Jack

 

I thought I’d be able to breathe easy when I finally received a reply from the silent sonofabitch back home. I let out a sigh of fucking relief as his name flashed up, until I saw the ridiculous message.

Everything’s fine.

Just those two measly words after days of nothing.

Like fuck everything’s fine. It’s the most bullshit excuse for a text message I think I’ve ever had from him. I’d laugh at how ridiculous it was if I wasn’t already worried sick about the state of his affairs in my absence.

I’ve been trying to ignore it – trying to blank out the prospect of that sappy idiot losing his mind over some pretty piece of trouble while I’m in a different time zone.

It’s only when I realise I haven’t registered a damn word in my latest conference session that I call up my calendar and check what events I’d be missing if I left for home early. I curse under my breath, because fucking dammit, there’s at least three presentations I’ve marked on my must see list over the next few days. But it’s pointless. Really fucking pointless.

I try Mike’s phone again one last time after the session ends. He doesn’t answer, which only cements my decision.

I’ve got to get back there, and it has to be ASAP. Jesus fucking Christ.

Having seen the state this girl’s got him into these past few months, it’s all too easy to imagine him going batshit about her disappearance. The fool could be hunting her down all over the country by now. And then what? What if she never resurfaces? Will he spend his whole life chasing after a pretty little ghost with a shitty attitude?

Not on my fucking watch.

I email Tom, telling him to book a flight out in my stead and take notes on everything I’m going to be missing. It’s the best I can do.

I book a seat on the first flight back in the morning and then I curse Mike’s midlife crisis for taking me away from business.

I’m about to send him another text to warn him of my changed plans, but I don’t. My fingers hover over the keypad, my mind scoping out the prospect of a load of vague-arsed return messages playing down whatever crap he’s got going on over there. No. If there is anything going down, then I’d rather walk straight into the heart of the craziness and see it in all its ugly glory. At least then I’ll know what I’m dealing with.

Carrie Wells. I shake my head. Pretty girl, but is she ever worth all this?

In my educated opinion – considering I’ve bedded almost every attractive woman our local vicinity has to offer – I’d say a categoric no. So what if she’s pretty? So what if she has a look in her eyes that tells you she’d be a fucking wonder in bed? She’s got problems coming out of her ass and a bad attitude to boot. Scrap that, a terrible fucking attitude to boot. I saw it clear as day while she was trailing around Drury’s after Eddie fucking Stevens.

I sigh to myself as I book a cab for the airport in the morning. Bright and early, just as I like it.

Carrie Wells. Would I go there? Would I want a piece of sweet, feral, teenage pussy? Would I want to see those pretty eyes staring up at me as I shoved my cock down her throat to quiet that smart little fucking mouth?

I allow myself a laugh before I head into my next seminar.

In my educated opinion, no. I fucking would not.

She’d never be worth the aggravation. No member of the female populous I’ve ever encountered would be.

My business associates haven’t assembled yet for the next event, so I take a coffee from the side cabinet and stare at the projected intro screen. I’m always early, it’s a trait of mine. My father always said that opportunity waits for no man. It’s the man at the front of the line who gets awarded the best choices, and it must have stuck with me far better than some of the other bullshit advice he gave me early on, because I’m always at the front of the line in life.

I love my dad. He’d say a lot of his advice was bullshit too. The thought makes me smile as I sip my coffee.

They’ve used a decent blend. I like that.

Michael thinks I’m where I am in life because I work harder than the others. He thinks it’s because I’m smarter than the others too, but I’m neither of those things. I had to work my ass off to get grades high enough to get into Warwick University, but from that point I worked smart, not hard. I came out with a mediocre business degree but a shit-hot attitude for business itself. I made sure my networking was on point, made it my business to be in the right place at the right time, ahead of all the others hungry for a piece of the same pie. And it worked.

It continues to work over a decade later.

Michael gives everything to his profession because he loves it. He pursued his career because of the meaning he takes from helping other people find their feet.

I give only what my business absolutely needs and maybe a little beyond, everything on top of that is the reason I have staff. But insurance was never my calling, clearly. Nobody loves risk analysis. I set up on my own because I knew I didn’t want to work for anyone else; it’s that simple. I couldn’t stomach a future divided into work weeks and days off on loop, on and on until retirement, when you finally get to do the shit you want with your own time, just as long as you’ve banked enough to afford your club memberships and your winter heating bill.

