The Harder They Fall (28 page)

The options, then, were to get either the stepladder or his laptop, both with the ultimate objective of replacing the curtains and the ceiling lights, for now he came to think on, they could all do with an update. He got out of bed again, thoroughly disappointed with himself for failing to fight the urge, but at least Sean’s visit hadn’t been all in vain, for he was planning to order the replacements in advance, if only to stave off further admonishment from that bloody know-it-all. As if he was going to book an appointment with Tierney. As if! He didn’t need him or anyone else telling him that what he was doing was mad. He knew it was mad. He was mad.

Self control, of sorts, came an hour or so later when, with a virtual shopping cart crammed with interior furnishings and the cursor hovering over the ‘checkout’ button, Josh had a mischievous thought. He typed into the address bar and watched, as the login box automatically filled itself with the email account details. They had been stored on his laptop ever since George first returned from the States, when he had needed internet access to oversee the delivery of the house, then later, to contact his lawyer and make arrangements for the transfer of ownership. In the time that had lapsed since, not once had it occurred to Josh that he could access George’s email, but it did now.

It had to be said that he kept a very tidy mailbox; down the left of the screen were folders labelled by the types of messages they held, whilst his generic inbox contained only his latest unread mail: a message from Eleanor entitled “Re: BOGOF cravats anyone?”, which made Josh chuckle in spite of himself, another from ‘RaymoJack’, with no subject, and three mailshots from online book shops. The one from RaymoJack (AKA Ray Jackson: one of the ranchers) intrigued him especially, as to his knowledge, George had cut all ties with the ranch when he sold it, and although it would give him away, he was sorely tempted to click on the unread message. However, it was the folder labelled “TTWDTA” that held the greatest allure, thus this was his first port of call. The list of messages took what seemed like forever to load, dimmed out and enticingly unclickable until they did, and he spent the time trying to discern the acronym. When the screen finally brightened, he knew he was in the right place, for these were messages not from, but to Eleanor, with a few to Kris: around two thousand in total. He started at the top and began to work his way down.

So far, so very uninformative. 3:30 in the morning and another 1,996 to go: he needed a more efficient strategy and paused for a moment to think.

The problem was that most of the messages had no subject specified; however, they were sorted into chunks by date, and some were also bigger than others. He scrolled down the list, on the lookout for sudden gluts of several larger messages, stopping when he reached a number sent in quick succession, over the space of four days last Christmas. One was to Kris, the rest to Eleanor. Clicking on the topmost of these, he came up trumps, for an entire dialogue appeared below. For ease of reading, he started with the very first message sent and worked his way up to the most recent interchange.

The darkest hour before dawn was when Josh’s failing eyesight finally gave him the willpower to stop trawling George’s email and get some sleep. Unfortunately, it meant he was still as exhausted descending the stairs now as he had been six hours earlier going up them, and he really didn’t want to get into the habit of surviving on caffeine again. Nonetheless, it was definitely time for coffee. He filled the filter machine and eased himself onto the kitchen cupboard, selecting a recipe book at random and flicking through the pages in reverse.

Since George moved in, they had built up a mini-library of cookbooks, and there were now all manner of herbs and spices in cupboards, on racks, and anywhere else they would fit. He did seem to really enjoy cooking too, but Josh’s tastes were traditional and fairly basic. Thus, he could just about withstand a bit of garlic in his pasta, or some sage and onion stuffing, but he’d be happier with a plate of shepherd’s pie any day. He was aware that this train of thought was a means of concocting a reason to ask George to leave, because last night he’d concluded it was the only way, and almost succeeded in convincing himself that this was what he wanted. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t; that, in truth, he was terrified his efforts to make things right would only serve to send him away again.

What was adding to this fear currently was George’s absence. Sure, it was still early in the day, but he’d made the offer and fully expected him to arrive at the ‘crack of dawn’. He was starting to question whether he was playing some kind of game, making him wait, seeing how long he could suffer in silence. If that were the case, then it was entirely unnecessary. He was ready. There would be no more games. He jumped down from the cupboard and went to get his phone, typing the text message on his way down the stairs:

“When are you coming home? I miss you.”

He sent it and put his phone in his pocket, then took it out again, typed a second message, read it back and pressed ‘send’ before he lost his nerve.

George heard his phone beeping in the distance, although he knew it wasn’t actually in the distance, because he was in that half-asleep, half-awake state where dreams merge in and out of reality. He rolled over and stretched, the sensation of another person in the bed proving to be the most effective alarm clock in the world.

“Morning,” Shaunna yawned, flicking her hair out of her face and straight into his.

“Good morning,” he replied. Now it all came back to him. Shaunna spun her legs off the bed and sat up.

“Cup of tea in bed, or is that a step too far into weird?”

“No. That’d be lovely, thanks,” he said, reaching over for his phone. He read the message and was about to lock the screen, just as another one came through. He scrolled down, read the second message and threw his phone down on top of the duvet. Then he sat up and read it again.

“Bad news?” Shaunna asked.

“I am definitely awake, aren’t I?” She nodded. “This isn’t a dream?” She shook her head. “Read this.” He passed her the phone. She shook her head again and passed it back to him. He reactivated the dimmed screen and gave it to her once more.

“You still want that tea?”

“No. I’m good for tea, thanks.”

Shaunna smiled and headed downstairs to put the kettle on for herself. Kris had already left for work. Meanwhile, George had the quickest shower he’d ever had, scrubbed manically at his teeth, decided to forego the shave and cleared the stairs in three bounds.

“I’ll see you later,” he called on his way out. Casper cocked his head at Shaunna as if awaiting an explanation.

“Humans, huh?” she said. She finished making her tea and took it back to bed, Casper beating her to it and making the most of the still-warm spot on what had become his side. A day off to herself, followed by Ellie’s hen party. It didn’t get better than that.

George cut diagonally across the road, slowing his pace as he neared the house. He hesitated. This was entirely new ground and he wasn’t sure how to act. Was he to pretend that everything was the same as it had always been? Should he knock, or just let himself in? He paused at the gate to give himself thinking time, and to prepare for the possibility that the message was some kind of hoax or misunderstanding.

“Are you going to stand there all day?”

He glanced up to find Josh leaning against the doorpost, looking the way he always had, yet somehow very different. And then it came to him in a flurry of realisation; he had dropped his guard.

Walking up that path was the strangest experience, and he imagined it to be how a moth would feel if it developed a level of self-awareness which allowed it to reason that irrespective of how attractive that bright, shiny object appeared to be, it probably wasn’t the moon; but it
might
be, and it was worth risking everything for that small, impossible chance. Josh watched him, a gleam of impatience (or was it eagerness?) in his eyes, willing him inside, into the trap.

“I’m scared,” George said.

“Me too.” Josh moved to allow him to pass in close proximity, but then blocked him with his arm. “I’m so scared, George. I don’t know if I can do this, but I’ve got to try. I can’t lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me. Don’t you understand that yet?”

“I don’t understand anything anymore. I’ve spent so long being ‘Josh Sandison, therapist’, I’m beginning to think that’s all there is of me.”

“Whoa. Way too existential. I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

“I’ve made you breakfast.”

“You have?”

“It’s a bit fancy. Poached eggs with rosemary and black pepper.”

“You cooked for me.”

“I did. Everyone should have someone to cook for them. It makes them feel special.”

“OK. Now I really am scared,” George joked. It was a decoy, for he knew that this singular statement was a deliberate confession; he hadn’t been the only one snooping. Josh slowly lifted his arm away to let him pass, and followed at a distance, noting his acknowledgement of the pile of documents in the lounge, and then the breakfast he had prepared.