Normally the rain was consistent in its intensity — a never-ending sheet of fine drops that managed to soak their way through outer layers of clothing in no time. But occasionally the skies really opened up, releasing a barrage of droplets that bordered on tropical in their heaviness.
This was such a downpour.
Slumped in a chair on the patio, Tom focused on the TV through the French windows, drips catching in his eyebrows, falling in a steady stream from his nose, running down his legs and into his shoes. The dancers in the closing ceremony at the Commonwealth Games stadium tried to keep their movements synchronized as they splashed and slipped through the puddles of water.
Despite the rain, the temperature was pleasantly warm. With a movement so deliberate he could only be exceptionally drunk, Tom held the whisky bottle up. He considered whether to replace the top: he didn't want any rain watering it down.
He'd given up trying to ring Charlotte's mobile. For the first few days after their argument it went onto answerphone every time he called. Then the number went dead and he realized she must have moved to another one.
Slowly he raised the bottle to his lips, sucked down a great mouthful and decided the drink wasn't suffering. Turning his eyes back to the screen, he watched as the Queen was escorted to her place, attendants struggling to keep umbrellas over her. After another hour or so, the firework display began. Tom watched the screen, seeing the rockets taking off in a Mexican wave around the rim of the stadium. Then, tilting his head to the night sky, he watched the flickering lights bouncing off the low-lying cloud, water coursing down his chin, snaking in rivulets across his bare chest and wildly racing heart.
The next day he remembered that Charlotte's parents, Martin and Sheila, had moved to the Cotswolds in the weeks after he had married their daughter. He and Charlotte had met up with them in a restaurant with the surprise news that they had got married. It was an announcement that provoked only tight smiles and forced words of congratulation. He sensed the distance between the couple and their daughter, as if they'd resigned themselves to the fact that their little girl had chosen a path in life of which they didn't approve but dared not criticize.
On the internet he went to the directory enquiries web site, typed in their details and geographic location. The search threw up five possibilities and Tom found them on his fourth call.
'Hello, it's Tom Benwell here. 'A pause followed, long enough to force him into saying, 'Your daughter's husband?'
The information finally clicked and Sheila exclaimed, 'Tom! Oh how silly of me to get mixed up. How are you and Charlotte? Everything OK I hope?'
'Well…' He knew then that his wife wasn't with them. 'As a matter of fact, we've had a bit of a bust up — a few days ago now. She wanted some space, so we're spending some time apart. I was kind of hoping she may have gone to you.'
Sheila didn't seem at all concerned that her daughter had apparently vanished. 'No, she hasn't rung us. How odd. I hope it turns out to be nothing you can't resolve.'
'I'm sure we will.' He paused and when he carried on, there were tears running down his cheeks. 'I was silly, Sheila. Made plans about moving house and jobs without telling her. I think it all took her by surprise. Listen, if she calls can you tell her to please phone me?'
'Of course.'
'Thank you. And I was wondering, do you have the numbers for any school friends she might have gone to at a time like this?'
'Tom,' she said, 'you struck me as a very nice man, if a touch naïve. I'll be honest with you, though it seems very strange to be telling my daughter's husband this. Charlotte has always been very single-minded, to the point of not really having any close friends. She always preferred the company of men. Wealthy men, to be frank. 'A wistful note had crept into her voice. 'I don't know why.'
'The numbers of any friends, male or female, will do.'
'That's what I'm trying to get to. I don't have any numbers. I'm ashamed to say that her life isn't that familiar to us.'
Tom was only half taking it in. 'OK, well thanks Mrs Davenport.'
'Hang on!'she suddenly exclaimed. 'She got a postcard the other day. It was redirected from our old address to here. Sent from Olivia, her old flat mate.'
Tom had no idea who she was.
'Anyway, Olivia gives her new address; she's still near Manchester. A place called Disley, I think. Hang on, I'll just get it.' She came back on the line a minute later and read out the address. 'Oh and Tom? Please ring me when she does turn up. She's done this sort of disappearing act before, but it's always nice to know that she's safe and sound.'
Tom felt his guts tightening and anxiety beginning to build at the back of his head. It was time. He reached for the new bag he'd got from Brain, so plump and soft and comforting.
The video had finished long ago, rewound itself and was waiting for something else to happen. Tom was slumped in his seat, a bottle of brandy, the powder and the gun on the coffee table before him. He drifted in and out of sleep, stirring every now and again to take another sip or pinch.
Where had she gone? What about their baby? He'd tried everything he could think of. The staff at the David Lloyd Club wouldn't help. Details of their members' training classes were confidential. When he had lost his temper two assistants from the gym had almost carried him out the door. That was another thing: his temper. It would flare up so easily, then die down to be replaced with stifling despair. The swings in emotion were exhausting him, making it hard to sleep. The only thing that seemed able to straighten out his emotions and make him feel better was the powder.
The sole evidence that Charlotte still existed was the withdrawals from their joint bank account. A few hundred here, a few hundred there. But always from cashpoints — never transactions at a hotel or somewhere that would give him a clue as to where she was staying.
Staring at the blank screen in the darkness, he was vaguely aware of a car driving slowly past. A couple of minutes later he heard a tiny creaking noise. Groggily he looked towards the doorway.
A shaft of light shone in the hall, flickering around, catching on the mirror at the end of the corridor. He got to his feet, having to grab the back of the sofa before he fell over. He picked the gun off the table and staggered to the door. Peering round, he could see a thin ray of light shining through the letterbox. Caught in the bright beam was a piece of wood with a hook on the end. Raising up the gun, he stepped out of the front room. The torch beam jumped to his legs and started travelling upwards as he tried to squeeze the trigger. The thing wouldn't budge and he realized the safety was on.
The light suddenly cut as the letterbox snapped shut.
Tom lurched down the corridor. As he snatched the keys off the hook he could hear someone scrabbling to their feet beyond the door. Pushing the key in the lock, he flung his front door open. A dark figure was running from the end of his driveway.
'You fucker!' Tom screamed, trying to go after him but tripping on the doormat. He fell down the steps, the gun clattering across the tarmac and under the Porsche.
A car started up further down the street but, by the time he'd got back to his feet, the vehicle had accelerated away.
He paced to the end of his drive and watched the red lights as the vehicle sped round the corner and out of sight. Hyperventilating, he marched back to his car, reached underneath and retrieved the gun.
Back inside he turned the hallway light on and examined the weapon. A couple of new scratches had been added to the scarred black metal, merging with the file marks that obliterated where some writing and numbers used to be.