Wanting (14 page)

Oliver saw another barn, a tractor parked in one corner and a plough in the other and, standing in the centre, his eyes gaunt, fright etched on his face, was himself.

* * * *

Eggleton sat opposite Langham at a white Formica table scarred with countless gouges from countless criminals, maybe from a few coppers too. A coffee or tea stain, a circle the exact size of a Styrofoam cup base, looked worn and faded, the station cleaner probably unable to get the damn thing off.

Oliver eyed him through the glass, aware of a uniformed policeman standing in the shadows by the door, and waited for some telling body language or a vocal slip-up that would give them the opening Langham needed to go full pelt into interrogation mode. Eggleton remained normal, so normal Oliver thought they’d picked up the wrong man and it was useless continuing. He’d been wrong in the past, though, so didn’t alert Langham in his earpiece that this might be a useless exercise.

Eggleton had alibis for both murder nights, which were being checked as the scenario in front of Oliver played out. This man would get to go home, maybe with extra weight on his shoulder in the form of a huge chip, or maybe with relief that he was in the clear. Either way, Oliver felt this wasn’t their man.

But he knew the men responsible, Oliver sensed that keenly. Only Eggleton didn’t know it yet. He was helpful, eager to give any and all information, and Oliver decided to try that floating thing again. With no idea whether it would work but vowing to give it a damn good try, he stared at Eggleton’s forehead and let everything else fade away. His eyes glazed, and although he was aware of where he stood—in an empty, shit-coloured room with a couple of seasoned detectives beside him—he was no longer there but hanging in time and space, in a limbo land between the waking world and another that was inexplicable and so new to him he only had instincts to rely on, to guide him.

Far from being afraid, Oliver entered Eggleton’s head. He was there in spirit, waiting with a scurry of thoughts racing in front of him in the form of hazy lights, the kind caught on camera, car head and taillights, streaks of white and red eels, their tails tapered, struggling to keep up with the heads. Eggleton’s mind was full of them, darting, streaking thoughts that pinged against the inside of his skull in his attempt to find something that could be of help.

Questions came from Langham, and the answers zipped in front of Oliver, echoic, ghostly voices that began firm and ended weak.

“Who do you think would have stolen the van?”

“No idea. Everyone I work with is a decent sort as far as I know.”

“Who else has a bald head at work?”

“No one except me and that fat bloke…what’s his name…? Can’t bloody think of it.”

“Has anyone given you cause to feel uneasy? By that I mean, has anyone’s demeanour changed recently? People acting furtive, jumpy?”

“No, everyone’s the same. Except Len, but then his wife’s just lost a baby, poor cow, so…”

“Have you encountered anyone who has been talking in a group, or even someone talking on a telephone, and they seem…different?”

“No! There’s nothing. Everything’s the same. I mean, it’s not like I go about listening to every Tom, Dick and Harry’s business, is it? I go to work, pick up my van and job list and get on with it.”

“Are you sure you haven’t heard anything? Think about it for a second. I’ll go and get you a coffee. Or would you prefer tea, water?”

“Tea, two sugars, thanks.”

Langham left the room. Oliver waited for Eggleton’s thoughts.

Tea. Reminds me of something… The break room earlier. Peter going on about some barn dance. Barn. Shit. Coincidence. Yeah, that’s all it is. A barn dance they were going to invite some psychic wanker to. They. Who are they? Who else was there? Peter. And that limp-wristed fucker with the dodgy eyebrows. Monobrow. But they’ve all got hair. What’s with this bald shit anyway? Tea. Thanks. I thought of something…

Oliver reversed out of Eggleton’s head, returning to his body with a nauseating
whump
. Langham had sat again, and Oliver noticed his hair was thinning on top—too much running his fingers through it.

“What did you remember?” Langham asked.

Oliver wanted to throw up.
Some psychic wanker…

Eggleton babbled his thoughts, looking sheepish, apologising for his information, that it was nothing, just a load of bollocks he’d overheard.

“That’s for us to decide,” Langham said. “If you could remember all who were present, all their names?”

“Peter. Definitely Peter. And the guy with the eyebrow. Fuck, what’s his bloody name?”

Eggleton paused, and Oliver imagined those darting lights, pistoning through his head at speed.

