Barging In (6 page)

Morris had gone limp, so Dan took the opportunity to haul himself up and then button his jacket around the furry lump. God, he looked like he was pregnant, and he was fairly sure the denim of his jacket, designed more for posing in clubs than rugged outdoor use, was going to stretch all out of shape trying to support Morris’s weight. He slung his camera bag over one shoulder and experimented with adjusting the straps, eventually fashioning a platform for the unwieldy creature’s bum.

As he stumbled up the valley side, Dan lost himself in daydreams of an insanely grateful Robin. Better that than panicking about the fact that Morris hadn’t moved since their fall from the tree.

Chapter Five

“Fucking bastard piece of shit!” Robin glowered at the half-assembled plate rack. It didn’t defend itself; it just sat there on his workbench maintaining a stubborn silence. Really, it wasn’t the plate rack’s fault that Robin was having so many problems working today, but since it couldn’t stand up for itself and accuse him of being a moody bugger, it was having to bear the brunt of his bad temper.

“You just watch it, plate rack. Right now you’re nothing but fancy kindling.” Robin picked the wooden construction up, half inclined to just chuck it on the fire and start again, but Smiler was expecting it to be ready by tomorrow—he had his daughters coming to stay and wanted to be able to impress them with his new-found domesticity. Perhaps it wouldn’t seem so utterly hopeless if he took a break and came back to it. Okay, so he’d cut one of the pieces to the wrong size, but it had been bloody difficult to read his scrawled notes, especially after he’d spilt beer on them.

Robin downed tools and kicked the leg of his workbench. He needed fresh air and grabbed his jacket and bag on the way out. It was still bright and mild for October, but there was a chill breeze, and he knew that it would be that much cooler in the shade of the woods.

From his boat he headed towards the swing bridge at Smiler’s, tramping over the springy boards and into the rundown car park. He could see Smiler knocking in fence posts over by the caravan but didn’t want to get into a conversation about the buggered-up plate rack, so he picked up his pace, hoping to escape unseen. No such luck.

“Oi, Robin! Over ’ere, mate, I need a hand with this.” Smiler’s tone was commanding, and Robin bristled at it but didn’t think it a good idea to fall out with the man. Not when he sold the cheapest fuel in the Bath area.

Smiler lived in a caravan on the land he owned—a narrow strip between the road and the canal—and had set himself up as some kind of landlord-cum-chandlers. From the inside of an old shipping container you could buy sacks of smokeless fuel, gas bottles and all manner of boat supplies. You could even fill up with marine diesel if you moored your boat up next to the bridge. There were car parking spaces and private moorings to rent in a small marina he’d had built. It would have been a good place to overwinter if Robin could have afforded the rates…and put up with having a miserable git as his landlord.

“Come on, Robin, get a fucking move on. I need you to hold this bastard post still for me. It’s being a right bloody nuisance, the little fucker.”

Smiler’s hard eyes glared at the post from under bushy brown eyebrows. Robin remembered his own altercation with the plate rack and smiled. God, he hoped he hadn’t looked that much of a twat when he was yelling at a defenceless piece of wood. He knelt down and took hold of the post, careful to keep upwind of Smiler, because the man reeked after his morning’s work. Fresh sweat Robin didn’t have a problem with. In fact, on the right person, fresh sweat could be downright sexy, but stale sweat clinging to clothing that looked like it hadn’t been washed for the whole summer was another matter.

“This okay?” Robin asked. The sooner Smiler finished the job, the sooner he could get away and sort his head out.

He was answered with a swing from Smiler’s sledgehammer, which gave a satisfying thunk when it hit the wood. He strained to hold the post straight as Smiler continued his swings. Adrenaline flooded his system and his heart raced. All it would take would be for Smiler to succumb to his scrumpy hangover, miss, hit Robin’s head, and he’d probably be dead. And for all the crappy things he’d had to put up with over the last few years, Robin wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet.

“Right, that’s done. Nice one, mate. Got the fucker beaten into submission at last.” Smiler grimaced as he turned to his roll of fencing wire.

Robin let go of the post and stretched his fingers out, letting his breathing return to normal before he rose. He wondered if he could just leave now, but the well-brought-up son in him knew that some small talk was expected.

