Blood Falls (23 page)

The five deliveries were to businesses that used Leon’s vending machines. Joe was shown how to open and restock the machines. He was also told how to remove and replace the special lockable cash bags from those machines.

‘We’ve had drivers trying to cream off some money,’ Brian said in a languid voice. ‘You don’t strike me as the type, frankly, but I’m required to issue the warning. It’s a very bad idea to steal from Leon Race. If you’ve met him, you probably get my drift?’

‘Absolutely.’

Joe emerged from the office to find the van fully loaded with merchandise. According to the magnetic signs which had been attached to the vehicle, he was now a representative of the Trelennan Vending Co.

‘Signs are removable because the vans get used for different businesses,’ Brian told him. ‘Just one of Mr Race’s many superb ideas.’ His tone was so dry that Joe had no idea if the admiration was genuine.

By the time he got back to the distribution centre, handed over the cash bags and removed the signs, it was gone five o’clock. He’d used the toilet at his last call, a car showroom, and he’d managed to gulp down a cup of water from a cooler at the same establishment. For food, he could have bought a snack from one of the machines he was re-stocking, but somehow being surrounded by boxes of chocolate bars removed all desire for them.

Roadworks on the A30 put him further behind schedule. When he pulled up in St Merryn, outside a nondescript sand-coloured semi, the front door burst open and a tall man in a shirt and tie came out at a run.

‘Cutting it fine.’ The man threw himself into the passenger seat, blew out a big sigh, then grinned at Joe. ‘I’m Carl.’

‘Joe Carter. Sorry I’m late.’

‘Nah, don’t sweat it. A few minutes won’t matter.’

‘I was told that punctuality was very important.’

‘It depends,’ Carl said. He was young, no more than mid-twenties, with a pleasant, guileless face and prematurely thinning brown hair. He gave Joe a quick appraisal. ‘You’re new, yeah?’

‘Started today.’ Joe recounted his itinerary, and Carl laughed.

‘Sounds like a miracle you’re here at all. That bodes well for you.’

‘Does it?’

‘Yeah. Some jobs, nobody gives a toss how much effort you put in. You work your bollocks off and still don’t get a penny more than
somebody who does the basic minimum. Whereas here, if you show you’re willing to do that bit extra, it doesn’t go unnoticed.’

‘So Leon’s a good employer?’

‘I’d say so. I mean, I don’t have a lot to do with him. The Crow’s Nest has a general manager. Leon leaves well alone.’

He paused, as if debating whether to elaborate. Joe kept very quiet. After a few seconds Carl added: ‘Unless there’s a problem.’

‘Like what?’

‘Mm.’ Another moment’s deliberation. ‘I’ll give you an example, you being new and everything. One of his other pubs is right out in the sticks. No reliable public transport, so Leon arranges taxis to ferry the staff home at the end of the night. He’s got his own taxi firm.’

‘Yes, I’d heard that.’

‘So one of the drivers is doing this as a regular trip, and he gets the hots for this barmaid. She was only eighteen or nineteen, bloody gorgeous. The driver keeps coming on to her, but she’s not interested. He’s too old, and he’s fat, and she already has a boyfriend.’

Carl slapped his hands down on his knees and sighed, a judder in his breath.

‘One night, this guy just flips. Pulls into a lay-by and won’t take no for answer, you know what I’m saying? I don’t think he went as far as raping her, but it wasn’t exactly pleasant, whatever he did.’ Carl shivered. ‘Anyway, the girl doesn’t come into work the next day, and she doesn’t call, so the manager drops by her house to find out what’s wrong. Cut a long story short: two days later we hear the taxi driver had an accident. In his own car, late at night, he somehow drove into a bridge. Broke both his legs, fucked up his spine and he’s in hospital for a month. Not only that, but it turns out he was over the limit, so he’s doubly fucked. That’s the last we hear of him. Meanwhile, the girl is persuaded to come back to work, and Leon buys her a decent little second-hand car of her own, by way of apology.’

He looked at Joe, keen to see his reaction.

‘You think the accident was arranged—’

‘I don’t speculate on things like that,’ Carl said. ‘And if you’ve got any sense you won’t either.’

‘Fair enough.’ Joe checked the time. Almost six p.m., but the pub was only a couple of miles away. ‘You get a lift to work every day?’