“Chad someone.” Eggleton frowned. “No, Brad. That’s it, Brad. Don’t know his surname, though.”

“That isn’t a problem, Martin. Anyone else?”

“Yeah, but I can’t think who they were. I can see them in my head—not much fucking use to you, though, is it?”

“Can you try to recall what else they said? Times, dates?”

Eggleton’s frown deepened, and he raised a hand to his chin. He stared to his right at the floor, then looked up to stare at the ceiling. “Tonight. Yep, I remember now because I thought it was weird having a barn dance in the week, what with work and whatever the next day. Shit, I need to ring my boss, tell him I won’t be in on time today.”

“That will be taken care of. I’ll ring him for you.”

“Cheers.”

* * * *

“It’s me they want to kill,” Oliver said as they waited in an unmarked car in the street running parallel to Mr Littleworth’s yard.

The sun was struggling to wake, a blanket of mist pulled up to its chin, and as it peeped over the top, the sky was given a dull iron colour. Mr Littleworth’s employees were due into the yard by six to collect their vans and head out to complete the day’s electrical work. Littleworth was already in, having been abruptly woken by Langham’s call that they were closing in on which employees they needed to question.

“What? Surely you don’t know that for certain.” Langham tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, peering down the road for cars containing the men they sought.

“I do. Things have…changed. I saw…I saw them in my head. As they would have been in the barn and warehouse. I…fuck, this is going to sound nuts again.”

Langham waved one hand, imaginary fly swatting. “Whatever. Go on.”

“I went inside one man’s head. Saw what they have planned. Saw myself, man, in another barn.”

“Interesting. I still can’t get over this shit. Your shit. Not that it’s shit, but—”

“I know what you mean, what you’re saying. I can’t get over it either.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine wh—”

“You don’t want to.”

“No.” Langham sighed. “So they’re calling them barn dances. Sick fucks.”

A dark grey Volkswagen Golf turned into the yard, a snort of grey exhaust fumes farting out of the tailpipe.

“Emissions. Should pull him up for that,” Langham said.

“Hardly top priority.”

“No.”

A black Ford Focus followed the Golf.

“Nice motor.” Langham stopped tapping.

“I’ll go with it,” Oliver said.

“Go with what?”

“Whatever these men have planned. Be available when they…get me. You lot can keep tabs. Follow.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But what if they don’t show up today?” Oliver swallowed. “What if—”

“Then you stick by my side until we find them.”

Oliver mulled over what might be happening inside the office in Littleworth’s yard. The beefy man had been instructed not to let anyone leave once they arrived for work, then, when everyone was present, he was to ring Langham’s mobile so they could go in. Several more cars and a couple of small vans swerved through the gateway then parked, men spilling out of them and entering the office. Ordinary men, most of them anyway, with a couple of crazies sprinkled in for good measure. But that was life, wasn’t it? All right, not everyone had a penchant for killing, but among the average were those with a difference, their minds not working the same as everyone else’s, and that was what made up the world. Maybe eighty per cent normal, twenty per cent nuts.

Langham’s phone trilled, and he answered. “Right. I see. Let them go, get on with their day. I’ll get someone else posted out here.” He ended the call and dialled a number. “Langham. Officers needed outside Littleworth’s. No, just to sit and watch. Men need sending out to those addresses I left on my desk—might catch the bastards before they get up. Yep. I’ll wait here. Let me know when you’ve brought them all in.” He nodded, jabbed the ‘End Call’ button, then turned to Oliver. “Fucking no-shows. Should have known. Thought they’d have acted as usual, though. Still, we’ll get them. Three men calling in to work, all supposedly sick. Not good.”

“No.” Oliver’s stomach rolled over. “Not good at all.”

Adam jammed his shovel beneath a hefty pile of pigs’ shit then lifted. His shoulder muscles strained, and if the animals kept crapping the amount they’d left overnight, every morning would be like this, him sweating and stinking, longing to get the job finished so he could move on to the next. Chicken coop cleaning.

