by NC Marshall
Picking up his car keys and mobile from the kitchen table, he made his way out of his cottage and into the cool autumn air. Pausing on the doorstep, he held up a hand to shield his eyes and drew a deep breath. The low sun shone brightly and glistened against the water of the estuary, peeking through the gaps between the cottages lined in a row in front of his own. The temperature outside was colder today, much more so than yesterday. The hairs stood up on the surface of his skin and it forced him to stop and shudder. Rubbing his bare arms, he grabbed the cottage door before it closed behind him, and rushed back in to grab his jacket from the banister at the bottom of the stairs, where he always left it. However, today it wasn’t there.
In that moment, Will realized how foolish he’d been!
The jacket that he’d worn last night wasn’t there, because he didn’t come home with it.
“Shit!” he mouthed, his breath curling into a fog in the icy air as he stepped back outside and pulled his mobile from his back pocket. He had been so concerned about Megan that he hadn’t retrieved the jacket he’d used as a blanket for her – she must still have it. Not that the jacket was of any real importance; yes, it was relatively expensive, and he had only bought it recently for comfort in the approaching harsh winter months, however, there was something in the pocket of that jacket that could potentially lead Megan directly to him, allowing her to discover his identity, question his reasons for being there and lead her straight to the truth!
Chapter 3
Three days have gone by. I sit, perched eagerly on the end of my bed waiting for Luke to come and collect me from hospital, now keen to escape the confinement of the same four walls that I have been staring at since I woke up here. The small hospital ward is quiet today, with just me and an elderly lady in the bed opposite who was only admitted this morning, and is already snoring quietly. With her silver-grey hair flowing out across the white fabric of the pillow, and flawless creamy complexion, she looks peaceful and angelic. I can't help smiling to myself, and I wonder if my Mum would have been as beautiful had she made it to that age.
The medication that I’ve taken while in hospital has worked, and I now feel much better. The police came to see me yesterday and I told them everything I can remember – which isn’t really that much. With the aches and pains alleviated, I'm now desperate to get back to my everyday life. I'm used to being on the go, and the slow pace and long, drawn-out hours here force me to relive the accident every day. I want to get back to work, focus my mind and try to forget about the accident; return to my habitual daily routine and the comfort of my own home.
I’m busy packing the items that my dad and Luke brought to hospital for me, when I see the jacket – it’s at the bottom of the cabinet containing my belongings. I know immediately that it's not mine, and at first I think it’s been left behind by the last patient to occupy the bed, but then I realize who it’s likely to belong to. An image enters my head, as it has done almost every hour since the crash, of strong arms reaching into the car and pulling me to safety, and there’s no doubt in my mind. It’s his jacket!
Holding the padded fabric to my face, I inhale and breathe in a mixture of aftershave and smoke from the fire. A stab of pressure across my eyes triggers another flashback; his silhouette against the bright flames as we raced away from the burning car. I can still feel the heat radiating from his skin and hear the raspy desperation of his breathing, as he ran with me in his arms.
“Hi Megan!” I jump as my brother appears from nowhere and crouches down at eye level. “You almost ready to go?” he asks.
“Erm, yes, I think so.” I smile and, lowering the jacket from Luke’s view, I pull out the remainder of my belongings from the small cabinet, and quickly put the jacket in my holdall too.
“All ready to go,” I reply.
Luke slings an arm loosely around my shoulders and propels me towards the exit of the ward.
“Let’s get you home,” he says, and I smile in agreement. That’s the best thing I’ve heard during the 3 days I’ve been here.
***
I’m greeted at home by a living room full of fresh flowers, a pile of unopened ‘get well soon’ cards and my relieved-looking Ragdoll cat, Tilly. Although she loves Luke, who’s been coming round to feed her during my absence, it's obvious that she’s pleased I’m home and she wastes no time in jumping down from the sofa in the living room, wrapping herself around my legs and purring loudly. I bend down to stroke her and as Luke heads into the kitchen to put the kettle on, I turn to follow him, picking up a cloth before wiping down the granite worktops.
Luke takes the cloth angrily and flings it into the sink.
“For Christ’s sake, Meg! Can you just forget about the cleaning for one day and focus on looking after yourself?!” He grabs me by the shoulders and turns me back in the direction of the lounge where he forces me onto the sofa next to Tilly.
“Now, sit down and relax!” he orders. On this rare occasion, I do as I’m told.
Luke makes sure I’m settled and then heads back to the kitchen to prepare me a cup of tea. My brother lives alone and, as a single and carefree bachelor, he is as far removed from a domestic god as you can get, but he does make the best cup of tea I’ve ever tasted. It feels strange and a little disturbing that he is the one caring for me today. Since our mum died, it’s always been the other way around; I’ve looked after both Luke and Dad for the past 11 years. I’m used to being the one in charge and, as a self-proclaimed control freak, I am already finding this situation a little difficult to accept.
Luke comes back into the lounge and hands me a steaming mug of tea. I accept it and cradle it in my already clammy hands.
“It’s so nice to be home,” I admit, taking a look around the slightly disorganized room. Already, I’m mentally planning what needs to be done as soon as Luke leaves.
