Trials, Temptation and Triumph - Ch 5.8 (Charlie/Shark, NC-17)
In which Rory accepts that it's over.
For introduction and warnings see here.
5.8 Aftermath
Friday 27th December 2002 (continued)
Rory staggered back until he fell into his chair. He felt dazed. He'd never lost his temper like that before … not in years, anyway ... not since he'd beaten the crap out of someone who'd found out Rory was gay and thought it meant weak. He hadn't even been a black belt then, but he'd won the fight, and the jerk hadn't ever bothered him again. He'd been exhilarated after that fight - really good, top of the world, cock of the walk, the Big Man.
This, though ... this was different.
The red rage that had overtaken him had faded, and he ran his hands through his hair, keeping his eyes on the carpet, too scared to look up, too scared to face what he might have done.
He felt sick.
Something stirred, and Rory almost sobbed with relief as he glanced up and saw Charlie's chest moving. Charlie wasn't dead. He hadn't killed him. Thank Christ for that.
He was about to heave himself out of the chair and check that Charlie was all right when Charlie groaned, coughed and rolled over onto his side. Their eyes met, and Charlie directed a look of such sheer malevolence at him that Rory was momentarily stunned. His normally-fast reflexes and quickness of mind had deserted him and he simply stared in dumb bewilderment as Charlie got up and left the room.
Whisky. He needed whisky.
Oblivious to the thought that he might have had more than enough that night already, he poured himself a large glass and downed it in one. The world was starting to look a bit fluid, a bit unsteady, but he poured another, and was still sitting with that in his hand when Charlie came back in, carrying his guitar. He grabbed the half-packed bag and left, slamming the door behind him.
Rory just stared at the space where Charlie had been, unable to move. His thoughts were chaotic, and his body seemed strangely distant, as if it wasn't really his anymore.
His eyes prickled with tears but he blinked them away. He wasn't going to cry over Charlie fucking Pace. He wasn't.
He cried anyway, sinking down to the floor and sobbing in a way he hadn't done since his mother had died.
He had no idea how long he sat there, lost in a morass of grief. It could have been ten minutes; it could have been an hour or more. He was brought back to the present by a wave of nausea, and he realised that he'd had far too much fucking whisky. He was never going to make it up the stairs to the bathroom, but he managed to stagger to the kitchen, spewing his guts up into the sink.
Again, he lost track of time as his body purged itself of everything he had eaten and drunk that evening. It seemed forever until his guts settled and he was able to rinse his mouth without triggering another heave. He flushed the sink with water until the revolting mess was gone, and then leaned against the counter, trying to work out what to do next.
Slowly, he made his way back to the living room and stared at the mess. Charlie hadn't been exactly careful as he'd pulled out the things he wanted to take with him. CDs and books were scattered over the floor and there were shards of glass by the wall where Charlie had thrown the tumbler at him.
He stepped carefully over the debris and found the dustpan and brush. Slowly, he swept up the fragments, taking care not to cut himself, and wrapped them up in an old newspaper. As he dropped the bundle in the bin, he wondered if that was the last he'd ever see of his lover.
Oh, God. It had only been an hour and he missed Charlie so much already. His heart was breaking as he thought about the possibility that Charlie might not come back, that he might have gone forever.
Charlie was more than just his lover. Charlie was the only man he'd ever fallen in love with. Charlie was the only one who'd ever been able to cut through all of Rory's defences, the only one who'd seen behind the mask he wore every day. Charlie was the only one Rory had ever brought into his home, into his bed, the only one he'd ever wanted to share his life with.
He didn't care about the band. He didn't care about the fame and the money and the rockstar lifestyle - as far as Rory was concerned, they were distractions he could well do without. When they'd met, in that smoky pub over three years ago, Charlie had been a penniless boy with a passionate heart, and Rory had fallen for him the moment he'd set eyes on him. He wanted Charlie the man, not Charlie the bass-player. He wanted the Charlie whose eyes were dark with lust, not dull with drugs. He wanted the Charlie who let Rory be Rory - not Frankie's son, not the Shark, not the business man, just himself. Just Rory. He felt more himself with Charlie than he ever did on his own.
