Dead Feint

by Grant Atherton

  As he moved off, he called back, “Wish me luck.”

  In the circumstances, there was little else he could do. But even so, it would have occurred to both of us that he was about to put himself back in the limelight, into the full glare of publicity.

  And back into danger.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rusty reached out from the back of the Movano low loader and took the wooden dining chair from me.

  “That’s the lot,” I said.

  He gripped the toprail in one beefy hand, swung the chair around as if it were made of matchwood, and stored it inside with the rest of Martha Stubbs’ furniture.

  He had an upper body strength that made me feel inadequate by comparison and, despite the evidence of a sweat-sodden shirt clinging to his muscular frame, he had made our morning’s task seem a snap.

  He jumped down from the back of the van. “I’ll secure this lot,” he said, “and we can be on our way.”

  “Thanks for this, Rusty. You’re a star.”

  He beamed, a wide open grin, and wiped his hand across his brow, brushing aside the damp hair that stuck to his forehead. “Always happy to help out,” he said.

  It was moving day. My new home awaited. And Nathan, the one I had relied on to help with what, after all, was a significant event, had let me down, pleading a heavy workload.

  I’d complained to Karen at the Fairview reception desk, looking for a sympathetic ear. Not that I got one. Just the usual blah about the pressure policemen were under and how I should be more supportive. Lowe’s brainwashing techniques had obviously been a resounding success.

  Rusty, on his way to breakfast, had overheard us and offered to help. I’d jumped at the chance. Not only did his offer get me out of a hole, but it also gave me an opportunity to find out how he’d fared down at the station the previous day.

  He took the wheel, and on the drive over to the storage centre at Charwell, I asked him about the interview. It seemed Lowe hadn’t been best pleased about what he’d termed ’a failure to disclose significant information’. After reading Rusty the Riot Act, he’d warned him of the penalties for non-disclosure. But he had, at least, understood the reasons and so Rusty was off the hook. I made a mental note to call Lowe later for a briefing. Rusty was more concerned about my attitude towards him once he’s confessed his lawless past.

  “I’m surprised you’d even want to speak to me again. You and me being on opposite sides of the fence an’ all.”

  “Not any more we’re not. Seems to me that once you’d drawn that line, you made all the right choices. Left that past behind.”

  “I wasn’t going back there.”

  “I’d rather be a friend to someone who learns from his mistakes than an idiot who never does.”

  “Sure, but if I hadn’t been such a dumb-ass back then, Candy wouldn’t be lying in a morgue right now. It’s not like we were close any more, we had our own lives to lead, but she was my sister after all, and what happened was down to me.”

  We forget sometimes that our past mistakes can have future consequences. Something I knew only too well. In his case, however, the consequences could be life or death. I shot him an anxious glance. “You need to be careful.” I didn’t need to spell it out.

  “Yes.” He understood well enough.

  We dropped the subject and drove on in silence for a while.

  On the Charwell Road, we pulled into the National Service Station to fill up with petrol. While Rusty busied himself at the pump, I got out of the van to stretch my legs.

  Job done, Rusty took a loo break, and I went to the shop to pay for the purchase and buy some drinks and snacks. I had already grabbed a six-pack of beer from the cooler and was browsing through the confectionery display when I heard my name called from the other side of the counter.

  “Good afternoon, Mr MacGregor.”

  I looked up, a couple of chocolate bars and beer in hand, and caught the gaze of the smiling young man who’d addressed me. The face seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I stared at him blankly and tried to recall where I’d seen him before.

  My lack of recognition must have been apparent. “Andy Burns? Bartender at The Fairview?” He grinned.

  And then I remembered. “Of course. I’m sorry.” I returned his grin. “If you’d given me a shot of vodka, I would have recognised you instantly.” I gave him some cash for the purchases.

  He laughed at that, rang up the sale on his till and handed me my change.

  “This must be less demanding than bar work,” I said. “Not so many drunks to deal with.”

