The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3)

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Hey, I got a good mark for my homework,’ said Gavin.

  ‘Blimey, that must be a first. What homework?’

  ‘Y’know, Great Fire of London.’

  Charlotte laughed. ‘Oh yes, that one.’ She wondered whether she ought to offer to do more in return for the joint. She’d smoked almost a third of it before it started having any effect. She let out a deep breath and grinned. ‘That’s better,’ she said quietly to herself.

  ‘How’s the mutt?’

  Charlotte really did not want to discuss it with him. ‘Oh, he’s all right.’ But then it seemed terrible lying about it, not because of Gavin, but for her own sake. ‘Actually, he got run over,’ she said dispassionately as possible to discourage further conversation. She took another draw and gulped down a mouthful of cider.

  ‘That’ll teach ’im.’

  Did he not understand? ‘No, no, he’s dead, Gavin.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ he sniggered.

  The effects of the grass were taking over and she actually found Gavin’s lubricious reaction quite funny. Despite herself, she started giggling. Gavin, in turn, guffawed which made Charlotte giggle more. And once she’d started giggling, she found she couldn’t stop until she crescendoed into an outright belly laugh.

  ‘Stop’, said Gavin, ‘what’s so bloody funny?’

  Charlotte neither knew nor cared. She tried to catch her breath. ‘I don’t know,’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘I thought you were meant to be sad when your dog kicks the bucket.’

  ‘I am, it’s just the way you said “that’ll teach him”. It just made me laugh.’ She was coming to the end of her joint and felt pleasantly light-headed but had to concentrate on co-ordinating her hand to her mouth. She began to feel dizzy and slowly the pleasantness gave way to queasiness. She belched.

  ‘Oh shit,’ said Gavin, ‘you’re not gonna be sick again, are you?’

  ‘No, no,’ she slurred, ‘it’s just the cider.’

  ‘I know, let’s ’ave some music.’ Gavin pulled himself up from the beanbag and almost fell back with the effort. He crawled across the floor, reached up to the portable CD player on the table near Charlotte, and pressed ‘play’. The music was loud and aggressive and the thumping bassline reverberated through Charlotte’s stomach.

  ‘Turn it down a bit,’ she shouted.

  ‘Nah, it’s good.’ He stood up and started dancing, the drugs having stripped him of his inhibitions. But he had no sense of rhythm – his feet moved about clumsily while he jutted his shoulders violently and, with clenched fists, punched his arms out in unison vaguely in time to the music. How ridiculous he looked, thought Charlotte, hoping he wouldn’t try to persuade her to follow suit. The first track finished but led directly into the second, denying Charlotte the relief of even a few seconds’ peace.

  For a moment, she thought she was about to be sick. Not again, she thought, how uncool. She tried to stand up, but fell back on the bed. Fortunately, Gavin was too busy punching the air to notice. ‘I’m just going for a piss,’ she yelled above the music. She staggered across the landing, opened a door, only to find it was another bedroom. A woman’s bedroom, far nicer than Gavin’s shithole but, for reasons she couldn’t articulate to herself, still incredibly depressing. She found the bathroom and locked the door behind her. The bassline thudded through from Gavin’s bedroom. She wondered how the neighbours put up with it. She knelt down in front of the toilet and retched. But nothing came, just a few dribbles of cider and bile. She pulled herself up and, cupping her hands under the cold water splashed her face and had a drink. Feeling slightly better, she made her way back wearily to Gavin’s room. The music was loud as ever, but Gavin had gone. She went back onto the landing and called out his name.

  He had gone downstairs. He shouted back up, ‘Got the munchies. Want any?’

  ‘No,’ she shouted back. She returned to Gavin’s bedroom and realised she was feeling dizzy again. She stood in the middle of the room and closed her eyes. The music pounded in her head, making the room seem smaller, more claustrophobic. She put her hand to her throat, opened her eyes momentarily, tried to breathe and then collapsed onto Gavin’s bed. She lay there groaning, unable to move, her head swimming. She desperately wanted to leave, to get some air, but her own weightlessness held her down to the bed. She was just falling into a nauseous sleep when she was vaguely aware of Gavin’s presence. He said something, but she couldn’t make out his words. Then suddenly, he was on top of her.

