‘Is Peter there?’ barked the deep voice at the other end of the phone.
‘Peter?’ Adam replied.
‘Don’t be a plonker. You know who I mean.’
‘Who wants him?’
‘Stop dicking around and go get him. I haven’t got all day.’
Adam slammed the kitchen phone back in its cradle. It was the third fucking call for Gunner he’d had to answer that morning. The previous time, when the caller had asked for Peter, he’d replied ‘Peter who?’ and the caller had said ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. I know he’s there.’ The voices were different, but they were similar in tone and rudeness. They all sounded like clones of Gunner, aka Peter. He couldn’t think of him as Peter. Gunner suited him much better.
There had been no phone calls at all until that morning. He’d assumed Gunner had a mobile, although he’d never heard it ring or noticed him using a phone. It was odd that people had suddenly started calling him now on the landline. Was he feeling more secure, more master of the house? Was he intending on staying for a while? The thought made Adam seethe. He was also surprised that Gunner hadn’t rushed to answer the phone, seeing as how he’d been giving out the number so freely and must know the calls were for him. Maybe he’d gone out again. And maybe, for once, he’d forgotten to lock the bedroom door . . .
Adam finished tidying away his lunch things in the dishwasher and went upstairs. The door to the sitting room on the first floor was wide open and the room was empty. On the landing above, he paused and listened. All he could hear was the distant drone of traffic and the clatter of the Tube as it passed under the street further along. Maybe Gunner was asleep. He took off his shoes and crept up to the second floor, treading carefully on the old stairs, hoping that the creaks weren’t too audible. The door to Kit’s bedroom was ajar, daylight coming from within. He put his head around the door and peered inside.
The curtains were open and the bed was a mess, sheets and duvet half on the floor, as though Gunner had had a bad night. But there was no sign of him. He paused again and listened, just in case Gunner was in the bathroom, but there was no sound coming from inside. Apart from the bed, the room looked tidy, Kit’s pictures and bits and pieces from his travels displayed exactly where they were before. But although he scouted around, there was no sign of Gunner’s clothes, his shoes or large rucksack. He checked the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, which were still full of Kit’s winter things, then went into the bathroom. The towels had been thrown in a pile in the middle of the floor. He picked them up and felt them. They were still damp. Otherwise there were no clothes or other personal items belonging to Gunner, only the few things of Kit’s that Adam hadn’t chucked away. A small puddle of water on the floor by the bath, and a smear of toothpaste in the sink, were the only other signs of recent occupation. It seemed that Gunner had gone.
He sat down on the bed and gazed around the room, not sure whether he dared celebrate. Gunner’s departure had been as sudden and unannounced as his arrival. Did it mean anything? Or was he reading too much into things as usual? From his point of view, the timing of Gunner’s leaving was perfect. Perhaps he should just accept it as a stroke of luck, although he knew not to trust in such things. Luck had a way of biting you back if you got too complacent. The visit from the policeman, coupled with the mysterious Mr Ripley book, had unnerved him. Even with Gunner gone, he couldn’t relax back into the house, much that he’d like to. It was risky staying there any longer, but all he needed was one more night.