Lynch (6 page)

‘Do for what?’

As he swung down off the horse, he said, ‘For lunch.’

He opened the saddle bags and pulled out a small blanket, spreading it on the grass, followed by a couple of Tupperware containers, two plastic beakers, and a bottle of red wine.

‘Why, Mrs Robinson,’ Scott declared.

Jesse raised his slender brows. ‘Benjamin, I am not trying to seduce you.’

Scott smiled. He hadn’t seen
The Graduate
in years. ‘Shame,’ he said quietly.

It felt wrong. He didn’t want it to, but it did. Lying there on the blanket, shoulder to shoulder with Jesse and staring up at the feathery clouds as they wandered lonely, the only thing he could think about was Ryan.

It had been eighteen months since he was stabbed to death right in front of him. Eighteen months since Kane Rider had stood at his graveside and watched him being lowered into the earth. Even less time still that Kane Rider himself had been cocooned and Scott Lynch emerged in his place to live an existence of self-loathing and regret.

But the regret hadn’t lasted; the self-loathing had waned when the brief—but disastrous—affair with alcohol had crashed. He had picked himself out of his drunken stupor with Katherine’s help and made a new life for himself. She had been his rock since the day Ann Clark handed him his new passport and birth certificate. Although she was twice his age, they were born together that day last year. Katherine Lynch, loving mother, and Scott Lynch, devoted son.

She had shouted at him and begged with him to stop drinking his life away back then. She had slapped his face and cried when he cried. She had swept away the broken dishes until he could cry and scream no more and then she had held him tight in her arms and soothed his throbbing head and his wounded heart and wiped the vomit from his chin like a real mother would.

It wasn’t long before he realised his mistake and asked for her help. She rested a hand against his back as he poured three bottles of cheap vodka down the sink and he didn’t touch another drop of alcohol for five months.

He threw himself into work and gardening and helping Katherine around the house. And although he never stopped thinking about Ryan, he did stop thinking about Kane Rider. Kane was dead. And Scott needed to build a future.

He faced his demons every night in surreal dreams that left him shaken and disturbed, and fought through each day as a man he never was, a man he never should be.

He opened his eyes when he felt Jesse move beside him, watched as he raised himself up onto an elbow.

‘What’re you thinking about?’ Jesse asked.

Scott closed his eyes again. ‘Life,’ was all he said and the wistful tone he used gave away the ultimate nature of the word. He sighed, and with that breath he gave away the anguish.

He hadn’t anticipated the kiss, but when Jesse slowly leaned down and lightly pressed his lips to Scott’s, Scott kept his eyes closed and reciprocated. He could smell Jesse’s cologne above the scent of freshly cut grass. And he could feel his lips parting as Jesse’s tongue probed gently forward.

Chapter 7

In the dark and tight confines of the car boot, Miguel Fernandez felt the quick rise and fall of Will’s chest under his hand, heard his soft whimpering. ‘Hush now,’ Fernandez said. ‘All is well.’

But all was not well.

As
Cap Finistère
had cut through quiet waters into
Portsmouth
harbour, Brian and Sharon Ludlow had pleaded with him that they take one of them into the boot of their car in place of the child. He had had to punch them to shut them up, reminded them that they had boarded as husband, wife and daughter and could therefore only leave the ferry in the same way. Anything else would be foolish.

He had made them see sense and they had successfully avoided discovery as they walked to the car and kissed their son and cried and watched as Fernandez climbed into the boot and snuggled down beside the sobbing child.

It was evening and the sun was balancing on the horizon, casting long shadows across the harbour. He had given them concise instructions on where to go before stopping the car and letting him out. A thirty minute journey along the A3 was a place near Hindhead called the Devil’s Punchbowl, a large, natural hollow of land that drew visitors during daylight hours but should be empty by the time they got there. Fernandez had used Brian Ludlow’s credit card to access the Internet from the cabin in search of such a spot.

He estimated their journey time, once he felt the car pick up speed as they finally left the harbour, to have been around twenty-five to thirty minutes already and new they should be stopping soon. They would follow his instructions to the letter. He had no doubt about that.

To the child, he said, ‘Crying is weakness. Shut up. Soon it is over.’

He felt the cold steel of the gun against his skin where it was tucked into the waist of his jeans.

It was only a few more minutes before the car stopped and the drum of the engine below him ceased. He heard car doors opening and the hushed words of Brian Ludlow as he told his daughter to stay in the car.

Fernandez drew his gun before they opened the boot. Staring up into their terrified faces, he said, ‘Step back.’

‘Mummy,’ the boy cried.

‘Give me my son now,’
Sharon
said, her voice strong despite the horror on her face.

