The next morning was bright and already heading towards scorching. Sam decided to start working on his next commission early, before he turned into a sweaty mess. A couple of hours in, Jack jumped up and gave a small ‘whuff’ before trotting down the driveway. Charlie appeared, striding up the path, with Jack dancing at her feet. Sam decided his day was about to get much more interesting as he clocked the weaponry bristling at her hips. “Heading off to war?” He crossed his arms, tapping the chisel he had been using against his shoulder as he looked her up and down. His tapping was arrested as he looked at her face, white and set, with dark shadows under her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept. “What is it? What’s happened?” She walked straight past him and into his workroom, not saying a word. He could feel the tension vibrating from her as she passed, like static electricity playing over his skin.

He strode in after her and carefully laid the chisel on the bench, as he breathed deeply to keep his temper under control at the invasion of his hideaway. Jack peered in through the door, picked up on the tension sparking between the two occupants, whined and backed back out. Sam heeled the door shut behind him, working to unclench his jaw, as the tightness sent pain zinging across his back molars. “Well, spit it out, now you’ve pushed your way in. Then you can leave.”

Charlie thrust out the letter. “Read this. Then we’ll talk.” He took the paper and read it through fast, once. Then again, more slowly. He huffed out a long, loud breath.  

“Ok. So that’s a problem.” Despite herself, Charlie found herself surprised into a laugh. “Somewhat of an understatement.” The tension broke, flowing away from them and leaving them limp and spent. “Come in and I’ll make us a pot of tea.”

Sam’s heart rate slowly steadied, and the shaking hands from the adrenaline pike steadied as he boiled the kettle on his gas stove and prepared the tea leaves. He set out mugs, milk and sugar, and warmed the pot, all in silence. Charlie didn’t seem in the mood to talk either, as she sat at the kitchen table, hands clasped loosely on the highly polished wood, staring at nothing. 

Sam slid a mug in her direction, and she wrapped her hands around it, her eyes not changing focus, as though she had done it without realising. “This must be difficult for you,” he said, deliberately softening his voice, as his shrink had done to him. Her eyes sharpened, and she looked up at him with a snort of fake laughter. “Come off it you chancer. I can see right through you and your sweet-talking.”

And she could too. It gave him a tingle, right there behind his breastbone, as though something was uncoiling… Giving himself an internal shake he pulled himself back together, pushing back the moment of weakness.

“I need to know what Ben was doing when he was in Portsmouth. Would someone from here have been likely to do something like this? Hold onto the anger for so long? And you’re the only person who can enlighten me.”

“I wasn’t actually here at the time. I heard they did some shady things, mostly black market goods. Ben had some contacts from his previous place of residence. He was actually only here for a couple of years. When Dad had his stroke, he moved on to greener pastures. And I moved here to look after Dad. You say he was on the boat-”

“Ship.”

“Whatever. About five years? So, that would have been about 1997. He was here between 1992 and 1995. So, you’ve got five years before, and two years after to cover. Let me have a look through Dad’s letters and stuff, and see if there’s anything there about where he’s been.”

“Thanks, Sam. Can I help with it?”

“Sure, let me get the boxes, and we’ll get drunk and go through them.”

Sam disappeared out of the room, and came back more slowly after a few minutes with three large cardboard boxes and a clinking carrier bag over one hand. He staggered through the kitchen and through the archway on the other side. Following him through, Charlie found that it led to a cosy sitting room, with a log burner in the fireplace, a large, saggy brown three-seater sofa, half covered with a tartan blanket, and liberally covered with dog hairs, and a small dining table. The floor was wood, with the odd small rug casually thrown down, carrying on the tartan colour scheme of the blanket.  The table was carved from what looked like a single tree trunk, and was a work of art. The two chairs each end matched, and were so shiny you could see a distorted reflection in them.

“Wow, this is beautiful,” Charlie said, running her fingers lightly over the table’s surface, feeling the silky smoothness of the finish. “Your work?”

“Yes.” replied Sam, shortly, a tinge of red appearing on his cheeks. He ducked his head a little and busied himself unpacking the top box. Charlie suppressed a smile. So the cocky, over-confident machismo man had a shy side.

Frivolous thoughts were pushed aside as she took a good look at the letters and documents Sam was piling on the table. Bundles of letters were tied with string, more official papers were held in little plastic sleeves, clipped inside lever-arch files. They sat down and got to work, throwing old bank statements and bills back in the boxes, and riffling through anything handwritten. 

Her heart stuttered as she found an envelope with Ben’s handwriting on it. Her fingers were trembling as she slid the letter out and opened it up, spreading it flat on the table with the palms of her hands. It was short and to the point: 

Asswipe,
Stop writing to me. I’ve got a good thing going here, and I’m not getting involved in any more shady schemes. If you want to be a smuggler, you’ll have to do it alone.
I know what Betty would say to me if she thought I was falling back into that life, and I’m pretty sure your Sam won’t be too happy either.
B.

She had the urge to screw the letter up and throw it across the room. No help, but proof from Ben’s own hand that he’d been up to dodgy dealings.

Same watched her push the letter aways and throw herself against the chair back. 

“More tea? Or something stronger?”

They carried on working, stopping only to switch on lights, and grab more drinks. Then Charlie spotted more of Ben’s handwriting. She grabbed at it, heart hitching as a pile tied with string came towards her. This was more hopeful. There were at least ten letters here, dated from the 70s up until the year he arrived in Portsmouth. This last one held just two words: I’m coming. 

This was it; this could hold the answers she had been hoping for.