The Bones of Summer (7 page)

“God,” he said. “He didn't even bother to come in after I'd gone. The
bastard
didn't even....”

“Hey.” Paul touched him on the shoulder and the touch turned into a hug. “Hey there. It's okay.”

Craig hugged him back once before letting go and running his hand through his spiked-up hair. “Yeah, I know. I'm being stupid, but I thought he'd at least ... you know....”

“Tidy up after you?”

“No.” He laughed this time. “He never did
that
, thank God. But I thought he might at least come in and see where his only son had got to. I didn't exactly leave on good terms.”

Paul smiled. “Yes, so you said. But just because he didn't change your room doesn't necessarily mean he didn't come in, Craig.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Are you being the voice of reason here?”

“I don't have the credentials for that. Not when it comes to family,” he said and then bent down and picked up a couple of sheets of paper from the bed. “These your notes then?”

Craig nodded, filing the sudden change of subject for pondering on later. “Yeah. History, I think. One of my A levels.”

“Good for you. What else did you do?”

“French and Art. Never took them though. I'd left before then. Come on. Let's look at the rest of the rooms and then if you want to go through my father's accounts, I can look at the loft. You never know what the old bugger might have stored up there after all.”

Thinking that Paul wasn't the only expert in changing the subject, Craig led the way out of his old room and away from his old memories.

The spare room and his father's room held no surprises. He barely gave them a glance, in fact, although Paul took more time, picking up a couple of photos—of Craig's mother—before briefly checking through the religious books and opening the drawers. Craig didn't stop him; there didn't seem much point. His brain was thrumming with the fact of his unchanged bedroom. Had his father ever gone in at all? Why ever not? Was it because of...? No. No need to go there. That part of his life was over. It wouldn't come again. All he had to do now was make a quick search of the house, if only for appearances’ sake, then leave. If his father came back, all well and good. For him. And if he didn't ... well, Craig would have to go to the police and say he was still missing and that would be that. Either way, he never wanted to see him again.

Finally, in the landing, he paused. His head was beginning to ache and his feet were itching to leave. It was dark outside and he could hear the rain on the roof.

“Craig?”

“Hmm?” He opened his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. Paul was standing in front of him, green eyes looking dark with the landing light behind. God, Craig thought, he's beautiful. He felt so bloody lucky and he could only hope it would last.

“I can have a closer look at those accounts now. And you were going to check the loft...?”

Craig nodded and gripped Paul's shoulder, feeling the warmth of him through his shirt.
Wanting
him. Even then.

“Yes,” he said. “That's probably best. I have trouble understanding the accounts my agent makes me look at, let alone anything else. Though I doubt there's that much up there. My father was never one for keeping things.”

Paul smiled, touched his check for a moment, and then padded downstairs.

It was in the loft that Craig found what he didn't even know he'd been looking for. Hidden away in a corner, in a Sainsbury's carrier bag. A light green jacket, faded and old, and a man's watch. Engraved on the back with:
To Michael, with my love always, Peter
.

It was only then that the defenses he'd so carefully built up for seven long years collapsed at last.

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Chapter Six

“I'll put the kettle on,” were Andrea's first words when she saw them.

“No.” Paul shook his head as he eased Craig into the nearest chair. “Have you got anything stronger?”

“Brandy?”

“Yes. That'll be good. We can have tea afterwards. If that's okay?”

“Of course.”

A shadow crossed in front of Craig and he heard the sound of his former neighbor's drinks cabinet being opened. He took a deep breath, tried to stop the shaking, but found it was impossible.

A few seconds later, something cold bumped against his lower lip. A glass. He would have reached upward to hold it but his hands were still clutching the jacket and watch he'd taken from his father's attic. He didn't honestly know how he'd got down from there at all.

“Drink this,” Paul said, hunkered down in front of him. “Just a few sips. Okay, Craig? Then sit back if you can. You're doing fine.”

Fire filled his mouth and burnt its way down his throat to his stomach. He coughed. Took another sip. Felt better. Obeying Paul's instruction, he leaned back, still clutching his meager trophies.

“More?” Paul asked.

