The Bones of Summer (24 page)

He slammed his hand on the dashboard and Paul jerked to a halt. The Mondeo behind swerved around them, hooting.

“Why did we leave it there?” he said and was surprised to find his voice was steadier than he'd hoped. “There were other things we could have asked them, other things I wanted to say. Is that all you planned to confront him with? Isn't he supposed to lie? He has to be hiding something. We could have found out the truth. Why didn't we?”

Paul stopped the car. He took a deep breath and shut his eyes. When he opened them again and looked at Craig, his expression was almost as distant as Peter's had been before.

“Why didn't we try to get the truth out of him?” Craig asked again, leaning forward and gripping his boyfriend's arm.

“We did,” Paul replied softly. “You just didn't see it.”

“What do you mean? I—”

“
If
you let me finish, I'll tell you.” Craig fell silent at once and after a second or two, Paul continued. “You were ready to lash out in there. Whether verbally again or physically, I don't know, but it was obvious. I should never have brought you with me. God knows what the two of them thought. I'm supposed to be a professional; I'm not acting like one. I'm acting like....”

He hesitated and Craig was ready to speak again, except Paul got there first.

“Like God knows what,” he said, but more quietly as if talking only to himself. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. The fact is there's nothing to gain from talking to Michael's ex-boyfriend and his current partner. Not as far as I can see. I shouldn't have bothered to do it. I should have gone with my gut feeling—it always works.”

“Okay. So what does your gut feeling tell you now?” Craig asked, his voice all but a snarl.

Paul took hold of his hand, squeezed it once, and let it go. “It tells me that the heart of the matter doesn't lie with either Michael's family or the man he ditched. In fact, it might not even lie with Michael at all. Because the person obsessing about all this, the person dredging up the past is you, Craig. Only you. In response to what your father is doing of course, but it's still you. First you think you killed Michael, then you think it might be your father, and now Peter. Which is it? And what's really going on here?”

* * * *

Craig didn't answer him and Paul didn't push it. Despite the spikes festering in his gut, Craig was glad of it. It gave him time to think. The world outside the car streamed by: houses, trees, people, and always the grayness of road. After a while, Paul sighed and turned the radio on. It was Classic FM again, but Craig didn't complain. It wasn't his place. Besides, he wasn't really listening to anything but his own memories and the way the past reverberated through him. Now more so than ever.

Flashes of his mother. Again. Why was he thinking of her? Over the past few days, he thought he might even have dreamed about her but he could never be sure. He found it hard to remember his dreams in the morning. It was as if seeing his father, knowing he was watching him, had released a trough of remembrance Craig had no desire to pick through. He should have spoken to his father when he had the chance before. He'd been a fool not to. A fool and a coward. But what would he have said? The two of them had had nothing to say to each other for so long that to find something to talk about now was beyond Craig. And certainly beyond his father.

Michael too. His disappearance—no, call it what it must surely be: death, caused by ... someone—was entirely due to the fact that he'd come to Devon and stayed with them. If Craig could understand fully the truth of how Michael had died, even find proof maybe, then other people would surely believe him. No matter what that truth was. No matter who was guilty. But if it was Craig, would he then lose Paul? He didn't want to think about that. If that was the result, then he wanted to think no further than the next moment, the next hour, the next day. Still, from somewhere within, he needed to
know
.

The journey back home seemed to take longer than usual. The awkwardness in the atmosphere was partially responsible for that. Craig could think of nothing to say that wouldn't be stupid or irrelevant. The failed interview with Peter was entirely his own fault. When they finally arrived at his flat and Paul turned off the engine, Craig reached over and put his hand on his knee.

“Look,” he said. “I messed up. I thought I could handle it and I couldn't. You're right and I'm wrong, and I'm sorry.”

Paul took his hand. His fingers felt warm, but he stared straight ahead. “It's okay. As I said, there wasn't anything there to find out. Shall we go in? I could do with a drink. Coffee. Might warm me up.”

