A Sheep In Wolf's Clothing

By David Simmons, Tom Ronan and Andy Barrons

Tom Perkins has a life. One that's safe, straight forward and predictable - until he decides to attend a school reunion in a London pub. Soon Tom's pleasant but dull bachelor universe is turned upside down as he becomes embroiled in a world of intrigue, globetrotting and exploding chickens. Drawn to the vivacious yet unfathomable Jo Richards, and forced to rub shoulders with arms-dealing diamond traders, murderous double agents and the higher echelons of the Civil Service, Tom is out of his depth. In fact, the only thing that stands between him and certain death is a crazed aunt who keeps an arms cache where her vacuum cleaner should be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326027452

Book preview

A Sheep In Wolf's Clothing

A Sheep In Wolf’s Clothing

Author Profiles

Tom Ronan was born and raised in Hertfordshire and believes the saying ‘Hertfordshire born and Hertfordshire bred: strong in the arm but thick in the head’ is only partially justified. He has spent many years living in either in the UK or Australia and has now settled in the UK for the beautiful weather and great beaches.

Andy Barrons was born in Northumberland. In his early twenties, after mastering the concept of trousers, he decided to broaden his horizons and move to London. On losing his return ticket he had no choice but to remain and seek employment. He wrote his sections of this novel when not dying inside at having to use words like ‘face-time’ and ‘journey’ to make his living.

David Simmons was born in Japan, raised in Hong Kong and digitally re-mastered in London. He initially worked as an actor, then as an IT manager and then for a charity. He is now a self-employed freelance independent, although exactly what this means remains to be determined.

Credits

A SHEEP IN WOLF’S CLOTHING

Copyright © 2012 Tom Ronan, Andy Barrons

and David Simmons

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover artwork: Jeremy Simmons.

First eBook Edition.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-326-02745-2

Dedications

To

Sam, Mum, Dad, Claire and Ali,

Gail and Lottie,

Amanda, Jeremy, Toby and Peter

Preface

This is a book about friendship. Not of the characters, but of the three authors. Over several years, across several thousand miles and through the birth of children, redundancies, house moves, more redundancies, heartache, heartbreak and heartburn, we have somehow managed to weave together this story of friendship using the internet. We hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed writing, re-writing, shaping, editing, re-editing and re-re-editing it.  If you don’t then tough, quite frankly.

With special thanks to our families and partners who have supported us over the years. Thanks also to Helen Ashley and Karen Beamont for their encouragement after the early drafts.

Particular thanks to Jeremy Simmons who is responsible for the copy editing and typesetting, as well as all of the cover artwork.

Prologue

Rasputin watched as Vladimir Lenin sloped away from the toilet door. A young Shanghai police officer followed close behind. Robespierre gurgled the remains of his upended beer bottle and watched as a pale green Karl Marx was carried out of the bar and into the street, suspended between two Bolsheviks, whose biggest struggle at this moment was to prevent him falling headlong onto the pavement.

Two more Chinese officers held the glass entrance doors open to let the rest of the sorry cavalcade depart. Che Guevara staggered along behind the Father of Communism and his two comrades-in-arms. Oliver Cromwell lay prostrate across a corner table beside the PA and snored, his warts slowly sliding down his chin. A young Chinese officer prodded him awake with a nightstick, before making his way toward the toilets.

The pool of blood on the white-tiled toilet floor was still fresh. The body lying face up in the centre of this gentlemen’s rest room looked shocked and confused, its eyes wide and its mouth agape as if frozen in mid-explanation for the mess.

The young Chinese officer squatted next to the body and looked closely at its face, ignoring the babble of panic and curiosity in the bar just beyond the battered swing door.

He reached down to his belt and unclipped his radio, ready to confirm his latest report and describe the details for the file. European male: average height, solid build, close-cropped short hair. Late thirties. Blue jeans with a striped rugby shirt tucked into them. The only interesting feature was a small blackened bullet hole just left of centre in his forehead.

He pressed send on his radio and reported to the station. Then he sniffed, stood with a grimace and called to his colleague in the bar to tape off the scene.

The humid Shanghai night was enlivened by the cherryade red lights of several police cars and the aimless but curious protestations of the ‘Revolution’ themed fancy dress revellers. Queen Boudicca passed a bottle of sparkling wine to Leon Trotsky, who promptly vomited over the hubcap of a squad car. A nearby fourteenth-century peasant looked suitably revolted. Another vehicle hissed into the throng: a black limousine with British consular plates. The driver’s door swung open, knocking over a large stack of bicycles that were leaning against a nearby wall, and a brightly dressed pirate captain made some final adjustments to his neat moustache and eye-patch in the rear view mirror before stepping out.

