Wanting (8 page)

Adam smiled, a low chuckle coming out, easing the tension a tiny bit. “All right. But if it feels weird still—”

“Then we’ll go home and fuck. Easy.”

Grateful for Dane’s understanding, Adam trailed him to the rear door he supposed led to the lean-to. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the idea that they should turn around and walk straight back out. Told himself that he was only feeling this way because of what he’d seen here last night. That there was nothing to worry about, no one was going to turn up and find them here. No one would ever know they’d been here.

“Oh, God. Oh, fuck!” Dane said, slapping his hands on his head and dancing from foot to foot.

“What? What is it?” Adam’s heart raced, and his mind joined in, thoughts of what was inside the lean-to rushing through his head at top speed. Rats?

“Don’t come in here. Just…fuck, just don’t come in here. Go away. I’ll deal with it.” Dane made to step back, his hand on the door ready to close it.

Adam ignored him, pushing in to stand beside Dane, the door swinging wide. “Oh, Jesus…”

The hay bale was adorned with splashes and streaks of black, like thick slashes of spun sugar. The floor had similar decoration, except there were also arcs, as though the blackness had come from a water hose or the end of an implement. A naked, blood-covered man was chained to the wooden pole in the centre, his features obscured by the same dried darkness. Adam gasped, his breath sticking in his throat, lungs seeming to freeze with his fright. He staggered, one arm out to his side, but there was nothing to brace himself on.

The man’s chest… Adam couldn’t see any skin colour as the chains holding him up resembled a metal boob-tube. And his legs…Jesus Christ, they’d been broken. They dangled at odd angles, cracked and jagged shin bones protruding through the skin, cracked sticks in a forest of mulchy blackness. His head had been positioned so it seemed the man’s last action had been to glance at the rafters, and as Adam lowered his gaze, bile raced up.

The weight went out of him, all but disappeared, and he fell to his knees. Pain raced into his thigh bones, stopping as it reached his pelvis. He retched, trying to come to terms with what he’d seen and failing. The image remained, growing starker by the second until he didn’t think he’d be able to take it anymore. But if he opened his eyes, he’d see the same damn thing. As he continued to heave and nothing came up, he stood, his legs wobbly, whole body shaking. Fear made his ears buzz, and he placed one hand over his mouth just in case he vomited, then took a step forward. He couldn’t go any farther. It was as though an invisible barrier prevented it. Some force field created from a phenomenon he couldn’t explain nor understand.

He glanced at Dane, who stared wide-eyed, mouth working but no words emerging. Adam reached out and touched his arm, and Dane wrenched his gaze from the body to look at Adam.

“I
knew
something was wrong. Didn’t I
say
that?” Adam said, the words muffled behind his hand. “I had a feeling we shouldn’t come back, and when we got here…fuck, I wanted to go home,
needed
to go home…” He glanced at the body again and wished he hadn’t. “We have to call the police.”

“No.” Dane paled. “We’ll go home. Forget about this. This is just…this is just way too fucking much for me.”

Adam lowered his hand. “What? I don’t believe you just said that. Not only did a guy get killed here—look at him, look at the way his throat’s been cut!—but they’ll find my spunk on that fucking hay. I
came
on there last night, for God’s sake! What if some of yours dripped off onto the floor? What about that, eh?”

“Shit!” Dane rubbed one hand over his mouth, staring at a spot somewhere behind Adam.

“Yeah, shit.”

Adam’s stomach muscles bunched, and he stumbled through the main barn, the journey seeming to take forever. He made it out into the fresh air, digging in his pocket for his phone, hand shaking way too hard and fast. He rang the police, a rush of words he didn’t understand careening out, the dispatcher asking him to calm down, to repeat himself from the beginning, except slower. He tried to do as he’d been asked, but the words came out in a tumble again. He couldn’t seem to say what was in his head, in the order in which it needed to come out. Dane appeared and took the phone, explaining more calmly what they’d found. Adam slumped to the ground, leaned his head against the brick of the barn and closed his eyes.

And remembered the voice as he’d fallen asleep last night.

‘You left me. I had to do those things, and you left me. It’s over. All over now…’

“Oh, God,” he moaned, a lump expanding in his throat. Had he really heard that guy? Were those the last words he’d ever spoken or thought?

