Local Gone Missing(63)
He made as if to leap into action but it took him another five minutes to inch and then heave himself upright. He shuffled over to a bucket he’d put under a leak in the roof, peed slowly and intermittently into it, and then rubbed his face to get the blood going.
“Come on, Charlie,” he croaked. “Think.”
He reached for an open bottle of water and glugged it down as he tried to track the lost hours since Friday night. They came back to him in flashes. Lots of flashes. Bright lights. Brandy. A great deal of brandy. And people. Hundreds of people crushing him. Grass. It had smelled so good when he’d lain down on it. And a van. Someone putting him in a van. And falling down on the drive. And the stairs. So many bloody stairs to the attic. No wonder his legs hurt.
And Stuart Bennett.
Oh, God, he’d been there.
Charlie sat back down and swung round on the lounger, staring into the corners of the room as the dread surged through him. He automatically reached for the brandy. An inch would do it. But the bottle had been wrung dry. He closed his eyes and tried to take deep breaths.
But he could still see Bennett, scanning the crowd. Charlie hadn’t recognized him straightaway. But when Bennett had turned his way, he’d seen the snake tattoo on his neck and thought he was going to be sick.
Bennett hadn’t stuck to the plan. Charlie’s plan. He’d hunted him down to Ebbing.
Charlie had ducked down immediately and disappeared into the trees on the edge of the arena and waited. He didn’t know how long he’d sat there, paralyzed by fear, waiting for retribution to arrive out of the shadows. It played like a recurring nightmare in his head but he’d managed to get away from Bennett. Get home. That was the main thing. Now Charlie had to get things back on track.
He looked round the dump he called his satellite office. The door had been papered over at some point and he’d almost missed it on his hunt for work space. He’d been intrigued enough to trudge downstairs to fetch a screwdriver to force it open. But if he’d been expecting a comfortable sanctuary, he’d been disappointed—it’d been as empty and decrepit as he felt.
Flaps of ancient wallpaper hung down indecently and ropes of vegetation were growing in the window, where glass used to be. There was no power—the electricity board had cut them off. But still, it was the perfect hiding place: out of sight and range of Pauline’s voice—and anyone else who was looking for him. He’d kept quiet about it—telling Pauline he was working in the shed—and discreetly lugged garden furniture up there: a picnic table for a desk, a folding chair, and the faded orange lounger for siestas. She’d never been interested enough to seek him out. Out of sight, out of mind.
He sighed. Pauline had disappointed him like every woman in his life. Apart from Birdie.
He pushed aside stems and leaves to peer out of the window. He could spit on the caravan roof from here. So he did. Just to see. It was all quiet on the home front and his stomach rumbled but he wasn’t going down there until he was sure the coast was clear. He let his mind wander back to the festival. And shut it down again. He needed to focus on how he was going to bring things to a close.
He groaned loudly as he bent to retrieve his phone from the floor.
“Christ!” he growled. “It’s dead.”
He lumbered across the room to his desk and rummaged for the other one. The scuffed and scratched one he’d found in his car. That was dead too.
The crunch of gravel brought him back to the window. Bram O’Dowd was parking his truck in front of the caravan, as bold as brass. Here for a second show, are we? Well, it would keep Pauline busy for a bit.
He tiptoed down the stairs and scurried across the drive. O’Dowd had left the key in the ignition. Bad things happen to careless people, Charlie told himself as he levered a screw out of an old scaffolding plank and stuck it in a front tire.
By the time he got inside the caravan, it was already creaking rhythmically on its axle and he tried not to listen to the moans coming from his bedroom as he plugged in the scratched phone behind the toaster. The other charger was in the living room and he connected his own handset and shoved it behind a sofa cushion.
Silently, he made himself a cup of coffee from the hot tap—the kettle was so old, it sounded like a plane taking off. He was starving, but the fridge contained only a half bottle of prosecco that made him dry-heave at the thought and a probiotic drink that Pauline imagined would hold back the years.
He tried to remember the last thing he’d eaten. Things were hazy but it had probably been the disgusting sandwich Pauline had left out on Friday. He’d known right away it hadn’t been for him—when was the last time she’d bought him anything?—or her. She didn’t eat white bread. It was for Bram. And he’d taken a territorial bite, planning the torture he’d inflict one day on his usurper’s superior genitals, and looked for something to wash his rage down. Nothing. He’d had to go on a drink hunt. Find an off-license where he didn’t owe money. It’d been the beginning of his lost night.
Charlie opened the tumble dryer and pulled out a change of clothes, pushing them into a holdall. He was about to make another coffee to take with him when he heard the creak of springs. Shit! That was quick. And he was out of the door and crouched behind the security fence before Pauline emerged, pulling on her stupid peignoir.
Bram followed her in his boxers, He hadn’t even bothered to put his trousers on. They were flung carelessly over his shoulder while he kissed Pauline good-bye and hopped into the driving seat.