Chapter 3 #2
I wonder if I can trust her, but I quickly realize that it’s worth another risk. This could be my Plan B in case I can’t escape by myself. If the things this place does…if Stoke’s methods are revealed to the world, then maybe I can get someone unbiased to let me out of this fucking place.
‘The art room,’ I say, making up my mind. ‘The corner under the easels. The floorboards are loose.’
I leave the bathroom before she can say another word. I need to make sure I’m seen. I just hope I haven’t misjudged the reporter because she could make my life here a lot more difficult if she takes everything I’ve found to Stoke.
I make sure Crewes sees me walking through the corridors and then I go back to my room. Just inside the door, I find some worn trainers. I pick them up and examine them. They’re a size too big, but my lips curve up into a small smile.
I’ll bet these are from Stoke, which means that tomorrow, when I ask to go for a run, they’ll probably say yes.
They’ll be watching where I go, of course. I’m not an idiot. At least for the first few times I go out, I’ll need to stick to a normal run. No side quests, not even to feed the horses apples from the fruit bowl in the dining room.
Lunch is called a little while later, and I go sit with Colin, who gives me another number. I give him my pudding dessert to say thanks because, without him, I’d still think I was trapped in a delusion and that I was crazy.
But I’m not, and tomorrow will hopefully be another step closer to escaping The Heath for good.
Blake
I'd always wanted to come here, I muse silently, watching as the City of London quickly gives way to lush greenery.
The years of watching British period dramas have given me a definite desire to see more of this country.
I promise myself that once we get Daisy out of that fucking hellhole, we'll come back another time.
Maybe to the Lake District or the Brecon Beacons. Maybe Scotland.
A small snort escapes me. Maybe I could marry her at Gretna Green, I think. I wonder what Shade would say to that.
The smile fades and I feel guilty. I shouldn't be enjoying myself in any way, shape, or form until Daisy is back with us.
I stare out the window for most of the journey. None of us talk much. The driver tries to start a conversation with us at first, but quickly realizes we aren’t a chatty bunch.
There are no sprawling suburbs here, I note.
Once we're outside the city, it's English countryside on both sides of the highway for the first hour. After that, the roads get smaller. We go through towns here and there, some villages as we head further north. I watch the fields go by, the medieval churches and the Tudor houses, and I wish I was here with Daisy, instead of just hoping against hope that she’s okay.
Would we know if she wasn’t okay? Sure, she left that voicemail, but after seeing the files that nurse sent to Joe Banderville… They turn my stomach, curdle the contents of it every time I think of them. I'm furious with Shade, I'm angry with Mav, but mostly it's myself I want to pummel.
I told myself she would be okay in that house because it was her stepfather’s and he couldn’t be that bad, right?
And then she came out, and we found out the truth.
Except that wasn't the full story. Of course it wasn’t, not where Daisy is concerned.
I mean, I understand. I wouldn't want to talk about the specifics either.
Everything in me wishes Joe were still alive so I could kill him again myself.
But I know that Daisy needed to do it. For closure.
A catharsis. She probably felt a lot better when she poisoned that son of a bitch, when he turned purple and keeled over like the nothing he was.
But even revenge doesn’t fix everything.
Once we break her out, we need to talk about what comes next. She’s not safe where John and the Bandervilles are concerned, not even with Joe taken care of and the nurse dead.
We're in the car for three and a half hours before we roll into a picturesque, quaint village. There’s a small corner store with vegetables in display troughs outside and a neon sign that says, “off licence”.
I don't know what that means, but I frown at it because it doesn't seem to match the rest of the aesthetic here.
There are thatched cottages and a red pillar box for mailing letters.
There's a small post office and a café. I also see three pubs dotted around. The Centurion is the one we’re taken to because they have rooms upstairs that I booked for us on the plane.
The sign outside has a painted image of a Roman soldier.
‘This is it,’ I say.
We get out of the car and the driver helps us get our bags from the back before he drives off.
We go in through an old, wooden door that Mav practically has to bend double to get through because it's so short. Inside, the pub is warm and cozy, with a fire blazing in a hearth that looks a thousand years old. But I saw a plaque on the outside of the building that said 1567…so only five hundred years, I guess. There’s a lacquered, chestnut colored bar on one side of the room.
The ceilings are low and everything else is made of dark, ancient-looking wood.
There are two men in their fifties, probably, sitting at a table close to the fireplace having a low conversation.
A third, slightly younger one, looks like he works here.
I walk up to the third man in the apron with a faded tattoo on his forearm, who's wiping down a small, round table.
'My name’s Eric Blake,' I say. 'I booked three of the rooms upstairs.'
'Oh, aye?' he says, somehow looking down his spectacles at us even though he’s at least half a head shorter, and clearly finding us wanting. 'A trio o’ Yanks, is it?'
I nod, sort of glad that I've recently expanded my British show repertoire with Peaky Blinders and Broadchurch that are a little more modern because, otherwise, I'm not sure I'd understand everything this guy is saying.
The man glances at the clock on the wall. 'Won’t be ready yet, lads. Have a pint, and by the time you're finished, I'm sure Molly will be finished with the cleaning.'