“What’s the fence for? You getting livestock?” God help the poor animals if he was. He wouldn’t trust the man to look after a hamster, let alone a chicken. The thought of animals brought Morris to mind, and he scowled at the idea that he might never see him again.

“Nah, can’t be bothered with all that animal-welfare crap. This is to keep the nippers safe when they visit. Their mum’s bloody paranoid about them getting hurt or drowning in the canal, the stupid cow. Don’t know why I even bothered fighting for access.”

The expression on his face was contemptuous, but even though they’d only got to know each other a few weeks ago, Robin knew that Smiler was thrilled about seeing his girls again. He’d mentioned them practically every conversation they’d had. He felt sorry for the girls, really, for having a dad like Smiler. Mind you, when he looked around the giant play area the man had constructed, he had to concede that a lot of thought had gone into it. There was a tyre swing dangling from a branch of the overhanging oak tree, a sandpit made out of an old tractor tyre, and some kind of assault course cobbled together out of logs and bits of old farm machinery. He stifled the traitorous thought that his own father had never built anything like that for him. He was always far too busy, and anyway, his surgeon’s fingers were far too valuable to risk doing manual labour. There’d always been plenty of expensive toys for Robin to play with after all.

“It’s looking good. See you later.” Robin started for the gate out to the main road, but Smiler wasn’t yet finished with him.

“Oi, what about that plate rack? I needed that by about fucking yesterday, mate.”

Really, the man was a complete arsehole. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll bring it over later. Just got to put the finishing touches on it, so that it meets my high standards.”

“Right, well, you make sure you do that, Robin Redbreast.”

Robin ground his teeth as he headed up the incline to the wrought-iron gates that led out onto the main road. His life would be a hell of a lot easier if he didn’t have to deal with people all the time. Somehow he’d had the idea that the boating life would be a way of getting away from people, but even though you kept moving all the time, you still found yourself getting involved in close-knit communities whether you liked it or not. And then there were those people who weren’t part of the boating community at all, but who somehow managed to get past Robin’s defences. Well, okay, that one person…

As he headed into the woods on the other side of the road, Robin let himself mull over the problem of Dan properly for the first time that day. Impertinent, maddening Dan with his dirty little smirk and mischievous eyes… Not forgetting his wicked tongue and sinfully squeezable arse. Robin groaned, feeling his cock stir in interest when he remembered the press of Dan’s hard body against his own.

Fuck! He really didn’t want to fancy someone like Dan. Someone who was obviously such an unrepentant slut. He couldn’t go there, wouldn’t go there. No way. Not after what happened with Jamie. Blokes like that were way too risky.

As he headed deeper into the woods, Robin scuffed up the leaf litter with his boots and cast his eyes around for edible mushrooms. He’d brought a bag with him out of habit, and now he was here, he might as well do some foraging. It was free food, and who knew when his next pay cheque would come in? After Smiler’s plate rack was finished, it could be weeks before anyone else wanted his skills, and he was buggered if he was going to ask his mum. At twenty-five it was mortifying to still be reliant on your parents, but it was almost impossible to sign on when you had to keep moving all the time. Besides which, the last time he’d managed to force his way past the gaggle of junkies and drunks who blocked the door of the DSS, the woman at the desk had thrust a massive stack of paperwork at him. He’d been too embarrassed to admit his difficulties and ask for help filling it in, choosing instead to dump it in the nearest bin when he got outside. It wasn’t worth the humiliation. He’d rather be penniless.

His mobile rang, the sound jarring in the quiet woodland but making a welcome distraction from his circling thoughts. Robin pulled it from his pocket. It was bound to be yet another progress update from his mum on his sister’s pregnancy. Now the birth was only weeks away, she had been phoning him almost every day, gabbling on about Braxton Hicks contractions, doulas and the appalling state of the NHS hospital in Cheltenham. That was just about durable if he tuned it out, but the minute she started on about his life and plans for the future, he had to resist the urge to throw his phone into the canal.

Unknown Number
, the display read. Frowning, Robin dropped his bag and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Robin? It’s Dan. Listen to me, I’ve—”

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say, and how the hell did you get this number?” It had better not have been Mel. He’d have to have words with her about Dan.

“No, you’ve gotta listen to me.” Dan sounded urgent, almost panicked. “It’s Morris. Your cat. I’ve found him.”

