Even his master’s disappearance hadn’t seemed to affect him. He’d just taken to Rob straight away. He cocked his head and whined.
“Oh yeah. Breakfast.” Rob rummaged through the paper wrappings on the kitchen worktop and found the remnants of last night’s kebab. He scraped the dried chilli sauce off and tossed it to the dog.
“Enjoy.” Rob turned back and put the kettle on. Odd, he didn’t remember buying the kebab last night. But then, there was a lot he didn’t remember. And how the bloody hell did I get home last night, anyway?
Last night was a little Christmas send-off at Dan and Emma’s virtually deserted college bar, a good piss-up with cheap drinks before some of Jamaica’s Finest in Emma’s room. She was one of those students who was in no rush to go home for the vacations. She’d elected to stay in Cambridge until closer to Christmas, helping out on the trade counter of Granta Office Supplies for some extra pennies.
And that was as much as Rob could remember. A few spliffs in her room at All Souls College, and then - nothing. Did he go online with Emma’s laptop? A quick message to Andy Hughes? And then what?
If he’d been that fucked, why didn’t he crash there? He obviously hadn’t managed to pull her, or perhaps he’d had a massive bust up with her and she’d told him to piss off.
Yeah, that’s the likely option, he thought sadly as he tossed his cigarette butt in the sink. As the kettle boiled he looked at the pile of dirty laundry overflowing from the wicker basket. His work fleece lay on top.
Wasn’t I wearing that yesterday? It was clean on last night, so why…. He lifted the fleece and saw his jeans. They were clean last night as well. He frowned at the dark stains and bent his aching head closer to inspect them.
Then he recoiled as the stench of blood and rotting meat hit him. Bile filled his throat and he turned to the sink and tried to vomit.
Nothing but bile hit the metal basin. The cigarette stub sizzled. He groaned and wiped the mess from his lips before staring at the blood soaked clothes again. Then he ran through to the hallway and pulled open the front door. Jasper didn’t look up from the kebab meat he was demolishing.
The Transit van was parked in its normal place. Outside the house on Thoday Street, behind the Peugeot 306 that belonged to the miserable old bastard next door. Like every other vehicle on this narrow offshoot of Mill Road, they were parked nose to tail, half mounted on the kerb to allow traffic to pass without collision. Parked neatly and tidily, no odd angles to indicate that he had driven home while pissed out of his face. He breathed a sigh of relief.
The street was empty and silent, the small Victorian terraced houses and their tiny front yards devoid of any signs of human activity. Snow and ice seemed to have frozen the life out of them. Rob shivered again, Time to get ready for work, he told himself.
He was about to slam the door shut when something caught his attention. He frowned, leaning over the snow-covered doorstep to avoid putting bare feet on it.
The van seemed okay at first. The logo of the company that employed him was emblazoned on the white bodywork: GRANTA OFFICE SUPPLIES, the script written in an antiquated Gothic font above a stylised depiction of King’s College Chapel. Beneath that was the phone number and website address, thoughtfully provided in case anyone wanted to contact the firm and enquire about the products and services on offer. Or complain about Rob’s driving.
But something else was there, a small dent just under the wheel arch. He wouldn’t have noticed if it hadn’t been for the splatters of blood around it. Frosted patterns of dark red that sparkled around the arch and trailed down to the tyre to form a small puddle on the mounted kerb. Ignoring the cold, he stepped onto the path and walked up to the gate, pulled it aside. It shrieked on rusty hinges. Rob ignored it. He didn’t even feel the snow on his bare feet. His attention was focussed on the bonnet. Or rather, the dent in it.
This dent was huge. He stepped off the kerb to get a better look.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered hoarsely. A huge depression in the centre. Not large enough to damage the engine underneath, but definitely the size a human body would have made when struck. The wheel crunching flesh and bones into a bloody pulp as the Transit ran over the prone body. Blood spraying up, staining the tyre and wheel arch…
Christ, no. Not that. Don’t tell me I drove home, pissed up and…and…
The dream didn’t seem so wild now. It was part nightmare, part recollection of last night’s events.
