The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (10 page)

When he recovered, Greg found himself on a bench, his head throbbing, and his whole body aching with cold and discomfort. By then though, he’d recovered enough to return and apologise.

 “I just want to speak to the children,” he pleaded as he swayed in the doorway.

“For God’s sake Greg, get lost!” stormed Clare, “I don’t
ever
want to see you again.”

"Oddly enough, I don’t want your greasy, stinking debt-collectors threatening me with knives and stun-guns," rasped Greg. "Pay them off if you don't want them after the kids. They threatened to…to…"

Greg broke off. Everything seemed so futile.

"Don't come here with your scare-mongering. You could have at least turned up sober."

“I know that Clare, but
please
let me see the children, I just want to say I’m sorry...” Greg’s voice faltered... “and goodbye.”

On hearing the disturbance the children, appeared of their own accord. Shaun spoke: “We love you dad, honestly, but we think it will be better that we don’t see you for a while... We’re sure it’s for the best.”   

Greg was stunned: the words cut like a knife.
We're sure it’s for the best!
Greg felt no need to try and reason. In fact he wanted desperately to get away, as far as he could and in as little time as possible.

He wished the children goodbye without any further bitterness - though he was wreathed in it - and stumbled off alone.

“So that’s it,” he almost sobbed. “I’ve travelled across Spain in mid-winter to be told it’s best I don’t see my children - by one of my children!”

*

It was a miracle that Greg survived the ensuing days: he lived rough, slept in a doss-house, hardly ate, and drank enough to swell his liver to the size of a mattress. If Friday hadn’t arrived mercifully quickly, he would probably have been found dead.

He wasn’t even sure it was Friday as moonlight almost warily entered the attic he'd slept in. He seemed to have been in Perpignan for an eternity; sombre days merging with empty nights to form a blur of drink and hangover. On the occasions he woke, he'd knocked himself back out with a slug from whatever was at hand - and there was no shortage of cheap booze in Perpignan.

“God, I hope Nigel's waiting,” he muttered. If he failed to show, Greg feared he'd remain on the macabre carousel of drunkenness and oblivion until the money ran out - or he was thrown into a cell. The latter was stimulus enough for him to get to the station. Early.

For the first time in days he washed and made a feeble attempt at shaving. It was still very early, so Greg crept from the doss-house – anonymous by virtue of its blandness - without checking out. From the moment he'd set eyes on the filthy room he'd resolved not to pay for it: he'd desperately needed shelter, but no decent hostelry would entertain him.

In his hurry to board the train Greg never noticed when his phone slipped from his pocket; through the gap between coach and platform onto the track. The journey was as swift as before - though it seemed an eternity - and he arrived in Barcelona before nine. He found the café, bought a large Americano and slumped into a seat with every intention of staying there until Nigel arrived. All Greg wanted was sleep. He felt dreadful, looked worse, but was no longer drunk; just locked in a seemingly permanent hangover. For that reason he resolved to ask Nigel to drive until they reached a hostelry.

"Tomorrow I might feel fit to drive again," he muttered beneath his breath, "but definitely not today!"

Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted. “God you look awful Greg." Nigel breezed into the cafe with an uncharacteristically jaunty air, an expensive though vacuous blonde in his wake. “What the hell have you been up to?”

 “I feel daft really,” answered Greg as the pair seated themselves, “when I reached the address, I found I no longer had relatives living there. I was stuck and could do nothing about it. I even lost my mobile along the way; no idea where." A truthful person by nature, he consoled his guilt with the knowledge that what he'd said was true in principle - particularly in light of developments.

“How awful! Did the neighbour's know nothing?"

Rather than compound his untruths, Greg indicated with a glance that he wanted to drop the subject. Nigel clearly understood.

"So what happened then; went off enjoying yourself I suppose? Now you’re paying for it.”

“Something like that, I…"

Fortunately Nigel wasn't really interested.

“Sorry, you two,” he interrupted, “Greg – Jacky.” Greg took Jacky’s hand briefly, and she nodded sympathetically at his condition. As the two spoke briefly, Nigel ordered sandwiches and wine. “You’ll have some, I suppose?” he said to Greg with a knowing grin. He then went on to explain that he was staying in Barcelona as a guest of Jacky’s friends. “We’ve known each other for some time,” he explained, “and we met up at the rally.” Nigel winked to Greg and added, “Thought we might somehow. So… can you take the old girl back to the UK for me? Lucy Ella, I mean.  You can call me if you have prob’s…”

“Well, I s’pose…” Greg was lost for words by the sudden prospect of driving back alone. “Is she okay for petrol?” he croaked. Nigel tossed a roll of notes onto the table as though it was a newspaper. “There you are,” he said with a smile, “I’ll probably fly back when the time comes. Just do me a favour.”

“What’s that?” Greg sighed, dismayed by the whole affair – not least his own part in it.

“It’s not that bad.” Nigel laughed at Greg’s worried expression. “It’s just that we found a little friend who desperately wants to get back home. A young lad from over the Tamar in Devon, late teens, early twenties I guess. Came to find work last summer and been stuck here since. No money - nothing.”

“Surely he could have got back home if he’d tried, what about his folks?”

“Greg,” replied Nigel seriously, “there are dozens of the poor sods on the continent - didn’t you know that? Come here for sunshine and glamour, and wind up without enough money to get home... Surely you don’t mind...?”

“Of course not,” interrupted Greg - guiltily when he considered his own plight had Nigel not arrived, and secretly glad of company. “Where is he?”