Charlie was his other half. He knew this - knew it instinctively, viscerally and absolutely. How could he possibly go on living when half of him was gone? How could his heart keep on beating when it was torn in two?
How was he ever going to get Charlie back?
Tears prickled at his eyelids again, and he gave a half-sob before driving his fist through the kitchen door. He watched as blood welled up from the cuts on his hand, and picked off a couple of the larger splinters. Not surprisingly, it hadn't helped.
He staggered back into the living room and collapsed on the settee, his brain a confused whirl of angry words and lingering whisky fumes. Fuck Charlie and his fucking stupid drugs. He'd just have to deal with it tomorrow.
* * *
Saturday 28th December, 9 am
Rory knocked on the door and stood waiting for Meg to answer. At least, he hoped it would be Meg - he couldn't face Mike today, and he doubted that Charlie would answer the door himself.
"Hello, dear," said Meg, with a smile.
"I want to see him," said Rory, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable, fighting the urge to push past her into the house.
"Mike?"
"Charlie."
"Charlie's not here."
"Not here?" he echoed, stupidly.
"No, I haven't seen him since Sunday. Why? What's happened?" Her tone sharpened suddenly.
Rory felt sick and disoriented. How could Charlie not be here? He always ran home to his mother. And if Charlie wasn't here, then where the hell could he be? "I ... he ... we had a fight. He left. I hoped he'd be here."
"No, love, he isn't." Her face showed her deep concern.
"Fuck. Sorry," he added. "Do you have any idea where he might be, then?"
"No, not really. Look, you'd better come in and tell me about it. I'll make us a cup of tea."
"I really need to find him."
"If he left last night, I doubt another hour will make much difference, and I can't stand here with the door wide open, letting all the heat out. Come in and sit yourself down."
Rory sighed and followed her in. The last thing he wanted to do was to confess his sins, but if anyone knew where Charlie might have gone it was Meg, and if a cup of tea was the price of getting that information, then it was probably time well-spent. He walked through to the kitchen with her and sat down heavily at the table, not even watching her as she put the kettle on. Mercifully, she didn't say anything further until she'd set two steaming cups of tea on the table.
"Now, then, love," she said, seating herself and taking a sip, "what exactly happened?"
"We f-fought. B-Badly." He sipped his tea, grateful for the heat and the sweetness. He'd been running on alcohol and adrenaline for the last twelve hours; it was no wonder he wasn't feeling the best.
She looked meaningfully at his hand, which still bore the bruises and scratches from when he'd punched the door. "I can see that. Was it about the drugs?"
"Aye, it was." He took another sip. "He's using again, I told you that. I caught him at it, about a week ago, and since then he hasn't even tried to hide it." He felt again the disgust and nausea at the sight of Charlie, slack-jawed and careless on the bed. "I didn't think you could do that - take methadone and heroin at the same time - but Charlie said that the methadone just wasn't holding him any more." He shrugged. "The counsellor says he's seen it before. Bastard. I think he was almost pleased Charlie failed."
"Oh, my poor boy." Meg's face fell. "He was doing so well. I know it doesn't always work, but we had to let him try."
"Aye, I know. But ..." his voice trailed off
"When did he start up again?
"A few weeks ago, I think. He said it was his birthday present to himself. Some f-fucking present!"
"Oh, love, I'm so sorry. Is that what you argued about?"
Rory nodded. "I know I'm not supposed to be confrontational with him, but he's killing himself with that shit! I cannae let him do that to himself, Meg, I just cannae."
"So what happened?"
Rory shrugged; he didn't want to go into the details. "We fought. He ran away." He took another swallow of tea. "I've tried phoning him, but his phone is switched off. I thought ... I thought he'd come here."
"No, he didn't. I'm sorry."
"I have to find him. I have to make sure he's all right."
Meg looked at him, concerned. "Is there any reason he might not be all right? I thought you said you didn't hit him?"
Rory shuffled a little. "I didn't hit him - not precisely. I tried not to get upset with him, honestly, Meg. But he looked at me with that b-bloody smirk on his f-face like he was jack-the-lad, and I lost my temper."
"And?"
