‘To help you, I don’t regret. Getting involved in the other crap, yes… but now I want to concentrate on the shop. Come on, let’s find a coffee.’
There was no sign of life in the hospital cafe, so they walked down to the edge of the city to the KFC on the southern perimeter of the centre, which whilst not the most salubrious establishment did do a good roast bean, even though Flynn was a bit caffeined-out and KFC-weary.
Diane said nothing on the short walk, but Flynn noticed her breathing in the air and exhaling slowly, trying to relax. Her blood pressure must have been sky-high.
Flynn brought her up to date with everything that had happened to him, but wasn’t too specific with names. He concluded by saying, ‘Now it’s all down to the cops. I’m going to get a good night’s sleep, then open up the shop properly tomorrow morning and do what I promised. Honestly. Chances are I won’t find any more floating bodies. I’ll sort out the salvage of the canal boat, see what can be saved… I’m really, really sorry about the crap.’
‘Not your fault. Where are you staying tonight?’
Flynn told her about his idea of laying down his head upstairs in the chandlery.
‘That’ll be uncomfortable… ooh, but we do have some blow-up mattresses for sale in the shop, and sleeping bags. Help yourself to them, they’re quite comfy.’
‘I think I’m eating up your profits… I will pay you back.’
‘Steve, we don’t make a profit, not yet anyway.’
They strolled back to the hospital, where Diane met up with her sister, at whose house she was going to stay, and Flynn made his way to Alison’s car on the car park. His mobile phone rang as he reached it.
‘Steve, it’s me,’ a female voice said. ‘The woman who saved your life.’
‘My very own paramedic,’ he said with a grin.
‘One who has a rare night off. Can you come around?’
‘It’s a really nice offer…’ he began.
‘But? You dumping me already?’
‘It’s not an offer I want to refuse.’
‘But?’
‘I’d really like to see you, honestly…’
‘But!’ The ‘buts’ were getting pithier.
‘I’m exhausted,’ he revealed. ‘Why don’t you come down to Glasson and take me for a drink, see what happens from that point onwards.’ Even as he said it he knew it sounded awfully egotistical. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she told him to go to hell.
She didn’t.
Henry’s resolve faltered at the first hurdle. His intention had been to spend the night at his own house in Blackpool so he didn’t have a long journey to the cells in the morning. He was going to zip down the motorway, but as he reached junction 34, the magical allure of Kendleton and a certain landlady wafted to him and he couldn’t resist. So he went straight on instead, driving to Kendleton, passing the point where he’d been forced off the road — and trying not to think about it and his poor car.
Twenty minutes later he was propping up the bar with a couple of the locals, a doctor and a farmer, both solid-gold inebriates, he had come to know and love.
By midnight the place was closed and deserted, just himself and Alison sitting side by side in front of the fire in the main bar. It had been roaring earlier, but was now just red embers, emitting a lovely but dwindling and sleepy warmth. They had a Glenfiddich each, doubles, one ice cube so as not to spoil the flavour. Henry’s face began to glow.
He had told Alison as much about his day as he could and also bemoaned the death of his fancy car, but was also philosophical about it. He had managed to have a couple of fleeting conversations with his insurers and knew they were going to write it off.
‘In some way it might be a good thing,’ he said.
‘Why?’ Alison said in disbelief.
‘I bought it in some kind of response to Kate’s death, something to cheer me up.’ Henry looked sideways at her. ‘That moment has passed, it was just a phase of grieving. When it’s all sorted money wise, I think I’ll just buy something more sensible. I don’t need a fancy motor to make me happy now, just one that gets me from A to B. You’re what makes me happy,’ he purred.
She pretended to consider his words. ‘Don’t make it too sensible,’ she laughed. ‘I quite like fancy cars.’ She slid off her chair and knelt down in front of him, laying her forearms along his thighs. ‘I never thought I’d be happy again.’
‘Me neither.’
He leaned forwards and they kissed lingeringly. She really has the most wonderful lips, he thought. They needed kissing a lot.
Suddenly she broke off the kiss. Her eyes played lustfully over his face.
He picked up the less than subtle meaning. It was a look he had learned to read very well over the past few months. ‘No way!’ he said, pretending to be shocked. ‘No way! Here? Now? What about Ginny… she might walk in!’
‘In bed, all tucked up, fast asleep. Front door’s locked, blinds are drawn… no paying guests… this rug is nice, soft and fluffy…’ Her hand moved up his thigh and came to rest on his groin, which had already begun to strain. She gripped him through his trousers, keeping her eyes locked into his.
‘Naked?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Completely,’ she said.
The inflatable beds came with inflatable pillows and two pushed together worked very well as a double, as did two sleeping bags, unzipped, then zipped together to form a wide blanket.
The make-do approach certainly sufficed for Flynn and the paramedic, two people who also made love in a fairly unusual location. This time, though, the upstairs storage room above the chandlery.
In fact they had a wonderful time, laughing intensely as they screwed with abandon, taking their joining to new levels of intimacy on the air beds, flipping from one position to the next and back again, not forgetting other forms of stimulation either.
They finished in a blur of orgasmic speed and loud moans before flopping back, exhausted and laughing.
Flynn managed to stay awake for a few minutes of blown-up pillow talk, but then, shattered, he was asleep.
Flynn slept deeply until six-thirty when he rolled off the bed onto the hard, uncarpeted floor of the storage room and banged his forehead. He lay there face down, staring at the grain of the exposed wooden floorboards. Then he eased himself up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and wondering, for a moment, where he was. Over the years he had woken up in many peculiar places.
He sat up, glanced across and saw that Liz, the paramedic, had gone. He vaguely recalled her saying something and him responding and presumably making some sense. She had probably been saying goodbye, he thought muzzily.
He exhaled, scratched the back of his leg and tried to get his mind to function. His body was stiff and sore and creaky but he forced himself up to his feet and padded naked and shivering into the tiny toilet where he relieved himself, a function that seemed to last a very long time.
Empty of bladder he came back and got back on to the inflatable bed, pulling up the sleeping bag. He lay on his side, blinking, thinking about the day ahead.
The crown of his skull was quite close to the wall and from where he was he could see along the skirting board running along the bottom edge of the wall, where it met the floorboards at ninety degrees. It wasn’t a well-fitted skirting board, not helped by the unevenness of the floorboards themselves, several of which were loose, as he had discovered.
He wasn’t really looking for anything. He was thinking about running a shop. Quite looking forward to it. Trying to remember how to use the till. Still feeling quite sleepy. But also looking along the bottom edge of the skirting board, which narrowed as it reached the corner of the room because of his perspective.
And then he saw something wedged underneath it in one of the gaps made by a loose, badly fitted floorboard. At first it didn’t seem like anything. Something off-white, cube-like. He didn’t even care what it was.
Just a bit of rubbish, an offcut from a piece of wood, perhaps. Smaller than a sugar cube. A broken piece of tile?