‘It’s only temporary.’ Carl added ruefully: ‘I got banned from driving.’

‘Oh?’

‘Nothing serious. Bloody totting up. Two of ’em were speeding convictions on the same day, when I went up to London for a concert. Took my girlfriend to see Lily Allen and I end up with six frigging points on my licence.’

‘That’s harsh.’

‘Yeah. If it was someone decent it might have been worth it.’ He laughed. ‘I was sure I’d lose my job when I had to tell ’em I couldn’t get to work. It was Leon who said they’d take care of it. Said I was too valuable to lose for something silly like that.’

‘Shame more employers aren’t so reasonable.’

‘It is,’ Carl agreed, as the pub loomed into view. He directed Joe towards the car park. ‘Thanks, mate. Hope this job goes well for you.’ He opened the door, then nodded towards the pub. ‘Make sure you eat here sometime. The food is fantastic.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Joe said.

And he meant it. After returning the van to Leon’s, Joe had a brief conversation with the fat man, Fenton, who told him there was work available tomorrow if he wanted it. Joe said he’d be there for eight a.m. On the basis that it couldn’t hurt to ask, he also got an agreement that tomorrow he’d receive payment for his first two days.

Walking back into town, he called Ellie on his mobile. ‘How do you fancy dinner at the Crow’s Nest tomorrow night?’

Ellie laughed. ‘Do you get a staff discount?’

‘I’ll have to ask. Shall I pick you up around eight?’

‘You have a car as well now?’

‘Kind of.’ Either he’d borrow Diana’s, if it was available, or maybe see if he could use the works van. As a last resort, a taxi.

‘Lovely. I’d better start saving myself, in anticipation of their banoffe pie,’ she said. ‘I won’t let another calorie pass my lips.’

At the B&B, Joe found Diana preparing to go out. A bridge night with friends. He was welcome to come along if he wanted.

‘Not my scene, really,’ he said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’

‘All right. There’s a casserole all ready to heat up. How was the first day at work?’

‘Tiring, but it was nice to feel useful. I said I’d go in tomorrow as well.’

‘You’d better have an early night, then.’

He nodded. ‘Does Glenn play bridge?’

‘He does, actually, though he prefers poker. But not this evening. He’s off on another errand, somewhere in the Midlands this time.’ Diana raised her eyebrows. ‘Ridiculous, on a Friday night. But if he won’t put his foot down …’

After she’d gone, Joe mooched around in the kitchen. Drank some water while he waited for the coffee to brew. Having the house to himself made him realise the underlying tension that persisted between him and Diana, even while on the surface they appeared to be getting on fine.

And if he felt like that, he realised, it was almost certainly as bad, if not worse, for Diana. It meant that he shouldn’t count on staying any longer than was necessary.

He drank his coffee while leafing through the local paper. He paid special attention to the round-up of news from the courts, found crime stories about Bodmin and Newquay, Padstow and Bude, but nothing in Trelennan. Not a single unpaid parking fine or drunk-and-disorderly.

Although he was starving, Joe decided to shower before he ate. Or a bath: better to soothe his aching muscles.

In the hall, the phone book caught his eye. He found a listing for the Crow’s Nest. Dialled and waited: a busy place, judging by how long it took them to pick up.

Finally a young woman answered, sounding harassed. She interrupted when he got as far as ‘tomorr—’

‘Saturday night’s all booked up.’

‘Shame.’ He was tempted to invoke Leon’s name, but he hated people who did things like that, so he said, ‘I was with Carl earlier. He recommended it to me.’

‘I should hope he did,’ the woman said. ‘I’d recommend it, too. But we’re still fully booked on Saturday.’

‘You don’t have any tables that you make available on the night?’

‘Not tomorrow. Sorry.’

He put the phone down, his grand plan thwarted. He would need to find an alternative, but really he’d want a recommendation, from Diana or preferably from Ellie herself. Should he call her now, or would that look a bit …?

What, he wondered? Keen? Desperate?

‘Where is this heading?’ Joe murmured to himself.

He didn’t know. He was too weary to think straight. Bath, dinner, TV, bed. Then call Ellie in the morning.

