Single Handed (Gareth Dawson Series Book 3)

by Nathan Burrows

  A few moments later, he felt a hand on his shoulder and the bench creaked as someone sat down opposite. It was Tommy. He said nothing, but just looked at Gareth.

  “Dave told you?” Gareth said a few seconds later. Tommy just nodded his head in reply. “For fuck’s sake, I didn’t see that one coming.”

  “No, I wouldn’t imagine you did,” Tommy replied. “So, nothing happened after dinner last night between you and Laura then, obviously?” Gareth frowned at him, wanting to bite back with a barbed comment.

  “I bottled it, mate,” Gareth said. “We were sitting in the taxi, right next to each other. I thought she wanted to kiss me, and I nearly did, but I bottled it. I just got out of the cab and said goodnight.”

  “Probably just as well given what Dave and Charlotte saw. You might have got a slap round the chops.”

  “No, I don’t think I would have done. I texted her later after I’d had a bit of Dutch courage, but she never replied. Guess she was busy doing something else. Or someone else.”

  “She likes you, Gareth,” Tommy said, his face impassive in the orange light from a streetlamp. “It’s as plain as the nose on your ugly face.”

  “She’s got a bloody strange way of showing it,” Gareth replied, flicking his cigarette over the fence in the beer garden. “I’m supposed to be round there now having dinner. I thought that tonight was going to be, well, you know?”

  “But you’re not seeing each other, are you?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s the problem? It was only a kiss. Do you remember Ruth Fawcett?”

  Despite himself, Gareth smiled. That was a name he’d not heard in years.

  “God, she was a right munter, wasn’t she?”

  “Didn’t stop you sticking your tongue down her throat though, did it?”

  “Tommy,” Gareth said, getting to his feet. “For one thing, that was about ten years ago. For another thing, I was drunk.”

  “But my point is that it didn’t mean anything. It was only a kiss.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t rescue me that night.”

  “You looked like you were enjoying yourself. Ruth Fawcett certainly was.” Tommy stood and clapped Gareth on the shoulder again. “I don’t know about you, my friend, but I need a beer. I’ve lined up a couple of chasers for us both as well.”

  39

  Laura sang to herself as she showered. She had turned the water up to as hot as she could stand it, and by the time she was finished, her skin was tingling. She opened the bathroom window as wide as it would go to clear the steam from the room and wrapped a towel around herself before walking into the bedroom to get dressed. She wasn’t sure what to wear or, more specifically, she wasn’t sure what to wear over her purchases from Jarrolds.

  As she sat in front of the mirror with her makeup arranged in front of her, she looked at her reflection. Apart from a few crow’s feet by her eyes—laughter lines, as her mother would have called them—she thought she was in reasonably good shape. Regular running kept her weight in check, although a few more pounds on her slim hips wouldn’t hurt. The problem with that was that they wouldn’t just go on her hips.

  Laura was, however, nervous. It had been a long time since she’d shared a bed with anyone. She felt like she had done all those years ago, going out with Sam for the evening knowing full well that at the end of the night, they would be in bed with each other.

  Gareth wasn’t to know, but when Laura met him for the first time when he was still in prison, she had wanted to be with him from that moment. At the time, she had just come out of a relationship with a man who had turned out—like so many did—to be an absolute idiot. There was a lot of water under the bridge since then, but there hadn’t been any other partners. Laura had waited, and waited, until finally the dance had begun a few weeks ago.

  Laura took her time applying her makeup. She didn’t want to put too much on and end up looking slutty or desperate, but going bare-faced wasn’t an option.

  “You are slutty and desperate, though,” she muttered to herself as she pursed her lips to put on some lipstick. Then she started giggling as she got dressed, opting for a simple summer dress that—she hoped—was just the right balance between modest and enticing.

  When Laura walked back into the kitchen, the smell of the pork belly cooking in the oven made her mouth water. Next to the oven were all the ingredients for the pepper sauce, which she was leaving until the last minute and would be the only thing she actually had to cook when he arrived. She fussed over the table which was laid out with cutlery, wine glasses, and a small posy of fresh flowers that she had picked up in the supermarket earlier. Hopefully, Gareth would turn up with a larger bunch.

  Glancing at the clock on the cooker, Laura realised that he was going to be arriving in less than thirty minutes. Her heart fluttered for a couple of beats, and she pressed her hand to her chest, laughing. This was ridiculous, she told herself. It wasn’t as if this was the first time, although, in a sense it was. She crossed to the fridge, telling herself that a cheeky glass of wine before he arrived would help to settle her nerves. As she did so, she looked at her phone which was charging up on one of the kitchen worktops.

  She picked it up, smiling when she saw that she had a text from Gareth. Laura tapped the screen to open the text message.

  Sorry, can’t make dinner. Change of plan.

  Her heart sank in her chest.

  “No, no, no,” she said, re-reading the message to be sure it said what she thought it did. “Please, no.”

  What had happened? She scrolled through the earlier messages from him. There was nothing in them to suggest that he was about to change his plans. Laura thought about texting him back but decided to call instead.

  This is Gareth. Leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.

