Giving Up the Ghost (5 page)

God, everything was so fucked up.

Glancing at the clock, Nick was surprised to find that it was after seven. John was almost always home before six, and on the rare occasion he wasn’t, he always called. He knew how Nick worried. His heart was already beating double-time; their earlier argument had been terrible, but it had never even occurred to him that John wouldn’t come home. No matter how bad things were, Nick couldn’t believe that John would do that to him.

Something must be wrong.

A few phone calls didn’t supply any answers; no one had seen John since that afternoon.

With a growing knot in his stomach, Nick put on his coat and scarf and went out to the car. Jesus, it was bitterly cold, and the wind was picking up again. It buffeted the car, making it hard to steer as he drove toward the stretch of beach where John kept the boat. Please, let the boat be there, he thought, tightening his hands on the wheel.
Let it be there
.

* * * * *

John stared out at the line of breakwater frothing and foaming up over the rocks. “We’re not going to get out until the tide turns,” he called back to Andy, huddled in the shelter of the rocks. “And then it’ll be pitch-black, so we won’t get out then, either. We’re here for the night.”

“It’s pitch-black now.” Andy picked his way across the seaweed-covered rocks and stood, shivering, next to John. “I’m sorry. If I hadn’t insisted on exploring that cave, we’d have seen the storm rising in time to get the hell off here.”

“Tourists always want to see the cave,” John said unthinkingly.

“Is that what I am?” Andy thumped his arm. “I’m as Scottish as you, man!”

“You’re not an islander.’

“Is your Nick?”

John hunched his shoulder, feeling a sudden surge of irritation, both with Andy, who was being persistent, and the absent Nick, who was the main cause of John’s current depression. “His mother was, and he is now. It’s good enough.” He bent down and grabbed the sodden rope at his feet. “Here, help me haul the boat up higher, or we’ll not be leaving at all.”

They got the boat pulled further up the beach, far enough that John thought it safe from the tides.

“I sh-should have worn something warmer,” Andy said, teeth chattering as he rubbed his arms. The leather jacket he had on was far too thin -- probably had been even for fishing when the winter sun had been making its best attempt to warm them, but John hadn’t noticed it then, and if he had he’d not have thought anything of it. Andy was a grown man, after all. He could take care of himself. Other than now, when he was shivering hard enough to hurt himself.

“We’ll get as much driftwood as we can carry and settle in for the night in that hut at the top of the hill. Soon have a fire going.” John headed for a branch half-buried in the sand, a darker shape in the gathering shadows.

Between them, they got a decent stack of firewood inside the hut, which was barely deserving of the name. It was no more than a shelter, built long before John was born, getting more dilapidated with every passing year. John had played in it as a child, and used it as somewhere to drink with Michael when they were teenagers. A clutter of broken glass in one corner told him that they hadn’t been the last people to use it like that.

A steel barrel served as a fireplace, choked with ash and paper. John cleared it out, getting his hands filthy, and started a fire, muttering under his breath until the flames caught and held. The warmth of the reddish firelight was comforting enough, even if it illuminated bare walls, two rickety chairs, and a damp mattress John wouldn’t have stood on, given a choice.

“I’m going to get the tarp from the boat,” he said. “Then we’ll cut some heather and give ourselves something soft to lie on.”

It wouldn’t be soft. Springy, maybe, aye, but prickly as hell. Still; better than the floor, which was nothing but dried mud as far as John could tell.

Andy was still shivering. John sighed, walking over to him and giving him a brisk rubdown, scrubbing his hands over Andy’s arms. “You stay and mind the fire. Get yourself warm.”

“Okay.” The look Andy gave him was something like gratitude. “Thanks.”

It wasn’t the first time John had been thankful for the fact that he kept the boat well-stocked with supplies. There were two folding knives as well as the tarp, not to mention bottled water. Pity there wasn’t any food, but they’d had a big feed at lunchtime and they certainly wouldn’t starve overnight.

When he got back to the hut, Andy had piled more wood on the fire, which was burning briskly. It took them a good half hour to cut heather and create a makeshift bed on top of the mildewed mattress, tarp thrown over the rough branches.

“I’m sorry about this, John.” Andy rubbed his arms again. He sounded genuinely apologetic.