I guess you could say I like to lead rather than follow. You could also say I like to be in control of my personal situation at all times, hence why this infatuation of Michael’s perplexes me somewhat.

Why do people go so fucking insane over random members of the opposite sex?

Are we really still slaves to base level hormonal instincts? Really? Are we?

I like to think not, which is probably the reason I’ve dated over a hundred women and only popped the question to one of them. Diana didn’t even live with me, it was long distance. It would probably never have made it to the proposal stage if she’d lived anywhere near my doorstep.

I don’t regret not tying the knot. I don’t regret never having that one special person that I’ve opted to label my own above all others, even if my mother still whines on about grandchildren over Sunday dinner. I watched Michael and Molly live in a state of romantic mediocrity for years and it didn’t nothing whatsoever to raise the green-eyed monster in me. I think I’d have been bored to death if I’d been in his shoes.

Carrie Wells – the little minx that pushed my poor sensible friend off his sensible rocker.

I’m still shaking my head at the insanity of it all as the other delegates filter in.

 

* * *

 

Carrie

 

Michael didn’t come back last night. I thought maybe he’d call or text, but he didn’t. I sat by the landline with his business card in my hand, flipping it over and over and wishing my stupid dumb mouth would open up enough to tell him I’m sorry. But it wouldn’t.

I hate TV, so the minute Michael left I turned it right back off again. I don’t get why people like the stupid thing so much. Almost every house I’ve ever set foot in has a stupid screen blaring somewhere. I’ve spent loads of time watching people stare at moving pictures on a box like big dumb shits, and I just don’t get it.

When you’ve been in foster care as much as I have, you come to know it’s an easy option to palm off every kid that ever wants attention. Why don’t you just behave and watch some TV? Why don’t you sit down in front of the TV and be quiet? Why don’t you just watch the kids channel like every other kid we’ve ever taken care of?

Because TV is a fucking life-stealer, you dumbfucks. TV is a fucking sedative for your fucking brain.

Know what burns more calories, watching TV or staring at a blank wall? Staring at a blank wall, because at least then your brain has to make moving pictures for its fucking self.

I want to put my boot through posh guy’s big fucking screen, because even looking at it reminds me how I pushed Michael away last night. But I don’t. Because I like it here, even though I know I won’t be able to stay.

I’m never allowed to stay anywhere, not for long. But for now I’m gonna make the most of it, because posh guy’s house is amazing – the best house I’ve ever been in. If you look through the back windows, especially from upstairs, you can see for miles, a patchwork of fields and trees and sheep. I wonder if posh guy has any animals here. There’s no dog, which is sad because this place would be the best place ever to have a couple of Labradors. I can’t see a cat, either, and there’s no cans of petfood in the cupboards. The guy must be an idiot for not having pets here. If I lived here I’d have a whole zoo in my backyard.

It looks like it’s gonna be a nice day today, even if the ground is still bound to be boggy from the rain last night. I got up early because that springy bed makes stupid squeaks every time I roll over, but that’s alright. I like getting up early. It makes sense that travelling is in my genetics, because there’s nothing I like more than exploring as the sun comes up outside. I hate being cooped up while there’s a big open world out there.

I’m so desperate to get out into it that I don’t even grab any breakfast. I lace up my boots and head through the back door, wondering just how many of the fields I counted from the window belong to this house. I bet it’s all of them. Most of them at least.

I have to climb over some fences, but my ankle holds up just fine. I scrabble through a couple of broken hedgerows and find a little stream that’s just perfect for hopping over.

Being in the middle of nowhere excites me. Being just me amongst the magic of nature is the thing that makes my soul happy. The hours disappear so easily out here. I find I’m smiling, even though I still feel like shit about Michael. I find I’m twirling, laughing, calling to the birds in the trees. They probably think I’m as crazy as I feel, but my blood is pumping and my hair is flying all around me and I love it. I really love it.

