Stuart James - Apartment 6

Wow, entrepreneur of the year in action right here. What a guy. ‘I understand, I just need to take a boat for an hour, that’s it. A bit of relaxation, clear the head, you know. I’ll pay you treble.’

The guy sighed, blowing out a hard breath into the mouthpiece, sounding like a poorly-tuned radio. ‘Fine. Go for it, knock yourself out.’

He gave Oliver a code to unlock a padlock, then took his card details.

Ten minutes later, Oliver had rowed back to where his car was parked.

He got out, returned to the parked vehicle, then opened the boot, placing his foot on the bumper for leverage, pulling to one side the blanket he had used to cover the trunk.

Oliver quickly checked over his shoulder, looking into the distance, then heaved the trunk out of the boot, dragged it to the edge, removed his socks and shoes and stood in the icy water.

It was beyond cold; his feet were instantly numb as he balanced, feeling his legs sink into the silt. He quickly grabbed the trunk, manoeuvring it onto the boat, then pulled himself over and in. The boat rocked back and forth as he steadied himself. For a moment he thought he’d drop over the edge and into the murky water.

He sat for a second, gaining control, composing himself, then picking up the oars, he rowed into the middle of the lake. Every so often he paused to jab the oars into the water, and when he couldn’t touch the bottom, he stopped. He looked around and then tipped the trunk over the side, watching it drop to the bottom of the lake and out of sight.

Twenty minutes later, Oliver had chained up the boat, dumped the oars and was back at the car.

He stood for a moment, looking out across the calm lake, selfishly gulping fresh air, clearing his mind, filling his lungs, stretching.

He stepped back, aware someone was approaching. Oliver ducked, seeing the old boy from earlier standing at the entrance. His Jack Russell dog was taking a pee, sniffing, then looking towards where Oliver stood. Go, please. Just move on, for Christ’s sake.

The dog moved further down the path, heading to where Oliver was crouched, barking furiously and pulling at his lead.

‘What’s up, boy? You found something?’

Oliver stood, making out he’d just seen the elderly guy. ‘Hi, I’ve just got a flat tyre. I pulled in here so as not to cause an accident.’ Oliver waited, hoping the guy would move on and leave him to it.

‘I’ll give you a hand. Come on, Roofus, there’s a good boy.’

‘No, really, it’s fine. I’ve almost finished.’

‘Don’t be daft, it’s no trouble.’

Oliver watched as the dog pulled harder, anxious to get to the water; he could smell something. The elderly guy seemed pleased for something to occupy his time. Any second now, the guy would phone for help, reporting suspicious activity.

‘I’m Roy, good to meet you, squire.’ The elderly guy extended his arm, struggling to restrain his four-legged companion.

Oliver shook his hand, giving his name and then turning away. He didn’t need this. He hadn’t worked out how to deal with being seen.

The old guy let the dog go, watching him race to the edge of the lake, lapping the water like it was an ice cream on a hot day. The guy wore a smart waistcoat, white shirt and light blue cords. He removed his flat cap, wiping the top of his head. ‘Hard work having one of them,’ he said, pointing at the dog. ‘They keep you fit, mind.’

Oliver was crouched on one knee, making out he’d replaced the tyre. ‘Right, that’s it. Good to go. Well, it was nice meeting you.’ He made for the driver’s seat.

‘Course, we get fly-tippers here a lot. Forever dumping their shit on our land.’

‘Yeah, nasty business,’ Oliver stated, unsure whether the old guy was suspicious. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to make tracks. Good to meet you, oh, and Roofus too.’

As Oliver got into the driver’s seat, he closed the door and started the car.

The elderly guy walked to the side to clear a path. ‘You wouldn’t be dumping stuff now, would you, young fellow?’

Oliver thought, if only you knew. He pulled out onto the narrow country lane, turning right. In his rear-view mirror he watched the elderly man standing by the gate and waving him off.

Oliver thought about what could have happened if the guy had turned up earlier and seen him dragging the large trunk down to the edge. He shuddered.

The road was quiet ahead; the sharp bends forced him to stay in second gear. He pictured the body of gloved-man lying in Tilford Lake, wondering if he’d ever be recovered.

His mind wandered to Claire and her visit late yesterday evening. He wanted to call her but didn’t want to look desperate. She was the only person he could speak with about the situation. Maybe she could help, give him advice. God they’d been so in love, shared great times, and he had to talk to someone. How much he told her was up to him.

He battled with his thoughts and his conscience, justifying his way of thinking. Why shouldn’t I call? Ask her to come over… After all, she made the first move.

He reached a fork in the road with signs pointing left and right, but was unsure which road would lead him to London.

He reached for his mobile and tapped in Claire’s number. He heard the ringtone. Then, ‘Hi, it’s Claire. Leave a message, and I’ll call you back.’ Beeeeeeeeeeeep.

‘Hi, Claire. It’s Oliver. I need to see you. I-I don’t know where to begin. Last night was great. Seeing you, I mean – the best. I know I’m waffling on, but just call. It would be great to hear your voice.’

He hung up, stared at the screen for a second before placing the phone back on the passenger seat.

Oliver rubbed his face, pulling down hard with the palm of his hand, the frustration taking over his body. He glanced at his reflection. He looked tired, worn out. He’d had enough and needed sleep.

He drove for another mile or so, and saw a billboard to the left: Harcombe Lodge. Bed and Breakfast. One mile ahead.

Oliver decided to pull over, take a break, have some time out, make a couple of calls and sort his head.

As he approached, Oliver saw a sign for the car park pointing towards the back of an old public house, with lodges and barns to the side and rear of the building. He parked next to a transit van, shut off the engine and got out.

The wind had ramped up. A strong breeze howled through the open fields making it difficult to move.

As Oliver walked to the reception, a woman came out from one of the barns. She was dressed as if she’d been riding a horse, with long boots, tight leggings and a round black hat strapped tightly under her chin. ‘Getting a little blowy, I’d say. We’d better get inside,’ she suggested.

Oliver smiled, offering no communication. His head was too full to think straight. He opened the large wooden door and was greeted by a middle-aged woman who was flicking through the guest book behind the counter. She looked up. ‘Afternoon. How can I help?’

Oliver stepped forward, watching the lady closing the book, pushing her glasses to the top of her thick blonde hair.

‘I’d like something to eat. Is the bar open?’ He nodded towards the eatery to the left.

‘We’re always open. It seems my husband and I never leave this place. Take a seat, and I’ll get Siobhan to take an order. I’m Margaret; make yourself comfortable.’

Oliver thanked her and went to the first table in the left corner.

His head throbbed from the stress, and he wished he could plonk himself on a barstool and sink a bottle of whisky.

Once he’d given his order to the friendly young Irish girl, she returned a few minutes later with a pot of coffee. The smell of bacon wafted from the kitchen, and a radio played an old Bruce Springsteen classic, Dancing In The Dark . How very apt.