Chapter Twenty-Eight – London, 29 and 30 July, 2007
"Seriously? You think it's either Chuck or Jimmy?" Rose asked.
She was sitting on a chair in John's living room with him adjacent to her on the sofa, his arms folded across his chest, his face expressionless. It was so familiar, the pose, the expression on his face, even the green jumper he was wearing. The only thing missing was his suit of armor, the leather jacket that lay next to him on the back of the sofa.
"Yep," he answered.
"Why?"
"Well, I haven't had run-ins with many people lately, and those two are at the top of the list."
She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms across her chest, unintentionally mimicking his pose. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He glanced away from her, a tell that he'd always had in this body that he didn't want to admit something. His next self usually rubbed the back of his neck instead.
"Well?" she asked.
"I didn't want to worry you. Didn't want you involved."
She let out a huff of exasperation, a growl just short of a scream. He could be so infuriating. One minute they were charging headlong into danger together, the next he was sending her away for her own good.
"Obviously I was already involved, since I was getting notes too." Her tone was sarcastic and irritable, something she hadn't really intended, but didn't regret in the slightest.
"I didn't know that, did I?" he snapped. "And you didn't know about the notes either."
"You and my mother, both trying to protect me. You're two peas in a pod." This time she did intend to be insulting, and she got the reaction she expected.
He shook his finger at her. "Don't you bring your mother into this."
"If the shoe fits," she said under her breath, but still loud enough to be heard. "So, if you think you know who's doing it, why haven't you stopped him?" He mumbled something. "Sorry, what was that?"
"I couldn't find them!"
"Seriously? You couldn't find them?" She groaned. "This is why you should have talked to me." She thrust her hand out at him, palm upward. "Phone."
He rummaged in his pocket for it and handed it to her. "You really need to get a new one."
She ignored him and tapped in a number. "Hi, Shareen. Have you seen Chuck or Jimmy around anywhere lately?"
After Shareen told her she hadn't, she immediately demanded to know why Rose wanted to know. Not wanting to get into the whole story—Shareen was as big a gossip as her mother and could talk just as long, and that was saying something—Rose quickly cut her off.
"Later," she promised. "Do you have Rita's number? It's on my old phone, and it died." Shareen rattled off a number in her ear. "Okay, thanks. Sorry, I can't talk right now, maybe tomorrow. Got to go."
She dialed again. "Hi, Rita, do you or Joe have any idea where Chuck could be?" She rolled her eyes at Rita's answer. "Thanks. Talk to you later," she said and disconnected.
"What did she say?" John asked.
"Just a second. I need to make one more call." Another tap into the phone. "Hi, Mrs. Stone? It's Rose. I'm looking for Jimmy. Is he around?" She listened for a moment and then smiled. "Thanks. Nice talking to you too." She rang off and handed him back his phone. "She's always liked me. Better than she likes Jimmy sometimes."
"So, what did they say?" he asked.
"Mrs. Stone doesn't know where Jimmy is for sure. She says he usually pops in and out every few days or so to raid the fridge or have her do his wash, but he hasn't been back in more than a week. And Rita doesn't 'give a shit where the bloody wanker is', that's a quote by the way, but she thinks Chuck is staying at their flat."
"I checked his flat. There was no sign of him, and no one had seen him around."
She frowned. "When you checked his flat, did you actually go in or just knock on the door?"
"Knocked on the door."
She stared at him incredulously.
"What? I didn't have a key!"
She rolled her eyes. "Amateur." She stood up and held out her hand to him. "Come on."
~oOo~
Rita had told Rose that she had given a spare key to the elderly sisters who lived next door, Irene and Gladys, so they stopped there to pick it up on their way. It wasn't entirely necessary, Rose informed him, she'd been able to jimmy the locks on the doors since she was fifteen and had locked herself out of her own flat. But it was quicker to use a key, not to mention politer. She didn't care what Chuck thought, but Rita was one of her best friends and she didn't want to break into her flat unless she had to.