He had driven home from the college last night. Pissed up and completely stoned - and he’d collided with someone.
He doubled over and threw up. Brown-tinged vomit hit the crumpled bonnet.
The trundle of an approaching milk float caught his ears, the whirring of its electric motor and the clinking of bottles in plastic crates at odds with the stillness of the street. He watched it pass, caught the driver’s suspicious glance. Rob forced himself up, wiped vomit from his mouth and lifted a hand by way of greeting. I’m okay, nothing to worry about. Piss off and leave me alone. Trembling, he headed back for the house.
An hour later, after he’d showered, dressed and scraped the worst of the frozen blood off the Transit, he tried to phone Emma to find out just what the hell had happened last night. It went straight to voicemail.
“Emma. It’s Rob.” His voice was still croaky. “Give me a bell, will ya? Cheers.” He was putting the phone in his jacket pocket when it rang.
“That was quick. Listen, girl, what - oh.”
“It’s Andy. Did you get my text?”
“Uh…yeah. Look, Andy…what you coming up here for?” Rob tried to keep the nervousness out of his voice, to be nonchalant. It was impossible. The quiet tone of Andy Hughes’ voice was enough to make anyone nervous. Rob had never heard Andy shout or raise his voice in any situation. He didn’t need to.
That made him even more dangerous to be around.
Andy was silent for a moment. Rob could hear the sound of trains in the background, a P.A. system mumbling out new arrivals.
“I’ll explain later. Can you pick me up? I’m at the train station.”
“No car?”
Another silence.
“Jen has it.”
Rob waited for more information. When none came he sighed.
“Okay, Andy. I’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Where are you staying?”
Andy told him. Didn’t ask him, told him.
“No probs.” Shit.
He pressed the end call button on his Nokia, caught Jasper’s eye and shrugged.
“Well, I’m hardly likely to tell him to piss off, am I?” He pressed the unlock button on the Transit key and motioned for Jasper to jump in. The collie didn’t need encouragement. He bounded out of the house and jumped happily into the cab. Rob locked the front door and stared gloomily at the drawn curtains of the first floor bedroom. Drawn and not opened since Geoff Michaels disappeared twelve months ago.
“Besides which, it’s not as though we’re pushed for space…”
He started the engine and waited for the blower to clear the ice from the windscreen. He lit another cigarette and watched the crumpled bonnet reveal itself through the slowly clearing windscreen. He swallowed thickly. There had been no reports of hit and run incidents on the morning local news reports. But still…
“Guess I’ll find out soon enough won’t I, shitbag?” He muttered in self-disgust, scratching the collie’s ear affectionately. “Find out whose Christmas I’ve ruined…”
* * * * *
Bright winter sunlight glared from blue skies and reflected off the crisp snow. Rob felt his head pound again. He reached over and took his sunglasses from the dashboard, quickly inspected them for any signs of doggy saliva and put them on.
He drove to the rail station on autopilot; after driving a van for over nine years in the city of Cambridge it was an easy mode to slip into. Especially when hungover.
Today was going to be a real struggle. The Transit mirrored his condition. It felt heav
ier than normal, was a pig to steer and the suspension wasn’t responding well. It was as though the van was fully loaded, and he knew that wasn’t the case. Probably down to the road conditions. The extra snow had taken the council by surprise. Cars were sliding all over Perne Road and the roundabout before the Master Mariner pub was at a virtual standstill. Rob froze at the sight of a police car that tore out of Radegund Road, wondering if the occupants were on their way to a hit and run scene. If they already had his registration number…
For fuck’s sake, don’t think like that!
Jasper seemed to respect Rob’s condition. He wasn’t barking manically at every single car they passed, at every junction they turned into like he normally did.
Rob felt a mixture of emotions when he saw Andy walk from the classical facade of the station, a heavy holdall effortlessly slung over his shoulder. Fear and trepidation, definitely, but as Andy got closer to the van parked in the taxi rank, the sight of him made Rob feel old.
