Given Carlos' versatility with his behaviour, the first question that comes to mind is, "Where did the apple come from?"
Elly answers with, "From the chiller in the café that’s literally a thirty second walk from here? It's a pretty standard food item, Ed," which I totally deserve.
I place a hand on Lutek's shoulder on my way past. "Good on you."
"Lutek didn't get an opportunity to be strong-armed into stripping," says Jeanette with a little laugh. "Carlos volunteered with insistence as soon as you closed the door."
"Always fancied myself as a life drawing model," says Carlos. "I've got nothing to hide."
I lower myself into my chair. "Carlos, your entire being is about elusiveness and obfuscation."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Could be I'm doing the old double bluff. They think I think I'm hiding, when I could just be living the life of an eccentric gentleman."
"Which you are," says Elly with a roll of her eyes.
"Which Icouldbe." He raises the apple higher and looks at it. "Or not."
Lutek sensibly changes the subject. "No Bess, then?"
"No Bess. She won't be far away," I say with a conviction meant for myself as much as anyone else.
I try to settle myself back into my work.
The short story I'm writing is a horror. They're always horror – sometimes Gothic, sometimes contemporary – but horror is how my creative energy channels itself.
I don't pretend to understand the psychology behind why I'm drawn to writing in this particular genre, but at the end of the day I like the thrill and challenge of writing scary stuff, and the freedom horror gives my imagination. There's no limits. I can think up the most strange and fantastical stuff and turn it into a story.
I don't sell them, even though Bess said she'd put them in the gallery if I published any of them. I'm fairly certain the last thing people here on a seaside holiday would want to read is splatter fiction. Not that all of them are bloody. A good horror can offer the threat of being bloody and terrify the pants off you without spilling a single drop.
So like Carlos, I'm here purely to satisfy my creativity. Except I'm not partial to destroying my work once it's complete.
Tonight, I'm writing a story about a library where patrons who check out a particular book start to disappear, leading to the discovery of a serial killer who uses the library as a hunting ground. Hey – they say art resembles life. Or something. Which is not an admission to me being a serial killer. Only that my place of work is a great setting for a horror.
I've just got to the bit where the killer is stalking the librarian who's worked out the book connection and the door bangs open.
I jump.
Bess stands in the doorway with a bottle of wine in each hand.
I place a hand over my heart in a useless attempt to calm it from the combination of fright and acute relief.
There's a wild look to her. Her eyes are dangerously dark and her hair's dishevelled like she's been standing in a strong wind.
"God. So dramatic," says Elly. "I don't know whether to roll my eyes or wish I made more entrances like that."
As the relief leaves my system, it is quickly chased by anger at her thoughtlessness at not getting in touch with any of us, then worry when she doesn't so much as look at me but marches up to Jeanette and asks at an unnecessarily loud volume, "Red or white?"
"Are you okay?" I ask knowing very well that she is not. Every sign points to her being rattled. Bess is never rattled. Passionate? Yes. But rattled? No.
Eyes large, Jeanette takes a step back from Bess. "Ah. White? No, wait. Red. Yes, red. I think."
"Well, go on then. Hold out your mug," Bess says impatiently.
I stand to take the bottles off her. Her breath is quickened, but her hands are steady. "Go get your own mug," I say quietly. "I'll do this."
I fill up everyone's tin mugs, which were introduced after the first wine glass-meets-concrete-floor accident, and wait until Bess has taken a gulp before asking, "What's going on?"
Bess holds up a finger and downs one more mouthful, before saying, "Theodore Pinkerton."
