King Rich Read Online Free PDF Page A

shock Richard finds himself hoping for another big one. When he is halfway down the second beer he glimpses between buildings a contingent of men and women in hi-vis vests and hard hats passing along Manchester Street in the direction of Cathedral Square. They are talking excitedly.
    Two Heinekens and a Johnnie Walker later the sun climbs out of sight of the window and Richard realises he is hungry. He slides into a pair of fluffy slippers like hooped poodles.
    In the ground-floor kitchen vegetables and crockery litter the floor. On the hob, a fish fillet sits in a pan. A deep-fryer is cold and gelid, the basket of shoestring fries still buried in it. On the far side of the kitchen several sacks of washed potatoes and onions in bags of red netting. Inside a double-doored fridge the size of a master wardrobe there’s a mass of meat, several beasts’ worth of meat. Gas and power are off but Richard finds the little trolley that is wheeled into the dining room to make show-off dishes, instant wok stuff, flambéed crepes. And he would like to wheel it out into the bistro now, for the theatre of it, the self-amusement, but he does not dare to risk being seen.
    A spark clicks at the turn of the dial and the gas flares fierce and blue. The frying pan he chooses is copper-bottomed, posh. From the fridge a fistful of bacon. The noise and smell of the sizzling briefly worries him and he turns thegas down a little, goes hunting for eggs, finds them, dozens of them, no, thousands, stacked on trays in a pantry that held them snugly. Only the top two layers are broken. He flicks the bacon onto a plate, cracks two eggs into the fat and hears a noise.
    He turns off the gas, stands still, barely breathing. The noise again. From the back wall, the door there. A scratching and then, yes, a whining. He slumps with relief, breathes out. Goes to the door, puts his ear to it, then gently depresses the handle, opens the door a crack, peers out, then opens it wide.
    The dog backs off in surprise. Its ears flatten. Its tail wags deferentially. It is wearing a worn leather collar. Richard looks around the hotel’s delivery yard. Empty, flanked on three sides by tall blank walls, the fourth side leading presumably to Manchester Street. He fetches bacon from the fridge, holds it out for the dog. It approaches cautiously, takes the rasher, gulps it down but stays outside. Richard fetches more bacon, lures the dog in, shuts the door while it’s eating.
    He offers the dog the back of his hand to sniff, then strokes the soft fur of its neck. It’s a mongrel of sorts, a bit of huntaway perhaps, a bit of lab, the sort of dog that all dogs would be in only a few generations if people just let them alone.
    In the giant fridge Richard finds a flat cardboard box of steaks, porterhouse. He tosses two to the dog, fills a bowl with water and places it on the floor. The dog slurps greedily.
    â€˜And now, if you’ll excuse me, dog,’ he says, and the dog looks up and wags its tail. While Richard fries his eggs andeats at a bench of stainless steel, the dog tours the kitchen floor, finds plenty to keep it busy.
    The tour done, it comes cautiously to Richard, who strokes the dome of the dog’s head, feels the angles of the skull. The dog leans against his thigh. A registration disc dangles from the collar but no name tag.
    â€˜Friday, I’ll call you Friday.’ Richard chuckles and the dog’s tail swings in response. ‘Shall we go get a drink, Friday?’
    To cross the floor of the bistro Richard loops the belt of his dressing gown through the dog’s collar. ‘I know you, Friday,’ he says, ‘you’ll dawdle.’
    But on the leash Friday becomes a trained dog, as faithful to Richard’s pace across the floor as a guide dog, the leash never once going taut. ‘Good boy, Friday,’ says Richard when they are safely in the stairwell. ‘Very good boy,’ and he ties the belt back round