The Bones of Summer (18 page)

Now Paul laughed. He placed his hands on Craig's legs and pushed them outward.

“Paul, Paul,
please
.”

The next moment, Paul's mouth wrapped itself around his cock and Craig cried out as he came. Fire ripped through his blood. At the same time, the world around them shattered as the window exploded and something hard landed on the bed, just missing his arm.

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Chapter Sixteen

“Jesus
Christ
, what...?”

Paul leapt off him, spunk glistening a stream down the side of his face, and pushed the two of them off the bed on the side away from the window. A second or two ticked by but nothing else happened. Only the sudden inrush of London traffic and freezing air.

“You okay?” Paul asked.

Craig nodded. “You?”

“Sure. What the hell
was
that anyway?”

Scrambling to a kneeling position, they both peered over the bed. Craig realized how stupid they must look. A brick with something white wrapped around it, held together by an elastic band, nestled on the green duvet.

Paul cursed. “Bloody hooligans. I've never had that happen before. Still, at least it wasn't a bloody bomb.”

Craig raised his eyebrows that he could even think it might be and reached out for the would-be missile. Next to him, Paul slipped on a pair of sandals and made for the window.

“Careful of that glass,” he warned as he skirted the bed.

“You too,” Craig replied. “Anyway, they'll be long gone now, whoever they were, and shouldn't you put some clothes on?”

But already Paul was standing naked at the window edge, peering out, breathing heavily.

“What can you see?” Craig asked, clutching the brick, which he realized was wrapped in paper.

“Nothing and nobody, damn it,” he replied, as Craig felt his shoulder muscles tense up. “Just one of those things, I suppose. Random.”

But already Craig had ceased to listen. In his fingers, he held the paper he'd unwound. He read it carefully. And then he read it again.

“Not very random,” he whispered.

“What?” Paul pulled the curtains closed and turned to face him. “What did you say?”

Staring at him, Craig thought how beautiful he was. And then understood how out of place that thought was.

“It's my father,” he said. “Look.”

With that, he spread out the paper on a part of the bed with no glass on it and gestured for Paul to read. He padded back around the bed to hunker down beside Craig and the two of them stared at the note:

MEN COMMITTED INDECENT ACTS WITH OTHER MEN, AND RECEIVED IN THEMSELVES THE DUE PENALTY FOR THEIR PERVERSION (ROMANS 1:27)

“Bloody hell,” Paul said. “That's your father?”

Craig nodded. “Yes, it's him. It's the sort of thing he'd quote. God, he used to quote it all the time, when I was a teenager. He'd know I'd remember.”

As he spoke, a flash of disjointed images spun in his head: water running from the outside tap on the farm; his father's shadow; something red; something broken. He shook it away and, from nowhere, his throat was filled with laughter.

“Jesus,” he spluttered, “this is crazy, isn't it? The whole thing's just crazy. I mean, look at me: I might be a murderer, my father's a lunatic and now I'm crouched naked, staring at a note that's just come in through a window on a brick. It's not exactly the everyday life of city folk, is it?
Jesus
.”

When Craig swallowed his laughter down, he found the tears weren't that far away. Paul stroked his elbow.

“No,” he said. “Maybe you're right. Your life certainly isn't dull, is it? I tell you what. Now we've had rampant sex and the big finish, shall I make us a drink? My vote's on tea.”

He made it too. It wasn't how Craig had imagined the evening ending. Or, as it was now, the morning of the next day beginning. It was still dark of course but here in Paul's kitchen he could glimpse the slight change in the sky outside as he clutched the reassuring mug and sipped at the boiling liquid.

Back in the clothes they'd started out in, Craig could almost imagine that nothing had changed. But he knew it had. First the way they'd made love, rather than fucked. It was different. Craig felt as if he'd crossed a barrier. Paul had allowed him here and hadn't asked him to leave. Bloody hell, they were even almost sharing breakfast. Or a postcoital mug of tea. One of the two. Though what with the brick-through-the-window business, maybe Paul felt that was the least he could offer?

Which brought Craig to the second thing, of course: the message around the brick. His bloody father. He had to find him. Find him and talk to him, in case he did something else. But his father had managed to keep one step ahead of him so far. If only from Craig's own cowardice. Instinct told him that now his father knew he was onto him, the search would be that much harder.

