Inconsolable

by Ainslie Paton

  And he wanted her as much as she did him, she had no doubt of that.

  He groaned. “I can’t. We can’t.”

  The problem wasn’t attraction, desire, they had unfathomable wells of that. The problem was in Drum’s head. His sense of worth held captive by distrust and guilt and he truly believed he wasn’t fit to be with her.

  She pulled on his hand and scooted across the bed. “Lay with me, just lay with me.” It would be enough. All of this, far more than she’d ever expected, ever known could be, but the idea of being left alone in this strange house, in the big bed, while he did penance in the cold entrance hall downstairs, was too much.

  He groaned and crawled over the edge of the bed, settling behind her, pulling the covers up over them. She wanted to kiss him again, but he avoided her lips and shifted away when she tried to back against him.

  “Sleep, Foley.” His voice was damaged; dusty, low and thready. “Just sleep, it’s the best I can do for us.”

  He lied. He could do so much more. He could tell her his secrets, he could give her his trust. He could deal with his demons and reclaim his life. He could take her and hold her and have her, and be secure in the relationship they had, well and strong and anything but ordinary. And she’d wait till he was ready.

  She woke alone before the alarm on her phone went off, the place beside her in the bed cold. She found yesterday’s clothes, washed and dried, and her boots, still damp, on the love seat. She dressed and left the bedroom, calling for him. Found him in an ultra-modern kitchen with a panoramic view of the suburb, enormous and glossy, but like the rest of the house, barely furnished.

  “Morning.” He had a pan on the heat. “How do you like your eggs?” There was a grocery bag on the countertop, a loaf of baker’s bread still inside. His hair was wet, the shoulders of his fleece spotted with water. “Your car is in the drive.”

  There were no stools at the counter, no table or chairs. The coffee was instant, but there was a quart of milk. He’d spent money buying her breakfast.

  “Foley, are you all right?”

  She felt fine, restored, her stomach no longer queasy, no trace of the headache that’d followed the vomiting, but in other ways she was totally undone. The stability of her life altered by this man who balanced his by living on a cliff top.

  Drum put bread in the toaster, moved the pan off the gas, his eyes shifting between his tasks and her face. “Foley?”

  “Sorry. I’m great. I’ll take my eggs anyway you want to make them.”

  “That’s good, since they’ll come out whichever way they feel like it.”

  He cracked eggs in the pan, he put the kettle on, he buttered toast and the simple domesticity of it almost broke her heart. He should have everyday access to a sink and a stove, water and gas. He should be somebody’s lover, husband, family.

  “Foley.” His arms around her, his lips on her forehead and that’s all it took, that reconnection. He could have those things, in time, with care. She had to believe in that. “What’s wrong?”

  She lifted her face and they kissed and the strangeness of the night frittered away. If she gave him time he might want to have those things above and beyond friendship, he might risk them with her. For now she gave him her tongue and her hands, the tilt of her hips and press of her breasts. She gave him her voice in meaningless murmurs that meant everything if he was listening.

  The anxious shock, the sense of forbidden of kissing him had disappeared with the hailstones, but in its place was a warmth that hummed in Foley’s limbs and seared sense from her brain. Drum’s touch reduced her to ruling sensations so shockingly it took the smell of burning to bring them back to the room.

  The eggs were rubbery, the coffee had no kick, the toast was cold, but neither of them cared.

  The weather was still wild, wet and blustery, and she made him promise to stay at the house. She’d bring more groceries after work, her turn to cook.

  An hour and a half later she was sitting in Hugh’s office, ostensibly discussing the Ice Festival, and the latest offer on the land where the Beeton house stood, and effectively gossiping about Nat. Foley had worked it out. Nat had to be doing her boss.

  “Nat is porking Nathan Rosen,” she told Hugh.

  “What, wait, what? Nat is porking Nathan Rosen. Nathan Rosen, scourge of the mayor’s office, editor of The Courier?”

