“I don’t mean to intrude,” he said in an accent that sounded like Boston, “but I heard you were looking for a place. I’m just about to go to this small B&B up the road. You’re welcome to come and see if they have any rooms.”
I took a few seconds to size the guy up, because he was wearing a fancy shirt and Britain seemed to be full of fags. Either that or I was giving off the wrong signals for this side of the ocean.
The guy’s smile faded, and he backed away. “Just trying to be friendly.”
I didn’t want to seem too eager, but my feet weren’t up to much hotel hunting. Besides, I’d been in Britain nearly a week without talking to a friendly soul, so I accepted.
His smile returned. “Do you want to check it out now, or grab a bite to eat first?”
I didn’t want to admit this place was probably too steep for my budget, so I scanned the blackboard over the bar and saw fish and chips. How expensive could that be?
He pulled a chair over and stuck out his hand. “I’m Patrick Johannsen.”
My jaw dropped. “Hello, Patrick Johannsen. I’m Patrick O’Shea.”
Over fish and chips washed down by the half dozen beers he insisted on buying, we laughed at the coincidence.
“I was born on St. Patrick’s Day, that’s my only claim to the name,” he said, then nodded to my backpack. “Are you here for the hiking?”
“If I ever get there.”
“Where are you headed?”
“The Brecon Beacons, mountains north of here, with all those ruined Roman castles. What about you?”
He smiled and inspected his hands, like he was embarrassed. “I’m just going. I don’t know where. I finished university, hopped a plane, bought a car and headed out of London this morning. This is where I was when I got tired.”
“You’ve got a car!” I thought of my own pathetic stash of pounds. I’d been such an idiot to think three thousand bucks was enough. Of course, if I’d taken any more, my stepfather would have noticed, and this time the bastard would have pressed charges. “I guess you’re in a different league from me.”
He shrugged. “Depends what you’re measuring. At least you know where you’re going.” He paused to study his hands again. “Maybe we could team up for a while.”
He seemed a bit nerdy, but it would only be for a few days, and he had a car. So what the hell. We cemented the agreement with a couple more beers, then stumbled out the door, me barefoot with my boots in my hand. Patrick led me over to a silver sports car. I remembered this car; it had passed me in a cloud of spray earlier in the day.
“This is not just a car! You must have some major bucks,” I exclaimed as I climbed in. The leather felt like a baby’s skin beneath my hand. Things were looking up.
“I guess.” Patrick shrugged, and I thought, oh-oh, not one of those gloomy drunks. But then he started the car and revved the engine like he was gathering strength. “Okay, to the beginning of a new adventure.”
“This is going to be fun,” I said. “The two of us walk in the door looking enough alike to be brothers—hello, I’m Patrick and this is Patrick.”
Patrick chuckled. “We could even switch last names and really confuse them.”
The little B&B was squeezed in tight among the trees, and as we turned in, Patrick eyed the narrow, cobbled drive worriedly.
“Here, you sign us in while I make sure I get the car parked safely.”
I took his wallet and passport and hauled our backpacks out of the car. A doubtful-looking woman greeted me as I hobbled in the door. The house smelled like old socks, but it looked clean. I could see the woman wasn’t impressed with me.
“Have you got a room for two? My friend’s just parking the Jaguar around back.”
Her frown cleared like magic, and she stepped brightly over to her desk. “Names?”
Amazing what the smell of money does, I thought, as I handed over our passports and introduced myself.
Old socks or not, the little inn was too pricey for my wallet, but before I could open my mouth, Patrick paid for three nights in full.
“As I said, money’s the one thing I do have.” He bent over to heft my backpack over his shoulder. “You’ve been lugging this thing around all day. Christ, what’s in it?”
“This trip was a spur of the moment thing, and I just threw everything I owned into a bag.” Plus quite a few things my stepdad owned, but I wasn’t going to add that. This guy probably wouldn’t know about deadbeat dads and resentful stepfathers, and about not having a thing to call your own. Anyway, I figured my stepfather would consider the empty safe and the maxed-out credit cards a small price to pay for getting me out of the house.
Patrick stopped halfway up the stairs. “You mean you’re never going back?”
“Not if I can help it.” I tried to sound cool, like it was my way of breaking free, but I was thinking of the warrant my stepfather had probably sworn out for my arrest.
Patrick unlocked the door to a converted attic with two beds and a bathroom the size of a closet. He dropped my bag on the larger bed, then collapsed onto the cot. I was about to protest, because he was paying for the room, but he silenced me with that shrug that was becoming his trademark. Like he was trying to get the world off his shoulders.
“Don’t you have any family? Any parents?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “But it was time I left.”
“You won’t miss them?”
I thought briefly of my half-sisters, who’d always relied on me to lead them in their minor mutinies against Adolf. I’d miss my sisters. I’d even miss my mother, although she’d made it clear where her loyalties lay when she’d dragged me kicking and screaming into that control freak’s life. I’m still young, Patrick, she’d said. I need a life. Needed sex, she meant, although at ten I was too young to know that. Well, I hope the sex was good, because she sure paid for it. Mom called my stepdad Andrew, but Adolf suited me fine. Was I going to miss Adolf?
In a pig’s eye.
“I’m twenty-one,” I said as if that were answer enough. “Do you miss your family?”
He shook his head, then shoved himself off the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. Touchy, I thought. Morose and touchy. Maybe this wasn’t going to work out after all, despite the fancy car and the wallet full of cash.
But the next morning he jumped out of bed, grinning from ear to ear, and announced he was ready to hike a hundred miles. I was trying to cram my feet into my boots and accepted his hiking sandals without protest. Rockports. My blistered skin barely felt the leather.
The inn boasted what they called a traditional Welsh breakfast, which was the same as the Canadian breakfast my mother served before the Führer took command and instituted a regime of All Bran and brown toast.
“I’ve been studying my trail map,” Patrick said as our food arrived. “We could pick up a fabulous trail in the Brecon Beacons that goes up over the moors to some Roman ruins. Or there’s this heritage trail that runs all along the southwest coast. We could drive down to the Marloes Peninsula—that’s a wildlife sanctuary for wild ponies and migrant birds—and we could hike around the cliff tops.”
“Cliff tops?” I stopped with a forkful of scrambled egg halfway to my mouth. “How high?”
“It varies. Some of them are two hundred feet. The pictures look amazing. Sheer