There was something else he had to do as well. Something just as important, which he'd started and hadn't yet finished. Something that might draw him closer to the truth, whatever the outcome.

“So what do you want to do now?” Paul's words broke into his thoughts, adding to the mix of them, crystallizing them into a decision. “The best thing, in my opinion, is to go after your father. After that we can fill in what we can about Michael. But it's up to you.”

Craig looked up into the deep green of his eyes.

“No,” he said. “I-I can't do that. Not yet. I just can't. It'll have to be Michael first. My father later. Because first I have to tell Mrs. Langley the truth.”

* * * *

In the chill at the beginning of February, he and Paul arranged to see Michael's sister once more. Paul had rung her this time, made an appointment at his office. There, at 3 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon, they would meet with Eva Langley and her husband, Jack, and talk about ... well, what Craig might have done and whatever it was they might need to know. Craig had wanted the appointment sooner, if only to get it over with, but realized that other people's lifestyles and routines weren't of course his own. They'd be working; they'd need to book time off or come in the evening. In fact he was surprised they hadn't opted for an evening appointment, but assumed it must be something to do with the children.

“Craig, I think you should sit down.” Paul's voice pierced the edgy mess of his thoughts, such as they were. “You'll tire yourself out if you keep pacing up and down like that. Actually, scrub that: you'll tire me out. And it would be good to meet Michael's family when we're both alert.”

“Okay,” he said, and did as he was told. Not at the chairs Paul had arranged in a circle in the middle of the newly cleaned office and not at his desk either. No, he sat down at the spare desk, which boasted a computer perched at one corner and a few photographs. One of which he picked up.

In the picture, Craig saw a young woman, somewhere around her late twenties maybe, curvy and with wild blonde hair. She was wearing a close-fitting green dress and enormous earrings. Instinctively, her expression made him smile.

“Friend of yours?” he asked and, when he looked up, found Paul was standing right in front of him. His expression was closed in. Again.

Before Craig could say anything else, Paul had taken the photograph from him and replaced it on the desk, easing it to exactly the same position it had been in before.

“Yes,” he said. “It's ... it was a friend of mine. My best friend.”

“What's her name?” Craig asked as quietly as possible. He thought if he spoke too loudly it might hurt Paul; his boyfriend looked as if he was suddenly a long way away. Somewhere Craig couldn't reach him.

“Jade. Jade O'Donnell. She's dead now. She used to work for me. She died because of a stupid mistake I made.”

Craig put his hand on Paul's where it rested next to the photograph. “I'm sorry. But I'm sure it wasn't your fault.”

“Yes it was.” He shook his head and blinked at Craig. He could see the tears in Paul's eyes. “It was my fault. I put her in danger. I screwed up and I have to live with that.”

“Okay, okay.” Still holding his hand, Craig slipped around to the other side of the desk where Paul stood and took him in his arms. “
God
, we all make mistakes—I of all people should know that—and it doesn't matter to me. I still love you.”

This was the second time Craig had told Paul he loved him and he only said it now because he couldn't find anything else to say. While of course ignoring Gay Rule Number Twelve:
If you make the mistake of saying you love him once, don't compound the error by saying it again.
Ah, well. He'd always been a bloody idiot. Why change the habit of a lifetime?

As he continued to hold him, Craig felt the other man's body relax and, after a while, Paul's mouth sought his. More for comfort than anything sexual. And hell knew he was happy to give comfort if that was what Paul wanted.

Only a couple of seconds seemed to pass before the doorbell rang, though maybe it was longer. He'd lost track of time. Paul half-laughed and wiped his eyes.

“God,” he said. “Always the bloody consummate professional, aren't I? Somebody turns up and I'm crying my eyes out like a bloody baby.”

“Don't sweat it. If my best friend had died, whatever the cause, I'd be upset too.” As Craig spoke, he thought of Maddy, and a wave of emptiness even at the idea of losing her powered through him. “Tell you what. Why don't you go and wash your face and I'll let the Langleys in. By the time they're settled, things will be fine.”

