The Lord of Misrule

24 -- Lusk's Return

Come noon that Sunday and Bogdan Lusk was holed up in London, overlooking a bad neighbourhood from the picture window of a luxury flat that wasn't his in a t-shirt and jeans. The building was a veritable monolith called the Strandson, every inch and room of which was owned by Mr. Thwaite.

A smartphone—not Bogdan's and containing a never before used SIM card—was on the glass-top table behind him, and despite his nerves he found himself feeling like the villain of a 1980's neon and blood-drenched action-thriller. Overlooking the city as he waited for phone confirmation that the hero was finally dead after the big climatic gambit, only for him to turn at a noise and be greeted the by "Not this time Lusk!" and the repeated crack of an Uzi.

It would blow open his chest but not kill him—instead he'd stagger back and tumble through the window in a shower of blood and glass while the hero looked on. He smiled then at the thought of a spandex-clad babe appearing from some corner or another, and the big kiss before the "Let's get outta here!" followed by a saxophone as the camera zoomed out the broken window while the credits crawled by like anyone cared.

The phone rang behind Bogdan, and his flight of fancy was interrupted. He turned and stared at it—a stupid jingle announcing Nathan Brant's burner phone, as expected. But the call was late—Bogdan let it ring. The message he found would dictate whether Brant been successful or not, and whether Lusk would have time to pick out something that fit his fanciful flight from a streaming service that afternoon, or whether he'd have duties to perform.

The whining jingle ended, a brief pause, and the phone buzzed. Bogdan lifted it and played the message—would only be one of five brief pre-planned phrases that sat on a scale from total failure of operation, to total success.

Total success meant he'd only have to pass it on to Thwaite and would be free for a few days (but still paid!) before the boss returned to London, and they'd go back down to Clemsworth to pick it up and settle with Brant.

But Bogdan's smile fell from his face, the message went, "Can't make dinner 'til tomorrow and I'm bringing a guest who's interested in the hot tub."

Lusk ground his teeth—Brant had partially failed—and what's more there was some kind of complication that meant murder. Lusk walked into the bedroom and pulled out another phone. Mr. Thwaite would be awaiting his call now—the whole cabal peering at him from some gloomy room in the lodge, including Mr. Venner.

Bogdan dialled. Mr. Thwaite answered on the second ring, and only breathed for an instant before he said, "Is dinner still on?"

"Delayed," said Bogdan. "Our guest wants a plus one for the pool party. Might need to expand the guest list afterward."

There was an angered click of the tongue but Thwaite said nothing and Bogdan smiled. Mr. Venner would be watching Thwaite, ready to quietly judge his decision.

"A plus one is invited," said Thwaite before too much time could creep by and make him appear indecisive and weak, "But tell our guest they shall have to foot the bill, for them, or any others that might decide to attend at the last minute. Be sure to serve them their drinks the moment they arrive."

Thwaite hung up.

No movie today, butthere still might be fun to be had. Bogdan walked to the bedroom and grabbedhis suite-case, checked to make sure he still had his gun and a few other itemsand then made for the elevator.

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600 words.

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