Despite the hour, Gladys was delighted to see them and immediately invited them in for tea. Irene, however, perhaps sensing the oddness of John and Rose asking for the key at 9 o'clock at night, didn't press. Instead she shushed her sister as she handed the key over, at the same time eliciting a promise from John and Rose that they would come over for a visit soon.
Once at Rita and Chuck's flat, Rose knocked on the door on off chance Chuck was there. While they waited for a response, one neither of them truly expected would come, John's palm itched, tingled. It felt as if there was something missing from his hand, like he should have been holding something, like there should have been something there that wasn't. It was an odd feeling, one that made no sense and that he'd be hard pressed to describe, not quite déjà vu but not not déjà vu either. He'd gone so far as to move to reach into the pocket of his leather jacket for whatever it was only to realize that not only wouldn't whatever it was be there, but he wasn't even wearing his jacket.
Gritting his teeth, he stretched his hand wide open and then squeezed it shut—open, closed, open, closed—in a futile effort to relieve the sensation.
After several moments, Rose unlocked the door and the tingling feeling vanished, disappearing so completely it was as if it hadn't been there at all. Odd. He stared at the palm of his hand as if looking at it long enough would force it to explain itself to him.
"You all right?"
He looked up. Rose had already entered the flat and had turned back when she'd realized he hadn't followed her. She was now staring at him, curiosity and concern written on her face.
"What, me? Never better." He gave her a big grin, and in return she shot him a look that said she didn't believe him in the slightest but wasn't worried enough to ask him about it. It may also have hinted that she believed he was in need of psychiatric help, something he certainly didn't dispute, but that last part may have just been him projecting his own thoughts on her.
"Then are you coming in?" she asked. "Or are you just going to stand around out here all night?"
"Coming in," he said brightly.
John had never been in Rita's flat before, but as he scanned the room he was certain it had never been like this while she'd lived here. To describe it as squalid was an understatement, and an insult to squalid things. It was more than just the filthy clothes laying all over the small room, obviously cast aside and left wherever they landed. One of the lamps had been knocked off a table in the corner and now lay on its side on the floor, and there was rubbish everywhere: dirty dishes; takeaway containers, many still half full and in some cases moldy; beer cans and liquor bottles on every horizontal surface; and ash trays, not just containing cigarette butts, with their contents spilling out all over the tables.
His nostrils flared. The whole place reeked of smoke, alcohol, putrefaction, and unwashed humans.
Rose wrinkled her nose. "It's a good thing that Rita's not coming back. She'd kill him."
John didn't bother to answer. Instead he wandered the room, examining things and setting them aside. There was no reason to bother with stealth; no one would notice the results of anyone searching the place. In fact, given the condition of the place he was certain nothing short of a backhoe coming in and clearing the place out would be given a second thought.
He spotted a small bookcase next to the television. It obviously belonged to Rita; its primary contents were Mills and Boone novels, although there were a few others in the mix: a couple of mysteries, a sci fi, a dog-eared copy of the first Harry Potter novel.
He frowned. Most of the books had been pushed onto the floor, and a few had been torn to pieces in someone's fit of anger. He scanned the area and saw a few others on the other side of the room, including one lying on the floor next to the lamp. That must have been what knocked it over, he thought, someone throwing the book at it.
Wandering again, he noticed a pile of the post on the table next to the sofa. He picked it up and flipped through it. Bills, advertising, a fashion magazine, but nothing that would indicate where Chuck was.
As Rose headed out of the room, into the kitchen if the layout of this flat was anything like his own, he put the post down, intending to search the rest of the flat. He stuck his head in the bedroom. More cast aside clothes. An unmade bed. By the look and the smell of it, its sheets likely hadn't been changed since Rita left.
