Counter Culture Read online

  Riptide Publishing

  PO Box 1537

  Burnsville, NC 28714

  www.riptidepublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. All person(s) depicted on the cover are model(s) used for illustrative purposes only.

  Counter Culture

  Copyright © 2019 by JL Merrow

  Cover art: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com/design-portfolio.html

  Editors: Veronica Vega, Carole-ann Galloway

  Layout: L.C. Chase, lcchase.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Riptide Publishing at the mailing address above, at Riptidepublishing.com, or at [email protected].

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-921-8

  First edition

  November, 2019

  Also available in paperback:

  ISBN: 978-1-62649-922-5

  ABOUT THE EBOOK YOU HAVE PURCHASED:

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  Customer service has never been this personal.

  Robin Christopher, beleaguered retail worker, isn’t having an easy November. His boss is raising stress levels planning a Black Friday to end all Black Fridays, his family doesn’t understand him, and his best friend thinks his new crush is a hallucination brought on by watching too many episodes of Doctor Who.

  Archie Levine dresses in Victorian style and divides his time between caring for his young son and creating weird and wacky steampunk gadgets from bits of old junk—when he’s not looking after his mum and trying to keep on good terms with his ex. The last thing he’s got time for is a relationship, but the flustered young man he met while disembowelling a fridge is proving very tempting.

  When his mum’s social conscience is roused by a local store with a cavalier attitude to the homeless, former rough sleeper Archie shares her anger. Little does he know that Robin works for that same store. When Archie finds out he’s sleeping with the enemy, things could cut up very rough indeed.

  To the original Archie, faithful familiar and most excellent of octopodes.

  Steampunk is an eclectic world of cogs and rivets. It is airships, goggles, and steam. It is romance. It is traveling on clouds and diving beneath rugged waves. — Aether Emporium

  Steampunk is what happens when Goths discover brown. — Unknown.

  About Counter Culture

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Dear Reader

  Acknowledgements

  Also by JL Merrow

  About the Author

  More like this

  It had been a bright, sunny autumn day, the perfect weather for a walk in the park to admire the rich colours of the trees and crunch through fallen leaves. At least, Robin assumed it had been. All he’d seen of it were tantalising glimpses through the store windows, and the cheery smiles and reddened noses of scarf-muffled shoppers coming in from the cold. A new staff hire hadn’t turned up today, meaning he’d had to work through lunch. To add insult to injury, as it was a Thursday and therefore late-night shopping evening at Willoughbys Department Store, he hadn’t been able to clock off until after nine.

  Even Sheppy’s Mum, who kipped down with her dog in a doorway near to Willoughbys and probably wouldn’t know well rested if it jumped up in front of her and did a hula dance on the pavement, had told him he looked tired when he stopped to say good night in passing.

  The sun was just a distant memory by the time Robin made his weary way home from the bus stop, and the only fallen leaves on his street were mixed with discarded crisp packets and no doubt hid the sort of litter you really wouldn’t want to be crunching through. Or, as it might be, squelching.

  A few deflated Halloween pumpkins stood sentry at doorways, but others, it appeared, had already gone to their ultimate destiny: makeshift footballs for groups of lads or ladettes. One or two buildings still showed signs of having been egged, which was a terrible waste of food in Robin’s current opinion.

  If he hadn’t moved out of his parents’ house, an inner voice that sounded a lot like Mum insisted on pointing out, Robin would have had a much nicer street to walk down. And he’d have been home by now, tucking into a plate of cottage pie or ham and eggs, rather than racking his tired brain to think of something appetising he could whip up before he fell asleep from exhaustion. Available ingredients, from memory: a shrivelled, sprouty onion, a packet of instant noodles and the bottle of gravy browning Mum had shoved into his hands when he’d moved into the new flat.

  There was always the chippie. But it was two streets out of his way, which might as well have been two continents. And the woman who worked there scared him, with her partly shaven hair, weirdly retro vibes, and belligerent manner, like the fifties pinup love child of Tank Girl and Rosie the Riveter.

  Halfway home, Robin faltered mid-trudge and stopped to stare at the strange scene by the side of the road, illuminated by a flickering streetlamp.

  There was a pair of legs sticking out from behind a fridge.

  Robin felt very strongly that fridges didn’t belong at the side of the road in a well-ordered world. Oh, he was willing to concede that sometimes they had to occupy that position for a night or so while waiting for the council to pick them up and take them to their final resting place or, as was more likely these days, night
mare dystopian recycling plant. But what he wasn’t prepared to accept was any situation in which they should require human occupancy.

