Sea of Lies

by Rachel McLean

  “He got the boat ready, for that boy. Stupid idiot was going to go with him, or at least let him nick it. Typical.”

  Was Ted thinking of the time when he’d stolen the boat, taken it to go and find Sarah? Of the way Jess had been forced to take a rescue party south on foot, because of him?

  Probably not.

  “So why was she in the boat, and not Sam?”

  He leaned in. “Because she’s a fool, that’s why. When she gets back here…”

  “Please, Ted. If she comes back, go easy on her. We need to welcome her. To help her forget.”

  He stood up. “Welcome, my arse. That girl’s going to get beaten to the back of beyond when I get my hands on her. She’s made me look like a fool.”

  Dawn felt herself crumple. Sarah had gone again and all he cared about was how he looked to the village.

  There was knock at the door. Ted glared at Dawn as if she’d invited the devil to come visiting. “Who’s that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She stood up. He put a hand on her shoulder to push her down.

  “I’ll go.”

  He ambled to the door, tensing as it knocked again. “Alright, alright, get some bloody patience.”

  Dawn rounded the kitchen table, anxious to see who it was. Could Sarah have come back?

  “What do you want?” Ted’s voice was hard.

  “Sorry, Ted. Can I come in?”

  “Whatever it is can be done on the doorstep.”

  Dawn advanced on him, her heart racing. Why was Jess here? Was there news?

  “Very well,” Jess said. She spotted Dawn over Ted’s shoulder and threw her a tight smile. “Evening, Dawn.”

  “Evening.” Ted turned to glare at her and she backed away, towards the kitchen. When he turned back to Jess she took a step forwards.

  “What is it then?”

  “It’s the police. They’re back.”

  “Jesus.”

  Dawn crossed herself. She hated the way he blasphemed.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “They still need to talk to people.”

  “About your sister-in-law?”

  A pause. “They didn’t tell me. I’ve got to go to Filey. They’re going to talk to other villagers here. People who were there.”

  “I didn’t see anything. I had a bloody knife sticking out of me shoulder.”

  “I told them that. It doesn’t change anything.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Ted leaned back to grab his coat.

  “Don’t go anywhere while I’m gone,” he told Dawn, not looking at her as he slammed the door behind him.

  Dawn slid to the floor. This was it. Ted was going to be arrested, and Sarah was gone. She was alone.

  She heaved herself up, her limbs heavy. There was a rope in the loft.

  She would get it down, and she would wait twenty-four hours. If neither of them returned, she’d use it.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Martin ran towards Bill and Sarah. He could only imagine how Sarah would be feeling, with one of the men chasing her across the sand. The very man who had grabbed her outside her house when she was barely awake, clamped a drug-soaked rag to her mouth and slung her over his shoulder.

  Did she know it had been Bill?

  He ground to a halt as he reached them. Bill gripped Sarah’s arm and she was shouting into his face.

  “Let me go, you bastard! I need to go home!”

  “Not in that thing, you won’t.” Bill nodded towards the headland where the beach disappeared. “I saw your boat. It’s washed up, further along.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened. She pulled away from his grasp and resumed running.

  “Sarah, stop!” Martin cried. “Let me help you!”

  She skidded to a halt and looked back at him. Weighing up whether to believe him, no doubt. He hadn’t lied to her, not once. Not unless he counted lying by omission.

  He jogged to her. “Let’s pull the boat in. Get some rest. Bill’ll take us back to the farm.”

  “If you think I’m going back there…”

  “When you jumped in the boat with me, you knew where I was going. I offered to get out, to let you go back, but you refused. Where exactly did you think we’d end up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bill caught up with them. He stopped a few paces away, and exchanged glances with Martin.

  “It’s alright,” he said. “It’s just me here now. The rest of them have gone.”

  “Gone?” said Sarah. “Where? Why?”

  “They didn’t like the police sniffing around.”

  “They came here?” asked Martin.

  “Please, let’s talk about this inside. I’ll bring you up to speed. Things are very different around here now.”

  Sarah looked incredulous. “In two days?”

  “A lot’s happened.”

  Bill gave Martin a sideways glance. Martin wasn’t sure what that look meant: blame for stabbing Robert, or relief that he’d ended the man’s reign of terror.

  Martin turned to Sarah. “I believe him, for what it’s worth. We only need one night. We can get cleaned up, dried off.”

  “What about the boat?”

  “Let’s drag it further up the beach, for now. We can come back for it in the morning. You can. It’s getting dark, there’s no way you can sail it now.”

  She looked out to sea, then at Martin, then Bill, then the boat. Martin watched her, his chest tight.

  “OK,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  They walked towards the boat. The sand was damp and swallowed their feet.

  “What happened to your shoes?”

  “I lost one. It’s easier with none.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  She rounded on him, her hair flying out as she turned. “Yes, I’m sure. Stop trying to control me.”

  He raised his palms. “Sorry.”

  They reached the boat. He and Sarah grabbed a rope each and Bill pushed it from the back. They managed to get it halfway up the beach, to a spot where the sand was dry.

  “It’ll be OK here,” said Bill. “I know this beach.”

  Martin looked at him. “You sure?”

