He re-entered the living room with the drink. Nicky was still chatting with her friend, so he just quietly handed it to her, kissed her forehead, and gave a subtle wave goodbye. She returned the wave and went back to her phone call, unaware of what her husband was really planning to do.
After slipping on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, he stepped outside the house. He could feel the hot sun against his face, blinding him, forcing him to shelter his eyes with his palm. Climbing into his car, he quickly felt the heat that had radiated through the windows, so pushed the button for the air conditioning.
Taking out the Post-it note from his pocket, he entered the address into his GPS and set off down the street—at the same time wondering what the hell he was doing.
It had taken him almost three hours to get to St. Clears, which meant he would be gone for at least six to seven hours in total. Nicky’s going to kill me, he warned himself. He thought about calling her, letting her know that he was all right—but how could he? He would have to lie again, make up some story about why he was so delayed. And he was sick of lying to her, sick of acting like an asshole. He had to just finish this and get home.
And hope to God he wouldn’t find his clothes scattered across the street.
The GPS had taken him to the wrong part of the town, forcing him to pull out the map from the glove compartment and check his route the old-fashioned way.
Getting lost down some overgrown dirt-track, he managed to flag down an elderly couple out walking their two Alsatian dogs to ask them for directions. “Hello,” Richard said. “I’m a bit lost.”
Smiling, the couple walked over to the car. “Where you off to then?” the man asked, peering down at the window, with one hand on the roof.
“I’m looking for a farmhouse.”
The man chuckled. “Well that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack ’round here.”
“It belongs to an S. Young. Do you know it?”
Frowning as he tried to recall the name, he murmured, “Young. Sounds familiar.” He turned to the woman. “Myra, do we know any Youngs?”
Taking a moment to think, she then replied, “Yes. There used to be a Stephen Young over on Cromwell.” She pointed to the left of the car. “He owns the Newside land. But I think he’s dead now. Not a hundred percent on that though.”
“Thanks for that, I really appreciate it,” Richard kindly said. “Could you point me in the right direction please?”
“No problem.” She leaned down to the window. The man moved aside. “Follow this lane until you come to a junction. Then take a left. And then left again. That should take you to the gate.”
“So it’s down here,” he pointed straight ahead, “and then two lefts?”
“That’s right.”
Richard smiled. “Thanks very much. Have a good day.”
“You too,” the man replied. “Mind how you go.”
The car then pulled off noisily down the muddy lane.
After reaching the junction and turning left, he joined a narrow country road which went on for nearly two miles before another left turn came available, prompting him to question the woman’s directions. Hopeful that he was heading the right way, he carried on up an even narrower road, with side bushes brushing past his car. The road continued for perhaps half a mile before finally leading him to a farm gate to his right. Poking his head out the window, he tried to see if there was a farmhouse beyond the gate. There wasn’t, just an empty field of tall, unmanaged grass. He slowly drove on a little further, hoping to see signs of life. After another two or three hundred meters he saw a large wooden house gate covered in flaky red paint. He could see a steep driveway, perhaps a hundred and fifty meters long, leading to a cottage. Still unconvinced that this was the right place, he climbed out of the car, leaving the engine running, and walked over to the gate. Reaching it, he saw a metal letterbox fixed to the wall on the left side of the gate. Richard’s stomach turned with apprehension—written on the letterbox, in faded-black italic letters, was the name: Young.