Andy Hughes hadn’t changed a bit. The same powerfully built frame, carried with the familiar casual yet confident gait. The shaven head gleamed slightly blue in the winter sunshine, like the polished metal of an artillery shell.
“High explosive coming our way,” Rob muttered under his breath. Andy certainly had looked after himself. In a slim-fitting black sweatshirt - no jacket, Rob noticed, in spite of the cold - his midriff hadn’t given way to flab, muscles turning to fat, like Rob’s had done. There were a few wrinkles around the corners of his unnaturally green eyes, but that was it. Age wise, it was as though the last ten years hadn’t happened to Andy Hughes.
Still as intimidating as ever. But there was something else. It wasn’t the sheer physical presence of Andy that disturbed Rob - although he knew plenty of people in the past had been terrified by it, particularly when it came hurtling towards them in the darkened corners of a nightclub at lightning speed. It was the realisation that Andy Hughes needed his help.
In spite of his abrupt and somewhat dictatorial communication on the phone earlier, it was obvious that Andy had no one else in Cambridge he could go to. Rob wasn’t sure if that thought comforted or disturbed him.
Andy frowned at the crumpled bonnet of the Transit before recognising Rob’s eyes. He nodded once, gave a tight smile of recognition.
A middle-aged cabbie, about to give the driver of the Transit a hard time for parking in a taxi rank, suddenly saw Andy’s eyes turn in his direction. He halted, his mouth closing so rapidly Rob could see his double chin wobble back and forth.
Seeing Andy open the door of the Transit, Rob took hold of Jasper’s collar.
“C’mon, boy. Give our guest some room.”
Andy swung himself up into the cab of the Transit. His eyes softened at the sight of the dog grinning at him. Smiling back, he patted Jasper’s head while he pushed his holdall into the foot well. Something inside made a heavy, clunking sound.
“Thanks for this, Rob. Sorry to spring myself at you like this.”
Rob indicated to pull away. “S’okay, mate. That all the bags you brought with you?”
“That’s all,” Andy nodded.
Thank Christ for that. Means he won’t be here for long.
“And what brings you to the winter wonderland of Cambridge?” he asked as he swung the Transit round, pointing it back to Station Road. He didn’t bother asking about the tooth marks on Andy’s forehead. He could guess where they had come from.
Andy stroked Jasper. He didn’t meet Rob’s eyes.
“Family crisis.”
“Family crisis, eh? Okay…” What bloody family?
The van joined the line of traffic waiting for the lights to change at the junction of Station Road and Hills Road. He frowned. The van still felt heavier than normal. The steering was sluggish and the suspension felt non-existent.
As he turned left into Hills Road Rob felt Andy’s gaze turn in his direction and he swallowed nervously. Then he realised that Andy wasn’t looking at him but at the war memorial.
The bronze soldier on Robert Tait McKenzie’s memorial marched proudly - or thankfully - homewards, a snow covered Lee Enfield rifle slung over his shoulder. A survivor: carrying on, but always looking over his shoulder, unable to tear his gaze from the horrors of his past. Driving on autopilot meant Rob didn’t take any notice of the sights and tourist attractions within the city, just accepted them as part of the scenery. But he glanced at it briefly as the van passed, and remembered how it had affected Andy when he first saw it, Fresher’s Week so many years ago. What was it Andy had said to him? The idea of sacrificing yourself for a higher purpose…it’s humbling, Rob. It really is. Is that hesitation in the soldier’s eyes, a temptation to stay and share the fate of his comrades? Or guilt that he survived? How can he ever be the same man his family had known before he set off for the killing fields of France? And that faraway look in his eyes as he stared at the soldier…Andy had that same look now.
“Homecoming…” He blinked and Rob saw a visible shudder pass through Andy as the memorial faded in the side mirror.
“So, Roberto. What happened to your van?”
“Bloody good question, Andy. That dent happened last night. I can’t remember how it happened, though.”