  “Sure.”

  Sarah stared at it for a moment then stepped away. Martin resisted the urge to take her hand. She looked cold, tired and dejected.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you warm.”

  She scowled at him. Don’t control me.

  “You can’t stay long,” said Bill.

  He felt his chest sink. “Why not?”

  “The police, stupid. They’re looking for you. You need to get away.”

  “They arrested Ruth.”

  “They did what?” Bill frowned then shook his head. “Makes sense.”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” said Martin.

  “She did finish him off. Pushed the knife in harder, watched him die.”

  “It was me who put it there in the first place.”

  “Seems you’re both as culpable as each other.”

  “It wasn’t Ruth’s fault,” said Sarah. “I heard him with her, I know what he wanted from her.”

  A deep purple blush flushed up Bill’s neck. How much did he recognise his own responsibility in all this?

  How much do I recognise mine, thought Martin.

  “I’ll be off at first light,” said Sarah. She looked at Bill. “Take us to the farm. You’d better be telling the truth.”

  She started walking along the beach, back to the huts.

  “This way’s quicker,” Bill called after her.

  She turned and gave him a wary look, then followed. They found a narrow path through some tall grasses, so dense that they had to fight their way through. The grass was stringy and wet and whipped Martin in the face as he passed.

  At last they were spat out onto a road. Martin looked along it; no sign of life.

  He pointed to the left. “This way, right?”

  Bill nodded. Sarah shuddered. Her
face was pale, the faint glow on her cheeks gone. She looked like a creature of the sea, or of the fairies. Martin remembered the stories his mum used to tell of spirit women, the way he’d hung off them as a child then laughed at them as a teenager.

  They walked in silence. Martin listened to his and Bill’s footsteps on the tarmac, wondering how long this road had been here. How long it would last. Sarah dragged behind, her footsteps slow. Her toe was bleeding and the bruise on her face was darkening. He stared at it and reminded himself not to offer help. Don’t control me.

  At last the farmhouse was ahead, staring out to sea. Bill unlocked the front door and ushered them into the kitchen. Martin’s senses pricked for signs of habitation but there was nothing; no footsteps, no voices upstairs. No shouting.

  The wooden floor had a dark patch near the back door where Robert’s blood had been scrubbed away. He moved quickly to block it from Sarah’s view.

  The last time they’d been here, Robert had had her at knifepoint, and Bill had restrained Martin with twine round his wrists. He and two other men had dragged Martin and Sarah back here, and brought them to Robert. So much for his plan to rescue her.

  Sarah sat carefully, her eyes ahead, glazed. She looked small, ten years younger than her nineteen years. Martin wanted to walk to her and give her a hug. He wanted to drag the sadness out of her and replace it with love.

  He thought of Ben, clutching at Ruth in this kitchen. The way she’d shrugged him off. Was this all Ben’s fault?

  No. It was Robert’s.

  Bill filled the kettle from the tap. “There are spare clothes upstairs. Not the best fit, but better than what you’re wearing. You need to get dry, both of you. Before you catch hypothermia.”

  “Thanks,” said Martin.

  “Have a cup of tea first. It’s mint. Can’t keep the stuff at bay, but at least it’s useful.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bill handed him a mug and put one in front of Sarah. She looped her fingers around it and sipped. A hint of colour returned to her cheeks.

  “How did they know about Robert?” he asked. “The police.”

  “They wouldn’t tell me. But I’ve got a good idea.” He gave Sarah a nervous look.

  “Go on.”

  “Leroy. I couldn’t find him after you left. Hadn’t seen him for a few hours. I reckon he saw the whole thing and shopped us.” A pause. “Shopped you.”

  “He never liked me.”

  Sarah’s grip tightened on the mug; she almost spilled it. Leroy had visited her in her cell, he knew. She’d refused to tell Martin what he’d done.

  “It makes no sense,” he said. “Leroy hated the cops.”

  Bill looked at Sarah. “Maybe he wanted to avoid getting into trouble himself.”

  Martin felt his face heat up. He needed to toughen up if he was going to be any help to Sarah.

  “Where are the clothes?” asked Sarah.

  “Upstairs,” said Bill. “They’re all men’s, but Robert was smallest. And his clothes are clean.”

  “Right,” she said. “Where?”

  “Upstairs, big room at the back. There’s a wardrobe. You can sleep there too. Both of you.”

  Sarah’s eyes widened.

  “No,” said Martin. “I’ll have my old room.”

  The room he had shared with Leroy and Mike. Thank God it would only be for one night. One night, and then he would never see Sarah again.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  There was a key hanging on a peg outside the bedroom door. Sarah took it and closed the door behind her. She turned it. It worked.

  She had no idea if there was another key. If she was safe.

  She turned to search the room. It was sparse, just a high, lumpy bed, a wardrobe that looked at least a hundred years old and a wooden chair.

  Flowers lay on the floor in front of a cast iron fireplace, dried and purple. She felt a cold shadow pass through her, imagining Ruth in here. She’d been coming down the stairs when Bill had brought them back to the house. She’d either escaped, or she’d never been locked up in the first place.

  Escaped. Surely.

