Left You Dead

6

Niall Paternoster pocketed his phone and stood by their car, looking all around, puzzled. Just where on earth was she? No way would Eden have gone to McDonald’s, she loathed it. He often had a Big Mac when he was out on the road, and had long stopped telling her except when he deliberately wanted to hack her off, because he would always get a lecture. And she couldn’t accept their vegetarian stuff was any good.

Had she gone to M&S? She liked their food halls and still bought stuff there even though, with his reduced income, he felt they couldn’t afford their prices any more — not until they were back on their feet, at least. OK, fine, she was still earning decent money, thank God. But much of it went to paying the mortgage and the rest of the bills.

He was well aware she had more income from a portfolio of rental properties she’d built up before they’d met, from savvy investments she’d made from her savings. But they’d always agreed she shouldn’t dig into them, and he had no involvement in how she ran that part of her finances, or any of their finances in truth. He told her he wanted their basic food and limited treats — including booze — to come from whatever pittance he got from journeyman cabbing. It was another serious bone of contention, with Eden telling him that his idea of the man being the family breadwinner was just ridiculously old-fashioned — and insulting.

Ever since his printing business had gone under, earlier this year, he’d been driving his mate Mark Tuckwell’s Skoda taxi on a casual basis, in the hours Mark didn’t want to work. Which was mostly nights through into early morning. Picking up drunks, with the ever-present risk of them projectile vomiting and costing him a £350 clean-up. As well as the occasional fare doing a runner.

He made his way over towards the huge M&S store, but even from a hundred yards away he could see it was closed. No sign of Eden anywhere. He phoned her again. Unavailable. He texted her and WhatsApped her, with the same message. She had said there was some charge on her phone. She must have switched it on by now if she was OK?

Eden, this is not funny, where the hell are you? I’m worried.

He returned to the BMW and waited. Another ten minutes. Fifteen. The car park was emptying. Shit, it was now 4.25 p.m.

He sat in the car and tried to think through the possibilities of where she could be.

Kidnapped on her way to the store, or in the store?

Ridiculous.

Came out of the store lugging a heavy sack of cat litter and couldn’t find him?

She’d have called or texted him, surely?

Suddenly taken ill?

Passed out somewhere?

They’d searched the store.

Babes, come on, where are you?

He stopped to think. Eden, with her Irish ancestry, had a fiery temper. There had been a few times in the past when they’d had full-blown rows over seemingly nothing, driving somewhere, when she’d told him to stop, got out of the car and taken a taxi home.

He paused for a moment. But they hadn’t rowed today, not really, surely? For God’s sake, cat litter? But he knew she was independent and spontaneous. Could she have bumped into a friend in the store and asked for a lift home?

She’d done that, also, once before after they’d had an argument. But today it hadn’t been like that.

Maybe if he drove home, he’d find her there, and she’d have a perfectly rational explanation — one he’d overlooked? Although, right now, he couldn’t think what.

He started the engine and drove an entire circuit of the car park, including checking the service areas behind the stores.

No Eden.

Debating which route to take, he decided on travelling east along the busy Old Shoreham Road, checking his phone for a message at every traffic light he stopped at. All the time thinking. Wondering where, just where she could be.

Nevill Road was almost a mile long, on the outskirts of the City of Brighton and Hove, running north from the Old Shoreham Road, passing the Greyhound Stadium, skirting the border of Hove Park, up to the edge of the city near the South Downs National Park.

Niall turned left at the lights, drove up past the school, then turned left again onto the driveway of their red-brick semi opposite the stadium. He pulled up a couple of yards in front of the motorcycle storage container which housed his Honda Fireblade — which Eden refused to ride on — and his equally cool Trek road bike. Checking his phone yet again — still no word — he climbed out and walked up to the brilliant-white front door, which he’d repainted, along with all the outside woodwork, during the plentiful free time he had these days. He went inside and called out, ‘Baby! I’m home!’

He was greeted by a pitiful miaow.

‘Eden?’ he called again, louder.

Another miaow. Even more pitiful. Reggie peered accusingly at him from the kitchen doorway. They’d named the platinum Burmese cat after the gangster Reggie Kray because the cat was, in their view, a vain bully but with huge charm and an insatiable greed. He also had a damned annoying miaow. Didn’t seem to matter how much or how often they fed the increasingly plump creature, he always wanted more. Some while back, Eden suggested they should have called him Oliver Twist. But that was lost on Niall.

As were the cat’s cries now.

But not the stench that greeted him.

Weren’t cats supposed to get the hang of peeing and pooping outside? Another thing he had blamed Eden for. She’d refused to let Reggie out for months after he’d had his jabs and his nuts removed, because they lived on a main road. When she’d finally allowed him out, it was strictly just in the back garden which they’d had cat-proofed as much as possible. As a result, Reggie now went out for hours on end, then hurried back indoors, through his flap, whenever he needed to do his business.

Hence the need, still, for cat litter.

Ignoring the creature’s cries, he checked out the living room, which was separated from the dining area by an archway. The chess game they were in the middle of sat on the coffee table, a white sofa either side. Suspiciously, he glanced at it, just in case she’d sneaked home to cheat and had removed another piece. He was already a rook down. But it was pretty much as he remembered. She was winning, as usual.

Calling out again, he hurried upstairs and into their bedroom, with its tented ceiling. Eden’s idea, when they had first moved in. She’d seen it in some designer magazine and thought it would be romantic to sleep in what she thought felt, sort of, like a Bedouin tent. Except you could now see dozens of dead flies through the fabric when the lights were on.

‘Eden!’ he shouted and went through into the en-suite bathroom.

It was empty.

He looked at his watch again. Then was tempted to check the result of the Grand Prix, but didn’t want to waste any precious time. Sod Eden, whatever her stupid game was, he thought, stripping off his sweaty top and shorts, going through into the bathroom and dumping them in the laundry basket. He washed his face, slapped cold water on his chest, slathered himself in his favourite aftershave, then put on a fresh T-shirt and shorts and his cycling socks and shoes.

Next, he bunged his phone, a shirt, slacks and shoes into a rucksack — he would change into them later before his airport pickup — and wriggled it onto his back, hurrying downstairs as he did so. Grabbing his front-door keys, he went out to the storage container, checked the bike’s tyres were hard enough — thank God, they were — and clipped on his helmet.

Moments later, after locking up, he stood on the driveway, looking up and down the pavement for any sign of Eden. The sky was darkening, but he didn’t care if he got wet. He pushed off, mounted and pedalled hard. If she wanted to play games, that was fine by him. No doubt she would be home by the time he’d done his airport pickup and got back to Brighton.