"He threw a glass at me, and we f-fought and I p-pinned him against the wall and he ... he ... b-blacked out." He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. "When he came to, he just got up and l-left."
"Would he have gone to the hospital?"
Rory shook his head. "I doubt it. I didn't really hurt him, you know. I didn't want to hurt him but I lost my temper and held him down and said all the things I'd been holding back, all the things he needed to hear - how much he's hurting his family, me, himself." He caught himself before he could burst into tears. "I didn't hurt him, I swear. I was just so frustrated with it all - I could see my Charlie slipping away and I couldn't do anything about it."
"I know, love. It's so hard to stand and watch someone you love hurt themselves."
"How am I supposed to just stand by and watch him kill himself? How can I live when all I do is wonder if the next time he puts that needle to his arm it's going to be the hit that kills him? How can I do that? I just can't."
"No one's asking you to do that, love," Meg tried to reassure him, patting his hand gently. "We'll find him a rehab programme."
Rory gave a bitter laugh. "I found one - a good one, a residential programme in Yorkshire. They had an opening today and it was the only place available before February."
"How did he take that?"
"I thought he was all right with it - he went upstairs to pack, and then he came down and said he'd changed his mind, that he wasn't going to go there after all. That's when we fought. Ach," he added in annoyed realisation. "I'm going to have to ring the counsellor and tell him that Charlie's not taking the place. He won't be happy."
"We can do that later. It's more important that we work out where he might have gone."
Rory took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together. "What do I do if I can't find him Meg? What if ... what if it's already too late?"
"Oh, love, please don't think about that. It can't be too late. He's only been gone a few hours. We'll find him. We've just got to look in the right places."
"And what if that place is the morgue?"
Meg set her cup down with a clatter and glared at him. "Don't, Rory. Don't even think of that." She took a deep breath. "Have you rung Pat? He might have gone there."
"No I came straight here. I should go home, just in case he comes home. He might go home, don't you think? Or should I try to find his dealer, see if he's been there?"
"I'll ring Pat for you - I'll make up some story. And Tess, in case he makes it as far as London. You could try finding his dealer, but it won't be easy, I imagine."
"It won't be easy, but I've got contacts. I'll call in a couple of favours."
He got up and took his cup over to the sink. He was turning to go when Meg reached out to him. "And let me have a look at that hand before you go."
"It's nothing," he said, quickly, hiding it behind his back.
"It's not nothing, now let me see it."
Reluctantly, he held his hand out, and she examined it closely. "Door?"
"Aye," he answered. How the hell did she always know?
She must have read the question on his face, because she smiled, and said, "Mother's magic, dear. And the unmistakable sign of splinters - not all of which have been removed."
"I'll be fine."
"Of course you will - once I've taken them out."
Sighing, he bowed to the inevitable, and left twenty minutes later with his hand daubed in antiseptic and stinging worse than it had the night before. There were times when he thought that Meg took this mothering thing a bit too far, but he didn't want to antagonise her, not now.
He got into the car and rested his hands on the wheel, trying to force his weary brain to think.
Who the hell was Charlie getting his heroin from? And where the hell had he gone? And how on Earth was Rory ever going to get him back?
* * *
New Year came and went, and Rory still had no idea where Charlie had gone. He hadn't gone to Pat, or Tess, or even Sinjin (and that was a conversation Rory never wanted to have again). He hadn't gone to his cousins in Ireland. He hadn't gone to any of the friends Rory had contacted. He had disappeared, and the only thing that stopped Rory losing it completely was that at least there were no reports of his body having been found. He'd put out some feelers, but his influence wasn't great outside Manchester and Glasgow, and no information had come his way yet. He rang Charlie's mobile several times a day, but always got the same message: This phone is switched off or out of range.
They all dealt with the disappearance in different ways. Meg, after having telephoned every relative on both sides of the family, had taken to visiting her parish church twice a day and lighting candles. Mike was taciturn and glowered at anyone rash enough to mention any of his children. Rory took his frustrations out on his clients, and anyone who had gained the impression that the Shark was mellowing with age was quickly brought to the realisation that he was as mean, as vicious and as prone to violence as he had ever been. Even Ken was looking at him with new-found respect after having been bawled out at length for letting a client slip through his fingers.
