Chapter One
In which there are Wet Willow Tits and searing hangovers.
Alec…
The day before…
Bloody hell, this headache was drilling its way out of my skull. Was I leaking brain matter from my ears yet?
Slipping on my sunglasses, I leaned away from the sun searing through the smoked windows of the Range Rover like a vampire sprinting for his coffin.
Why the fuck was the sun shining on this benighted section of Lancashire anyway? There’s nothing bright or cheerful about the building site where I’m about to crush the hopes and dreams of a shit collection of owl lovers and vegans in their homespun skirts.
“How did it get this far?” I snapped.
“We don’t know, sir.” Morgan Crouse, the head attorney for Lee Ville Industries, uneasily shifted in his seat. “We know that they gained access to the construction site, we believe they bribed a security guard.” He was one of those handsomely bland sort of men in a good suit with a black soul.
“Find out who was working security last night and fire all of them.” My PA, Charles, scowled, making a note on his iPad. “What do these owl lovers want, anyway? These groups always have some pitiful list of demands.”
“They’re not protesting about owls,” Charles said calmly, tapping away on his device. “It’s about-” He checked a note. “It’s about the declining Willow Tits.”
Even though my howl of laughter ricocheted viciously around my head, I needed that. “Bloody fucking hell, Willow Tits? What the hell are those?”
“They’re a small brown and white bird native to Lancashire and Blackpool. The Wet Willow Conservancy petitioned to stop the construction of the computer server facility and return the property to its natural state.”
I pulled a bottle of a good dark stout from the Range Rover’s mini-fridge. “The ‘natural state’ of this cesspool was the deteriorating Council housing that we tore down - after paying a hefty sum to relocate the tenants - even the cockroaches couldn’t handle the living conditions.” I drank half the bottle in two gulps. “Wet Willow Tits? Sounds like a porn star.”
Crouse laughed, covering it up with a well-bred cough. “In any case, we felt that an appearance from you and a donation from the investors should end this nonsense.”
“How much to make these imbeciles bugger off?”
“Ten thousand pounds.” Crouse opened his briefcase, pulling out a ceremonial check.
Ten thousand pounds was nothing. I knew this. But I was enraged at these tender little souls for fucking up my building site. We paid off all the right people to get this project started and further scrutiny is unwelcome. Very unwelcome.
One of the minor Sicilian mafias sent fifty men to intercept a crucial arms shipment I’d had coming into Blackpool. They won’t be heard from again, since they’re resting in the concrete footings of this project. This was one of my legitimate projects, partnering up with Lee Ville, but… waste not, want not. I needed concrete pilings, the Sicilian gunmen needed to be buried under some. I’d considered it a win-win until this idiocy with the en vironmentalists started up.
“How much press attention have they brought to the project?”
This time, Crouse looked genuinely apologetic. “Unfortunately, several media outlets, including the BBC and The Independent .”
I finished off my bottle of stout and grabbed another. Charles groaned. “Ah, god. I know that grin. You have a plan.”
“Why yes, I do Charles,” I said graciously, “thank you for asking.”
Two hours later…
“Have all of our gifts for the Wet Tit lovers arrived?”
“Mr. Davies, it’s the Wet Willow Conservancy - never mind,” Crouse hastily amended when he saw my expression.
“They have,” Charles clipped out, clearly displeased with me. He came to me as an idealistic graduate from the University of Cambridge Judge Business School. He’s blond, bespectacled, and enjoys expensive suits even more than I do. After eight years as my PA, he was bitter and cranky but too invested in his expensive wardrobe to ever betray me.
“Excellent. Kyle,” I nodded to my driver, “take us in.”
Why would these idiots have chosen this place to stand their ground over the plight of the Willow Tit? It’s an unprepossessing slab of mud surrounded by chain link fencing, with forty huge steel pilings jutting out of the earth. If Alastair was here, he’d have given me shit about creating the perfect image of phallic corporate dominance.
My little smile dropped. I haven’t spoken to him since the night he stood witness to… well, to the collapse of everything I knew about myself. He was back in London after a honeymoon with his bride, Sorcha, but I couldn’t see or speak to him right now. Not without seeing the betrayal that he was part of, now.
Pulling into the enclosure, I could see where the chain link gate was torn down and a ragged collection of twenty people or so were chained to the construction equipment. They were chanting something incomprehensible and were outnumbered four to one by construction workers and angry local residents. Overwhelming them all was a seething clot of photographers, reporters, and vloggers, giddy with the hope that this was the video that would ‘go viral’ and lift them from obscurity.