  The smell and heaviness of his body, the sensation of being suffocated, brought her back to consciousness. ‘What... what’re you doin’?’ she spluttered. Her body trembled with revulsion as she became aware of his wet lips against hers. She turned her head away, but he persisted. She shook her head either way, trying to escape his repugnant kiss. She felt his hand cup her breast. She tried to push him off but he was too heavy, too strong. The drink and the spliff had sapped her strength. The rhythm of the music continued to pulsate aggressively in her head; the warm, unpleasant smell of his breath revolted her. With his weight pinning her down, he ripped violently at her blouse, tearing off the top buttons, exposing the plain whiteness of her bra. She tried brushing his hands away and twisted and writhed beneath him, trying to make it as awkward as possible for him. She felt his clammy hand on her thigh, attempting to hitch her skirt up, his breath becoming quicker and more urgent as he fumbled with his fly. With his other hand, he grappled with the front of her bra, trying to lift it over her breasts. The constriction in the back of her throat prevented her from screaming and she thought she was going to be sick. Suffocating still under his pressure, her mind began to go blank. She had to hold on, she had to fight. She thumped him as hard as she could on his back, but it had no effect. To her horror, she felt the warm flesh of his penis against her leg and the revulsion was complete. She retched and could feel the vomit at the back of her gullet. She retched again. She stuffed her fingers down her throat and heaved as hard as she could. Suddenly, with a violence that stretched every tendon and convulsed her in pain, the vomit gushed out in torrents splattering over Gavin’s face and her chest. ‘What the hell...’ screeched Gavin. He arched up and struggled to move away from her, furiously wiping away the vomit with his sleeve and retched himself from the smell and the sensation of someone else’s sick on his clothes and skin. Charlotte took advantage of his distraction and pushed him away. He lost his balance and fell back against the wall. ‘You bloody cow,’ he screeched. Charlotte rolled off the bed, landing heavily on the floor. Instinctively, she jumped straight back up. She started coughing violently but seizing her chance, grabbed her schoolbag and reeled out of the room before Gavin had chance to react. She rushed down the stairs, almost losing her balance, the frightening music fading as she threw open the front door and rushed outside.

  Clutching her blouse together and dragging her school bag, she staggered halfway down the street before stopping, unable to go on. She bent over, panting and coughing. Eventually, the coughing subsided and she was able to catch her breath but she couldn’t stop shaking, her teeth chattering. She glanced back but there were just a few ordinary people going about their business. A woman walking a dog passed and studiously ignored her. Gathering her strength and wiping away the worst of the vomit, Charlotte slowly made her way home, barely able to keep a straight line. The walk back to her house seemed interminable. Twice she had to stop and rest, perching against a low garden wall. Sweating from the heat and effort, she staggered on, zigzagging across the pavement. Eventually, she was home. As she fished around in her schoolbag for her house keys, she remembered her mother would probably still be out at the staff meeting. She stepped into the house, leant back against the front door and wrapped her arms around herself. For a moment, she half expected to see Angus bounding up the hallway to greet her. Her heart dropped at the thought of not seeing him again. She called out her mother’s name. To her relief, there was no answer. Still shaking, she climbed the stairs on all fours, the t
ears coming, and fell into the bathroom. She turned on the taps. As she waited for the bath to fill, she took off her clothes and threw them in the corner. Wiping away the steam from the mirror and the tears from her eyes, she looked at her reflection. She realised, quite suddenly, how much she hated her life.

  Chapter 16: The Compromise

  She phoned him before nine o’clock on the Friday morning and asked if they could meet up for a coffee. At first, Tom was reluctant, but there was something in her voice that, for once, sounded sincere, desperate even, and so Tom relented. They arranged to meet at eleven in a small café Tom knew on Upper Street. He spent the next ten minutes trying to decide what to wear. Should he look casual – as if relaxed and at ease with life; or should he go smart-casual implying he was getting on with things; or should it be simply smart – as in one ready to get back to normality at the drop of a hat. Having had a shower and a shave, he decided to go for the middle option. Before going out, Tom made a couple of phone calls. He rang the Army Medal Office in Droitwich in Worcestershire about how one went about claiming a medal, and a local stonemason about getting a plaque for Angus.

