“Bollocks,” he whispered, denying the mysterious feeling creeping over him like a spider edging closer to its prey. Eddie shivered, sniffled and brought himself back round by gazing, almost mesmerised, at the sunbeams spinning a rainbow of patterns across the transept, dust motes dancing in the warmth.
Irrespective of the unfamiliar feelings spreading within him, Eddie felt quite close to tears; that preamble, the slight stinging behind the eyes, the stinging in the nostrils, and, “Sod this!” Eddie turned to leave and almost screamed.
Leaning against the doorframe, the light spilling in from the open door behind her, framing her, turning her hair into a glowing mass, and silhouetting her, was a woman. When he turned around, she stood straight, took her hands out of her pockets and began walking towards him. Her shoes echoed in the stillness and Eddie caught his breath.
She was smiling.
“Ros?” His chin was already quivering, his eyes made the vision of her ripple. But she was smiling at him. He couldn’t see through her. He could hear her, so she was solid, she was real. But she was dead. “Ros?” he said again.
Her eyes shone. “Eddie.”
Eddie’s mouth opened. “They said you were dead. Why would they say you were dead? Why would they do that to me? Why would they lie? Ros. Ros. Ros?”
“Ssshhh,” she whispered and embraced him.
Eddie cried. His whole body shook and he held her tightly, breathing in her hair, letting his tears fall into it. And his hands kneaded her and he squeezed her. And still he cried. “You’re real,” he croaked. “They told me you were dead, Ros. I couldn’t find your grave…”
She was back, and despite thanking Him over and over again, Eddie still did not believe in God.
— Two —
All the way back home he had watched her in his rear-view mirror as she’d followed him in her car. He wanted to make sure she was real. How stupid did that sound, he told himself; you just spoke with her, just hugged her, just made a fool out of yourself by bawling in front of her. Yet he watched her, could barely take his eyes off her.
He stood by the open front door, and he watched her as she walked over the threshold and into his house. Eddie looked skyward and he smiled humbly.
— Three —
The door was locked, there was fresh coffee diluting the smell of cigarette smoke. The cottage was a tip, and he felt almost embarrassed. But neither spoke a single word until they were seated across from each other. Despite the anticipation mounting, he figured after waiting two years, he could afford another moment to soak her up. Eddie stared at her, he traced her face and her eyes, and she was content to allow it, and she just smiled.
“Why?” he said at last.
“I asked them to.”
“Was I that bad?”
“No. Not really. It wasn’t you, it was me.” She fidgeted in the chair, held his gaze. “I did die. Twice, they say. The blade went into my lung, and it cut an artery. I was filling up,” she smiled, “literally. And when I came round, they told me you were okay…” She dribbled to a halt. And then she looked away.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Eddie. I’d just had enough of being your housemaid; and I knew you would go back to Jilly, and I’d be left on my own again, ready to catch you when you fell.”
“I was horrible to you, wasn’t I? They say you never know what you’ve got till it’s gone.”
She nodded, “They do say that.” She picked at a cushion.
“You’re different, Ros.”
“Dyed my hair.”
“No, not that. I mean—”
“I almost died, Eddie. It’s bound to make you… different. It’s bound to make you reappraise yourself.”
“I loved you.”
She looked up quickly. “How the hell would you know that? You were pissed ninety per cent of the time. The other ten per cent you were moping round Jilly!” Her hands clawed the cushion. “So don’t you dare throw that crap at me now, Eddie Collins. Don’t you fucking dare!”
With trembling hands, he shook out a cigarette and lit it. “I’m sorry,” he said, “you’re right.”
“I should go.”
“No! Please, please. Not yet, Ros.” He leaned forward, whispered, “I thought you were dead. For two years you’ve been dead, and I couldn’t even find your grave. And now you’re here, back again. Let me get used to you, please. Please?”
Her face straightened, she cleared her throat, “Why did you leave CSI?”
