‘Until people miss me? About three minutes?’ My phone began to light up. Cherry was calling.
Alex glanced at the screen, then out of her window. ‘Can you say you’ve gone home, not feeling well? I’ve got half an hour.’
‘OK.’ I let the call go to voicemail and shifted position to pull the seatbelt round me, accidentally kicking a plastic bag I hadn’t realised was at my feet, which clinked. I reached down to check nothing had broken and saw a full bottle of gin lying on its side.
‘My excuse for leaving the house,’ Alex said. ‘It’s not for us.’
I shrugged. That was fine by me. My mother drank gin. I couldn’t think of anything I’d want to crack open less.
She started the car and we quickly drove out of town – as I texted Cherry to say I’d got a taxi home, my leg was suddenly hurting again but otherwise I was fine, just tired – up onto the main road that led to a cut through the forest called Bunny Lane. It had turned properly dark and a bit creepy. Alex was driving fast and swerved slightly as an actual rabbit popped out of the hedge.
‘Not Bunny Lane for nothing then,’ I said for no reason, and she didn’t reply. ‘Are you all right?’ I said a moment later as we went too fast round another corner and my hand instinctively reached to grip the door handle.
‘I’m fine,’ she said shortly, and after a few more minutes, took a sharp left into a dark car park of a farm shop, all closed up, the barn doors bolted across.
I’d been there with Mum and Dad a while back when Mum had wanted to stop and buy some bacon because someone had told it her was home reared or something. I remember Dad saying it wasn’t just the pig that had been reared: ‘Five quid for a pot of olives? They proper can get stuffed.’ He obviously hadn’t been the only one to feel that way, because I realised it wasn’t just closed but had shut down. We bounced over the uneven surface of the dry muddied car park, full of potholes, and I felt a bit sick.
She drove right to the back, then up a small dirt track and stopped in front of a padlocked, five-bar gate that led into the dark woodland beyond.
‘I’m not going in there,’ I said, looking at the arms of the trees moving in the wind and wishing I’d not watched the trailer for the re-release of It the day before.
‘Obviously,’ she said cuttingly, and I started to regret getting in the car at all, but she undid her seatbelt quickly, turned to me, leant across and kissed me, hard, while undoing my jeans and sliding her hand down the front. I gasped – I couldn’t help myself.
It’s not easy to fuck in a car when you’re my height. It felt awkward and all angles – not just because of fumbling for condoms in wallets. Not my best work. She didn’t seem any calmer afterwards either.
We drove back into town in silence and I was worried that I’d messed up, and this was going to be it. She drove me back to the main road near my house and pulled over near our drive.
‘Are you all right to walk the last bit?’
I nodded, glancing at the car clock. It was only quarter to eleven.
‘Next time, can you not wear so much aftershave, please?’
I felt myself blush in the dark. ‘Sorry.’ I hesitated. ‘I got you something, but I don’t know if you want it now.’
She raised an eyebrow and said uncertainly: ‘OK?’
I reached into the pockets of my coat and pulled out a small mobile and charger. ‘Snapchatting like we did at first is too risky. If you want to reach me, use this instead. It’s just a pay as you go. I’ve got one too. I’ll message you later so you’ve got my number. Once the credit has gone you can top it up or just chuck it, but don’t actually burn it… they’re called burners,’ I explained as she looked blank. ‘You’ve seen The Wire, right?’
‘No. They did this on House of Cards though.’ She reached out and took one from me.
‘On what?’
‘Never mind.’
‘People think Snapchat is safe because the messages vanish, and after thirty-one days, even Snapchat themselves can’t recover the content, they can only see if users exchanged communication, but people don’t realise the actual messages can save to your handset.’
She paled. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Don’t worry. We barely used it, but this will be a lot safer from now on.’ I pointed at the mobile she was still holding.
She smiled suddenly. ‘You’ve put a lot of thought into this.’
I blushed again.
‘That’s sweet. I have to go now though, so, good night.’
This time, I just got out – didn’t wait for her to kiss me or anything. After I’d closed the door carefully, I watched her pull away, feeling very happy for a moment. There was definitely going to be a next time. I should have been thinking, so what that I was wearing aftershave? but I wasn’t. All I was thinking about was when I’d see her again.
Once I got home, I texted her from my burner:
This is me
And was a bit disappointed when I didn’t get a response – although I hadn’t really expected anything.
I wish I’d stopped it then. I wasn’t in love with her. I’ve never told a girl I love her and I’m not going to say it until I mean it but, from then onwards, I was thinking about Alex a lot. All of the time.
8
Dr David Harper
I thought I’d immediately caught out Jonathan Day with his ridiculous ‘lunchtime house call sex tryst’ in the first half of his statement. Pretty much every single GP has the same sort of ‘lunch’ up and down the country. Yes, there are house visits, but then it’s back to the surgery for paperwork, prescription requests, processing blood results, reading letters from consultants, filling in forms for patients. You’re lucky if you have time to go to the loo. The idea that a GP would swan off in the middle of the day for some languid sex with a patient is beyond the realms of even the most deluded of imaginations. It’s utterly ludicrous, in fact.
I’d realised Jonathan was, at the very least, prone to exaggeration from his initial account of the leg injury. Had it been that bad, Alex wouldn’t have dressed it herself, he’d have been sent off to the burns unit; but, once we reached the part where Alex arrived at the Days’ house, complete with medical bag, to seduce Jonathan, I started to listen for the enjoyment of watching him spin his web – and that I did find interesting.
It had seemed clear to me, from the moment that his father started yelling at all and sundry in my surgery waiting room, that Gary Day was in charge. Day junior only spoke to admonish his father once – and to all intents and purposes, he let his parents handle everything. The father was the sort of oiky, unpredictably angry chap who could smile at you one minute while selling you something out of the back of his paid-for-in-cash Range Rover, then knock you out the next. I had Day junior immediately pegged as a squashed-down teen who did as he was told, had probably formed an unhealthy attachment to Alex which had got out of hand and was also enjoying this unfamiliar feeling of parental protection and safety – hiding behind his father all too willingly.