Aware of Andrea's figure hovering in the background and not wanting her to be more concerned than she probably already was, Craig shook his head. “No, thanks. That's fine.”

“Do you want me to take those things for you, dear?”

“No, no, it's okay, please.” He hugged the jacket and watch to his chest as Andrea leaned over him. “Th-thanks, but I'm okay.”

“All right. As you wish. I'll go and put the kettle on now then.”

“Thank you,” Paul said. “That would be lovely. I'll have mine with a dash of milk only. And Craig's will be...?”

He swallowed. “Milk, please. More than a dash. But no sugar. Thanks.”

“Oh yes,” Andrea said. “I remember.”

The sound of the door opening and shutting, and then Paul and Craig were alone.

He blinked at Paul. He was hoping he wouldn't need to say how sorry he was about what had happened. When he'd stumbled, shaking and crying, down from the loft and to his father's office and Paul had come out to see what was happening, Craig had shouted and cursed at him when he'd tried to help. He hadn't been thinking straight. Not sure he was now either. Still Paul wasn't a mind-reader and, so far, this was turning out not to be the best date in the world.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean—”

“That's okay,” Paul cut him off, waving away the words. “You were in shock. Forget it. Are ... are those your father's?”

Craig looked down at what he was holding.

“No,” he said. “They're not. And he shouldn't have had them at all.”

“Why not?”

That would be hard to explain and Craig didn't see how on earth he'd even be able to try. He wasn't sure he understood it himself. And what he suspected was beyond the telling. He thought about lying but realized Paul might see through it. After all, he had before.

“I don't think I can talk about this right now,” he said, looking Paul in the eyes for the first time since they'd stumbled back into Andrea's house. “I know that makes me sound like a bad American soap star, but it's the truth.”

“Fair enough.” Paul's lips twitched but he didn't smile. “Nothing wrong with bad American soap stars.”

He looked like he might be about to say more, but at that moment the door opened and Andrea came back in, carrying enough tea—and cake—for the whole Roman army, should they have decided to visit. Craig almost smiled to himself; typical Andrea to counteract every problem with the offering of food, though who was to say that wasn't right? Not him, for sure. And he must be recovering from this faster than he'd expected even to be thinking in that way. Good. He would need to have his senses in full working order when he tried to work it out. But not yet. His mind couldn't cope with this yet.

They drank tea and ate cake. Craig didn't say much, but listened as the other two talked about the weather and as Paul fielded polite questions about his job with equally polite answers. All the time, Craig hugged the green jacket to his chest and kept glancing down at the watch.

Michael had told Craig once about Peter, hadn't he? Though he'd never said the name. He'd said it was over, but there'd been no time for questions then, had there? No time at all.

“Craig?”

“What?”

“Your tea.” Andrea leaned over from her position opposite and set his cup to rights, her eyes questioning, concerned. “You were about to spill it.”

“Oh, thanks. Actually, I think I've had enough anyway. And perhaps it's time we went.” He glanced outside. “It's dark. I don't think we can do much more now and I don't want to impose on you further. I'm sorry I haven't been much help. I'm sure ... I'm sure my father will turn up. In his own good time.”

“I hope so. But it was lovely to see you again. Both of you, of course.”

Paul nodded his thanks as another thought occurred to Craig. “Paul, I can drive back if you like. If you're okay with that?”

“I don't mind...” his boyfriend began to say, but Andrea cut in across him.

“I should have said before, but you're very welcome to stay. It's such a long drive back to London and, as you've said, it's already dark. Craig, you can't possibly drive all that way; you've had a shock. And Paul won't want to be doing the return journey tonight, will he? Why don't you both stay here and drive back tomorrow? It will be no trouble at all.”

Craig was about to protest and say that he really had to get back and traveling wasn't a problem when he realized that none of that was true. His hands were still shaking slightly and he could barely keep his eyes open. And on the practical side, he didn't have any assignments tomorrow. He could just as easily stay here as drive home.

“Thank you,” he said slowly. “Thank you. I think ... Paul, how do you feel? Do you mind staying tonight? Or have you got stuff you need to get back for?”

