by Gary P Moss
Lottie wondered if he’d gone on his own. Maybe there’d been a last-minute change of plan. Perhaps the woman’s not so brazen after all. She asked the lady to pass on a message, that Tim’s Aunt Lottie had called, that it was an urgent matter, and that he was to call her back as soon as possible.
Chapter Fourteen
With each breath that Tim took, he felt as though his chest was on fire. His legs wobbled as if they were made of jelly with each step he took down towards the beach. White breakers rolled in the distance. They added to his anxiety. He knew he’d reached the sand when a shell crushed beneath his shoe. He took a few more steps. Took a few deep breaths. He was doing it. His legs grew solid again. His chest didn’t hurt so much. He stretched his arms wide. The sky looked huge and blue. He still eyed the sea with distrust. But it was a good start. Better than good. He looked behind him. Lifebelt holders sat at frequent intervals along the sea wall. This sight helped to relax him.
A spaniel ran past him, darting about on the sand.
‘How do?’ a man called out to him. He looked to be in his early forties. He was tall, with thinning hair and a ruddy complexion. His most striking feature though, was his nose. The bridge looked impossibly thin, widening out only a little. Tim forced his gaze away. He wore big, chunky clothes. Corduroys, Aran knitted pullover, oilskin jacket.
Tim raised a hand in response.
‘Hi.’
‘On holiday?’
‘Just a short trip. I’m here with my—’ The man cut him off.
‘Been here before?’
‘No, first time.’
‘Aye, well, it’s easy to get attached to. I came here as a child, kept on coming back, then ended up moving here. Never regretted it. Like paradise. Well, except when the weather turns, then it can be like the world’s coming to an end.’ He looked to the sky, as if he were admiring its ability to shock at will. ‘But I love that about it an’ all.’ He held out a hand.
‘Steve. I’ve the cottage next to the causeway.’
‘Oh, right,’ Tim said, suddenly very interested.
‘I’m Tim. So, you know Mike, then. The lighthouse keeper?’
Steve laughed. ‘Ex lighthouse keeper. It’s obsolete now but he still lives there, silly old sod.’ He squinted at Tim. ‘How d’you know him then?’
‘Keep this between us but my mum’s here on a date with him. I’m keeping out the way. I know it sounds odd but she’s a bit vulnerable so, well, I guess I’m just here for moral support. Deep in the background though.’
‘Ah, well. Mike’s not so clever himself nowadays. He’s a smashing bloke though. Losing his memory a bit, he is.’
‘I know. He’s been upfront about it all. Mum’s spoken to a woman who helps him with the internet. Alice.’
Steve stiffened.
‘Dementia’s an illness, not a lifestyle choice. Ah well, I best get going. Enjoy your stay anyway.’
‘Thanks.’
I’m such an idiot! Best I keep my mouth shut from now on.
He walked the length of the beach, keeping a wary eye on the sea. He decided to explore the other end of the town. He’d choose a pub to settle into for a while, maybe enjoy some lunch.
Maybe avoid alienating people with thoughtless comments.
Sara had agreed to meet Mike near the causeway. He’d joked he’d written it all down so there was no way he’d be standing her up. She’d said she’d write it down too. He’d thought that was funny. He’d laughed. It was deep, from the belly.
She remembered it well. A curling desire had floated around in her stomach. She’d risen in the night to stare at the rock from her window. She’d felt its urge, its pull. She’d fought to restrain herself from leaving the B & B right there and then.
To go to him.
To satisfy her desire.
And then to take the money and leave. She’d told him she had plentiful assets, a paid for house, plenty to see them right if they became an item. He’d told her not to worry, that he was an old-fashioned man, that he had money stashed of his own. That he didn’t trust banks.
She got to the causeway early, drinking in the sight that had tormented her all those years ago. Devil’s Point rock faced her as if she were an unreliable lover who had turned up unexpectedly. Patchy, half dripping, it seemed to Sara that it urged her to touch it. But of course, she couldn’t, it was too far out. It sent her heart racing so fast she had to turn away lest she thought it would explode through her chest. She smiled to herself.
He looked more rugged, more windswept. Like the lighthouse, she supposed. His hair and beard were streaked with grey. He wore a similar Aran pullover to the one he’d worn all those years ago. He hesitated at first. She smiled, reached up to kiss his cheek.
He looked taken aback.
He seemed to breathe in her scent, let it wash over him. And when he smiled, it seemed to Sara that she’d never been away. She buried the anger that occasionally burned inside of her, of her humiliation at his hands, in front of Marie. That was the past. It was history but not forgotten. The money would be her sweet revenge.
