Adam Nevill - Banquet for the Damned

But I had to phone. I had no choice. About Tom —'

'Why should I care? I wouldn't give a damn if he dropped dead.'

'Funny you should say that.'

Imogen speaks in a thinner, breathless voice. 'Oh God, Dante.

Something's happened to him.'

'I don't know. He's disappeared. Yesterday morning, we had the biggest fight of our illustrious friendship so far, and he took off in the Wagon. He still hasn't come back. I just wanted to make sure he hadn't turned up in Brum, before I sue him for stealing my granddad's motor.'

'Don't scare me like that. I've been having some dreadful dreams since you left. And I started to feel that something had gone wrong.'

Dante stiffens. 'Dante. Are you still there?' Imogen asks, concern in her voice.

'Yeah. Still here. Something you said threw me a bit.'

'What did you say to make him take off?'

Dante sighs. 'A few home truths.'

'Time someone did.'

'Yeah, but now I wish I could take it back. I'm such a hypocrite with him. Always have been. It was the last thing I should have done.

Everything just got on top of me. Things haven't worked out in St Andrews. In fact it's been a nightmare from day one. Let's say this place has opened my eyes to a whole new world.'

'What do you mean? I don't understand.'

'Long story.'

'You're not making sense, Dante. Where's Tom gone?'

'I have no idea. He just took off.'

Disappointment enters her voice because Tom hasn't run to her. 'Well, as you're the only person he ever listened to, it's your problem. I've washed my hands of him. Your friendship was always unhealthy. It's no surprise he's left you. It was bound to happen. All that coercion has finally backfired, Dante. But don't worry. He won't have gone far. He'll be shacked up with some bimbo who doesn't answer back, and when she's up the stick, he'll come flouncing back to you with some idea about a tour of Australia. Then you can have him all to yourself again.' Imogen's voice falters. She stops talking and starts crying. Earlier that day, he doubted his spirits could fall any further. He was wrong. 'You OK?' is all he manages to say.

'No, I'm not bloody OK. How would you feel? I have one year left at university, my whole life ahead of me and he just deserts me. It was all a mistake. I wasn't trying to entrap him. He knew my feelings about abortion.'

Dante can no longer feel his legs. 'What?'

'How can I bring a child up on my own? I live off an overdraft. I still haven't told my mum and dad.'

It is as if the blood has stilled in his veins. Dante clasps a hand to his forehead. 'Shit. Imogen, I didn't know.' He can hear her sniffing over the static on the line. He swallows the lump in his throat. 'Tom never said anything. I just can't believe it.' You poor, sweet girl, he wants to say. We deserve everything we get, he wants to shout. Guilt chokes him. And beneath that, and not for the first time since he's befriended Tom, he feels like a rueful parent, summoned to a headmaster's office after school hours because his child has been disruptive again. 'I don't know what to say,' he offers. 'I really don't. This is so fucked up. Why didn't he…' But everything makes sense now. Their argument must have upset some brimming vat of remorse inside of Tom. 'What are you going to do?' he quick-fires without thinking.

'How do I know?' she sobs back.

'Oh Jesus, this is just too much,' he says to himself.

'Don't bother yourself with it. It's not your problem.'

Dante clenches his jaw. 'Don't say that. When I find that fuck, I'll really kick his arse. Do you think I'd have let him come up here if I knew you were pregnant? Jesus, Imogen, you know me better than that.'

'I didn't know what to think.'

'I promise you,' he says. 'I'll sort this out. I'm going to find him and slap him awake.'

'I don't want him back, Dante. I mean it. I couldn't stand him dragging his heels. He'd never be faithful. I'm through with him. I told him before he left.'

It's going to be a beautiful baby with you two as parents, he thinks, stupidly. 'Look Imogen, my money's running out. I don't have any more change. I'll get in touch again, soon. I'll send — Shit! I'm down to ten pee — I'll send a card with the address on if you need to write in an emergency. OK?'

Imogen sniffs.

'I'll sort this out, I promise. Just hang in there —' After a series of infuriating beeps, the call is terminated.

By the time Dante has called in at a dozen guesthouses on Murray Park, his clothes are sodden. The rain hits his head from all sides as he darts between the tall and sombre Victorian buildings. Carried by whining gusts of wind, it whips through the hard valleys of the streets, as if seeking him out to slap his face whenever he turns to stare its fury down.

Ringing the doorbells of every guesthouse, he watches the owners shuffle through their warm receptions, warily, to peer at him through the glass or crack in the front door. Trying to smile with water dripping off the end of his nose, he asks, over and over again, if anyone called Tom has made a booking within the last two days. Each time the answer is 'No'. He struggles from one house to another until his jeans are plastered to his legs and his waterlogged leather jacket has doubled in weight.

Anger at Tom pushes him up the left side of the road; desperation pulls him down the right. The futility of the venture grows after every disappointment, but he has to stay busy, to provide a focus for the maelstrom of thoughts dizzying him. He begins to suspect Tom may have travelled to one of the outlying fishing villages or even vanished into Dundee or Edinburgh; it's a gut feeling that tells him Tom is no longer in town.

In the very last guesthouse on the street, an old woman, holding a large dog by its collar behind the glass of her porch, shouts 'No vacancies' three times before Dante forces his aching jaw to move so he can ask the familiar question. She then wanders back to her guest book and leafs through the rigid pages, while the dog watches Dante as he stands swaying and dripping on the front steps. When she finally turns and says 'No,' Dante experiences a weary glow of relief; at least he can go home.

He runs up North Street, past the cinema and Arts Centre, to take a short cut through the Quad and rejoin the Scores. Tight jeans rub the tops of his thighs and his underwear clings inside the crack of his buttocks. With an aching back and wet socks wearing blisters on the rear of both heels, he cries out with relief at the sight of the craggy castle and entrance to the East Scores: nearly home. Through a murk of rain and fine sea spray thrown up from the cliff-base, he passes the School of Divinity and turns the gentle bend before the winding coastal path begins. When he next sees Tom, he wonders if it will come to blows.

'Bastard!' he shrieks, the moment he sees the War Wagon, parked outside the flat. He breaks from a jog into a breathless sprint. He flings himself against the front door. His numb hands fumble with the keys and he drops them twice before the door is unlocked. 'Tom!' he yells as he staggers through the warm hallway.

Silence.

He rips the clinging leather jacket from his back. It has become like a diver's wetsuit, and one arm, turned inside out, catches on his watchstrap. Swearing, he stamps on the other empty sleeve to remove the jacket completely. A spasm of pain erupts from the cuts on his back. He grits his teeth against the discomfort. Banging down the corridor, he throws the two bedroom doors open. On each mattress the bags he packed that morning are still huddled together awaiting the evacuation. There is no sign of Tom.

Clawing wet tendrils of hair from his face, Dante runs into the lounge and then the adjoining kitchen. Neither offers any evidence of Tom having returned. Confused, he races back to the bathroom, yelling 'Tom' at the top of his voice. But in there too, everything remains as he left it — clean, empty spaces around the toilet and bath with its misty shower curtain.