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‘Cheers for the concern but that was all part of the series of humiliating tests I had to take. Anyway, I didn’t plan to overdose. Not that anyone does, but I wasn’t trying to kill myself. It was an accident. I mean that.’
‘I believe you.’
Tate turns to look at Gregg. ‘You do?’
‘Of course. I knew that all along. About the accident part. Thanks for telling me though.’
‘You were going to piss me off until I did.’
‘Too right. So, what now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What are you going to about these letters?’
Tate shrugs. ‘Fuck all I can do. You know that as well as anyone.’
‘Are they still coming?’
‘They’ve stopped. Last one I got was just before I put myself in hospital.’
‘You think it could be someone close to you?’
‘I honestly haven’t got a clue who it could be but they’ve seriously fucked with my head.’
‘Enough for you to be tempted to use again?’
Tate shakes his head as he looks at Gregg. ‘No. I just dealt with it badly the last time. The letters have stopped, and I can deal with the dreams. There’s no way I’m going back to that, Gregg. Well, I’m not planning on going there again.’
‘Do you have any of the letters?’
Tate knows exactly what his friend is hinting at. Gregg spent a little over a decade as a Garda before he joined the band. That was part of the reason they all tried to cut down on their drug use when he signed up. ‘No, Gregg. You’re not taking this further. I told my mate about this, not an ex-Guard. Drop it.’
‘Sorry, but this is an ex-Guard matter. C’mon, Tate. This is fucking serious.’
‘It’s probably just some fucked up fan getting carried away.’
Gregg snorts. ‘If we have fans like that, I’m picking a new career.’
‘I’ve had hate mail before.’
‘This is a teeny bit more than some jealous boyfriend whose nose is out of joint because his girl has you plastered over her wall. You need to take this seriously, Tate. It’s private stuff about a kid. It’s fucking serious. I have contacts who could look into it for you without the press getting wind of it.’
‘There’s nothing they can do. They’ll end up in a file with all the other ‘I hate Tate’ letters. There isn’t enough to go on.’
‘I’m not saying there’s anything they can do about it but let me at least check for you. And even if they can’t find out who sent them, at least the letters will be on file. Please mate. Let me get someone to look into it.’
Tate turns the ring on his thumb as he thinks about what Gregg said. ‘There’s... it’s not something I want out there.’
‘Hey, I get it. We all have private shit we’d prefer stayed that way. And you’re right, it’ll probably come to nothing, but at least if they check it out you’ll know for sure. Can’t hurt, mate.’
A part of him wants to agree, but he’d just be opening up a Pandora’s Box of shit he’s not sure he wants to deal with. There’s nothing on the letters to hint at where they came from. The only thing that will happen by handing them over is more spotlight on him. Whatever happened is in the past and he’d give anything for it to stay there. If they go digging and find out his nightmares are based on fact, find out he’s actually responsible for his mother’s death...
‘No.’
‘Tate—’
‘I said no. It’s done. Leave it. And I don’t want my parents to know, I don’t want my family to know, and I don’t want Ellen to know. Keep your fucking mouth shut, Gregg. I mean it.’