‘Step back,’ he repeated. When they did, he clasped the boy tight and climbed out of the boot.

‘Our son,’ Brian said.

‘Silence.’

‘We did what you asked. Give us back our son.’

Fernandez raised his gun, pointed it at Brian’s snivelling face. He walked around the car, keeping the gun steady in the hand that supported the kid in his arm, opened the driver’s door, reached in and pulled out the car keys. He opened the rear door and said, ‘Get out.’

Sally unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed out of the car. She ran into her father’s arms in tears.

‘Please,’
Sharon
said. ‘Take the car. There’s money in my purse. My credit card PIN—’

‘Silence!’ Fernandez demanded.

He smiled. He liked the woman. He’d kill her fast.

‘You drove where I told you to. I am pleased.’

‘We’ve done everything you asked us to,’ Brian said.

Fernandez didn’t like him. He’d kill him slow.

To the woman he said, ‘As a favour, you will not watch your children die.’ And he shot her in the face.

Brian Ludlow wailed as he saw his wife drop to the ground. He fell to her side and screamed into her hair as he held her, ignoring the agonised keening of his children.

Fernandez pointed his gun again, closed one eye, and blew a hole through the young girl’s chest.

Still in his arms, the boy screamed and kicked and punched him.

Fernandez laughed. The boy had more spirit than his own father, who now clung tightly to his dead wife and daughter, his mouth wide, breath but no sound coming from him, a line of saliva dripping from his lips down his blood spattered chin, his eyes popping.

Fernandez fed off the adrenalin. He could feel it flushing through his body and giving him an erection.

He let the boy fall from his arms to the ground and as he lay there on his back, struggling to get up, Fernandez placed a heavy foot on the little boy’s stomach, pinned him down, and shot him once.

He watched Brian Ludlow fight for breath, the air refusing to enter his constricted throat. Letting him watch the death of his entire family had been genius and powerful and arousing. Now, Fernandez strode forward and kicked him hard in the face. Brian fell back and lay unmoving. Momentarily, Fernandez had wondered if he’d kicked him so hard he had killed him but, unconscious, his throat muscles had released their stranglehold and his chest rose and fell as he breathed.

Fernandez pocketed his gun and searched the ground in the dim light for the three bullet shells. He threw them into the car and then picked up the boy, placing him in the back seat and buckling his belt. He did the same with the girl and took a little longer with the woman, the pretty woman who had followed his commands even though she knew it would be her ruin.

He dragged the unconscious man to the car and heaved him into the driver’s seat. Then he closed the door and walked around to the other side. Hopefully he’d wake soon.

Fernandez leaned in to the woman and tore the sleeve of her shirt from her arm. He closed the door and, with the car keys, triggered the central locking mechanism. He opened the fuel cap and stuffed the end of the shirt sleeve inside. With his cigarette lighter, he lit the other end of the sleeve and he walked back to a safe distance to watch.

As he had hoped, Brian Ludlow woke. The recognition on his face, just before the car exploded, was priceless.

Fernandez was mostly happy. He had wished to taste the woman before he had to dispose of her, but it was not to be.

He turned away, the heat from the flames warming his back, and he withdrew his phone, loaded up the contacts, and called a pre-programmed number.

When the patent attorney answered the phone, Fernandez said, ‘Mr Thomas Walter. A friend sends me.’

‘What do you need?’ Walter asked.

‘First,’ Fernandez said, ‘I need a lift.’

Chapter 8

It was just a kiss. Just one. But as Jesse pulled back and looked down at Scott, Scott smiled. They both smiled. Jesse had laid back down, a hand on his own chest, and said, ‘I guess it’s nearly six o’clock.’

Scott swallowed and nodded. ‘Time to get the horses back,’ he had said.

As they rode back to the Silverwood Centre, Scott casually mentioned seeing a flyer for a drag act competition in town next Friday. At first, Jesse had scoffed, but Scott had said, ‘It’s not really my scene, either, but it could be a laugh.’

‘But,’ Jesse said, ‘let’s not wait until Friday for our next date, eh?’

Riding side by side, Scott agreed. ‘I had fun today. I’m really glad we did this.’

‘The day doesn’t have to be over,’ Jesse said.

‘What have you got in mind?’

When they dropped the horses back at the stables, Sylvia gave them each a tight squeeze and a kiss on either cheek. She waited until Jesse had walked off with the mares and then touched Scott’s shoulder. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘You know perfectly well what I mean,’ Sylvia said, lightly punching his arm.

‘You don’t really expect me to kiss and tell, do you?’ he said with a smirk.

