Lunch is called a little while later, and I go sit with Colin, who gives me another number. I give him my puddingdessertto say thanks because, without him, I’d still think I was trapped in a delusion and that I was crazy.
But I’m not, and tomorrow will hopefully be another step closer to escaping The Heath for good.
Blake
I'd always wanted to come here, I muse silently, watching as the City of London quickly gives way to lush greenery. The years of watching British period dramas have given me a definite desire to see more of this country. I promise myself that once we get Daisy out of that fucking hellhole, we'll come back another time. Maybe to the Lake District or the Brecon Beacons. Maybe Scotland.
A small snort escapes me. Maybe I could marry her at Gretna Green, I think. I wonder what Shade would say to that.
The smile fades and I feel guilty. I shouldn't be enjoying myself in any way, shape, or form until Daisy is back with us.
I stare out the window for most of the journey. None of us talk much. The driver tries to start a conversation with us at first, but quickly realizes we aren’t a chattybunch.
There are no sprawling suburbs here, I note. Once we're outside the city, it's English countryside on both sides of the highway for the first hour. After that, the roads get smaller. We go through towns here and there, some villages as we head further north. I watch the fields go by, the medieval churches and the Tudor houses, and I wish I was herewithDaisy, instead of just hoping against hope that she’s okay.
Would we know if she wasn’t okay? Sure, she left that voicemail, but after seeing the files that nurse sent to Joe Banderville… They turn my stomach, curdle the contents of it every time I think of them. I'm furious with Shade, I'm angry with Mav, but mostly it's myself I want to pummel.
I told myself she would be okay in that house because it was her stepfather’s and he couldn’t be that bad, right? And then she came out, and we found out the truth. Except that wasn't the full story. Of course it wasn’t, not where Daisy is concerned. I mean, I understand. I wouldn't want to talk about the specifics either.
Everything in me wishes Joe were still alive so I could kill him again myself. But I know that Daisy needed to do it. For closure. A catharsis. She probably felt a lot better when she poisoned that son of a bitch, when he turned purple and keeled over like the nothing he was. But even revenge doesn’t fix everything.
Once we break her out, we need to talk about what comes next. She’s not safe where John and the Bandervilles are concerned, not even with Joe taken care of and the nurse dead.
We're in the car for three and a half hours before we roll into a picturesque, quaint village. There’s a small corner store with vegetables in display troughs outside and a neon sign that says, “off licence”. I don't know what thatmeans, but I frown at it because it doesn't seem to match the rest of the aesthetic here.
There are thatched cottages and a red pillar box for mailing letters. There's a small post office and a café. I also see three pubs dotted around.The Centurionis the one we’re taken to because they have rooms upstairs that I booked for us on the plane. The sign outside has a painted image of a Roman soldier.
‘This is it,’ I say.
We get out of the car and the driver helps us get our bags from the back before he drives off.
We go in through an old, wooden door that Mav practically has to bend double to get through because it's so short. Inside, the pub is warm and cozy, with a fire blazing in a hearth that looks a thousand years old. But I saw a plaque on the outside of the building that said 1567…so only five hundred years, I guess. There’s a lacquered, chestnut colored bar on one side of the room. The ceilings are low and everything else is made of dark, ancient-looking wood. There are two men in their fifties, probably, sitting at a table close to the fireplace having a low conversation. A third, slightly younger one, looks like he works here.
I walk up to the third man in the apron with a faded tattoo on his forearm, who's wiping down a small, round table.
'My name’s Eric Blake,' I say. 'I booked three of the rooms upstairs.'
'Oh, aye?' he says, somehow looking down his spectacles at us even though he’s at least half a head shorter, and clearly finding us wanting. 'A trio o’ Yanks, is it?'
I nod, sort of glad that I've recently expanded my British show repertoire withPeaky BlindersandBroadchurchthatare a little more modern because, otherwise, I'm not sure I'd understand everything this guy is saying.
The man glances at the clock on the wall. 'Won’t be ready yet, lads. Have a pint, and by the time you're finished, I'm sure Molly will be finished with the cleaning.'
I sit at a table. The others are quiet, letting me take the lead.
When the barman doesn’t come over, I look at him questioningly. He taps the bar.
'No table service here, chappies.'
'What do you guys want?' I ask.
'Lemonade.’
‘Water.'
The barman doesn’t hide his scoff.
'Yanks,' he mutters, then looks straight at me. 'What’ll you have?'
