Fry (14 page)

“Thanks for getting here so quickly,” I say, as we walk out into the daylight.

“No problem.”

I look up and down the street for his zippy little sports car, but can’t see it.

“Where did you park?”

“Over there,” he says, reluctantly. I look again.

Deacon’s dark red BMW.

Deacon winds down the window.

“Hello, Isabel.”

I glare at Rhett for giving me away, but he just shrugs and hops in the back.

Deacon opens the passenger door for me and I climb in, but he doesn’t start the car.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

I blunder my way through the story of how I got locked out of the house. I’m getting really sick of telling it by now. I can tell he’s miffed that I called Rhett instead of him. Not that it’s really any of his business.

He drives me back to the gym to get my stuff, but we find it closed. I don’t know what I expected. It was on fire, for Pete’s sake.

“How about we go to Kate’s and get the spare key?” Deacon suggests.

“Kate doesn’t have a spare anymore,” I say, looking down at my hands.

“She lost it?”

“No, I changed the locks.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“It’s complicated.”

“So you want to stay at ours tonight?”

“No,” I say, a little too sharply. “I mean, it’s OK, I can crash at Kate’s.”

“We’ve got more room,” he says, logically.

“No really – I’ll be fine at Kate’s.”

“As you wish.”

* * *

To my relief, the gym is open is for business again the following morning, so I am able to collect my keys.

“Fluffy?” I call, walking into the living room. I listen out for the jingling of his bell, but the house remains silent. 

“Fluffy?”

I walk into the kitchen and am about to unlock the back door when I notice his food bowl. He hasn’t touched any of the food I left out for him yesterday morning, before I went to the gym. I feel a lurch in my stomach.

“FLUFFY!” I bawl.

There is no reply.

I pound on the door of the Beach House.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!”

A bleary-eyed Deacon opens the door. He is still in his dressing gown, hair tousled, face unshaven.

I look past him into the hallway.

“Where’s Alicia?”

“Just left for work.”

“Good.”

I barge my way in and stomp up the stairs, flinging open the door to her bedroom.

“Fluffy?” I holler.

I yank open her wardrobe, but there is nothing there but a few neatly ironed clothes and a couple of pairs of shoes. Nothing under the bed, either.

Deacon folds his arms. “Are you going to tell me what all this is about?”

“Fluffy’s gone,” I say impatiently, marching into the en suite.

“What’s that got to do with Alicia?”

“I think she’s taken him.”

“Why?” He looks perplexed.

“Because she’s evil.”

He laughs. He thinks I’m joking. But when I don’t laugh too, his face grows serious.

“Come on, you don’t really mean that, do you? You’re just upset.”

“I mean it.”

I prise the lid off Alicia’s laundry basket and peer inside, examining its contents.

“Look, this is silly.” Deacon says, folding his arms. “Why on earth would Alicia take your cat? And if she did, she would hardly hide him in the laundry basket, would she?”

“Where, then?”

He shakes his head. “We’ll find Fluffy, don’t you worry. He’s probably just sulking because you weren’t home last night.”

“I really hope you’re right.”

But what if he’s not?

“I can come back to yours and help you look, if you like? I’m not seeing any patients till this afternoon.”

“Would you?” 

“Of course. Just give me ten minutes to have a shower. There’s seed cake in the kitchen if you want.”

“Seed cake?” I murmur, pretending to consider this. But I’m not really interested. As soon as he’s gone, I resume my search, going through every drawer, bag and box in Alicia’s room. There must be a clue in here somewhere.

She has so few possessions that under different circumstances, I would feel sorry for her, but as it is, it makes my job a bit easier. I’m just in the middle of rifling through her underwear drawer when my phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognise.

“Hello?”

“Why aren’t you at work?” a squeaky voice demands.

Alicia!

I nearly drop the phone. She’s never phoned me before. I didn’t even know she had my number.

My heart begins to pound.

Does she know I’m here? In her bedroom, this very minute, going through her things?

