Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  But enough is enough.

  ‘Matilda.’ For the love of God, shut your fucking hole, I don’t add. Mainly because I bite my tongue. But at least my tone stops her blethering. ‘I came here for a couple of nights away—some peace, y’ken? I’ve got dinner plans on the mainland in a couple of hours’—for emphasis, I look at my watch—‘and a few things to sort before then. So if you’ve a problem with the butcher, I suggest you have a word with the area manager.’ What’s his name again? ‘Keith!’

  ‘Oh!’ She makes the exclamation sound like the hoot of an owl, though she looks more like a dowdy sparrow. She also looks a little perturbed. ‘You did’nae look at the crossing times for the causeway, then?’

  Her sing-song voice does nothing to ease the realisation of what a tit I’ve been. Lost in the feelings this place stirs up, I’ve fucked up. Epically.

  ‘I’ve missed the crossing times,’ I say flatly.

  ‘Well . . . yes.’

  ‘Fuck!’ My hands are in my hair. ‘Fuck my life!’

  ‘Oh. Oh, dear.’ Matilda takes two steps back like she’s expecting me to turn into the hulk, and I need more space.

  ‘Jesus Christ on a bike. What the fuck time does it change?’

  ‘In the morn’,’ she sing-songs again. ‘A’fore dawn.’

  Just what I fucking need.

  I try Bea’s number. It doesn’t even go to her message bank, just rings out. I suppose she’ll be having too much fun with her friends, maybe hanging out with a couple of Dylan’s movie star mates. I’m not the kind of man to begrudge anyone a good night, though I try not to feel so flat about not hearing her voice.

  Yeah, her voice. How pathetic is that?

  I give it half an hour and call again; only this time there isn’t even a tone.

  Something else I’d forgotten; how crap the cell coverage is up here.

  I’m not feeling up to having company or the hovering of well-meaning staff, so I order a rare steak and a pint to be brought to my room and do something I’ve never done; go to sleep with my phone in my hand.

  It must be the reason I dream—dream of Bea calling. Of us having phone sex.

  ‘So you’re not going to make it for dinner? Her voice purrs down the line, increasing my longing tenfold. ‘And I can’t come to you there?’

  ‘I wished you could, darlin’, but I don’t see how, beyond getting one of the old fishermen to bring you. But it’s too dark and too cold and dangerous.’ In my dream, I sigh like I mean it. Because I fucking do. ‘I’m sorry, honey bee. I had such plans for tonight.’

  ‘Maybe you could tell me about them? That might be a nice second best.’

  ‘Phone sex?’ My dream dick twitches, my dark mood lifting just a touch. ‘Well, I’ve been booked into the master suite. I was planning on living up to the name.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds special . . . ’

  ‘There’s a freestanding bathtub in front of a bay window.’ A copper tub that I glance at as I speak.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ she purrs, increasing my need exponentially.

  ‘And this fantastic chair that looks more like a throne,’ I say, rubbing the arms. In my dream, I feel the soft fabric under my fingers, imagining what she would feel.

  ‘That’s so hot. Whisper more decoration terms to me, baby.’ Bea laughs a little hiccupping giggle, making dream me realise one thing.

  ‘You’ve been drinking.’ I prop my elbow on the chair’s arm and my chin in my hand. It sounds like I’m missing out on all the fun.

  ‘Why yes, can you tell?’

  ‘Drinking without me makes you a bad girl.’

  ‘Tell me more about that chair,’ she says with a cute snort. Ah, man. Is it normal to dream while physically feeling the effects of your hard-on?

  ‘It’s velvet. Cushioned arms, the sort that would be kind to your legs.’

  ‘They’re called armchairs, Kit. Not leg chairs.’

  ‘I’ll strip you,’ I continue, not rising to her bait. ‘Set your lovely arse down on the soft velvet. Lay your knees over the arms and spread you so wide you’re displaying everything. Then I’d get down on my knees, kiss your thighs, and slide my tongue through that lush ribbon of pink flesh. I’d lick you so hard. Worship your cunt.’ I hear her swallow thickly as a small sigh escapes her throat. I palm my dick through my pants. It’s throbbing so hard, it hurts.