But the living room and bedroom were pristine when compared to the bathroom. There was grime and dirt and hair, even cast-off toilet paper, on the floor, on the walls, on the mirror, and in the tub. And yes, there was a filthy, unflushed toilet. Even he was disgusted, and he cleaned up this sort of thing frequently when he had to make repairs on the Estate.
He quickly closed the door on the mess, in part so Rose wouldn't have to see it and in part so neither of them would have to smell it.
Rose emerged from the kitchen. "He's a pig," she stated flatly. "But he's still living here."
He'd gotten the same impression but was curious how she'd come to that conclusion. "How can you tell?"
"Fresh milk in the fridge. If he'd been gone too long, it would have gone off."
He grinned. "Very good."
"So, what do we do now?"
"Wait for him."
"Here?"
"Yep."
"Seriously?"
"Yep."
"There's no saying he's going to come back tonight," she warned.
"No, there isn't."
She looked around herself in distaste, a pained expression on her face, and then sighed.
"You don't have to stay," he said.
"If you're staying, I'm staying. And it's not like I haven't been in worse places with you."
He stared at her. "When did I ever take you to a dump like this?" he demanded indignantly.
"When we—" She broke off suddenly and bit her lip, eyes wide. "Sorry. That wasn't you. Never mind." She quickly looked away and returned to surveying the room, giving the clear impression she was avoiding looking at him. "Help me look for a bin."
"Why?"
"There's no way I'm waiting in here the way it is."
Fifteen minutes later Rose was satisfied enough with the condition of the room that she was willing to stay. Dirty clothes had been dumped in the bedroom, dishes had been put in the kitchen, and the rest of the mess thrown in the bin, which John had promptly taken out to the large one in the alley. When he got back, she was wiping down the coffee table with a clean cloth she said she'd found in a drawer in the kitchen.
"There. It's not clean, but it's better. Better enough that we can stay for a few hours without being poisoned from toxic waste."
She turned and began to walk in the direction of the bathroom.
John cleared his throat. She stopped in her tracks and turned back to him.
"Where are you going?"
"Wash my hands," she said.
"Better use the sink in the kitchen," he told her. "Believe me, you don't want to go in there."
"Worse than out here?"
He nodded, a wry grin on his face.
"Eww." She pulled a face. As she reentered the kitchen, John sat down on the sofa and turned on the telly.
~oOo~
At three o'clock John finally heard the telltale sound of someone trying, and failing, to insert a key into the lock on the door.
He snapped off the television. He and Rose had been watching movies, with her first neatly tucked under his arm and then with her head in his lap. Within minutes she was sound asleep, and she hadn't moved since.
Now he gently jostled her arm, shushing her when she opened her eyes. She sat up abruptly. He placed a finger on his lips and then pointed at the door. She nodded.
The metal-on-metal scraping continued, finally to be replaced by the key slipping into the lock. With a loud click the door unlocked and the knob turned.
Chuck staggered through the open door and into the room. With a lurch, he stumbled to the sofa, nearly falling in the process, and almost sat on Rose. She shrieked and he fell to the floor, landing on his arse.
"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed.
John clicked on the light, and Chuck blinked at the glare. He stared at them in confusion. "Who're you?"
John rolled his eyes.
"Seriously? Just how much have you had?" Rose asked, her voice laden with disgust.
"What's it to you? Yer not my mum. Who the hell are you anyway?" He blearily peered at them, looking from one to the other and back again. After a moment his eyes widened in recognition. "Fuck. That's all I need. What the hell are you two doin' in my flat at midnight?" He pushed himself to his feet and slightly swayed, unable to completely stand upright. "Where's Rita?" He made his way to the bedroom and stuck his head through the doorway. "Rita? Oi! Rita! Where are you?"
"She's not here," John told him.
"And it's not midnight either," Rose added.
Chuck whirled on them. The movement caused him to tip over and he only caught himself from falling by leaning heavily against the wall.
"Where is she?"
John folded his arms across his chest and looked at him expressionlessly. "Not. Here."
"And she's not coming back either," Rose told him.