  “Yep.” It couldn’t be anyone else. Nat literally didn’t know any men other than the ones she worked with, and Nathan was the most obvious candidate from both a proximity and a practical point of view.

  “Sweet, innocent, head in a website Nat. No?” Hugh took a bite of a ham and cheese sandwich. “Actually, she was never sweet or innocent. Is that even allowed?”

  “It’s supposed to be a secret so maybe not.”

  “Nat and Nathan. Nat and Nat.” Hugh laughed. “That’s not good.”

  “No one calls him Nat.”

  “No, they call him pretty please sir to his face and that rotten rat cunning bastard to the back of his head.”

  Foley grinned. Nathan was all right. No fool. No pushover. Ambitious and clever to go with it. He had a dashing persona, more in line with a penchant for top shelf liquor and a disposable blonde on each arm than the sartorial mess that was Nat, but intellectually, he and Nat were a good match.

  “Nat and Nate, that’s not much better,” said Hugh.

  “Nat could care less. It’s been going on a while and he can’t keep his hands off her. She says the sex is mind-blowing.” Foley’s phone chimed, a text message. She glanced at the screen. Nat wanting a call back. Her ears must be burning.

  “How? Wait. Don’t. I’m a married man.”

  “Apparently he does this thing where he—”

  Hugh waved a half chewed sandwich triangle at her. “Stop, this is a professional workplace.”

  Foley clamped her lips over a too wide smile. Pretty much everything was making her smile this morning. Not even Gabriella’s overly cheery, “Good morning, did the rain make you late?” put her teeth on edge.

  “I didn’t actually mean that you should stop,” said Hugh.

  She laughed. “Nat says he does this—”

  “Foley, you’re here.” Gabriella in the open doorway, making it sound like Foley in Hugh’s office was an alien invasion. “Well then.” By which she really meant, yo bitch, get back in your place.

  “We were talking about the ice thing,” said Hugh and that made it worse, because if they had to explain themselves then there was some implication of guilt. Foley glared at Hugh.

  “Foley is aware we have a meeting about that at 10am,” said Gabriella, doing an elaborate sleeve shift and watch check and missing Hugh’s grimace. By which she meant, I hate you, Foley, and I will try to embarrass you by talking about you in the third person as though you’re not sitting here looking directly at me, and are instead five years old and incapable of an adult conversation.

  “Actually we were gossiping about a friend,” said Foley, keeping her voice steady and neutral, because that’s something Gabriella and Hugh would never do.

  “Way to make us sound professional,” said Hugh, laughing.

  “Oh,” said Gabriella, which was damn, bugger and I lose any way you wanted to cut it. “I thought you should know we have a problem with your homeless man.”

  “What kind of a problem?” Foley asked. Whatever it was, it would be Gabriella trying to point score. The whole resident action thing had calmed down after the competing petitions. There was more community sympathy for the homeless currently as a result of The Courier’s feature stories, and Walter Lam had moved on to the issue of greater policing of speed limits in school zones, functionally a police matter, not a council one.

  Gabriella smiled, and that should’ve been a tip-off, but Foley missed its significance so when the woman said, “He’s been arrested,” the first thing she said was, “Walter?”

  “Your homeless man. He’s been arrested for assault.”

  Hugh
said, “What happened?”

  All Foley heard was buzzing in her ears. It simply wasn’t possible.

  “He attacked a woman in Marks Park, the last day of the sculpture walk, during that time Foley was supposed to have moved him on. It’s a dreadful thing. I feel like the council has a moral resp—”

  Foley stood. “Stop talking, Gabriella. Stop.” She needed to think. Her phone chimed again. Nat. That would be why she wanted a call back. “The Courier already have this.”

  “How would you know that?” Gabrielle said, then appealing to Hugh. “She can’t possibly know that? I just told her.”

  Hugh balled up the paper bag his sandwich came in. “Yes she can. What do you know, and forget the editorial, just the facts.”

