Read Men of London 02 - Sight and Sinners Online

Authors: Susan Mac Nicol

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Men of London 02 - Sight and Sinners (5 page)

BOOK: Men of London 02 - Sight and Sinners
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He stood up and picked up his jacket and shrugged into it. Time to go to work before he was late and his boss Jemima gave him a tongue lashing. The music store was her pride and joy and she relied on her employees to hold the same passion for it that she did. ‘Music Mayhem’ was a place that Taylor really enjoyed working and he had no desire to jeopardise his position by being late. With a heavy heart, Taylor left the house and made his way to the tube station.

That night, after a day from hell at the office, he was glad to make it home and collapse into the dilapidated armchair in the lounge. Leslie wasn’t home yet and Taylor was glad of the peace and quiet. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the chair. He had a smoke then lit up another one. When he was done, he got the air freshener out and opened the windows.

He’d been relaxing for about half an hour when he heard the front door open and a whirlwind hit the entrance hall as keys were thrown onto the small table. There was the tread of footsteps and a waft of expensive masculine eau de cologne assailed his nostrils. Leslie was home.

“Tay? Baby, are you home?” Leslie appeared in the doorway. His trim, lithe body was clothed in very tight black and white plaid trousers, a form-fitting white button-down shirt, currently rolled up to his elbows, and his black matching jacket slung over his shoulder. A silver scarf was wrapped around his elegant neck. Taylor bet he was the epitome of office chic at the fashion house he worked as a trainee buyer, and he could only but envy Leslie’s casual yet innate sense of dress style. Leslie, however, was not as conservative when it came to his time off, with his high heels, makeup, thongs and myriad of bright and striking clothes.

“I’m here,” Taylor said wearily and sat up, running a hand through his curls and wondering whether the top of his head resembled a bird’s nest in the making.

Blue lasers fixed on his face, a patrician nose sniffed the air in suspicion and then a worried frown crossed Leslie’s beautiful features. Taylor was glad he’d been distracted from the stale cigarette smoke.

“Honey, have you been crying? Your eyes are all red and puffy, and you’re as pale as my mum’s tea. And we know all she does is dunk the tea bag in once and drink tea-flavoured dish water.” He shivered, his face disgusted. He sat on the chair arm and laid a warm hand on Taylor’s back. “What happened?”

Taylor sighed. He should have known he wouldn’t get away with much when it came to Leslie.

“I had some bad news this morning and I had a shitty day. I sold something for less than I should have and had to make it up, and Jemima crapped all over me for it. Then I dropped a whole tray of drinks I was making on my tea round at lunch time, and coming home the tube was packed and some random guy goosed me.” He closed his eyes at the gentle strokes of Leslie’s hand on his back. “I wouldn’t have minded, but he was dirty and smelly and I had to spend the whole journey with my nose in his armpit. And not in any way I normally like.”

Leslie tut-tutted as he stroked Taylor’s hair from his face. “Oh fuck. That does sound like a shit day.” His eyes met Taylor’s. “What was the bad news?”

Taylor swallowed. “Remember the nightmares and the blood? Well, I know who it was now. A friend called Drew. He shot himself.”

Leslie gasped, his blue eyes wide. “Oh my God, sweetie, that’s bloody awful.” He scooted onto Taylor’s lap as he sat in the chair and hugged him like a limpet. Taylor was grateful for the closeness even if he was being squeezed to death.

“What kind of friend was he? Were you two close?”

Taylor shook his head tiredly. “He was a fuck buddy. A good guy though, and he didn’t deserve whatever he went through. I don’t know why he did it.”

Leslie’s eyes clouded. “Baby, I’m so sorry. But at least it explains the visions you were having. That must be a relief, that you know what they were.”

Taylor’s throat clenched. “Until the next time when someone close to me dies or I see the pain of someone close to them as they die? I’m fucking fed up with this whole curse of being psychic. I wish I was just bloody normal.”