He got out without looking at Craig. Okay, Craig thought, he probably deserved that. He was acting like a prick anyway so it wasn't much of a surprise that Paul was pissed off. Still there was something in the air he didn't much like; it was up to him to make things right again. Up to him to say something, but he didn't know what. The day seemed to be slipping from whatever grasp he'd had on it in the first place. He trailed after Paul, fingers fumbling for keys, almost dropping them.

“You okay?” Paul muttered.

“Sure,” he said. “Come in.”

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Chapter Twenty-One

The first person Craig saw when he stepped into the hallway was Maddy. He should have been glad to see her but social conversation wasn't on his mind. He simply wanted to be alone with Paul, apologize properly, and see if the unaccountable tension in the air between them eased. At all. Maybe have sex. Yes, that would be nice. That would make everything right. Even as he thought that, his prick began to grow hard. He hoped it was the same for the man at his side. And if not now, then soon. Sex solved everything. Didn't it?

“Hiya,” Maddy said. “I'm just going out. How did it go?”

Paul shrugged and it was up to Craig to reply. “Not great. I think I messed up. You know. Hell, I suppose I'll never make a detective after all.”

If he'd hoped to lighten the atmosphere with humor, make Paul laugh, he was soon proved wrong. Thank goodness Maddy smiled.

“Oh well,” she said. “Best stick to the day job then, eh?”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

For a moment, a frown crossed Maddy's face. Then the smile came back, briefly, and she headed for the front door.

“I'll leave you two alone then,” she said. “See you later, both.”

Craig grunted a reply and, at the same time, a burst of music from Julie's room told him the door had opened and shut again quickly. Just for this moment, he was here, alone with the man he loved. And, okay, things were temporarily tense and Paul hadn't said he loved him yet, but that didn't matter. It was early days. They'd made it this far in spite of everything that had happened. Maybe, just maybe Craig didn't have to worry for once. Maybe something in his life would be okay.

Paul leaned toward him and Craig reached for him, thinking only of taking him to bed
now
, but Paul caught his hand. Caught it and held it. Opened his mouth to speak. It was then that the world turned.

“Look, Craig, I think we should maybe have a break from each other for a while,” he whispered. “I'm sorry.”

“What?” Craig took a step backward and found himself pressed against the wall, his hand still held by Paul's.
"Why?"

“Please, can't we go somewhere more private?” He glanced around but all the doors were shut. They were still alone. “To discuss this?”

The thought of Paul being in his bedroom where they'd first really got it together just in order to dump him made Craig's legs shake. “No. I think if you've got something to say, you should say it here.”

“Okay. Okay. It's like this,” he said in low tones, as Craig continued to stare at him. His legs were still shaking but he didn't dare try to move to sit down. Anyway, this was the hallway. There was nowhere to sit. The telephone table didn't count. “It's like this. My fault. I think maybe I started this thing with you too soon. It's not been easy. For either of us. You've got a lot of issues to think through. Which doesn't mean I think that what you feared you did to Michael is necessarily the case—often things we remember and don't face get blown up out of proportion. I should know about that. But maybe you should just let it go, Craig. Maybe you'll never solve it and stirring things up for yourself and for other people isn't going to help. But, hell, I know I've got stuff of my own too. Stuff which means I don't think I'm ready for this. Not a serious relationship. Not at the moment. Maybe it would have been different if ... if you'd not needed me to do what I do for a living as well. To get involved with you in that way. Professionally. Please, I'm not blaming you. It's not your fault, but I don't think I can mix my personal life with my business one anymore. It was hard enough before when I tried to do that, I swear it. I don't think I can deal with it again.”

“But, Paul, please, I...” Craig started to say, his voice rising, before Paul cut him off.

“After Nick and what happened with him, I just can't do it. Not again. I'm sorry. God, I like you, Craig.
Really
like you. A hell of a lot. But I don't think I can give you anything more than that. Not now. Not the way things are for me, and I can't see that changing for a while.”

“Are you still in love with him?” This time, Craig didn't lower his voice. This time, he interrupted Paul.

Paul let go of Craig's hand and swallowed. Even then, the way his Adam's apple pulsed in his throat sent fire through Craig's blood. Paul blinked.