Eddie took a drag on the cigarette, stared at her, and a sudden realisation struck him. “How did you know I left CSI?”
“Jeffery told me.”
“Jeffery told you.”
“I work at MCU, Eddie.”
Eddie threw himself back in the chair. “I don’t fucking believe this. You’ve let me go on thinking you were dead this whole time, and you… you couldn’t even bring yourself to get in touch. You worked a few miles away and every day you went to work knowing I thought you were dead?”
“I wish I was!”
He stared at her for a brief moment and his chin quivered again, “No, no you don’t. I don’t, Ros. Why would you say that?”
“Never mind,” she whispered. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Everything matters now.”
“Nothing matters now.”
He looked at her, wondering what she meant, but knowing it would do no good to keep on pushing. It would keep. “They sent you here to recruit me, didn’t they?”
“Yes. I mean no. They tried to recruit you; Jeffery and Westmoreland.”
“That explains the look between them when I asked Jeffery where you were buried. Westmoreland wasn’t aware you were under my radar, was she?”
She shook her head, “No. Jeffery said it was my decision. He’d promised to keep my survival a secret from you; and he was relieved you declined their offer because it meant he wouldn’t have to break a promise.”
“So how come you’re here now?”
“Because we could use your help. You’re a good—”
“Wait, wait, hold on. You went all corporate there for a moment, Ros.” He squinted at her, “This is not personal, is it? This is just a recruitment exercise for MCU, isn’t it?”
“It is personal, Eddie. I could’ve told Jeffery I didn’t want you in our office, and it would have gone no further. And you’d never have known I was still alive. So it is personal.”
“If it’s personal, why leave it two years to get in touch?” He stabbed out the cigarette with a little more force than was needed. “You must have known at some point that Jilly had died. Or are we both good at keeping our secrets?”
“I knew. And I knew about Mick Lyndon too.”
“So why wait?”
She grabbed the cushion. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I’m confused. Tell me what makes you think it’s suddenly got personal.”
“No,” she said. “I won’t. It doesn’t matter. Either you want the job or you don’t.” She stood up. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“No,” he rushed to her, took hold of her arm, “don’t leave. Not yet.”
“I have to, Eddie.”
“Not like this, Ros. I found you again and I don’t want to lose you.”
She smiled up at him. And it was a sweet smile, a Ros smile, and her eyes shone again. But there was regret in there too, sadness. “Take the job.” She kissed him on the cheek and was unlocking the front door before Eddie could gather his wits.
Chapter Sixteen
Everything was in the detail.
Charlie stared at herself in the mirror. And then she smiled. And then she grinned. She peered closer, “Got lippy on my teeth,” she said, rubbing it away and trying again. “Better.”
Panda nuzzled her.
“Ooh, you want some food? Panda hungry?” Panda meowed and leapt from the chair, tail in the air, glancing back as she ambled to the kitchen.
Charlie put the mirror aside, dropped her make-up bag on
the carpet and followed the cat. These jeans are wrong, she thought. “They’ll give the wrong impression.” You want to look sophisticated, feminine.
She giggled to herself, and scooped food into Panda’s bowl, running painted fingernails down the fur on Panda’s back and watching her spine arch in response.
“Good gal,” she said. “Do you think I’ve overdone the eye-liner?”
Panda ate and purred.
“Yes, I agree,” Charlie whispered. “Jeans’ll have to go, though.”
She looked out of the kitchen window. A few hundred yards away a heat-haze rose from the playground’s tarmac surface; all the children were rippling. Charlie loved seeing the kids and she smiled, delighting as they laughed and shrieked.
You could try that cotton skirt. It is very warm out.
“What do you think, Panda? Cotton skirt? The white one?”
I thought you’d say that.
Charlie crossed the lounge and skipped up the stairs. In her bedroom, she sat in the wicker chair in the corner by her night stand. And she didn’t move for nearly thirty minutes.