‘So there was kissing?’ She turned and walked away, chuckling to herself. ‘Glad to hear it,’ she said, flapping a hand over her shoulder and dismissing him.

As they got back into Jesse’s car, Jesse said, ‘Let’s do something extravagant.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Anything. Something…different.’

Scott thought about it. The kiss still hung in the air between them, threateningly close to a promise. ‘We could go for ice cream,’ he said.

‘Is that as extravagant as you get?’ Jesse asked.

‘Let me finish,’ Scott said. ‘Let’s go for ice cream—in
Scarborough
.’

Jesse laughed. ‘I love it.’ He keyed the ignition. ‘Let’s go.’

They turned the radio up loud as they pulled out of the Silverwood Centre and headed east along
York Road
towards
Scarborough
on the coast. In the early evening sunlight, the fields were lush and the scent of summer, thick and heady, filled the car.

As they drove, they sang along to the songs on the stereo, neither caring about how bad the other’s singing voice was, almost trying to outdo each other with how dreadful they could be to Whitney or Britney. The ease with which they had bonded during the course of the day was apparent in their relaxed demeanour with each other in the car, at times comfortably silent, at times exploding into song at the same moment, as though there had been some prior agreement, looking at each other and grinning through lyrics.

It seemed like a new experience for Scott, this casual acceptance of immediate friendship, of maybe something stronger. It was that feeling of having known someone for years even though it had only been weeks, a feeling of the simplicity of being.

The hour and a half journey for ice cream passed with ease. They stopped once so Jesse could top up the car’s fuel, and he refused when Scott tried to offer him some money towards it, considering
Scarborough
had been his idea, and they continued the countryside journey, through A-roads that dissected fertile pasture and farmland, with the memory of that single kiss trailing behind them.

When they parked and walked the short distance to the ice cream parlour, not far from the beachfront, Scott thought that at one point Jesse was on the verge of reaching for his hand. He couldn’t be sure, but the way Jesse’s fingers brushed lightly, momentary, across the back of his hand, certainly seemed to suggest the desire for physical contact. The nervous tingle that traversed his arm made Scott smile and point out the ice cream shop.

Jesse bought two of the biggest cones available, both with Flakes and sprinkles and syrup and a generous topping of miniscule marshmallows.

Outside the shop, in the early evening sun, Scott caught the scent of wood smoke, something that took him back to his childhood, where every seaside town in
Ireland
was not a seaside town if it wasn’t accompanied by the smell of wood smoke. He could remember the tiny tourist shops that sold buckets and spades, hanging from hooks outside the windows like colourful pieces of a dream. The shops’ interiors dark and cluttered, a magnificent display of penknives laid out on purple or navy felt in a glass display counter over which the proprietor would hover, smiling crooked teeth through an overgrown moustache that was turning white at the edges.

He and his mother, back before the cancer, back before Ryan, would travel the length and breadth of
Ireland
by coach and rolling-stock train, visiting every beach they ever found on a map. He remembered the way she flicked her hair out of her face in the wind, the way she picked gently with her fingers at a sandwich, the way only her thumb and forefinger would dip inside a bag of crisps, her other fingers winged above the opening as though she was giving a secret A-okay sign. And he remembered his conscious effort in doing the same, feeling every bit a grown-up at the age of seven, standing in his swimming trunks, being photographed in front of his sandcastle creation, thumb and forefinger dipped almost reverently inside a bag a Tayto Cheese & Onion.

He smiled at Jesse and sucked some melting ice cream from the side of the cone before it reached his thumb.

‘Seeing as we’re here,’ Jesse said, ‘we might as well take a walk down along the shore.’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ Scott laughed.

They finished their ice cream before stepping foot on the beach and Jesse stooped and took his shoes off, wriggling his toes into the sand. ‘You forget how good that feels,’ he said. ‘I haven’t done it in years.’

Scott’s thoughts had changed as he looked out across the beach from focusing on his mother to recalling his years with Ryan, and his mood darkened. He and Ryan had continued his mother’s tradition after her death of visiting beaches, although they had settled on one beach in particular, a stretch of white sand along Portstewart. They went whenever the whim took them, or whenever one of them was feeling down or reflective. It became a calming measure; it became Their Beach. And now, still smelling the wood smoke, coupled with the fresh sea air, he couldn’t look at Jesse for fear of seeing Ryan.

The breeze that caressed his neck reminded him of Ryan’s breath as he’d nestle his face against his skin. The warmth of the sun reminded him of the heat of Ryan’s body. The waves that broke against the shore were the whispers of his dead lover calling his name.