Paul nodded, smiled his thanks, and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom. As promised, Craig made his way to the front door. His heart was beating fast, the knowledge of what he had to say weighing on his shoulders. They were early. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was only ten to three.

Outside the wind was rising and Eva Langley's dark curls almost obscured her face. For a moment her expression reminded him of Michael and, with a stab of guilt, he pushed the memory away. Her husband stretched out his hand and Craig grasped it.

“We're early,” Mr. Langley said. “May we come in?”

“Of course.” He stood aside to let them pass. They brought with them that particular outdoors smell London had—air and cars and dirt. No sooner were they settled in Paul's office than the owner-operator of the business himself appeared. He looked pale but calm.

“Thank you so much for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Langley,” he said, shaking both their hands and smiling at Craig. “We appreciate it very much. Would you like a drink?”

They both asked for coffee and when it was made the four of them sat in the chairs facing each other. Craig wondered in fact how good an idea that had been, but assumed Paul was aiming for the businesslike approach. This, after all, wasn't going to be a cozy chat. Even now, three of them were poised on the edge of their seats and only Paul sat back, seemingly at ease.

Eva glanced at her husband, who took her hand in his.

“Please,” she said, “could you tell us why we're here? I know it's about Michael, but I don't think I fully understood what you might want from your message. You haven't found out anything else, have you?”

“No, I'm afraid I haven't. What I'm after, you see, is information. But before I get into that, I think my client, Mr. Robertson, has something he'd like to tell you.”

For a second or two, Craig had no idea who he was talking about, and then realization kicked in.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he mumbled before giving himself a swift mental shake and looking Mrs. Langley straight in the eye.

His throat felt as dry as sand. “It's like this,” he said again, this time more slowly. “When I met you at your flat, I didn't tell you all the truth. In fact I lied. You took me by surprise but I know that's no excuse. There are things that aren't clear in my mind. But there are some things that
are
clear. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. But this ... this is what I remember.”

Craig proceeded to tell them what he'd told Paul, but as calmly as he could this time. While he was talking, he didn't take his eyes from Mrs. Langley's. He watched her face turn pale, then redden, then grow pale again. Her hands gripped the side of her chair, as if they were the only thing preventing her from springing up and attacking him.

When he'd finished, Mrs. Langley was trembling, her eyes wide.

“You killed him,” she whispered, “and I thought ... I thought ... but I was wrong after all. You
murdered
my brother.”

A swift movement and she half-rose, her hands clenched into fists now. Paul stood up but Mr. Langley had already taken his wife in his arms, pulled her back down to her chair.

“Hush there,” he said. “Don't do this to yourself, Eva. Please. That's not what Craig said. It sounds as if it was an accident, a terrible accident.”

“You say that, Jack. But how do I know he's not lying again?
How do I know?
”

“You don't, Mrs. Langley.” Paul's steady voice rose above the tension in the room. “All I can tell you is that I believe that Mr. Robertson has been as honest as he can in what he says about what happened seven years ago at his home. He has told you about the weapon, about Michael's sudden appearance in front of him, and about the blood. None of that proves conclusively either that my client killed your brother or indeed that Michael is dead at all. What Mr. Robertson has asked me to do is to find out as much as I can. I've a number of other leads I'm fully intending to pursue, but I'd like to start with your brother. With your permission, that is?”

“We hired a PI after Michael disappeared,” Mr. Langley said as his wife remained silent. “When the police gave up, that is. In the autumn. He didn't discover anything useful at all, and he stayed in Devon for at least two or three days, talking to local people there. It was hopeless.”

Paul nodded. “I understand, and it may well be that we'll discover nothing new now. But that doesn't prevent my client trying. I know this is painful for you, Mrs. Langley, and I'm sorry for that—more than you can know—but I'd very much like us to continue, if you'll allow it.”

Eva Langley extricated herself gently from her husband's embrace and sat back down. She didn't look at Craig and he couldn't blame her. He felt as if up to that point he'd been playing at whatever task they were embarking on, but now things were different. Very different. Part of this was simply the fact of being referred to as a “client.” As if his voice and opinions mattered. The other part was how professional Paul sounded. Then again, at work everyone showed another side to themselves. He'd probably think the same thing about Craig on a fashion shoot. Or even on set or on stage. If he were that lucky again.