“Asleep when we left him; cramped up in the back seat. Sure you don’t mind, now?”

Greg put his hands up. “Of course not,” he said, though he looked worried. “Will we have enough money for lodgings? I’ll need an overnight stop; we'll make the ferry easily if we start early on Saturday.”

“You’ll find bags there.” Nigel pointed to the roll, still where he’d left it. “If there’s any change, give it to Sarah. Now - are you going to help me finish this wine?” Greg desperately wanted to say no... but he felt perhaps
one
hair of the dog might help.

Despite the farewell drink, Greg managed to sober up during the journey. He pushed the noble veteran far harder than would have met with Penmaric’s approval, consoling himself throughout that he'd only double the distance to cover than that of his journey to Cornwall weeks earlier. But still it seemed an eternity. Greg’s companion turned out to be a skinny, pallid youth, who introduced himself simply as Cass. He said little and Greg, his wits dulled anyway, soon abandoned attempts at conversation. He couldn't, however, be off but notice that the youth was constantly sniffing...

Greg felt even less at ease when the youth produced a curved pipe filled with strong, cherry-scented tobacco.  He dismissed it as an eccentricity until, not twenty miles from Santander, it occurred to him that the youth was inhaling - deeply.

No pipe smoker does that!

He pulled promptly into a lay-by, his companion still puffing away unperturbed.

“Where is it, you little bastard?” Greg tore the pipe from the unsuspecting youth, flung it away and grabbed him firmly by the throat.

“Where’s wha...?” managed the youth.

“You know
what!
Hand it over!”

The young man registered his companion’s glare and handed over a packet of cannabis he'd concealed at the bottom of his tobacco tin.

“Any more?”

The young man found enough enthusiasm to shrug his shoulders. “It doesn’t do any more harm than the booze you reek of.”

"I don’t suppose it does.” He took the youth's jacket and dragged his face to within an inch of his own, as if preparing to butt him. “Get this straight,” he yelled, “I don’t care how much harm it does you - or anyone else for that matter. I don’t care if you go blue in the face. I want to get on that ferry - through customs - and back home.  I've no intention of being locked up! So, if you have any more - I want to know!
Now!"

At the threat of roadside abandonment, the youth produced another package from the split lining of his jacket. Greg opened and scattered the contents into nearby hedges. He then examined the youth’s travel bag, but found only dishevelled clothing and a toothbrush so foul it could have doubled as a pipe cleaner – and probably did.

*

The atmosphere remained as frosty when they stopped for the night at a small pensione outside Santander: both were just glad to sleep. On reaching the docks the following day Greg, as a further precaution, slung his companion from the car, forcing him to board the ferry with his travel bag as a foot passenger, and didn’t allow him back until they'd cleared customs in Plymouth. Having nursed a lifelong phobia of forced confinement, Greg had no intention, for one night even, of being locked up. The youth didn’t seem unduly perturbed by his treatment, Greg noticed. He seemed to prefer crossing alone, mentioning only that he'd arranged to meet a friend he'd called on leaving Santander.

On climbing back into the car as the ferry prepared to dock, Greg spotted a rally programme beneath the front passenger seat. He glanced cursorily over it and was struck by a condition stating that no cars manufactured later than nineteen twenty eight were eligible for the event.

So the whole thing was about Jacky. Nothing else!
Greg managed a bitter smile, his first for a while, as he stuffed the programme into a bag of sandwich wrappers and empty cans for binning.

As he returned to the car on clearing customs, Cass surprised Greg by displaying enough
enthusiasm
to take several snaps of him at the wheel of the Ulster. His surprise gave way to anger, however, as Cass took another duffel bag from the rear on getting out at his destination.

"You’re very lucky we've cleared customs,"
fumed Greg on realising it must have been on board since Nigel had picked Cass up. "The bag’s no doubt full of the shit!"

Ironically, the youth's lift was waiting at the island where the
man with a bag
had waited almost a week earlier. The driver stood hunched against the wind on the verge beside a battered Mondeo looking, apart from a black eye-patch, much like Cass. 

Chapter Seven

Greg waited as Cass walked to the car, then watched until he and his companion drove off in the direction of Tavistock., Despite their lengthy journey together, he'd learned very little about Cass, though doubted that he'd missed much. Greg wasn’t surprised so much that Cass couldn't raise his return fare home as that he’d shown enough enterprise to venture out of the country in the first place.  

*

 It was early Sunday morning when Greg arrived back at the caravan. Although he could hear Red barking from inside, the cabin was in darkness, so Greg decided to get some sleep and clean up the following morning before surfacing.

It was pleasant when he awoke later that morning, the sun streaming through the windows as Greg used kettle upon kettle of gloriously hot water to bathe thoroughly. He then ate a breakfast of scrambled eggs (though it set out as an omelette) before sprinkling himself with discounted after-shave and making his way up to the cabin. As Jan opened the door, Red, almost deliriously boisterous, bounded at Greg. Jan was obviously pleased to see him too: like others she'd worried about the Ulster’s reliability.

“Everything okay?”

"Yes,” she said with a warm smile, “seems like an age since you left.” Jan sat Greg at the table and filled the kettle.

“Now,” she said, seating herself opposite, “tell me all about your journey while the kettle boils." She placed a finger to her lips in anticipation of her son's excitement if he discovered Greg was back. "Jamie won’t bother us for a while; he's in his room, watching TV.”