Monday 23 August
In later weeks, Charlie was to regret that he never went home on that Monday. If he had, maybe he would have been able to stop Liam – even though, as it turned out, it didn't really matter in the long run. Still, it would have avoided a lot of unpleasantness and recriminations. Especially at home.
It was his own fault he hadn't gone home that day, and he knew it. Rory had gone into work at his usual time of nine, dropping Charlie off in town, with instructions that he was to be back at the office no later than six. Even though Rory was much improved, Charlie was convinced that Rory or Chris was going to call him back early, and so instead of heading out to the house he mooched around town all day, calling in at the job centre first, then spending a couple of hours at the library. As the afternoon progressed, he realised that Rory was a lot more stubborn than he had envisaged, and by four he was resigned to the fact that he'd wasted his entire day.
He got to the office around five-thirty. Chris was sitting at the desk, as usual, while Ken was leaning back on one of the waiting room chairs. Charlie immediately sensed that there was something going on, something not entirely comfortable, and kept his greeting short and to the point.
He took a seat close to the door, dropped his pack to the ground and dragged out a paperback. It was actually one of Rory's that he'd picked up over the weekend, and he was glad that he'd thought to bring it with him. He opened it at the bookmark and began to read.
Whatever Rory was doing in his office, he was being fairly quiet about it. There was barely a sound emerging from the inner room, and Charlie had completely immersed himself in the book by the time the door opened. He looked up, startled.
Rory looked across at him and Charlie could see the flare of interest, quickly masked. He decided to keep things formal in front of Ken.
"Good afternoon, Mr McManus," he said respectfully, and was pleased to see a slight softening of Rory's expression.
"You’re on time. Good." Rory promptly turned to Chris and started a low-voiced conversation about a particular client, but Charlie wasn't listening. He'd got the message - Rory had approved of his greeting - and it made him both happy and sad.
It was odd, though, that they had to resort to such subterfuge in front of what Charlie had assumed to be a subordinate. It was as if he had joined Rory and Chris in a conspiracy to present a front to Ken, a distorted image that hid the realities.
Rory straightened up. He looked tired, thought Charlie, which was hardly surprising since it was his first full day back in the office. No doubt he'd had a lot to do. At least they weren't likely to be going out tonight (not that there was much available on a Monday evening). A quiet night in, watching TV or a video, was more in line with Rory's capabilities at the moment, and after the day Charlie had had he didn’t feel like doing anything energetic. He returned to his book, content to wait until Rory had finished whatever he was doing and was ready to go.
It wasn't until nearly half past six that Rory appeared at his doorway again. "All right, Chris, you and Ken can go now. We'll sort out the rest tomorrow."
"Do you need a driver, boss?" asked Ken.
Rory shook his head. "No, I'll get the kid to do that - make him earn his keep."
Ken nodded. Chris finished up something on the computer and then started shutting down. "You go, boss," he said. "I'll lock up."
Rory nodded and turned to the door. Charlie stuffed the book into his pack and stood up. "Would you like me to bring the car around to the front, Mr McManus?"
"Aye," Rory's short answer was accompanied by a short, dismissive nod, so Charlie took the keys that Ken proffered, hoisted the pack onto his shoulder and set off down the stairs to the car park.
The Camry was in its usual place, and he was able to back it out and drive it up the ramp a lot more easily this time. He brought the car around to the loading zone in front of the main entrance and waited until Rory appeared at the door
Rory was quiet on the journey home. Charlie glanced at him once or twice, when they were stopped at traffic lights, and saw that his face was pale and drawn, lines furrowing his brow and mouth. He'd obviously been holding himself together on will-power alone for the last couple of hours, and it had exhausted him. Charlie wondered if he'd taken any painkillers at all since that morning. He didn't ask out loud though - Rory would likely bite his head off just for mentioning it. They'd be home soon enough, and he could deal with it there.
Correction - they'd be at Rory'sflat soon enough.
He brought the car to a smooth stop outside the main entrance, and walked around to open the door for Rory, who got out slowly. Without a word, Charlie put a hand under his elbow and helped him up, swinging the door shut behind him. They made it up the stairs to the front door of the flat, where Rory fumbled with the keys, his strength obviously at an end. Charlie pushed him gently into the living room and guided him into the armchair, where he sank into the cushions with a sigh of relief.
