Page 64 of The Do-Over

‘Not here,’ I tell him. ‘If I’m going to tell you this story, I think we should get a drink. There’s a pub in the village. Why don’t I lock up and we can walk up there?’

‘How far is it?’ he asks dubiously. ‘I’m not exactly dressed for rambling.’

‘It’s fine,’ I reassure him. ‘Ten minutes max, all on tarmac.’

‘OK. I’d offer to drive, but the fewer times I have to navigate your track the better, I reckon.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Alasdair says once I’ve recounted the story of George and me, culminating in his sudden disappearance from the barn and his letter. ‘Why’s he blaming himself when it was you who initiated things?’

‘I wish I knew,’ I tell him, taking a sip of my wine. It’s tempting to gulp it, but I’ve got to drive home in a bit so I need to be careful.

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘I don’t have one yet, but I need to straighten this out one way or another. Even if nothing comes of it, I can’t leave things as they are.’

‘I get that. Do you know where he lives?’

‘Nope, and HIBT won’t tell me because of GDPR. I already tried.’

‘Good for them. What about electoral registers?’

‘How many George Joneses do you think there are in the south-east of England?’

‘You don’t even have a town?’

‘Why would I? I know he grew up in South London, but he could be anywhere between here and there. He could even come from further away, I suppose.’

‘So all you know about his whereabouts, other than when he’s been on site with you, is this traction engine in Tenterden.’

‘Yup.’

‘OK, we’ll have to work with that then.’

‘I’m sorry? Where does “we” come into this?’

‘I’m going to help you,’ he says simply.

‘I don’t need your help!’ I exclaim.

‘I think you do. You’re making a right royal mess of this on your own, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Wow, tell it like it is, Alasdair,’ I say sarcastically, taking a mouthful of wine. ‘You know how I hate it when you sit on the fence.’

‘Stop being prickly. Let me get you another drink and then we’ll start to plot.’

I glance down at my glass and I’m surprised to find that it’s empty. On the one hand, I feel a bit resentful having Alasdair meddling in my business, but he does have a point that I’m not doing such a fabulous job of sorting the George problem out by myself so far. Plus, all that stuff he said earlier about me being good at solving problems is also true of him, so maybe having someone to bounce ideas off would be a good idea. The thing with Alasdair is that, although he’s a bit like a puppy in some respects and his rudeness about my current situation is annoying, I know I can trust him completely. And, if I’m honest, I’d forgotten how much I like him.

‘Go on then,’ I tell him. ‘Just a small one.’

29

Bloody hell, I feel like I’ve just done ten rounds in a boxing ring. My eyes are still closed, but whatever I’m lying on is hard and seriously uncomfortable. I shift position slightly to try to relieve the pressure on my pelvis, only to have it transfer to another part of my body. I’m not in my bed at home, that’s for sure, so where the hell am I?

Cautiously, I crack open one eye a fraction. The bare bulb hanging from the ceiling isn’t reassuring, and neither is the curtainless window. It must be early, because it’s still fairly dark outside. I can just make out the sound of someone moving around somewhere else in the building. My befuddled mind initially decides I’ve been kidnapped and I’m now a prisoner in some remote part of the country where nobody will ever find me, before I realise that I recognise the window frame as one of the ones I lovingly repainted in the summer; I’m in the cottage.

I sit up, surprised to discover that I’m wearing nothing except my bra and knickers. As I place my hand on my pillow, the reason for that becomes obvious; I’ve been resting my head on my clothes, which are in a messy pile. Alarmingly, there is another pile of clothes next to me, which I clearly recognise asAlasdair’s. Wrapping the blanket around me, I make my way over to the door and flip on the light switch, immediately having to shade my eyes from the glare of the bulb.

Once I become accustomed to the brightness, the view doesn’t get any better. Our mattress, if you can call it that, is just a pile of decorating blankets, with another couple of blankets on the top to form a makeshift duvet. No wonder I’m sore this morning. Whoever thought it would be a good idea to spend the night here?

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