  ‘Then I’d carry you over to the bed and lay you down. I’d fuck you so hard you’d lose control of your legs.’

  ‘The things you say, Kit Tremaine.’ She sighs as though I’ve just slipped between her legs. ‘I have no words.’

  ‘Just let it happen, honey bee. Some things can’t be fought.’

  When I wake, the curtains are open, and the night still pitch black. I stretch along the mattress, my eyes flicking to the chair as I try to hold the dream for just a few moments more.

  She’ll be here tonight, I tell myself, palming my hard-on through my clothes. Good job I own the hotel because I’m breaking her tonight, right there on that chair.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  KIT

  Have you ever felt like the world is conspiring against you? Like everything you touch turns to complete and utter shit?

  That would be my life since this morning.

  First, the beast wouldn’t start. The gardener’s son had a look—he’s a mechanic of sorts. The fucking starting motor has gone, and after calling three garages, it’s clear these have to be ordered. It takes weeks, and I’ve got minutes to spare.

  Should’ve bought a European car for up here. A fucking tank!

  The hotel has a Town Car, but it’s picking up from the airport. And a hire car? Not a chance without heading into one of the nearby towns.

  I’m cabbing it. Not a black cab, like you see in London, or a uniform company like you’ll see in any city in the UK. No, a minicab, courtesy of Aroon, the morning chef’s brother-in-law.

  No sat nav. No aircon. I’m sweating buckets, and we’re fucking lost, despite passing a sign for the village the castle is nearby. Twice.

  ‘A police cordon—look.’ I pat the driver’s shoulder, whose name I’ve long forgotten, urging him to stop. ‘Where the orange bollards are.’

  The car pulls to a stop in front of a pair of Scotland’s finest. I shove a handful of Scottish pound notes onto the front passenger seat, deciding I might do better on my own.

  ‘I’m looking for Claish Castle,’ I say, addressing the nearest of the policemen.

  His gaze follows the minicab, and its black, spluttering exhaust emissions owning the road before answering.

  ‘Road’s closed, sir.’

  ‘Aye, I can see. But I’m looking for Claish Castle.’ Stick the use of your road; I’m not interested. ‘I’m late for a christening at the chapel there.’

  The policeman turns his back to confer with his companion before facing me again and repeating the same thing.

  ‘Look, pal,’ I start, my temper fraying quickly. ‘I got stuck on the wrong side of a causeway, woke up to a car that wouldn’t start, have just endured the taxi ride from hell, and am only asking for directions to Claish Castle.’ I draw the name of the place out slowly, thinking the key might be in the enunciation. ‘I want nothing else.’

  ‘Where’s your present, then?’ This from tweedle-dumber who happens to be holding a clipboard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Y’cannae go to a christenin’ w’out a gift.’

  ‘Who are you? The christening police?’

  ‘Stand aside, sir,’ says the first officer. ‘Jim, open the barrier. Car coming through.’

  I step back from the road onto a grass verge just in time as a black Range Rover whizzes by.

  ‘Whis’ your name?’ the clipboard policeman asks.

  ‘Tremaine,’ I answer, watching the car rumble up the driveway. Was that Victoria Beckham? ‘Kit Tremaine.’

  ‘You’re not on the list,’ he replies. ‘We’ve got a Rory Tremaine, but no Kit.’

  ‘So
I’m here—this is the castle?’

  ‘Aye, but you’re no’ listening. Your name’s no’ on the list.’

  ‘Give me a break,’ I say to the heavens then pull out my phone.

  Two minutes later, Rory arrives in another Range Rover—white, this time—pulling up on the other side of the barrier.

  ‘You’re cutting it fine,’ he says, one elbow hanging out the driver’s window in a picture of nonchalance.

  ‘Not on fucking purpose,’ I grumble, once it’s verified I’m on the guest list. Apparently, you can send a present ahead and not be on the guest list. It also seems this is the back entrance to the castle, the one being used today as a decoy from the paparatizzi covered front. ‘And I’m pretty sure Posh Spice nearly ran me over on her way in.’