Charlie got a glass of water and some painkillers from the kitchen and handed them to Rory, who grimaced but took them without a protest. Charlie filled the empty glass with whisky and was pleased to see a little more animation on Rory's face as he took the glass and drained half the contents in one swallow.
"Thanks," he said, and Charlie nearly jumped. It was the first word that either of them had said since they'd left the office.
"You needed it," he said. "I'll just put the car away and then make us some tea."
Neither task took him very long, and he was back in the living room a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea. He saw with relief that Rory was already looking a little better - the lines weren't quite so deep and his face had a bit more colour to it. Their fingers touched as Charlie handed over the mug, and he felt a slight electric tingle. He told himself it was just static from the carpet.
"So, how did the day go?" he asked.
Rory made a minuscule shrug. "Too much to catch up on."
"Yeah, I figured you'd be busy. You look knackered."
Rory only grunted, but Charlie was learning to tell the difference between Rory disagreeing and not wanting to show it, and Rory conceding and not wanting to show it. This seemed to be more the latter... and he certainly hadn't been sworn at for asking, which was a bonus.
"So, any thoughts on dinner?"
Rory gave a small shake of his head, and Charlie went through to the kitchen to see what was available.
* * *
Whether it was just fatigue or a real appreciation of his cooking, Charlie wasn't sure, but Rory was happy to eat the cold meat left over from the roast beef the day before, with mashed potatoes and peas. They ate in front of the TV, watching the news followed by Coronation Street (mainly because neither of them could be arsed to reach for the remote control, and besides, as Charlie said, you had to watch one episode every three months or so to keep up).
When Charlie came back from loading the dishwasher, he found Rory fast asleep in his chair, his head tilted to one side, and snoring softly. Charlie stood there for a few seconds, just looking at Rory, debating in his head whether to wake him up and take him upstairs to bed, or let him sleep a little longer. He'd probably get a stiff neck, true, but he looked exhausted, and there wasn't much point in waking him up now and then again later for his tablets. After some deliberation, Charlie decided to let the man sleep another hour, and turned the TV volume down a little. There wasn't anything on that he felt like watching, so he picked out a novel from the bookcase, sat down on the sofa with his legs tucked up beside him, and started to read.
About forty minutes later, Rory gave a start and woke himself up, lifting his head and looking around in a bleary, rather confused way.
Charlie put his book down. "How do you feel?" he asked.
Rory cleared his throat. "Crap."
"Anything I can get you?"
"Whisky."
"Coming right up." He unfolded himself from the sofa and refilled Rory's glass.
Rory was twisting his neck around, trying to stretch some of the kinks out of it. He didn't look very comfortable or happy, and glared at Charlie. "Are you going to offer me a neck rub?" he demanded.
Charlie couldn't help smiling. "Would you like a neck rub, Mr McManus, boss, sir?" he asked, obsequiously.
Rory pretended to scowl. "Don't push your luck. And yes."
"Come on, then," Charlie reached out an arm and helped Rory get to his feet.
The neck rub was somewhat hampered by the fact that Rory couldn't lie on his front yet, and certainly couldn't take the pressure of a proper massage. Instead, he sat on the side of the bed in his boxers while Charlie knelt behind him, running his hands over the knotted muscles, easing Rory's discomfort and bringing him to the brink of purring again. Charlie smiled to himself, glad that Rory couldn't see his face. He loved the little sounds that Rory made in his throat. He was sure that Rory didn't even realise he was doing it, or he'd have stopped himself - it was such an incongruous sound for someone with so tough a reputation, after all. No, Charlie had no intention of letting Rory know just how cute and adorable he could be when he let his guard down.
He found that his hands were straying from Rory's neck, running over his shoulders, down his arms, over his chest. Rory was leaning back against him, his head lolling against Charlie's shoulder, his eyes closed. Charlie was practically embracing him, surrounding him with warmth and comfort and love.
Fuck. He'd done it again. I'm not in love, he recited to himself. I'm not in love. I'm just here for the sex.
Oh... and the debt.
He eased back a little, but Rory just followed him, a heavy weight on his chest, and he realised that Rory had fallen asleep once more. He eased Rory down onto the sheets and carefully turned him so that his head was on the pillow. Rory stirred, but didn't wake, murmuring something indistinct before relaxing into sleep once more.
