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The arm stayed round him. He realised the cologne was Old Spice. His mother had dutifully bought bottles for his father and both his grandfathers every Christmas. He hadn’t known you could still get it. Maybe this guy had raided his own grandfather’s stash. Maybe he also had a mother who thought it was a classic.
“Can I call someone to pick you up? Or a cab to take you home??” Tom’s voice was patient and sounded as if the questions had been asked more than once.
“There’s no one.” It was true. He had meant to stop at the bar, have one drink and then drive to Llanfair and find a place to stay. He’d moved out of his flat, and all his possessions were in the car. Looked like he would be sleeping in the car, too. If he could remember where he’d parked it. “Long story. Just a bit of temporary homelessness.” The word homelessness came out all wrong and he tried it again. “But I’ll be fine. Sleep on the beach.”
The arm tightened round him. “It’s October. And someone will call the police if they see you stumbling along in this state.”
Charlie said what he almost never said to civilians. “I am the fucking police.” Then he pulled himself free from the lumberjack grip and half-ran, half-fell in what he hoped was the right direction for his car.
Not in love with my car
Monday 7am
Charlie’s first thought on waking was that he needed to pee so urgently that he would have done it in a jam jar if he had one. His second thought was that he was probably going to wet himself because all his limbs had seized up. Sand had blown across the road from the dunes beyond the hedge, and it crunched under his feet as he levered himself painfully out of the car. Seagulls screamed overhead, white and prehistoric against the early morning sky.
He staggered, stiff-legged closer to the hedge, looked up and down the road for passers-by, and relieved himself with a groan. That done, every other pain and discomfort piled in to fill its place. He was stiff and sore from sleeping in the cramped driver’s seat of his car. He was also freezing, with random wet patches on his clothes from the condensation dripping down every piece of glass. During the night, his brain had shrunk inside his skull. His head pounded. And he stank.
Thankfully he had parked next to a tall hedge by a parade of shops, built, he guessed, as cheaply as possible in the 1970s and badly maintained ever since. Rust marks dripped down the concrete facades between the shops. Each business had adopted its own style of signage and the windows were different sizes. With a bit of effort, it could have been attractive. As it was, Charlie imagined the locals were just happy to have the shops. There was a Spar, a Bargain Booze, a fish and chip shop, a vet, a hairdresser and a bookmaker, with diagonal parking spaces painted in front of them, all empty. On either side, small, neat bungalows stretched off into the distance. The town proper was only half a mile away, but he had wanted somewhere quiet to park.
The clock on the dashboard read seven-oh-five, which meant that shops would (hopefully) open soon. Good news that he could get coffee, bad news that people would see (and smell) him. So, he might as well get moving and find a quiet lay-by where he could change his clothes, brush his teeth and wield the deodorant. No part of him wanted to arrive in Llanfair, but he’d said yes to the job, and he was damned if he was going to appear looking like someone who’d slept in his car. There was a bottle of water on the floor underneath the passenger seat. Getting it out was agony, but he drank until his stomach sloshed. Rehydrate, he told his body, and forced another mouthful of water down.
There were painkillers in one of his suitcases in the boot, and God knew, he needed them. He dragged himself out of the car again. Which was when he saw the flat tyre--correction, flat tyres, plural. Both the wheels on the passenger side were resting on their rims, the tyres a puddle of black rubber on the road underneath. Charlie laid his forearms on the top of the car, put his head on them, closed his eyes and gave himself up to welcome darkness, until he heard a voice say, “You alright there, son?”
He straightened up to see an elderly man in heavy trousers and a navy-blue duffle coat, with a head of fine white hair, watching him with bright blue eyes. A small white dog, the nearest thing Charlie had seen to a string mop, sat at the man’s feet.
The man indicated the tyres with the hand not holding the dog’s lead. “Kids. It’s the latest craze. It’ll pass, but until then, I’ve been hearing new swear words most mornings. And I did forty years in the Merchant Navy.” The man shook his head. “Do you want the garage number?”
Charlie considered. He could get the tyres fixed here and be late for his first day. Or he could turn up on time, smelling of last night’s booze, with his car and all his possessions on the back of a police tow truck. The choice was impossible. The indecision must have shown on his face.
“If it’s the money, son, they don’t replace the tyres, just blow them up and pump them full of some stuff to keep you going.”
“It’s not that, Charlie said. “I’m supposed to be in Llanfair for nine, to start a new job. Believe it or not, I’m a police officer.”
The man’s face hardened, frown lines appearing above his eyebrows. “Llanfair police don’t have a great reputation,” the man said.
“My job is to sort it out,” Charlie said. “Which is why I don’t want to be late.”
The man shook his head, and then held his hand out. “Hayden James,” he said. “Seaman, retired.”
“Detective Sergeant Charlie Rees.” Charlie shook the outstretched hand, wondering what on Earth was happening.
“You’ve got an honest face, Charlie Rees. That’s my place, up there.” He pointed to some windows over the parade of shops. You look like you could use a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich. Come back with me and Bosun here.” The little dog wagged his tail at the sound of his name. “Phone the garage, and stay in the warm, until they get here. They won’t be long. As for that shower in Llanfair, make ‘em wait.”
Charlie looked down at his crumpled jeans and even more crumpled hoodie. The evidence of his night in the car was plain to see from his grubby clothes, his unshaven chin and the blanket hanging over the steering wheel. Hayden James must be very discerning to see anything but disaster in Charlie’s face.
“Are you sure?” Because if he was, Charlie wasn’t going to refuse.
Hayden James patted Charlie on the arm. “Wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it. Bring a change of clothes and your shaving kit if you like.”
Truly, the man was an angel.
The view from the flat above the shops was astounding. From the outside, the entrance looked as tatty as the shops, but inside, it was flooded with light and filled with the sight of the sea. By the biggest window, Hayden had set up a telescope on a tripod, a beautiful brass instrument that was clearly in regular use. The window drew Charlie, his dirty clothes and unshaven chin forgotten in the face of the drama in front of his eyes. From here, the viewer could see over the hedge to the dunes with their topknots of grey-green marram grass, moving softly in the breeze. Then the beach itself, huge and yellow at low tide. And beyond it all, the restless sea. The sun was shining close to the beach, speckling the water with flecks of gold, but low white clouds lay on the horizon.
“On a clear day, you can see the Wirral,” Hayden said. “Would you believe the woman I bought it from had net curtains? I’ve only been here a couple of years, but they’ll have to carry me out in a box.” He waved his hand to encompass the view. “But she left me a painting of the sea. Funny woman. Went to live near family somewhere near Manchester.”
The painting was on the opposite wall. It was nothing like the view from the window. It showed a small boat being tossed around on towering waves.
“I prefer the view from your window. It’s magnificent,” said Charlie. “I could sit here all day.”