Am I doing the right thing? What if he’s awful? He looked great on the site, but they all look great on the site. Some of them even look like Tom Cruise. I bet he Photoshopped his picture.
Blake, he was called.
“Rape alarm. Don’t forget the rape alarm.”
Am I doing the right thing?
You wanted a male friend. That’s what you said.
She cringed. I know, but… Well, I’ve got by alright on my own—
You’re very brave, you know.
You think?
Oh yes; it’s good that you finally plucked up the courage to go out and mingle. It really is. Mum would be so proud of you.
She would be, wouldn’t she?
If you’re wearing that skirt, don’t forget your handbag. And I would quickly run an iron over it first; it’s been in the wardrobe for months.
Should I wear a jacket? Or will I be okay in this?
She stood and went into the bathroom where she could see herself in the large mirror over the sink.
I must get that tap fixed. I wonder if Blake is any good with plumbing. I wonder if he’s any good at kissing, I wonder if he’s any good— “Stop it, naughty,” she giggled again.
She turned sideways on, pushed her boobs up slightly. “They’re sagging a bit.”
You’re thirty-four, dear, not eighteen. But you could still turn a man’s eye.
I didn’t need a bra at eighteen. I might have to buy an uplifting one next time. And anyway, I’m not after turning his eyes. I want company, that’s all. I want someone to take an interest in me, and I want to laugh.
“Ooh, Mum’s brooch!”
Charlie considered the brooch to be good luck. And so it was precious to her. Everything Charlie held precious was locked away in a secret place.
She went back into the bedroom, pulled aside the quilt on her double bed and lifted the mattress. It rose easily, powered by two gas rams, like the ones that held up the hatch on her car. And it stayed open all by itself. In the void beneath the mattress, she kept a small wooden box inlaid with brass at the corners and a small brass latch on the front. It was her jewellery box. She took it out and opened it up and selected the brooch. It nestled among her mother’s engagement and wedding rings, among a few precious photos and a lace doily made by her sister. The brooch was a cameo, and its silver edges gleamed.
* * *
For too long she had been alone. She wondered often what it would be like having someone to share things with. Nothing grand like trips to Italy or anything; just sharing a hot cuppa on a cold day, or sharing an episode of Friends, buying each other keepsakes at Christmas, and a treat out at the Jorvik centre on her birthday.
She sat in the car and looked at the front door as though she could see right through it and into the lounge, as though she could see Panda sitting on the arm of her favourite chair licking her paws.
Charlie swallowed and started the car.
As she drove to The Spinney Nook, she became ever more afraid.
It had been a challenge to begin with. No, not a challenge; it had been an adventure to begin with. Michelle at work had said it would do her good. And Michelle had said all those things about treats on your birthday, and eventually Charlie had come around to her way of thinking. She wasn’t saying being single was abnormal or anything; but what she kept on saying was that there really was so much more to life when there were two of you to share it.
But all that wisdom didn’t stop the nerves as she approached the car park.
And before she pushed open the doors to The Spinney Nook, a sudden chill brought goosepimples to her arms and she thought about turning around right then and getting the hell home.
“Should have worn that jacket after all,” she said as she pushed the door open.
Chapter Seventeen
— One —
How come in this day and age, when they can send machines to Mars, they can’t make a wiper blade that swishes silently across a windscreen? Why must it always grate and leave a series of cartwheel spokes on the glass? Eddie gritted his teeth and turned the wipers off, preferring the danger of having just a rough idea of where he was going over enduring that bloody racket.
He was doing quite well; he could see the non-descript building up ahead and pulled into the driveway where a huge green spiked metal gate loomed. And then he drove straight into the bollard in the centre of the entrance road, the bollard with the intercom mounted on it.
