He sighed. Pauline had disappointed him like every woman in his life. Apart from Birdie.
He pushed aside stems and leaves to peer out of the window. He could spit on the caravan roof from here. So he did. Just to see. It was all quiet on the home front and his stomach rumbled but he wasn’t going down there until he was sure the coast was clear. He let his mind wander back to the festival. And shut it down again. He needed to focus on how he was going to bring things to a close.
He groaned loudly as he bent to retrieve his phone from the floor.
“Christ!” he growled. “It’s dead.”
He lumbered across the room to his desk and rummaged for the other one. The scuffed and scratched one he’d found in his car. That was dead too.
The crunch of gravel brought him back to the window. Bram O’Dowd was parking his truck in front of the caravan, as bold as brass. Here for a second show, are we? Well, it would keep Pauline busy for a bit.
He tiptoed down the stairs and scurried across the drive. O’Dowd had left the key in the ignition. Bad things happen to careless people, Charlie told himself as he levered a screw out of an old scaffolding plank and stuck it in a front tire.
By the time he got inside the caravan, it was already creaking rhythmically on its axle and he tried not to listen to the moans coming from his bedroom as he plugged in the scratched phone behind the toaster. The other charger was in the living room and he connected his own handset and shoved it behind a sofa cushion.
Silently, he made himself a cup of coffee from the hot tap—the kettle was so old, it sounded like a plane taking off. He was starving, but the fridge contained only a half bottle of prosecco that made him dry-heave at the thought and a probiotic drink that Pauline imagined would hold back the years.
He tried to remember the last thing he’d eaten. Things were hazy but it had probably been the disgusting sandwich Pauline had left out on Friday. He’d known right away it hadn’t been for him—when was the last time she’d bought him anything?—or her. She didn’t eat white bread. It was for Bram. And he’d taken a territorial bite, planning the torture he’d inflict one day on his usurper’s superior genitals, and looked for something to wash his rage down. Nothing. He’d had to go on a drink hunt. Find an off-license where he didn’t owe money. It’d been the beginning of his lost night.
Charlie opened the tumble dryer and pulled out a change of clothes, pushing them into a holdall. He was about to make another coffee to take with him when he heard the creak of springs. Shit! That was quick. And he was out of the door and crouched behind the security fence before Pauline emerged, pulling on her stupid peignoir.
Bram followed her in his boxers, He hadn’t even bothered to put his trousers on. They were flung carelessly over his shoulder while he kissed Pauline good-bye and hopped into the driving seat.
Charlie shoved his fist in his mouth as Bram drove off. It would take a couple of hundred yards before his tire went flat and the truck listed over. He wished he could see Bram leaping out and swearing but he had to get on. He was still grinning at the thought as he crept round to the back door of his house. Until he realized he’d left the phones in the caravan.
He knelt just inside the front door of the house, watching through the letter box and praying for Pauline to leave before she saw them. It appeared God had been listening when Charlie saw her drive off in the Jag twenty minutes later. But as he opened the door of the house to go and retrieve the mobiles, Dee’s car pulled up and he quickly ducked back in.
Charlie watched her from the hall window as she walked to the door of the caravan. Her dark hair was swinging. Just like Birdie’s. And he was back at the festival. And the face that loomed out of the darkness and he’d felt icy fingers clutching at his heart. Everything from that night was slick with terror. He sat down on the floor and tried to breathe deeply.
Pull yourself together, for Christ’s sake.
But the icy fingers twitched again when he heard the letter box flap open. Dee was at the door of the house. He tried to hold his breath but the panicked wheeze from deep in his lungs threatened to explode into a coughing fit. The flap clattered down before he was exposed and he heard Dee go back to the caravan.
Ten minutes later, the door slammed and he heard his cleaner roar off in her car without locking up. Bloody hell, what is going on? He crept across the drive and inched the door open. Nothing.
She’s probably just late for her next job, he told himself. This whole situation was making him paranoid. He needed to calm down.