Inside, Ted’s gaff is huge, with everything done out in a sort of Disney version of a 17th Century farmhouse. Mrs. Ted, Fuscia’s stepmonster, turns out to be a fluffy blonde named Sandy who can’t be more than a day or so older than her stepwhore. Beckett nods and grins and shakes hands and then settles into a leather couch that tries to swallow him. He accepts a whisky, straight up double, to combat a chill he has yet to feel and sits sipping and sussing.
“Nice little place you have here.” Beckett says.
“Yes,” Ted says, like the chummy lord of the manor who doesn’t even have the bollocks to be an out-and-out bastard and so deserves hanging twice, “we rather like it. Our cozy little nook, eh angel.”
They simper at each other across the ankle-deep carpeted room, which Beckett seeks not to vomit all over by slugging down the last of his whisky.
“Er, yeah, loverly.” he says, proffering his glass.
But Ted is tutting and somehow saying no to another drink.
“I think its getting rather late. We have an early start tomorrow.”
An early start at what precisely is not specified. Beckett isn’t sure he likes the sound of that.
“So I’ll just have cook show you to your room.” Ted says.
“No butler then.” Beckett quips, and Ted picks up on the jest.
“Oh good, yes, rather, no Jeeves, you know. Just good old cook. She’ll fix you a sandwich if you’re peckish.”
“Thanks,” Beckett says, “but if you don’t mind I think I’ll just nip outside and have a quick smoke before I turn in.”
He’s careful not to specify what he’s going to smoke. Inside the lining of his jacket he has two placky bags. One has just straight up sensi, Neville’s holy bud, but the other has a quantity of cheap homegrown that has been dusted with PCP. He decides against this latter on account of he doesn’t reckon it’ll help matters if he’s discovered up on the roof with a goat or anything.
He’s eventually shepherded to his room by the cook, Mrs. Scrape. By the side of his bed he finds a foot-thick sandwich on crusty white farmhouse bread. However, upon opening said sandwich in order to determine what variety the beast is, he is greeted by way of a filling, with the sight of a row of tiny lamb’s tongues, possibly boiled, possibly not, lying in formation on the virginal white bread.
It is to the credit of Neville’s sensi that three minutes later Beckett is licking the crumbs from the plate’s pattern. Serious munchies.
Causes Luke James Supports
Doctors Without Borders