The Lighthouse at Devil's Point

by Gary P Moss

  To Sara, Tim suddenly looked larger, bulkier. As if his confidence had grown tenfold. As if he weren’t about to back down.

  ‘I didn’t mean I was going to follow you around!’ She flinched, as if suddenly frightened. He realised that he’d raised his voice an octave. He looked around him. The pub was filling up, but no one appeared to be interested in their conversation. He lowered his voice again.

  ‘I’m sorry. No, I meant I’d go somewhere discreet, stay in a B & B somewhere. We’ll even stay in separate B & Bs. You’d not even notice I was there. After what happened to you before, I think having someone to call on if things went wrong would be a good idea. I’m serious.’

  She was having great trouble keeping her fury from bubbling over. She wanted to lash out, to say how dare you dictate my life to me, offer a gift with strings attached. But she couldn’t. It was a nuisance, but it would mean extra money, and who knows, she might even be able to get more. And if this evening’s plan didn’t work as she hoped it would, she’d need the extra time. Her plan would placate Andreas, at least until she found out exactly what assets the lighthouse keeper possessed.

  She smoothed her fingers through her hair. She’d been growing it again, and it was now past her shoulders.

  ‘All right, darling, you win.’ She smiled sweetly, an indulgent look, as if she were addressing an obstinate toddler.

  Tim beamed. Sara urged the fury back to the depths. She took another gulp of her drink, to fight the dryness in her throat. She hoped he wouldn’t be this awkward again.

  Just like he was as a child. Interfering.

  She would not let him dictate the direction of her life. Not again.

  Tim was drunk by the time the pair left the final pub. It was close to midnight. Sara struggled to accept his weight as he leaned on her. As they left High Petergate, the Minster’s full gothic splendour rose to greet them. Momentarily, the sight of it bearing down upon them took Sara’s breath away. She wanted to get past it quickly. Tim laughed and giggled. Sara whispered to him to try to walk straight. She didn’t want to attract attention.

  They reached Goodramgate. She knew her hotel was only round the next corner, to the right. Tim’s flat was to the left. Similar distances. She knew that he’d have trouble making it back on his own.

  ‘Come on, I’ll see you back home.’

  He slurred his words. ‘Should be my job, seeing you home.’

  She ignored him. She steered them to the left after walking through Monk Bar. She waited patiently at the crossing. Her heart thumped madly against her chest. She had a rough idea of the flat’s location. He’d pointed it out after they’d left the hotel. She saw the antique shop’s sign up ahead, bolted to the front of the building.

  ‘Do you have your keys, Tim?’

  He looked at her as if she were a stranger. Then he must have remembered who she was and where they were. He grabbed the bunch from his pocket.

  ‘Here, give them to me. You might drop them down a drain. Then where will we be, eh?’

  He grinned sheepishly. He handed the keys over.

  Sara glanced around quickly. The road ahead was busy with traffic but there was no one walking near the flat. She opened the flat door, gently pushing Tim through first. She let the Yale click shut but left the mortice unlocked.

  The stairs were steep, but Axminster or some other expensive carpet type had been laid with tight precision. The steps were soft. Tim reached the top by using his hands and feet, as if he were crawling. He didn’t use the handrail at all. At one point, Sara worried he might topple backwards, crushing her. And if he didn’t crush her, and merely fell to the bottom, it would ruin the rest of her evening’s plan. She’d heard that drunk people often sustained no more than superficial or minor injuries when they fell, but if he chipped his spine, or something annoying like that, it would require a hospital visit. And upset her plan.

  He clambered onto the upstairs landing, moving away from danger. As she reached the top, he called out.

  ‘Fix you a drink?’

  ‘No, well yes, but I’ll do it. Don’t want you pouring me too much.’

  In the living room, she saw him flip the lid of an antique drinks trolley in the shape of a globe. The room smelled of lavender oil, adding an extra fine layer of intoxication. She went over to him, then steered him towards the sofa.

  ‘Here, I’ll do it.’

