The Prayer of the Night Shepherd by Phil Rickman Page A

listen more to Nat; she had serious qualifications in catering and hotel management. Clancy said her mother had been running a big hotel at Looe, in Cornwall, before suddenly resigning (after a relationship with a man crashed). Then there’d been another admin job, at a motel near Slough, but Clancy had hated the school there and they’d moved on again. When the summer holidays came round, Nat had bought this old camper van and they’d just set off, looking for somewhere that felt right. Being gypsies, Clancy said.
    Nat shifted her leather coat from one arm to the other. ‘So this guy’s not interested in The Hound at all?’
    ‘Only as one of Ben’s wild schemes to attract trade, in this Punching the Clock series. And that would depend on having famous faces – actors, people like that – come to stay. Like out of pity; that’s how it’ll look, won’t it?’
    ‘Humiliation’s big,’ Nat said. ‘We love to see people going face-down on the concrete. Especially arrogant bastards from glamour jobs.’
    Jane nodded morosely, seeing it all now, like she was viewing the rushes – meaningful cutaway shots of damp patches and peeling flock wallpaper; Stanner Hall looking half-derelict under wintry skies; Ben striding around like some manic Basil Fawlty figure. She’d neither seen nor heard anything of Antony Largo until this weekend and, call her psychic, but she guessed that shafting his old mate wouldn’t leave him feeling over-gutted.
    The vacuum cleaner cut out. Jane glanced up the stairs, which had a new red carpet – an important buy, according to Ben: make the punters feel special going up to their rooms.
    ‘She shouldn’t be doing that. I should be doing it.’
    Nat eyed the tray. ‘She got you to serve breakfast instead, because she wants to stay in the background. Bloody shame, Jane. A class chef.’
    And you’re an experienced hotel manager , Jane thought. Yet here you both are. But she didn’t say anything about that because Ben and Antony Largo had emerged from the dining room, Largo saying, ‘... Oh, right down the shitter, ma friend, no question there. I’m no’ saying you didn’t get out at the right time , I just think there might’ve been better ways of—’
    He stopped. He’d seen Natalie, and he was looking at her the way male guests tended to. She was standing in a diagonal funnel of sun from the long window on the first landing. She looked typically gorgeous and typically unaware of it.
    ‘This is Natalie Craven.’ Ben took a step that put him between Nat and Antony. ‘Natalie’s my... house manager.’
    Nat raised an eyebrow. Antony put his head on one side. ‘I’m sorry, but you’re no’ an actress by any chance?’ When Nat started to shake her head and he could see she wasn’t smiling, he went on hurriedly, with a thickening of the accent, ‘Wisnae meant to be an insult, Natalie, I just thought Ben might’ve called in some old... favour.’
    ‘She doesn’t owe me any favours,’ Ben said tightly.
    ‘Hey!’ Antony put up his hands. ‘No offence, pal.’
    ‘None taken.’ Ben was looking a little weary now. ‘Nat, if you see Amber anywhere, can you tell her I’m taking Antony to the church to, ah, meet the Vaughans.’
    ‘Or perhaps you’d like to join us,’ Antony said softly to Nat. ‘Be good to get another perspective. I, er, gather the Vaughans don’t have a lot to say these days.’
    Nat smiled at him. ‘I’ve been there before. Also, there are people I need to phone. Bookings to make.’ She looked at Ben. ‘Like all the ones you put off this weekend?’ She threw her coat over the reception desk. ‘Why don’t you take Jane? Jane’s got a perspective on most things.’
    Ben shrugged. Jane glanced at Natalie, thinking she ought to be upstairs with Amber, cleaning and redecorating. But maybe Nat wanted to find out how this situation worked out, come back with a report.
    Cool.
    ‘Time for your break, surely,’ Nat said, confirming it. ‘And