Jesus. Oh my God. I can’t…I just can’t…

He opened his eyes and focused on Dane who was giving their names and address, pacing up and down. What he said meshed with the thoughts in Adam’s head, making a jumble of sound, overly loud clutter rattling inside his head that he didn’t think he could stand for much longer. Fear rose up in him. Terror had visited them again, followed them from the city to Lower Repton as though Adam didn’t deserve a bit of fucking peace, like he hadn’t suffered enough.

Angry—more at himself for his failure to help the man last night than anything—he rose and faced the barn, resting his forearms on it and his brow on those. The knobbly surface dug into his skin through his jacket, and he welcomed the distraction. He stared at the ground, kicking at ratty grass, his boot toes striking the brick from time to time.

Dane was still talking, yes-and-no answers, and Adam guessed that, like in the mini-mart, the police were keeping him on the line until they arrived.

Adam pushed off the barn, sucking in air, eager to spot a police car flying along the bottom of the field on the country road. No white car with blue-and-red flashing lights came, but soon another did, unmarked, turning onto the track that led to the barn and speeding along at quite a clip.

“That was fucking quick,” Adam muttered, indicating to Dane that they should go around the back. Then a thought struck him. What if some men from last night were returning? What if that wasn’t the police? “Um, we need to get in the car quick. Lock ourselves in.”

Dane ended the call and handed Adam’s phone back. “No, we don’t. That car there apparently has detectives in it. Fuck, we are so going to have to explain everything from last night.”

“I know, but it doesn’t matter about that. He’s dead…it’s…”

He couldn’t finish. He’d wanted to say it was his fault the man was dead, but that would mean bringing up the voice again and he doubted Dane would be in the mood for that. They reached the car and waited for the detectives to park, Adam’s nerves jumping. The detectives got out and strolled over, clearly at ease working side by side. One introduced himself as Langham, the other his associate, Oliver Banks. Langham was the bigger of the two, and Banks, a slight guy who had an air of strangeness about him, appeared distant and somewhat agitated. He cocked his head, mumbled something under his breath that Adam didn’t catch and strode towards the lean-to. He talked to himself, Adam saw his lips moving, and narrowed his eyes as though trying to work something out.

“Don’t mind him,” Langham said. “Sounds crazy, but he’s psychic. Talking to dead people makes him come off as weird, but I promise, he’s harmless. Now then.” He looked at Dane. “Did you call this in?”

“Yes.” Dane nodded.

Adam widened his eyes, Langham’s and Dane’s conversation fading. That Oliver bloke heard voices? Jesus. Was it worth mentioning to him that
he’d
heard a voice too? He slowly walked over to him, watching as Oliver mumbled and held his hand up. Adam stopped, realising he was meant to stay where he was and not say a word.

“Right,” Oliver said. “So these guys here have nothing to do with it. Okay. Can you repeat that last bit?” He stared at the sky, frowning. “You asked for help, but they didn’t step in, is that it?” He pursed his lips. “Mmm-hmm. I understand. Yes.”

Adam fought the instinct to blurt that yes, the guy
had
asked for help, but he hadn’t asked out loud. If he had, though, would Adam have entered the barn and tried to intervene? With all those men there to overpower him? He wasn’t sure and felt sick about it, sick over knowing he probably would have just called the police instead and waited in the car until they arrived.

I should have called them anyway. Reported those arseholes for doing what they did. Are orgies illegal? Fuck knows, but even if it meant the police arriving and putting a stop to it all and that poor bastard had been freed it would have been worth it.

Hindsight equals arsehole.

Oliver lowered his hand. “Hello? Are you still there?” He shook his head, peered into the distance behind Adam, then walked to stand in front of him. “Before you say anything, I know.”

Adam’s heart picked up speed again, the pulse in his throat throbbing fast and furious. “You know what?”

“That you were here last night. That he spoke to you.”

“But he didn’t—”

“I know
how
he spoke to you, and I know how it feels to tell someone you hear voices and they don’t believe you. Me? I hear shit when they’re dead. Had the ability as far back as I can remember. Langham there”—he nodded towards the detective and Dane—“won’t think you’re crazy or anything like that. Just tell him how it happened, all right?
All
of it.”