Dane worked beside him, his mood lighter than it had been in what seemed like ages, but it felt as though he was masking something, pretending, being someone he wasn’t. He’d been wary at breakfast, eyeing Adam as though he’d expected to be told to fuck off, get out, thanks for the fuck last night but we’re done. Adam wondered about that. Their fuck had been better than any they’d enjoyed in their relationship so far, and he’d thought, what with those urgent kisses and heartfelt touches, that Dane would have known just from them that everything was going to be all right.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right with Dane. Maybe Adam fighting back, actually saying what he thought and felt instead of meekly taking whatever was dished out
had
frightened his lover—to an extent Adam hadn’t contemplated. It might go deeper, be playing on Dane’s mind even though Adam had assured him that so long as he was free to be himself—his real self—with no pressure from Dane, they would stay together. Yeah, he could understand Dane being afraid. Afraid had been Adam’s best friend for a long time so he knew exactly what Dane had meant when he’d said Adam’s change had scared him. The change in himself after the attack had freaked Adam stupid—but however much he loved Dane, he wouldn’t back down. Wouldn’t let things go back to the way they’d been. Dane would just have to get used to it, adapt to their new way of going about things. And if he couldn’t deal? He could go his own way.

I sound a heartless bastard, but it’s the way it is. I matter, I count. Yep, Dane let me know that all these months, but I know it for myself now, believe it. Dane telling me hadn’t worked. I had to accept it for myself in my own time.

A gust of wind carried a waft of shit, and Adam suppressed a gag.

“You all right?” he asked Dane to take his mind off the stench.

“Yeah.” Dane stopped shovelling and swiped the back of one hand over his brow. “Just…thinking.” He leaned on the shovel handle, one hand over the other.

“About?”

“What a dick I’ve been.”

“Ah.”

“Trying to come to terms with it, you know?”

Adam nodded. “We’ll be all right, won’t we?” It didn’t escape his notice that for all his internal bluster about them splitting, he needed assurance too.

“Yep. Just got to stop feeling so fucking guilty. Can’t get over how selfish I was.”

“Things were different then.” Having had a night to sleep on it, Adam could see exactly how they’d arrived where they had. “I was needy, you liked being a problem solver. You got used to it. Then I didn’t need so much support, so, I dunno, it’s like your purpose was taken away, wasn’t it.”

“Something like that.” Dane sighed. “I think…I mean, it’s going to take a while to get used to you like this because—and I don’t mean to sound a wanker, don’t want to start a fight here, and I’m not picking, just saying—it’s like you’ve gone totally the other way. We’re in some deep shit here”—he grinned, looking down at the filth surrounding them—“with the risk of some nutters finding out we told the police about them, and it isn’t bothering you. Well, not like it would have done. A month ago you’d have been…fuck, you’d have been hiding under the table about it—and I do
not
mean that in a nasty way.”

Adam nodded. “I would have, yep. But it’s like…I’ve grown up. I can’t explain it. Reckon you can handle me this way?” He chuckled, hoping that by doing so Dane wouldn’t think he was making light of his feelings. “Reckon you can deal with our situations being reversed?”

Dane widened his eyes. “Well, I don’t know about that! You’re not looking after me, are you. You’re not helping me to—”

“I’m not? So me listening to you talking about your feelings isn’t the same as what you used to do for me?” He smiled to take any perceived sting out of his words.

“Ah, fuck it. I get you. I see.” Dane smiled, a little bit wistfully and a whole lot unsure. “I’ll try to deal with this, all right? I’ll get used to it.”

“Good idea.”

Dane eyed him warily. “Because?”

“Because this is the real me, and I’m not going away any time soon.”

* * * *

Adam rested his head on the back of the sofa and closed his eyes. It had been a hard day. The long soak he’d had in the bath hadn’t done too badly in easing his stretched muscles, but it hadn’t completely made the soreness fade away. He felt himself sinking into sleep and welcomed that weird sensation where he floated between awake and oblivion.

“What the fuck?”
Nervous laughter. “
Shit, you scared me!”

Adam was shocked to hear Oliver Banks’ voice in his head and nearly opened his eyes and sat forward. Something pinned him in place, though, and a sliver of unease crept out of the crevices in his mind. He pushed against the force, opening his mouth to call out to Dane who was in the kitchen cooking. The only thing that emerged was a gargle of sound, not loud enough for Dane to hear.