And then I see something. A bedraggled something flapping around on the ground by the hedge at the far side. I head over to get a closer look, and it’s a crow, a big black one with beady eyes that glint as it stares at me. My heart drops as I see he’s got his leg caught in some wire, and I hate posh guy for having such an amazing place and not taking care of the maintenance. The fence is crap down here, all broken and battered, and nature’s suffering, yet again, for humanity’s dumbfuck ignorance.

Even in boots I can move quietly when I need to. I’m slow and steady, making sure I talk to the bird real softly as I make my way over. He flaps hard but he can’t go anywhere. His eyes don’t leave mine at all, and when I get there he caws at me but doesn’t freak out like I thought he might.

His feathers are muddy and trashed. His leg looks sore where the wire’s cut him, but it seems like he can still move it.

I don’t know where posh guy keeps a tool kit and I wouldn’t want to head all the way back to the house even if I did. This crow needs freeing right away, so I crouch down, crawling along the last bit, right through the mud, until I can get a proper look at things. I sigh in relief to find I can do this. I really can do this by hand.

I’m careful. Really careful.

I put my hand on the crow’s wings and hold him to the ground, just enough to steady him. My fingers free up some slack on the wire and gently, really gently, I twist it free of the bird’s leg.

I’m quick when I’ve done it, bundling the bird into my arms before he can attempt to fly away. I’ll need to look at him, maybe wash him down with something and try to straighten up his mangled feathers.

I feel like I’m carrying the most amazing treasure on the planet as I head back to the house. The crow doesn’t fight me, not when he’s held safe under my arm. It’s like he knows I saved him, and it figures, because they’re super smart birds. Smarter than some people, I’m sure, because so many people are fucking idiots.

I don’t really have a plan for once I’m inside, so I just shut the back door behind me and hope the crow stays calm when I put him on the kitchen island.

He doesn’t.

The moment I let him go he flaps about and takes off right through to the dining room.

Fuck.

I haven’t got time to take my boots off, be fucked with posh guy’s carpets. I haven’t got time to do anything but chase after the bird and hope he doesn’t wreck everything before I’ve even had the chance to help his foot.

He settles on the top of some big display cabinet, so I grab a dining chair and climb up after him. He’s gone before I reach him, and as he takes off he dislodges one of the ornaments on the top shelf. The big garish glass thing tumbles before I can catch it, smashes on the floor into a billion pieces of gaudy coloured glass.

Fuck. It’s not even lunchtime and I’m already trashing the fucking place.

The sound of smashing glass freaks the poor crow out worse, and he shits himself, dumping big globs of crap over the dining table before he heads through the door back into the hallway.

Fuck. I should’ve fucking closed that.

My boots crunch over the broken glass and trample a load of it with me. I see the sparkles in the carpet as I chase the bird around the house, finally cornering him in the living room where he settles on a big framed-mirror behind the sofa.

He stops. Stares at me.

And I know he’s thinking, watching, working me out. It’s like he can see right into me.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I whisper. “I’m just trying to help your foot, that’s all.”

He blinks and his eyes are so black.

“I just want to help,” I tell him. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

I’m so pleased when he doesn’t fly off again. It’s pure instinct to step up onto the sofa and balance myself on the back cushions.

I can almost reach him here. He shuffles along the frame but he doesn’t fly away.

“I’m a friend,” I say. I’m so gentle as I stretch out and reach for him, I really am.

I’m close. So close. Moving so slowly I daren’t even breathe in case I startle him.

My heart is beating fast, a big smile on my face as I realise he’s really going to let me catch him.

And then there’s a bang.

The loud fucking bang of the front door being barged open.

The crow freaks out and takes off, and he craps again on his way. He’s flapping around the room, knocking fucking ornaments from the mantelpiece in his frantic flight, causing a real fucking commotion because some dumbfuck thumped the fucking door wide open.

I hear footsteps in the hall, and I’m raging. I’m fucking raging.

I know it must be Michael, because who fucking else would it be?

I know it’s his heavy fucking footsteps clumping through the hall, oblivious to the fact he’s just fucked my perfect fucking crow-bonding effort.

“You’re a noisy sonofabitch,” I hiss as I try to head the bird into the corner. “Next time, try to swing the front fucking door right off its hinges, why don’t you?!”

My stomach tips right over itself when it’s not Michael’s voice that answers me.