The Bones of Summer (5 page)
“Is this the car you use for...?”
“For surveillance, yes. It's my only car, in fact. So it does everything. Including the shopping, the odd trip out, and occasional visits to Devon.”
“Oh.” Craig grinned, the sudden encounter with Paul's professional life jolting him into a sense of unreality.
“Yes, I know,” Paul said as he turned the ignition and eased into first gear. “It's not your usual job. But it's the only thing I know, and I suppose I'd find your work strange too. How did you get into modeling and acting anyway? And...?”
“Have you seen me in anything recently? Apart from that EastEnders walk-on I told you about? No, not much. I'm strictly small-time, but it gets me by. I get some stage work during the summer season too. Here and there. But as I said it's the modeling that really pays the bills. Even though it has the most waiting around. It's weird.”
“You do better than me then,” Paul said as London's houses and people began to flow past the car window. “My type of waiting around sometimes ends in nothing at all. Which irritates the hell out of me, I have to say. At least you get something for your trouble.”
They were silent for a while after that, as Paul negotiated the traffic jams out of town onto an easier road. He switched the radio on and, to Craig's surprise, the distinctive tones and half-cut adverts of Classic FM filled the car. He only knew this because Maddy always had it on during Sundays; she said it reminded her of home. He laughed.
“What?” said Paul. “What is it?”
“Nothing. It's just that I didn't expect you to be a classical music lover. Not after our first meeting. You know, in the club, and ... everything. You didn't strike me as the type.”
Paul gave a wry grimace. “I don't know. I like all different types of music, I think. But no, it's not my favorite. It's just that my best friend used to love it. And when I hear it, I think of her.”
It happened again at that moment. Paul's slight intake of breath, and the sense that he might have thought he'd said too much. Something he didn't want to tell Craig. Something it hurt him to remember.
Reaching out, Craig put his hand gently on Paul's leg. In turn Paul laid his fingers on top of Craig's for a heartbeat or two before letting go again.
Craig kept his hand there until they hit the motorway. And he thought one day he would ask Paul about the pauses he lived in, if they lasted that long. Then he slept.
They ate lunch on the A303, at a small café by the side of the road. Paul had leek and parsley soup and a roll, washed down with J2O. Craig stuck to a cheese and lettuce sandwich and a Coke. He thought he might need the energy. At the table, they sat opposite, not talking much, but occasionally glancing at each other when they thought the other one might not be looking. At least that was what Craig was doing; he couldn't answer for Paul. Though God only knew why they were flirting now, when they'd already done more than enough of the sex stage. Every now and then, he'd look at Paul and want him. Right there, over the Formica table. Clothes off and no holds barred. Didn't care who might be looking and what they might think. Didn't care about his own exhaustion, or Paul's, and what he might have to face later today. He just wanted to
give
it to him, and in a way Paul wouldn't forget for a while. Maybe not ever. Hell, but he'd got it bad and so bloody soon too. He should really....
“Are you going to eat that sandwich, Craig, or just wave it at me?”
He gulped and dropped the bread he'd been clutching back onto the plate. His blush was already rising. Neither was it the only thing rising, and he crossed his legs as subtly as possible to try to calm down.
“Y-yeah,” he stammered. “Miles away. I'll hurry up. You'll be wanting to make a quick getaway. Get this over with.”
Paul smiled. A slow-burn smile that had Craig heating up all over again. “Actually, I've got all the time in the world. Nothing to get back for. Not in a hurry anyway.”
Something about his expression told Craig he knew what he'd been thinking. Mind you, he supposed the lust in his eyes might as well have been a bloody beacon telling the whole world what he'd been thinking. If they'd chosen to look. He'd best be careful; down here, that kind of thing was likely to get him tarred and feathered or thrown in a ditch and left for dead. Devon wasn't exactly a gay clubber's paradise. Not that he'd ever been much into that scene. Or not as much as some.
Cool it, Craig
, he thought. Gay Rule Number Six:
Don't chase away the totty before you've at least had dinner with it.
“Come on,” he said, tearing his eyes from Paul. “We'd best make a move.”
