“Oh,” said Adrian, unable to mask his disappointment. “I see.”
“Old man Mackerson pulled the plug. Says he doesn’t have the funds right now.”
Adrian cursed silently under his breath. He’d been relying on work at the Mackerson property mainly to keep him busy but also to help top up his depleted current account until May when better weather usually meant business ramping up. Work in the building trade had almost seized up since before Christmas. The Mackerson job—laying the foundations and building the extension at the back of the house—would’ve kept him busy and in credit for the next three months. Now he only had a couple of odd jobs to tide him over.
“Have you forked out for any gear?” Adrian asked.
“Partially. But nothing I can’t reuse, if he pulls out entirely.”
“Okay. Well, thanks for letting me know.”
Pete stayed on the line, probably sensing Adrian’s disappointment.
“Look, if anything else comes up in the meantime, I’ll call you.”
“Thanks.”
“But you know what it’s like this time of year.”
“Of course I do.”
With the call ended, he threw himself back in the chair. Somehow or another he needed another plan of action, not really because of the money but because too much time alone and being inactive might threaten to put Adrian back in a dark place. And he never wanted to go anywhere near there again.
“Were your ears burning last Friday?” asked the boy, Bernard, peering over the counter.
“My what?”
“Your ears. Mrs Sullivan at 26 Collywell Lane was in here nonstop talking about you. I think she fancies you.”
Adrian dropped his gaze to the floor and grinned. Septuagenarian Eileen Sullivan had been widowed for two years. When his mother mentioned any of her church friends having problems about the house—Mrs Sullivan’s being her broken central heating—Adrian took that as a cue for him to help. The poor woman had spent most of the winter in one room under a blanket, using an old electric heater to keep her warm. Adrian knew most heating systems and, by trial and error—checking the thermostat, boiler pilot light and bleeding the radiators—had gotten her system back up and running. When helping his mother’s friends, payment always came in terms of a large mug of tea. One of his builder buddies had told him he was too nice for his own good and would make a hopeless businessman.
When he looked up, a bag of food sat in a white plastic bag on the counter. Getting to his feet, he went to the counter and found Bernard playing an arcade game on his phone.
“This mine?” he called out.
“See anyone else in here?” said Bernard, without even looking up from the game.
Adrian huffed out a sigh, picked up the bag and headed out, but stopped to hold the door open as a young couple walked in, hand in hand. For a few seconds, he watched, envying their closeness, before flipping up the collar on his jacket and heading for home.
Barely a soul inhabited the high street on his way back. From time to time, cars hissed by on the damp tarmac, their wheels slick with the recent rain. As he turned the corner into the road where his apartment block lay, he stopped abruptly.
Parked on the road behind his truck sat a familiar white Ford Fiesta, the number plate instantly recognisable. The occupant had clearly spotted him because the driver’s door began to open. Annoyance spiked in Adrian, even though he tried to tell himself to remain calm.
“What do you want, Nick?” he called out, remaining where he stood.
“Come on, Ade. Is that any way to greet a mate?”
“You’re not my mate. Go home to Janice. She needs you.”
“Like hell she does. She won’t let me near her.”
Nick leaned against his car, and even with a hand braced on the bonnet for support, he still swayed. He’d been drinking heavily.
“She must be about due, so of course she’s irritable. Go home in case she needs you.”
“Bollocks. She don’t even want touch—want me to touch her. Told me to leave her alone—”
“How much have you drunk?”