Adam blushed. Had the dead man told Oliver
everything?
Now he was dead, was he privy to information he wouldn’t normally know? Like Adam and Dane fucking in there?

“Look, we’re not interested in where you two put your dicks, we just want—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Adam flapped his hand, wanting Oliver to stop with the pro-gay speech and just get on with taking their statements and letting them go home. “We’ve heard it all before, yeah, but we
know
people care. All these people saying they don’t mind gays, blah-blah-fucking-blah, but when you announce you
are
gay, they get this look in their eye and suddenly find someone else to talk to, something else to do. You’ll be no different. You’ll judge me and Dane just the same.”

“Like you’re judging me and Detective Langham? Interesting…”

Shame joined the blush of embarrassment, burning Adam’s face and making his cheeks itch. “Fuck…”

“Yeah, well. We all do it, even though we’d like to think we don’t. And if it makes you feel better, me and Langham are queer.”

Adam was at a loss for words. He’d never have guessed it just by looking at them. Then again, people didn’t guess it with him and Dane either. It wasn’t like gays looked a certain way, was it? He inwardly cursed himself for falling into the same trap he railed against on a daily basis. Oliver was right—
everyone
judged sometime or other.

“So, come on. Over here with me,” Oliver said, tilting his head in Langham’s direction. “Tell him what you know.”

Adam trailed Oliver back to the detective and Dane. He listened as Dane finished giving his version of events, then told his side of the story—warts and all. Langham didn’t raise an eyebrow, and Adam wondered if it was because he’d given his first reaction to Dane already. Still, something about the man made Adam think he’d heard far worse in his lifetime, and that them fucking in the lean-to was a mild telling compared to others.

“Right,” Langham said. “I need to wait here for another detective to arrive, along with the other police officers, and then we can go to your house and discuss this in greater detail. I suggest, if you’re asked by other officers what happened, you leave out the bit about hearing that voice. We can’t explain it, they’ll just think you’re on your way to the funny farm, and that solves nothing. So, what’s your address?”

Dane rattled it off, and Oliver sucked in a sharp breath. Langham looked at him, and something passed between them, an unspoken set of sentences only they heard.

“Right, well, instead, perhaps we’ll find a quiet corner in Pickett’s Inn, eh?” Langham said. “I doubt they have much trade going on in there. We shouldn’t be disturbed.”

“We know about the murder in our cottage,” Adam said.

“Yes. Right.” Langham rolled his shoulders. “Do you two mind going inside the barn with us now so you can show us where the body is, or would you rather not?”

“I’d rather not,” Adam said. “Sorry.”

“Okay. Well, go and sit in your car then. Dane?”

“Okay. I’ll do it.” Dane nodded, staring at the ground.

“Good man,” Langham said, leading the way towards the front of the barn, Oliver behind them.

Adam stood there for a while after they’d disappeared around the corner, mulling over what they’d discovered and how nutty life was to throw two gay detectives their way. He wondered if they were a couple or whether they just happened to be gay and worked together. Whatever, it didn’t much matter. Oliver had sounded sincere in saying they wouldn’t be judgemental on why Adam and Dane were at the barn today—or why they’d fucked in there last night.

It wasn’t Oliver and Langham Adam worried about, though. There was a whole host of other police officers they might have to deal with who maybe wouldn’t be so kind.

Pickett’s Inn was a quiet little place, its outside appearance shouting a big fat lie about how the interior would look. To all intents and purposes, people would be forgiven for thinking the building was on the verge of collapse, with its leaning outer walls and insanely dipping roof. The front door was in need of a fresh coat of wood stain, the old stuff peeling in places, showing a silver-grey beneath. Inside was a different matter. The owners, an elderly couple cheerily introducing themselves as Marge and Brian Dawson, had kept the look of days gone by, opting for barstools studded with fat-topped nails around the seat edges and dainty Elizabethan chairs. They had, they said, given in to placing two button-backed burgundy leather sofas against the longest wall, and Adam admired how comfortable they looked. He didn’t hide his relief when Langham made a beeline for them, placing their tray of drinks on the table in front.