  He shrugged off his jacket. He slung it onto a lone Chesterfield high-backed chair, before he collapsed back onto a long sofa.

  ‘Brandy?’ she asked.

  He stared at her, bleary-eyed, unfocused.

  ‘Yes, please!’ he said, like an over-excited child. ‘Make it a large one!’

  ‘All right, darling,’ she said quietly.

  She handed him his drink. She guessed she’d poured at least the equivalent of four or five standard pub measures. He drank greedily, as if he were trying to fit his face in the glass. She poured a small measure of gin into a highball for herself. She filled it to the top with tonic water. As she picked up her glass, he patted the sofa.

  ‘Come and sit down, Mum.’

  She sat at the far end of the sofa, and she listened as he told her about his marriage, about how it had ended, and of his ex-wife’s inherited and self-made wealth. It was a drunken ramble. After fifteen minutes had passed, he handed his glass to her. He hiccupped, then apologised.

  ‘One for the road, eh?’ He giggled.

  She topped up his tumbler again. She told him a story, partly true, about how his dad and herself had accidentally met, how she thought they’d never been in love, and how they married as a result of a pregnancy. Hardly a promising start, she’d said. She thought Tim barely listened to the tale, but she wasn’t concerned. And then he started to repeat the same story as before, of his financially rich but emotionally poor marriage. He nodded off. She reached over and caught his glass before it dropped to the parquet floor. She looked around her for the first time. The room was classically furnished, the wall prints contemporary, expensively framed. It could have come straight from the pages of a Laura Ashley brochure. Tim laid back with his mouth wide open. He began to snore. She fetched a blanket from one of the two back bedrooms. She laid it over him, gently, so as not to wake him.

  Sara dug in her bag for her pocket diary and a pen. Her mobile phone didn’t have a camera. Pen and paper would have to do. Anyway, it would be quieter. She went over to a bookcase, one of several that stretched along one wall. She chose a large book for its size rather than its content.

  She sat in the Chesterfield, nudging his jacket into the corner. She opened the book, all the while watching him for signs of movement. He looked as if he was in a deep, drunken sleep. She fished out his wallet. There was no clasp. The gold Amex sat invitingly right inside the flap. She removed the card, slipping the wallet back into the jacket.

  She copied down all the information, resting the card against the inside of the open book. Tim didn’t stir. She replaced the card. She peered over the book. No change. Still asleep. Still snoring. She took out the wallet again. Her heart hammered. She left the cash untouched. About fifty pounds. Behind the Amex sat another credit card. A Visa platinum. Tucked behind them was a small slip of paper containing two sets of four-digit numbers. One had an ‘A’ next to it, the other a ‘V’. She copied them down. She had no idea of the credit limits but assumed they would be generous. She presumed he had a good salary. And probably money in the bank. He wasn’t a credit risk. They’d offer him the world.

  She’d written down the details from two credit cards and a current account card. She found the kitchen. From an energy bill left on top of the microwave, she copied Tim’s full billing address. She rinsed their glasses and replaced them underneath the drinks trolley.

  She tiptoed to the top of the stairs. He hadn’t moved. Not an inch. She carefully navigated the stairs, making sure that her weak hand didn’t take too much strain on the rail. She opened the door. The night air was cool and still, punctuated
only by a solitary taxi speeding by. She closed the door softly. She winced as she heard the Yale clunk shut, but she didn’t think it would be loud enough to wake him. Not far away, the Minster loomed. It seemed to stare at her, admonish her. She walked quickly away. Within five minutes, she’d reached the hotel, where she headed straight to her room. For two reasons, she resisted calling Andreas straight away with the details she’d stolen from Tim: it would be three am in Northern Cyprus, and there was no way she’d use the room’s phone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days later, Sara telephoned Andreas.

  ‘I’m going away for a few days. With Tim.’

  There was a pause before Andreas answered. ‘But why? I have the card numbers. There’s no need for you to continue this now.’

  ‘He’s offered me some money. I gave him a sob story about getting ripped off on an internet dating site. But only if I’ll go on holiday with him. I think he’s lonely.’

