The Road Trip by Beth O'Leary (grave mercy .txt) 📕

the gardens. I catch up with him on the lawn and tackle him. He shrieks as we go barrelling into a rosemary bush.

‘Christ!’ he says, laughing, breathless. ‘Are you secretly a rugby player, too?’

‘Built for it,’ I say, fumbling for the pocket of his jeans. ‘Are you going to let me steal the whole book, or read me one?’

‘Read you one, read you one,’ he says, rolling out of the bush and brushing himself down. He holds out a hand to help me up, then pulls me over to the bench set on the edge of the lawn. The view’s amazing from here. The vines are so perfectly spaced on the hills, like green pinstripes.

Dylan leafs through his notebook. I set my legs across his lap and nestle close.

‘A short one?’ he says in a small voice.

‘OK. A short one.’

He clears his throat and begins.

Before I Heard Her Name

All that time – poised

In the dark, waiting,

Questless, undone, unmade –

And it wasn’t a guiding star at all.

It was a heart, mine.

She had it even then,

Before I heard her name.

My eyes prick. I don’t get what it means, not really, but I don’t think that matters. I know he wrote it for me.

‘Addie? Ads?’

I swallow. I hide my face in his neck. ‘I love it,’ I whisper. ‘I love it.’

Dylan

For the first time, we spend the night in my suite instead of Addie’s flat. The grand house makes her look smaller than ever, her fine-boned hands trailing up the oak bannister, her tiny shoes left at the bottom of the stairs; she seems a little skittish, dancing out of my grip and treading so lightly you can hardly hear she’s there at all. Once we’re in bed, though, she’s herself again: fierce and beautiful, heavy-eyed, plaintive when I make her wait.

Tonight, I plan to tell her I love her. It’s risky, certainly – there’s a very real chance I’ll scare her away. She’s always retreating then returning, disappearing to the village for hours and then curling up catlike beside me when she comes back; unzipping that suitcase and then trying to zip it closed again like she wishes she’d never given me that glimpse of herself. She ebbs and flows, my river sprite.

Addie lies with her head on my chest, her legs tangled in the dark blue coverlets, her hair spilling across my arm. I stare at her, aching with it, loving her, loving every freckle that leaves its tiny kiss on her cheek, and I have to tell her, I have to, it’s burning on my tongue.

‘Addie, I—’

‘Holy shit.’

She moves so fast she’s up and flattened against the bedroom wall before I’ve even processed what she’s said.

‘Addie? What? What is it?’

‘There! Out there! A face!’

‘Outside? We’re two floors up!’

My heart starts to beat faster. I’m not good at this sort of thing. I’m not the man who slips out of bed in the night to investigate the noise downstairs, I’m the one who says, It’s probably nothing, and stays under the covers, quietly quivering.

‘I one hundred per cent saw a face,’ Addie says. She’s very pale. ‘It was right up against the glass for a second, then it was gone.’

I edge off the bed and reach for my boxers, tossing Addie her dress. She slips it on with shaking hands.

‘I swear I saw it,’ she says.

‘I believe you.’ I don’t want to believe her, particularly, but any hope that she’s joking evaporates as soon as I see her terrified expression. ‘Maybe it’s Terry joshing around?’

‘It wasn’t Terry.’ Addie rubs her arms. ‘Where’s the key?’

‘What?’

‘The key to the doors,’ she says impatiently. ‘To the balcony.’

‘Oh, good God, no, you’re not going out there,’ I say. ‘Absolutely not. What if there’s a murderer out there?’

She stares at me blankly. ‘What’s your plan, wait for him in here?’

‘Yes! No, I mean, it’s safe in here! There are walls and locked doors between us and the murderers!’

Addie half laughs at that. Her jaw is set now and she lifts her chin. ‘I’m not waiting, trapped in here. That’s way worse. Dylan, sweetie, come on – give me the key.’

She’s never called me sweetie before, and I’m not sure I like it – it feels like something she would say to a friend, or maybe to a rather frightened child. I straighten up and pull back my shoulders.

‘I’ll go. See who’s out there.’

Addie raises her eyebrows slightly. ‘Yeah? You sure?’

I’m surprised to discover that I am indeed sure. It’s a humbling realisation: this is love, then. That explains a great deal about many irrational acts throughout history – every man who ever went to war must have really fancied somebody.

I take the key from the bedside table and walk to the balcony doors, trying very hard to remember to breathe.

Just as I fiddle around with the lock there’s a thump on the glass. Two hands thrown flat against the windows. A chalky pale face. Eyes wide, the whites showing. Teeth bared.

I jump so much I trip on the rug and go tumbling backwards, falling with a thud that sends a dull shock of pain up my back. Addie’s screaming, a truly guttural, terrified scream, and for a horrifying moment I really think I might wet myself. The slam, the eyes, the teeth. I looked away when I fell; for an endless second I can’t bear to look back.

When I do, the face is still there, grinning, shaking the handles of the doors. It takes another moment – teetering, ice-cold – to meet its gaze and realise exactly who is standing on my balcony.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ . . . Addie. Don’t worry. It’s Marcus.’

I stand gingerly. Marcus is still cackling and slamming his hands on the balcony doors, and I shake my head as I try to unlock them.

‘Stop messing with the handles,’ I tell him. ‘You’re making it worse.’

‘You know that man?’ Addie asks.

I glance back at her. She’s clutching at the neck of her dress, pale, her eyes wide and round;