Free The Snares of Death by Kate Charles

darling!’ Fiona threw her arms around him. ‘You’ve given me a plug! How marvellous!’ She kissed him enthusiastically. On the screen his alter ego talked on, but soon he was being ignored by the two on the sofa. ‘What time are they coming?’ she murmured.
    â€˜Eight.’
    â€˜Oh, good. That gives us time.’
    â€˜But, Fiona . . . your gallery thing.’
    â€˜It starts at eight. It won’t matter if I’m a few minutes late.’
    â€˜But you’re all dressed . . .’
    â€˜I can get all dressed again. Just shut up, Rhys, and kiss me some more.’
    â€˜If you insist.’
    â€˜I insist.’
    A few minutes later the announcer was forecasting – at long last – a break in the wintry weather for the Anglia region, but neither of them heard a word, nor did they care. They were quite warm enough already.
    Gary Goldstein was the first to arrive, just after eight. He, like Rhys, wore a T-shirt emblazoned with ‘BARC’, but in his case it spanned a potbelly that should have been more decently concealed. A veteran of the golden age of protest, the 1960s, Gary looked every inch the ageing American hippy that he was, with his long greying hair in a pony- tail and droopy grey moustache, with his T-shirt and faded, tattered jeans. Gary’s experience in causes ranging from anti-Vietnam protests to ‘Save the Whales’ had been an invaluable help to Rhys in setting up the new organisation.
    â€˜Hey, man. I caught you on the tube,’ he greeted Rhys. ‘Pretty groovy.’ He flopped on the sofa. ‘Great publicity. What strings did you pull to get that to happen?’
    â€˜As it happens, Fiona knows someone at Anglia Television. One of her regular customers at the gallery. She was telling him about the Lucy Kingsley exhibition, and showed him the poster. He was interested, and followed it up.’
    â€˜She’s a groovy lady, Fiona. Useful to have around, even if she didn’t have all that bread!’ Gary helped himself to a fistful of sunflower seeds. ‘Where is she?’
    â€˜She had to go out tonight. To some art thing.’ Rhys indicated the television. ‘You really thought the interview was all right?’
    â€˜Yeah. Didn’t you?’
    â€˜I hope it was.’ Rhys sat down on the floor and began absentmindedly stroking the rough black fur of the dog, who hadn’t moved for some time. The dog raised its head and licked his hand. ‘I thought it was very important to get across what we’re all about. You know what the current perception of animal rights activists is: that they’re a bunch of crazy people with their priorities all screwed up. That they go round blowing up innocent human beings out of a misplaced concern for lower life forms. I wanted to tell people that our function is largely informative. We’re here to let people know what’s happening to animals, and to give constructive suggestions as to what they can do about it. We’re not a terrorist organisation – we’re people who care about animals. That’s the message.’
    Gary nodded, looking thoughtful. ‘That’s cool with me. But what about Maggie?’
    â€˜Maggie.’ He scratched the dog’s ears. ‘We’ll just have to keep Maggie under control, that’s all.’
    â€˜At Berkeley, no matter how committed we were to peaceful demonstrations, there was always one guy who wanted to put a bomb in the president’s office. Just don’t underestimate Maggie, Rhys.’ For him it was a long and articulate speech, but Rhys’s reply was terse.
    â€˜I can handle Maggie.’
    â€˜She’s coming tonight?’
    â€˜Yes.’ It was said neutrally, but then he added with more animation, ‘Someone else is coming along tonight as well. Someone new.’
    â€˜Yeah? Who?’
    â€˜Does the name Fielding mean anything to you?’ Rhys replied