I surrender what’s left of my meal to him, but when I try to pat his matted head he backs off and turns for the door, taking my sandwich out the cat flap.
And that was the last I saw of Aldous all evening. I heard him return just after eleven. God knows where he’d been, but in between unpacking my things, phoning Gran and reading the bookseller’s information folder Jowan left for me by the till, I’d rather forgotten about him.
I’d left him some bread and cheese in a dish and topped up his water bowl which I found under the kitchen table, and as I brushed my teeth upstairs I could hear Aldous wolfing his food and then climbing back onto his spot on the window ledge with a grumpy sort of sleepy snort.
Jowan’s folder told me,Aldous is a Bedlington Terrier. He is (possibly) thirteen years old, doesn’t care much for people and is rather set in his ways. He walks himself so mind you don’t obstruct his doggy door. He keeps his own hours. Don’t worry if he’s late coming home. Under no circumstances are you to attempt to brush him. At last count he had eight teeth but I wouldn’t risk a bite if I were you. The vet grooms him quarterly and that’s trauma enough (for the poor vet). Also, please don’t remove or wash the items of clothing he sleeps on, they belong to him.
Sure enough when I’d checked, I found what must once have been a nice mohair jumper now trodden into a messy nest. ‘Remove it? I wouldn’t touch it with tongs!’ I said, and carried on settling in.
And now I’m in bed with the window open behind me and I’m listening to the shushing of the sea all the way down on the beach. The rain’s still falling steadily and it’s completely dark outside.
I let my eyes close and my mind turns to Marygreen and Mum and Dad packing a suitcase for their first proper holiday. Gran told me they’d been like teenagers when they’d visited her today. I’m glad they’re happy, even if they too must be a bit shocked at the rapid turn of events life has taken in the last month. How can we have gone from our steady, plodding routines to everything suddenly unrecognisably different and new so quickly? The bakery sold, a new house, Gran living independently at last, my degree over, Mack moved on.
It’s as though someone threw our old life up into the air and all the pieces somehow miraculously fell, right side up, neat and tidy. Every piece except me and my life. For now, there’s this. A little hiatus. A fortnight where I can’t really do anything about the future. I’ll just have to enjoy the here and now, making the most of my bookshop escape, before my life comes crashing back down and I have to turn the pieces into something meaningful and new. For now, this bed’s warm and cosy, the sea is shushing me to sleep, and I’m utterly exhausted. My eyes are as heavy as my tired body and I let myself drift off to sleep.
I’m not sure what started first, the half-hearted growling from Aldous downstairs or the sound of something metallic scratching at the locked shop door. I immediately jump up and secure the little hook lock inside its fastening on my bedroom door, sealing myself in.
The shop door creaks open. I grab my phone and am weighing up whether I ring Jowan or the police. Who’d be fastest to respond? Where’s the nearest cop car likely to be, anyway?
I can hear a whispering voice. ‘Hello, little guy, you must be Aldous.’
I notice the scruffy mutt isn’t growling anymore. He’s probably been slipped a poisoned Bonio. That’s how they do it, you know? Burglars. They pacify the guard dog and then take out the occupants one by one before rifling through their wallets. Well, my wallet’s got four pounds fifty and a Body Shop reward card in it and there’s no way I’m dying for those!
Oh shit, they’re on the stairs. There’s actually someone climbing up the spiral towards my room.
I give up on phoning anyone, I’d be better off screaming out the window, but when I hang my head outside I realise there’s nothing out there but the rooftops and the rain’s falling so heavily I doubt anyone will hear me. Still, here goes, I’ll just have to yell for help and pray one of those fit fishermen I saw earlier is passing by on their way home from the Siren.
‘Anyone home?’ A voice – definitely a man’s voice – calls from the other side of my bedroom door. I’m pretty sure my heart is failing and I’m close to being officially dead from fear. ‘Excuse me? Are you in there?’ the voice says again, and even through my panic, I think he sounds a bit tentative and not hugely murdery, but still, if I reply, he’ll know for sure I’m a woman on my own in here, and that door’s pretty flimsy, even with the little hook fastening it shut. He could easily get through it with one big kick.
‘Are you in there? Jude?’
I’m standing behind the door holding a hairbrush in the air as though I could backcomb this burglar to death. ‘How do you know my name?’ I screech in a pitchy voice, trying to sound as much like a muscle-bound WWF wrestling star as I can – as opposed to a girl from the Borders whose lifetime exercise regime consists of those three online Fitsteps classes I did in twenty-nineteen. ‘That’s not you Jowan, is it?’
‘It’s me. Elliot? I only just picked up my key from Jowan’s B&B. He was pretty surprised to see me. He said you’d told him I wasn’t coming?’
‘What?How could I do that when I don’t even know who the hell you are?’
‘I’m the replacement for the other occupant who dropped out. Remember?’
‘Honestly, you’re going to have to start making sense or I’m calling the police.’
‘What? No, don’t do that!’ I’m glad to hear the panic in his voice. ‘Listen, I’m the other holidaymaker. Somebody from the bookshop charity thingy rang me the other day and said you’d had someone drop out of your booking and would I like to take their place? They rang you. The person they spoke to said that wouldn’t be a problem? So here I am.’
‘What?’The person they spoke to?My mind stops racing when I realise who’s behind all this. Mack. He didn’t bother informing me about this replacement person, of course, the vindictive little sod. It all makes sense now. This is what Jowan was talking about earlier when he asked if ‘the fellow’ was arriving with me.
I lean closer to the door and shout back. ‘How can you replace my… boyfriend when there’s only one bed? That’s ridiculous.’
I read somewhere once that men are less likely to molest a woman they know has a boyfriend – it’s some sort of cavemanish respect for another man’s property kind of thing – so this little white lie is justified.
‘Uh?But the advert says “two-bed apartment”.’ The murderer’s voice falters. I think he’s genuinely as confused as I am. ‘Listen, just point me to the other bedroom and we can talk in the morning.’
‘Thereisno other bedroom.’ I look again at the two single beds pushed together that fill the little room. ‘You’re not coming in here!’ I yelp, grabbing my robe and throwing it on in case somehow this guy’s got x-ray eyes and he’s currently getting a peep at me in my Snoopy PJs.
‘Look,’ he says, wearily, and I hear him slump down onto the floor at the other side of the door. ‘I’ve travelled a long way in the rain to get here, I’m soaked through and I just want to get dry and get some sleep. Where do you suggest I go?’
‘Go back down to Jowan at the B&B, he’ll have a bed for you.’ That’s when I remember the ‘No Vacancies’ notice I spotted this afternoon on the bicycle chained to the B&B railings.
‘I paid to stay here, though,’ he says, and I hear what I’m guessing is the back of his head thwacking the door as he leans back on it, exasperated.