Charlie drew the curtains, quietly, and looked at Rory for a couple of minutes before going back downstairs to tidy up. He contemplated the scattered newspapers and books with a sigh before picking them up and putting them in a neat pile on the edge of the coffee table. They'd have to go down to the recycling bins tomorrow for collection, except for the "Good Living" section which had a couple of interesting recipes in it that he might get Rory to try later on.
He swore at himself. This was so fucking domestic. Liam was right: he was turning into a bloody housewife. Pathetic.
He tried to ignore the small voice in the back of his head that whispered: But you like domestic.
"No I don't," he muttered to himself.
Yes, you do. You want to cook for him, and give him back rubs, and go shopping with him.
"I like clubbing. And copping off with anyone I fancy. And not having commitments."
Not as much as you like Rory.
"Fuck off."
Suit yourself. But I'm right, you know. You'll admit it in the end.
He growled. That seemed to shut the voice up.
Back upstairs once more, he cleaned his teeth, got undressed and slid into bed beside Rory, who remained fast asleep. He lay with his eyes open for a long time, looking at Rory's silhouette in the deepening gloom. He couldn't deny that he felt happy, looking after Rory. He'd known, even before the beating, the man had pushed himself hard, not always taking the breaks he could, and from the evidence Charlie had seen he didn't eat all that well either: too many carry-out meals, not enough home cooking. It was a wonder that he stayed fit. Charlie knew he exercised - he'd seen the improvised gym in the spare bedroom - but he had never seen Rory actually engage in anything more energetic that a brisk stroll. He wondered what it would be like to go out on a run with him sometime, come back hot and sweaty and pleasantly exhausted, then fall into bed and get really hot and sweaty and exhausted...
Get a fucking grip and remember this is only business, he told himself. Seven more days to go and then it's back to Liam's place and freedom. That's what I want, isn't it? I'll have time to look for a job, I can borrow Liam's guitar and write a couple more songs, I can hang out with Liam and Ben in the evenings.
It was what he'd been looking forward to ever since the first of August. He had to keep telling himself that. He wanted to go home.
He refused to allow himself to think anything else.
Tuesday 24 August
Charlie felt slightly unreal the next morning, as he walked in the front door of the house he shared with Liam and Ben. He'd caught the bus out from the city, having been given dropped off in Portland Street and told to make himself scarce for a couple of days - Rory had suddenly said he just wanted some time on his own after Charlie's constant presence for the past ten days. Charlie had been astonished at his abrupt and casual dismissal, but there was nothing he could do, so he'd hitched his backpack on his shoulder and walked off without another word. He tried hard not to feel hurt, with only moderate success.
Two days of freedom, he told himself. Two days of relaxing and being myself and not at his beck and call. Well, that was one way of looking at it.
He looked around. It was odd being back here after ten days away. He'd got used to Rory's bright modern flat, to rooms being neat and tidy, to picking up after himself and washing dishes and hanging clothes up when he took them off.
Here… well, actually, now he came to think of it, the place didn't look too bad. Normally there were dirty dishes and empty food containers scattered around, dirty clothes on the furniture, and dust bunnies that were months if not years old in every conceivable nook and cranny. Today, however, the place was a lot tidier, and someone had obviously fixed the vacuum cleaner, because the carpet was dust-free (though it still bore mysterious stains they'd never been able to remove).
There were a couple of plates on the table, but the table itself was clean. So was the kitchen, where the chrome on the sink shone between spots of rust. Liam and Ben had done a good job of cleaning up, and he supposed that Mr Ramachandra, the landlord, had been in for an inspection. He smirked to himself as he imagined Liam and Ben frantically wiping the benches and scrubbing the floor. Well, Ben would have been doing the scrubbing, since Liam was still in plaster, but still it was a good mental image.
They'd even tidied Charlie's bedroom, folding up the clothes he'd left scattered around and placing them in a neat pile on the bed. His bed was made and all his junk (the stuff that Chris and Ken had left behind) was stacked neatly on top of the chest of drawers. He checked under the mattress for his magazines but found them unharmed, and relaxed a little - not that he'd been really anxious, since neither Ben nor Liam found them at all interesting, but a man's porn stash was sacred, after all.
