The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1) (2 page)

“We’ve only been on the road a short while and I feel tired already; some survivor.” Greg yawned as he approached a service stop near Tewkesbury. “Detest these places, but we'd better eat before we start the journey proper, Red.”

The meal was aptly uninspiring: burgers the consistency of damp chipboard languished beside cardboard chips, bearing little similarity to the colourful posters lining the walls. The coffee was barely tepid; bitter to the point that he attacked it warily whilst taking in the grey skyline through a sleet-flecked window. He forced a grin as he considered how much simpler he could make matters by putting an end to himself. Had Red not been so dependant on him, he half-joked, he might well have done. Nevertheless, Greg vowed to keep going: somewhere he felt, a long way short of suicide, was an end to the gloom.

*

 A veil of slushy rain obscured the windscreen for much of the journey, persuading Greg to stop at the first half-decent site he reached. He pulled onto a verge before leaving the main road to call his sister and let her know all was well.

"Greg, I'm glad you called," said Jo immediately. "I heard you drive away this morning, but after you'd gone another vehicle came up the drive. We saw the lights and thought it might be you coming back for something, but it was a black BMW. Diesel I'd say from the sound."

"Don't know anyone with a black Beamer. Did they knock?" asked Greg anxiously.

"No, Sam was on his way down when they drove away again - any ideas?"

"No," lied Greg, "did you get the reg?"

"Why would you want the registration if you've no idea who it could have been?"

"Just curious."

"It was Y 522 CT
W."

"Ok, probably someone who thought your drive was a side lane." Greg feigned only passing interest. "Or after scrap maybe."

"Cheek!"

Greg laughed. "Things OK otherwise?"

"Yes, just worried about you... How are you? Not that you'll tell me."

"I'm all right, sis, looking forward to a plenty of reading and walking. Speak soon."

"Watch you do. Your mobile's always switched off when I call.
Please
let us know if you need us." Jo sounded emotional, despite attempts not to. "Bye love."

"Bye, speak soon I promise." Greg stored the vehicle number in his mobile the instant he disengaged, and sighed deeply.  

Not long after his stop, he was pleasantly surprised to find a suitable spot, long before any he’d ringed on the map: a small farm field, sheltered by a horseshoe of pines; picturesque, despite its winter starkness. The farmer smiled almost apologetically as he took Greg’s money, surprisingly accustomed to winter campers it seemed. Although it offered little in the way of facilities, Greg liked the site: its frugality, he felt, was less likely to attract the encumbrance of fellow campers.

  “Not many customers about this time of year?” he said as the farmer directed him to an area where he was least likely to sink.

“Naa. One or two ‘ere up till Christmas week.”

Greg gulped.
So there are others as daft or desperate as me.

“Hell bent on pleasure, obviously.” he joked, though the remark went unnoticed.

After he’d connected the gas and left the kettle on low, Greg took Red for a walk round the site - the old dog being grateful for exercise following the journey. The field was pulpy from successive downpours, and Red’s paws plopped deeply into the mud as he loped clumsily back to the caravan.

“This is the life for us, Red,” said Greg tongue in cheek as he pulled the door to against the elements. “Peace and quiet at last eh?” He made himself and the dog a drink of Bovril each, then sat pensively, his hands cupped around the tin mug for comfort from the clammy chill.

“You look after the van tonight while I pop out for a quick pint. Then home to bed - OK mate?”

Red almost nodded approval as he licked Greg’s face, placing a large wet paw on his shoulder as he did so. Greg gently pushed the fussy dog away and sat back, his deep, troubled eyes betraying a flicker of sadness. Not since he'd lost both parents whilst still at college could Greg remember feeling so alone, and in the dim solitude of the caravan he silently wept.

                                                                    *

 At the same time, two hundred miles away in the library of a large country house in Herefordshire, sat Anne McCaffrey - not ten miles from the services where Greg stopped hours earlier. She too sat and puzzled over the future. A large - to be less kind, fat - cat sat on her lap as she alternated her gaze along one wall of the library.

 “I wonder if anyone will collect them now?" she said to the cat. Predictably, the cat said nothing.

Anne McCaffrey had just seen the final vestiges of hope for her future disintegrate: her husband, whom she'd nursed for many years had recently died. Worse still, she'd that hour received news that her lover of half a lifetime was also dead. The only hope she'd clung to throughout her wasted life was that one day she'd be free to marry Lawson Penmaric. Now he too was gone, and the only tangible remains of their relationship were the pictures lining the library wall.

“Probably worthless.” She sighed and stroked the cat again. “But at least we have them until they're collected by the man Lawson promised. If
ever
he comes.”

Anne McCaffrey was a good-looking woman, her smooth skin belying her advanced years. Until recent events she'd never wanted to look or feel old; suddenly she'd no wish to grow even an hour older.

Resigned to its inevitability, her hazel eyes, wearied and sunken, stared sadly around as she waited quietly for death. She sighed again and nodded to her cat. “Perhaps we can hang on until they're collected."

***

At around the same time in Tavistock, Devon, Tammy - blue-eyed, blonde, angelic Tammy - was leaving an NA (Narcotics Anonymous) meeting, pleasantly fulfilled with her progress thus far.

"Sure you won't have a quick coffee?" asked 'Goldie,' a new member, though several years older.

"Positive." Tammy laughed, completely unfazed by Goldie's persistence. "You know my situation. I've shared it enough times."