He brushed past the police cars and made his way to the cordon,  his wavy-haired wig gleaming with oil. He then stood and watched as police constables babbled on their radios and a team of forensics filed into the bar.

The pirate delved into an inside pocket and produced an identity card which he thrust into the face of a policeman, before addressing him in fluent Mandarin.

From the British Consul. Get out of my bloody way. Now.

He swept through the bar. The floor space was now completely  vacated. The sound of a power ballad from the late 1980s continued to echo throughout the hollow room.

In the toilet, a forensic detective had begun to examine the body for clues. He removed a British passport from a pocket, along with a Shanghai metro ticket and several notes of currency in various denominations. He folded them into small plastic evidence bags for later examination.

The door was forced open, and the forensic team looked over their shoulders to see an ornate buccaneer from the eighteenth century standing in the frame. Someone muttered British by means of explanation. The pirate spoke, again in Mandarin.

Which of you is the superior officer here?

A calm looking Chinese detective held up both hands in a placatory gesture.

Good evening sir. I’m the senior here for the moment. It grieves us to have to deal with the murder of a British citizen.

Well? Cause of death? Time of death? Any CCTV footage?

Sir, you may wait for the written report, but I can tell you here and now that he died approximately two hours ago. He was dispatched by a silenced firearm at point-blank range. A small calibre weapon, by the look of it. We’ll know for sure once we take the evidence to the lab. But I do know the ballistic material was not of Chinese origin –

He was waved to a stop by the Englishman.

Yes, yes. Look, I must ask you and your team to withdraw. I have been empowered to remove him on behalf of … here he paused, as if for dramatic effect, Her Britannic Majesty’s government. He fiddled with his plastic hook.

The Chinese detective looked pained, but patient. Certainly not. Diplomatic privileges do not run to that level here. Not in China. Please do not detain us further. I would need written authority from my Chief of Police and a member of the politburo. Both would be unlikely to –

The Englishman proffered a crisp white envelope. The detective took it, withdrew two pieces of vellum paper and read the contents of both. He looked down at the still-perplexed expression on the corpse, before thrusting the papers back to the now rather smug-looking Englishman.

Very well, the officer sighed, with an air of resignation. He ordered his team to leave everything and remove their equipment at once. They cast suspicious glances at the intruder, then left the room one by one. I hope you have followed procedure, the detective continued. I have to say I find this highly irregular, and will be making official enquiries of my own in the morning. I hope you have arranged a British vehicle to transport the corpse and a clean-up team. He handed the plastic wallets of evidence to the foreigner.

The Consul here can respond adequately enough, thank you, said the Englishman with a bored air as he took the wallets. He watched as the gathered police learned of the shift in authority. Radios crackled once more and the Englishman’s identification was checked a final time. Outside, the police cars began to drive away, until only one officer was left at the door by the blue tape – the revelers had been dispersed a little time before.

The Englishman re-entered the toilet, leant over the corpse, and muttered in English to its inanimate face, That was close, eh? You won’t make that mistake again, will you, Talbot? No-one blows the whistle on Mike Watson.

Taking a pair of disposable gloves from his pocket, he reached over and carefully untucked the rugby shirt from the victim’s waistband.

He moved over to the mirrors above the hand basins and ensured that the flap of latex under his hairline at the back of his neck was still secure. Lifting up his eye patch, he rubbed his watering but perfectly good eye into focus with the back of his hand, and reached inside his jacket, checking that his handgun was secured in its leather holster. There was a single bullet missing.

His mobile phone began to vibrate. He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and answered in English.

The voice on the line began to get angry, but stopped midway amid a series of wheezing coughs. Mike Watson held the phone away from his ear as if used to such interruptions. The caller began his tirade again and Watson resigned to listen like a schoolboy being admonished for a minor offence.

When the caller had finished he replied, It’s alright sir. The leak has been plugged, in English, followed by now piss off! in Mandarin.

Part One – A Sheep

Chapter One

Tom Perkins stared at a school friend that he hadn’t seen for twenty odd years. Bob Cameron. Tom’s strongest memory of Bob involved watching him stuff crisps into his pudgy face in the school common room. Nothing to compete with, say, a recollection of him packing up his troubles in his old kit bag, or dragging a fallen comrade through the mud of The Somme. But as a memory it served a purpose.

