Barking by Tom Holt Page B

out of the blue—’ He snapped his fingers. ‘And that’s all there is to it,’ he added sadly. ‘My life down the toilet, basically.’
    â€˜Ah well.’ Luke shrugged again. ‘Spilled milk, plenty more fish, all that crap. I don’t really see, though, what any of that’s got to do with you quitting your job and coming in with us.’
    â€˜You raised the subject,’ Duncan snapped back.
    â€˜Yes,’ Luke said. ‘And obviously it’s relevant. It’s left you with a raw, bleeding hole where your self-esteem used to be, and that explains why you can’t be bothered to try doing something about your wretched, pointless existence. Fair enough; I can see exactly where you’re coming from. What I’m having trouble with is your reluctance to leave the barren desert island and let yourself get rescued by the passing ship. Can’t see the problem myself. Perhaps you’d care to explain.’
    It had never been what Luke Ferris said; always the way he said it. How else could anyone explain why instructions like you take this bowl of cold custard and balance it on top of the Head’s office door while I nip back and set off the fire alarm had, at the time, seemed not only wise and sensible but the only possible course of action in the circumstances? Later on, in the still calm of triple detention, it was possible to unpick the strands of his logic and trace the fatal flaws. But when Luke was giving you your orders, it was as though the Oxford University Press had recalled all the earlier editions of the Dictionary and replaced them with one containing only the single word Yes .
    â€˜I need time to think about it,’ Duncan repeated.
    And Luke shrugged again. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You’d be an idiot to take a big decision like this without weighing up all the pros and cons, considering the implications, really thinking hard about what you want to do with your life.’ He smiled. ‘You can have as long as it takes me to get in another round. Then you can toddle back to Craven Ettins and clear your desk.’
    In spite of his mental turmoil, Duncan couldn’t let that pass. ‘Does alcohol have any effect on you at all?’ he asked.
    Luke smiled. ‘Long story. Be back soon.’
    There was, Duncan decided, only one thing he could sensibly do. He waited until Luke reached the bar and turned his back on him; then he jumped up and scuttled out of the pub as fast as he could go.
    Reception glared at him as he loped through the front office, looking nervously over his shoulder. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘You’ve had ever so many calls in the last ten minutes. Ferris and Loop—’
    He leaned on the desk, both hands planted, fingers spread, so that Reception leaned back nervously. ‘If Mr Ferris rings,’ he said loudly and clearly, ‘tell him I died. Got run over by a bus at the corner of Barditch Alley. Private funeral, no flowers. You got that?’
    â€˜Yes, but—’
    â€˜Bus. Brakes squealing. Squelch. Flat as a pool table. Come on, picture it in your mind, it’ll help you sound convincing.’
    Duncan couldn’t stop himself sprinting up the stairs, hardly stopping to draw breath until he was back in his office with the door shut. He was tempted to drag the filing cabinet over to block the doorway with, but he guessed the partners might not approve. To hell with Luke Ferris and his rotten gang, he said to himself. I’ve been there once, I’m not going back. Ever.
    All that afternoon he felt as though his chair was stuffed with six-inch nails, and every time the phone rang he cringed. But apparently he’d shaken them off, at least for now. As four o’clock dragged by (it was one of those days when the Chariot of the Sun gets a flat tyre, and its fiery Charioteer has to get out and push it all the way to the portals of the sunset) he felt