  As he was about to leave, Tom’s parents returned from a morning trip to the supermarket. Tom offered to pay for half of it. He told his parents he would soon be looking for somewhere else to live. This only had the effect of upsetting his mother who assumed Tom would be returning to his proper home – with Julie and Charlotte. But it was obvious now that Mark Moyes was still very much on the scene and Tom had to resign himself, and his parents, that the split was going to be more than the temporary affair he’d initially anticipated. What option did he have? No, he was going to have to face living without her, without his daughter, and without employment. Bedsit land beckoned. He still couldn’t bring himself to tell his parents why he and Julie had separated because, despite everything, he didn’t want to drag Julie’s name through the quagmire. But the consequence of his honourable silence was that his parents still assumed that it had all been his fault, that the guilt lay firmly at his door. Somehow, without going into details, he had to think of a way of relieving them of such a presupposition. But whoever was to blame, he knew his parents were finding the novelty of having their youngest son back at home wearing thin. It was, he concluded, time to leave. It was also, he realised looking at his watch, time to make tracks – he had a date to keep. As he left, he thrust a few notes into his mother’s hand, brushing aside her semi-sincere protestations, and promised he’d start looking for alternative accommodation that afternoon.

  *

  Tom arrived at the café soon after eleven. He saw her immediately, sitting at the table next to the goldfish tank. She too had gone for the smart casual look, looking stylish but, for once, not overdressed. Her make-up was reduced to a minimum, her eyes stripped of their usual layers of mascara and her skin free to breathe without the copious amounts of foundation. As a result, she looked more attractive than usual; proving that she didn’t need all that gunk. Despite smoking, she looked elegant and composed; sitting with her legs neatly crossed, reading a newspaper. Tom resolved himself not to be taken in by her obvious allure. She was, after all, still a scheming, devious woman who had, as good as, lost him his job.

  ‘Hello, Claudette.’

  She looked up from her newspaper and flashed him a broad if slightly embarrassed grin. ‘Tom, thank you for coming,’ she said stubbing out her cigarette. ‘Let me get you a coffee.’

  Tom sat down as she attracted the attention of a waitress.

  ‘Fancy a Danish?’ asked Claudette. Tom shook his head. ‘Just two coffees then.’

  Tom wondered what Claudette had in store for him; this was going to be more than a casual chat over coffee. She would have taken time off from work to come up to Islington. She was after something.

  ‘You don’t smoke, do you?’ she said, reaching for the packet.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you mind if I do?’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘It’s just, you know...’ She lit her cigarette. She blew out a mouthful of smoke. ‘How are you then, or is that a silly question?’

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘Still, you’ve had some nice weather for your week off.’

  ‘Yes, but somehow I wasn’t quite in the mood for sunbathing.’ She was an intelligent woman, thought Tom, but sometimes she could say the most inappropriate things.

  Realising her tactlessness, Claudette smiled weakly. ‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’

  ‘So, tell me, why did you do it?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she said as she drew on her cigarette. ‘I suppose if I was honest with myself, it was probably just a knee-jerk reaction, y’know.’

  ‘Running scared, were you?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ A thin, Italian-looking waitress with a pierced nose returned with their coffees and plonked them on the table. They both reached for the sugar. ‘After you,’ said Claudette. ‘You see, when Clive walked in, I was mortified and of course, he immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. So I just blurted something out and made it sound as if, erm... it was your fault. You know Clive, he’s an old sod and he would never have kept it to himself.’

  ‘Great, thanks a lot; saved your own skin nicely, didn’t you?’ said Tom, as he stirred his sugar.

  ‘I understand if you’re angry, Tommy.’

