“No idea.”
Inside, James’ back is turned to us. Jacket hanging over the back of a chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, and be-aproned, he slams down some doughy mass on the counter-top, sending a small cloud of flour billowing. To one side, Scruffy sits, nose aimed upwards. To the other side: Bear, also sitting but at eye-level with the work surface.
James spins the dough, turns it, presses in with the heel of both hands, then lifts and slaps it down again with what looks to me like unnecessary violence.
Michael raises brows at me and I shrug.
Taking my life in my hands, “James, I was looking for you.”
“Yes?” He speaks through clenched teeth. “What can I do for you, Richard?”
“Ross here wants to know if there’s anything you need delivering to Francis?”
He pauses, stares into space… “No,”