Eddie closed his eyes and forced himself to think of a beach at sunset, of gulls circling in the twilight skies and the waves gently breaking on the warm sand in which he stood. Then some arsehole blew their horn at him. Eddie opened his eyes and flicked the wiper switch. The wipers grated across the glass and Eddie growled as he selected reverse, ignoring the scraping noise from the front and ignoring the impatient driver behind him. Once clear of the intercom post, he climbed out into the rain, didn’t even look at the car behind and marched up to the intercom, but his march drooped, became an amble. And suddenly Eddie felt a little sheepish, a little self-conscious. He swallowed, leaned low, since the intercom was now at quite an angle, and pressed the button.
A squeaking electronic voice said, “Can I help you?”
“Quarter pounder and large fries, please.”
There was a pause, and Eddie almost smiled up at the camera perched on top of the gatepost.
“Mr Collins?” the voice asked.
Eddie blinked, he was impressed. “Yes. I’m here to see Mrs Westmoreland.”
“Ms Westmoreland isn’t in at the moment.”
Eddie stood upright for a moment, and thought about her response. Then he bent, pressed the button, “I can wait here if you like. But there’s a queue forming.”
The car behind Eddie’s beeped its horn again. Eddie stood and stared at the blue Vectra, shaking his head. He couldn’t see through the screen because of the grey sky reflected in it, but he guessed it was some twenty-two-year-old prick with a testosterone surplus.
The gate clicked and began rolling back.
Eddie marvelled at the new dent in his Discovery and then climbed back inside and drove the hundred yards towards what looked like the main entrance. There were no markings anywhere, no helpful arrows, no signs, no insignias; the glass was mirrored. He parked up and rushed through the rain to the double doors. They buzzed as he approached, and he entered.
Eddie stopped and looked around. This place was like something from Lloyd’s of London: all glass, marble floors and oak furniture with chrome adornments, high skylit ceilings, subtle spotlighting, and a receptionist with the world’s most perfect smile. Ever. She had been moulded, had been lightly machined and then airbrushed. Turn her upside down and you’d find the words, “made in China” stamped on her feet.
“Did you just drive into the post?” Her voice was just as squeaky in real life, but without the added hiss of electronics.
Eddie dripped rainwater and walked to the desk aware of the monitors to her right, all with incredibly clear pictures. Three were of the entrance. “Your hair looks… natural. And your eyes too.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, put it in the middle of a road, it’s going to get hit. Silly design.”
“Did you have your wipers turned off?”
“Look, where can I wait for Ms Westmoreland?”
“You’ll need to sign in.”
Eddie smiled and reached for the pad. “Pen?”
Miss China slid a Bic over, then folded her arms. “And use your real name.”
Eddie looked suitably chastened. “Spoilsport.”
In the far corner a door bleeped and then squeaked open. “Eddie, this way.”
He looked up from the doodle and saw Jeffery holding the door open. Eddie turned to the receptionist, “Thank you, Miss Moneypenny.”
“Very droll.”
— Two —
Eddie had followed Jeffery up carpeted stairs, along corridors, through security doors and into a large open-plan office. He tried to look around and see who was there, but they were all just nondescript faces, people busy doing things on their computers. Here I am again, he thought. Bloody déjà vu.
“You could have made an effort, Eddie.”
“I did. I’m here aren’t I?”
Jeffery ushered him into a smaller glass-fronted office with a neat oak-effect desk, typical brown carpet tiles and walls totally bare except for a fire emergency evacuation plan and a long service certificate. How very flash, Eddie thought. Jeffery closed the door, waved Eddie to a seat, and then perched on the corner of his desk with his arms folded, looking very much like a school teacher whose patience with a disruptive pupil had finally worn out.
Eddie looked up at him. He smiled. “Does this place have a coffee machine?”
“I’d forgotten what it was like working with you. These last two years have been pure bliss.”
“It’s nice that I’ve been missed, thank you.”
“Do you still have a drinking problem?”
Eddie pushed his chair back, adding a more comfortable distance between them. “Took your time. I’d have asked that in the reception area.”
Black by Rose Page 8
