Chapter Twenty-One

Christmas Eve, Evening

Lori looked over the banister from the gallery, to check on Misty, relieved to see the little girl had found her colouring book and was totally engrossed, colouring in a picture to leave for Santa, with the mince pie and carrots for the reindeer. Griff sprawled watchfully beside her. Both would be wanting their tea soon, but in the meantime …

She dithered for a moment. The Cwtch or the bedroom?

She chose the Cwtch, speeding along the corridor. It was unlikely in the extreme that Andrew Vitruvius would come along here before morning, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She scooped up the evidence of her writing – a thick pad and a bundle of pens, mostly culled from writing courses and festivals – dumping it in the wicker basket that held the ring binder with her notes, her thesaurus and her dictionary. Her travelling writer’s toolkit. She shoved the basket behind the chair and felt better.

She wrinkled her nose at the row of Vitruvius’s books on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. She’d like to hide them too, but there wasn’t time and she didn’t have anywhere to put them. She belted back along the landing, checking on Misty again on the way. Still colouring. She could hear the shower running in the bathroom, so she had a few minutes.

Shaking up pillowcases and wrangling with the duvet gave her some time to think, but she wasn’t sure it was such a good idea. She’d brought a complete stranger into the house, with her small niece, just because he was a best-selling author. She thumped a pillow to make it lie flat. That was as bad as thinking you knew characters in Coronation Street or EastEnders as friends. And what the hell is the man mixed up in? Had he really brought something dangerous with him?

Involuntarily she glanced over at the curtained window. Without immediate neighbours, Paulie had installed good locks and bolts for his gran, and in a borrowed house Lori was meticulous in making sure they were all engaged and locked before she and Misty went out. They were still locked. No one was going to be breaking in here tonight and Vitruvius would be gone in the morning, taking whatever trouble he was in with him.

She still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure he hadn’t engineered the whole thing himself, but if he had, someone had messed up, and he had paid for it.

And could you really have left him there? The state he was in?

He hadn’t wanted to come with them. You were the one who insisted. Unless he was a master double bluffer, she took that as a sign that he wasn’t a threat to herself or Misty. She didn’t have trouble under her roof, although he might bring it to the door. I really hope you’re not being a fool here.

She smoothed down the surface of the duvet and straightened up, looking her guilt in the face. Remembering. It wasn’t just concern for the man that had prompted her in those first seconds. She could still feel it. That leap of excitement, avarice – she didn’t know what to call it – when she’d recognised who he was. A writer, and a famous writer. The kind who might launch careers …

How low can you get?

That she’d discarded the impulse in the next minute, didn’t make it go away. Which is why there wasn’t going to be any sight nor mention of her own writing. And he would be gone in the morning. Hold that thought.

The bed was finished. She trotted over to the chest of drawers. Paulie had left a few clothes here, shirts and a pair of old cargo pants with paint stains on both knees that matched the colour of the kitchen walls. There were a couple of unopened packets of cheap boxer shorts and a new toothbrush too. Left, she guessed, from when Paulie was staying over with his grandmother to help his mother out. In the early days before the dementia got too great a hold, when she’d still recognised her grandson.

Lori rummaged, pulling out a shirt and holding it up. It looked okay. Drew Vitruvius was big, but Paulie still played rugby and had the build to match, so that was no problem. She dropped the clothes on a chair and looked round. Water. He’d demolished a whole bottle in the car. There was an unopened litre bottle in her room. She fetched it, dropping the clothes beside the bathroom door as she passed and returning to put the bottle beside the bed, along with the first aid kit that lived with a fire extinguisher in a small cupboard on the landing. She wasn’t planning on playing Florence Nightingale, but there were antiseptic and plasters in there, if they were needed.

