Deception on His Mind (Inspector Lynley, #9)(205)

Today was no different. If anything, it was worse than usual. The heat had brought the pensioners out of their caves in herds. They were a bobbing, teetering, careening mass of shiny bald heads, blue hair, and bulging varicose veins. And traffic along the shore was halted, so Cliff was treated to a lingering look at what the happy golden years of old age had in store for the unfortunate.

Restlessly, he tapped the car's steering wheel as he watched them. Ahead, he could see the flashing lights of an ambulance. No, two. Or was it three? Brilliant. A lorry had probably ploughed right into a group of them. And now he was going to be treated to a nice long sit as the paramedics sorted out the living from the dead. Not that they all weren't half dead already. Why did people continue to live when it was so clear that their lives were useless?

Shit. Traffic was going nowhere. And he was parched with thirst. If he drove with two of his wheels on the pavement, he could make it up to Queensway and cut into the town from there. He went for it. He had to use the horn to clear the way, and he was treated to a few raised fists, one tossed apple, and some shouts of protest. But he gave two fingers to anyone who hassled him, and he made it to Queensway and headed away from the shore.

This was definitely better, he thought. He'd crisscross through town. He'd drop back to the shore just beyond Clacton Pier, and then he'd have only a quick jaunt from there to Jay wick Sands.

Moving along again, he began to consider what he and Gerry could do to celebrate his conversion to monogamy and lifelong fidelity. Naturally, Gerry couldn't know that's what they were celebrating, since Cliff had been smiting the air—if that's what the word was—with major protestations of his fidelity for years. But a subtle celebration was certainly in order. And afterwards, with a little wine, a nice steak, a fresh green salad, some lovely veg, and a jacket potato oozing butter …Well, Cliff knew that he could make Gerry DeVitt forget any suspicions he might have ever entertained about his lover's roving eye. Cliff would have to dream up some phony reason why they were having a celebration, of course, but there was time to think of that before Gerry came home.

Cliff zipped into the traffic on Holland Road, turning west in the direction of the railway tracks. He'd shoot beyond the tracks and make his next turn into Oxford Road, which would eventually take him back towards the sea. The scenery was grotty as hell going this way—nothing but dusty industrial estates and a couple of recreation grounds long gone the colour of straw in the deadly, continuing summer heat—but looking at filthy bricks and dying lawns was a damn sight more appealing than watching the old farts down by the shore.

Okay, he thought as he drove along, one arm out the window and the other hand resting easily on the steering wheel. What to tell Ger about the celebration? A big new order came into the Distractions? What about a legacy left by old Aunt Mabel? Or perhaps an anniversary of some sort? That last sounded nice. An anniversary. But was there anything special or significant about today's date?

Cliff considered the question. When had he and Gerry met? He couldn't remember the year without effort, much less the day or the month. And since they'd first done it the day they'd met, he couldn't exactly offer that momentous occasion as a point of celebration either. They'd moved in together—or at least Cliff had moved into Gerry's digs—in the month of March because the wind was blowing like a bitch that day, so they must have met sometime in February. Except that didn't seem right because it was cold as frozen shit in February and he couldn't imagine having it off with anyone in the market square toilet in the February cold. He did have some standards, after all, and one of them was not freezing off his jewels all in the name of getting his rocks off with some good looking bugger who gave him the eye. And since he and Gerry had indeed met in the market square, and since meeting had led directly to doing the business, and since that had led to living together in fairly short order … He knew that March as the move-in date must not be the right month at all. Shit. What was happening to his memory? Cliff wondered. Ger's was like a steel trap and always had been.

Cliff sighed. That was the problem with Ger, wasn't it? He never forgot a single flaming thing. If he only did have the occasional lapse of memory—like who was where and at what time of night—Cliff wouldn't be searching his brain at the moment, trying to come up with something to celebrate. In fact, the whole idea of having to have a celebration instead of just getting on with life left one feeling just a bit aggrieved.

After all, if Gerry had one single milligram of trust in his body, Cliff wouldn't be in the position of trying to placate him. He wouldn't be trying to worm his way into Gerry's good graces because he'd never have been out of his graces in the first place.

That was the other problem with Ger, wasn't it? One had to try so bloody hard with the bloke. A single wrong word, a night or a morning or an afternoon when one just didn't feel like doing it with him, and all of a sudden the whole relationship was under the flipping microscope.

Cliff turned left into Oxford Road, feeling a bit more peeved at his lover. The road ran parallel to the railway, separated from it by another dingy industrial estate. Cliff glanced at the grimy, soot-stained bricks, and he realised that that's exactly how a go-round of the guilts with Gerry made him feel: dirty, like he was something unclean and nasty while Ger was as pure as rainwater in Switzerland. Like that was really the case or something, Cliff thought scornfully. Everyone had weak spots, and Gerry had his. For all Cliff knew, his lover was shagging sheep on the side. He wouldn't really have put it past him.