  ‘Bribery? Makes a change from blackmail, I suppose.’ It sounded like he was sneering as he said it.

  ‘Doesn’t matter what it is. I told him I’d lost a few thousand. Doesn’t seem much of a hardship for that.’

  ‘Where will you be going?’

  ‘Durham. It’s in the north east. He likes cathedrals.’

  ‘Yeah, I know where it is. All right.’ He sighed. ‘Look, forget about another one, all right? Once you’re back, send what money you get to me. Gather your assets, sell them. All of them. I don’t want you carrying large amounts of cash through customs. Close all your accounts, everything. Listen, I’ve got to go. Oh, when are you going?’

  ‘Two weeks’ time, when he has leave.’

  ‘Okay, see you.’

  ‘Andreas?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘Yeah, me too,’ he said.

  She heard the telephone disconnect. She stared at the handset. She frowned.

  Maybe he knows I lied? No, why would he even think that?

  Steve Johnson banged on the lighthouse door. It was lunchtime. A pleasant breeze lifted the hair from the back of his neck. The tide was out, and sunlight illuminated tiny creatures in the sand.

  Putting an ear to the door, he could hear slow, heavy footsteps on stone.

  ‘Hang on, I’m coming,’ a voice shouted from within.

  Mike opened the door to his visitor.

  ‘You coming for a drink?’

  Mike lifted his wrist, stared at his watch.

  ‘It’s lunchtime, that’s all you need to know. And I’ll pay.’

  ‘Aye, why not?’ Mike lifted his black notebook. ‘Might as well make the most of my freedom.’

  ‘Oh, how’s that?’

  Mike opened the book at the point where a black ribbon marked the page.

  ‘Sara Palmer, retired piano teacher. She’s coming for a visit.’

  ‘Oh aye. And where’s she from?’

  ‘Lives in York. Near the cathedral.’ He glanced at the page again. ‘Alice reckons she looks all right.’

  ‘Near the Minster, eh? She must have some money then!’

  ‘Good job she has; I’ve not a deal left. Some in the bank, I think.’

  ‘Ah well, look around you, Mike. You’ve all you need here. The best scenery in the world, I’ll say. Not that old Agnes would agree, mind.’

  Mike nodded his head. Steve thought he was trying to remember who Agnes was.

  ‘You know, the doom-monger up at the nursing home. She asks about you.’ Steve laughed. ‘And d’you know what she does? She peers at me through those crazy glasses to see if there’s any sign of psychopathy!’

  They walked along the causeway, then headed towards the pub. Steve continued to relay news of his latest visit to Agnes. ‘She says, “are you still holed up in that cottage, staring at Devil’s Point rock all day? Wonder you’ve not murdered half the town by now!” Honestly, mate, she cracks me up.’

  ‘It’s never done me any harm, that rock,’ Mike said.

  ‘Aye. A load of old codswallop, that’s what it is. If it’s in you, it’s in you. Can’t go around blaming stuff for your actions, that’s what I say.’

  Mike nodded again. He looked distracted. Steve clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll have a great time with this Sara woman. It’ll make a decent change from supping with me.’

  Tim had arranged to meet his mother’s train at York station on Thursday, which was the following day. They were to carry on to Edinburgh, changing for Glasgow and then onto the West Highland Line.

  So far, he’d not mentioned his reunion with his mother to anyone in his family. He’d wanted to see how it went first, and anyway, not one of them had ever mentioned her to him in almost four decades.

  It had gone better than he’d expected. It felt like they were developing a real relationship. He was only sorry he’d been drunk during their first evening, but she hadn’t mentioned it. Only that she’d enjoyed the time they’d spent together. He felt now was the time, not to make it public, but at least tell the people he cared the most for. Especially his aunt Lottie.

  He tried her number. He let it ring, only half expecting her to pick up. She was always out, gallivanting here, there, and everywhere in between, serving on committees and lunching with friends. And who could blame her? He waited till the answering machine kicked in. This time, he’d leave a message. He didn’t have time to call back, what with packing for the trip.

