Page 29 of Washed Up
“Where did you go?”
“Just for a drive.”
“Tide catch you out?”
“For a while.”
“Anyone bother you?”
He doesn’t answer that one immediately. Reid wriggles and props himself up on his elbow. “Wynter.”
“No one bothered me, but there are posters up, asking if anyone’s seen your mermaid girl.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Iris
I ought to have predicted that my absence would be reported. Cathy might not realise that her son is a monster, but she’s not made from the same stuff as him. She’s a regular human being with a kind heart and an entrenched set of sensibilities. Of course, she’d be worried if I didn’t come home, nor answer when she tried to reach me. I’m only assuming the latter. My phone is presumably at the bottom of the sea, or maybe it’s been found by an early morning jogger or dog walker, or a family paddling in the rock pools left behind when the tide is low.
I ought to let her know that I’m safe.
I contemplate this, while the guys work in the studio. A breakthrough of sorts has been made, but Wynter still requires regular reminders. The cajoling eats up both Reid and Max’s time. Much of mine too, although I learn to temper any form of hyperbole while speaking to him, as he perceives it as blowing smoke up his arse.
It ought to be as simple as typing a message to let Cathy know that I’m alive and well. I ought to say, pack up my things and have them shipped to this address, even if I can’t explain to her why I can’t come back and collect them myself.
But it isn’t simple.
I’m not a walking encyclopaedia of phone numbers. Like everyone, I store them on my phone. Also, I don’t want Harrison to learn I’m less than a mile away. Whether I make Cathy aware of what happened or not, I don’t trust her not to discuss it with him. If someone told me my child had done something reprehensible, I feel I’d want to hear them deny it. I’m sure it’swhat Cathy will do, and then he’ll know I’m alive, that there’s been contact. That there’s the possibility I might land him in shit.
I can’t call her.
I can’t leave her in limbo.
What to do?
I don’t know what to do.
Reach her via social media?
I send her a DM the following night from Reid’s phone as we sit at Blackwater’s restaurant, along with a picture of myself, so she knows that it’s me.
Met someone. I’m okay. You don’t need to look for me.
We’re eating out because the guys recorded the drums for four tracks today, thus Max is exhausted. He was literally dripping with sweat when he came out of the studio.
I’ve never been to Blackwater’s before. It’s every bit as posh as I imagined. Most of the seating is outside beneath a wooden canopy, that’s draped in twinkling fairy lights.
I lean against Max as Reid feeds me oysters. At least a couple of them end up on the floor. I’m not sure I like them all that much; too briny, too gelatinous, but it’s fun with the guys. Even Wynter has thawed a little. He bends double with laughter when Reid’s reaction to lashing himself with spaghetti and painting tomatoey stripes across his white shirt is to starfish his limbs and unwittingly upend the candelabra sitting on our table so that it burns a hole in the tablecloth.
The staff here must be used to musicians. They don’t break a sweat as they replace everything, and no one says, “Are you the guys from Lucidity?” Although, a couple of women follow Wynter back from the loos and beg him for autographs.
All three of them sign T-shirts. Max draws the line at bits of skin. Reid happily signs the blonde girl’s tits when she flashes him.
“Take a photograph,” the women insist, pushing phones into my hands.
I take obligatory snaps of them preening next to their idols. Days ago, I might have been them.
“Sign breasts often?” I ask on the walk back to the studio complex.
