The Second Stranger by Martin Griffin

Author:Martin Griffin [Griffin, Martin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-01-18T16:00:00+00:00

19

I dragged the handset from my pocket. ‘Shelley. We’re close to the road. I think Gaines has gone ahead, he’s nearly with you. How are you doing? Shelley?’

‘Well, I’m still here,’ she said, her voice watery. ‘Can’t feel much any more. Except my leg. Throbbing like a bastard.’ She laughed feebly. ‘’Scuse language.’

‘Hold on,’ I told her. I hauled myself up and waded forward. ‘We’ll be with you in twenty minutes. Can you walk? We’ll pull you back if we have to.’

‘Curled up in the wet. Can’t move. Don’t know how you’ll get me from the cab. Windscreen maybe.’ A pause. ‘Did you bring whisky?’

I smiled. ‘Single malt.’

‘What I wouldn’t give for a last …’ The signal became garbled, her voice an indecipherable rush of noise.

I didn’t like the use of last, so I kept talking. ‘Lost you there, but I’m guessing you’re getting boring about whisky. I’m fine with the taste, Shelley, but the hangovers not so much. When we’re back at the hotel you can try some of our top-shelf cask-aged malts. Any preferences? Shelley?’

‘We should go,’ Jai put in gently.

‘Trying to keep her focused.’

‘I know. But we need to stick with Gaines.’

‘Go ahead and check if you want. Just a few more minutes. Hey Shelley,’ I adjusted the radio. ‘Thinking back, we’ve known each other for nearly two years now. Imagine that. Bet you don’t miss your days in Porterfell, eh?’

Trying to raise Shelley, I found myself suddenly transported back over a year. My final visit to Cameron – the last time I’d seen him alive. It’s a meeting I rewound and replayed often, though at the time I had no particular reason to commit it to memory. There’d been no signs of imminent tragedy; the only thing that had made the visit different was the cryptic, confessional passage of talk in the middle of an otherwise pedestrian conversation. Listening to Shelley brought it all tumbling back.

˜

Cameron was beginning to look different at twenty-three, shedding the boyish vulnerability I’d seen in him during those troubled teenage years and bulking out. When he leant forward his arms were thick and muscular, his shoulders solid and wide. His hair had grown out so it curled at the nape of his neck. His eyes were darker, his jaw heavily stubbled. He looked fit. By contrast, that morning I’d just finished a night shift and skipped breakfast to get to him. I was tired and hungry. I felt irritable as I dropped my bag and phone at reception. Shelley and I might have talked at the bar on a Friday night but inside the walls of Porterfell she was expressionless and silent as she escorted me into the visitors’ room. It was a close, warm day and the enclosed space smelled of hot bodies and boredom. My stiff-backed plastic chair, particularly uncomfortable that time, creaked as I shifted position. Thin bars of light caught dust motes.

We were talking about the English class he was taking when, unprompted, Cameron said, ‘Remember that

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