  Maybe the man was homeless? From what he could see—battered combat boots, and a pair of tweedy trousers that might have belonged to someone’s not-overly-particular great-grandad—that could very well be the case. Robin reminded himself he was all for having consideration for the less fortunate members of society. And anyone who couldn’t find anything more comfortable to snuggle up to than chucked-out old white goods probably needed all the consideration they could get.

  Should he suggest a local hostel? Point out that it was a reasonably clement night for the time of year and that the local park was only a hop, skip, and a jump away, at least for those unencumbered by obsolete kitchen appliances?

  Just as he was thinking that it was probably best to leave well alone, there came a triumphant cry of “Got you, you rascal!” and the rest of the man emerged with a grin. He was tall, about Robin’s height or maybe a smidge over, and his broad shoulders were nicely showcased by a rather dapper-looking waistcoat over a striped, grandad-collar shirt. There was an actual pocket watch chain draped casually across the waistcoat front.

  Robin blinked. “Did I somehow stumble into an episode of Doctor Who? Because I’ve always wanted to travel in time, but a bit of advance warning might have been nice.” He darted a mildly panicked glance at the houses beside them, and had never been so glad to see a satellite dish in his life.

  “Ah . . . No? I’m pretty sure this is the twenty-first century. I think more would have changed if it wasn’t. We’d probably have noticed.” The grin had faded and its owner now wore an expression of concern. He had a neatly trimmed beard, and a moustache with curly, waxed ends, like a Victorian dandy or cartoon villain. Robin was suddenly thankful that the nearest railway track was miles away. Tattoos bordered the man’s neck, spelling out some word or phrase that was partially hidden by his shirt.

  He was strange. And hot. And did Robin mention strange?

  Robin tried desperately not to stare. Or to think about the fact that he’d been babbling on about time travel to a perfect stranger. “Fine. Sorry. I just— Sorry.” As he turned to go, oddly mortified, something the man was holding glinted rose gold in the lamplight, like one of those Ted Baker water bottles Robin had his eye on in the sports department. Words burst out without him consciously willing it. “What the hell is that?”

  The wicked grin returned as the man held up a thick, loose coil of copper wire with strange, silvery bits on the ends. His strong forearms were bared by rolled-up sleeves. Why wasn’t he shivering? Maybe his planet had a colder climate . . .

  “That, I’d say, is an aetheric field generator.” There was a strangely compelling gleam in his eye. “Or possibly a miasma detector. Haven’t decided yet. What do you reckon?”

  Robin wasn’t at all sure what he reckoned. Apart from that the whole Doctor Who thing was looking increasingly likely. “Uh . . . do they often put those in fridges?”

  “Pretty much all the time, yeah. I mean, they call them thermocouples, but you and I know better, don’t we?” The (tall, fit, and possibly villainous) man tapped his nose significantly, and the ends of his moustache quivered.

  Robin might have quivered too. He hoped the strange (and hot, and delusional) man/alien hadn’t noticed. Very slowly, he raised a hand, and tapped his own nose in reply as if exchanging a secret Masonic sign. Oh God. Perhaps that was it, and he’d just claimed membership in some bizarre organisation that partook in ritual fridge disembowelment.

  Dark eyes widened. “Right, got to run. Left the horseless carriage on a double yellow. Rest of her’s all yours. See you around!” And with that, Robin was alone. Staring at a violated fridge. Having apparently been invited to make himself likewise free of its innards.

  He averted his eyes, shook himself, and walked briskly home.

  The next day did not begin well. Robin slept through his alarm and struggled out of bed groggily, his head fogged with vague yet enticing dreams of mad men in boxes.

  By dint of missing breakfast and sprinting to the bus stop, he managed to just catch his bus. Only to realise five minutes into the route that it was the wrong bus, which had lulled him into a false sense of security by heading towards the town centre before veering off in the direction of villages unknown.

  Miraculously, he made it into work only twenty minutes late. Unfortunately, as Robin slunk into the menswear department, trying to blend in with the Ben Sherman shirts and Timberland jackets, his manager, Gail, caught his eye from over by Gifts and Accessories. Fixing him with a stern glare, she marched over to him, heels click-clacking on the tiled floor, and folded her arms. “Well?”

  The expression on her thin, perpetually frowning face said (a) his excuse for his tardiness had better be good and (b) she wouldn’t believe it anyway.

  Robin did not cringe. “Sorry. I’ll set two alarms tomorrow.”