Leslie pressed soft lips to his temple. “But you’re not, sweetie,” he said softly. “You’re my Taylor and my hero. And a lot of other people’s too. I don’t claim to understand what you do, but you’ve helped people. Like me, and Eddie. And that little boy.” In one of his darkest down moments, Taylor had told Leslie the story of little Bobby Meredith and they’d cried together over that tragic tale. “So you need to suck it up and put on your big-boy pants.” He wrapped his arms around Taylor’s neck and gave him another smacking kiss on his cheek. “I know just the thing to cheer you up. Chamomile tea. I’ll go make you a cup.”

He scrambled off Taylor’s lap and sashayed his way into the kitchen. Taylor heard the soft tones of a song by Lady Gaga, Leslie’s personal lady crush, being sung in a melodic tenor voice as Leslie rattled cups and filled the kettle. Taylor grinned wearily. Chamomile tea was the remedy for all the ills of the world according to his roommate, and just for once, he wished that the magic brew could take away the pain he felt at a friend’s untimely death.

*****

 

A week later, on a cold and grey Wednesday afternoon, Taylor stood quietly at the back of the beautiful church in Waltham Abbey. He’d been lucky to get the day off work, promising Jemima that he’d make up the time. He was dressed in a sombre grey suit, feeling as uncomfortable as all hell. It was an outfit outside of his comfort zone, being more used to chinos, jeans and sweat shirts. Leslie had tsk-tsked and told him to get a grip when he’d complained the suit was tight across his shoulders and restricted his movement. When he’d continued whinging, Taylor had gotten a glare from his friend and an admonition that “someone was fucking dead, and Taylor could play nice in a suit for a little while.”

He watched the people milling around as they talked softly and occasionally gestured to the coffin that sat at the front of the wide, ornate chapel. It was covered in myriad types of flowers and looking for all the world like a display at the Chelsea Flower Show. Taylor himself wanted a Viking funeral. He’d actually written it into his will two years ago, although the solicitor writing it had coughed gently and told him he didn’t think the UK condoned putting someone on an old wooden barge and setting them on fire on the Thames. Taylor had growled that it was his effing funeral and the powers that be could go screw themselves. And so the clause had stayed.

Writing a will at the tender age of twenty-two had been something that had raised eyebrows in the conservative offices of Lester, Mark and Abelard, where Taylor’s father worked as one of the partners. Taylor, however, had seen enough death through both his and his mother’s eyes and he knew that when the Grim Reaper came calling there was fuck all anyone could do it about it. He might not have a lot to leave anyone other than his collection of antique cigarette boxes and a pile of choice porn magazines, but he was damned if he was leaving what he did have to the State. He knew Eddie and Leslie would make good use of the magazines, the pages of which were already rather stuck together.

Taylor’s chest tightened as he watched a pretty, dark-haired woman he knew to be Drew’s wife place her hand on the coffin. Taylor had seen the pictures of Catherine, Drew’s wife, when he’d taken them out his wallet to show him.

Drew had been proud of his family; there had been no doubt about that. The love for his wife and children had shown in his eyes. Another older man, probably Catherine’s father, put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She was crying silently, her face grief stricken. This close to home, Taylor realised exactly what he’d done. He’d fucked and been fucked by a man who was already spoken for to another. His stomach churned with guilt. Drew
had
explained that he’d no other choice; he had needs he didn’t want to share with his family and the occasional bout with Taylor was his way of unwinding.

At the time, Taylor had understood. But now, in the cold light of day, when said man lay cold in a coffin, and Taylor saw the grief of the family, he wondered whether he’d done the right thing in being there for Drew so others hadn’t needed to be. He was glad that wherever Drew was, he wasn’t in the church today. Taylor couldn’t sense him, for which he was relieved. He felt it more at the time of the event, not afterwards. His mother had felt more than him, to the point of almost being haunted by past presences. It was probably what had caused her heart to give out at the relatively young age of forty-nine.

“Are you friend or family?” The gentle tones of a woman echoed breathily in his ear. Startled, Taylor turned to see a tiny, white-haired woman, in about her seventies, regarding him with bright, bird-like eyes. She was dressed in dark blue dress, a white shawl draped casually around her shoulders.

“Uhm, I was just a friend,” he stammered.