They arrived in his home village—
old
home village—at about 3 p.m. The last few miles had been the hardest. He'd stared out of the window of Paul's Vauxhall, the classical music a low murmur to the wilder mix in his thoughts, and watched the hills become more rolling, the grass richer and all-encompassing. Sometimes, he swore it, the countryside could be a web for those who didn't expect it. Only in the city had he been truly free. What would happen now?
As Paul responded to the last of his directions, heading left up the hill to Andrea Trowbridge's house, the ache in Craig's stomach shaped itself into a fist and struck out.
“Stop the car,” he panted, scrabbling for the door handle.
"Stop it."
Paul slammed on the brakes, skidding to a halt into the roadside gravel. The black Smart car that had been trailing them since Exeter hooted twice and veered around, sailing off like a wasp in search of a picnic.
Pushing open the car door, Craig slid around, sat half in and half out of the seat, bent over and took several deep breaths. He thought he might be sick. He wasn't. The smells of winter grass and trees and the nearby river filled the car. After a while, he became aware of Paul's hand on his right shoulder. Lightly. As if poised to hold him back, should he suddenly decide to run, but giving him enough freedom to make that choice for himself. It felt as if his fingers had lain there for some time, but Craig hadn't noticed before.
“You okay?” Paul asked at last.
“Yeah. I thought.... Heck, I don't know what I thought. Whatever. I didn't know it would feel like this.”
“Going back home is always difficult,” Paul said. And then, “If you like, we can drive back to London. I don't mind.”
“No.” With a sigh, Craig twisted around to be inside the car again, though he left the door open, drinking in the air while he could. “No. I've come this far. Going back now would be stupid. I don't want you to think I'm taking the piss. At least, not any more than I already bloody have.”
“I don't think that,” Paul said, shortly, but with his hand still resting on Craig's shoulder like a promise. “Believe me, I've known worse.”
Craig smiled at him. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome. Anyway, in all this, don't you think you've forgotten the one important fact?”
“What's that then?”
“You're not going back home entirely alone. You're going back with me. I don't know you very well—not yet anyway—but I hope it'll make a difference.”
It did. Andrea's house was set back from the road. Craig got Paul to take the long way around the village outskirts to it so they didn't have to drive past where he used to live. He and his father. Paul didn't seem to notice anything. Or didn't remark on it anyway. At last they parked in Andrea's driveway behind an old Metro. It didn't look familiar, but of course in the seven years since he'd been here everything would have moved on.
The house they were looking at was more a cottage than a house, though plainer than the tourist trade preferred. A simple two up, two down in Devon stone, with a slated roof. It had once been part of his father's farm but he'd sold the land on to Andrea's husband when Craig was still at primary school. The Trowbridges had both taken early retirement. They'd moved in during the summer but, from memory, Mr. Trowbridge had died a year or two later and then she'd stayed on. Thinking about it, Andrea must be nearly into her seventies by now.
“It's nice,” Paul said. “Is this your old home?”
“No,” Craig said, realizing from the question how little he'd explained on the journey down and wondering why Paul hadn't asked. “This is my neighbor. My old neighbor, I mean. Andrea Trowbridge. She was the one who sent me the letter.”
By the time he'd got out of the car into the afternoon sunshine, they'd already been spotted.
A short, slight, gray-haired woman dressed in green appeared at the cottage door and gave a cry of what he took to be joy. She ran the four or five paces over the gravel and enveloped Craig in her arms. He could smell lemon and cooking on her skin.
“Daniel!” she exclaimed. “It's lovely to see you again.”
Chapter Five
Damn. Of course, his old name. Paul wouldn't know that he'd changed it. But when Craig looked at him over the top of Andrea's head, only a slight flicker across his companion's expression gave away any confusion.
The woman he'd come to see let him go and stretched out her hand to Paul. “And you must be...?”
“Paul.” Craig's boyfriend jolted himself into action as if he'd been a long way away. “Paul Maloney. A friend of ... Daniel's. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Trowbridge.”
“Please, call me Andrea,” Craig's old neighbor said with a smile. “No one stands on ceremony here.”
As Andrea led the way indoors, still talking, Craig mouthed “sorry” at Paul, but got no response. Great, he thought. Just great. He was really messing things up now. Before he'd even ruddy begun.