“Paste on that winning smile, sir,” Charles whispered. “Not the one worn by attractive psychopaths. The other one.”
Straightening my cuffs, I stepped from the SUV. I might actually enjoy this. The two bottles of stout had soothed my vibrating skull for the moment and I pulled off my Ray Bans. Billionaires in sunglasses look sinister. Here, at least, I’m but a simple businessman.
“Mayor Caldwell.” I held out my hand. We shook, both of us grinning bastards because nothing sets personal differences aside like a threat to our mutual bottom line.
“Good to see you, Mr. Davies, good to see you!” He put his other hand on top of mine, sandwiching it in an expression of deep friendship and solidarity. I might break a couple of his fingers later. Maybe the entire offending hand.
“It seems like we have a problem, and here I thought this project was well underway with no complications.”
“Well,” he harrumphed, “one cannot account for the vagaries of these easily excitable environmental groups.”
The protestors were clinging to their chained positions on my earthmover and bulldozer, and to my dislike, a few of them had latched on to one of the pilings hiding the burial ground of my Sicilian mafia troublemakers. They were all wearing the brightly colored “Save the Tits!” t-shirts I’d had delivered earlier and a huge banner was stretched behind them that read, “Protect The Wet Tits!”
“There he is! Right there!” A couple looking like brother and sister were aiming their bullhorns at me. They were both too expensively dressed and not haggard enough to truly be environmental activists, so this was likely strictly performative for them.
Which was why they were happy to eat and drink the food and dozens of bottles of beer I’d sent over earlier.
“There’s the evil bastard!” The sister shouted in a thick Scottish accent, “He wants to murder our tits!”
“Oh, my god,” sighed Crouse, mopping his forehead.
The press and workmen burst into laughter. The performative environmentalist reared back, offended.
The crowd of onlookers parted and I spotted her; a darkly attractive woman with hair cut into a severe black bob. She wasn’t holding a camera, she wasn’t even filming this spectacle on her phone. Her arms were folded and her lips pursed. She didn’t look happy. Her gaze moved from the protestors to me, eyes narrowed. I was dick deep in picturing the two of us together in bed before the crowd closed around her again.
“You rich fuckers think you control everything!” The other leader tried to shout over his chanting fellow protestors. “The Willow Tits have rights, too!”
More laughter from the crowd as a helpful volunteer passed out more bottles of a remarkably strong lager to the protestors.
It was very hot today, after all.
“Aye,” shouted my head foreman, “all the Tits have rights! Rights for the Tits! Save the Tits!”
A blonde reporter dropped her mic in the mud, laughing too hard to keep up her bright, plastic smile. My construction crew and well-meaning local bystanders took up the chant. “Save the Tits! Tits have rights!”
The protestors realized they were chanting the same thing as the opposition and went silent, looking at each other with confusion.
This was the most entertained I’ve been in months.
I turned toward the media. “Perhaps this well-meaning group is confused over what exactly they are trying to protect, but I am not.” I flashed a sincere smile that felt physically painful to hold. “The state of decline in the Poecile montanus species is a serious concern in the delicate balance of nature versus development in this part of Lancashire.
“This is why Davies International and Lee Ville Industries are donating fifty thousand pounds to the Wildlife Protection Agency that Mayor Caldwell has created.” I handed the new check to the Mayor, who hastily pinned on a big politician’s grin.
“Thank you, Mr. Davies, the Tits thank you.” Realizing what he’d said, the color drained from the Mayor’s face and he nearly shouted, “The declining Willow Tits thank you! And on behalf of the citizens of Lancashire, we thank you for bringing this computer server compound and over a hundred new jobs to our city.”
“Of course.” I smiled for the cameras as everyone behind me chanted:
“Save the Tits!”
“The Tits have rights!”
“Save the Tits!”
The environmentalists were trying to free themselves from my construction equipment, finding that they were shin-deep in mud. One man yelped, hauled one foot out of the wet, sticky ground, and lost his balance, toppling into the girl next to him. She screamed and landed on the back of the protestor closest to her, knocking him face-first into the black mud.
“I don’t know if you’ve seen pictures of what Woodstock looked like,” murmured Charles, enjoying the environmentalists churning in the mud, “but this is a close match, minus the LSD and the Grateful Dead.”
“I think we’re done here.” I straightened my suit jacket. “Where’s the closest pub?”