  Rory laughs heartily. ‘That’s it. She’s not getting the fifty quid I promised her. I even thought about paying off the polis to turn a blind eye,’ he says, gesturing back towards the policemen. ‘But I’m too pretty to go to jail for soliciting vehicular manslaughter.’

  ‘Who’d run the business if I was dead?’

  ‘Who’d care? You’d be dead, and I’d be on holiday.’

  We travel along a tree-lined road, coming out at a clearing with the castle in front. Blue-grey Scottish stone and mullioned windows gleaming in the sun. It even has turrets.

  ‘Fucking stunning,’ Rory murmurs as we approach.

  ‘Looks like something from a fairy tale,’ I agree with a nod of my head.

  ‘They’ve got salmon in the loch, too.’

  ‘It’s a nice way to live.’

  ‘I’m buying a castle,’ Rory answers immediately.

  ‘You can’t leave the city for more than a few days.’

  ‘To retire in,’ he qualifies. ‘For Fin and our tribe of kids.’

  ‘I’m sure Fin will be thrilled to bear your brood. Especially if they take after you with that big fucking head.’

  We drive past the castle, pulling up outside some outbuildings.

  ‘Hurry,’ he says. ‘We’ll be late for the service.’

  I know Fin is one of the child’s godmothers, so I can see why he’s in a rush. As he climbs out of the car, slamming the door, I notice something very odd.

  ‘What’s with the kilt?’ He strides in front of me, blue tartan swishing behind him.

  ‘We’re all wearing them,’ he calls over his shoulder. ‘You in your suit will be the odd fucker out.’

  The door to the church creaks on its hinges as Rory pulls and piano music spills out. Someone vaguely famous appears to be playing the instrument, the cool stone interior of the chapel suffused with colour from the altar’s stained-glass window. The last time I was in a church was for Meg’s funeral. I wonder if all churches smell the same—of old stone and wood, incense and flowers?

  Pleasant yet cloying at the same time.

  Rory makes his way to a pew near the front, but as I’m not so presumptuous—or here with one of the godparents—I slip into one at the rear. I’m pretty tall, but even I’m having trouble finding Bea over the height of some of the hats.

  Feathers, felt, and even one that looks like fruit. What is it with fashion these days? I look down at my black suit and toy with my cufflinks, wondering who’s responsible for bringing back the beard and kilt and wondering what would be a suitable punishment.

  The service is short, the baby crying out just once as the priest drenches his face, and before I know it, the happy parents are carrying the babe out into the sunshine, followed by godparents . . . and hangers-on, and those from the front pews. And then I see her under a tiny pill hat with a veil; a vision in black and buttercup yellow. I want to laugh—it’s just like her to take the piss out of herself and her name.

  Only, I don’t laugh because, although she looks beautiful, she’s also wearing an expression I’ve never seen. It’s a hard look to decipher—it’s almost as though she’s wearing a very beautiful, though blank mask.

  She doesn’t see me as she passes, ducking her vision to the strip of carpet leading to the church doors . . . as the man standing just a little behind her reaches for her hand.

  Her. Fucking. Hand.

  And she lets him.

  She walks out of the church with another man.

  People mill around me; I’m aware some would like to get past, eventually realising my near catatonic state and finding other ways out.

  It seems like it takes forever for everyone to leave, and as the heavy oak door slams closed, I lean my head forward, resting it on the back of the pew in front of me as I try hard to breathe over the pain in my chest.

  She left with another man.

  Jon would be my guess.

  He cheated on her.

  Would she really take him back?

  ‘What’re you doing in here, numpty?’ The space is darker as I turn my head to the aisle where Rory now stands. ‘What the fuck are you doin’?’

  ‘Contemplating the Lord and all his infinity. What does it look like?’

  He folds one hand across his chest and his fist to his face, continuing his examination.

  ‘Well, you’re sitting in the dark with your hand between your legs. And you look knackered. You haven’t been playing wi’ the trouser snake?’

  ‘In a church?’ I answer witheringly.

  ‘Now that you mention it, how come you haven’t already burst into flames?’

