The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [143]
The dagger was sharper than I’d thought. He had lopped off a curl from my temple and was gone.
When Davey wrote to say he had leave due, I replied saying I’d be sorry not to see him, but better not to waste it on me because I was with Mam every minute I could get away to Devizes. She was becoming sicker. Even Dad had to admit now that there was something wrong. Her skin was the colour of a pub ceiling, like it had been smoked, and a pain in her side woke her nights.
Davey wrote back that it didn’t matter, he’d be seeing me soon enough. His transfer had come through at last, and though he’d flown enough missions to choose a quieter posting, instead he’d asked to go to a night-fighter squadron in Kent. He’d be right in the thick of the action, he said, and the best news of all was that some time in the new year, they’d be moving to an airfield in Wiltshire.
He was joining Mr Cromley’s old squadron.
CHAPTER 38
‘Let me go over it again,’ says Martin. He stirs his cappuccino thoughtfully, and gives a Monday-morning yawn. ‘Sorry, petal, hard weekend caving. It’s difficult keeping track of your love life. I go off for a couple of days, and when I come back everything’s changed. So, there’s your ex living on his ownsome in a caravan–’
‘Not really my ex,’ I butt in.
‘Now I am confused. You’re still carrying on with him as well?’
‘No. I meant there wasn’t a proper relationship in the first place.’
‘Fine. Leave him aside for the moment. Then you happen across some Goddess-worshipping nutcase at the Long Barrow, and you leap into bed, or rather onto plastic ground sheet, with him–’
‘Keep your voice down.’ Corey is wiping tables, working her way down the caf towards us, ears flapping. ‘I wasn’t myself. I had a headache–’
‘That’s usually a reason not to sleep with someone, rather than the other way round.’
‘You seem to find this funny’
‘Petal, it’s the only way to look at these things. Otherwise I’d’ve slit my wrists years ago.’
Whenever Martin discusses relationships, he slips back into camp banter. Even if I wasn’t at loggerheads with John, Bryn isn’t someone I’d want to discuss with my spirit-father: he’d be far more judgemental. Martin never confides what his own relationships are like, but he seems to understand the principle of lurching from one sexual disaster to the next.
He’s looking thoughtful. ‘The more worrying aspect is that you accepted a couple of Tramadol from this gentleman. You do know what Tramadol is?’
‘I thought it was like Anadin.’
‘In the same way a chainsaw resembles a pair of scissors. It’s one of the more powerful painkillers, prescription only. Induces a pleasant euphoria, though it has also been known to give people hallucinations. You can buy it on the Internet from dodgy Mexican pharmacies. We might ask ourselves where your friend obtained it.’
‘Perhaps it was prescribed?’
‘Not unless he’s had major surgery recently. Still, let’s look on the bright side. At least it wasn’t Rohypnol.’
‘What, date-rape stuff?’ I can’t imagine Bryn doing anything so underhand. All the same, I find myself asking hopefully, ‘Don’t suppose it could have been Rohypnol rather than Tramadol?’
‘Most unlikely, given that you seem to have total recall of every sordid detail. Rohypnol victims tend to wake up with a sense of unease, but remembering very little. Sorry, petal, that ain’t your get-out-of-jail-free card.’
‘What about you?’ I ask, anxious to change the subject, because this is starting to prick my conscience as effectively as any conversation with John. ‘How was your weekend in Bath?’
Martin looks away. ‘Not exactly marvellous…’ he begins, but then Ibby walks into the caf.
‘There you are, Martin. Shift your fat arse. I’ve a couple of old codgers waiting to be interviewed in the Manor garden, and I don’t want them to expire before you get there. You’re not with us this week, India, are you?’
Reluctantly I wrap my apron round my hips again. Much as I’d rather be filming, the television company has not paid me so far. Corey catches my eye