She nodded sadly. “Yes, Drew was a popular man; he had a lot of friends. That’s why it doesn’t make any sense that he did what he did. I still don’t understand …” Her voice tailed off, her face whitewashed with grief. She lifted a soft, white hand to Taylor to shake. “I’m Lavinia Whittaker. Drew was my grandson.”

Taylor shook her hand and wished the ground would open and swallow him up with the lie he was living. “Taylor Abelard, ma’am.”

“How did you know him?” Lavinia asked, head cocked to one side like a little sparrow.

“He used to come into the music shop where I work.” Taylor was glad that at least that was the truth. “He had a thing for a group called ‘In Vitro,’ an alternative group, and I used to keep the new releases for him to collect.”

Lavinia grimaced. “I think I heard that playing in his car one day. Dreadful noise it was, all screeching and percussion. It made my ears weep blood.” Her hand flapped and she looked quite disgusted. But there was a soft smile on her face—a memory perhaps of better days when her grandson was alive?

Taylor chuckled, liking the older woman. “It’s not my taste either. I never quite saw what
he
saw in it. But he enjoyed it so I helped him find the albums he wanted.” He shrugged. “It didn’t take a lot to make him happy.” No sooner had he said the words than he wanted to withdraw them.

It sounds too intimate, like I really knew him well. I need to be careful. I don’t want his memories tarnished by a slip of the tongue. I have no idea if anyone knew about his other life.

Lavinia regarded him thoughtfully but said nothing. Instead she looked over at the woman still weeping at the front of the chapel, her face bleak and white. “Catherine has taken his death very badly. She was always very dependent on him and now she’s a poor lost soul.” She gave a deep sigh. “I hope her father can help her through this with the children. I’ve never seen someone so distraught.”

Shame permeated Taylor’s very soul. Soft strains of music filled the air and people began filling into the church.

“The ceremony’s starting,” Taylor said quietly. “Can I show you to your seat, Mrs. Whittaker?”

Lavinia laughed, a tinkling sound that made Taylor smile. “Oh, my dear, call me Lavinia, please. And yes, I’d love a handsome young man like you to escort me to my seat.” She held out a thin, fragile arm and Taylor took it as he gently supported her to the front of the church pews. He helped her into the seat closest to the aisle and then turned to leave. She reached out and grasped his arm, her eyes slightly wet.

“He was a good man, one of the best. I’m glad he has friends here. I hope wherever he is now, he’s at peace.”

Taylor clasped her hand, thin and frail, between his dark ones. “I think he is, Lavinia. That’s all we can hope for.”

He turned and made his way to the back of the room, away from the family and the true friends that were Drew’s. The ceremony was beautiful, heart wrenching and not over soon enough for him. It was with a sigh of relief that he finally went outdoors, found a shady spot under a huge oak tree and lit up a cigarette. He knew he’d promised himself to cut down or stop altogether but today? That wasn’t going to happen.

“Those things will kill you, you know.” The hated voice drawled in his left ear and Taylor swung around in shock to meet the deep, grey eyes of Draven Samuels.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Taylor growled. “Are you stalking me?”

Draven’s face darkened. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He raised a hand and flapped the spiralling smoke from Taylor’s cigarette away with disgust. Taylor blew a smoke ring in his direction in defiance and the man glowered.

“You are such a damn child.” He regarded Taylor evenly. “I worked with Drew for a while. What’s your excuse to be here?”

Taylor wasn’t going to
ever
tell this man the real extent of his and Drew’s relationship. “We were friends. He used to come into the music shop I work in.” He noticed that Draven filled out a suit really well. Dark charcoal wool, suited to the chilly autumn days, with a pale blue shirt, which stretched across his chest and defined a body that was strong and toned. His blond hair was ruffled in the slight breeze and his face seemed paler than usual.

“No one should be here. It was too damn early for him to go. Stupid bastard.”

Taylor’s mouth dropped at the fact that a man who’d just died was being vilified. Draven squinted. “What? Are you into the whole ‘don’t speak ill of the dead’ thing,’ being in your profession?”

Taylor’s temper rose with every word coming out of Draven’s mouth but he wasn’t prepared to make a scene at a man’s funeral.

BOOK: Men of London 02 - Sight and Sinners
12.53Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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