  ‘Right now, I wouldn’t mind being the devil. I know some bloke who needs a good smote.’ Along with someone else who needs to do some explaining.

  ‘I told you not to buy the beast,’ Rory says, assuming my reference was to the truck. ‘You’ve only yourself to blame.’

  ‘I saw Bea just now.’ God, this hurts. ‘Was that her boyfriend she was with?’

  ‘Aye, I think so. He must’ve gotten here early this morning.’

  I blink and swallow then turn away my gaze. I can’t believe it—and I won’t.

  She can’t have changed her mind.

  It’s better the devil you know than the one who’s threatening to share you.

  I push the insane whisper away—she raised the possibility, not me—hoping this hasn’t been a case of a fantasy becoming too real.

  ‘Come on. I’ve no idea what’s gotten up you, but we’re missing out on the good champagne.’

  The sun has disappeared behind a bank of clouds as we cross a courtyard into the main house. Doors, steps, and worn hallways lead into what Rory calls the Great Room. Grabbing a glass of Cristal from a waiter, I neck it back in one throw.

  ‘This is a christening, not a club,’ Rory grumbles. ‘Steady on.’

  Without a quip or a retort, I follow him like an automaton, walking right by him as he stops and envelops Fin in his arms. I keep moving, on a mission to get to the group of friends. And the one friend I’m looking for is standing in the middle of the crowd with him.

  I don’t know whether to be thankful or annoyed that she shrugs her shoulder out from under his raised hand. The only thing I do know is the most inappropriate choice of behaviour is the one beating under the confines of my shirt.

  I want to rip off the fucker’s hands. Then his head.

  Actually, I’m not fussed which comes first.

  But come on, let’s not turn this christening into a wake.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  BEA

  ‘What’s wrong, deary?’ June’s voice pops up from her purple wheelchair. ‘You having boyfriend trouble?’

  How about boyfriend troubles, plural? How about ex-boyfriends trouble multiplied by two!

  ‘Aye, lads are like buses. They never arrive but in twos.’

  FML for saying that out loud. Thankfully, no one but June seems to be listening; all caught up in other conversations—discussions that sound like a who’s who.

  ‘How are you, June?’ I ask, crouching down to her level. She’s only recently begun using a wheelchair following a stroke. A big adjustment for anyone, but as I understand it, June was more active
than most her age. Besides, I often think staring up people’s noses must get old. But more than this, being on this level provides me an excuse not to cause a scene because I swear to all that is holy, if Jon puts tries to hold my hand once more, I’m going to amputate the fucker and shove it up his ass.

  He’d arrived a little while ago, right as we were heading to the chapel. Dylan had baby Alisdair wrapped in one arm as the bastard strode towards our group, full of his usual confidence and urbane charm.

  Speechless didn’t even cover it—it took me a minute to find words.

  People. So many people. Many of them famous.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I’d demanded through gritted teeth as he’d leaned close enough to kiss me on the cheek. I’d turned my head, of course. He’s lucky we had an audience, or I might’ve given him one of Natasha’s Glasgow kisses. As in, nutted him.

  His smile had faltered before it was pushed back in place. ‘Why, I’ve had the invitation on my fridge for months!’ Then, hand outstretched, he turned to Dylan to tell him how big a fan of his he was.

  Liar. All the lies! Dissembler extraordinaire!

  He’d greeted everyone in turn—introducing himself as my bloody boyfriend! Only Fin looked confused. What was I to do? Cause a scene by yelling he wasn’t? I had to make a decision right there and then, and I’d decided I’d deal with him after the service when I could get him on his own. And beat him to death with the soggy end of his dismembered arm.

  Only, it hadn’t happened like that. Jon inserted himself in the middle of the crowd, like the coward he is, and I wasn’t going to drag him out.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Fin had whispered as we’d left the chapel following the service.

  My answer? ‘I think he has a death wish.’

  June’s warm, papery hand pats mine again, bringing me back to our conversation.

  ‘Speaking of boys, I see you brought your toy boy.’ I send her a cheeky wink, hoping it’s more convincing than my smile.