Page 33 of A Box of Wishes
Ben draped the man’s arm over his shoulder, gripped his waist and heaved him up the single flight of stairs. Donohue neither helped nor hindered Ben’s ministrations, leaving Ben to unlock the door and get them inside.
The entryway had room enough to scramble out of coats and boots without hitting walls or furniture. On the right, a doorway led to a dining kitchen, while an open door on the left gave Ben glimpses of a couch and flat-screen TV.
The living room was neat, if impersonal. An almost empty bottle of whisky on the table suggested that Mr Donohue had started the celebrations at home. Had he gone out to meet someone to celebrate New Year with, or just to have company for a few hours?
Ben located the bedroom, stripped the man’s coat and removed his belt and shoes before he settled him on the bed. He found water in the fridge and aspirin in the bathroom cabinet and set both on the bedside table. After that, he checked the kitchen for a bucket. All he could spot was a washing-up bowl.
When he brought it to the bedroom, he found his charge asleep, curled into a ball on top of the covers. Ben settled a blanket over him and took his pulse. It was as steady as it had been the whole time Ben had watched over him.
He was about to leave the flat when the phone rang. Ben picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Alastair?” It was a woman’s voice on the other end.
“I’m sorry, no. This is DS Hobart, Northamptonshire Police. I’ve just helped Mr Donohue back to his home. He’s been… celebrating a little enthusiastically.”
A wry chuckle met his ear. “Passed out drunk, is what I’m hearing?”
“Something of the sort, yes,” Ben said. “I’ve made him comfortable, and he’s sleeping.”
“He’s okay, isn’t he?” The woman sounded worried suddenly, as if her mind had only just caught up with Ben’s identity and his revelation.
“He’s not hurt, I assure you.”
“But if he’s… Can you give me ten minutes? I can be right over.”
“And you are?”
“Oh. His cousin, Cara O’Shaughnessy. He’s struggling with jet lag. I was calling to see if he wanted me to come over and keep him company while he couldn’t sleep.”
“Night owl yourself?” Ben’s grin hurt his cheeks. How much of a coincidence was this? He could still hear Ryan’s voice, bemoaning the fact that his favourite cousin hadn’t turned up for Christmas lunch, and that his globetrotting sister wouldn’t be home for their Christmas Day get together either. And here he was, meeting them both, and without Ryan there to introduce him.
“Also jet-lagged,” Cara said. “Sufferers united, that’s us. You’re sure Alastair’s okay?”
“He’s not injured,” Ben repeated.
“Okay. I’ll be right over.”
Ben placed the receiver back in the cradle and checked on Ryan’s cousin once more. The man hadn’t moved, and his breathing was steady. Ben dropped the keys onto his bedside table before heading back out, first into the living room and then the kitchen.
Cara O’Shaughnessy was as good as her word. She arrived within ten minutes, letting herself into the flat with her own key. “Thank you for bringing him home,” she said, holding out a hand in greeting. “I’m Cara.”
“DS Hobart.” Ben looked her over, amused by how much she resembled her brother. She had the same auburn hair and brown eyes, the same sensual mouth over a stubborn chin. “Will you be staying with him?”
She nodded. “I’ve nowhere else to be. The rest of my folks are all working. I would be, too, if I hadn’t just flown in this morning. I’d be a menace in a kitchen or behind a bar.” She blushed and scrubbed a hand through her hair. “And I’m waffling. Sorry. I hope he didn’t give you any trouble.”
“None.” He led the way back to the bedroom and pushed the door wide enough for her to see the man on the bed. “I’ve made him comfortable, and he went straight to sleep. Couldn’t even get him to drink any water. He’ll have one hell of a hangover.”
“That’s what you think, officer. Alastair can get drunk as a skunk and never suffer the next morning. Not like the rest of us. Thank you again for bringing him home.”
Back in his car, Ben logged the house call with Dispatch. Assured Alastair Donohue would be fine, Ben peeled away from the kerb and headed to the top of the High Street and Ryan’s uncle’s pub.
Ryan dropped onto the sofa in the break room and blew out a breath that came from the soles of his feet. His day had started at 4:00 a.m. Now it wanted twenty minutes to midnight. He’d kept himself going all day with the image of a smiling Ben Hobart stepping through the door of the coffeehouse just after six o’clock this morning, and with the taste of the kiss Ben had given him just before he’d left. More enjoyable than remembering the loud argument in the flat next door that had stopped him from getting a wink of sleep during the day.
He wanted to crash where he sat, but he was buzzing too much to fall asleep. Not to mention that the party would continue for another three hours at least. A touch of ‘Auld Lang Syne’ at midnight, and then a return to power ballads and trance beats. Another reason Ryan had never wanted to run a pub. He’d never learned the skill to tune out music. And the racket in the bar made it hard to concentrate.
Despite the thumping beats vibrating the floorboards, he heard the squeak of the door opening.
His exhaustion faded when he saw Ben in the doorway, dapper and smiling.