No, she can’t know. That’s impossible. She’s at work. Isn’t she?

“Isabel?” she prompts, “I do hope you’re not ill?”

“No.” I clear my throat. “I’m looking for Fluffy.”

“Your cat?” she asks innocently “Oh, is he missing?”

You know damn well he is!

“Any idea where I should look?” I ask, through gritted teeth.

“No idea. You know what cats are like. They turn up in the most unexpected places.”

Is that supposed to be some sort of clue?

“Like where?”

“I don’t know. Have you checked all the outhouses in your street? Or maybe one of your neighbours has seen him?”

“Do you think he’ll be OK?” I ask, my voice breaking a little.

“Well, that’s down to you.”

“What does that mean?”

She just clicks her tongue, signalling that the subject’s closed.

“You should really get to work now, Isabel. It’s getting busy. Sonya looks like she’s going to blow a gasket.”

“But what about Fluffy?”

The line goes dead. For a moment I just stare at it, dumbfounded.

Then I look down at my hands. This is ridiculous - I’m actually shaking!

Snap out of it. You have to find Fluffy.

I survey the room. What was I even thinking, coming over here? All that searching and not so much as a cat hair. But of course she wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring him back here. If he’s even still….

“Isabel?”

Damn, Deacon’s coming. I quickly close the drawer and check the room, careful to leave everything just as I found it.

“Come on, let’s go.”

We scour my neighbourhood, but nobody’s seen or heard anything, not even Mr Krinkle, who can usually tell you the comings and goings of every single person, vehicle and animal in the street. 

“What we need are some posters,” Deacon suggests, “with a picture of Fluffy and a contact number. Somebody must have seen him.”

“Good idea.”

We plod back to my house.

* * *

The phone is ringing as we walk through the door.

It’s Sonya. “Isabel! Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

“Sorry. I’ve been stuck in bed with a migraine.”

How smoothly the lie comes.

“You’ve got a migraine?  Alicia said something about your cat going missing?”

Damn.

“Yeah, that too. I’m having a really bad day.”

“I’m not having such a great day either, Isabel. Stu screwed up the canned goods order and the computer’s playing up again. I could really use your help.”

“Sorry.”

I try to feel guilty, but I can’t. I’ve got too much else to worry about right now.

“Well, OK,” she relents. “Take the rest of the day off if you have to, but I need you in first thing in the morning.” 

“Of course,” I promise. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks, Sonya.”

I switch on my laptop and do a quick mock-up of a poster while Deacon investigates the contents of my fridge.

“Half a bottle of wine and a manky old avocado? Is that all you’ve got?”

“I haven’t had time to shop.”

“But you work in one, don’t you? You’d think it would be easy enough to pick up a few groceries.”

“So you would think.” I manage a tiny smile.

“Come on, let’s go and get some breakfast. We can put up some posters on the way.”

We walk down to the greasy spoon on the corner - not my first choice, but Deacon is hungry and I’m not in the mood to argue. We hand out posters as we go, stick them to every bus stop, telephone box and lamppost we pass. I even stick one on the noticeboard at the cafe, while we’re waiting to be seated.

“Table for two?”

We are taken to a booth by the window and Deacon orders a full English.

“I’ll just have a coffee,” I say halfheartedly.

“Bring her a muffin as well,” Deacon tells the waitress.

He looks across the table at me. “I know you’re upset, but you’ve got to eat.”

“OK,” I reluctantly agree. 

He rests his hand on mine. “Try not to worry. I’m sure Fluffy’s just hiding out somewhere. He’ll turn up safe and sound.”

“I hope so.”

But the phone call from Alicia has not filled me with confidence. Horrible images keep flashing through my mind; Fluffy locked in a cold, dark cellar, Fluffy lost and injured, Fluffy tied to the railway tracks…

“Isabel?”

“Huh?”

“I have to ask,” he says, handing me a napkin.

“What made you think Alicia would have taken him?”