He sighed, shook his head. Jesse walked a pace ahead, carrying his shoes in his hands as he pointed his toes and dug each step into the soft, warm sand.

When Jesse turned, a fat grin on his face, he said, ‘We should sleep here, under the stars.’

Scott smiled, trying to hide his melancholy. He stuck his hands in his pockets, and stared at the shells by his feet. Sitting down on the sand, he looked out across the sea. ‘Let’s sit a minute,’ he said.

Jesse dropped down beside him and stretched his legs out straight, leaning back with his hands in the sand behind him. ‘It’s beautiful here.’ When Scott didn’t respond, Jesse looked at him. ‘Hey, what’s up? Have I done something?’

Scott shook his head. ‘No, it’s just…’

Jesse waited, prompted him when the sentence went unfinished. ‘Just…?’

Keeping his eyes forward, towards the small group of people swimming in the sea, Scott said, ‘I used to come to a beach all the time with…with an old boyfriend.’

‘Talking about exes on a date,’ Jesse said. ‘That’s never good.’

Scott looked at him, touched his leg briefly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. There’s probably something you need to know.’

Jesse straightened up, shuffled slightly closer. ‘If it’s only probably, it probably means I don’t need to know. We all have a past, Scott.’

‘No,’ Scott said, ‘you should know.’

‘It’s only a second date. Are you sure you want to show me your skeletons?’

Scott blinked. ‘If there’s going to be a third, yes, I need to tell you.’

‘Okay,’ Jesse said. ‘But for what it’s worth, you really don’t have to.’

‘My last boyfriend,’ Scott began, stopped, cleared his throat. ‘We were together for eight years. We were in love. And a year and a half ago, he was killed.’ His eyes clouded. ‘I watched him die.’

Jesse was silent for a long time. Finally, he asked, ‘Is that why you moved to
England
?’

‘Sort of,’ Scott said. ‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘For not saying how sorry you are to hear that. For not asking a load of questions about him.’

Jesse’s smile was tender. ‘Like I said, we all have a past.’

‘How can you possibly beat that?’

The challenge was light-hearted, but Jesse’s response drove a spike in the ground between them. ‘I have a stalker,’ he said. ‘She tried to kill me.’ When Scott said nothing, Jesse added, ‘Thank you.’

Scott lay back and Jesse lay down beside him.

‘She moved into the flat above me in
York
,’ Jesse said, linking his fingers together over his chest. ‘She told me she loved me, and then she tried to kill me.’

Scott closed his eyes, felt the sun warming his cheeks. ‘And that’s why you moved to
Yorkshire
.’

Jesse laughed. ‘Sort of,’ he said, mimicking Scott’s words from moments before.

‘Want to talk about it?’ Scott asked.

‘Maybe some time when I’m drunk,’ Jesse said. He got up on an elbow, looked down at Scott. ‘Let’s stop being killjoys. Are we on a date, or what?’

Scott smiled, tried to put aside the mixed feelings he had. ‘I do believe we are,’ he said, and he reached up, took Jesse’s shoulder, and brought him down for a kiss, right there on the beach, not caring who was watching, helping Jesse up onto his feet and running when an old man shouted an obscenity at them, laughing as they stomped over a discarded sandcastle, hand in hand as they sprinted across the beach.

They stopped, on an empty stretch of sand, the tide slowly coming in, and they embraced and kissed again. Breaking for air, resting his forehead against Scott’s, Jesse said, ‘I left my shoes back there.’

The thought of the old man prodding the gay boy’s shoes with a stick like they could be diseased sent Scott into gales of laughter that had him doubled in the sand and holding his sides as a breaking wave tickled his shins.

Jesse opened his front door and stepped into the dark within. It wasn’t until he had closed the door behind him and locked it automatically that his thoughts turned to Prabha. Apart from mentioning her briefly on the beach, he hadn’t thought about her all day. Scott had an infectious way about him that took his mind off his demons. When they were together, Jesse could think of nothing other than kissing him.

The time between their first kiss this afternoon, lying on a blanket in a field, horses chuffing beside them, and their second kiss on the beach, had felt like the longest time. When they ran off from the irate pensioner, holding hands as they ran, they had kissed and then sat down for ten minutes, saying nothing, content with each other’s company, before venturing back for his shoes. He carried them back to the car, walking barefoot along the street, and on the drive home they held hands, letting go only long enough for Jesse to change gear when necessary.

The atmosphere between them was more subdued now, but comfortably so. The revelations they had briefly discussed, and each silently acknowledging that it wasn’t the right time to talk about them further, had cast a sense of shared displacement around them. In the car, Scott had said, ‘Thanks again, for not asking me any questions about what happened.’