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Sitting up in bed. Listening to the wind. Thinking about dead animals and old werewolf films. Afraid to sleep.
My eyes snap open. Early morning. Must have dozed off despite my fear. I roll out of bed. Grey day, sky obscured by clouds.
I pad downstairs to the kitchen. Scent of fried bacon and sausages. I push the door open slowly. Dervish inside, at the frying pan, humming. It takes him a moment to spot me. He smiles. “You're up early.”
“I didn't sleep very well.”
“Hungry?” Dervish asks. “Want some bacon? Eggs?”
“I'll just do toast for myself.” I stick two slices of bread in. Pause over the toaster, my back to him. “I went up to see you last night,” I say innocently. “Couldn't find you. Were you out?”
The shortest of pauses. Then, “Yeah. I went to a pub in the Vale. Met Meera there. She went on somewhere else afterwards. Sorry I didn't tell you.”
“That's OK.” I reach for the butter. “Did you take the bike?” If he says he did, I'll know he's lying — I would have heard it.
“No,” he says. “I walked. I don't hold with drinking and driving.”
I turn from the toaster, smiling. Dervish is concentrating on his bacon. I can't believe I spent so much time worrying last night. I open my mouth to tell him about yesterday's scene with Bill-E.
Then close it.
Dervish is reaching for an egg with his right hand. My eyes are attracted to his nails. Not long — but jagged. Dirty. Red stains under the tips.
It could be paint or rust or something he ate in the pub the night before.
Or it could be blood.
Staring. Staring. Staring.
The toaster pops behind me.
I almost scream.
Dragging clothes out of the washing machine. If Dervish walks in on me, I'll say I left money in one of my pockets.
Underpants. Socks. Shirts. Trousers. Finally — a blue denim shirt with a small eagle insignia on the left breast pocket. The shirt Dervish was wearing last night.
I run my nose over it. Unpleasant and sweaty, but not smoky. Not beery. Not like it would smell if he'd spent a few hours in a pub.
Sitting by the phone. I want to call Bill-E, tell him about Dervish disappearing, the blood, the scentless shirt. Except —
He might have gone to the pub like he said.
Maybe he changed shirts before he went out, after I last saw him.
The stains under his nails could have been anything.
If Bill-E hadn't filled my head with garbage, I'd have thought nothing of Dervish slipping out without telling me. It's not the first time he's done it. He gives me plenty of space and freedom, and expects the same in return. Nothing suspicious about that.
But what does he do when he's out by himself? Where does he go? Did he really meet Meera in the Vale? If so, why didn't she come back here with him? And if he changed shirts before he went out, why isn't the one he wore to the pub in the machine with the rest of his dirty laundry?
Carcery Vale. Outside the Lion & Lamb. There are several pubs in the Vale. I want to go into them all to check if Dervish was in town last night.
My story — Dervish lost his watch, and sent me to ask if it had been found. He can't remember which pub he'd been in, so I'm doing the rounds of them all.
Holding me back — somebody might mention my queries to Dervish.
In the end I turn away from the Lion & Lamb and make for home. Not reckless or scared enough to check on Dervish's alibi. Not yet.
