Fletcher closed his eyes, chewing on his bottom lip then threw his pen to the desk and it hit the framed picture of him and Heston in the Lake District. “I will yea,” he finally said.
True Irishman. He had no intention of doing it.
* * * *
Gripping the handles of the Kawasaki, Jackson swerved into the city traffic, receiving honks from car horns and curse words yelled at him for the privilege of being able to manoeuvre through the gaps.
He wasn’t sure where he was going. He couldn’t go home. He just couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure if the…mess…had been cleared. Would the detectives have done that for him? He doubted it. His parents wouldn’t have. Nor would Tallulah’s. They hadn’t even informed him of when her funeral had been.
His helmet weighed heavy and he slumped his head forward until a flash of red caught his vision.
“Shit!” Screeching tyres on tarmac, he revved instead of broke and leaned the bike on its side to swerve around a pedestrian stepping out onto the road at a traffic light.
He avoided knocking the woman over by a hair’s breadth. Through his wing mirror, he saw her flapping an irate hand in the air but, twisting the throttle, he sped off, not bothering to stop and risk the potential for her to recognise him. The hammering of his heart against his jacket was unbearable. If that hadn’t set him on course for a final destination, nothing would. He needed a place to lay low. To rest his head. To engage his thoughts and make decisions.
But he needed somewhere inconspicuous. Somewhere no one would think to look. Nor expect to find him.
He found such a place just off a turn from Pentonville Road near Kings Cross. It was an unassuming Georgian townhouse that boasted a free breakfast with any single room and as he parked up his bike and rushed up the front steps, the apprehension at having to face the public made his legs tremble.
“A room for the week,” he said, placing his hand down on the front desk.
A bloke behind peered up from his computer, face as rough as the rooms were likely to be. But if his body mass index was any indication as to the breakfast they served here, then Jackson wasn’t going to go hungry.
“Helmet off.” The man returned to scrolling through whatever was on the PC.
Jackson knew he wasn’t going to get through the door without showing his face. The B&B might be dodgy, but he suspected they’d have to adhere to safety procedures. He couldn’t hide forever. Sadly.
After a resigned sigh, he lifted the helmet and shook out his hair, hoping the tousled and knotted locks would shield his face enough.
It didn’t. The bloke’s face said it all.
“I’ll pay cash. Upfront.” Jackson fished out the envelope shoved into his back jeans pocket, thumbed open the lid and showed the wodge of notes.
“For a whole week?” The receptionist, who Jackson now assumed was the owner of the fine establishment, whistled. “That’s gonna cost ya.”
“Name it. And that’ll include complete and utter privacy.”
Clearing his throat, the owner returned his attention to the computer. “Name?”
“Mickey.” Jackson glanced away. “Mouse.”
“I’m gonna need ID.”
“My ID consists of the Queen’s head.” Jackson slapped a few notes on the counter and slid them across. “Is that a problem or should I take Lizzie elsewhere?”
The man peeped down then back up and sheepishly took the cash, pocketed it and said in a most agreeable tone, “Breakfast is served from seven to nine on weekdays, and until ten on weekends.” He reached behind him for a key. “Enjoy your stay with us, Mr Mouse.”
Jackson didn’t honour that with any response, vocal or otherwise, and instead made his way to the stairs to the left that were carpeted with a seventies stitch work pattern reminding him of his Nana’s house. The last time he had stepped on such grotty, colourless fibres it had been a different world. A nostalgic world. A world where there had always been hope.
Now his only hope was pinned on a stranger.
“I don’t want any trouble,” followed him up the stairs from the reception.
“Neither do I,” Jackson mumbled back. But nor could he guarantee it.
They’d find him.
His room faced the back with the window looking out on an alley complete with rubbish bins stacked up beside the wall and stray cats sleeping atop. He locked it anyway, pulled down the blinds and ripped across the blackout curtains.
Perfect.
Then, with the knowledge that he was alone for the first time in what felt like forever, he stripped off his clothes and lay on the single bed—the hard springs pressing into his back like pure luxury in comparison to where he’d been sleeping the past six months. Curling into the foetal position, he trembled. Then clenched to stave off those familiar shakes. It didn’t work. So he closed his eyes.
He knew it wouldn’t be long before the nightmare engulfed him.
chapter eight
Those That Matter
As soon as Fletcher put the key into the lock and the laughing chatter waded through the door, he knew he’d fucked up.
He was here now and couldn’t go back. So he entered the house, holding his breath to await the hurricane.
”Fletcher? Darling, is that you?” Heston’s call matched his stampede from the conservatory dining area to the front door, where he stopped, hands on hips with an expression that spelled ‘spare room’.
Fletcher took his time to close the door, turning his back on his boyfriend for a fleeting moment to give him time to think up something that might get him back into his own bed tonight.
“I’ve had a hella day.” He threw on his best pout. “I totally forgot.”
“The wine or the party?”
“Both.” Fletcher winced.
“One job, Fletcher! One job!”
“Sorry.” He approached cautiously, pressing a kiss to Heston’s cheek. “I am. I’ll make it up to you. Where are they all? In there?” Without waiting for an answer, he meandered past, through the kitchen and out to the conservatory where it looked as though his forgotten purchased wine wouldn’t have added much to the ensemble of drinks that the cast of The Great Gatsby had been downing since curtain close.
“Fletcher!” His name was hollered in varying degrees of cheers, greetings and surprise, some holding up their glasses and liquid sloshing out onto the table-top.
Working his way around, Fletcher greeted the guests with handshakes, kisses to cheeks, and one odd bearhug or, to give it its proper name, an inappropriate grope of his arse. The conservatory dining table held an array of tapas-style foods that could only have been bought from Waitrose. Some of those seated around the circular Oxford dining set Fletcher had met before, some he hadn’t, and some he’d known for most of his reign as Heston’s boyfriend.
Regardless of how often Heston threw parties though, Fletcher should not have forgotten this one. It was the lad’s first lead in a long while.
“Yes, yes, everyone meet Fletcher.” Heston flitted in from behind, handing him a filled glass of red wine.
“Heston, darling, how did you land such a catch?” That was one of the actors Fletcher wasn’t familiar with, but his raised eyebrow suggested that he might want to be better acquainted. The bearhug had also added to that presumption. The touchy-feely nature of Heston’s fellow thespians was yet another thing that Fletcher had had to get used to over the past couple of years.