Tom felt that he had to say hello. Break the decades-old ice. That was the whole point of school re-unions, wasn’t it? Rekindling old friendships, exchanging stories, some of which might even be true. Trying to make life after school look interesting, as if all that youthful potential had been realised.

Bob Cameron. Tom looked at him again. Judging by the size of his stomach alone it looked as though Bob had indeed been eating nothing but crisps since the common room days. He also sported a sad, saggy beard, which appeared to contain the remnants of a generation of executive lunches. Tom took a deep breath and plunged in.

Bob! Bob Cameron! How the devil are you? he began, extending a tentative hand.

Not bad! It’s, er, Ted, isn’t it?

No, I –

Fancy a pint? Bob interrupted before Tom could correct him.

Sure.

Two pints of Wasserbräu, please, Bob ordered. And a Big Eat packet of cheese and onion.

Tom took the beer from the counter, gave the attractive pub barmaid his most winning smile – which she ignored – and looked again at Bob.

You’ve changed, Bob said, dipping his beard into the lager foam.

Have I? How, exactly?

Tom had him there. The truth was, Bob couldn’t remember who Tom was at all, and both of them knew it.

You’ve … grown older.

Tom thought he would be kind to him by attempting a bland joke.

But none the wiser!

Bob guffawed, snorting beer through his nose and showering Tom and several other customers with nasally-reprocessed foam. He then proceeded to choke, which turned his face a gentle maroon and caused everyone around him to retreat. He took a breath and gazed at Tom, fountain-eyed, before retrieving a clammy, well-used handkerchief from his pocket and blowing his nose. He examined its contents and pocketed it with a flourish, before taking another gulp of his beer, emitting a satisfied gasp and belching like a unblocked drain.

Do you see anyone else these days? Bob bellowed, making no attempt to excuse his recent display of public manners.

The rest of the customers in the respectable London pub returned to their own conversations, having been momentarily stunned into silence by this pyrotechnic display of Bob’s bodily functions.

Er, no, not really, Tom said.

Bob’s breath was a combination of lager, cheese and onion crisps and what appeared to be stale vase water. He was also standing very close to Tom, threatening to invade his personal space.

So. How about you? Do you see anyone from school anymore? Tom asked, trying to back away.

Nah. I only came to this reunion because Jo Richards organised it. Bit of alright Jo, eh? Still gorgeous after all these years. And because I work near here. He took another long gulp of his lager.

Tom looked around the pub in desperation. A few more minutes of this, he thought, and he would have to jump out the window and run into the night. But before he could act upon the impulse Jo Richards walked through the door.

She had been the most popular of all the girls at their old school. Girls had been introduced to the school at some point in the late seventies, almost as a lazy afterthought, and every female had been admired by the adolescent boys.

Jo had caused quite a stir. Several of the boys had asked her to various functions (rumour had it that one night she declined thirteen invitations to the school dinner dance) and one boy claimed to have kissed her full on the lips on her first day. Tom, on the other hand, had watched and waited for the perfect moment to ask her out, which, of course, never came.

And here she was: Jo Richards. Instantly recognisable, her wide, bright eyes were slightly lined by the passage of time, and were perhaps just a little world-weary. Jo Richards, still alluring, still enigmatic. She wandered past Tom and Bob without seeing them and on to another group in the corner which neither had noticed before, and to which Tom now glanced back at regular intervals while Bob ranted on. Tom tried in vain to catch Jo’s eye.

He had last met up with Jo only a couple of years ago. Then, she had led him to believe that she was busy and unattainable, and yet here she was, holding court in the next bar. Tom resolved to find a way to get over to her side of the pub.

Right, he thought. Don’t panic. How to evade the creature who seemed to have single-handedly consumed the gross equivalent of the European Union crisp mountain?

– then old Billy says he hasn’t had enough sherbet and I say –

Bob was in full flow. Someone could have pulled a gun on him and the poor sod wouldn’t have noticed. Tom did the simplest thing. He just nodded, smiled, and backed off to where the others stood, letting Bob continue his prattle.

Tom reached the periphery of the other group, and, waiting for Bob to turn aside in emphasis, pivoted on the spot to find himself in the crowd surrounding Jo. They were buried in endless trains of small talk, nodding, chuckling, sipping their drinks, eyes twinkling in fond recollection.

