Bloody hell, this headache was drilling its way out of my skull. Was I leaking brain matter from my ears yet?
Slipping on my sunglasses, I leaned away from the sun searing through the smoked windows of the Range Rover like a vampire sprinting for his coffin.
Why the fuck was the sun shining on this benighted section of Lancashire anyway? There’s nothing bright or cheerful about the building site where I’m about to crush the hopes and dreams of a shit collection of owl lovers and vegans in their homespun skirts.
“How did it get this far?” I snapped.
“We don’t know, sir.” Morgan Crouse, the head attorney for Lee Ville Industries, uneasily shifted in his seat. “We know that they gained access to the construction site, we believe they bribed a security guard.” He was one of those handsomely bland sort of men in a good suit with a black soul.
“Find out who was working security last night and fire all of them.” My PA, Charles, scowled, making a note on his iPad. “What do these owl lovers want, anyway? These groups always have some pitiful list of demands.”
“They’re not protesting about owls,” Charles said calmly,tapping away on his device. “It’s about-” He checked a note. “It’s about the declining Willow Tits.”
Even though my howl of laughter ricocheted viciously around my head, I needed that. “Bloody fucking hell,Willow Tits?What the hell are those?”
“They’re a small brown and white bird native to Lancashire and Blackpool. The Wet Willow Conservancy petitioned to stop the construction of the computer server facility and return the property to its natural state.”
I pulled a bottle of a good dark stout from the Range Rover’s mini-fridge. “The ‘natural state’ of this cesspool was the deteriorating Council housing that we tore down -afterpaying a hefty sum to relocate the tenants - even the cockroaches couldn’t handle the living conditions.” I drank half the bottle in two gulps. “Wet Willow Tits? Sounds like a porn star.”
Crouse laughed, covering it up with a well-bred cough. “In any case, we felt that an appearance from you and a donation from the investors should end this nonsense.”
“How much to make these imbeciles bugger off?”
“Ten thousand pounds.” Crouse opened his briefcase, pulling out a ceremonial check.
Ten thousand pounds was nothing. I knew this. But I was enraged at these tender little souls for fucking up my building site. We paid off all the right people to get this project started and further scrutiny is unwelcome. Very unwelcome.
One of the minor Sicilian mafias sent fifty men to intercept a crucial arms shipment I’d had coming into Blackpool. They won’t be heard from again, since they’re resting in the concrete footings of this project. This was one of my legitimate projects, partnering up with Lee Ville, but… waste not, want not. I needed concrete pilings, the Sicilian gunmen needed to be buried under some. I’d considered it a win-win until this idiocy with the environmentalists started up.
“How much press attention have they brought to the project?”
This time, Crouse looked genuinely apologetic. “Unfortunately, several media outlets, including the BBC andThe Independent.”
I finished off my bottle of stout and grabbed another. Charles groaned. “Ah, god. I know that grin. You have a plan.”
“Why yes, I do Charles,” I said graciously, “thank you for asking.”
Two hours later…
“Have all of our gifts for the Wet Tit lovers arrived?”
“Mr. Davies, it’s the Wet Willow Conservancy - never mind,” Crouse hastily amended when he saw my expression.
“They have,” Charles clipped out, clearly displeased with me. He came to me as an idealistic graduate from the University of Cambridge Judge Business School. He’s blond, bespectacled, and enjoys expensive suits even more than I do. After eight years as my PA, he was bitter and cranky but too invested in his expensive wardrobe to ever betray me.
“Excellent. Kyle,” I nodded to my driver, “take us in.”
Why would these idiots have chosen this place to stand their ground over the plight of the Willow Tit? It’s an unprepossessing slab of mud surrounded by chain link fencing, with forty huge steel pilings jutting out of the earth. If Alastair was here, he’d have given me shit about creating the perfect image of phallic corporate dominance.
My little smile dropped. I haven’t spoken to him since the night he stood witness to… well, to the collapse of everything I knew about myself. He was back in London after a honeymoon with his bride, Sorcha, but I couldn’t see or speak to him right now. Not without seeing the betrayal that he was part of, now.
Pulling into the enclosure, I could see wherethe chain link gate was torn down and a ragged collection of twenty people or so were chained to the construction equipment. They were chanting something incomprehensible and were outnumbered four to one by construction workers and angry local residents. Overwhelming them all was a seething clot of photographers, reporters, and vloggers, giddy with the hope thatthiswas the video that would ‘go viral’ and lift them from obscurity.
“Paste on that winning smile, sir,” Charles whispered. “Not the one worn by attractive psychopaths. The other one.”
Straightening my cuffs, I stepped from the SUV. I might actually enjoy this. The two bottles of stout had soothed my vibrating skull for the moment and I pulled off my Ray Bans. Billionaires in sunglasses look sinister. Here, at least, I’m but a simple businessman.
“Mayor Caldwell.” I held out my hand. We shook, both of us grinning bastards because nothing sets personal differences aside like a threat to our mutual bottom line.
