Silas Nash Book 1: Hush Hush Honeysuckle: Chapter 7 (b)

He went into a small dark pub called The Chieftain and battled through the punters to go straight to the bathroom. He used the toilet, and after two cups of coffee in the van while he waited to come out, that was a matter of urgency. While he was in the bathroom, he swilled his face. He appraised himself sans hair products. It wasn’t his normal look, but he had to admit he was one good-looking dude, and some lady was going to get lucky tonight. He went to the bar, bought a whiskey and raised it in a silent toast to his business partner. He didn’t know what he was going to do now. He supposed he’d have to go back to work. It was a damned, inconvenient mess.

He wandered the pubs ending up in The King’s Head which seemed to be this town’s best excuse for a nightclub. The women were more than happy to be bought drinks, but when he brought out his brand new chat-up line, ‘I’ve got a campervan with a double bed, would you like to see it?’ they all made a hasty retreat.

By the end of the night, only women that he would call the scrag ends of life were left. He watched the last chance saloon men vying for their company and had enough dignity not to join them. He felt guilty for his opinion of the ladies. Most of them were probably very nice people, and he was a bastard, but he wasn’t taking any of them back to meet Diana.

Max sat at the bar with his back to the dancefloor and finished his last whiskey.

‘Hey, Casanova, on the house.’

The barmaid slid another whiskey down the bar to him. And okay, it wasn’t the whole length of the bar, it was only a few inches, but it was enough to impress him. She didn’t have pink hair. It was brown, standard, not two-tone. Not Paige.

Despite his earlier thoughts about never seeing her again being for the best, he’d hoped to run into Paige all night. He didn’t know if she had a boyfriend. A girl like her probably did.

This girl had a lot of tattoos, a whole world map of them. He travelled from Morecambe to Mozambique in the blink of an eye. She came from behind the bar to sit on the next stool and held out her glass to cheers, and Max clinked half-heartedly. She was older than Paige but without the class. More streetwise and not the type he’d offer a job to.

‘So, about this caravan,’ she said.

‘Campervan.’

‘Campervan, then.’

‘Eavesdropper.’

‘I pick up a lot behind this bar. For instance, I know you’re pants at hitting on girls.’

‘I’m sure there’s a joke there about pants and getting a girl’s panties off.’ Max couldn’t be bothered. It was late, and whereas getting laid was important three hours ago, now he was looking forward to his night under the stars as a solo flight. She was kind enough to laugh, and it had a nice sound to it. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to come onto this creature of many tattoos. ‘Is your name Lydia?’

‘Lydia, oh Lydia, the tattooed lady. A song about the harshness and poverty in Victorian England in the times of the travelling circus, if I’m not mistaken.’

She was smart.

‘As the song says, you can learn a lot from Lydia. My name isn’t as romantic. It’s just plain old Zoe. But I’m good company. We can hang out, and maybe I can take your mind away from your troubles for an hour or two. It looks as though you have a world of them.’

What the hell, in for a penny. ‘Come on then, and I’ll show you the night sky through my campervan roof.’

Zoe shouted to the man behind the bar. ‘Night, Billy. I’m off. Just make sure you lock up properly.’

Billy waved and opened the door for them, and Max heard the bolt sliding into place as they left.

Zoe was great. The girl was funny, one of those quick wits that didn’t have you rolling on the ground holding your belly, but she was funny without trying. He liked her, and it was a shame that he’d shagged her because she’d have made a great mate. That was buggered now because he’d had sex with her—twice—and he couldn’t get her out of the van fast enough to be on the road.

She looked ethereal as she sprawled out fast asleep on her side. Her hair fell over the pillow like a renaissance Botticelli. He scrambled around to find his phone and took a photo of her because the artistry in her sleeping form struck him. He’d never done anything like that in his life. He wasn’t a creepy pervert, and he’d delete it in shame when he got home.