“Don’t you start rushing around, Meg. The doctor says you need to rest and I think for once in your life you should listen to someone who knows what they’re talking about.”
“Yes, don’t worry, I will.” I answer, already knowing what will happen the moment my brother sets foot out of the door.
***
Luke stays with me for a little while, then makes a move to go after confirming that him and Dad will come and see me tomorrow. Things have been far from easy in my life lately and I am grateful that I have two such loving men as part of it.
I settle back down onto the sofa next to Tilly and begin to open the cards. Most are from family members and work colleagues wishing me well and hoping I’m better soon. Their kind words and loving messages make me feel a fraud in some ways, because, apart from a little pain in my left knee from banging the steering column, and the cut above my eye that looks far worse than it really is, I do feel much better. I can't remember the last time I was absent from work because, apart from bereavement leave, I’ve dragged myself into the office every day since I started at the company 8 years ago.
I prop the cards along the mantelpiece before rearranging the vases of flowers on the window sill, and I begin to tidy up. I’d actually forgotten about the jacket in my bag and, as I’m emptying the contents into the washing machine, I catch sight of it again.
Pulling it out, I unfold it, hold it out in front of me and study it, as the familiar aroma of aftershave and smoke rises up from it again.
The jacket is a black, waterproof design with a heavy fur-trimmed hood. The label tells me that it’s men’s size ‘large’ and, if I know my designer brands correctly, I can guess it has a hefty price tag. I instantly feel guilty. The man who saved me obviously put it over me and forgot to take it with him. I search the pockets for some form of ID in the hope that I can trace him and return it, or maybe buy him a new one, but I find nothing. I'm beginning to fold it up again when I notice that there’s a concealed inside pocket that I haven’t checked - I reach inside and pull out a key.
The key looks like the type you get in a hotel, with a large rectangular shaped keyring attached,
and on turning it over I see that it holds an address for a property based in Morteford – somewhere I’ve never visited before, but have heard is very charming.
I place the coat neatly on the kitchen bench before returning to my chores. Maybe I'll give it a few days and pay the stranger a visit; it’s the least I can do. He saved me and I owe him my life.
Chapter 4
Charlotte Taylor pulled back the heavy duvet and eased herself from her bed. The polished wooden floor was cold and unsatisfying against her warm feet – almost as ‘chilly’ as her blind date last night! Yet she’d still woken up, in her underwear, next to the guy, with a pounding headache and an intense feeling of self-loathing. Smirnoff and loneliness is never a good combination, and by now she should have learnt that lesson. Charlotte had always vowed that she would never go on a blind date and, this morning, she realized why.
Creeping across the room in search of her clothes, she risked a quick peek behind her at the man her mother had insisted she meet up with last night. The son of her mother’s friend, Margaret, from her book club, was lying sprawled out on top of the sheets, sleeping soundly and wearing nothing but a smile! Although pretty good-looking, with a hell of a body and semi-decent bedroom skills, he had also clearly undertaken a sense-of-humour bypass and his personality was as dead as a corpse (and she had seen a lot of corpses in her time!).
As Charlotte retrieved her clothes, which had been thrown to various locations in her date’s large loft-style bedroom, she racked her brain. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name; Daniel, Damien, Dominic…? She was certain it began with a ‘D’. Either way, it was another confirmation that her mum doesn’t ‘always know best’, and that she certainly doesn’t know her daughter nearly as well as she would like to believe.
Navigating her way to the kitchen at the bottom of a spiral-shaped iron staircase, Charlotte tore her stare away from the outlandishly modern-looking appliances and showy gadgets that dotted the room. She began rummaging through the drawers in search of painkillers to try and dull the now fully blown headache and, finally, she found some paracetamol, quickly swallowing two capsules with the remnants of a half-finished, lipstick-stained glass of Moet.
She tried to remember the chain of events when they got back last night, playing them in sequence through her mind, like scenes from a half-baked saucy film, but the vodka and champagne had achieved their job of wiping clean the better part of her memory. She could remember the taxi ride back, and a quick fumble on the sofa, but after that, it all became slightly blurry.
Searching the living room for her phone, Charlotte grabbed the coordinating scatter cushions from the expensive looking leather sofa, and quickly found it tucked down the side of the seat, along with her date’s discarded boxers.
Taking a quick look at the screen before putting the phone into her bag, she registered the five unread texts sent from her mother last night, all no doubt asking how things were going with Darren, Darren that was it! She dreaded speaking to her later, she never liked letting her mum down and she knew she secretly held high hopes that Charlotte and Darren would hit it off. Chances were she’d already been out wedding outfit shopping.
Charlotte rushed to the apartment door as soon as she heard a creak from the floorboards above, cowardly deciding to make a dash for it while she could. She had never been one for awkward moments, and chose to give this one a rapid swerve.
She managed to get out of the apartment block and onto the street below without anyone seeing her, and luckily, without Mr Boring stirring any further. With the building now behind her, the walk of shame successfully executed, and the hangover already starting to ease with the fresh air, she felt quite smug and was deliberating a sausage McMuffin or full English when her phone started to ring. She sighed loudly before reaching into her silver clutch bag to answer it, half expecting it to be her mother.
