Rider Chapter 2

As you may remember, I went on a bit of a bender after Rose’s death. It’s been five years, just over, since she disappeared. As I said, I’ve seen a few other women, with always the same outcome – I just couldn’t handle the closeness, the sense of loss for what I once had.

Well, not a lot has happened since I wrote the last story, about a year and a half ago. I’m still in my job – I managed not to get fired, just – and I’m still a regular at the bar. Got a couple of grey hairs now, though, but I’ve managed not to put on any pounds, thank God. Stayed off the rollies too, and feeling much better for it.

This takes place just a few months ago, on the five year anniversary of Rose’s vanishing.

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Right, where was I that night? Easy to answer – the bar. And tonight, I was going to get utterly, utterly hammered. As I discovered, five years doesn’t dull the pain nearly as much as it should.

I’d drunk til closing time, then given John – same old barman! – a few roubles on the side, and he’d returned with a bottle of Vodka. “On the breakages,” he muttered, and I nodded gratefully. It wasn’t the first time.

I sat outside on the step, in the shelter of the doorway to avoid the falling snow. Raising the bottle, toasting the flickering street-light a few yards away, I worked my way round the lump in my throat and whispered, “Here’s to you, Rose, wherever you are. Remember I love you.” And with that, I buried my head in my arms and started to cry.

The purring of an engine did little to rouse me from my stupor, until a voice broke the relative silence to say, “You all right, buddy?” There was the click of a door, and I raised my head to look up. A woman, dressed in cast-off mechanics’ overalls, was standing on the pavement, looking down at me. Hurriedly I wiped my face on my sleeve, stumbling to my feet. “Erh, yeah, I’m ok really. Just a little emotional,” I slurred, not looking at her.

There was no response. Still staring at the ground in shame, I shrugged and looked at my bottle. I was just about to ask her to leave, when she suddenly spoke.

“Pete… Peter?”

I spun round to look at her, neatly depositing myself at her feet as I did so, the slippery snow and the alcohol doing nothing for my composure. She reached down and grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet. I looked at her, and saw in that worn face someone I knew, someone I loved. “Rose? Is… is that you?” She nodded, and her arms went out to me just as mine went out to her.

We stood, holding each other on the pavement, for long minutes. When she pulled back, she had tears on her cheeks. Without a word, she tugged me to her car, and drove in silence to my flat.

When we reached my flat I groped in my pockets for my key, finally extracting it and sheepishly proffering it to Rose, explaining, “I really doubt I could open this lock anytime soon!” She looked at me for a second, then took the key and opened the door, pulling me through and locking it behind her. I extricated myself from her grasp and stumbled to the bathroom, locking the door and then throwing up, hard, into the toilet. Pulling myself up and staring into the grimy mirror, I shook my head at the state I was in, and splashed some icy water on my face.

Still gasping from the shock of the cold water, I left the bathroom, walking discernibly straighter than before, and found Rose had put some coffee on to boil. I stood beside her at the kitchen counter and took her in my arms. Burying my head in her hair, I took in her scent, remembering it like she’d left only yesterday.

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Over coffee she told me what happened.

“The day I was due to meet you, I got car-jacked, around three hundred miles outside Moscow. It was a young man and his girlfriend. He kept his car, and gave mine to her. I heard later she died in it, but I don’t know anything about that. The guy – he called himself Vladimir – forced me into his car.