Andy leant over the dashboard and peered at the dent in the bonnet. “You definitely hit something. There’s some dried blood down there…” Andy flared his nostrils, smelt the stale alcohol on Rob’s breath. He narrowed his eyes in disapproval.
“You were pissed up.” A statement, not a question.
“No lectures please, Andy. I don’t make a habit of drink-driving, honest.” He took a Mayfair from the crumpled pack on the dashboard with shaking hands and lit it.
“Something weird happened last night. I’m waiting for Emma to call me back. She’ll know what happened.”
“Emma?”
“Emma Robertson, she’s a student at All Souls. She helps out in the sales office at work - ‘
“All Souls.” Andy hissed the words. “It happened there then, did it?”
The lighter was ready. Rob took it, applied it to the tip of his cigarette. He frowned as he replaced it.
“All in the past, Andy. It was fifteen years ago - ‘
“You don’t need to remind me, Rob,” Andy said with no change in tone or volume, but the tense atmosphere in the cab was strained even further by his words. Even Jasper shrank back from him.
“I don’t need reminding.”
The rest of the journey to Rob’s workplace continued in silence.
CHAPTER THREE
The tortured whisperings faded. Slowly and reluctantly, slithering back to wherever they had come from as smoothly as freshly dug worms burrowing back into disturbed grave soil. Hiding from the light.
Emma Robertson blinked at the bright slivers of sunlight slicing through the gaps in the red curtains of her room, a single bedroom in the Hall of Residence that overlooked the Old Court of All Souls College. They didn’t seem quite real, although they had thankfully banished the shadows lurking in the far corners of her small room. She shook her head, which felt dulled and woolly from the sleepless night. She thought she could still detect traces of far off voices whispering to her, but she knew now they were just echoes, grim reminders of her invisible visitors.
What the hell had caused all that? She and Rob had enjoyed a few drinks and some weed - correction, she’d had a few, Rob had had a shitload - but that shouldn’t have created those hideous voices. Then again, there was the absinthe. She saw the bottle now, lying on the beige carpet. Empty, drained.
Oh God. That would explain it. Grabbing her glasses from the bedside cabinet she climbed out of bed and staggered to the window.
She looked at the absinthe bottle again - Rob’s little Christmas gift to her - and shivered. She wondered how bad his head was this morning.
God, that bloke drank like he didn’t want to live. Students overindulged, first years more so. All part of the student experience. Away from the pare
nts for the first time, a new group of friends to mix with, of course you were going to overindulge. But surely you’d outgrow that at some time. Usually after graduation, certainly before you hit your thirties. Not Rob Benson. Hard to believe he had a joint honours degree in English Literature and History.
Not the most useful of subjects, he’d said with a grin the first day they met in the warehouse of Granta Office Supplies back in October. That’s why I drive a van for a living.
She’d taken to him then. Although he was older and had studied at the “Tech - or Anglia Ruskin University as it was now called - and she was a first year undergraduate reading English Literature at a prestigious Oxbridge college, they had a lot in common. Not just similar tastes in music and books but a desire to have fun, to poke two fingers up to the pretension and general bullshit they’d both found in Cambridge.
He was a bit of a slob; there was no denying that. Late thirties and he was starting to let himself go. But he was fun to be with, and it was obvious that he’d remained in Cambridge purely to continue living the student lifestyle.
The Eternal Student, she called him. Perhaps he’d still be hanging round in college bars and sneaking into May Balls when he was drawing his pension. The amount of times he had tried to get a guest invite to the bar of All Souls from her - the only one of the thirty two Cambridge College bars he’d never managed to drink at - the amount of times she had said no…
So when she waved a guest pass at him with a conspiratorial smile and a whispered Merry Christmas on his return to the warehouse the look on his face was priceless.
Pulling the curtains apart she winced at the piercing bright sunlight reflected from dazzling fresh snow. She blinked, squinted, and then pulled on the catch, pushing the window open. It gave reluctantly, the metal frame held fast with ice, but it was no match for Emma’s forceful thrust.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 3