I want to tell him, I really do.
But I’m scared he won’t be able to see past her big Bambi eyes.

So I just shake my head. “You won’t tell her, will you? I don’t want her to think...”

“That you don’t trust her?”

I look at him uncertainly.

Then the waitress brings over our order and breaks the mood with some idle speculation about the weather, which seems to get wetter and wetter with every day that passes.

While Deacon ploughs through his bacon and eggs, I drink my coffee and nibble half-heartedly on my muffin. The waitress comes over and refills my coffee and I drink a second cup and then a third.

“Should you really be drinking that much caffeine?” Deacon asks, wiping his mouth.

“Probably not.”

But without it, I’m not sure I could function.

I put down a fiver for the bill, and excuse myself to go to the Ladies.

As I walk into the loos, I get a chill, remembering the bag thief. Why do they have to make public toilets so creepy? Although it’s daylight outside, the room is poorly lit and badly ventilated. Plus, there’s a constant drip, drip, drip from a faulty tap. 

Clutching my bag tightly, I walk into one of the little cubicles. There’s a slight chemical smell, like someone’s been applying nail polish. I sit down and try to be as quick as I can. Why did I have to drink so much bloody coffee?

Typical - no loo roll.

I look round to see if there’s a spare roll on the tank. And that’s when I see it; written in a shiny blood-red scrawl, the word ‘FRY,’ dripping from the wall.

What the…?

I practically jump out of my skin. And yet I can’t quite tear my eyes away from it. How did she know I would be here, at this time, in this very cubicle? My first instinct is to flee, but instead I push open the door to the next cubicle and peer inside. There it is again - FRY. The glistening letters shimmer on the wall. I reach up and touch it. The varnish is still wet.

Why is she doing this to me?

It’s just too much. My legs give way and I sink, quivering, to the floor.

Time probably passes. I don’t know how little or how much. But I’m aware of someone banging on the door.

“Are you OK in there?”

The waitress walks in. Her jaw drops when she sees me.

“What’s wrong with you?” She sounds more annoyed than concerned.

Then she looks up, her eyes drawn to the blood-red graffiti. Her hand flies to her mouth.

“What have you done to the walls? Do you know how hard this is to clean?”

“It…it wasn’t me.”

“Then why have you got wet paint on your hands?”

I jerk my head up to look at her and the world seems to spin a bit faster.

“It wasn’t me!” 

“Leave this to me OK?”

Deacon swims into view. He takes my hand in his. 

“Come on, Isabel. Let’s get you home.”

* * *

Neither of us says anything as he leads me back to my place. Once there, he sits me down at the kitchen table.

“I know how strong and independent you are, Isabel, and I know you don’t like to ask for help. But it’s obvious something’s not right and I want to help. If you’ll just let me.”

“Yes,” I agree, wearily. “That would be nice.”

He takes a deep breath, as though he hadn’t thought it would be this simple.

“Good,” he says. “So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Once I start, the words just come tumbling out. Not just about what happened at the cafe. All of it, from the moment I first met Alicia. It’s just such a relief to get it all out. I haven’t even told Holly in this much detail. I was afraid she might think I was bonkers.

Deacon sits in perfect silence, no interruptions, no questions, just listens.

“So can you help?” I ask, when I’ve finally finished.

He looks at me gravely. “Yes, Isabel. I think I can.”

“Thank god!” I fling my arms around him.

“Look, I’ve really got to get to work now, but can you meet me after?”

“Of course. Where?”

“Why don’t you come to my office?”

“Good idea.”

Not much chance of running into Alicia there.

I feel as if some of the weight I’ve been carrying these past few weeks has been lifted off my shoulders.

“Well, I’d better go and put up some more posters,” I say, but as I get up from the table, I find that I’m still a little wobbly.

“Why don’t you do it later?” he says. “You should go and lie down for a bit. You’re deathly pale.”

“Well, maybe just a short nap.”

I snuggle up on the sofa and to my surprise, I sleep for most of the afternoon.