The picture looked peaceful, with the swell of her breast, the valley as her waist dipped into her hips and the rounding of her buttock and thigh as the contour flowed out again. Her whole body was partially wrapped in his white bedding. It was wrong to photograph a sleeping woman without her consent, he knew that, but it was done with innocent intentions. Like when your dog does something goofy, and you wait all night to get him to do it again on camera. But he keeps licking his arse just as you’re about to click the button. It was that kind of photograph, but without her trying to lick her backside. He’d show it to her when she woke up if he remembered. His thoughts lapsed into suggestions of dogs. He regretted that he didn’t get a dog before he started dying in earnest. A dog and a camper van went together, but it was too late now.

He made coffee, and he stirred as she stirred—good timing.

‘Morning, handsome.’

‘Thought you were going to sleep all day. I could have been on a ferry with you by now.’ He handed her a mug of coffee without asking if she took sugar. He didn’t have any.

‘Would running away be a bad thing?’

‘A brief tarry never gets in the way of a man’s roaming soul, and I’m sure you have things to do today.’

‘Message received and understood. Do I have time to get dressed before my walk of shame, or are you throwing me out in my knickers?’

‘Now, don’t be like that. We both know the score.’

‘Sure. I’m not going to give you the “I don’t usually sleep with strangers” spiel, but you’re the only interesting man that’s walked into that pub as long as I’ve been there.’ She finished doing up her jeans, rooted for a pen in her bag and scribbled her number on a Wrigley’s wrapper after putting the gum in her mouth.

‘Anyway, thanks for the brew. Good to go. Listen, man. I'm not being heavy. It’s not like I want to marry you or anything. I don’t even want to tattoo your name on my arm, but a couple of days by a Scottish Loch would be nice. You, me, the van. Just to escape it all, you know? We could look for Nessie. That’s if you wanted to give me a bell sometime.’

And that was that. Not too awkward. He’d had worse morning afters. Max started the engine, crumpled her number and threw the paper out of the window as she walked away. When he passed her on the road, he gave her a friendly toot but no offer of a lift home.

There was nothing to indicate that anything was wrong when he pulled up to the front of his house. And yet, Max knew. It was an inner sense that harked back to primitive man. From the front, everything was just as he’d left it, but he sensed that something was off.

As he put the key in the lock, he moved with caution. He heard his cat crying and scratching on the downstairs bathroom door where he’d been locked in. He left him in there in case the intruder was still in the house. Moving cautiously through the downstairs, he checked each room for trouble and found plenty, but it was all of the static kind. Every room had been turned over. He had a good eye for detail and took in what had been moved or taken. His laptop was gone from the living room with only its orange charging cable left dangling empty, like a fishhook without a fish. He expected that. In the kitchen, a knife was missing from the block, and his Bluetooth speaker was gone. The glass from the panel in the back door had shattered inwards. Both rooms had been picked over rather than ransacked, and he had the feeling that it was staging more than intent. Upstairs, all the drawers had been pulled out in his bedroom. A gold watch and two pairs of cufflinks were missing from his top drawer—but nobody wore watches and cufflinks these days. They didn’t hold any particular sentimental value. He’d lost some monetary items, but nothing that couldn’t be replaced.

Once he was sure that the house was clear, he let Dexter out. The cat screamed his indignation at him, and Max calmed him. But there was nobody to calm Max, and he was white hot with anger. He swore that if he found who’d done this, they’d pay a lot more than the value of the goods. Max didn’t like somebody coming into his home uninvited. He didn’t like his things being taken. And he didn’t like his cat being locked up. He wasn’t cool with this. Max wanted to kill the bastard.

He put his house back in order, and his feeling that it was all for show was reinforced. There wasn’t much damage apart from the back door, a couple of plates, and a vase in the hall that he never liked much anyway. He decided that there was no point in reporting the break-in. It was more trouble than it was worth having to give a statement.

But damn, he was angry.