He shook his head. “No. Nothing pressing ‘til the end of the week. Just paperwork. It's very kind of you, Mrs.... Andrea. But are you sure about...? I mean, we—
I
—can just as easily find a B&B, I'm sure.”

Craig's former neighbor raised both eyebrows at him and gave a wry smile. “I do have more than one spare room, Paul. But I must admit I was assuming you'd just need the one. I know we may be buried in the depths of the country here, but we're not entirely cut off from modern life, you know.”

Paul reddened.

“Sorry, Andrea,” he said. “I'm too shut off in the city. I stand corrected.”

One room it was. The two of them helped Andrea make up the bed and Craig opened the window to let the sharp night air come in. While they were hunting for pillows, he folded Michael's jacket and placed it and the watch on the side of the bed nearest the window. Away from the door.

Afterward, he helped Andrea cook pasta while Paul made some kind of stew. He looked at ease in the kitchen and Craig found himself admiring the way he seemed to know which herbs to ask for and how much to add. Craig was never confident about serious cooking.

At one stage, Paul caught him looking and smiled. “Don't be fooled. Most of the time, I rely on meals for one. This is actually the only thing I know how to do. I copied this from ... a friend.”

And then that closed expression came over his face again and Craig knew the moment was lost.

Before they ate, he rang Maddy. She seemed pleased to hear from him, but preoccupied with a bloke she'd met at the university pre-Christmas party. Good for her then. She was glad he was staying the night too, but he got the impression she thought he was actually in his own home. He didn't bother to explain. He was simply glad Andrea hadn't suggested that. It would have been entirely beyond him.

Strange though to be sleeping in the same bed as Paul in someone else's house. Almost as if they were a real couple, rather than a couple of chancers who happened to fancy each other like crazy and had just started to shag for real. Still, he'd come down here with Craig, hadn't he? Even though they'd only just been together for two minutes. That had to count for something. Hell, he hoped it did.

Craig didn't remember much about the meal, how it tasted or what they talked about. The whole evening felt as if time had stopped from the moment he caught sight of that jacket in the loft and he was simply waiting for it to begin again. Waiting to know what to do. And how to feel. He hoped Andrea didn't think he was rude. He hoped he acted as an old friend and good company that night, but he wasn't convinced.

When the meal was over, he and Paul made Andrea sit down in the living room and brought her coffee. Then they washed up. She didn't have a dishwasher, but it felt good to be doing something simple. Something real. While Craig washed, Paul stood next to him, the warmth of his body brushing against Craig's, and dried. They tried their best to put everything away in the right place, but he wasn't sure it was completely as his old neighbor would have it.

After Paul had folded his dish towel over the radiator rail, he kissed Craig. A slow kiss. Not passionate, but with something like affection in it. He tasted of wine and spices. It made Craig want to cry. Paul stroked his throat and kissed him again.

“Bed,” he whispered.

“God, that sounds good,” Craig murmured into his shoulder. “But it's only—”

“Ten-thirty. Yes, I know. But people always go to sleep early in the country, don't they? Isn't it to do with all that fresh air?”

Sleep wasn't what Craig had been thinking of, but he didn't argue. By the time another half-hour had gone by, all three of them were on their way to bed. Maybe there was something in what Paul had said, after all. That would, he supposed, explain the lack of nightclubs in darkest Devon.

They let Andrea use the bathroom first. She didn't take long. Then Craig sat and stared out of the window while Paul took the towels and spare toothbrush that Andrea had left out for them.

“You okay sharing this with me?” he asked.

“Sure. I don't have any communicable diseases.”

He smiled. “Me neither. Actually, I was asking the question the other way round, but thanks anyway.”

While he was in the bathroom, it struck Craig that all the tiredness of earlier had gone. It was as if he'd woken up again but in a time and space where the new day wasn't yet here. He hoped Paul felt the same.

Because, for Craig, it felt as if tonight they'd both left their real lives behind. The ups and downs of the day they'd just had was history and tomorrow was way beyond imagining. Tonight was, he hoped, just for them. And so it proved. Because when he came back from the bathroom, Paul was already lying on top of the bed, naked.