  “I’m full time here. I do a few evenings at The Fairview to make up my wages.” He pulled a face. “Expensive girlfriend.”

  I was about to tell him that maybe a change of girlfriend might help his finances when I was interrupted from behind.

  “You ready, Mikey?”

  Rusty was waiting in the doorway.

  I gave a thumbs up to Adam, followed Rusty out to the forecourt, and handed him a chocolate bar as we got back into the van.

  We stuck to more mundane topics for the remainder of the journey and didn’t find much time to talk during the changeover of furniture at the storage depot.

  Rusty drove back with the furniture while I returned in the Elan which I’d earlier left at the facility when picking up the low loader.

  We’d left Martha Stubbs back at the cottage, and she opened the door to us on our return, duster in hand. I followed her inside, and a moment later Rusty joined us.

  Relieved of most of the clutter, the rooms seemed larger. In my mind, I was already arranging the furniture, working out where it would all go, making myself at home.

  Martha Stubbs fussed around us, insisted on opening every cupboard to show me how much storage space there was, and thrust into my hand a manila folder stuffed with instruction manuals for the cooker, washing machine, dishwasher, and every other household gadget she’d left behind.

  “I’ve already stored all the smaller objects up in the loft,” she said. “The ornaments and such like. I’m sure you prefer to have your own pieces around you but feel free to use what you want. I just wish I’d had time to give the place a more thorough clean.”

  I assured her she’d made a good job of it. She left us to get on with our work, and we laboured through the afternoon, carrying in and placing furniture.

  I’d either disposed of or left behind the accumulated bric-à-brac of my previous life, all those small personal possessions that made a house a home, so the rooms looked spartan. But I was satisfied with the overall effect.

  By mid-afternoon, we were exhausted but finished, and badly in need of a drink. I fetched the six-pack from the car, and we slumped on the couch and pulled some tabs.

  Rusty downed his first can in several audible gulps, crushed it in his fist, and discarded it on the coffee table in front of him.

  Thirst quenched and now more relaxed, he settled back in his seat and began what appeared to be an interrogation.

  “So now you know what I left behind. How about you? What are you running from?”

  Rusty sure couldn’t be accused of talking around a subject. “Why would I be running from anything?”

  “Come on, Mikey, I’m not dumb.” He spread his hands wide, embracing the space around us. “New home, new start, new life. I asked if you had someone back home, remember? Well, I sure as hell don’t see any sign of it. So that leaves us with the other option. You’re running from something.”

  What was I supposed to say? Did I tell him the truth? And if I did, how would he react? Would he be angry because I’d not come clean about my sexuality? Would he be hostile? Just how accepting of my lifestyle would he be? How did I deal with this?

  “You must have left something behind,” he said.

  I grimaced. “I left a wife behind.”

  “You’re married?” He sounded surprised.

  “Not for much longer. Big mistake.”

  He let out a long low whistle. “
Well, there’s a turn up to be sure. Why’d you never say?”

  “I’m not the only one who keeps secrets, am I?”

  “You got me there.” He grinned.

  I leaned back. Studied his face. Wondered why he needed to make such a big issue of it. “It was over a long time ago. Not part of my life anymore. And not something I wanted to be reminded of.”

  “There was someone else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Another woman?”

  I hesitated. For the briefest of moments. But it was enough to give me away. And in that moment, he learned the truth.

  “It was another man, wasn’t it?”

  The heat rose in my face, and I stammered.

  An even bigger grin spread across his face. “Thought as much.” He seemed to enjoy my embarrassment. “I wondered about that.”

  So that was it. He knew more about me than I’d cared to admit to. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters.”

  “Why?” I was on the defensive.

  He locked eyes with mine. “It might have made a difference to us.”

  I stammered again.

  He said, “You never thought I might want to be more than friends?” He inched closer, pressed his leg against mine, and ran a slow hand over my thigh. “A lot more.” His eyes brimmed with desire.