Robin clutched the phone to his ear and leant back against an oak’s sturdy trunk. “Is he okay?” He held his breath, trying not to jinx things by second-guessing Dan’s answer.

“He’s been hurt, but I can’t tell how badly as he won’t let me look. He’s resting now—looks exhausted.”

He was alive. Thank God he was alive! Robin swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Where are you? I’m going to come and find you.”

“We’re near your boat, down in the field at the bottom of the valley. Are you home?”

“Not yet. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Okay, I’m probably closer than you. D’you want me to take him back to the boat, then?”

“If you think you can manage it without hurting him. Just leave him where he is if you think moving him will make things worse.”

“That’s not really an issue. He seems to have welded himself to my T-shirt. He’s coming with me whether I like it or not.” Dan sounded serious, and Robin hoped he was capable in a crisis. The evidence of the previous day hadn’t been encouraging.

“If you get to the boat first, then just let yourself in the doors on the front deck. It’s all unlocked.”

“Okay, then. See you soon.”

Robin took a few moments to try to calm his racing heart, but realising it was probably futile, he set off down the hill at a gallop.

Chapter Six

Dan pushed his bike with one hand, the other supporting the weight of the injured cat. He could see Robin’s boat up ahead, gleaming red like a beacon. Morris was now a dead weight inside his jacket.

“Come on, cat. Don’t you go dying on me now.” He’d rather have claws and teeth sinking into him than this freaky torpor.

He threw his bike against the hedgerow, leapt onto the boat and tried the doors. They opened, just as Robin had promised, letting out a gust of warm air.

“Robin? Are you back?” There was no reply. He took a deep breath and stepped into the sanctuary of another man’s home.

After the bright autumn sunlight, the interior was dim, but his vision soon adjusted enough to take in his surroundings. He was in the galley, a counter with the hob set in to his right and the sink over on the left. All manner of cooking utensils and crockery hung from hooks set into the wooden ceiling and walls. Dan stepped forward a couple of paces to where an open set of shelves made a barrier across half of the boat’s width, and he was in the saloon, the stove kicking out heat. He sank down onto the welcoming sofa with a sigh and opened his jacket.

Morris had curled into a ball against him, looking like a picture of innocence, although Dan’s hands and chest told a different tale: the scratches bloody well smarted.

“I was only trying to help you, you know. There was no need to get rough with me.”

Morris opened his eyes, blinked and closed them again. A rumbling sensation started up on Dan’s stomach. After all that, the creature had the cheek to start purring! Dan chuckled. Robin was going to be thrilled. He wondered how Robin behaved when he was happy. Was he gregarious, or would he keep it low-key, showing his gratitude with a smile? Dan knew so little about the man. Not that he was normally all that bothered about the life history of a potential shag, but Robin had him intrigued. He cast his eyes around the boat, trying to get more of a sense of the man from his dwelling.

It was almost like being inside a tree, the walls and ceiling lined with wavy-edged boards—the bark still attached—and the floor constructed from smooth, honey-coloured planks. There was a warm sheen to it all from the light that filtered through the porthole windows and the large, raised skylight. The saloon was mostly filled with the built-in sofa that ran along one side, with the wood-burning stove angled back against the kitchen to cast its light and heat into the saloon. Opposite the sofa was a long, upholstered bench, also built-in, which looked like it would make a good footrest. Pulling a cushion behind his back, Dan stretched out his legs and lounged backwards.

The clean simplicity of Robin’s home was a pleasant surprise. Like himself, Robin had a refreshingly minimalist approach to possessions, but whereas Dan’s London flat felt empty and barely lived in, Robin’s boat was cosy and welcoming. Weird. He felt more at home here already than he did after nine years in his own flat.

Beyond the sofa, bathed in the light from the skylight above, was a space roughly as long as it was wide. It had been set up as a carpenter’s work area. A workbench extended from the wall that divided the back of the boat from the saloon, and above it hung an array of hand tools that Dan vaguely recognised from his grampa’s shed. There were planes, fretsaws, coping saws, chisels, files and other things he didn’t know the names for, all gleaming in the sunshine. Indeed, the only thing that didn’t look so well cared for was the floor, which was littered in curly ribbons of wood shavings and sawdust.