The dog, seemingly realising the futility of trying to force its way into the car, stopped howling and sat on its haunches, eyeballing Julian. He stared back at it, his eyes wet with pain and hate. He stared into the darkness beyond the gate, crazy thoughts rushing through his head. He imagined running the dog over, smashing through the gate, fighting his way into Mr X’s house and rescuing Mia. He shoved the thoughts aside. Likely, all such a course would achieve would be to get himself and her killed. “I’ll be back, you fucking sick fuck!” he shouted, almost screaming in his rage-spitting impotent frustration. Then he shoved the car into reverse.
Julian didn’t go home. A low groan escaping his lips every time he needed to brake, he drove around town until he found an all-night chemist, from which he bought a bandage, gauze pads and antiseptic wipes. Teeth gritted, he cleaned the bite and bandaged it as best he could.
Still, Julian didn’t go home. He parked in a side-street and sat staring at the night, his leg throbbing as painfully and relentlessly as his heart. He tried not to think about Eleanor. He tried not to think about Mia. He tried not to think about the consequences his loss of control might have on them. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He sat trapped between the desire to escape his thoughts through sleep, and the desire to escape his dreams by staying awake. He felt like shouting his lungs out, he felt like tearing the car apart, he felt like tearing himself apart. The pain throbbed on and on, like pulses of electricity. And at that moment he was glad of it, he immersed himself in it, kept himself sane with it.
Chapter 20
Somehow Julian got through the night. Somehow he drove to the factory. He limped to his office and sat behind the desk, staring dead-eyed at the computer monitor, thinking, what the fuck am I doing here? Why did I come in today? Where else have you got to go? his mind asked. I should be out there, he replied silently. Doing what? I don’t know, something…
Julian gave a start when his dad entered the room. “Where did you get to last night?” Robert asked.
“I went to see Eleanor.”
“How’s the website going?”
Julian blinked his sore eyes. He’d forgotten all about the website. After what’d happened, it was a fair bet to assume it wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t about to tell his dad that, though. He didn’t have the heart or energy to face his disappointment and questions. “Fine.”
Robert raised a smiling eyebrow. “When are you two going to get back together?”
Julian winced, not because of his leg. “I don’t know, probably never.”
“That’s a shame. She’s a great girl and you’re really good-” Noticing his son’s increasingly pained expression, Robert broke off. “You’re upset aren’t you, I can see it.” He hesitated, looking like what he was — someone on unfamiliar terrain — then asked a little awkwardly, “Want to talk about it?”
Julian shook his head. Even if he’d wanted to, he wouldn’t have known how to talk about it, not with his dad. “Well you know where I am if you change your mind,” continued Robert, with a flicker of something in his eyes that might’ve been disappointment or, more likely, thought Julian, relief.
He nodded. “Thanks.”
A moment’s silence passed between them. Robert scratched at the base of his neck and cleared his throat. “Listen, Julian, you remember that guy from the other day? The buyer from the high-street store. Well, he’s coming here again this morning. I was going to ask you to sit in on the meeting, but you’re obviously in no state for it. You look as if you haven’t slept a wink.”
“I haven’t. I was up…working most of the night.”
“In that case, why don’t you go home, get some sleep?”
Sleep. The word sent a shudder through Julian. Along with a guilty sense of duty, it bound him to his desk. “I’ve got a ton of work to do. The overheads-”
“Can wait until tomorrow. I know you’re eager to get on with things, Julian, but you’ll be no good to anyone if you don’t take care of yourself.”
“I guess you’re right,” Julian admitted reluctantly. Robert stared at him as if waiting for him to get up and leave. He didn’t move. He didn’t want his dad to see his limp. He felt faintly nauseous at the thought of having to come up with another bunch of lies to explain it away.
Robert put his hands together as if he was about to pray. “Right, better get to it. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, Dad,” Julian said, and he really meant it. He was, he realised, starting to believe that maybe the change in his dad wasn’t an act put on for the benefit of Christine. Maybe it was for real. The thought pricked him with guilt, but he also drew comfort from it, even hope — hope that as the emotional distance between them closed, he might come to understand his dad, and in doing so, come to understand himself too. Perhaps then he’d be able to put his demons to rest, live his life without fear, have a future with Eleanor. His thoughts returned to Mia, and his hope died like a snuffed candle. He could never have a future, not while she was missing. He was stuck in this moment, this nightmare.
When Robert had left, Julian rose and slowly made his way to his car. He drove to the nearest off-licence and bought a quart of whisky. He drank enough to take the edge off the pain, but not to kill it completely. All morning, he limped around the town centre, peering vaguely this way and that, wandering aimlessly through shops, occasionally swigging from the bottle. In a backstreet antique shop’s window he caught sight of something that brought his eyes into focus. He went in the shop for a closer look.
“Looks like a medieval torture device, doesn’t it?” said the shopkeeper.
Julian nodded. “What is it?”
“It’s a mantrap. Gamekeepers used to use them to catch poachers.”
“How does it work?”
“Wait there and I’ll show you.” The shopkeeper disappeared through a curtain at the rear of the shop, returning after a moment with a thick length of wood. He placed the mantrap on the carpet, carefully pulling apart its spring-loaded steel teeth. “Stand back,” he warned, placing the length of wood’s tip on the pressure-pad at the device’s centre and pushing down. The teeth snapped shut breaking the wood in two. “Just imagine what that’d do to your leg.”
Julian could well imagine. “How much is it?”
“It’s not for sale.”
“Name your price and I’ll double it.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t sell it at any price. These things are illegal. What do you want it for anyway?”
Julian made no reply. As he turned to leave, he noticed a black-bladed, wooden handled knife. He picked it up and thumbed its blade. “That’s a jungle survival knife from World War Two,” the shopkeeper told him.
“How much?”
“Twenty quid.”
Julian handed over the money. “There’s a sheath to go with it somewhere,” said the shopkeeper, stooping to root through a box.
Julian wasn’t interested in the sheath. He left the shop. On the high-street, the pubs and bars were opening their doors. He headed into one and bought a pint. He sat by the window, watching passersby. It made resentment surge up in him to see them going about their business. He wanted to yell at them, there’s a young girl missing and you carry on as if nothing’s wrong. What the fuck’s the matter with you? Am I the only one who gives a shit? Part of his mind knew it was illogical, but he felt the resentment nonetheless. Like an invisible boil, his rancour towards his fellow townsfolk festered and grew as he drank his way through the afternoon. By the time early evening drinkers began drifting in for a post-work pint, his eyes were beady with alcohol and hate. “Sick,” he muttered to himself. “Sick and tired. No good for nobody. Nothing you can do for her. Nothing anyone can do. Nothing, nothing…”