  Gabriella huffed. “Police community relations called. They thought we might want a heads-up, given how famous the cliff clinger—”

  “Don’t call him that.” Every hair on Foley’s body bristled. They couldn’t possibly have arrested him. They wouldn’t know where to find him. “His name is Patrick Drum.”

  “Oh, he has a name to go with his arrest record. I’ll phone that through.”

  Shit. She should’ve kept that to herself because there was no way Drum would hurt someone. “What does assault mean?”

  “It’s not a trick charge. He beat a woman, sexually assaulted her, probably raped her. I don’t have the exact details.”

  But Nat would. “I need to make a call.”

  Gabriella held her place in the doorway. “Who are you calling?”

  “Gab,” said Hugh, a warning. “Is that all we know?”

  “That’s quite enough, isn’t it? I need to brief Roger. You can expect Walter Lam to be right on this.”

  Hugh grunted. “You do know I remember there’d be no Walter Lam if it wasn’t for you, so you’re not doing yourself any favours by pretending he’s an immaculate conception. There’s no need to go anywhere near Roger yet. Foley, go do what you need to do.”

  She stepped around a red-faced Gabriella and out into the corridor, dialling Nat’s number as she made for the street front, somewhere she could have a private conversation.

  Nat answered and Foley said. “What’s he charged with?”

  “Hey, what? How do you know? What do you know?”

  “Cop PR called Gabriella with a heads-up.”

  Nat sighed, a blast of static on the call. “It’s bad.”

  “Oh fuck.”

  “Where is he, Foley?”

  “You mean they don’t have him?”

  “No. It’s an arrest warrant. They’ve been to the cave but he’s not there. I’m at the station now waiting for them to bring him in.”

  They didn’t have him. They wouldn’t find him if he stayed where he was. “Right.”

  “No, Foley. Nothing is right about this. Where were you last night?” When she didn’t answer, Nat barked, “Foley, answer me. Where you with him last night?”

  She closed her eyes. Her stomach was rioting, her head thumping. Drum wouldn’t hurt anyone. He wouldn’t—though that’s what he insisted he had done. Over and over, he’d told her he hurt people. She could barely get the word out. “Yes.”

  “Then you know where he is now.”

  “No, I don’t.” It’d stopped raining, though the clouds hung heavy, and the wind was bitter, technically he could be anywhere. She could keep him safe if he stayed put.

  Nat swore. “If you know where he is and you’re protecting him, you’re protecting a violent man who brutally attacked a woman.”

  “He would never do that.”

  “Oh, Foley. You can’t know that. You can’t know what a person is capable of just because you’ve slept with them.”

  She gasped a breath and choked out. “I haven’t.” But she would have. Had Drum’s compromised reluctance not been so present, had there been more time this morning.

  “Thank God for that. Tell me where he is. I can keep you out of this. Tell me where we should look.”

  “No.” She wouldn’t be complicit in this. She wouldn’t help anyone corner Drum.

  “What?”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Listen to yourself. You can’t shelter him. You can’t. Are you crying? Oh God. Where’s Hugh, does he know? I’m calling him.”

  “No. No. He doesn’t know.” She wiped her face. “I’m not crying,” another lie, “but it’s a shock.”

  “Okay, good. We can keep you out of this as long as possible.”

  “I don’t want to be kept out of it. Maybe I can alibi him.”

  Nat groaned. “This isn’t a TV cop drama. They have a statement that implicates him. They have evidence.”

  “What evidence?” He’d told her he wasn’t a common thief, a murderer, a rapist. He’d used those words and she believed him.

  “Something the victim took from the cave, a t-shirt, a book, maybe DNA, I don’t know about that. But she named him. They’re not looking for anyone else.”

  A victim. Those words, associated with Drum, it couldn’t be. Foley put her hand on her stomach. “Anyone could name him. You made him famous.”

  “Foley, there is no defending this.”

  There had to be a way to defend it, exonerate him. “What book?”

  “Of Mice and Men. You said he reads classics.” He’d had a lot of second-hand books, but most of them had been destroyed, the timing would be important.

  “Who is she?” This accuser, this victim.

