slumber talk

9: A Detour

Scotland.

Trisha Langstrom's covert, clandestine hiding place was Scotland, somewhere north of Carlisle in this town called Hamilton. It was by any other definition as far from Suddington one could get without a car or a passport.

How did we know this? Because after the ultimatum I'd posed sometime on Sunday afternoon and a day of silently stewing over each other's transgressions, Hassan messaged to tell me he'd gotten a handle on Jeremy's fabled ex's whereabouts.

+44752 159653 wants to send you a message

shes in Scotland

Who is this?

Hassan. Trisha's in Scotland.

Cornered Anna after her dance lesson @the studio nd got the details

That's creepy

u bein fuckin serious?

I wasn't finished yet

Also incredibly forthcoming. Werent u the one who said Anna's mouth was as gd as welded shut

yh

I did

r we doing this or not?

My mind continued to mull about it as I stared out at the water.

The plan we'd agreed upon was very simple: get the train from Suddington to Bath, take a secondary train from Bath to Scotland, travel up to Hamilton and then locate Trisha using the address Anna had so helpfully divulged. The whole thing would take less than 2 days – we'd be back before anyone noticed our absence.

Getting Trisha to talk to either of us, that was another issue entirely. I could only hope that she'd end up being just as forthcoming, or as skittish, as her sister.

Stood at the rim of Suddington Lake, listening to the wind whistle through the tall and cumbersome conifers and watching images of the sky and thunderclouds and my looming reflection shatter across the surface, broken into a million splintered pieces by the rain that tore into its depths, I bristled against the cold. Monday had held out in brief reprieve and signalled what we all thought was the end of the horrific weather, and yet in true British fashion, the clouds had crowded back again quicker than they'd disappeared. Heavier, as well.

An incoming barrage of snapping twigs and crunching gravel gave way to the trundling roar of my deus ex machina. Wheels locking themselves in the puddles of soft mud that led up to the lake, Hassan eventually beached his car halfway up the slope and popped open his door against a strong gust of wind. The dirty glare of his foglights sent a floodgate of yellow right into my eyes and face.

"Will you get in the car already??"

If his voice was anything to go by, it wasn't the dirtiest glare I was receiving.

I rounded the bonnet of the car, gripping my flapping hood to my hairline and fumbling with the wet and numb fingers of my other hand for the handle of the passenger door. When I eventually slid into the sheltered interior I realised there was still a breeze attacking my legs.

"You brought the crummy whip."

He looked at me disinterestedly. "What?"

My hands immediately made their way to the rips in the car door, located in the panel up by the seat belt, and in two spaces beneath the arm rest. "The crummy whip. This is your dealing car."