The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [81]
The beeches are about five minutes’ walk away, at the lane end. On the opposite side of the road a cluster of hangars stands behind a rusting chain-link fence with a notice hung on it: Yatesbury Helicopters. Private Charter, Pilot Training. Positively NO admittance to unauthorized visitors. Premises patrolled 24 hours. The last sentence is printed under a picture of a ferocious Alsatian. But the gate is sagging open, and Ed’s Land Rover is parked on the cracked concrete forecourt between the buildings. He can’t be living here, can he?
There’s no sign of anyone, and all the doors are padlocked. I call Ed’s name. No one comes. Somewhere in the distance music is playing. It sounds like Radiohead.
I walk behind the hangars, and find myself looking out across an apron of concrete and a flat, empty field. Wrong direction: the music has disappeared. Going back round the other side, it’s audible again: definitely Radiohead. Someone’s turned it up. Now I see what I missed before–outside the fence, under the trees on the far side of the road.
Close up, the caravan is distinctly seedy, even by the generous standards of a childhood spent moving from festival to festival in a convoy of travellers’ vans. It was probably once a smart two-tone cream and brown tourer, but a layer of algae and grime has painted it a dull greenish-grey all over, like camouflage. There are no wheels: it’s propped on bricks. It seems to have suffered a road accident, its skin buckled and creased at one corner like crumpled paper. At the grubby window, curtains printed with Thomas the Tank Engine are drawn closed. ‘Creep’ thunders through the thin walls.
I bang on the door. ‘You there, Ed?’
No answer. I hammer on the door again. Eventually it opens. Ed stands there, swaying, blinking, bemused, stubble darker than ever.
‘You look awful,’ I tell him, as ‘Creep’ finishes.
‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘Mystic pagan powers. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
He steps back, stumbling a little, catches the side of the door and rights himself. On the stereo, the Smiths strike up ‘How Soon Is Now?’.
‘Boy, we are feeling cheery this evening.’ I mount the steps into the caravan, catching a whiff of stale beer, damp carpets and a thick, chemical odour. Are you drunk?’
‘Wish I was.’ Ed runs a hand through tousled hair. ‘Only just out of bed. I’ve the mother of all hangovers.’ He disconnects the iPod from its docking station. ‘“Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now”, etc’
‘What the hell did you drink last night?’
‘Don’t ask.’
No need. The evidence is piled in the tiny sink: a sandcastle heap of lager cans. Sticking out of the top, like a flagpole, is a vodka bottle. At one end of the van there is a rumpled double bed, at the other a narrow fold-down table between two bench seats.
‘Is that Pot Noodle on the table?’
He has the grace to look ashamed. ‘Didn’t actually eat it. I only thought about it, like you do when you’re drinking.’
‘Christ, Ed, you must have put away enough to knock you out for a week.’
‘Take your pick of my excuses.’ He gestures towards the table, and a scatter of letters and torn envelopes next to the Pot Noodle. The top sheet of paper has a Barclays Bank logo. ‘On second thoughts, don’t look. I’d prefer you not to know the extent to which my life is falling apart. Sorry, it’s a pit in here. I probably stink, too. Let me get showered.’
‘I’m not staying long.’
‘Can hardly blame you.’ He wrinkles his nose. ‘No, even I can smell me, so unless you want one of us to stand outside and conduct this conversation at a safe distance through the open door, I’m going to have to insist you give me two minutes in the shower. Don’t panic, it’s perfectly private–you won’t have to see bits of me you’d rather forget.’
Can’t help a smile. ‘Really, Ed, no need…’ But he’s already pulling closed the sliding door that shuts off the bedroom end. I immediately start thinking about all the bits of him that I actually wouldn’t mind seeing again: what he looks like pulling his T-shirt over his head…
No. To distract myself, I concentrate on the utter squalor