Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Five

20th September 1987, 4 O'clock.'

Now, I've heard some horrors from my childhood. Nothing helped me; the situation worsened. I needed to know more. To do that, I had to see what was in the bag. The one delivered to Charlie out of the blue. His story felt suspect; what stranger turns up randomly bearing gifts, predicting I would need help? I craved comfort, and if full-blown whiskey wasn't on the menu, I had to make do with what was on offer.

Thank heavens for small mercies. Clutching the cup, savouring its warmth before taking a large mouthful of coffee, I enjoyed the droplets a little too much until I got the aftertaste of something else. At first, I put it down to the crappy coffee, but the bitterness lingered. Charlie sipped his coffee like a lady sipped wine, tentatively enjoying every drop on the way down, minus the alcohol.

If the vacant expression on his tired face told me anything, his mind had drifted elsewhere. Doing so made me jealous that I couldn't afford the same luxury. My mind would go in one direction, bouncing from one problem to the next, without stopping to appreciate in between or take on how anyone was feeling, caught up in the mess of Chris and me. So wrapped up, I didn't ask after Charlie's life and what he'd been doing. Or take the time to understand the consequences.

Nearing 4 o'clock, there was only so long a place like AL's would allow us to hold a table for coffee—weak stuff at that.

"So, what have you been up to since we met last?" Charlie's attention snaps back.

"If it's all the same, now's not the time for a catch-up. We don't need to add more drama to the—" Charlie looked sad, dipping his eyes low and taking another sip.

"What do you mean by more drama?"

"You and I both know why you aren't in touch. At first, I put it down to you, holding a grudge because I didn't make the funeral. Then I thought it was because of your job, not wanting to associate with a problem like mine. I wanted to come and nearly called a few times. I've had issues and memories of my own to navigate."

Charlie's voice was filled with emotion; Helen's funeral hadn't come to mind in a while. Let alone for me to hold a grudge. Charlie was way off the mark until I put a face to the guy who killed Chris and the ones messing with my head. No, life had got away from me. Burying myself in the job as a way of coping, I didn't give much thought to anything else. Time ticks on quickly, and this year is no different.

"Honestly, Charlie, it's not that. I had to hide in what I do—my way of coping—even more in the last nine months. Forget about me for a minute; what's going on?"

"We can chat about that later; I feel a little uneasy. We've got eyes on us." Charlie's narrowed whites darted towards the counter to show.

My hand slid to the back of my waistband, and the feel of cold metal grazed my fingers. The gun was still in place. I wasn't used to carrying one, but I needed to. If Charlie was picking up on it, there must be something about 'Mary' and the trucker guy causing alarm bells. This was further vindication to trust my gut.

"Yeah, it feels off. The trucker has a gun strapped to his left ankle. Waitress Mary possesses all the grace of a stilt walker on ice. She's wearing heels. Everyone knows—"

"You don't wear heels if you're on your feet all day in a place like this. Yeah, I remember Mum giving the do's and do nots to a waitress before," Charlie interrupts with a slight smile, a rare one so far.

We were on the same wavelength and guard. We weren't far from the door, but I sought a backup option if our fears came true. Perhaps Mary heads over and aims to be a distraction for unknown reasons. Maybe even flirts a little. She shows a little skin to catch my eye; lord knows it's been a while since Helen. Mary would stand in front of us, dressed in her figure-hugging uniform, slowly leaning forward, smiling and dripping some cleavage. Who wouldn't find Mary attractive?