Gone (4 page)

Oh.

“Nice palette,” she says. “What’s it for?”

I stare at the huge stripe of gold and yellow. “I have no idea, I don’t remember doing it.”

“Have you been drinking again?” She laughs.

“Very funny.”
I don’t drink. I haven’t for six months, not since the last time I picked up a paint brush.

Saying that I could do with a cider.

Hold on. Stop the press.

“Do you fancy a cider?” I ask.

Faye leans forward, her dark hair swinging over her shoulder and places her hand against my forehead. I recoil slightly at her touch. I don’t like people touching me, even Faye, sometimes especially Faye. “Are you sick, shall I call Aunt May and tell her you need some of her special tonic?”

I elbow her in the ribs. “You should do stand up.”

“You should shut the fuck up.”

“So do you fancy going for a drink?” I tuck her hair behind her ear as I ask again. It’s an automatic motion for me.

Her eyes flicker over mine as my hand comes to a rest back on the counter. “Really, you want to go for a drink? I thought you were never going to drink again? Not ever?”

That’s true, I did say that. More than once. “Maybe I changed my mind. Do you fancy one or not?”

“Shall we call the others?”

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s five in the afternoon. They’ll be preening and smothering themselves in aftershave getting ready to shag some holiday makers. “Nah, just us.”

She raises her eyebrow again. “Okay then, but Dan is going to be pissed when he finds out you have broken your dry spell and he wasn’t there to gloat.”

“And that’s why we are not calling them. Come on lets go.”

The air is warm and dry as we march up the lane to the local pub; August is reigning supreme and supplying the British Isles with a scorching summer. Shame for me this means more holiday makers are arriving every day instead of ripping up Spain or Ibiza.

We walk in silence to the pub. As we walk through the door the whole place which is packed with local’s, stops and stares at me as we walk in. Then they stare at Faye, and then they glance between us ‘that’ look on their faces.

I haven’t been in here for six months. I would imagine Faye hasn’t been in here since yesterday, but that’s not what’s causing the strange looks. Whenever Faye and I go anywhere together we get these sympathetic glances. I learnt to ignore them a while back. People can’t help feeling sorry for us. The expression we are normally met with is part sympathy, part hopeful optimism that one day we might get together. Which we won’t.  Not that she isn’t beautiful but it would be like shagging a sister if I had one. And I hear that’s frowned upon.

The village adopted me fifteen years ago when I arrived in town as a five year old orphan. My parents were killed in a car crash, yeah it sucks, but the truth is I only have the faintest memories of my life before that day. Aunt May has been my only real family since then, with the local community acting like an extended unit of well-wishing Aunts and Uncles. I met Faye on my first day. I was getting out of the car, and there was this skinny girl hiding behind a hedge, watching me with over large dark eyes. She ran down the lane, and I chased after her leaving Aunt May calling in my wake.

“Alright, Josh? Pint of the usual is it?” Eric the barman starts to pull me a pint of the local Scrumpy just like I have never been away. Just like he doesn’t know the reason why I haven’t been in the pub for six months. All the locals spin back around in their seats and also pretend that they don’t know why Joshua Adams has been M.I.A for six months. And for once I am pleased that they choose to ignore me. It’s almost like I can hear them breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s okay Josh hasn’t totally flipped. He can still drink cider. All is not lost.”

“Thanks, Eric.” I take the pint he offers me, allowing the cool liquid to slosh over my fingers from the over filled glass just like it did in days past. There used to be times when we all used to wear more cider than drink it.

By the time we have our cloudy pints our table has mysteriously become free. I’m being treated like royalty!

I should have a psychotic break more often.

“So, have you seen the new family?” Faye asks after taking a deep sip of her pint.

“Nope. The only people I’ve seen are some fucking rude holiday makers.”

Faye rolls her eyes as I take a sip of my drink. It tastes good. Cool and sweet, and easier going down then I would have expected. “What new family?” I ask when I have finished.

“A couple from London and their two girls, they’ve moved into Bridge Cottage.” Our eyes instantly meet, and her words create a tightening in my stomach. She waits for me to say something, anything. She wants me to show some emotion. But I can’t, and I won’t. I knew that this was going to happen. I knew Bridge Cottage wouldn’t stand empty forever, so I lock any emotion I feel away inside me.

I choose not to comment and instead think about the new family. I did spend a generous amount of time staring out of the window of the shop today but I don’t remember seeing a new family.

“Nope,” I take a sip of my drink. “Let’s hope they are prepared for a life of seasonal boredom and weathered skin syndrome.”

“Grump.”

I flip her the finger. “So why aren’t you out in Newquay tonight?” She would normally be. Getting ready to tease lots of guys on a local dance floor, before telling them all to bugger off at the end of the night. Faye has been in love with our friend Andrew for as long as I can remember. Not that she has ever bothered to tell him. He has also been in love with her for almost as long. This makes for highly amusing nights out as they edge around each other on the dance floor trying to make each other jealous. At least that used to be what it was like, it may have changed now.  Hell, Faye and Andrew could be at it like rabbits together every night and I wouldn’t know about it. Not because I don’t care, I just can’t talk about that stuff anymore. It’s not that I don’t want Faye and Andrew to get together and be happy, that’s all I ever wanted for them. I’m just jealous that they still have the option to do that when I know I probably won’t ever be happy again. Not properly happy. Not in laughing and crying together, sharing a life together. My only chance of getting those things died six months ago careering around a bend on a back road from Newquay. Call me bitter but I know I won’t get to do those things again and I don’t want to know about those who do.