  He supplied a potted history of their meeting, omitting Sara’s early reticence, and their subsequent flourishing relationship. He ended by telling his aunt they were heading away for a coastal trip. The word ‘coastal’ made him shiver as he said it. This trip was not just about ensuring his mother’s safety. It was his big chance to get rid of his phobia, face his fear head on, return in triumph.

  He mentioned the name of the town, said it sounded idyllic. There was no mention of the lighthouse keeper. He realised, too late, that towards the end of his message, his voice had risen an octave or so, betraying his sense of heightened excitement. Like a child about to go on a magical holiday. Well, so what if I sounded childish, he thought. I am excited. A little nervous too. There was, after all, the matter of the sea to contend with. He puffed out his chest, and took a long, deep breath.

  ‘You can do this, Tim Collins,’ he said aloud.

  The light on top of Lottie’s answering machine flashed green. She’d been in London for a few days, spending time with her granddaughters. She listened to the message. And froze.

  NO! NO! This can’t be happening!

  She wanted to scream but her natural decorum prevented her from doing so.

  She dialled her nephew’s number straight away. There was no answer. A message informed her it was not possible to connect the call. She shook her head. Frustrated, she remembered she’d had this problem before when trying to contact him. He’d said there must be a fault with his mobile phone, that he’d buy a new one. She tried again. Same message.

  ‘Oh, Tim,’ she cried. ‘What have you done?’

  She replaced the receiver, stood up straight, clasped her hands behind her neck, and stretched while taking a series of deep breaths.

  ‘Think, think. What to do, what to do?’

  Lottie picked up the telephone again. She dialled the emergency number, asked to be put through to the police. She explained the situation. She knew that she’d rushed the story, but the female police officer on the other end listened patiently. Lottie was hopeful that there’d be an intervention.

  ‘So, how old did you say your nephew is, madam?’

  ‘I’m not sure. About forty, I think.’

  ‘And his mother? How old is she?’

  ‘Sixty, maybe. Perhaps a little older.’

  ‘And you say she’s tried to … let me get this straight … kill him before?’

  ‘I know it sounds fanciful, but it’s true.’

  ‘And was his mother … hold on a second, please … Lynne C
ollins … was she arrested at the time?’

  ‘Well, no … but…’

  ‘Were there any witnesses to this attempted murder? I mean, how did you find out about it?’

  ‘From Tim’s dad. He’s dead now but he swears it was true.’

  ‘So, his dad was there then, when it happened?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t.’ Lottie sighed. ‘He was in the hospital. He’d had an accident on the beach.’

  ‘So who witnessed this ‘crime’?’

  ‘It was Tim. Tim told his dad.’

  ‘And how old was Tim at the time? You said it happened more than thirty years ago.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Four, I think. Maybe not quite four.’

  It was the police officer’s turn to sigh.

  ‘So, if this is true, why’s Tim going on holiday with her, to the same place where it was supposed to have happened? It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘He probably can’t remember any of it.’ As she said it, Lottie knew that her reasoning was sounding feebler as every minute passed by.

  ‘Madam, I’m sorry but we can’t just go around arresting people on the basis of a four-year-old’s story, one that wasn’t officially reported. And this alleged incident happened decades ago. Your nephew’s a grown man now, and his mother’s not exactly young, is she? I suggest you keep trying his phone. We can’t use valuable resources chasing something that’s not there. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Yes, so am I,’ Lottie said, dejectedly.

  ‘Look.’ The police officer’s tone was noticeably gentler now. ‘I’ll pass the information on to Scotland, all right? Then it’ll be up to them. Take care now.’

  Lottie put the phone down. She logged onto the internet, searched for hotels in the area. She remembered the small hotel her brother had stayed in. It had an unusual name, on an unusual-sounding street: Stonegravels Hill.

  She dialled the number.

  Yes, the lady who answered the phone said. There was a Tim Collins staying with them. And did he arrive with a lady, his mother? No, the lady said. He’d checked in on his own.