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.
His phone beeped, alerting him to a message. Oliver glanced at the screen. It was Meagan. She had nothing on him now and no way to prove where the body was.
He stood, took a sip of his coffee then moved outside to the doorway where he read the message in private.
Oliver. It’s me. You need to help me; I’m desperate. You need to finish what you started.
He suddenly felt sick, tired of her games, worn out. He had to call her, however much it went against his better judgement, however it made him feel. He needed to speak with her and sort it once and for all.
He dialled the number and Meagan answered almost instantly. ‘Hello.’ There was a slight optimism in her voice.
‘Meagan. It’s Oliver.’
‘Hey, Oliver. Thanks for calling. How are you?’ She sounded tired, as if she’d just woken.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ he hissed.
There was a brief pause. Oliver heard her sigh, then she spoke softly. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Oliver.’
‘Don’t play fucking games. The picture you sent of the trunk, trying to blackmail me. You know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s as much your fault as it is mine, you hear? If I go down, you’ll come with me; I’ll make sure of it, Meagan.’
‘Oliver, I opened up to you, I confided and put my trust in you. I thought you wanted to be with me, make a life together. I don’t know any other way to make you finish this.’ Meagan waited for a second; she was sniffing, sounding like a little child. ‘I had to send the picture, I couldn’t think of any other way to make you listen. I had to get your attention. I’m risking being caught, and I’m aware I’m as much a part of it as you are. So you see, you need to finish what you started. We can have a life together.’
‘You’re nuts, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re off your fucking trolley. Let me make this clear, Meagan, because I don’t think you’re getting it. We will never be together. I’ve had it with you. The body is gone. It’s off my hands. Do you hear me? Gone, Meagan!’
Oliver suddenly realised what he’d said, instantly regretting letting Meagan know he’d moved the body. He waited, hoping the forceful tone of his assertions had finally sunk in, made her listen and understand.
‘Why don’t you come over tonight? Rob should be out. We can talk.’
Oliver paused, working out what to say. ‘Meagan. I can’t say it any more clearly. We’re over.’
‘Oliver. I’m scared. I have no one to turn to, no one. I thought Rob had changed. In the last week he started treating me differently, looking at me, really noticing me, interested. He brought me out, treated me like a lady, but it didn’t last long. He’s going to kill me, Oliver. The guy has been back, looking for his partner, making threats at the door. He attacked Rob. He knocked again last night while Rob was out.’ She screamed, ‘I need help!’
Oliver waited, soaking up the words Meagan had said. ‘Don’t answer the door. When he comes, pretend you’re not home.’
‘He’s coming back, Oliver. He thumped on the door last night, he stayed for ages. He’s coming back, and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Meagan, pull yourself together. Listen, how do you know he’ll be back? It’s possible he’s knocking at everyone’s door, did you think about that?’
‘No. He saw us; he knows something isn’t right. He’s going to kill me, Oliver.’
As Oliver listened, thinking what to do, he heard Meagan’s buzzer. He pulled the phone from his ear. He listened to Meagan lifting the handset, her shaky voice.
‘Hello. No. I don’t know anyone by that name. Well, I’m sorry, leave it downstairs. No, I’m not pushing the buzzer. You’ll have to take the parcel away, I’m afraid.’
Meagan replaced the receiver, and the buzzer rang again, longer this time. Meagan tried to speak over the loud vibration.
Suddenly it stopped.
‘Oliver, I’m so scared. I think it was him. He’s onto us. What if he knows?’
‘Meagan, calm down. You don’t know that for sure.’
‘Oliver. Can you come over?’
Oliver screamed, ‘I told you for fuck’s sake! No. I’m not doing this anymore, you hear? I’m done. Don’t call me again.’
‘Then you leave me no choice.’ Her voice was raised, louder than he’d heard her talk before.
The phone went dead.
Oliver looked at the screen, struggling to make out what Meagan had meant. You leave me no choice. What the heck was that about? You leave me no choice. It wasn’t as much a threat as total desperation.
He stood outside the lodge for several minutes, dissecting the conversation. As Oliver went to close the phone, a JPEG arrived.
He pressed the square with his right thumb, and a second later, the image appeared.
Oliver eyed the picture, widening it with his thumbs to see more clearly.
There was a note pinned to a door. He could make out the words: Oliver Simmonds at the top. Underneath, an address on the Kings Road. His address. There was a picture – a still from the video of Oliver placing gloved-man into the water.
Meagan had pinned the A4 page to the front door of apartment seven.
Oliver gasped, more of a desperate groan as he listened to himself cry out. The echo of his voice was penetrating through the fields close by.
His heart raced, nausea causing a feeling like his head was swelling, like a pumped-up balloon about to explode, with his brains spilling over the path where he stood. He stepped backwards, gripping a handrail, gasping for breath.