Page 135 of Pretty Mess

“Not for a bit. The bloke in charge says patients are not allowed access to mobiles. They’ll contact us when we can visit, but at first, they want to focus on Tyler. It seems to be a mixture of therapy and reconditioning.”

“Sounds like a shampoo and set.” I sigh. “Well, at least he’s safe for now.”

“He seemed different, Wes. Determined.”

“Let’s hope that carries on. He’s going to need it. Keep in touch, babe.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I click to end the call and lower my head to the counter, banging it gently on the Formica.

“Relationships, eh?”

I look up at the comment and find Andy watching me. My first week of working here at the station, I called him Porno Pete, such was his fascination with the skin mags. He comes in every night to have some sort of mystic communion with them. I’m actually flattered that he’s pulled himself away from the relationship he appears to be having with Miss August.

“Pardon?” I say.

He nods at my phone. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

“True. They’d be much less trouble with a glossy finish and a staple in the middle.”

He laughs and nods kindly at me before walking out. I shake my head. I would never have the nerve to come into a shop and casually read the porno mags page to page and then go home. And I mean page to page. I’m pretty sure he’s even reading the articles and the classifieds at the back.

I look around me. The petrol station is small, but its proximity to an Amazon hub makes it very busy. It’s midnight, and I can feel the tiredness tugging at my bones. My exhaustion isn’t solely caused by the night shift—after a month, I’m starting to get used to those. It’s being away from Mac. It’s a grinding pain inside me and a sense of loss. I keep expecting to hear his key in the lock or the ping of a caustic reply to one of my text messages.

I pick up my phone again and find our text history. For the thousandth time, I read the long message he sent me the morning after I’d left.

I’m sending you the name of someone who specialises in possible trauma after an assault. If you don’t get on with him we can find another option. I’ve paid for ten sessions, and if youneed more, I will continue to pay. You are not obligated to visit him, but I hope you do. There’s also no limit on how many times you go, Wes. I just want you to feel better.

I smile. That’s so him. No push to get me back, no attempt to see me, but still that kind streak he tries so hard to keep hidden. I wonder why he’s so determined not to reveal his true self. It’s a certainty I’ll never know.

I’d given in and gone to see the therapist he’d recommended. I’d been experiencing nightmares for a week, and I was grateful to seek help. I found the whole situation a bit surreal, but the therapist is nice, and at least the bad dreams have tapered off.

I trace my fingers over Mac’s latest message and my reply.

Are you safe, Wes?

Yes

And that had been it. Those two lines marked the end of our arrangement. My reply shows asread, but he hasn’t attempted to contact me since.

Maybe he agrees with me that nothing good could come of us together. Myself, I’ve grown less confident about being apart as the month has progressed. So much happened the night of the party. The evening started off feeling wrong and then it progressed into feeling like I’d been dropped into a nightmare. Between meeting Brandon, being attacked by that fucker Ian Harris, and then being so tenderly cared for by Mac… Well, it’s no wonder my emotions veered off a cliff and I made a knee-jerk decision.

I think I did need some time away to process, but now I’m overcome by how much I miss him. Maybe I was too hasty deciding to permanently cut things off. Perhaps I should have stayed and fought for him.

I huff. Fought for what? He paid me for sex. He was kind. He scolded me for wanting to spend more time with him. That was the extent of our great love affair. I roll my eyes as Ilook down at the messages again. Maybe he doesn’t even miss me. He’s probably got another man already. Maybe he’s gone back to Brandon. Whether it’s Brandon or another man, they’re probably living in the same flat and sleeping on the same sheets as I did. I consider that and then shake my head. Mac would definitely insist on new bed linen.

I try to smile, but I just can’t. The thought of him with someone else makes me want to crawl into a dark space and never come out.

I rub my neck and glance out the window. A few times in the past week I’ve felt like someone was out there observing me. The forecourt looks the same as usual. Two people are pumping petrol, and a car is parked neatly in one of the parking spaces. A man is sitting in it, but I can’t see his features. I shrug. He probably stopped in to make a phone call or check his sat nav. It happens all the time around here.

The door rings as one of the men who was pumping his petrol strolls in, making straight for the chocolate. I don’t blame him.

I open my book. I’m reading something from one of the shelves in Julian’s flat, but not much keeps my attention lately, and certainly not this mystery. It’s hard to be interested in the whodunnit when you actually can’t remember the murder in the first place.

My phone rings, and I brighten. Julian. “Hey,” I say. “Missing me already?”