“Not your fault. I should’ve smelled the rain coming in and not let us go so far from the boat.” He pursed his lips in thought. “Maybe we could’ve made it, but I didn’t like the look of the sea at all, and with the tide on the turn, we’d have had a job getting past those rocks in the bay.”

“God, it wouldn’t have been worth the risk!” Andy held his hands out to the fire, his skin scratched in half a dozen places from the heather. “We’re in for a cold, hungry night, but at least we’re dry.”

On cue, the rain began, pattering with a soft determination against the tin roof of the shack. They exchanged glances and John chuckled. “Now, that’s your fault.” He gestured upward. “Watch that corner and make sure there’s not a leak right over our bed.”

Andy gave him a sidelong glance. “Sounds…friendly,” he commented.

“Does it?” John kept his voice uncommunicative. He threw a small piece of wood into the barrel for something to do and then frowned, tensing suddenly. “I hope -- God, I never thought! They’ll be sending people out to look for us -- shit, that’s all I want --” He thought of Michael setting off in the dark to find him, with the sea fair boiling and the wind set to scour anything moving off the surface. “We’ve got to maybe signal to them -- no, they might think we were asking for help…fuck.”

“Or we could phone them?” Andy suggested, taking out a tiny rectangular cell phone and flipping it open.

John gaped at him. “You had that and never thought to mention it until now, when we might well not be able to use it? God help us, when I called you a tourist, I was insulting the whole pack of them!”

“Calm down and phone your boyfriend,” Andy said, as if John’s temper didn’t bother him in the slightest. “I’ve had fine reception on the island since I’ve been here -- granted, I suppose it’s another island entirely from this one, but I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with it.” He pressed the phone into John’s hand and went over to check the roof over the tarp, keeping his back turned in what was possibly an attempt to give John a bit of privacy.

The phone was easy enough to sort out, but their phone at home rang five times before Nick, sounding breathless, picked it up. “Hello?”

“Nick? Can you hear me?” John forced himself to sound casual, both for Nick’s sake and to show Andy, well, he wasn’t sure what. That he and Nick were at ease with each other, maybe. “I’m fine, but I won’t be home tonight.”

“Where the hell are you?” Nick blurted out, and yes, he sounded worried, more than worried, genuinely terrified. “I just got back from finding out that the boat was gone. I was going to call Michael and tell him that you didn’t come home and that you were probably…probably…” His voice broke.

“Nick --” John hesitated, the reassuring, loving words he wanted to say drying up in his mouth. “I told you; I’m okay. I took an old friend out fishing, the storm came up, and we got caught out on Creeth, that’s all. We’re going to spend the night in the hut; you remember the one? I’ll be back tomorrow.”

There was a long silence, but just as John started to think they’d lost their connection, Nick spoke. “Okay. You’re okay.” It sounded like he was reassuring himself. “Be careful, all right? God, I thought -- but you’re okay.”

“Aye, we are,” John said gently. “Andy’s teeth are chattering and we’ll both be hungry come morning, but no worse than that.”

“Okay, but if you aren’t back by lunchtime I’m calling Michael and sending him after you,” Nick said. “Both of you. And you won’t…” Whatever it was Nick had been about to say, he stopped himself. “Be careful. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And before John could say anything else -- not that he knew what he would have said -- Nick hung up.

John closed the phone and walked over to Andy, passing it back to him with a murmured word of thanks. The brief conversation with Nick had done more to underline how cut off from each other they were these days than their earlier argument. So brief and so distant…With Andy there, he wouldn’t have told Nick he loved him, or anything like that, but six months ago he wouldn’t have needed to. Nick would have known, and it would’ve come through loud and strong.

Rousing himself from increasingly gloomy thoughts, he went back to sit on his chair, close to the fire, Andy joining him, hitching his chair closer to the heat and to John.

“You’re warm enough now?” John asked. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a half-empty packet of mints, damp, but just about edible. “Well, now. Supper. Want one?”

“Thanks.” Andy took the candy and slipped it into his mouth. “I really am sorry.” He glanced at John, the firelight creating shadows on his face. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad of the chance to spend more time with you.”

“Why?” John asked bluntly. “I doubt you’ve been pining after me for the past few years for all you made it plain you were interested last time you visited. And now I’m with someone.”

