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Afternoon
It's a nice library. Victorian redbrick with columns and stone carvings and flower beds in front. These days it might be squeezed inbetween a pound shop and the Spar, but it’s well-loved.
Actually, by well-loved I pretty much mean falling down. Health & Safety would not be impressed with the scaffolding left over by the window where little bits of masonry keep peeling off. Not that I'd call them to complain, of course, even though the bruise on the back of my head still hurts like fuck. It feels the size of an ostrich egg.
It was my own fault really. Though if Mrs Davies hadn't loomed towards me out of the Georgette Heyers like some blue-rinsed valkyrie I wouldn't have jumped back so sharp-ish and cracked my skull on the scaffolding pole.
Guilt does that to you I s'pose. It makes you jumpy. A bit like the little knot of anxiety in the gut when you go through airport security, even though you know you just threw away the 250ml bottle of water. Kind of like that.
Mrs Davies felt guilty too judging by the way she cooed over me while I swayed and apologised for my own injury … "sorrysorrysorrysorry".
"Oh no, luvvie, it's me who's sorry. George, isn't it? I remember you served me and Vera a lovely pot of tea last Thursday. I’ll pop into the café later and bring you a slice of my lemon drizzle, that'll make you feel better."
She's lovely. And she has the same shopping trolley my Nan had; blue tartan. I didn't have the heart to point out it's a café. I work there so I can already eat cake until I explode.
Does Nina like lemon drizzle? I guess I'll ask her later.
I won't ask Mitchell.
...searching...
I'm lucky there isn't a queue for this computer. It's not exactly private, positioned like it is right next to the librarian's "station". For “station” read “old desk”.
...doityourselftoday.co.uk...
But he's still down by the shelves, so that's lucky.
...can leave unpleasant looking stains on a variety of surfaces...
Too bloody right it can.
Well, thank you very much ‘doityourselftoday’. Your 5 Step Plan sounds impressive but can I point out that steps one to four are - shall we say - bleedin’ obvious. Get a bucket of water? Use a brush with stiff bristles? Scrub the surface hard? Believe it or not I worked that out all by myself.
Come on. Come on. Faster.
He’ll finish putting the books back soon and then he’ll sit down at his “station” and start making polite conversation and then what’ll I do? Nina says I squeak whenever she asks me what I’m up to and that’s how she knows I’m guilty. That’s plainly ridiculous; she’s teasing - I hope - but it might be better not to take the risk.
...Step 5: treat with hydrogen peroxide (3%+)...
Of course, I remember it now. I don’t think hydrogen peroxide will be easy to buy in bulk around here. There’s not much in the village, and I haven’t got the time to go back for Mitchell’s car and find a proper-sized supermarket. I could phone Mitchell in case he's somewhere useful and ask him to pick some up for me. No, that's not a good idea at the moment, I can't bother him with this when he's... he’s… driving and doing… s-stuff.
I'll need to improvise. Anyway, if I'm quick I can get round the Spar and the chemist before my shift starts and I have my date with a slice of lemon drizzle.
Two bottles of mouthwash and a packet of hair dye in the Spar = £6.00 plus £7.99.
Two bottles of Easy Care for contact lenses in the chemist = £10.95.
I think that will be enough. If I'm lucky they won't even realise what it is exactly I’m buying and I can get out of there without any jokes about me building a bomb. I’m sure the sweet girl on the counter at the Spar will comment on the hair dye though.
Twenty-five quid is a big slice out of my wages, but worth every penny.
...delete browsing history...
I like this library. No CCTV.
I wonder how long it will survive the cuts.
Yesterday
Thank Christ Janice is such a good boss. When I didn't turn up for my shift she could have sacked me on the spot and then what would we have done for the rent, or for food? It may be a pittance, but with Nina still trying to straighten out her paperwork with St Jude’s in Bristol and Mitchell being so, erm, uncooperative on the money side, it's all we've got for now.
Nina is deeply unimpressed. I think she's displacing her shock and emotional pain by having a go at Mitchell.
Or maybe she's just having a go at Mitchell.
“Come on Mitchell. You know people. You can get your hands on some cash, surely. There must be a Bank of Transylvania, so why don't you contact someone and call in a few favours for Christ’s sake? It’s all very well you holing up here staring at the mug, or the table, or the floor, but George can’t do everything y’know.”
Never one to mince her words, my Nina.