He stepped back, as if to examine her properly. A thread of anxiety coiled around the muscles in her chest, waiting to unravel her. When he looked into her eyes, she remembered it from all those years ago. The steady gaze that she thought would make women blush, then look away. She held it with her own. Before, he would have grinned in recognition of her boldness, her thirst. Now though, his eyes clouded, dimmed, as if he were waiting for an answer to a question that didn’t exist. He blinked, hard.
‘You’re lovelier than in your photos.’
He doesn’t recognise me.
‘Thank you, but I suppose you’d have to say that, wouldn’t you?’ she teased.
He beamed at her.
‘Come on, let’s go have a walk along the beach. Tide’s out, and the sand’s dry. After that, we can go for a wee drink, if you like?’ He threw his head back and laughed. ‘If I can still remember the way to the pub!’
She squeezed her hand through the crook of his arm, leaned in close. ‘That sounds great. How about we pick up some food on the way back, and I’ll make us something for later?’
‘No need.’ He looked a little shy. ‘Alice brought me some groceries. Some extra, I mean. You know, in case you wanted something to eat there.’
She stared up at him. He looked so happy.
He really doesn’t know me.
A man passed them as they reached the beach. He raised a hand to Mike in acknowledgement. She thought he winked at him as well. He stared at her, a second too long. She turned her head away. As they passed the man, she looked behind her. He looked back at the same time. The face looked familiar, but as if it belonged to a different era. He looked away. She gripped Mike’s arm tighter. They lengthened their strides through the sand.
‘I could get used to this place, I reckon.’
‘Aye well, a few have done that.’ He looked to the sky. ‘When it’s like this, it’s easy to love. When it turns though, not so easy.’
They walked into a small, dingy pub that she’d last been in thirty-five years previously. She didn’t expect to recognise anyone. Over the bar counter, she could see into the other room.
She scowled. Her mouth turned dry.
Tim sat reading a newspaper. He looked up, saw her standing there. He lifted his arms as if to say sorry, he had no idea she’d be coming in there too. She watched him drain his drink, stand, and then leave.
They had two drinks in the pub before Sara asked him if it was his local. He looked as if he had to think hard about the question. He shook his head.
‘No, there’s another place. It’s not near here. I’m not sure a cultured lassie like yourself would appreciate it though.’
‘Well, it sounds fun then. I want to see what you’re really like!’ She laughed. Mike shrugged, drained his drink.
‘I haven’t been up there on my own for a while. It’s usually Steve goes with me, or Alice, sometimes. She leave
s me there though, comes back for me later. Not her cup of tea at all.’
‘And will Steve be there?’
‘What day are we on?’
‘Friday.’
‘No, maybe tomorrow. I can’t remember. Hey, you’re not thinking of dumping me for a young ‘un already are you?’
‘No, silly. Come on, let’s go find your local.’
A grizzly old man served them in the two-houses-cum-pub on the hill. She didn’t think it was the same barman who’d served her three and a half decades ago, but she couldn’t be sure. Anyway, no one had seemed to recognise her anywhere so far. The man on the beach, though. He looked familiar but she thought she was probably mistaken. Paranoia. There was no need to worry.
Their conversation flowed easily. She put no pressure on him to over describe things, or anything else that might test his memory to the stage where he would feel uncomfortable. She wanted him to be relaxed. She paid for many drinks. He objected but she kept patting his arm, telling him there would be plenty of time in the future for him to buy her drinks if he insisted.
‘Not used to this,’ he said. She placed a hand on his leg. She stroked it gently. She smiled at him. He closed his eyes before she removed her hand. He took her hand in his own. They sat in the pub like a couple at the height of a love affair.
A light beer froth hung from his beard. She wiped it away. She licked her fingers. There was no one else in the pub. The grizzly barman had his back to them, polishing glasses and shelves. She could smell tobacco on Mike’s clothes. And the sea. He smelled like a wild man in a wild environment. The fire burned within her. It rushed down till it found its spot. She could barely breathe.
‘Will you show me round the lighthouse?’ She whispered it into his ear, her lips gently brushing against his skin. She could feel his pulse throbbing.
‘Aye, of course I will.’ He winked at her, squeezed her good hand. ‘And I’ve a bottle or two of the good stuff.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
Within a minute of leaving the pub, the weather changed for the worse. From the elevated position halfway up the hill, Sara watched as distant waves churned and crashed. They would not be distant for too much longer. Black clouds raced along the sky like images from a speeded-up film. They both raised the hoods on their waterproof coats as the rain fell in sheets. The water stung her eyes and blurred her vision. She held tight onto Mike’s arm, her own crooked into his. Thunder clapped and cracked as the pair increased their pace. Sara tasted salt as a howling wind whipped the air around them, finding its way into anything that wasn’t sealed tight.