He wandered around the flat again, aimlessly. There really wasn't much to do. He looked in the fridge and found the usual dearth of food, but there was a bottle of milk that he drained - it didn't taste too bad. He pulled out his wallet and looked at the meagre contents, fully aware that he had more money than usual simply because he'd been living at Rory's expense for the last week and a half. He decided to walk to the grocer on the corner and get some bread and cheese - at least being home all day he'd have a good chance of eating it himself.
Half an hour later, he was back and wandering around the flat with a thick sandwich in his hand, looking for something to do. He found the book he'd been reading, before Chris had called him so urgently, and picked it up, leafing idly through the pages. It couldn't hold his interest though - his thoughts kept going back to Rory, to the abrupt way he'd been dismissed this morning. It had hurt, after all he'd done for the man since he'd been injured, and he was annoyed by how much it had hurt. It wasn't as if they meant anything to each other - it was just a business arrangement, so why on earth he'd expected anything more, he didn't know. He should have been pleased that he had some time to himself, when he wasn't expected to provide services of either a sexual or a domestic nature, when he didn't have to try and guess what Rory was thinking.
But inevitably his thoughts strayed to the times that Rory had treated him well - the night Rory had given him a hand job, that night in Birmingham when Rory had fucked him slowly and gently. And the other night - well, Charlie could have sworn that Rory had kissed him on the shoulder after he'd come - but common sense disagreed. It must have been his imagination making something out of an accidental and meaningless touch, that’s all. Certainly there was nothing in Rory's attitude to suggest that he was actually fond of Charlie. He half expected to be told to call him "Mr McManus" again, which he would find very difficult.
He looked at his watch: it was barely midday . How had he coped for all those weeks between losing his job and starting the Agreement? He tried to remember how he'd occupied his days, but memory was hazy. He'd done a little song-writing, sure, but that certainly hadn't taken up all his time. He'd visited the job centre on Wednesdays and occasionally other days. He'd gone to the library a couple of times a week, he'd read a few books, he'd wandered around the streets, he'd gone to the cinema and the pub (until he'd exhausted his savings, anyway)... it all seemed so meaningless now. He hated being bored. He hated being useless.
He wondered if Pat was home. He really wanted to do some work on the tune that was running around his head, and for that he needed a guitar or a piano. He picked up the phone and dialled the number, only to find that Pat at work until five. They arranged to meet at Pat's house later on, and then Charlie was thrown back on his own resources again.
He took another wander around the house, looking into all the bedrooms. Liam's guitar was propped up against the wall, secure in its case, and Charlie felt once more the burning resentment that he'd lost his own bass while Liam – the cause of all this trouble – had managed to keep his guitar.
Sod it. He wanted to work on his music, and Liam wasn't going to be back for hours, by which time Charlie would be on his way to Pat's. He picked up the guitar and took it into the lounge, snapping open the clasps and pulling the guitar out of his case. No need to plug it in – he wasn't after volume, just chords and melodies. He rummaged around in his backpack for a pencil, grabbed some paper and set to work, humming happily to himself as he started to pour out all the music that had been accumulating in his head.
It must have been only a few minutes later that he heard the sound of someone at the door, and looked up in surprise. Liam came strolling into the room then stopped, obviously just as surprised to find him here as he was to see Liam.
Charlie clenched his fists slightly as he prepared to be told off for using Liam's guitar without permission, but, oddly, it didn't happen.
"Hey, bro'," said Liam, the cheeriness a little forced, "what brings you back here? McManus kick you out, did he?"
"No, fuckwit. I killed him, left the body on the front steps and decided to sit here and wait for the police, what do you think?" He took a breath. It was all too easy to get into a spat with Liam, and he was on the back foot, so to speak, so he added, a bit more calmly, "He just said I can have tonight off." He cleared his throat. "Hope you don't mind me borrowing this. Just had to get a few chords sorted out."
"No, that's fine," Liam reassured him. "Good to see you're writing, at least." He dropped his briefcase on the table (Charlie had never understood why he carried the damned thing when all it ever contained was a novel and occasionally his lunch) and threw his jacket down on the sofa before taking off his tie and undoing his collar. "Ah, that feels better." He walked through to his own room.
"Why are you here anyway?" Charlie called after him. "It's only two o'clock."
"Got an appointment at the hospital to have this looked at. If I'm lucky they’ll take the cast off today."