Forty

TIME SLIPPING AWAY
. She’d always liked the phrase, thought it sounded romantic, prompting an image of a delightful couple romping on a beach, scooping handfuls of dry white sand into their palms and watching it spill through their fingers. Like time was something precious, yet abundant: there was always more when you needed it.

Now, for Jenny, time was like the drip of a Chinese water torture. A slow unending beat that compelled her to keep count, even while the impossibility of doing so dragged her ever closer to meltdown.

He visited daily, she concluded. Most often in the mornings. Perhaps not always, but often enough that it could give her something to cling to: a routine, a structure. If she could stay awake for long enough, marking out the minutes and hours, sleeping only once between each visit, she could keep track of the passing days.

Then she had a brainwave: scratch a calendar on the wall or the floor. A far better way to keep track, and still preserve what remained of her sanity.

She clutched this plan to her chest as though it were a Valentine’s Day card from Luke. This one small thing would sustain her, the way Luke’s cards, his calls, his texts had sustained her. A crumb of comfort. A grain of sand.

* * *

The next visit, she lay obediently in the darkness, eyes shut so that she wouldn’t get so much as an accidental glimpse of his face. She sensed that his mood was angry, impatient, but still she asked the question. She had to take the risk. For calibration.

‘What time is it?’

‘Not that crap again.’

‘Please. It’s the morning, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And the last time you came, that was yesterday morning?’

He didn’t answer. Just grabbed the bucket, sloshing urine on the floor. She smelt it: sharp and foul. He shut the door, and she pictured him stomping away, though she could not hear it. The cell was soundproofed, she guessed. The screams she’d heard must have been her imagination – or else they’d been horrifically loud, to have pierced the mute world of her prison.

And then he was back, the bucket refilled with clean water. The bleach made her nostrils twitch: almost as repellent as the waste.

‘Food’s by the door. There’s a bottle of water, and another toilet roll. And batteries for the torch.’

‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ A pause. ‘What day is it?’

‘You don’t need to know that.’

She fell silent, defeated. To know the day: that was a step too far. But he didn’t move. She could feel him standing there, in utter darkness. Staring in her direction, even though he wouldn’t be able to see anything.

‘Got the torch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Switch it on. Make sure it’s pointed at you. Not me.’

She did as she was told, the torch now alien and clumsy in her hand, despite all the hours she had nursed it like a beloved pet. The light this time was shocking: it made her afraid in a way that it never usually did. But she obeyed his commands, directing the beam up and down the length of her body.

‘You’re not cleaning yourself properly,’ he said, the disgust oozing out of him.

She didn’t know what to say. She listened to his breath snorting in and out of his nostrils. Then he muttered to himself and went away. Came back and placed something on the floor.

‘Soap,’ he said. ‘Next time, I want you clean. Who do you think I am, that I’d want to screw someone who smells like shit?’

‘You’re putting too much bleach in the bucket.’ It wasn’t courage: the words came from nowhere, before she could stop them. ‘It’ll burn me, especially … there.’

‘Well, use the drinking water, then. Just clean yourself up.’

She could hear him opening the door, was suddenly overcome by recklessness.

‘Leon?’

He froze: not even breathing. She felt the lack of vibrations in the air. Frozen physically, and emotionally as well. He
had
forgotten telling her.

Now he would lash out. She’d been foolish, should have kept that knowledge to herself—

‘What?’ he growled.

‘How … how long will this go on?’

‘As long as I want it to.’

The door shut with the usual terrible finality, and silence returned as other questions gathered in her mind, jostling like passengers denied access to a rush-hour train. Tired, angry, bitter. Self-pitying. Jaded. Suicidal.

Jenny fought them off. She’d survived this long: she wasn’t going to throw herself on the tracks now.

He told you it’s the next morning. Get your calendar started: from today at least
.

First she switched on the torch and examined what he had brought her. A large bottle of Evian water. A couple of bananas and a big bar of Galaxy chocolate. The soap he’d referred to was a bottle of
antibacterial hand soap, operated with a plunger. Better than nothing.

If she was going to scratch out the passing days, she needed a tool. But what? The bucket was plastic: even the handle was plastic.

There must be something, she thought. The cell seemed empty, but she hadn’t conducted a really thorough fingertip search. Hadn’t wanted to waste the batteries, but now she had a spare set. If she could find a nail, a pin, even a tiny stone …