  Laura swore, fighting back tears as her call went straight to his answerphone. She placed the phone gently down on the counter to avoid the temptation to throw it across the room. Then she picked it back up again and tapped out a text message to Gareth. Maybe he was just somewhere with no signal, and would pick it up when he was back in range. Laura tried several versions of the message, before deleting the characters and settling with three question marks instead.

  She opened the fridge and grabbed the wine, tempted for a moment to just drink it straight from the bottle. Instead, she poured herself a generous glass and walked into the lounge, picking up her phone as she did so.

  It took Laura less than an hour to finish the wine and, by the time the bottle was empty, she was buzzing from so much alcohol on an empty stomach. She could have eaten the pork belly instead of scraping it into the bin, but when she got it out of the oven, her appetite disappeared in an instant. Resolving not to drink any more, she put the empty bottle in the recycling bin, checked her phone for what must have been the hundredth time, and lay down on the sofa.

  She woke up a couple of hours later with a start, and the beginnings of a headache. Laura went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror as she washed her hands.

  “This is pathetic,” she told herself. “No, he’s pathetic.” Her resolve hardening, she returned to the lounge. It was almost eleven o’clock. She picked up her phone—still nothing. Laura didn’t know where Gareth was. For all she knew, he was in the city with his friends from the football. But she did know where he might be. Laura looked up the phone number on the internet and raised the phone to her ear.

  “Heartsease Pub?” a male voice said a few seconds later.

  “Hello, um, Joe. My name’s Laura Flynn. I don’t know if you remember me?”

  “Of course I do,” the voice replied. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is Gareth there? Gareth Dawson?”

  “Hang on a second, let me go somewhere quieter.” She could hear the man on the other end of the line moving. “I’m guessing you’re the reason why he’s trying to drink me dry?”

  “He is there, then?”

  “Yep. Sitting in the c
orner with a right face on.”

  “Okay, I’m coming down. I need to talk to him. Can you do me a favour and not tell him I’m coming.”

  “No problem,” Joe replied. “Mum’s the word.”

  40

  “Last one for you, Gareth,” Big Joe said as he put the pint on the bar. “Get that down you and I’ll call you a cab.”

  Gareth looked at Joe, knowing that there was no arguing with the man. When he said you’d had enough, you’d had enough. Tommy had stayed for a couple of pints before disappearing once he was sure, in his words, that Gareth wasn’t about to jump in the river without any arm bands on.

  “Cheers, mate. Just going for a pee.”

  “Yeah, thanks for sharing.”

  Gareth made his way into the toilets, swaying slightly. He wasn’t as drunk as he would have liked to have been, but he did have some more booze back at his flat so he could finish the job when he got home. As he attended to his business, he read the poster on the wall above the urinal with the remaining football fixtures listed on it. There weren’t many left, and next year Norwich City wouldn’t be on the telly as much, but that was life.

  After he had washed his hands, Gareth returned to the bar to get his drink. To his surprise, there was another glass next to his.

  “What’s that?” he asked Joe who was wiping down the bar and getting ready to close up for the night.

  “White wine spritzer,” Joe replied, not even looking at him.

  “I don’t drink that,” Gareth said, confused. He looked again at Joe before following his eyes to the corner of the pub. At the table where he’d been sitting all evening was Laura. “Oh,” Gareth mumbled as he picked up both glasses and made his way toward her.

  “This one’s yours,” he said, placing the wineglass in front of her. Gareth heard her whisper ‘thank you’, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. They sat in silence for a moment, the only sound in the pub was Joe collecting glasses. All the other customers had long gone.

  Gareth saw Laura reach forward and pick up her glass, and his eyes flicked up to her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and he realised that she had been crying. He swallowed, determined to keep his resolve.

  “So, this is your change of plan, is it?” she asked, the bitterness obvious in her voice. “Getting pissed on your own?”

  “When were you going to tell me, Laura?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “That you’re gay.” Her arm stopped in its tracks, the glass halfway toward her mouth. She stared back at him, open-mouthed.

  “Who told you I’m gay?” she asked a few seconds later.

  “You were seen, Laura,” he replied. “In a club last night, tucked up in a corner with that copper. Kate.” She took a tiny sip of her drink and placed it back on the table.

  “I was seen? By one of your informants?”

  “Dave saw you there. You’re not denying it, then?”

  “No, I’m not. But it was only a kiss.”

  “That’s what Tommy said.” Gareth watched as a flash of anger crossed her face.

  “That’s what Tommy said?” she repeated, her voice hardening. “What? You, Dave, and Tommy have been having a right old gossip about me getting it on with a woman?”

  “No, Laura,” Gareth replied. “Tommy’s my best mate. Dave told him because I was upset, so he came here to make sure I was okay.” He took a sip of his pint, suddenly feeling a lot more sober than he had done a few moments before. “Was all that stuff about that bloke rubbish then? What was his name again? Sam?”

  “No, it wasn’t rubbish,” Laura said, her lips pressed tightly together. “But her name was Samantha.”

  “You told me she was a bloke!”

  “I didn’t tell you that. You assumed it.”