Inside the living room, the two men shed their jackets and sat down on the pale blue sofa, while Andrea sat opposite and poured tea. The cups and saucers were already laid out on the coffee table, together with a plate of chocolate digestives and Garibaldis. Craig gazed around the room, aware more than anything of Paul's proximity on the sofa, but trying to work out when he'd last been here. The only items he recognized were the bookshelves from floor to ceiling—although the ceiling wasn't that high anyway—and the framed photographs of Andrea's son.
He frowned, and then the name came to him. “John. It's John, isn't it? Is he still living in...?”
“Australia? Yes. I'm afraid so, though at least I get to go over there for a long break at Christmas, which is lovely. He's got two children, you know. I'm a grandmother now.”
“Congratulations,” he said. “I'm pleased for you. Apart from the books, I think John was the only thing I recognized.”
Andrea nodded. “Yes, I've redecorated. Twice. And I'm afraid also that John is the reason I didn't respond to your letter. There were ... family problems and I was in Australia when you wrote.”
“I'm sorry,” Craig began to say, but Andrea shook her head.
“It's all right,” she said. “Things are sorted now. They're fine. Marriages seem to be under so much pressure these days, but they're fine. As far as I know. Anyway, when I got back, I read your letter. It was lovely to hear from you and I'd intended to reply, but your father.... Well, your father discovered it and took it away.”
“Oh,” Craig said, aware now more than ever of Paul's still frame next to him. “Didn't you ask for it back? I sent it to you, not him.”
“Yes, of course,” she replied. “But you remember what your father is like. He got upset, said you were his son,
his
business, not mine. He wouldn't even give me your address when I asked him. I thought then he might have contacted you, but I assume he didn't, or you didn't reply?”
“No.” Craig found he was digging his nails into the palms of his hands and sat back, folding his arms instead. “No, he didn't get in touch. And I'm not sure what I would have done if he had, to be honest. We didn't part on the best of terms. But now ... well, he's gone missing. What happened, Andrea?”
The air around her seemed to pause, as if waiting for her answer. From nowhere, Craig felt Paul's fingers touch his arm.
“I don't know,” she said. “Not for sure. But I haven't really seen him for two weeks. So I let myself in with the spare key. I worried that he might have done something foolish but, after I'd searched, the only thing I found that was different was your letter. On the kitchen table. After all that time, he still had it. I'm afraid he'd torn it up, but the address was readable. Just. He's never been gone this long before. One or two days, and a few times as long as a week, usually with that church of his on one of their retreats, but he's always come back. This time I don't know where he might be. And the police can't find him either. Anyway, I don't think they're interested. Not if a crime hasn't been committed. And of course there's no reason to think there has. Why should there be?”
“You said you were worried? Was there anything in Mr. Robertson's behavior before he left that was particularly unusual?”
Paul's question made Craig jump, and Andrea blinked at him for a few moments.
“Mr. Robertson?” she said, with a frown.
“Um, m-my father,” Craig muttered, unfolding his arms and staring down at the patterned carpet. “Paul means my father. His—my—surname is Clutton, Paul.”
“Of course!” Andrea's frown disappeared. “I should have remembered. After all, I did use your new name when I wrote to you.”
Paul removed his fingers from Craig's shirt sleeve and coughed. “I see. In that case, did you think Mr. Clutton was behaving strangely before he vanished?”
“The police asked me the same question but it came to nothing. All I could tell them was that two of the church elders had come to the farm a day or so before he left. They'd quarreled with your father. I heard shouting, but I couldn't make out what they were saying and I didn't like to interfere. Not with things to do with his religion. He was so involved in it. After that he'd been quiet. But then again, James was often quiet. Preoccupied.”
“Preoccupied?” Paul said, leaning forward. “With what, exactly?”
This time, Andrea smiled. “Apart from his faith, you mean? Well, the usual things that preoccupy people who live in this area, Paul, and who make their living from the land. How the farming year has gone, whether the machinery Craig's father used could be updated without going any further into the red, if the tourist trade might be better next year. And so on and so on. I was never a farmer's wife myself, but if you live here for long enough, you soon pick up on the concerns people have. It's a question of survival, you see.”