“Tell me,” Craig said, not caring who might hear. He was vaguely aware that the music in Julie's room had stopped briefly before being turned up again, but none of that seemed to matter anymore.
"Tell me."

A terrible pause, before Paul spoke.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I think so. I understand I'll never see him again but, yes, I think I'm still in love with Nick.”

Craig closed his eyes. Didn't bother opening them again.

“Then you'd better leave,” he said.

* * * *

After Craig shut the door behind Paul, he leaned against the wood and felt its grain carve a memory against his skin. That was it then. Another boyfriend gone. And only himself to blame for the dumping. Or rather being dumped. He couldn't blame Paul. Not for one moment. Not for breaking it off with him anyway. He, Craig, was acting more and more like a child desperate to find out a hidden secret and with no way of knowing where the clues were. Or even what the fuck they were. Who would go out with a no-hoper like that?

He opened his eyes, unsurprised to find them wet. There was one thing he
could
blame Paul for though. For still being in love with someone else. Oh yes, he could blame him for that. Paul shouldn't have rung him up in the first place if he'd still known that. But perhaps he hadn't known it until now? After all, among the countless facts that Craig didn't seem to know about himself, blaming someone else for not knowing one fact about their own lives seemed at the very least unfair.

“Are you all right?” The voice was Julie's and Craig turned around, wondering if he'd be able to answer.

“Yes,” he managed. “I just need to be by myself for a while. Is that okay?”

Julie nodded, and he stumbled past her to his room. Once inside, he locked the door behind him and put the radio on. Kiss FM. Loud, but not too loud. Bloody hell, but he lived with people after all. He made a noise halfway between a groan and a strangled grunt and slammed his fists against the wall near the window. It made him feel better, but not for long. What would have made him feel better was if he could smash the window with something—
anything
—without fear of fallout. Or worse, Julie's or, later, Maddy's concern. But there was no chance of that. He wanted to go on living here, didn't he?

Then he fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. From nowhere came the thought that he must return to Devon. If he could somehow, in spite of everything, get his past life sorted out, then maybe his present—even his future—might be sorted out too. If he was less of a no-hoper, Paul might give him another chance. He took a breath. Wiped away tears. No way was that going to happen. Paul wasn't in love with him; he was in love with his ex. Or thought he was. Craig wished he hadn't said that but, then again, if Paul hadn't told him the truth, then he might even now be holding onto some kind of hope. And the truth was there was none.

So as of now, Craig had no boyfriend, no evidence, and no plan. Only the thought that he should return home. Or where home had once been. Then again, if his father was still in London, perhaps he should confront him first. As Paul had suggested. Away from his own territory, his father might be more vulnerable. Craig snorted at the assumption; in all the time he'd known him, his father had never shown any sign of vulnerability. His faith and his opinions had been rock-solid, and he'd expected his family to feel the same. When they didn't, well that was when things got bad. He didn't want to think about that though. Once again, he had a sensation that something in his brain was shutting down, switching off so whatever was there didn't have to be faced.

Craig sat up on the bed. Was that it? Had he in fact witnessed his father murdering Michael seven years ago and his brain was simply shutting out that information? Was that the simple truth of it all? No, surely that was something he would remember. It was crazy to think that he wouldn't. Or maybe he
was
crazy. That wouldn't surprise him. He squeezed his eyes shut and concentrated. On the last time he and Michael had been together. The moment when his father had appeared through the trees. Then the confrontation. The fight.

He concentrated. Hard. All he saw was a picture of a tap dripping. The one in the old utility room in Devon. Then it was gone.

It was no good then. Nothing sensible was coming. If he tried to relax, perhaps it would be better. He sighed and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes. After a while he drifted off into a fitful sleep. The evening wore on. He heard the front door open, presumably Maddy coming back. Then Julie's door, followed by low voices from downstairs. The sound of a kettle, a soft knocking on his door, which he ignored—though he knew he should have answered it. But talking to people—whoever they were—was beyond him right now. Sleep took him again. When he woke it was dark so he got up, turned the light on, and closed the curtains. Turning around, he saw that something white and square had been pushed under his door.