  Sarah grabbed the chair and wedged it under the door handle, having no idea if this actually worked. It would at least topple if the door was opened, give her a warning.

  She opened the wardrobe. Inside was a row of laundered and ironed shirts. She ran her hands over them; they were white and stiff with bleach. She took one out and lay it on the bed.

  She felt sick; the sight of Bill, approaching them across the sand, kept flashing in her eyes. Followed by the recollection of turning outside her house and seeing him there, coming at her.

  She took a few shaky breaths and tried to focus on the clothes. Next to the shirts hung blue jeans, also well cared-for. She took a pair. She could at least be clean and warm before she got away. And the door was locked.

  Beyond the bed was another door. She pushed it open, hesitant, expecting it to lead onto the roof.

  It didn’t. There was a bathroom. It was clean and spartan, with a bar of soap by the sink and a heavy bathtub with a brown stain running from the tap to the plughole. She leaned over it and ran her finger through the stain; it came away clean.

  She turned the taps, biting her lip. A bath. She hadn’t taken a bath in years. The water was tepid, though; not hot.

  She turned off the cold tap and let the hot tap fill the tub halfway. When the heat started to fade and the water spluttered, she closed the tap and turned towards the door. This one had a bolt; she would be safe in here.

  She slid the bolt then peeled off her wet clothes. She left them in a bundle on the floor; she’d deal with them after she’d cleaned herself. She didn’t want that bath cooling any more than it had to.

  She lowered herself in, eyes closed. It felt good, like silk brushing against her skin. She lay still, her eyes closed, for a few moments.

  She opened her eyes, wishing she’d thought to transfer the soap bar from the sink. She couldn’t face getting out of this water, heaving herself over the side of the tub and splashing across the cold tiled floor.

  She gasped in a breath and dipped under the water. She’d learned to go without soap before, when the village supplies were low. The water was all she needed.

  She rubbed herself as clean as she could, trying not to look at the bruises on her arms and the deep gash on her big toe. It stung in the water but at least it had stopped bleeding. She raised her fingers to her forehead; it was swollen next to the eye.

  When she was clean, she gripped the sides of the bath and pushed herself up. She stepped out and put her foot down on the tiles, carefully so as not to slip.

  There was a thin, greying towel on a hook by the sink. She grabbed it and towelled herself down.

  She slid the bolt and eased the door ajar, peering through to check no one was in the bedroom. Her heart pounded against her ribcage. It was empty, the chair still wedged under the doorknob.

  She opened the door and headed for the bed. She pulled the clothes on. They were large but not ridiculously so. If she tied a knot in the bottom of the shirt it fitted perfectly, and helped to hold the jeans up at the same time. She’d ask if there was a rope or something she could use to secure them.

  In the bottom of the wardrobe were two drawers. She pulled one out, almost pulling it to the floor in her haste. It contained underpants and socks.

  There was no way she was wearing Robert Cope’s underpants but the socks would be welcome. She sat on the bed and pulled them on, wriggling her toes in reluctant pleasure. The sensation of being clean and dry, of wearing freshly laundered clothes, pulled at her. But her fear was still there. She couldn’t let herself get comfortable.

  She tried the other drawer. It held a wallet and a belt. She tied the belt around her waist, glad not to have to worry about losing the jeans, and picked up the wallet.

  It contained no money, unsurprisingly. Instead, there were a few scraps of paper with indecipherable writing, and a small pile of photos.
They depicted a woman and two small boys. The woman was short, with thin brown hair and the drawn expression of someone accustomed to a hard life. The boys were toddlers, one of them little more than a baby. The photo was worn over their faces, where they’d been touched repeatedly.

  She wondered if this was Robert Cope’s family. Some poor woman, who he’d left behind when the flood hit. Or maybe she’d died, or preferred to stay behind. Sarah shuddered.

  Missing this family didn’t excuse what he’d done.

  There was a knock at the door. She crammed the photos back into the wallet and shoved it under the bedspread.

  She tiptoed to the door and put a hand on the handle. Her throat felt tight, her skin cold.

  “Who is it?”

  “Martin. I wanted to check you were alright.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Can I come in?”

  She frowned at the door then pushed the chair to one side. She pulled the door open, blocking the doorway with her body.

  “What do you need?”

  He looked embarrassed. “I just wanted to talk to you. Find out what your plans are.”

  “My plans are to get home, if I can.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  He glanced towards the stairs and lowered his voice. “Will you come out then?”

  She followed him into the hallway. It was chilly out here, and her previously warm skin started to shiver.

  “I wish I understood you, Martin.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’re being nice to me now. But you took me. You were one of them.”

  “I didn’t want to.”

  “You told me that.”

  “Look,” he said. “I don’t think you should go back. Not yet. Wait till your dad’s calmed down a bit.”

  “You can’t stay here. You’re a wanted man, remember. And I’m not staying on my own with Bill.”

  She felt a shiver run down her back. Bill had been quiet since they’d arrived, as if brooding on his own secrets. She wondered why he’d stayed here, when all the others had fled.

  “I’ll get the boat going,” she said. “And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get as far away from here as you can.”

  “You think I’m a monster.”