As the week ended, Rory's initial hopes of finding Charlie faded. Meg wanted to file a missing persons report, but Rory dissuaded her - as he said, Charlie wasn't missing, he had just left, and since he was a legally-competent adult there was very little that they or the police could do about it, except to wait for him to turn up somewhere.
Oddly, his fears had faded too, to be replaced with anger and a burning resentment. He was furious with Charlie for leaving him, furious that Charlie placed a higher value on his fucking heroin than he did on his lover, the man who had stood by and supported him for three years. It was bad enough that Charlie had put the band before Rory on so many occasions - and Rory still felt the pain of being left behind, even as his reason told him that Charlie had no choice but to go on tour - but there was no way that he was going to let Charlie put his heroin habit ahead of their relationship. He'd told Charlie that it was either him or the heroin, and Charlie had made his choice; he'd chosen heroin and he'd walked out of the flat and out of Rory's life.
It was Friday evening when Meg rang him, a whole week after the argument.
"Hello, Rory, dear," she began. "How are you?"
"No' bad," he answered, frowning. He'd had three whiskies already since getting home and it wasn't even eight o'clock yet.
"Have you seen the paper?" she asked. "There's a bit about Charlie in it."
"No. Is he ... is he all right?"
"I think so - he was picked up for drunk driving on New Year's Eve." She didn't sound happy about it.
"Was that all?"
"That's all the paper said. Apparently the police wouldn't let him drive home, they took him to the station."
"Better than letting him crash the car."
"Yes, that's what I thought. But I can't believe he'd be drinking and driving - I've always told him it was dangerous."
"He's an adult, Meg, he's making his own choices now, and they're not good ones."
"I know," she sighed. "I just wish that there was something I could do."
"So do I," echoed Rory, dutifully. "Did the paper say where he is?"
"No, I think it was London, but it doesn't actually say so."
Rory nodded, though he knew Meg couldn't see him. Of course it would be London, that's where any musician with ambition would go, where anyone who wanted to be hard to find would go.
"Do you think I ought to go to London?" she asked.
"No, there's no point. He knows where you are, he knows how to contact you. Chasing him is just going to get his back up."
She sighed again. "You're right, I know you're right, but it's hard for a mother to let a child go like that."
"Aye." He didn't trust himself to say any more. At least he could be pretty sure that Charlie would contact his mother sooner or later. That was more than he could say for himself.
He put the phone down and poured himself another whisky. He was drinking too much, he knew that, but the alternative was staying sober, and he couldn't cope with all the memories that crowded his mind when he was sober. It was better to stay drunk, better to stay numb, than to break down into a sobbing mess every night.
He looked around the room, at the gaps in the shelves where Charlie had taken his favourite CDs; at the ginger jar where they kept the lube; at Charlie's jumper, still in a crumpled heap beside the settee from when he had stripped off for their last shag. There were so many reminders of Charlie in the flat that they overwhelmed him.
Suddenly, he made up his mind. Charlie had left him. Charlie had left him for good. This wasn't just a tiff, with a couple of days of sulking and then a glorious reunion. This was it, the end, all over and done with. Charlie wasn't coming back, not now, not ever.
With a cold, grim anger, he collected all the things that reminded him of Charlie and set them in a pile in the middle of the room. Then he got out some large garbage bags and threw them all in - all of Charlie's clothes, his shoes, his CDs, the trashy novels he read, the toiletries from the bathroom, the wok from the kitchen ... everything went into the bags and then was carted down to the communal dumpster. It took four trips and most of the night, but finally Rory looked around his flat and saw no trace of Charlie: nothing that would remind him of the love and the laughter and the mind-blowing sex; nothing that would remind him of that final, dreadful fight that they'd had.
Charlie Pace was out of his life.
Chapter 6.1
Author's note:
That's it for now, I'm afraid - there is a lot more to come (so to speak) but as I expected, I have not been able to write fast enough to keep on posting chapters at the moment. I expect that I will resume posting the story next year, probably around May or June.
I would like to thank all the people who have commented on TTT over the last few months - I appreciate all your feedback, even (especially) when you pick up my mistakes.