  ‘Bloody right I am, and don’t call me Tommy. So what happened then, what made you go to Mr Lewis?’

  ‘It was Clive’s idea and I sort of went along with it.’

  ‘Naturally. I can see it now – you go running to the boss, put on your best little girl act and blamed that nasty Tom, eh? And no doubt Mr Lewis lapped it up.’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘And now it’s my word against yours and Clive’s. I don’t stand a chance, do I? You’ve got it fairly well sewn up, haven’t you? I mean, I don’t understand, why did you want to see me anyway?’

  Claudette stubbed out her half-finished cigarette. ‘Christ, Tom, draw it out, why don’t you? Isn’t it fairly bloody obvious?’

  ‘Not to me, it isn’t.’

  ‘To say I’m sorry, right. There you are, I’ve said it, I’m bloody sorry.’ She gulped her coffee.

  ‘Oh, so you’re sorry, that’s all right then. I’ve come all this way for you to say sorry.’

  ‘I thought you lived nearby.’

  ‘Not at the moment, I’m in Enfield.’

  ‘Why, have you–’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he snapped. Tom was certainly not going to relate his domestic affairs to Claudette.

  Claudette stared idly at the multicoloured goldfish. ‘Actually, there’s something else too.’

  Ah, thought Tom, now this is the rub. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve dropped the allegation.’

  Tom sat up. ‘What?’

  Claudette turned to look at him. ‘Yes, I couldn’t go through with it. I know you think I’m a heartless bitch, but I felt... I don’t know.’

  ‘Guilty? Is that the word you’re looking for?’

  ‘Is that the smell of burning flesh?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The burning flesh of a martyr.’

  ‘Oh very funny, Claudette, very funny indeed.’

  ‘Well, come off it; you’re milking this for all it’s worth.’

  ‘What if I am? So, tell me, apart from suddenly discovering your conscience, what made you drop your “allegation”?’

  ‘I went to see Mr Lewis and told him that perhaps I’d been a bit hasty and maybe it’d been more a case of six of one, half a dozen of the other.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have told him the whole truth; that it was a full dozen.’

  ‘Oh come on, I did fairly well to go that far, I didn’t have to do it.’

  ‘Yes, you did – remember, your conscience?’

  ‘If you let me finish, you should receive a letter in the next day or two, inviting you to return to work, with your record clean and your
reputation unblemished.’

  ‘And Clive?’

  Claudette grinned. ‘He’ll keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘Bonus?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Thank God for that, thought Tom, what a relief. He opened his mouth to thank her, but then thought better of it, she didn’t deserve his thanks. Instead, it was time to move to his own agenda. ‘Claudette, I’ve been giving some thought to the brief and the DDA stuff–’

  ‘Not that again.’

  ‘Yes, that again. You ignored it on purpose, didn’t you? You wanted us to lose; you want Dunstone, Cutler and Maine to get the contract.’

  ‘Rubbish. You haven’t got any proof.’ She sipped her coffee.

  ‘No? What about your little visits to DCM, eh?’

  She choked. ‘You bastard. How do you know about that?’

  ‘I have my sources, as they say.’

  She looked him squarely in the eyes. ‘So what? I’m being headhunted, nothing wrong in that.’

  ‘There is when you’re purposely throwing a contract in favour of your would-be employers.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘Does Mr Lewis think it’s bollocks?’

  ‘He wouldn’t believe you.’

  Tom fished out his mobile from his pocket. ‘Well, let’s find out.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He started tapping a number. Claudette merely grinned at him. ‘Hello... Yes, could you put me through to Mr Lewis’s PA please...? Yes, I’ll hold.’ Claudette’s grin was quickly fading. ‘Hello, I wonder if it’s possible to have a word with Mr Lewis... yes, it’s urgent...’

  ‘OK, OK, it’s true.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, wrong number...’ He switched the phone off, smiling at the thought of his mother wondering why her son had not realised she was neither a receptionist nor a PA and had no idea who this Mr Lewis was.

  Claudette reached for another cigarette, then decided against it. ‘And to think I dropped the allegation against you.’