  I jerked back as my whole body stiffened in shock and an involuntary cry escaped my lips. My hand spasmed, and I dropped the can I was holding. It clattered on the wooden boards and spread its contents across the floor at our feet.

  “Shit.” I reached down and grabbed it and, sitting up, turned to face him and stammered again, at a loss for words. I eased away from him, pressed up against the arm of the couch.

  He raised his hands, fingers spread, and drew back. A look of concern on his face. “Am I reading this all wrong?”

  “No. I mean, yes. I mean, no.” I was stuttering.

  He was smiling again. “You’re not sure?”

  I put my half-empty can on the table, wiped my wet hand on my jeans, and paused to get my breathing under control. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”

  “Gaydar not working?” Now he was openly amused.

  “Maybe I’m out of practice.”

  “I spent some time inside, remember? You must know how it is in there.”

  “Different circumstances.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I like my women. But inside, you learn a few things about yourself. And I won’t deny I enjoyed what I found.”

  My mind raced as I tried to gather my thoughts together.

  I was struggling here. Out of my depth. My emotions a roiling mix. I couldn’t deny his physical attractiveness; that powerful body, the strong defined face and deep dark eyes that hid secrets. How could I not find him attractive? But that was as far as it went. I’d never considered our relationship as anything but platonic. And now this was no longer the Rusty I knew. The friend. I didn’t know how to react to him.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, what I’m supposed to do.” That sounded so lame.

  “Then let me decide for you.” He leaned towards me and pressed his lips to mine.

  Only for a moment did my body object, stiffening at his touch. And then I melted into his kiss, savouring the taste of him, his musky scent, enjoying the pressure of his lips against mine, the soft feel of his tongue as it found its way into my mouth.

  The rational part of my mind screamed at me to stop, fought against the burning desire that flared up inside and set my flesh on fire. I pressed my free hand to his chest, held it there while my mind fought for control, and then, almost reluctantly, I pushed him away.

  “No,” I murmured.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement, and with the sudden shock of recognition, I pulled back and sat upright.

  Nathan was standing in the open doorway, staring down at us, his eyes hard and cold, his mouth a tight line, compressed in anger.

  “Nathan.” His name dropped from my lips like a dead weight. I didn’t know what else to say.

  “I came over to see if you needed any help,” he said, his voice caustic, “but I see you have it covered so I’ll leave you to it.” He turned away and closed the door behind him. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he headed away down the path.

  “Nathan.” This time, I shouted out his name, leapt to my feet, and chased after him. I wrenched open the door and hurried towards his retreating figure.

  I reached him as he opened the door of his Astra and caught him by the shoulder. He stiffened at my touch, and froze where he stood, but said nothing.

  My heart raced, but I tried to stay calm. “Whatever it is you thought you saw just then, you’re wrong.”

  Shrugging my hand from his shoulder, he half turned towards me, his hand grasping the top of the open door. He looked me up and down his breathing laboured, and said, “And what was it I saw?” His voice was icy.

  I looked him in the eyes, and said, “What just happened came out of nowhere. I didn’t encourage it, and it was uninvited.”

  His gaze moved around my face as though he was searching for something in my expression.

  Pressing home my case, I said, “Rusty took me by surprise. I didn’t even know he had a gay side. He’s always been just a friend and nothing more.”

  I waited for a response. Nathan still didn’t seem convinced. “He wasn’t even totally sure about me,” I continued. “He took his chances.” I added, “And he didn’t know about us.”

  This time, he faced me fully, letting go of the car door, and repeated my words, emphasising each one. “He didn’t know about us.” He shook his head slowly. “And not for one moment does it occur to you why that may be the problem here?”

  I didn’t respond.

  He turned and climbed into the Astra.

  “You do believe me?”

  “I don’t think he’s the sort of person you should be associating with,” he said, and slammed the door.

  I wasn’t sure how much of an answer that was to my question but it was the only one I was getting.

  He drove away and disappeared into the distant heat haze.

  I was shaking as I made my way back to the house.

