Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Two days later, Charles is running out of ideas to explain why Loris isn’t texting back.
His favourite theory was an alien abduction, but Loris would never appear online on various applications if he were travelling through outer space.
Charles had to let go of a scenario including such a plot hole.
He counted on an afternoon jog to fuel his imagination, but nothing he saw on the Heath triggered a convincing synopsis.
As a result, he has no choice but to go back home with a single option to dwell on during his two-week holiday: the strong possibility that Loris is telling him to get lost.
A well-deserved consequence that Charles is having a troubled relationship with. He goes from accepting it when his reason is in charge, because it helps, to refusing it with every fibre of his heart the next minute, because it hurts. The bully who threatens this plate of spinach is getting dizzy.
Charles exits the park, blowing through his gloves. It would snow if the crepuscular sky weren’t so clear.
If only it snowed. A treacherous storm, plunging the city into chaos. A storm, hitting right now, compelling Charles to seek refuge in the closest familiar shelter, which happens to be the North Haven. If only he had no choice but to go to—
‘Damn it, Charles, grow a pair!’
He slaps his forehead and makes a left, to go find out if Loris wants him to get lost forever.
He races down the street, trying to outpace the sudden alliance between his reason and his heart. The former is warning him that he can’t be proven wrong, the latter is screaming that he doesn’t want to be proven right.
Charles’ confidence plummets as soon as he arrives in front of the pub.
He doesn’t have his pen, so he starts clicking in thin air, looking for a constructive goal to zero in on.
Like suppressing the desire to kiss Loris until he passes out, for example.
Charles’ level of success will determine whether or not they can salvage their relationship.
Their platonic, artistic, non-hazardous relationship.
Providing that Loris doesn’t instantly tell him to get lost, which would cancel the need for any goals.
Who knows, he might not feel like kissing Loris. One look at him might demonstrate that his impulse in the flat was just the unfortunate outcome of a moment of complete turmoil.
And Tottenham might win both the Premier and the Champions League this year.
Hope springs eternal…
His palms sweating, Charles walks into the pub, where the buzzing atmosphere instantly throws him off.
He hadn’t seen that many customers since the first time he was here with Elsy, getting drunk on tequila and grenadine.
Even Jack the illustrator has brought friends today.
Behind the bar, a woman is pouring two pints at once, and a young guy is gawking at the quantity of dirty glasses lined up on the counter.
Loris isn’t on shift.
Naturally. Charles wasn’t going to find him the moment he decided to. The luck that allowed him to always find Loris abandoned him when he acted like a—
‘What have you lost?’
Charles snaps out of his pity party and turns around, scratching the wool covering his thumb. Patty is sitting on the left side of the door, erasing with a sponge a list of drink prices from a chalkboard lying on the table.
‘Hello… Nothing, I was just hoping Loris was working today.’
‘You and I both,’ she grumbles, glaring at her young employee. ‘Loris went home.’
‘Oh? Was he feeling unwell?’
‘Home to France.’
‘France?’ Charles’ heart freefalls. ‘Loris went back to France? Why?’
‘He’d rather spend Christmas and New Year with his family than here running my pub. How ungrateful?’
She pinches her chapped lips, but they stretch into an affectionate smile.
Charles’ heart clambers back up, beating sporadically. His talent to jump to conclusions will end up being fatal.
‘I see… When did he leave?’
Here’s a compelling new scenario. Two days ago, Loris entered the Channel Tunnel and, for some Brexit reason, his chats with British people vanished, his contacts have been—
‘Earlier today. I begged him to take care of this board before he left, but seriously?’ She brushes the remaining lines of chalk. ‘How can he be so good at drawing, but have such rubbish handwriting?’
Charles chuckles, relaxing a little bit. ‘I agree it’s terrible.’
‘Anyway, what do you need him for? I can pass on a message when I call to blackmail him so he comes back sooner. Might threaten to torture that chocolate-teapot temp covering for him.’
‘It’s alright, I’ll…’ Charles will come up with new goals, scenarios and solutions to not lose his mind over everything he will come up with. ‘I’ll text him. Thank you and… Merry Christmas.’
Based on her repelled grimace, merry isn’t a word she appreciates being associated with. Afraid to become her next torture victim, Charles makes for the door.
‘See you soon, Charles Ledwell.’
He stops dead in his tracks and looks back at Patty, who’s wringing the sponge in ominous fashion. Then again, she’s probably ominous when she sleeps. If she sleeps.