Jo stood just above Tom’s shoulder height. Her hair was long, but pinned up, suggesting sophistication and practicality. She was not a slight girl, and looked as though she had been spending a lot of time in the gym; even in her tailored suit Tom could trace a powerful curve to her arms and shoulders. Then there was her mouth. Tom had forgotten the hours he had spent as a youth dreaming of nothing but the exquisite formation of her lips. The others in the pub merged into a hazy huddle of suits and half-mast ties, and Jo stood alone, in the centre of Tom’s field of vision. From the distant bar, Bob’s voice droned on, a minor auditory inconvenience in a sea of dreams.

Mike! Mike Watson! Bloody good to see you!

Tom felt his hand being pumped. Hard. An odd looking rangy chap in a sharp suit next to him drew him into the group’s conversation with this growling exclamation, and suddenly all eyes were on Tom – including Jo’s.

Tom tried to stammer, No, it’s Tom Perkins, but another voice broke in.

Mike Watson! What the hell have you been up to all this time?

And another: You still playing cricket you old ratbag? Remember the double century against Bancroft’s?

You were unbelievable, mate. I always said you’d go far!

Why weren’t you picked by Essex? Or the England selectors?

Jo’s eyes shone, but she remained silent, gazing at Tom. She knew he wasn’t Mike Watson, superstar. He was Tom Perkins, a thoroughly unremarkable individual. Yet here he was being mistaken for Mike Watson, a person with whom Tom had always shared something of a physical similarity at school.

Tom could see the twin roads of truth and dishonesty now parting in front of him. He marched at a brisk pace straight down Liar Lane without so much as a backward glance.

Yes. I – had a fair few good innings, he began, winking at Jo and leaning against the bar in what he hoped resembled a devil-may-care fighter pilot pose.

What are you doing work wise now, Mike? You in the City? enquired one of his eager admirers.

Oh no. Left all those suits behind years ago, he swaggered. I’m, er, he had to think on his feet, up West now. Where had that bizarre phrase come from? Up West?

Oh! said his fans in unison. Up West, eh?

Tom blustered through a few more sentences until he once again caught Jo’s eye. She smiled. She appeared to be enjoying it almost as much as he was. He swallowed, hard.

I remember you being taller, Mike, she whispered playfully. Tom shrugged, and hoped he was still smiling. She was teasing, and he felt himself compelled to keep up with the charade, if only for her.

He looked down at his shoes, then into her face once more. Everyone else fell away.

*

It was winter. Tom Perkins trudged across the lower green to the gym behind the chemistry block. The drizzle was turning into rain, and he was late for PE – the rest of the class had already changed and were being tutored in basketball layups by Mr. Lawson.

Roon at it, then skip up on to your non-dominant leg and power oop to t’rim – There was a thudding and squeaking of heavy feet on sprung flooring, – like that!

Mr. Lawson was a Yorkshireman with broad shoulders, a broader accent and a substantial moustache who spoke of muck and brass and owt for nowt to the bewilderment of his young acolytes. Most boys respected him, but couldn’t like him. Of Tom Perkins, he would say, Lad, booming in his fruity bass, if ah were thee I’d get some suet on those young bones. And a bit of drippin’. This from the individual charged with the task of encouraging his physical wellbeing.

Tom slunk into the corridor and turned towards the changing rooms. The outer door slammed and the drizzle-misted glass pane rattled in its frame. Jo Richards stepped out of the girls’ changing rooms ahead of him, her hips swaying, barely covered by the stiff navy blue of her gym skirt. She turned and saw young Tom Perkins staring at her like a demented puppy.

Hello, Perkins. Listen. Can I ask a huge favour? Other girls were drifting from their changing room and out onto the hockey pitches. Miss Willis, their games mistress, was outside chivvying, It’s just water falling. We shall all live, ladies. Come along!

Tom stood there, hands dry, his heart rate a steady seventy beats per minute. Jo Richards wanted to ask him a favour.

His inner voice was in hyperdrive: Yes, yes, yes! Ask me anything. I’ll do it! Anything!

His half-broken real voice destroyed any illusion, What – ?

She beamed. Oh, you. Stop playing hard to get. Listen, Dave Simpson says you’re pretty good at Physics. If I can copy your test results I’ll help you in English Comp. next Wednesday. Please. Go on. I hate Physics.

Wext nensday? came the halting reply.

She must have been used to dealing with the intellectually challenged, as she never missed a beat or tried to embarrass Tom even further.

Yep. Wednesday. OK? Deal? I’ll see you in Physics later.

She turned and treated Tom to her hips once more. Mr. Lawson’s head and torso appeared in the Gym door. Do join us, yoong man. We need t’human sacrifice to demonstrate one of t’more arcane rules of basketball. We all thought of you, naturally. He pointed to the changing room door opposite. "In there. Changed and out here