I would've agreed with her, but that was when I noticed something different about the slope of my friend's shoulders. He's hunching in on himself.
"S'not the time, Nina. Later, maybe..." was all he said. His jaw was set like iron but there was no fire in his belly. He pushed the empty mug away and bent down to rummage about under the sink.
Nina's like a dog with a bone. "But we can't stay here now! We have to go. George gave his real National Insurance number to Janice at the café so ….”
"Fuckin' idiot." Mitchell hummed under his breath without an ounce of venom.
In Windsor Terrace I’d’ve laughed, but here everything scratches raw.
“Yeah, well. Not all of us have so much experience of covering our tracks on the off chance some woman would end up dead in our farmyard." I regretted my words pretty much before they'd come out, but it was already too late.
He hunched further, gripping the wire brush with its broken handle.
I only knew Professor Jaggat. Sometimes I forget he'd known Lucy.
He looks different. I’ve seen him in pieces before, but this is…. I don’t know what this is. Can vampires get sick? Is that even possible?
"Can't argue with you on that one." He said before I could stammer out some apology. “The concrete will have dried a bit, I'll go give it another scrub."
I followed him out into the yard. I'm not sure why. Standing there next to a bucket of scummy, soapy water isn't going to help much.
It does something to my heart, watching him on his knees scrubbing at the dark stained concrete with an old wire brush.
"It's OK George, go be with Nina. I'm not gonna lick the floor or anything."
Well, thank you for that image Mitchell, mate.
What I want to say is: I’m so sorry about all this, thank you for saving me, saving us, I love you, you know. What comes out of my mouth is: "We could hire a sandblaster."
"It's fine, George, I've seen worse."
Oh God. He really has.
Maybe it is OK. He hasn't called me Georgie again. For a couple of days after we made a run for it I kept checking his eyes to see if his irises were darkening - until he threw a tea towel at my head and told me I was freaking him out. But they never did. And on the plus side we haven't needed to tie him up in the cowshed whenever the postman comes either.
I'll check online tomorrow. I swear that stain will be gone before he gets back. After doing... w-whatever it is he's going to do with Lucy's body and her car in the morning the least I can do is make sure he doesn't get down on his knees again when he comes home.
Evening
Twenty-five quid did the job. The stain's gone now.
It only took about twenty minutes as I sat on the concrete bench, waiting for the chemicals to eat away the blood. Nina made me jump when she snaked an arm around my shoulders, but I was unspeakably grateful for her help washing it all away. I stashed the mop and bucket in the cowshed afterwards; I’m not sure why, maybe because the thought of them sitting in the corner of the kitchen watching us over breakfast made me feel nauseous.
And then we put the kettle on.
It was all over just before we heard the crunch of Mitchell’s boots on the path, slow and gentle in the evening calm. Nina handed him a chamomile tea before he even got his jacket off, and I think he mumbled something about Bristol and parking. I told him it would probably be better if he didn’t go into details about what he’d done with Lucy.
I wish I could read the expression that shuttered his eyes then. I don’t think it was only because the tea was chamomile.
How can an immortal being look so fucking tired?
It's dark and cold and the wind is making creepy noises down the chimneys and I still can't sleep. I don't expect Mitchell's doing too well on that godawful sofa either. Not to mention he’ll be dropping lemony crumbs all over it by now.
A soft snore tickles at the back of my neck. I’m relieved that at least Nina has managed to drift off. One of us needs to keep it together. She whispered again as she dozed, "We need to leave soon." She means just the two of us.
He saved us, I'm not letting him go. Never.
To be fair, Mitchell doesn't even want to leave the living room unless he has to, he's sleeping in there in case Annie gets in contact again. Last night I saw him stroke the TV set as if he could coax it back to life. But we all know we have to run.
When everything is still, like it is now, his broken question from yesterday still goes round and round in my head. "Why haven't you asked me?"
I answered him honestly, at least I can look myself in the mirror and say that. "I don't want to know". But it doesn't stop me being a selfish sodding coward. "I can't be your confessor". I saw the lost look on his face before I ducked away, I just pretended not to.
"I need you too much." I don’t think he'll ever ask me again.
But things'll be OK. We've covered our tracks. Lucy's gone. Her car's gone. The stain's gone. Nina wants me - us - again. I want her too. We can put this behind us.
Get Annie. Start again.
He's strong. He doesn't need me, at least not like I need him.
Everything will be fine.