For introduction and warnings see here.
5.8 Aftermath
Friday 27th December 2002 (continued)
Rory staggered back until he fell into his chair. He felt dazed. He'd never lost his temper like that before … not in years, anyway ... not since he'd beaten the crap out of someone who'd found out Rory was gay and thought it meant weak. He hadn't even been a black belt then, but he'd won the fight, and the jerk hadn't ever bothered him again. He'd been exhilarated after that fight - really good, top of the world, cock of the walk, the Big Man.
This, though ... this was different.
The red rage that had overtaken him had faded, and he ran his hands through his hair, keeping his eyes on the carpet, too scared to look up, too scared to face what he might have done.
He felt sick.
Something stirred, and Rory almost sobbed with relief as he glanced up and saw Charlie's chest moving. Charlie wasn't dead. He hadn't killed him. Thank Christ for that.
He was about to heave himself out of the chair and check that Charlie was all right when Charlie groaned, coughed and rolled over onto his side. Their eyes met, and Charlie directed a look of such sheer malevolence at him that Rory was momentarily stunned. His normally-fast reflexes and quickness of mind had deserted him and he simply stared in dumb bewilderment as Charlie got up and left the room.
Whisky. He needed whisky.
Oblivious to the thought that he might have had more than enough that night already, he poured himself a large glass and downed it in one. The world was starting to look a bit fluid, a bit unsteady, but he poured another, and was still sitting with that in his hand when Charlie came back in, carrying his guitar. He grabbed the half-packed bag and left, slamming the door behind him.
Rory just stared at the space where Charlie had been, unable to move. His thoughts were chaotic, and his body seemed strangely distant, as if it wasn't really his anymore.
His eyes prickled with tears but he blinked them away. He wasn't going to cry over Charlie fucking Pace. He wasn't.
He cried anyway, sinking down to the floor and sobbing in a way he hadn't done since his mother had died.
He had no idea how long he sat there, lost in a morass of grief. It could have been ten minutes; it could have been an hour or more. He was brought back to the present by a wave of nausea, and he realised that he'd had far too much fucking whisky. He was never going to make it up the stairs to the bathroom, but he managed to stagger to the kitchen, spewing his guts up into the sink.
Again, he lost track of time as his body purged itself of everything he had eaten and drunk that evening. It seemed forever until his guts settled and he was able to rinse his mouth without triggering another heave. He flushed the sink with water until the revolting mess was gone, and then leaned against the counter, trying to work out what to do next.
Slowly, he made his way back to the living room and stared at the mess. Charlie hadn't been exactly careful as he'd pulled out the things he wanted to take with him. CDs and books were scattered over the floor and there were shards of glass by the wall where Charlie had thrown the tumbler at him.
He stepped carefully over the debris and found the dustpan and brush. Slowly, he swept up the fragments, taking care not to cut himself, and wrapped them up in an old newspaper. As he dropped the bundle in the bin, he wondered if that was the last he'd ever see of his lover.
Oh, God. It had only been an hour and he missed Charlie so much already. His heart was breaking as he thought about the possibility that Charlie might not come back, that he might have gone forever.
Charlie was more than just his lover. Charlie was the only man he'd ever fallen in love with. Charlie was the only one who'd ever been able to cut through all of Rory's defences, the only one who'd seen behind the mask he wore every day. Charlie was the only one Rory had ever brought into his home, into his bed, the only one he'd ever wanted to share his life with.
He didn't care about the band. He didn't care about the fame and the money and the rockstar lifestyle - as far as Rory was concerned, they were distractions he could well do without. When they'd met, in that smoky pub over three years ago, Charlie had been a penniless boy with a passionate heart, and Rory had fallen for him the moment he'd set eyes on him. He wanted Charlie the man, not Charlie the bass-player. He wanted the Charlie whose eyes were dark with lust, not dull with drugs. He wanted the Charlie who let Rory be Rory - not Frankie's son, not the Shark, not the business man, just himself. Just Rory. He felt more himself with Charlie than he ever did on his own.