‘What did he say about me?’
‘Who?’
‘Loris.’
‘Loris didn’t say squat about you.’
‘How do you know who I am, then?’
‘You’re the spit of Fred. Maybe a wee bit sleeker, he was more—’ She cuts herself off when Charles flinches. ‘Yeah, forgive me if that’s indelicate, I don’t do tact.’
‘No, I’m used to it, but… You remember Fred?’
It’s impossible. If the blurry mess he recalls can be trusted, she didn’t see his brother the day they stole beers from her van. Only Liv entered the pub to rescue Charles and George.
Patty rubs her chin, spreading chalk on her skin. ‘You don’t seem to know why I obviously remember him.’
‘Perhaps I do, but… can we pretend that I don’t? If you don’t mind.’
‘Your brother nicked booze from me.’
‘He did? No way…’
‘Please. I bet you’re one of the little shits he sent in to distract me.
Yeah, thought so. Anyway, very stupid of him to think I wouldn’t check CCTV.
I added an unflattering screenshot of his face to my wall of knuckleheads.
And I caught him outside three months later.
He denied it, acted all outraged, was quick to bore me shitless.
So I told him to get me my money the next day or I’d send the video recording to your parents.
Your teenage kind usually sneers that off, because daddy can pay or intimidate to protect you.
But boy, it did wonders on your brother.
Went all pale, begging for my leniency, said he was gonna get the cash, but one day was maybe too short.
He bored me again, so I said “Listen, you scrub the basement clean and we’re square.
” He came back a few hours later, wearing sunglasses and an absurd hat not to be recognised. ’
‘Really? Fred cleaned the basement? Here?’
‘Where I roast little brats.’
‘I didn’t know... That he cleaned the basement. Not that I knew you roast children, I’m not saying you do! I just— I didn’t know Fred cleaned the pub’s basement.’
Patty rubs her chin again, and through some witchcraft of her own, she wipes all the chalk marks off her skin. ‘I believe that.’
Charles takes off his beanie to wring it. What is he going to do with that information? It doesn’t feel like too big a deal, but it’s bound to carry weight in Charland.
‘Take a seat, Charles.’
She catches the attention of the barmaid, who nods and grabs a pint glass.
‘If that’s for me, I can’t stay, I’m expected—’
‘Take a seat.’
Charles pulls up a chair. Patty is not to be miffed, and he’s in no emotional rush to be home.
He places his gloves next to the board. Loris’ ones truly look like sevens. There’s no way a bottle of house red wine costs seventy-nine pounds in this place.
‘I’m guesstimating you have no idea your brother came back to see me, four years later, wearing the same… Right. You don’t know.’
Charles massages his forehead where the weight grows heavier. Four years later, Fred was twenty and killed himself in a car accident.
‘Why?’
‘He needed cash. Asked if I could hire him to clean the basement weekly. My basement wasn’t that filthy, but I needed a bartender. He declined, said your parents were gonna find out. Thanks, love.’
The barmaid puts two glasses onto the table and stomps away, muttering under her breath.
‘My niece, Billie. Always chuffed to lend a hand. Try this. Comes from a local brewery, good stuff.’
Charles slides his glass closer only to clench it. ‘Why did Fred need cash?’
‘Not sure. A project his family couldn’t know about.
He swore it was legal, just had to be kept secret.
’ Patty drinks and basks in the taste for a few seconds, unaware that Charles is writhing internally.
‘I’m not gonna lie, Fred was the last kid I should have helped.
But, for starters, no kid ever asks for my help.
And I was intrigued. He was willing to scrub my floor for a few quid when he could have bought my entire stock by selling that gaudy thing on his wrist.’
Charles stretches his left hand. He’s not wearing his watch, but its mark is suddenly cutting off his blood flow.
‘I had just bought a house in Archway. Total dump, every room needed to be refurbished. I asked Fred if he had any skills. “Not many,” he said. But he promised he was gonna watch tutorials, work as often as possible and come up with fake unrelated incidents if he got injured under my roof. And he did. When he hammered his pinkie nail black, he told everybody that—’
‘He said it got stuck in his car door! It looked so gross, I thought it was going to fall off.’
‘Didn’t stop him from hammering again the next day. He was committed. Showed up still wearing a tux once, I had to lend him a… You okay?’
Charles chugs a third of his glass, his conspiracy theories rioting inside the box he locked them in. ‘Yes… Did Fred do a good job?’