Chapter 10

Garrett pulled up at the edge of the Close, letting the engine idle as he peered back towards the house. Nothing... Just the darkness, his thoughts caught somewhere in the void between the old and the new.

What did he expect? The Dear John had said it all. But still there was a part of him that would have welcomed her return. Reality brought the realisation that she’d fled to the arms of a faceless stranger. More likely his bed. Images of sweaty, heaving bodies entwined together invaded his thoughts. Gritting his teeth, he forced them out. Exhaustion and resignation in firm control, his wife’s indiscretions would have to wait for now.

As he entered the house, he flicked the light switch to the ON position. To the untrained eye, all would appear to be normal, but Garrett knew different. The absence of her address book, the one she always left on the hallway table with her keys, next to the triptych of miniature cacti plant, was conspicuous by its absence.

Shivering, he checked the heating thermostat, the LCD flickering half digits. Another job he’d failed to get round to. He tapped it with his finger and flipped the slider up and down trying to engage the manual override—nothing happened. Resigned to the fact that he’d need to call an engineer, Garrett made his way through to the open plan kitchen diner, Maria’s absence adding to the chill.

He opened the fridge, the depleted stock offering nothing more enticing than a pasta-based, microwave ready meal. He grabbed the solitary bottle of beer from the middle shelf and read the label, Sol. Some crappy Mexican lager, the kind she liked to drink.

What the hell, there was nothing else in the house. Garrett cracked the lid against the faux granite worktop and took one long, hard swig. It was gassier than he remembered, as he let out a loud burp, the kind that pissed off Maria if he ever dared to do so in her presence. Not that he needed to worry about that now, social niceties put on hold—his house, his rules.

Garrett moved on through to the smaller lounge area, switched on the TV, and stood with the remote in hand, zombified as he surfed through the hundred plus channels, wondering why he continued to pay the subscription. He made a mental note to remedy that. First thing in the morning he’d phone and cancel. He didn’t need a dish any longer, another of Maria’s insistencies that they sign up to the latest bullshit deal, tying them in to another eighteen-month contract. Come to think of it, why the hell did anyone need a dish? He could stream any choice of programme that he wanted, it was all there, readily available at the touch of a button. Better still; if he went to the right kind of sites, he could get it all for free.

With his dead man’s bones weighing heavy, Garrett slumped down into the leather armchair and kicked off his boots. He took another hit on the beer. Jesus, who actually drinks this shit. He placed the bottle down and rubbed at his eyes, tiredness and exhaustion causing them to burn. The throbbing of his left hand forced him to stop. Garrett inspected the damage, prodding at it with his right. The swelling had plateaued, beginning to subside with the help of a couple of paracetamols’.

His mind drifted back to the parking attendant, the guy was an arsehole, but he’d left him for dead. Now all he could do was hope it was nothing more serious than a concussion. He felt bad, but the guy had pushed his buttons. He’d snapped, there was nothing more to it than that.

Garrett forced himself up and made his way back into the kitchen area. Pouring the remnants of Sol away down the white, enamel sink, he reached down to the L-shaped base unit and stuck his arm around the corner, feeling his way past the array of pots and pans. Result, it was still there, he pulled it out by the neck. A bottle of Australian Shiraz, he poured himself a glass, raised it to his mouth, taking the time to let the delicate, sweet, spicy aroma fill his nostrils. He took a mouthful, the tang bringing his taste buds back to life. Been a long time old friend. It tasted good, too good. He replaced the cap and returned the bottle to its hiding place. Out of sight out of mind, if only it was that simple.

After a day of relapses, Garrett realised he needed to quit while he was ahead. He’d fallen off the wagon but shit, if his diagnosis wasn’t a good enough excuse, then what was? He made a mental note to phone Derek, his sponsor, first thing in the morning.

Shiraz in hand, Garrett walked back through to the TV lounge. As he plonked himself down on to the sofa, his mobile kicked in to life, playing that fucking annoying electronic synthesiser ring tone his wife had loaded. He added it to the list of changes to be made. Looking at the screen, he didn’t recognise the caller ID and decided to leave it unanswered—probably just some automated voice telling him how he was entitled to shit loads of money for a supposed injury he’d never had.

He sank back into the cool, leather fabric. Closing his eyes, he exhaled long and hard, attempting to exorcise the demons—but they just dug their claws in ever deeper. Garrett blinked away the heavy eyelids telling him sleep was close.

The double bleep of the mobile bought him back to the present. He scanned the content, Karen, the barmaid from the pub. She’d found his wallet and wanted to return it to him. Garrett looked at his watch, 10:47pm. He considered his options, he needed his wallet to produce his license and documents at the police station and being realistic he had no plans to make the return journey to Al Tweedy’s place any time soon.

He texted back.