"Hey, that's good. Is it still sore?"
"No, it's fine."
Liam reappeared, having changed his suit for a T-shirt and jeans. "You want to come along?"
"No, thanks. I'll just carry on here."
"OK. See you later."
"See you."
Liam picked up his wallet and left. Charlie turned his attention back to the guitar the moment his brother was out of the house and spent the rest of the afternoon strumming and scribbling. The tunes that had been running around his head seemed to leap off the page, and he'd filled several pages full of notes, chords and words by the time Liam returned, a little before four, sporting a pink elastic bandage in place of the cast that he'd had for four weeks.
"Hey, the cast's off!" Charlie exclaimed. "How does it feel?"
Liam smiled. "Fucking fantastic, mate. Still a little tender, but it isn't really sore. I can even put some weight on it."
"So, do you think you'll be able to play guitar soon?"
"Don't know. Haven't tried yet."
Charlie held up the guitar he had been strumming and handed it over. Liam flexed his wrist experimentally, then slung the guitar into position and tried a few chords. His wrist was obviously stiff, and his fingers weren't as nimble as they had been, so he had a little difficulty in getting some of the chords and riffs out. Still, it was a creditable achievement for the first day, and the brothers shared a smiled of triumph as Liam came to the end of the song.
"Not bad for the first day."
"Not bad. Need practice though."
"Well, you'll just have to tell the girls to keep away for a couple of weeks until you get up to speed again."
Liam grinned. "They'll be heartbroken."
"Sure they will."
Liam looked at them with interest. "What's that? New song?"
"Yeah. Nice one, I think, but it needs a lot of work. I really need a piano."
"You could go around to Mum's."
"Maybe. When they get back. Anyway, I've got to get moving. I'm going over to Pat's place this evening - he said he's been writing as well, so we want to go over some things together."
"Fine."
"Don't suppose I can take the guitar?" He was stuffing the papers into his backpack as he spoke.
"No."
"Didn't think so. Oh - you did a good job cleaning up. Did Ramachandra pull an inspection on you?
Liam looked uncomfortable, but nodded weakly.
"Bet you had fun trying to clean up and not ruin the cast."
"Yeah," agreed Liam. "Ben had to do all the scrubbing. He wasn't happy."
"I bet he wasn't. Looks good though. Anyway, I'm off. See you around."
"See you."
* * *
If he'd been hoping to be called back to Rory's that evening, he was disappointed. He had a good time at Pat's place though, both of them playing through the things that they'd written over the preceding few weeks, and suggesting improvements to each other's work. Pat told him that Sinjin had been writing too, so Charlie was optimistic that they'd have more than enough material for an album if and when they eventually got a recording contract. As an additional bonus, Pat's mum asked him to stay for tea. She was a good cook who never minded how much he ate, and he was happy to accept.
As he curled up on the couch in the Gleasons' living room, after he and Pat had talked long into the night, he smiled to himself. It was good to be reminded that there was more to life than just Liam and Rory.
Wednesday 25th August
Charlie was woken up by Mrs Gleason at far too early in the morning, and he struggled to get himself organised. As he yawned and stretched, he wondered what he could do for the rest of the day. He had to go into the city to sign on, but after that he wasn't sure. He ought to go back to Liam's to get some more clothes, but he wanted to go to his parents' place and use the piano to flesh out some harmonies on the songs he'd been writing.
Pat gave him a lift into town in the van, since it wasn't too far out of his way, and Charlie went through the usual humiliating ritual of signing on, explaining how many jobs he'd applied for in the last fortnight. He had to be a bit creative there, as he hadn't actually applied for anything since the café cook position three weeks ago, but he managed to skate through and had his allowance approved for another fortnight.
He looked at his watch but it was only eleven twenty: too early for lunch; too early to go to the office. He didn't fancy going back to the library and he had no money for the cinema or the pub, which narrowed his options considerably. After a few minutes' thought, he bought an off-peak day return ticket to Prestwich and headed for his parents' house. He knew no one would be there - they weren't due back from Ireland until Saturday - but it wouldn't hurt to visit and spend a few hours on the piano. If he hadn't had to sign on, he could have walked there from Pat's place and saved the bus fare, but... well, it was no use complaining. Wednesday was sign-on day and it meant the difference between humiliation and starvation.