  Rusty was still in place on the couch. He held a hand out towards me, palm up, questioning. “What was that about?”

  “You asked me what I was running from,” I said. “Well, you got it wrong. I came back to Elders Edge because I’d stopped running.”

  His blank stare turned to one of enlightenment as my words sank in. “DCI Quarryman?”

  I bit my lip and nodded.

  A mixture of surprise and disbelief flitted across his face before fading to an expression of grim concern. Throwing up his hands, he leaned back, his forehead creased. “I messed up, Mikey. I’m so sorry.”

  “Not your fault.”

  The pool of liquid by his feet where I’d dropped my beer can had spread over the floor. I headed to the kitchen and came back with a roll of paper towel.

  “I hope I haven’t messed things up,” he said.

  “I’m the one who messed up,” I said, as I mopped up the spilled beer. I grabbed Rusty’s discarded can from the coffee table and took it back to the kitchen. “I should have told you.” I threw the can into the trash can along with the wet towel.

  “So why didn’t you?” he called back to me.

  “Because I’m an idiot,” I murmured to myself. I slung the paper towel roll onto the kitchen top and returned to the living room. “I guess I’ve always been worried about how people will react.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Mikey. Screw what anyone else thinks. It’s your life. You do what you want with it.”

  “So I’m beginning to realise.” I dropped back into place beside him and picked up my half-empty can of beer.

  “Look, I overstepped the mark here. I’m sorry. I screwed up.”

  “No, you didn’t.” I gulped down the remains of my beer. “I screwed up. I’m always screwing up.
It’s what I do best. So don’t worry about it.”

  “The last thing I want to do is spoil our friendship.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  As he continued to plead his case, blaming himself for what had just happened, I responded on automatic, trying to reassure him, but only half listening. While my life was slowly unravelling, my relationship with Rusty was the least of my worries.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Maybe it was just me. Just the mood I was in. But the living room that had seemed so bright and cheery the day before, looked drab, all muddy browns and dark corners, reflecting my own dark mood.

  Martha Stubbs had dropped by earlier with a shag pile rug, a replacement for one stolen by her previous tenant - obviously, the more sophisticated light-fingered tourist had progressed from towels and toilet rolls. Its brightly coloured swirls of red and yellow stood out in sharp contrast to the rest of the furnishings, making them seem even drabber by comparison.

  That morning, I’d tried to settle down to some work at my desk, surrounded by scattered scribbled notes, my laptop open before me, it’s empty screen waiting patiently for the rattle of my fingers on its keys.

  But I couldn’t concentrate.

  I pushed the laptop away. Yet another treatise on the abnormal psychology of yet another psychopath would have to wait.

  My mind was elsewhere, trying to figure out what had happened yesterday.

  Trust.

  We were back to that old bugbear again. Was it always going to be an issue? Would I always need to watch every move I made in case it was misinterpreted?

  A serious heart-to-heart conversation with Nathan was long overdue. But I needed to figure it out first. Settle the arguments in my mind.

  In the meantime, I needed a distraction. I’d already taken my early morning run along the seafront but I was still edgy, unsettled, and needed something physical to expend my energy on.

  Martha Stubbs had said something about storing all the ornaments and other decorative objects in the loft. Maybe I could find a few items to brighten the place up. And if not, it would keep my mind off the more depressing aspects of my disorganised life.

  An hour later, sweating from the effort of carrying heavily laden boxes up and down the ladder to the loft, a pile of suitably decorous objects lined the upper landing; a matching set of faux-Chinese pottery made up of a large bowl and a matching lidded jar, both glazed in bright blue with splashes of red; a wood-framed wall print, an abstract representation of colourful seaside cottages tumbling down into a sparkling azure sea - not my usual taste, but bright and cheerful all the same; a cheap and cheerful wall clock depicting a row of highly coloured beach huts; a hand-carved wooden trinket box, decorated with a Celtic design, a more tasteful item among the rest that would serve as a bedside small-change box; and several other colourful objects that could be placed around the cottage.