Dream Paris by Tony Ballantyne Page A

tentacles for arms. I suppose the answer to that would depend on whether she had the same for legs. But then again, who knew? Francis was a man, and this woman had big tits and a welcoming manner. Wrap a pair of octopus legs around him and he’d probably welcome being pulled in.
    “Two rooms for the night, and passage across the Channel,” said Francis.
    “And why’s that? Why would you want to go across there?”
    The words were spoken by one of the drinkers. I’m not sure which, all three of them kept their gazes firmly fixed on their pints. Francis turned to face them.
    “We want to go across so we can find this young lady’s mother. Do you know of someone who might have a boat?”
    “You’ll not find a boat that will take you across that water. Not in this port.”
    “I’m sorry. Would you mind looking at me when I’m speaking to you?”
    I felt a little shiver at that, that edge of cold politeness in his voice. I have to hand it to Francis: he spoke the words with just the right amount of menace. I’d have quite fancied him if he wasn’t such a sexist pig. One of the men looked up. He was small and stocky, with the pale skin and smooth hands of a sailor who had not been to sea for some time.
    “Try heading for Folkestone. They go hunting for mosasaur and liopleurodon in their big ships. I heard they sometimes trade with the French. Maybe one of them will take you across.”
    His gaze returned to his pint.
    The barmaid wasn’t having it. “Go to Folkestone, indeed! Why are you always so bloody awkward, Graham? There’s lots of people go to France nowadays. There’s no shame in it!” She winked at Francis. “Passage across the Channel can be arranged, lover. Just make sure you’re in bed for eleven.”
    Francis grinned, and his whole manner changed. He was no longer the quiet menace, now he was the cocky wideboy, the cheeky charmer. He was hot, yes, but I find his sort of arrogance a turn off.
    “My mum told me to always be in bed on time. I’m a good boy, I am.” He gave a wink.
    “Are you sure? My mother warned me about boys like you!”
    I was fed up with this. Had he forgotten he was engaged?
    “I’m hungry,” I announced. “Do you serve food?”
    “Certainly, madam ,” said the barmaid, suddenly all brisk efficiency. “We’ve got stew, eggs or pork. Oh, there might be some salmagundi.”
    “Two plates of stew,” said Francis. “And is it okay if I leave my backpack by the door?”
    It was odd, but no one seemed to have noticed the backpack until then. No-one had noticed the silver wire trailing back through the door and out into the street. Now the barmaid and the three locals were all staring at the wire, looking at where it passed through the side of the door. Now we came to look at it properly, we could all see it stretching across the room.
    The barmaid shook her head. “Put your pack here by the bar, lover.” She noticed me looking at her. “Are you okay?”
    “Aren’t you going to point out that you like a man with a big package?”
    She wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she settled on ignoring me. I was quite happy with that, anything to distract attention from the silken thread of the wire. Francis’s face was a closed book. What was he thinking? What did he know about the pack?
    The barmaid shook her head again. Finally, she seemed to snap back into herself.
    “I’ll get the boy to take it up to your room later. Now, do you want a drink?”
    “I’d love some tea,” said Francis.
    “Two mugs,” I said.
    We sat down in a little booth, facing each other across the table. The barmaid brought two bowls of brown stew. I noticed that Francis’s helping was much larger than mine. Half of his hadn’t been slopped over the side, either. Still, it looked tasty. There was rich brown gravy, yellow fruit, white potatoes, chunks of meat.
    “Smells good,” said Francis
    “Call me Lizzie, lover.” The barmaid picked up Francis’s napkin with one tentacle, shook it