Heathcliff stuck two fingers in his mouth and let out a mighty whistle. Our purple-haired friend nearly jumped out of his skin. Mrs. Ellis’ friends flashed me relieved smiles.
I cleared my throat. “Hi everyone. I’m Mina, the organizer of today’s workshop. Unfortunately, Danny’s not going to be able to host the workshop today. He…”
The words died on my tongue. I tried to focus on the people in front of me but all I could see was Danny’s bloated face and gaping mouth. I tried again. “Danny is… he is…”
“He’s dead as a doornail,” Heathcliff finished.
A collective gasp rose through the crowd. I glared at Heathcliff.
“What?” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “That’s what he is. He’s croaked, expired, popped his clogs, bereft of life, and gone west to meet his maker. He’s passed on, cashed in his chips, kicked his oxygen habit, and checked into the Horizontal Hilton for his Hamlet sleep. He’s immortality challenged, and will no longer be counted on the census—”
Mrs. Ellis’ two friends looked aghast. The erotica writer affixed a solemn expression to his face, but the corner of his mouth tugged up at Heathcliff’s description.Immortality-challenged? I can’t believe he just said that. I jabbed Heathcliff in the side and shot him a warning look, which he ignored.
“It’s true?” One of the other writers – a man in a tweed jacket with a pencil tucked behind his ear – asked. “He’s really dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. So we won’t be able to hold the event today. I’ll organize refunds for you this week. In the meantime, I know you’ve come all this way, so why don’t you come inside? I’ve got refreshments arriving shortly, and we could sit in the Events room and discuss writing, maybe read excerpts of your work—”
“What’s the point?” growled Tweed-Man. “I’ve come all the way from Crookshollow to learn from Danny Sledge. I’m not going to discuss my masterpiece with these hacks.”
“Who are you calling a hack?” shot back a woman with tortoiseshell glasses. “I’m going to be the next Nora Roberts. I wouldn’t want to waste an afternoon with a bunch of literary toffs, I’ve got a bestselling manuscript to finish.”
One by one, the writers turned away, muttering their disappointment. Mrs. Ellis’ friends shook their heads sadly as they shuffled away toward the green, nattering loudly about where to get a good cup of tea in the village. I slumped down on the step, my head in my hands.
An arm fell around my shoulders, and a whiff of fresh grass enveloped me. Heathcliff’s dark eyes regarded mine with fierce kindness. “I’m sorry, Mina. I knew you were looking forward to that workshop.”
“It’s fine.” Who was I kidding? It didn’t feel fine. It felt like things had just started to go right in my life and now everything was falling apart. It felt like no matter what I did I was never going to catch a break. It felt like I’d never get to find out if I could possibly write…
Except that, of course, I wasn’t interested in that. I had no talent for writing. No way could I come close to the writers I admire. I was no Emily Brontë or Arthur Conan Doyle. I didn’t even think I could manage an E. L. James.
Footsteps sounded on the steps behind me. Quoth slipped down on the other side of me and tipped my head onto his shoulder. His fingers squeezed my skin. He could sense the emotion rising inside me, the flood of melancholy that I’d done so much to temper flaring to life and threatening to overwhelm me.
Heathcliff’s eyes bore into mine, their depths unfathomable. “There’s a surefire way to cure this malaise.”
I sniffed. “How?”
“We’ll have our own workshop,” Heathcliff tugged me to my feet. “Morrie has a bottle of expensive French absinthe hidden under the sink. We’ll finish it, then test Hemingway’s concept that one should write drunk and edit sober. Personally, I think it should be ‘write drunk, edit drunker,’ but that’s why he’s the author and I’m the tortured antihero.”
Chapter Nine
Given my dark mood, it didn’t take much convincing from Heathcliff for me to concede to his plan. I drew the line at absinthe (I read Poppy Z Brite), but I did agree to lock up the shop and join the boys at the Rose & Wimple for an early lunch. Heathcliff and Morrie flanked me as we cut across the village green. Quoth’s talons dug into my shoulder. He decided that he couldn’t face the gossiping villagers after Danny’s murder, but that if we sat in the beer garden he’d come and perch on the wall beside us.
It looked like the entire village had gathered at the pub. They spilled out onto the green, talking in furtive whispers. Heads turned toward us as we made our way down the steps and past the jaunty iron pig announcing the day’s special.The village gossip mill must be in full swing with news of Danny’s murder. I hope they at least have the decency to leave us alone—
As soon as we stepped through the door, the whole place fell silent. Even though I could barely make out the faces in the gloomy interior, I could feel their eyes crawling over my body, their unanswered questions hanging in the air.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” Heathcliff muttered. “Tir Na Nogin Crookshollow does a decent ploughman’s lunch.”
“Nope.” Fierce determination settled in my gut. This was our village too, and we’d done nothing wrong. If we wanted to eat a four-quid basket of chips and drown our sorrows over a pint, then we had a right to do it. I strode up to the bar and slammed my wallet down. “Hi, Richard. We’ll have a pint of lager, one of cider, a glass of your house white, and a couple of menus, please.”
The landlord pulled pints for Heathcliff and I. Morrie hopped from foot to foot. From the expression on his face, I could tell he was dying to wrest the cheap wine from Richard’s hand and tip it over his head, but even he wasn’t prepared to make a scene with the whole village staring us down. All he managed was a weak protest. “Don’t you have anything with a more fragrant bouquet? Maybe something from the Napa Valley, or New Zealand…”
“Not for six quid a glass, sorry, mate.” Richard set down the wine in front of him. Morrie looked like he’d rather drink toilet water. He picked up the glass and held it up to the light before taking a dainty sip. A choking sound escaped his lips.
“You all right there?” Richard leaned across the bar, his kindly face creased in concern.
“Fine,” Morrie croaked.
If I wasn’t so wrapped up in Danny’s murder and the eerie silence of the pub, I would have cracked up laughing. I quickly paid for our drinks and shuffled away from the bar. “Let’s find a table,” I muttered.