"But she's got to!" Chuck whinged.
"No, she doesn't," John said.
Chuck slid down the wall until his bum hit the floor. "But you know where she is, yeah? You can tell her to come back."
"No."
Chuck turned to Rose. "But you'll tell her? Tell her I'm sorry and she needs to come home."
"There's no way I'm telling her that," Rose said flatly.
"Why?"
She stared at him in disbelief. Her lip curled in disgust. "Because you're a sorry sack of shit that doesn't deserve her, that's why."
Chuck's face crumpled, and his eyes welled up with tears. "I know. And that's why she needs to come back, because I don't deserve her."
"That doesn't even make sense," she told him.
"See? I can't even make sense without her."
"What—"
"You been writing notes to us?" John interrupted.
Chuck turned back to him. He stared at him wide-eyed and jaw slack, visibly frightened.
"You have been, haven't you?"
"A… a couple, yeah."
"More than just a couple," John corrected. "Why?"
"I just wanted you to tell me where she was," Chuck said. "I know you two know where she is."
"Why didn't you just ask me?"
"I… I couldn't."
"Why not?"
Chuck didn't answer. He looked away, shamefaced.
"Because he's chicken," Rose interjected. "He's scared of you. Isn't that right, Chuck?"
"Is that why you've been leaving filthy notes to Rose?" John asked. "You scared of her too?"
"Filthy notes?" The younger man turned back to him. "No, I'm not… I didn't…"
"Didn't what?"
"Those disgusting notes of yours scared my mum half to death, you bloody wanker!" Rose exploded.
Chuck looked up at her. "But I…"
"What?" she snapped.
He looked away again. "Never mind."
"You stay away from my mum, and you stop leaving notes, or I'm gonna report you for harassment! You got it?"
Chuck mumbled something under his breath.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that," John said.
"Yeah, I got it."
"In the morning you better remember this," John warned. "Because if you're scared of me now, just wait until you see me angry. And I'm going to get very, very angry if you don't stop leaving those notes. And you stay away from Rita too. You stop looking for her or some people who aren't as forgiving as I am are going to stop you."
"Who?"
"Her family. And they're very cross with you. If you come near her, they're gonna make me look like Mother Teresa. Do you understand that?"
Chuck nodded sullenly.
"Now say you're sorry to Rose for leaving those notes and scaring her mother."
"Sorr—"
John nudged him with his foot. "Say it like you mean it."
"Sorry," Chuck muttered.
John grinned, a smile that most people would think was happy but that those who knew him well would know was anything but. "Now that wasn't that hard, was it?"
~oOo~
After getting an assurance from Chuck that he'd stop harassing people, they left him to sleep it off.
"Well, that was a bit anticlimactic," Rose said once they were out of the flat.
"Sorted in six hours, thirty-seven minutes," John said. "Guess I should have told you about it earlier."
"Guess you should have," she said with a laugh. She crossed to the railing and leaned against it. The buildings that surrounded the courtyard were dark. Even the lights in her mother's flat were off. "I'll tell Mum in the morning that it's all sorted, and she doesn't have to worry about the notes anymore."
"Yeah."
John moved next to her and leaned against the support post. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him watching her.
She stared at the pavement below. The lights from the stairwells, along with the streetlights, cast oddly shaped shadows on the ground and along the walls of the buildings. "Uh, I s'pose that this means I don't need to stay with you after all," she said hesitantly.
"S'pose not," he said. He was silent for a second. "Unless…"
She jerked her head around to look at him. "Unless what?"
He shrugged. "I dunno. I mean… you could still stay with me. If you want."
She met his eyes. "Do you want me to?"
He didn't answer immediately, and for the span of several heartbeats the only sounds she could hear were the distant sounds of the city and the almost deafening pounding of her heart.
"Yeah. Yeah, I do," he said quietly.
She smiled. "I do too."
He began to grin, a small smile that grew and grew until it lit up his entire face.
"Fantastic."