Charlie was his other half. He knew this - knew it instinctively, viscerally and absolutely. How could he possibly go on living when half of him was gone? How could his heart keep on beating when it was torn in two?
How was he ever going to get Charlie back?
Tears prickled at his eyelids again, and he gave a half-sob before driving his fist through the kitchen door. He watched as blood welled up from the cuts on his hand, and picked off a couple of the larger splinters. Not surprisingly, it hadn't helped.
He staggered back into the living room and collapsed on the settee, his brain a confused whirl of angry words and lingering whisky fumes. Fuck Charlie and his fucking stupid drugs. He'd just have to deal with it tomorrow.
* * *
Saturday 28th December, 9 am
Rory knocked on the door and stood waiting for Meg to answer. At least, he hoped it would be Meg - he couldn't face Mike today, and he doubted that Charlie would answer the door himself.
"Hello, dear," said Meg, with a smile.
"I want to see him," said Rory, trying to keep his voice calm and reasonable, fighting the urge to push past her into the house.
"Mike?"
"Charlie."
"Charlie's not here."
"Not here?" he echoed, stupidly.
"No, I haven't seen him since Sunday. Why? What's happened?" Her tone sharpened suddenly.
Rory felt sick and disoriented. How could Charlie not be here? He always ran home to his mother. And if Charlie wasn't here, then where the hell could he be? "I ... he ... we had a fight. He left. I hoped he'd be here."
"No, love, he isn't." Her face showed her deep concern.
"Fuck. Sorry," he added. "Do you have any idea where he might be, then?"
"No, not really. Look, you'd better come in and tell me about it. I'll make us a cup of tea."
"I really need to find him."
"If he left last night, I doubt another hour will make much difference, and I can't stand here with the door wide open, letting all the heat out. Come in and sit yourself down."
Rory sighed and followed her in. The last thing he wanted to do was to confess his sins, but if anyone knew where Charlie might have gone it was Meg, and if a cup of tea was the price of getting that information, then it was probably time well-spent. He walked through to the kitchen with her and sat down heavily at the table, not even watching her as she put the kettle on. Mercifully, she didn't say anything further until she'd set two steaming cups of tea on the table.
"Now, then, love," she said, seating herself and taking a sip, "what exactly happened?"
"We f-fought. B-Badly." He sipped his tea, grateful for the heat and the sweetness. He'd been running on alcohol and adrenaline for the last twelve hours; it was no wonder he wasn't feeling the best.
She looked meaningfully at his hand, which still bore the bruises and scratches from when he'd punched the door. "I can see that. Was it about the drugs?"
"Aye, it was." He took another sip. "He's using again, I told you that. I caught him at it, about a week ago, and since then he hasn't even tried to hide it." He felt again the disgust and nausea at the sight of Charlie, slack-jawed and careless on the bed. "I didn't think you could do that - take methadone and heroin at the same time - but Charlie said that the methadone just wasn't holding him any more." He shrugged. "The counsellor says he's seen it before. Bastard. I think he was almost pleased Charlie failed."
"Oh, my poor boy." Meg's face fell. "He was doing so well. I know it doesn't always work, but we had to let him try."
"Aye, I know. But ..." his voice trailed off
"When did he start up again?
"A few weeks ago, I think. He said it was his birthday present to himself. Some f-fucking present!"
"Oh, love, I'm so sorry. Is that what you argued about?"
Rory nodded. "I know I'm not supposed to be confrontational with him, but he's killing himself with that shit! I cannae let him do that to himself, Meg, I just cannae."
"So what happened?"
Rory shrugged; he didn't want to go into the details. "We fought. He ran away." He took another swallow of tea. "I've tried phoning him, but his phone is switched off. I thought ... I thought he'd come here."
"No, he didn't. I'm sorry."
"I have to find him. I have to make sure he's all right."
Meg looked at him, concerned. "Is there any reason he might not be all right? I thought you said you didn't hit him?"
Rory shuffled a little. "I didn't hit him - not precisely. I tried not to get upset with him, honestly, Meg. But he looked at me with that b-bloody smirk on his f-face like he was jack-the-lad, and I lost my temper."
"And?"
