Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“What’s going on out there?” I ask the receptionist.
“I’m not sure, Mr. Deubel, but Andrew is trying to find out. He said not to call the police yet.”
I nod curtly, recognizing the pattern of footsteps behind me. Fin and Matt, no doubt come to watch the circus. Maybe I should’ve gotten those ringmaster’s tails, I think as I pull the door open.
“Down with the bourgeoisie. Down with the oppressive class! Down with the bourgeoisie. Down with the oppressive class!” On and on the chant goes.
“They could’ve chosen a catchier slogan,” Fin says over my shoulder.
As it turns out, there are a dozen or so protesters marching up and down in front of the office, mostly younger people in sweatpants and hoodies, scarves pulled over their faces as though they’re highly wanted criminals. They seem oblivious to the open door, to us standing in front of them, perplexed, as they merrily chant on.
“Peace, bread, land,” Matt reads. “Was that the name of the bakery on the corner?”
“Lenin, actually. And that one over there was something Stalin said.” Fin points to a placard made from a broomstick and one side of a cardboard packing box, with red paint that dripped like blood before drying. “Though it’s supposed to read, You cannot make a revolution with silk gloves, not slik gloves.”
“Oliver?” Matt turns to me. “Have you been pissing the Communists off?”
“Not so I’d realized,” I answer, still scanning the crowd. “Though I’m not sure Fuck dis noise is part of The Communist Manifesto.”
“It would make more sense for one of them to read Down with Atterir.” Fin slides me a look.
“It isn’t what you think,” I mutter with a frown. “Why didn’t you mention it before now?”
“Not my circus,” he grunts.
“Safari park,” Matt corrects. “I think what he means to say is he thought you were cleverer than this.”
“Clearly not,” I say, turning back. “Though I’m bright enough to know that one is meant for me.” I point to a placard and the holder with a familiar face:
NEXT TIME I’M BRINGING THE LLAMA
“That’s a rare old set of balls,” Matt says, impressed at the sign’s accompanying artwork. “Very . . . anatomical. Is this about llamas at Northaby?”
I shake my head. “My planned castration, I imagine.” I smile weakly at Yara. In answer, she holds her placard higher and chants louder. She wouldn’t speak to me when I called at the clinic. Haunted, more like, waiting for her to arrive for a shift.
That day, as Yara had climbed from her car, I almost sprinted to reach her before realizing she was pulling a long stick from the back seat. As she brandished it, she was kind enough to deliver her insults in another language, though probably for the benefit of the clinic’s clients, rather than me.
Next to her stands Nora, and on the end of a loose leash is my former fluffy bedmate. Not the one I’m in love with.
“Down with the bourgeoisie. Down with the oppressive class!” Nora’s voice carries above the rest as she spots me looking. In the place of a placard, Bo wears a doggy-size sandwich board with the words of their chant.
“Bo! Hey, boy!” I call out, patting my knees enthusiastically. One woof, a strong pull, and he’s free, bounding over, his tongue lolling happily. I laugh aloud—it feels strange—as he heads straight for me . . . then dodges to run right by me. I feel my expression fall. Rejected by a fucking dog. But then something warm hits the back of my calf.
“What the hell!” Matt pushes away, Fin following.
“Of course he would.” I nod, not bothering to move as Bo uses the back of my leg as a lamppost.
Chapter 46
OLIVER
“Nora.” I make my way through the mostly teenage protesters. “What’s this about?”
“There he is, lads! The man who’s trying to put my poor animals out on the street!” She grasps Bo’s leash as he trots back to her side.
“I’m what?” My reply sounds tremulous with laughter, though I don’t feel so amused as the chants turn to jeers.
“Bastard!”
“Eat the rich—it’s all they’re good for!”
“Death is the solution!”
“Don’t say that,” complains a voice from behind a red scarf.
“I can say what I like,” a spotty teenager retorts.
“I can’t get arrested! My mum doesn’t know I’m in the city—I’m supposed to be in double geography this afternoon.”
But there’s something familiar about the teenager with the unfortunate case of acne. “You,” I call out. “You tried to slash my tires on Tuesday.” The car was parked outside the hotel. Ted chased after him, but he got away, dodging through the busy afternoon traffic.
“Can’t prove it.” He puffs his chest, all hot air and attitude.
“Yes, I can. I have it on camera.”
“Ha! Your fat bastard driver couldn’t catch me.”
“Lucky for you. He might look like your portly uncle, but he’s ex-SAS and French Foreign Legion.” That seems to knock the wind from his sails as he slinks to the rear of the grumbling group.