I sit at a table. The others are quiet, letting me take the lead.
When the barman doesn’t come over, I look at him questioningly. He taps the bar.
'No table service here, chappies.'
'What do you guys want?' I ask.
'Lemonade.’
‘Water.'
The barman doesn’t hide his scoff.
'Yanks,' he mutters, then looks straight at me. 'What’ll you have?'
I shrug. 'What would you suggest?'
He gives me a wink. 'I know just the thing,' he says with a sage nod, grabbing a pint glass and pulling from one of the taps.
‘Beer?' I ask.
'Aye, this is a local beer,' he says. 'A good pale ale. You’ll find none of that Yankie swill here! You get that down you, lad.'
'How much?' I ask, taking out my card.
He waves a hand. 'I’ll tack it on your room bill.'
I glance at the clock. It’s two in the afternoon. When in Rome, I guess.
I take the others their drinks, and we sit in silence. I sip my pale ale and find I kind of like it, even though it's not cold like a Budweiser or a Coors would be back in the States. It has a deep, mellow flavor.
'Nice,' I mutter, glancing at the barman and nodding.
He gives me a mock salute and goes back to polishing the bar woodwork with a grubby-looking towel.
We sit in the bar for a few more minutes. The guys by the fire are still talking low. They haven’t spoken to us or the barman. They’ve barely even looked up from their drinks.
The bell on the door rings and another man walks in. He greets the barman like they know each other and asks for a pint.
'Usual, Douglas? Heard ’round the village you were given the boot.'
The man snorts. 'Aye. More than twenty years and it’s out the fucking door. Bloody bastards.'
The barman gives him a commiserating look. 'On the dole?'
I listen intently. The dole is welfare money for when you don’t have a job, I know that much. So he just got fired from somewhere local. I don’t know why that makes my ears prick up, but how many places could there be around here? We're in the middle of freaking nowhere.
The man lets out a long breath. 'May have to be soon. Naught else at the minute, that’s for bloody certain. Nowhere else ’round here’ll take on a bloke in his sixties ’cept the loony bin.'
My gaze locks with Shade, who’s staring at the men with narrowed eyes. I shake my head at him a little, and he looks back at the fire, but he's listening. Mav is too.
The man gets his pint and sits at a table close to us. I wonder how we’re going to find a way to talk to this guy, but after a minute, he looks over at us and gives a nod.
'Don’t usually see young lads in here at this time on a Wednesday afternoon,’ he remarks casually.
'We’re here from the States,' I say.
'Oh aye? Sightseeing, are ya?'
'Something like that,' I say. 'I couldn’t help overhearing… Did you lose your job?'
‘Aye,’ the man snarls. 'Cunts.'
'What happened?' I ask.
His eyes narrow and I shrug.
'Sorry,’ I say, putting my hands up. ‘Not my business. Just never been to the UK before. Been wanting to talk to a local.'
He sits back and regards me before gesturing at the chair opposite him.
I stand and move to his table with my drink, hoping my friends talk amongst themselves for a few minutes.
I sit.
'Have you always lived around this area?' I ask.
He nods. 'Aye. Me father and mother, and theirs before them. Might have to venture further now—look for greener pastures, I suppose.'
'Did you work in the village?'
He shakes his head. 'Nah. There’s a place up the road, few miles on. Used to be the Lord’s estate back before they lost their fortunes. Me mam and me granny used to be housemaids for them before the war. Long gone now.'
'So, what is it now? A hotel?'
He grimaces. 'Nah, mate. Loony bin. Not allowed to call it that anymore though…politically incorrect. Psychiatric facility.'
'Crazies?' I ask.
He shakes his head. 'Nah. Just a bit different.'
'Oh. Right. Sorry you were let go. My name’s Blake,' I say, offering my hand.
'Douglas,' he murmurs, taking my hand in an overly tight and manly handshake and then taking a long drink from his glass.
'So, you and your mates here for something specific?'
Fuck it.
I lean forward.
'Actually, we’re here to break someone out of the loony bin,' I say quietly.
I take a long drink of my own and watch him over the glass.
He looks a little surprised, then huffs a laugh. 'Which one?'
I let him see my surprise. 'You know them all by name?'
He nods. 'Not that many there…twenty at most. Poor sods.'
'Her name is Daisy.'
He looks at me blankly. 'Don’t know that one.'
'How about Marguerite?'
He frowns. 'She’s gone, lad. Months ago. Her dad had her taken back to the States, I heard.'
I shake my head. 'She was brought back a couple weeks ago, and not willingly. And we’re here to get her out.'
'Well, good on ya, lad,' he says, raising his glass. 'I always liked that one. Quiet. Good company. Good luck to ya.'
I sit back, my eyes flicking to the two men in the corner. They’re deep in conversation, not listening to us.
'Sounds to me like they did you dirty,' I say.
He cants his head and lets out a dry chuckle. 'You could say that.'
'Want revenge?'
One corner of his mouth turns up, curling like a pirate captain’s sneer. 'Aye. A bit o’ revenge might be just the ticket.'