"He threw a glass at me, and we f-fought and I p-pinned him against the wall and he ... he ... b-blacked out." He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down. "When he came to, he just got up and l-left."
"Would he have gone to the hospital?"
Rory shook his head. "I doubt it. I didn't really hurt him, you know. I didn't want to hurt him but I lost my temper and held him down and said all the things I'd been holding back, all the things he needed to hear - how much he's hurting his family, me, himself." He caught himself before he could burst into tears. "I didn't hurt him, I swear. I was just so frustrated with it all - I could see my Charlie slipping away and I couldn't do anything about it."
"I know, love. It's so hard to stand and watch someone you love hurt themselves."
"How am I supposed to just stand by and watch him kill himself? How can I live when all I do is wonder if the next time he puts that needle to his arm it's going to be the hit that kills him? How can I do that? I just can't."
"No one's asking you to do that, love," Meg tried to reassure him, patting his hand gently. "We'll find him a rehab programme."
Rory gave a bitter laugh. "I found one - a good one, a residential programme in Yorkshire. They had an opening today and it was the only place available before February."
"How did he take that?"
"I thought he was all right with it - he went upstairs to pack, and then he came down and said he'd changed his mind, that he wasn't going to go there after all. That's when we fought. Ach," he added in annoyed realisation. "I'm going to have to ring the counsellor and tell him that Charlie's not taking the place. He won't be happy."
"We can do that later. It's more important that we work out where he might have gone."
Rory took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together. "What do I do if I can't find him Meg? What if ... what if it's already too late?"
"Oh, love, please don't think about that. It can't be too late. He's only been gone a few hours. We'll find him. We've just got to look in the right places."
"And what if that place is the morgue?"
Meg set her cup down with a clatter and glared at him. "Don't, Rory. Don't even think of that." She took a deep breath. "Have you rung Pat? He might have gone there."
"No I came straight here. I should go home, just in case he comes home. He might go home, don't you think? Or should I try to find his dealer, see if he's been there?"
"I'll ring Pat for you - I'll make up some story. And Tess, in case he makes it as far as London. You could try finding his dealer, but it won't be easy, I imagine."
"It won't be easy, but I've got contacts. I'll call in a couple of favours."
He got up and took his cup over to the sink. He was turning to go when Meg reached out to him. "And let me have a look at that hand before you go."
"It's nothing," he said, quickly, hiding it behind his back.
"It's not nothing, now let me see it."
Reluctantly, he held his hand out, and she examined it closely. "Door?"
"Aye," he answered. How the hell did she always know?
She must have read the question on his face, because she smiled, and said, "Mother's magic, dear. And the unmistakable sign of splinters - not all of which have been removed."
"I'll be fine."
"Of course you will - once I've taken them out."
Sighing, he bowed to the inevitable, and left twenty minutes later with his hand daubed in antiseptic and stinging worse than it had the night before. There were times when he thought that Meg took this mothering thing a bit too far, but he didn't want to antagonise her, not now.
He got into the car and rested his hands on the wheel, trying to force his weary brain to think.
Who the hell was Charlie getting his heroin from? And where the hell had he gone? And how on Earth was Rory ever going to get him back?
* * *
New Year came and went, and Rory still had no idea where Charlie had gone. He hadn't gone to Pat, or Tess, or even Sinjin (and that was a conversation Rory never wanted to have again). He hadn't gone to his cousins in Ireland. He hadn't gone to any of the friends Rory had contacted. He had disappeared, and the only thing that stopped Rory losing it completely was that at least there were no reports of his body having been found. He'd put out some feelers, but his influence wasn't great outside Manchester and Glasgow, and no information had come his way yet. He rang Charlie's mobile several times a day, but always got the same message: This phone is switched off or out of range.
They all dealt with the disappearance in different ways. Meg, after having telephoned every relative on both sides of the family, had taken to visiting her parish church twice a day and lighting candles. Mike was taciturn and glowered at anyone rash enough to mention any of his children. Rory took his frustrations out on his clients, and anyone who had gained the impression that the Shark was mellowing with age was quickly brought to the realisation that he was as mean, as vicious and as prone to violence as he had ever been. Even Ken was looking at him with new-found respect after having been bawled out at length for letting a client slip through his fingers.