  Nat was agitated. “Does it matter? What woman deserves to be attacked and assaulted? I can’t fucking believe we’re having this conversation.”

  Now Foley was really crying. Now salt tears burned her face. She’d been a fool. It was Jon all over again. She’d fallen for the obscure romance of Drum and there’d been so many clues he wasn’t stable. That he’d caused hurt. She’d ignored them all.

  “Foley, are you there?”

  “I can’t take this in.”

  “You can’t go near him again. Promise me or I’m calling Hugh. You can’t rescue him. He’s dangerous. He hit a woman. He hurt her. Maybe raped her. There is no excuse for that. None and you know it.”

  Foley pressed her hand on her stomach, swallowed bile. Drum was an unstable man who’d been her job, who’d been her challenge, who’d became her friend.

  And she was in insanely, irrevocably in love with him.

  22: Accused

  When Foley left, Drum dragged the mattress he stored in the garage out to the foyer and lay down. He’d not slept overnight, preferring to watch Foley, from the bed, then when her breathing deepened, from the floor, and as morning came, he moved back to the staircase before going to collect her car and bartering some odd jobs with the local supermarket for food.

  Now his head was spinning from tiredness and with a decent breakfast in his gut he was sated. It was raining again, thumping down. There was also no need to go anywhere, there was bread and eggs for lunch, there was coffee and milk. He was warm and undercover, breaking all the rules, not giving a fuck, king for the day.

  That was Foley’s fault. She did that to him. Made him want things, made him look for loopholes. He lay on the mattress with his coat over his legs and his now dry jeans rolled up for a pillow. He’d been worried her car would be damaged. It was covered in debris but intact, a couple of dents in the bonnet that might be new. He’d break another rule for her if he could find a way not to trigger attention. He wanted her driving something modern, safer.

  He lay there thinking about Foley, smiling like an idiot at the dome ceiling. It’d been a risk to bring her here, but he’d been out of smart options and she’d accepted his vague answers, too ill to be bothered fighting with him. That wouldn’t last. She was restored this morning so there’d be a fight tonight. She wasn’t going to let him get away with evasions and half-truths much longer. Their friendship needed new terms negotiated. Terms that included sweet, hot kisses that made him forget to be cautious, forget what he wasn’t allowed to have.

 
; Thinking about her was harmless. It was being in the same room with her that was the problem, because whatever the room, the space, there was too much of it unless she was in his arms and once she was, that power packed body, those hungry lips of hers, made him feel so many things he wasn’t entitled to any more.

  Turned on, yeah. Dear God, so hard it was difficult to think straight, to remember he wasn’t allowed to have her because he’d make her unclean. But different too. Like before almost, as if his internal clock had been wound back and he was still an honest man, trustworthy and reliable, instead of one who used his brain, his skill to manufacture pain and suffering on a global scale.

  He was hard now. He rolled over, curled up, the urge to use his hands compelling, but that would be another rule broken and the sickness in him enjoyed the denial. He was a bastard and he knew it and he should get up and leave now before she came back, before he entirely contaminated her with his foulness.

  But he was weak and shiftless, incapable of being stoic around her, worse, incapable of sending her away to safety. He thought about her mouth, about the noises she made when they kissed and it was nearly enough without his hand. He was damned and damned again. The opportunity to ruin something pure and good finding him even in his seclusion. The intention to stay and allow it to happen, proof of his depravity.

  He slept and didn’t dream, no ghosts, no meaningless shocks that would sit him upright with chest pain from his heart trying to carve a way out of his body, and no better solution when he woke to where he found himself; in a different kind of prison, where he had to decide to stay and take the compromise of Foley’s corrupting caresses, her killing kisses, or break out and disappear again, find a new cliff, a new place he could scour himself clean.

  She came long before he expected her, in the middle of the afternoon, before he’d decided; pressing the intercom on the front gate. He used the system to open the gate and met her at the front door, self-recrimination, notions of abandoning her, blown all to hell by the first sight of her coming up the path.