She’d got close enough to Vitruvius helping him get here. She could still feel the tingling in her fingers from holding on to that well-muscled arm. Once he was out of the shower, smelling good and looking at her with those deep brown eyes … It might be Christmas Eve, but she wasn’t helping herself to that sort of present. The man was attractive, even bruised and battered. More attractive in the flesh than looking macho on the back of a book jacket. She’d always been a sucker for a wounded hero.

Wounded, not totally screwed up.

With a silent whisper of thanks that they would only be under the same roof for a few hours, she went down to see about food for Misty and Griff. She’d deal with food for her unexpected guest later. The presence of a strange man in the house meant there wouldn’t be any cuddling on the sofa tonight in Christmas pyjamas, but she could still break out the mince pies and amaretti biscuits.

They’d eaten cheese on toast and shared a mince pie and now Misty was inspecting the room, inch by inch, deciding on the best place to hang her stocking, with Griff pacing solemnly beside her. Lori sat on the sofa, nibbling on an almond biscuit and wondering what had become of their unexpected guest. She’d heard the bathroom door open, followed by a waft of damp, soap-scented air, which had rolled down the staircase when she’d been cutting up the cheese, but since then, nothing. She swallowed the last delicious crumb of biscuit and stood up. ‘I won’t be a minute, sweetie.’

She knocked softly on the door. ‘Hello?’ before cautiously putting her head round it. The bedside light was still on. Drew was flat out on the duvet, face down. He didn’t stir as she moved to stand at the foot of the bed. She waited, to see if he’d sit up, but nothing happened. She looked round, taking stock. The level in the water bottle had gone down; he was dressed in Paulie’s shirt and one of the pairs of underpants. She kept her eyes away from a sturdy pair of legs, furred with dark hair, walking round to stand at the head of the bed. His hands were splayed out either side of his head. He’d done a workmanlike job with plasters and a bandage to tether the cuff and chain in place.

She rescued the first aid kit, still open and balanced precariously on the edge of the bed. Gingerly she put her fingers on the side of his neck. His skin was warm and his pulse was even. She pulled her hand away quickly as he moved one of his, to rub where she’d touched him. He let out a muted puttering noise and dropped his hand again.

The tension in her shoulders eased away. Not unconscious, just asleep. She picked up a heavy knitted throw from the chair and wrapped it around him, leaving the light on, but pressing the base so that the brightness dimmed a little. It might help if he woke up later, disorientated.

Everything was done. The stocking was in place, displaying interesting bulges, the foil container from the mince pie artistically arranged on a plate, next to the empty Bailey’s glass. Misty’s colouring book, with the completed picture, was propped open beside it. Misty was upstairs, fast asleep, with Bunny on one side and Griff on the other. When Lori peeked in, Drew Vitruvius was still out for the count, although he had turned on his side, burying his face in the pillow.

Lori had hauled the presents out of the cupboard beside the front door and piled them under the tree, wondering what the parcels from her sister contained for her abandoned daughter. There was even one from Dan. She recognised his large blunt handwriting on the card. What sort of convoluted route had that taken to get here?

Lori circled the room, extinguishing lights and setting the burglar alarm. She hadn’t used it since they’d arrived, but tonight she armed it, just in case. Satisfied with the precautions she had taken, she climbed the stairs, carrying the radio so that she could listen to the midnight carol service, hopefully without disturbing her niece. She checked her phone and found a surprising four bar signal, rather than the usual grudging single. Something to do with the weather? Or a touch of Christmas magic?

She stopped on the landing. Vitruvius was fast asleep. With a signal on the phone, should she be ringing the police?

They’d made a deal. No police, no contact.

And no loved ones waiting anxiously for news?

No one he’d felt the need to get in touch with.

Isn’t that a little sad?

That wasn’t anything do with her. It was reassuring to know that she had a phone signal if they did need to summon help, but she wasn’t going to break their agreement.

Around her the barn was quiet and still, although the wind was moaning a little at the outside corners of the building.

Christmas Eve and all was warm and safe.

No one could get into the house without them knowing about it.

Not even Father Christmas.