As the week ended, Rory's initial hopes of finding Charlie faded. Meg wanted to file a missing persons report, but Rory dissuaded her - as he said, Charlie wasn't missing, he had just left, and since he was a legally-competent adult there was very little that they or the police could do about it, except to wait for him to turn up somewhere.
Oddly, his fears had faded too, to be replaced with anger and a burning resentment. He was furious with Charlie for leaving him, furious that Charlie placed a higher value on his fucking heroin than he did on his lover, the man who had stood by and supported him for three years. It was bad enough that Charlie had put the band before Rory on so many occasions - and Rory still felt the pain of being left behind, even as his reason told him that Charlie had no choice but to go on tour - but there was no way that he was going to let Charlie put his heroin habit ahead of their relationship. He'd told Charlie that it was either him or the heroin, and Charlie had made his choice; he'd chosen heroin and he'd walked out of the flat and out of Rory's life.
It was Friday evening when Meg rang him, a whole week after the argument.
"Hello, Rory, dear," she began. "How are you?"
"No' bad," he answered, frowning. He'd had three whiskies already since getting home and it wasn't even eight o'clock yet.
"Have you seen the paper?" she asked. "There's a bit about Charlie in it."
"No. Is he ... is he all right?"
"I think so - he was picked up for drunk driving on New Year's Eve." She didn't sound happy about it.
"Was that all?"
"That's all the paper said. Apparently the police wouldn't let him drive home, they took him to the station."
"Better than letting him crash the car."
"Yes, that's what I thought. But I can't believe he'd be drinking and driving - I've always told him it was dangerous."
"He's an adult, Meg, he's making his own choices now, and they're not good ones."
"I know," she sighed. "I just wish that there was something I could do."
"So do I," echoed Rory, dutifully. "Did the paper say where he is?"
"No, I think it was London, but it doesn't actually say so."
Rory nodded, though he knew Meg couldn't see him. Of course it would be London, that's where any musician with ambition would go, where anyone who wanted to be hard to find would go.
"Do you think I ought to go to London?" she asked.
"No, there's no point. He knows where you are, he knows how to contact you. Chasing him is just going to get his back up."
She sighed again. "You're right, I know you're right, but it's hard for a mother to let a child go like that."
"Aye." He didn't trust himself to say any more. At least he could be pretty sure that Charlie would contact his mother sooner or later. That was more than he could say for himself.
He put the phone down and poured himself another whisky. He was drinking too much, he knew that, but the alternative was staying sober, and he couldn't cope with all the memories that crowded his mind when he was sober. It was better to stay drunk, better to stay numb, than to break down into a sobbing mess every night.
He looked around the room, at the gaps in the shelves where Charlie had taken his favourite CDs; at the ginger jar where they kept the lube; at Charlie's jumper, still in a crumpled heap beside the settee from when he had stripped off for their last shag. There were so many reminders of Charlie in the flat that they overwhelmed him.
Suddenly, he made up his mind. Charlie had left him. Charlie had left him for good. This wasn't just a tiff, with a couple of days of sulking and then a glorious reunion. This was it, the end, all over and done with. Charlie wasn't coming back, not now, not ever.
With a cold, grim anger, he collected all the things that reminded him of Charlie and set them in a pile in the middle of the room. Then he got out some large garbage bags and threw them all in - all of Charlie's clothes, his shoes, his CDs, the trashy novels he read, the toiletries from the bathroom, the wok from the kitchen ... everything went into the bags and then was carted down to the communal dumpster. It took four trips and most of the night, but finally Rory looked around his flat and saw no trace of Charlie: nothing that would remind him of the love and the laughter and the mind-blowing sex; nothing that would remind him of that final, dreadful fight that they'd had.
Charlie Pace was out of his life.
Chapter 6.1
Author's note:
That's it for now, I'm afraid - there is a lot more to come (so to speak) but as I expected, I have not been able to write fast enough to keep on posting chapters at the moment. I expect that I will resume posting the story next year, probably around May or June.
I would like to thank all the people who have commented on TTT over the last few months - I appreciate all your feedback, even (especially) when you pick up my mistakes.