THE SIXTH GUEST: Chapter Three - Part One

THE FOURTH & FIFTH GUESTS 

1

If it wasn’t the fact that the back of his van was full of crap he would have spent the night in there; but it was, and Mike had more than just himself to think about now. He had Rosalie.

Besides, there was far too much in there to make space, even just for him: piles of unfolded clothes, most of them filthy because of how boggy it had been where he found them in the garden that morning; knick knacks he’d accumulated over the years. It was almost all just shit that was probably worth chucking, but he hadn’t exactly had the perfect conditions to sort through it when he moved out. And under the clothes and boxes, the black and white TV that always flickered, the floor of the back of the van was covered in tools and bits of metal anyway. No rest to be had there.

The road curved almost back on itself as it kissed the back of Bournemouth Square. Mike didn’t know her (though he had refused to give her money on a street corner several years earlier), but as his van made the curve he was less than thirty yards from where Selina still lay, face down and twitching as people continued to pass by on the other side. Mike didn’t know or care as he accelerated on, without any particular destination in mind.

“Daddy?”

“Yes hon?”

“I’m hungry. And I’m tired.”

Mike rubbed his temple. “I know you are honey. It won’t be long now. Don’t worry.”

“That’s what you said ages ago.”

“I know baby. I know.” He smiled as benevolently as he could considering the headache he had but Rosalie didn’t smile back. She looked troubled beyond her years, which wasn’t any wonder. Six year olds weren’t meant to worry where their next meal was coming from or where they were going to sleep tonight. And she had the same look in her face as her mother had when she needed smack and neither she nor Mike had the cash to get it. Before she died.

It made him wonder if taking Rosalie out of the place she’d been in hadn’t been the most selfishly prickish act he’d ever done.

“We’ll find somewhere soon hon; I promise. Then you can have something really delicious to eat. How about that?”

She turned away without answering to look out the window. The long strip of gardens that ran for a couple of miles down the length of the Bourne valley was out there but it was too dark to see much detail if any.

Mike rubbed at his temple again and thought about Clare; of the little photo of her on her Facebook page and the way he had felt when he saw it. Fifteen years had made a difference to her looks; the girlish exuberance wasn’t there anymore, maybe replaced by something closer to what he was feeling, but she was still beautiful: more so if anything. He toyed again with looking her up, saying something charming and her inviting him and Rosalie in. But that wasn’t going to happen. He wouldn’t let it. He had his reasons.

The question was, was he prepared for him and his daughter to sleep sitting up in his van with dirty clothes piled over them, just to hold onto to some stupid principles?

He scanned his brain, trying to recall if there was anyone he hadn’t already tried who might take them in or lend him a bit of cash. Rosalie had already had to wait in the cold outside half a dozen pubs as he hooked up with the increasingly casual acquaintances toward the bottom of his list, trying it on; but he was getting desperate.

It had seemed a good plan when the last of what he would have termed his close friends got sick of the sight of him and chucked his belongings into the marshy lawn at the front of their house. Go on the web in an internet cafe; look up people he knew that he hadn’t pissed off yet; get them out for a drink, their round up first; then ask them if they could help him out with a bit of cash – just something to tidy him over. Except most of the people he’d run with over the years had already been used up and tossed aside (or had tossed him aside), or else they were all middle class now and suspicious, disinterested in getting the old fires burning again. Or else they were a bigger waste of space than he was and as likely to try to hit him up than hand anything over. One waste of time after another and Rosalie getting more and more tired and cold and hungry with each, greedily chomping down any peanuts or crisps he managed to sneak out to her, the sprinkle of chips and leftover steak he’d pinched off a discarded dinner plate.

The one light in the dismal and increasingly depressing internet cafe experience had been his impulsive search on Facebook for Clare. It hadn’t been easy to find her until he remembered hearing the name of the bloke she’d married from a friend of a friend: Painter, not an easy one to forget. Thinking of her being married had depressed him further but curiosity had kept him going and then her picture and the intriguing little revelation... Marital Status: Single.

He hadn’t added her as a friend because he didn’t want her to know he was snooping around, so he couldn’t see everything, but he had a good little look as far as he could. The part of him that was capable of slipping a five pound note out of a friend’s wallet without them knowing kept nudging him to get in contact; see if he could get anything out of her. But the other part of him that remembered how it had been between them all those years ago wouldn’t let him.

He was a completely different person now and he didn’t want Clare to see him like this. Maybe when he’d sorted his life out again he could look her up, but not before. And he had to get his life straight now. He had Rosalie to look after.

Still, he’d clicked on the link to Beltane Boarding House and looked at the pictures of the place she was running now. He wondered what happened to her husband and he made a mental note of the address.

“Are we going to stop soon Daddy?”

Mike slowed and looked into his little girl’s eyes.

“I’m tired of driving around,” she said. “I’ve missed all my favourite programmes and I’m starving. I want to go home.”

“You are home honey,” said Mike. “You’re with me.”

“No. I want to go back to my other home. I want some food.”

The backs of Mike’s eyes contracted, an ache returning to his temple. “It’s going to be okay baby. Trust me. It’s going to be fine.”

Her eyes started to tear up. “I want to go home. I just want to go home. Why can’t I? Why can’t I go there?”

Mike didn’t say what he wanted to say; he didn’t snap back at her what he really felt. He wasn’t going to subject her to that. He was being a selfish bastard, like he always was, always had been. He was hanging on to her because he wanted to, when there was no reason that was in her favour except for the shallow rationalisations he’d made when he took her away. It was obvious that he should take her back and slink off into the night alone. Why didn’t he do just that?

But he knew why. Because he needed her far more than she needed him.

Clare. The name popped back into his mind and as it always did; his mind started nudging him with its little reasons why one set of principles was worth more than another. He’d vowed not to contact her again, definitely not to beg to her for money, or to take ask her to take him into her little boarding house. But his daughter needed food. She needed somewhere to stay and if not for Clare’s he had nowhere else to take her except back to the foster parents. And that was never going to happen.

He mumbled, “It’ll be alright baby. Don’t worry about anything. Daddy’s going to look after you.” He listened to her sobbing quietly from the passenger seat in the darkened van. Then he made his decision; weighed up one set of good principles against the other and realised what he had to do. “Listen, I’m going to take you to see an old friend of mine,” he said. “And she’ll take us in for the night at least, and maybe give us some money. Okay?”

She didn’t answer but she’d stopped crying.

“Rosalie?” Mike glanced across at her.

Her mouth was full of spittle. Her shoulders were shaking and her eyes were at half mast. She started to moan.

“Rosalie!”