"Look, I
know
you have a boyfriend and you're expecting him back one of the days. From what you've said I doubt if he
will
come back, but all I'm asking for is a quick chat in the Costa over the road. I'd really welcome some ideas from another newish member."

"It's suggested we stick to same-gender meetings for one-on-one situations," said Tammy, her hair backlit by street lighting. She grinned as she paused to light a cigarette in a recessed doorway. "I'm glad we don't have to give these up as well."

"I know. Thanks." Goldie took a cigarette from Tammy's packet. "One day at a time, and one
thing
at a time as far as I'm concerned. Look, get this straight, I haven't shared it yet, Tammy, but I'm
gay
for Christ's sake. I'm not after your body, just a chat and a little help with my recovery."

Tammy smiled again. "Just a quick latte then; I won't repeat anything you tell me and I'm sure you'll do likewise. As for coming out, that's your business too. You'll tell 'em yourself when
you're
ready I'm sure… Marigold!"

Goldie laughed as they crossed the road, pleased to have made a new friend. The pair were to take coffee on several occasions after that.

***

"Who's that?" Greg woke with a start. He thought he heard a noise outside, though it was still pitch black as he cleared a misted window.

Not a soul in sight - probably a fox.
Shaking from cold, he lit the gas fire and dithered while he unearthed some heavy bath towels, one of which he laid over Red, and the rest over his own bed.

“Tidy situation for a bloke who made a fortune from home security and heat conservation,” he muttered to Red, seemingly oblivious to the chill as he lay curled on the floor. “We'll need heavier gear for this game.”

Greg could have stretched an hotel, or stayed with his sister for a while at worst, but he'd stubbornly refused: the only friend he felt at home with was Red.
Apart from diminished faith, he was possessed with a gloomy guilt complex, feeling he'd somehow betrayed the loyalty of staff and colleagues. In fact there'd been little he could have done to alleviate the situation – try as he had. After he’d bowed to the injustice of paying Clare off, and settled a legacy of debts she left in her wake, Greg had been left homeless. On forfeit of the house he’d been left with a thick wedge of undeclared cash, a car, and a dog! Now further demands were being made on him: debts he'd known nothing of until days previously. He shivered again from the combined effects of the cold and the beer he’d drunk earlier. The fire and the extra covering had little effect in relieving his edgy tension... But a slug of Vodka did...

***

It was light when Greg woke for the second time, his throat parched by the starved atmosphere the fire had created. He cursed when he realised he’d left it on, and resolved to replace it with an auto cut-out heater, for his and Red’s safety. “We could have died of asphyxiation.” Greg smiled and patted his friend’s bony head. “And no one would have known till the rent was due."

Greg cooked a large breakfast, though he ate little due to his fuzzy, hung-over state. Red was glad to help with disposal of the leftovers; his awkward frame clumping loudly on the caravan floor as he devoured the unscheduled meal, right down to the last morsel. It wasn’t that Red was underfed - he was simply blessed, or cursed for that matter, with an insatiable appetite.

It was cold and crisp outside, the solemnity of the previous day having given way to a gin-clear air frost. Greg took Red for a brisk walk, then left him in the 'van while he drove to Plymouth for more suitable winter gear. He bought a commando-style sleeping bag and fail-safe heater, together with a portable TV. The extra comforts, he felt, would make life easier and a feeling of wellbeing overcame him immediately. Not wishing to leave Red out, he bought him a large fleecy basket to keep out the chill and cushion the dog’s old bones from the unyielding floor.

Greg was feeling much happier when he got back and placed the luxurious basket down for Red, who returned his enthusiasm by instantly curling up in it. The challenge of spending winter in such a sparse environment was beginning to appeal to the survivor in Greg, despite his plans to do little more than sleep the days away until he found it necessary to make a living again.

“Must take it easy on the booze though, Red," he said with a wink, “or the winter will last longer than us
and
the money..." His guilty conscience forced him to hesitate before continuing... “I’ll just nip to the pub for a quick pint. Then we can watch TV for an hour or two."

Before he left, Greg checked that the wedge of fifties - together with his passport and driver's licence - were still stowed safely behind a ventilation grille in the aluminium wall cavity.

"Keep guard while I'm out," he said as Red peered up at him, his head cocked inquisitively. "I might find a way of investing that lot... done it before, y'know.”

Chapter Two

Besides Eddy the barman, whom Greg had met the previous evening, there were only two other people in the pub. Greg was glad of almost any company though, finding it easier to chat to folk unaware of his situation. For that reason, having convinced himself he wasn't being terribly dishonest, he presented himself as a newly redundant bachelor anxious to change his fortunes.

He stood by the bar chatting to an emaciated man known locally as Ivor 'Lizard' Wheeler - a retired undertaker every bit as cadaverous as his unfortunate clients. Wheeler had the charm and complexion of a reptile, his likeness augmented by jerky, involuntary head and chin movements. "With those chameleon-like eyes it's possible to imagine a split tongue emerging when he speaks," whispered Eddy. Greg just stifled a grin.

"Perhaps I might find something when the holiday season starts," said Greg

"You’ll not find work round ‘ere, mate,” hissed Wheeler with nauseating delight, “nothing doin' here at the best o' times: you’ll be wasting your time, lad.”

“Well - maybe,” replied Greg, “but I’ll be happy to have a crack at anything for the time being; window cleaning, odd-jobbing – anything."

“Huh. Mate of your’n here, Jan!” Wheeler projected his reptilian chin and laughed sarcastically. “Someone else hopin’ for a miracle.”