Night’s Dream . Sophie joined in too, leaping about in a manner she considered balletic. Until she fell flat on her face and had to be helped up by Milly.