The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [144]
Martin hangs back as Ibby strides out of the door. ‘Mind, there’s the other worrying question too,’ he whispers.
‘What’s that?’
‘What your ex has done with his wife. I can tell you for a fact he isn’t going home at weekends.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Spotted him in the cinema in Bath, on his own, on Saturday night.’
I could walk up to the Long Barrow, and tell Bryn: sorry, big mistake. Or–I could do nothing. Doing nothing is as good a way as any of ending a relationship. Though this isn’t exactly a relationship, is it?
So what does constitute a relationship in your book, Indy? That’s what John would say. Everything has significance. Under Wyrd, the web of fate, all things are connected: a smile as you pass a stranger is a bond.
Bond meaning tie. Obligation.
Walking back to Trusloe at the end of the day, that prickling feeling between the shoulder blades hits me again, as if I’m being followed. I remind myself Bryn knows nothing about me, not where I live, not even my name. In a few days, once Solstice is over, he’ll be gone again. But who am I kidding? I shagged a man who sleeps with a plastic replica of a Celtic mother goddess looking down on him. No telling what that might have unleashed. And this isn’t London. It’s hard to hide in a place the size of Avebury.
I knew you’d come
The feeling grows on me again that I’ve been walking widder-shins since the helicopter crash. So, when I let myself into the house, it isn’t exactly a surprise to find a letter on the hall table from the Wiltshire coroner’s office. Steve’s inquest is scheduled for the end of July.
He opens the caravan door before I’ve even knocked, like he knew I was coming.
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You’ve had a letter too?’
A weary nod. ‘Want a drink? A proper one?’ Behind him, on the fold-down table, there’s a bottle of Waitrose Sauvignon Blanc, three-quarters empty. ‘I’ll open another.’
‘I’d rather have something soft. No, bugger it, pour me a smidge of the Sauvignon. I’ll see how that goes down.’
Ed uncorks the bottle and fills a straight-sided tumbler. ‘Ooh dear, better open another after all.’
‘You’re not trying to get drunk again, I hope? That won’t solve anything.’ Listen to me, the Queen of the Solpadeine. Never let a crisis pass without a crippling hangover.
‘You ever get to the point where you drink and nothing happens?’ he asks. ‘You don’t get drunk, you don’t feel better, and the more you drink the more sober you get? I’d love to get smashed, but I don’t think it would work tonight. Actually, I haven’t had so much as a sip yet. That bottle’s been on the go since Saturday.’
‘Sorry.’ I take a gulp of the wine. ‘Euughh, yes. It’s vinegary.’
‘Hence the need to open another. If there is one.’ He checks the cupboards. ‘Sorry, it’ll be warm. Unless…Ah.’ Triumphantly he produces a bottle of red. ‘Chuck that battery acid out of the door. So–you going to the inquest?’
‘Have I a choice?’
‘I certainly haven’t.’ He runs a hand through his dark hair. ‘I somehow thought it’d never happen. It’s been nearly a year since the crash. Dumb, of course, but I let myself imagine that if I could ignore it, the inquest would be postponed indefinitely. I’m going to lose my licence, Indy’ A muscle’s jumping under his eye. ‘You any idea what that means to a pilot? I mean, it’s not just my livelihood, it’s my whole flicking way of life. Sorry, didn’t mean to drown you in self-pity.’
He looks so unhappy I put a hand on his arm. I can’t think of anything to say that will make it better.
Then somehow his mouth ends up on mine, and it’s the full works, tongues and pushing and hands all over the place, and really not very much room in a caravan at all.
The sun’s sunk out of sight below window level, and the caravan’s interior is crepuscular. Nothing has been achieved, as yet, apart from some energetic snogging that makes my face sore from his stubble, when he suddenly pulls away and says, ‘Hang on.’
‘I ‘m on the pill.’
‘That wasn’t what I meant. Shut up a