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    Mercenaries
    Mercenaries
    Mercenaries
    Ebook124 pages1 hour

    Mercenaries

    By Janet Bettesworth

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Mercenaries plunges into the no-holds-barred dark world of Airbnb machinations.

    Carla, a comedian, and Louise, an actress, are bribed by an elderly landlady, Alice, to travel to a rival Airbnb establishment on the coast and exact revenge.

    A mélange of gruesome memories emerges as events unfold.

    With illustrations by the author.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAustin Macauley Publishers
    Release dateMar 31, 2022
    ISBN9781398407220
    Mercenaries
    Author

    Janet Bettesworth

    Janet Bettesworth is a retired art teacher and stand-up comedian. She has lived in South London for over forty years with two dogs (different ones) and her semi-detached husband. This is her first novel.

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      Book preview

      Mercenaries - Janet Bettesworth

      Chapter One

      Abstract from Secrets of the Scissor-Wielding Sisterhood by Carla Capstick:

      A gentle ray of summer sunshine sidled in to explore the recesses of a primrose painted kitchen in Maida Vale. It caressed the spines of a row of books on a humble shelf: it seemed to relish their titles, The Atkins Diet, Eat Yourself Slim, The Keto Diet Life-Long Weight Loss and be impressed by the life of discipline and restraint they advised.

      A shadow loomed across the sunlit display as Hetty, the owner of the books and the kitchen, lumbered towards the kettle and put out two mugs. The kitchen door burst open, and Jeremy, the plumber, appeared. He sat and waited, watching the bulk of Hetty slithering inside the confines of her gauzy cotton shift.

      How’s the diet going, Hetty? he enquired. I only ask because— he pointed at a plate of doughnuts oozing jam in the heat haze and attracting one or two flies.

      The thought of flies made him glance down to where his engorged member was urgently pressing against the stiff denim of his work trousers. And the word ‘stiff’ made matters a lot worse.

      If only she wouldn’t keep moving about, if only he couldn’t hear the gentle suck of her soft flesh sticking and unsticking itself from the dress – if only she had stuck to the Atkins Diet…

      In answer to your question, Jeremy, she murmured, sliding a doughnut into her mouth. I live for today, and diet for tomorrow…

      His eyes were riveted on her full, jam-smeared lips – a single grain of sugar trembled upon a blonde hair of her downy chin.

      With a low groan, he launched himself forward. Too late, the sunshine illuminated the last book on the shelf, Secrets of the Scissor-Wielding Sisterhood, and moved slowly down to reveal the enormous shears, with their three-foot blades.

      Phew! The first draft is done. I have to write a short performance ‘spoken word’ piece for my friend Louise’s theatre company, Hecate’s Spawn. It’s five women and a drag queen, and this is for their 2020 show in The Vaults, under Waterloo Station. Just hoping it’s #MeToo enough because that’s what they’re after.

      But I’d better introduce myself and let you Google me.

      Carla

      Chapter Two

      It’s a tall Victorian house in South London.

      Sounds good, doesn’t it? But really, it’s a medium-height Victorian house in Balham.

      On the ground floor lives seventy-six-year-old Alice—the owner and a retired art teacher—and on the first floor, her thirty-nine-year-old lodger Carla, a stand-up comedian. (That’s me.)

      There is no separate inner door to Carla’s flat, a source of some annoyance to Carla.

      Carla

      Christ, I should never have said yes. Alice asked me down for a cup of tea, dangling the promise of croissants which, fair do’s, were OK, not burnt at least, for once. But then she started telling me all about her adventures at the Courtnell Institute Galleries in the ‘60s, all about ’Sir Aldo’ who was the director of the place.

      Apparently, Sir Alderney Brunt was also the keeper of the Queen’s pictures, so practically royal, until he got unmasked as a Soviet spy and publicly disgraced; it was a massive scandal. She went: "Oh, that was a few years later, but at the time, he was worshipped by everyone! My immediate boss was the curator, Philip Tenchman; he seemed in awe of him as well.

      Then there was this awful woman called Janet Bolt who claimed to be special friends with Sir Aldo because she’d once worked with him at the palace…

      And on, and on…I tried clearing my throat and glancing pointedly at the plate of croissants. "Oh, sorry, do have another one! Well, anyway, one day, I was having a coffee break in the little dingy room downstairs with a large man called Zoltan Wegner, who used to come and photograph the paintings for reproduction.

      Ektachrome, they were called in those days! Big slabs of heavy glass. (No idea what she was talking about.) Zoltan Wegner always used to bring us cream cakes from Schmidt’s in Charlotte Street, so he was very popular!

      Schmidt’s - that takes me back! she sighed. It really was like a throwback to a Viennese rococo pastry palace of the 1870s – glittering, tinkling chandeliers, huge, arched mirrors, mounds of glistening profiteroles, scurrying waiters …

      Blimey, this was making me even hungrier; I grabbed the last croissant.

      Yes, so what happened? Never known anyone go off on so many tangents, all leading precisely nowhere.

      Oh yes, so where was I? Just sitting there enjoying chocolate cream eclairs with Zoltan Wegner ...

      And?

      Alice

      "Then suddenly in burst Janet Bolt. I could tell her nose was completely out of joint. She said, ‘Alice, Sir Aldo and Philip want to see you,’ looking very jealous.

      "Well, I went upstairs, but all it was, was that a majolica vase from the Flambier-Barry Collection had to be sent off on loan, and they needed me to locate it for them.

      "Sir Alderney Brunt was incredibly tall and lanky; he sort of loomed over us in a lofty, aristocratic fashion, addressing a few stiff pleasantries to me as Mr Tenchman knelt on the gallery floor packing the vase with layer after layer of newspaper, then panting slightly as he tied it up in string, with even tighter and more complicated knots.

      "I’ll always remember the exact words Sir Aldo drawled at that point, as they seemed to be the epitome of de haut en bas: N’exagerons pas, Philippe!"

      She paused for a second.

      "Well, just like you, Carla, I didn’t laugh…pretended I didn’t understand French!

      The next day Mr Tenchman brought me in some raspberries from his allotment. He lived somewhere like High Wycombe if I remember rightly…

      That job sounds a bit of a cushy number if you ask me, money for old rope.

      What was your salary for that job, if you don’t mind me asking?

      No, not at all, I remember quite clearly; it was thirteen pounds and ten shillings per week.

      See what I mean? They say age is just a number, but errrrm—

      The doorbell went off at this point. Thank you, God!

      "Oh,

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