“Oh, hi Tony! How can I help you on this beautiful autumn day?” she asked, cheerily.
“Christ, Charlotte, you sound rather chirpy for this time on a Sunday morning,” responded Tony, in an unenthusiastic tone.
“Yeah, well. What can I say?”
“The blind date went well last night then?” asked Tony, as facetious as ever.
“Nope, the date was abysmal, but I've got the day off and a McDonalds 12 feet away from me, so things could be worse!”
Tony laughed, “well, unfortunately you might have to make that breakfast a takeaway.”
Charlotte quickly registered the information that Tony relayed and prepared to wave goodbye to the Sunday she had planned; heading back to her flat after breakfast, lazing in front of the TV, indulging in her own weight in chocolate, and forgetting all about her responsibilities. That was until the next morning, when she would wake to the 6.20 alarm and dive back into her job with the passion and determination that she’d had every day since becoming a Detective Inspector.
Charlotte started to pace back and forth in an attempt to stay warm. She hadn’t worn a coat last night and hadn’t really noticed the cold, but she could definitely do with one now.
“Please tell me you’re joking Tony. They really need us to work – today?”
“Sorry, something’s come up and we need to go on a little road trip.”
“A road trip? But we haven’t had a full day off in weeks. Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be on holiday for a couple of days?” Charlotte couldn’t hide the disappointment in her voice.
“That’s cancelled! All part and parcel of our job, I’m afraid sweetheart,” replied Tony. “Besides, I'm no good without my partner in crime now am I?”
“What’s happened?” asked Charlotte. She stopped pacing as a group of teenage boys walked past her and scurried into the restaurant. The last of the pack, a boy of around 14 with straggly, greasy hair and a face full of acne, stopped to noticeably check out her breasts, his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets, before entering the restaurant behind the rest of the group. She glanced down at her blouse and realized that, in her rush to get away this morning, she’d not fastened it correctly and her black lace bra was visible for all to see.
“Shit!” She tucked her phone under her chin and, before turning away from the restaurant windows, she proceeded to redo the buttons. The strong smell of her blind date’s heavy aftershave clung to her skin and her stomach churned.
“We need to get up to Newcastle ASAP,” said Tony. His voice was now deadly serious, as was Charlotte’s, when she replied.
“Why, what’s in Newcastle?” Charlotte was already moving away from McDonalds, her eyes searching the Sunday morning traffic for the nearest taxi. She had a feeling she knew what Tony was going to tell her.
“Rick Donovan,” answered Tony, instantly confirming her suspicions. “It looks like he’s back!”
Chapter 5
Will pushed through the aging wooden doors of the Anchor pub and confidently wound his way through the crowd. It was late Sunday afternoon and, as always during the weekend, the place was crammed. Hardly surprising though as the village of Morteford only had three pubs and this was the only one that served a half-decent pint.
The Anchor Tavern was what the typical Brit would affectionately refer to as a ‘real pub’. Living up to its name as being one of Morteford’s oldest listed buildings, it had retained most of its original features. There were no swanky furnishings, innovative gastro food, or ludicrously priced cocktails in sight; just a few dated wooden tables and chairs, yellowing floral wallpaper clashing with red-patterned carpets, and the occasional homemade steak and ale pie, together with a huge open fire to welcome you on a cold autumn afternoon.
Will shrugged off his coat and threw it onto the rickety old stand in the corner, then paused to rub his hands in front of the fire before heading to the bar.
“Alright, Will?” Mike, the Anchor’s owner, greeted Will from behind the bar and bypassed a few rare non-locals to make his way over to him.
“Same as normal, young sir?” Mike reached for a
pint glass beneath him.
“Yeah, cheers Mike.” Will stuck his hand into the pocket of his jeans to pull out his wallet. “Is Elliott in yet?”
Mike scanned the busy pub and returned his attention to Will.
“Can't say I’ve seen him.”
Will nodded as Mike began pulling a pint of Carling.
“How's your dad doing mate?” Genuine concern filled Mike’s voice.
As a regular in the Anchor, and a Morteford resident for over 40 years, Will’s dad was sorely missed. His absence around the village these past few months hadn’t gone unnoticed, and even though the extent of his father’s illness had been played down by both Will and his mother, his father’s daily non-attendance for a quick teatime pint spoke volumes.
“He’s as well as can be expected,” replied Will, before accepting the pint and taking a well-needed sip.
“And your mum?”
“Yeah, she’s not bad, holding it together pretty well really.”
“Good, well send your dad my regards the next time you visit him will you, and tell your mum I was asking after her.”
“Will do, thanks Mike,” smiled Will, sliding money across the bar before making his way to the far end of the pub.
He chose to sit in his and Elliott’s usual spot – next to the window and the open fire – looking out over the estuary with a clear view of the small town of Fadstow, a short boat trip across the water. Of course the seats were empty when he made his way over. The Anchor was the sort of place where each seat had an invisible name tag and, over the weekend, it was a known fact that these two belonged to Will and Elliott.