  “So you are gay, then?” Gareth asked. Laura looked at him, down at her glass, and then back at him.

  “No, I wouldn’t say I’m gay.”

  “But Kate? Samantha?”

  “It’s more about who I’m with than what gender they are that matters.” Laura’s voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and Gareth had to struggle to hear her.

  “So you’re bisexual?”

  “If you have to put me into a nice neat little box, that would probably be the best one to put me in.” Laura leaned down and picked up her handbag from underneath her chair. “This was a mistake.” She started to stand, and Gareth put a hand on her arm to stop her.

  “Laura, wait,” he said. “Please?” She sat back down, looking at him and biting her lip so hard it turned the skin white. “Listen, I don’t care who you sleep with.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Gareth,” Laura barked at him. “I told you, I didn’t sleep with Kate. It was only a kiss. Nothing more.”

  “No, I’m not talking about Kate. I mean, more generally. I’m not bothered about that.” Laura mumbled something under her breath that Gareth didn’t catch. “Sorry?” he said.

  “I said I was lonely,” she whispered. When she looked at him, there was a solitary tear making its way down her cheek. “I just wanted some intimacy. Kate was there, I’d had too much to drink, and it just happened.”

  Gareth reached forward and used his thumb to brush away the tear. When Laura didn’t react, he slid his hand to the side of her neck and left it there.

  “Laura?” he said. “I’m sorry.” She looked at him, blinking back tears.

  “So am I,” she replied. “Gareth, I really like you, but…” Her voice tailed away.

  “But what?” he said, softly.

  “But Jennifer.”

  “You’re not her, and I would never want you to be.”

  “What do you want?” Laura asked. Gareth paused before replying.

  “I take it dinner’s no longer an option?” he asked. She smiled, picking up her glass of wine with one hand and placing the other one over Gareth’s which was still on her neck.

  “You’ll have to scrape it out of the bin.”

  “I want to go back to my flat and have a shower. Clean my teeth.” Laura’s face started to fall as he said this, so he continued quickly. “Then I want to sit next to you on my sofa with a glass of wine. Accidentally put my arm around your shoulder in the hope that you’ll turn to look at me so that I can kiss you.” He could see the beginnings of a smile on her face.

  “Then what?” she asked, finishing her drink and putting the empty glass on the table next to Gareth’s almost untouched pint.

  “I think you know what then, Laura,” Gareth replied.

  “Then you ask me if you want to go somewhere more comfortable?”

  “Something like that, yes. What do you think?”

  Laura removed Gareth’s hand from her neck and moved it to the table. When she looked at him, she had an impassive expression on her face.

  “I think yes to the shower and toothpaste,” she said. “It might sober you up a bit. But no to me coming round to your flat, and no to behaving like teenagers on the sofa.”

  Gareth’s face fell as he looked at Laura. He suddenly felt foolish, like a schoolboy being turned down when he’d asked the girl of his dreams for a date and she’d laughed in his face.

  She reached down into her bag and pulled out her phone. The next thing Gareth knew, she had called someone.

  “Can I get a taxi to take me home, please?”

  41

  Ronnie wasn’t sure what it was that woke him up—the girl in his bed screaming or the front door to the small house being kicked open. They could even have both occurred at the same time, but it didn’t matter either way. The end result was the same: a stream of policemen clad in body armour running into the bedroom screaming something unintelligible in Balinese. He didn’t need to know what they were shouting about, though. One thing he did know was that he was in deep shit.

  He had just about got to his feet when the first policeman through the door shoulder barged him, knocking the breath from his body as he was shoved back onto the bed. The girl’s high-pitched screams got louder as o
ne of the other policemen grabbed her arm and started hauling her toward the door. Ronnie felt a couple of pairs of strong arms grabbing his, and he was flipped onto his front. The next thing he felt was a knee on his neck.

  “Okay, okay!” he shouted, slapping his hand on the mattress. “Get off me.” A policeman barked something at him that he didn’t understand. “English! English!” Ronnie shouted. “I’m English!”

  It felt to Ronnie like an eternity, but eventually the pressure on his neck was released and he was hauled into a sitting position on the bed. He rubbed his neck and looked around the room. There were three policemen, all with beige jumpsuits and body armour. They wore black helmets, had bandanas over their faces, and handguns strapped to their waists. In the doorway was a fourth policeman. He was in his late thirties or early forties, well-built, and dressed in the standard uniform of the Balinese police; a beige shirt with breast pockets and navy-blue trousers held up with an elaborate belt. Above his right breast pocket was an embroidered badge with his name—Sukarba—and above the other pocket was a gold metal shield. Epaulettes with a series of stripes completed the uniform.

  “Name?” the policeman barked.

  “Phelps. Ronnie Phelps. Listen, this is all some sort of mistake. I–”

  “Enough!” He said something in Balinese and two of the policemen grabbed his upper arms and pulled him to his feet. A moment later, he was thrown into the back of a squat jet-black police van that was parked in the courtyard between the houses. Just before the door of the van was slammed shut, Ronnie saw two men being led to another van, their hands zip-tied behind their backs. He wasn’t sure, but thought they were probably the same men from the previous evening.