  “This isn’t good enough, Robin. You’re supposed to be setting an example to the junior staff. And I’m sure you’re well aware this is the most important time of the year for Willoughbys.”

  She said that all year round, but Robin was guiltily aware it was actually true this time. “Sorry,” he said again.

  “Now, don’t just stand there. Get to work. I’ve got more important things to do than cover for staff who can’t be bothered to get up in the morning.”

  She click-clacked away. Robin glared at her suit-clad back, stuck up a surreptitious but heartfelt middle finger in her direction, then scurried behind the counter to become a picture of professionalism and customer service.

  An elderly lady doddered up to the sales point. “I’ll take these handkerchiefs,” she said in the overly loud voice of the hard of hearing. “And a bag, although it still seems a nonsense that we have to pay for them. Back in my day, it was all part of the service.”

  Robin rang up the sale and bagged the hankies. “I’m afraid it’s a legal requirement, madam. But it all goes towards the environment.”

  “Not that I’ll live to see the benefit,” she complained loud enough that they probably heard her upstairs in Furnishings. “Still, I suppose it was worth an extra 5p to see you making rude gestures at that hoity-toity young madam of a manager.”

  As the old lady shuffled away, Robin cast a mortified glance around, hoping against hope no other customers had been in earshot.

  And looked straight into Gail’s furious eyes.

  Robin offered her a weak, apologetic smile that fizzled and died in the burn of her glare, and scuttled off to rearrange the socks.

  At lunchtime, he had his best friend, Azrah, crying on his shoulder about her latest breakup.

  Since it was Azrah, there wasn’t any actual crying involved. More along the lines of cursing and swearing eternal vengeance. But still, it wasn’t the most relaxing of mealtimes.

  They’d gone to their favourite café in the town centre, the one near the church. The in-store café wasn’t the place for emotional conversations. Walls had ears. So did the accounts department, who tended to eat en masse around now. Generous to a fault with any and all gossip that came their way, they weren’t just hooked in to the workplace grapevine, they were the workplace grapevine.

  Robin had known Azrah since they were at primary school together. They’d been friends ever since he’d naively asked her one playtime why Jayden Simpson had called her a Paki and she hadn’t stabbed him with her newly sharpened colouring pencil (Jayden Simpson hadn’t been so lucky). They’d spent the next seven years with Robin’s mum persistently referring to Azrah as “your little girlfriend” despite their increasingly loud denials, until he’d come out at age fourteen mostly to get her to stop.

  It’d worked only too well—Mum had barely spoken to him at all for the next week and a half. Not only that, but she’d seemed on the verge of tears every time she even looked at him. Still, a decade on, she seemed to have mostly come to terms with it.

  Mostly.


  One of the reasons—all right, the main reason—Robin had moved out of his parents’ house was so he could bring a boyfriend home once in a while. Mum had never gone so far as to say she didn’t like him bringing men home . . . but then, she didn’t have to, not with the whole awkward-politeness-and-unhappy-looks thing she’d had going on every time he’d tried.

  They picked up their lunch from the counter and headed for their usual table at the back of the café. After a full morning on the shop floor at the beck and call of customers, neither of them fancied being on display in the front window like a couple of off-duty mannequins.

  “So what happened?” Robin prompted Azrah when she only stared moodily into her cappuccino.

  She flicked her long black hair angrily away from her face. “That bastard. He actually had the nerve to give me the whole ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ bollocks.”

  Robin snorted into his tuna salad. “And you’re complaining? I’d kill for an ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ breakup. All I get is ‘We haven’t got enough in common’ or worse, ‘I thought you were more interesting when I met you.’” He shuddered at the still-painful memory.

  “Be fair. It was only Ethan who called you boring.” Azrah took a savage bite out of her chicken and pesto baguette. “And he was a tosser,” she added with her mouth full.

  “You think all of my exes are tossers.”

  Azrah swallowed. “And what does that tell you?”

  “You have impossible standards?”

  “Think again, white boy. Think again. Come on, Ethan’s idea of interesting was someone who preferred clubbing to conversation, knew where to get him the good drugs, and didn’t mind watching him get off with other blokes.”

  Robin sighed. “Yeah, but he was hot.” Warmth tingled through him for a moment, turning to a shiver when he ruthlessly replaced the memory of Ethan-in-bed with one of Ethan-being-disparaging.

  Azrah huffed. “Now you sound as shallow as him.”

  “I don’t know.” Robin’s shoulders slumped, and he chased a bit of cucumber around his plate half-heartedly. “Maybe I am shallow? I mean, really, what is there to me?”