Once he'd let himself into the house and sat down in front of the piano, he lost all track of time. He drafted out the accompaniments to the songs he'd written, plus one of Pat's as well, and was making some last-minute adjustments to the harmonies when the phone rang. He fumbled for it in the back pocket, hoping that he'd be able to answer it before it rang off.
"Charlie Pace," he said, a little breathlessly.
"Mr McManus says for you to be at the office by six." It was Chris.
Charlie glanced at the clock – it was already after four. Where had the day gone? He ran through the bus timetables in his head, but he had plenty of time, as long as the traffic wasn't too bad.
"OK, I'll be there." He thumbed the phone off and looked at the piano, wondering if he had time to finish that last bit of accompaniment. He jotted down a couple of chords, then resolutely got up and packed the papers away. He couldn't risk getting lost in his work again, or he'd be late.
He refused to let himself be pleased that he was going back to Rory's.
Thursday 26th August 5pm
Charlie checked his watch as he walked briskly from the bus stop to the house. He didn't have much time to waste, and he was kicking himself for not remembering to pack clothes when he'd been there on Tuesday. He only had an hour until he had to be back at the office, and while Rory might be a bit more approachable now than a month ago, he still didn't tolerate being kept waiting. He hurried in through the front door and into his room.
Thirty seconds later he was standing in the lounge, dialling Liam's number. The minute Liam answered he exploded. "What have you done with all my things?" he shouted. "They're all packed up in boxes! Have we been evicted? Why isn't anyone else's gear packed?"
There was a long pause. "Ah, Charlie. I was meaning to talk to you about that." Liam sounded guilty. I've... I've let the room."
"You've what?" Charlie couldn't believe his ears. Liam had let the room?
Liam was immediately defensive. "Look, you haven't paid rent for three months. You haven't even slept here in over a week - "
"Of course I haven't been here, you prick!" Charlie exploded. "I've been paying off the fucking debt you got us into!"
"Charlie..."
"Don't you fucking Charlie me. I live here, and there's no way you can just throw me out."
"Charlie..."
"You said the rent didn't matter. You said when I lost my job that you could handle it, I needn't worry about it until I got another job. Remember that?"
"Well, I didn't expect to handle it for nearly four months, did I? I thought you'd get a job in a couple of weeks."
"I've been trying! It's not that easy, you know that."
"You could have had the job at the furniture factory."
"It was shiftwork, you moron! I wouldn't have been able to play in the band." His eyes narrowed. "Or is that what you want, Liam? You got your eye on another bass player, have you? Trying to ease me out? Is that it?"
"No Charlie, I wouldn't do that. The band needs you. You're our best songwriter."
"Just as fucking well." He paused to catch his breath. "Look, give me a few more weeks..."
"I need the money now, bro'. The rent is fucking killing me. I have to get someone in who can contribute to the household expenditure."
"I can contribute! Look, I'll go down the job centre and-"
"Charlie, it's no use. The new guy is moving in on Sunday."
"You fucking prick! You've done all this behind my back." He paused. "You knew. You knew on Tuesday when I saw you, didn't you?"
Liam was silent. He couldn't deny it, and Charlie knew it. Instead, Liam ignored the accusation completely, saying, "You can kip on the sofa for a while. Until you get yourself sorted. That's the best I can do."
"You best sucks, Liam, and you know it." He cut the connection, resisting the temptation to throw the phone at the wall, and stormed back into his room. He took a deep breath and surveyed the boxes. He couldn't take them all back to Rory's with him - not only was there too much to carry on the bus, but he only had another few days there at the most. Considering he had no idea what Rory's plans were for the long weekend he had better not make any assumptions. No, he'd have to leave the boxes here, which meant he had to dig through and get what he needed. And then he had to make a run for the bus.
Muttering curses under his breath, he set to work, pulling stuff out and strewing it all over the bed. And if Liam had to clean up again for the new guy, well so be it. Charlie certainly wasn't going to lose any sleep over Liam's inconvenience.
He wondered if he could get Rory to send Chris and Ken around to give Liam a taste of what they'd given those thugs in the alley a few weeks ago…
No. He might be a loan shark's rent-boy but he wasn't going to sink to that level. It wouldn't change anything, anyway, and Liam simply wasn't worth it.
He zipped up his backpack, threw a few more curses in Liam's' general direction and stormed out.