Faye is watching me closely, her dark eyes intent and scrutinizing. “I spoke to Mum and Dad yesterday.”

She is still watching me so I make it look like I am breathing. Which I’m not. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. They wanted to know if you had thought any more about Ai—"

I hold my hand up instantly. “No.” One word. The only word. No one is allowed to say my girlfriends name near me. And yes I know I am being a bastard.

Sorry I mean old girlfriend.

Faye shifts a little in her seat and frowns at me. “Okay, okay, Josh. So anyway I heard you fell off your board yesterday so I thought I’d better check on you.”

“I did not!”

“From sitting down,” she clarifies.

“Who told you that?”

“Everyone.”

Crap.

“It was a wobble.”

Faye sniggers into her drink so I let her have her moment of glory. It’s not often I have a wobble on my board. There has never been any photographic evidence. She changes the subject straight away, and I instantly see she was trying to distract me. “So you’re painting again?”

I watch her over the rim of my glass. The cider tastes surprisingly good after not having any for so long. “
No. I don’t think making yellow stripes constitutes painting.”

“It’s okay if you do. Everyone wants you to.”

I glare at her. This is getting too close to the mark. There is a line, and no one, not even Faye is allowed to step over it. “I’m not painting again.”

“Okay, okay.” She gives a little sigh and settles back into her chair. “Fancy coming to Newquay tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I am getting my knob removed and a fanny inserted.”

“Okay. Fancy another drink?”

“Yeah, sure one more.”

It is only one more. By the time I have sucked down the second pint, acidity is burning in my stomach and I just want to have some fresh air.  All of Faye’s words are swirling in my mind and I can’t shut them out. They are battling with the din the regulars in the pub are creating and it’s making my head feel like it’s going to explode. I need air.

“I’m going to go.” I lean over and whisper in Faye’s ear. She is chatting to Sandra Didds, the crazy lady who owns the post office, and that is a conversation I could do without.

Faye, throws her arms around my neck. She has had four pints to my two. “Okay, Joshy baby.”

And that, is my cue to leave
. “Will you get home safe?” I start to laugh. Faye only has to walk upstairs, this is her home. Her parents decided to return to their youth and go travelling three months ago. She has been renting above the pub ever since.

“Hands and knees, baby, all the way.”

“You are so classy, that’s why I love you.” I don’t wait around for her answer. I make a quick exit into the cool evening air outside.

Walking down the lane from the pub I decide to take a detour to the beach. The light is fading but the glimmer of light from the sun setting on the horizon is just enough that I can make my way down the path without landing on my face.

I spend a lot of time on the beach at night. This isn’t like the beach in Newquay which is filled with drunks attempting to get it on under the cover of darkness. Our quiet beach in St Agnes is perfect for a solitary ten minutes. If I go home now I know Aunt May will be twitching around me like she has the last half a year, ever since my life ended at the end of one drunken night. She doesn’t know what to say to help my get out of the ‘phase’ I’m going through. Six months in, I think we can rule out the chance of it being a phase. This is just me. I’m a guy without a plan. Aunt May tries, but having her wandering around wringing her hands, asking me every three minutes if I’m hungry and need some food is not a relaxing way to spend an evening.

I don’t know what people want. Do they expect that one day I will wake up and suddenly be over the fact that I carelessly lost my girlfriend one night?

As I walk down onto the beach I keep thinking of Faye’s words. “Bridge Cottage.” “Painting.” “Mum and Dad.” They hammer inside my head.

I know everyone is waiting for me, for some resolution. They want to know that I’ve let go of the past, and that if I can do it, they all can too. But I can’t. I want them to, but I can’t do it myself. I can’t even acknowledge to myself what happened. I can’t even think about it or let the thought enter my mind.

Small steps, that’s what a counselor told me a few months ago. “Just take small steps, Josh, and everything will work out.” Today I have picked up a paint brush and drunk a pint of cider. That’s got to be two small steps in the right direction. I’m not sure what direction those things are taking me in, but it’s heading somewhere at least.

As I tread over the dark sand I can see someone sitting on my rock. That’s just plain rude. Everyone knows it’s mine.

Edging myself closer, I slip off my flip flops and sink my toes into the cool sand as I walk down the beach and try to get close enough to investigate without being seen.

It’s
her
.

My feet come to a grinding halt.

I want to move in the opposite direction but my damn legs won’t listen. Instead I stand there, looming behind her on the sand, like an axe murderer.

“I can see your silhouette in the sand.”

Busted.

“What are you doing?”
On my rock?

“Thinking. What are you doing?”

“Thinking too.”

“That’
s nice.”

“Yes it is.”

I stand there like an idiot working out what to say next. “Nice bangles.”

“
Thanks. They make me walk like a percusssion instrument.”

“Why so many?”

“None of your business, dreadlock boy.”

“Well you’re a charmer aren’t you?”

“I was sitting here first. You’re the one with the stalking, stealth-like sand walk.”

“It’s my rock.”
It’s my rock? It’s my rock? Really. . .?

She does not say anything. Let’s be realistic there is not much to say to that comment. She just sits there looking out to the sea, and I stand there my feet sunk into the cool sand.

“I like your dreadlocks," she says after an age has passed.

“Thanks. They're a lifestyle choice.”

She turns to look at me and for a moment, just one brief moment my mind swirls with colours. The make-up is gone and the waning sun illuminates her skin. She look different. So different. A better different.

I should walk away. I don’t talk to holiday makers unless I’m taking their money in the shop.

I don’t.

Instead I fold my legs and sit on the sa
nd. My fingers automatically pick up a splinter of driftwood, as I cast my eyes up at the sun and start to draw.