Free Barking by Tom Holt Page A

hand up the wall towards the light switch. Then he realised that the lights were already on. Bloody fool, must’ve forgotten to turn them off before he left that morning; except that he distinctly remembered having done so. But here the lights were, distinctly on, so his memory must be—
    There was someone sitting in his chair: feet propped on his battered coffee table, shoulder-length white-black-grey hair just visible above the back of his chair. Before he could react, the intruder stood up, turned and faced him.
    Luke bloody Ferris.

CHAPTER THREE
    â€˜Y ou’re late,’ Luke said. ‘Never mind. Come on in, sit down. Have a crisp.’
    On the coffee table, a packet of crisps, savagely torn open. ‘What the hell do you think you’re . . .’
    â€˜Just the one chair,’ Luke said, tightening the corners of his mouth in a small grin of scornful compassion. ‘I take it you don’t entertain much.’
    â€˜How did you find out where I live?’
    Apparently Luke hadn’t heard him. ‘I was expecting bachelor squalor,’ he said. ‘Obviously she got you well trained before she left. Not a sock or a styrofoam tray full of cold chips anywhere to be seen.’
    â€˜That’s none of—’
    â€˜A little palace, you might say,’ Luke went on, looking through Duncan at something clearly far more interesting - the wall, say, or the windowsill. ‘A little palace that’s been burgled by professionals and stripped of all its contents, but a little palace all the same.’ He drew a long forefinger across the top of the coffee-table. ‘You don’t dust , do you?’ he said, and there was a hint of genuine awe in his voice, mixed with the barely repressed amusement. ‘Bloody hell, mate, my mother used to dust.’
    The instinct is to fight, but giving in is often easier. ‘All right,’ Duncan said. ‘Sit down if you want to.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ Luke smiled, turned back to the chair, turned round three times and sat down. Duncan noticed that the top pocket of his suit jacket was lined with pencils, all heavily chewed. ‘You’re a bastard, you know, sneaking off like that. I had to drink your beer for you.’
    â€˜My heart bleeds.’
    â€˜So it should. Oh, don’t stand there like a butler, sit down. It’s hurting my neck peering up at you.’
    Duncan scowled at him, then got down and sat on the floor. His master’s voice, he couldn’t help thinking.
    â€˜The answer’s no,’ he said.
    â€˜Sorry?’ Luke replied, ‘Don’t quite follow. Answer to what?’
    â€˜The job offer. I’ve thought about it, and it’s really kind of you, but I think I’ll stay where I am.’ No sudden violent interruption; Luke was looking over the top of his head. ‘No offence,’ he went on, ‘but I’ve come to the conclusion that—Look, would you mind bloody well not doing that?’
    For a moment, Luke seemed puzzled. Then he seemed to notice that he’d picked the TV remote up off the coffee table and started chewing it. He lowered it, but didn’t put it back. ‘That’s daft,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to stay there. You told me yourself, the whole gig sucks like a Dyson.’
    â€˜I exaggerated.’
    â€˜Balls.’ Luke stood up, and Duncan saw that he’d left a few white hairs on the chair-back. ‘I’ve heard all about Craven Ettins,’ he went on. ‘Typical London law firm. They treat you like dirt, pay you peanuts, the only reason they don’t sell their grandmothers to the glue factory is that you don’t make glue out of grandmothers—’
    â€˜Yes,’ Duncan said. ‘But—’
    â€˜Well?’
    And Duncan smiled as he said, ‘But at least they’re not you.’
    Luke’s body slammed into the back of the chair as if he’d been shoved, and