“I wouldn’t say pining, no,” Andy agreed. “But…well, I
like
you. Is that so rare a thing to find in a person that you go all prickly and suspicious? Or is it just me that you don’t like the look of?”

John gave him a considering look and grinned when Andy turned his head to show off his profile, smiling himself. “Well, your nose is a wee bit crooked.”

“Broke it playing football.”

“But I’d have to say I like the look of you -- I like you -- just fine, and well you know it.” John cleared his throat. “If we’d met each other somewhere else; not on the island, I’d have said yes to anything you had in mind. It was just…well, you know how it was for me.”

“Aye.” Andy nodded thoughtfully and crunched the mint, which he must have had tucked into his cheek, between his teeth. “I didn’t care for it, and not just because it stood in the way of anything happening for us. Oh, that’s not to say I didn’t understand --” He waved John’s cut-off protest away with a hand. “But I’d have wanted more for you than that. Hiding. Not connecting with other people. It’s like losing a bit of yourself. We’re not meant to be alone like that.”

“No…” John pushed aside the unwelcome thought that he wasn’t much better off now, with Nick all but ignoring him. “Do you -- you’ve not got anyone, then?”

Andy shook his head, slouching down in his chair. “I did have, for a while. Things were good for a year and a half or so, but after that…” A strained smile. “I suppose I wanted more than he did. Or maybe I just wanted it for longer.”

For a long while, they were both quiet. The fire crackled and popped over the sound of the sea, a hush of waves against the shore. A peaceful, friendly, contented silence. It’d been a while since John had thought of silence as a comfort. It meant swallowed words, a wall between him and Nick, not this relaxed easiness.

“We should get some rest,” he said finally. “The tide turns at five in the morning and we need to be down there on the beach before that. If it’s calm enough we might try to launch the boat. Still be dark, mind you, but we’ll try.”

“Okay.” Getting up, Andy went over to their makeshift bed and sat gingerly, then stood again and began to adjust some of the heather underneath the tarp. “Might as well be as comfortable as possible, although I’m thinking it’s going to be a long night.”

John stoked the fire, glancing out at the dark. The sound of the rain on the tin roof was steady, almost soothing, and by the time he joined Andy in lying down, jacket pulled around him tightly, he felt as if he might actually be able to sleep.

This close to Andy he could tell that the man was still shivering, not as much, just small, reflexive tremors as his chilled body exhausted itself trying to keep warm. They needed something hot to eat or drink, and they weren’t going to get it for hours. John, inured to long hours out at sea, hands and feet numb, was suffering less, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t sympathetic, or concerned. Bone-deep cold was an insidious threat.

With an inward smile at the irony of it being just as awkward as it would’ve been if Andy was straight -- more so, in fact -- John shifted nearer to him. “Come here. Warm yourself up a bit.” Tugging down the zipper of his coat, he spread it open so that Andy could huddle closer if he wanted.

Andy hesitated, which made John smile encouragingly, then moved closer. “I was going to say that this couldn’t be better if I’d planned it, but the truth is I’d have preferred to be warm.” Andy’s breath was, at least, smelling of mint. “Christ, it’s cold. How is it you’re not freezing?”

“Warm-blooded,” John said with a shrug, shying away a little from the implication of Andy’s words. Planned? Had he? He decided that right now it didn’t matter. The man needed to warm up or he wouldn’t sleep. John grabbed the edge of his coat and wrapped what he could of it around Andy, giving him soft, dry cotton to snuggle against instead of a stiff, cold tarp. “Either that or it’s my thermal vest.”

Andy pressed still closer; John could feel the shivers running through him and rubbed his hand over Andy’s back. Not too effective through the leather, but better than nothing. Andy managed to slide his hands underneath John’s jacket and around to his back, hugging him and gradually the shivering stopped. “You must wish you were home with him,” Andy murmured, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain.

“I wish we were both back where we belong.”

John thought about Nick. Would he be staring out of the window, wondering if they were safe? Or getting on with chapter whatever it was, enjoying his solitude? Most likely the writing. Unless the power had gone out. John felt a bitter satisfaction at the image of Nick being thwarted by nature, and then sighed. He’d just carry on reading and making notes by candlelight, wouldn’t he.