Sara’s boots and the hem of her skirt were soaked by the time they reached the lighthouse door. They breathed a sigh of relief as the door was shut on the storm. It echoed around them, rising above the sound of the generator. Sara followed him upstairs till they reached the living room, halfway up the tower. The room was already warm from electric heaters he’d left on. Whether he’d done it on purpose or had simply forgotten to turn them off, Sara didn’t know, but she was grateful for the warmth. She shrugged out of her coat. She fingered the hem of her skirt. It would need wringing out before being placed near a heater.
‘Do you have a blanket that I can wrap round me? I need to dry my skirt.’
He reappeared after a couple of minutes carrying a quilt. She heard him stop dead as he entered the room. She’d already removed her skirt. She stood watching the storm as it continued to roll in. Devil’s Point rock stood high and strong, like an impassive warrior, shrugging off the roaring sea as if it were an unsophisticated enemy.
He coughed. She turned around and smiled. He held out the quilt. His large hands shook. She looked down at her stockinged legs, her glistening boots.
‘Oops,’ she said with a grin. ‘But what’s a girl to do?’ He stayed quiet, didn’t move. Not an inch. ‘Perhaps your trousers are a bit wet, too?’ she added.
‘Maybe a drink first?’ he offered. ‘It feels like I’ve known you for a long time…’
‘Sara,’ she said, finishing his sentence.
He rummaged in a cupboard, fetched out a bottle of malt whisky. He poured two generous measures into a pair of heavy-looking cut glass tumblers. He picked his up, drained more than half straight away. Sara took what looked like a hefty gulp, but she only swallowed a little of the smooth but fiery liquid.
They sat on an old, raggedy sofa that had been covered in crocheted blankets. She spread the quilt over them. He looked at her and grinned. He wriggled out of his trousers. She picked them up, placed them over a chair near a heater. She glanced back. He was watching her, a hungry look in his eyes. She sat back down, moved closer to him, felt his hand above a stocking top. She shivered.
‘Has there ever been anyone special in your life, Mike?’
She regretted the words as soon as they were out. He looked away, his hand moving up and down her thigh. She could see that he was thinking hard.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.
‘There was someone, I think. I can’t even picture her now.’
Her heart began to race.
‘Did she move away, Mike?’
‘I think she must have. Still, no matter, eh?’
She moved her good hand across to his lap. She felt him stiffen immediately.
‘No, it’s no matter now, my love.’
He leaned his head back, moved his hand higher, moved her panties to one side. She arched her back, releasing him from his underwear. She came quickly. She nipped the base of him, stopping him before he went over the edge.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ she said.
Sara followed him up the stone stairs. She carried her bag. She still wore her boots. She was aching to finish what she had started. Everything else could wait. The money could wait. Andreas could wait. She needed this now. And after the money? She might find it tonight, or in the morning at the latest. She’d leave immediately. She wouldn’t return to the B & B. They could look for her, search for her. She’d be gone. In her bag was a wig, different coloured contacts. No one at the railway station would remember her as she’d arrived. There were tourists around. She was just another, among many.
‘Mike, before we, you know … I wanted to do something … for us … to show my commitment.’
There was a twitch of his shoulders. Sara couldn’t tell whether it was a sign that he didn’t understand, or if he was saying ‘whatever, go ahead’. She dug into her handbag, retrieved a fat envelope. She’d told Tim that she’d put most of the money straight into her bank. She’d turned down his offer of a bank transfer. She didn’t trust electronic transactions, she’d told him.
‘Here, my love,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you put this with your savings? You can look after it for us. I trust you.’
He eyed the envelope. The edges of the banknotes were clearly visible.
‘Aye, if you’re sure. You’ll have to remember for me though; my memory’s shocking.’
‘Of course.’ She realised she was holding her breath again. She let it out, slowly.
He didn’t move for a while, as if he were thinking what to do next. ‘Aye, that’s it,’ he said to himself before moving away from the bed. A television sat in one corner, atop an oak cabinet. He opened the cabinet’s door. He took a rectangular box from the back, having removed some CDs first. Sara watched from the bed. The box wasn’t locked. He placed the envelope inside, closed the lid, returned the box to the cabinet.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Safe and sound.’
Their lovemaking was intense. At one point, after inhaling her scent, he called out not her name, but Marie’s. Inside, she felt a sharp stab of pain, but she didn’t let on that he’d called her the wrong name. She rode him harder, faster, ridding herself of all the pent-up anger, frustration, and longing. It was what she needed. She knew it would have to sustain her. When she left this place, it would be for the last time. There could be no returning.
Afterwards, while he slept, she crept from the bed.
Rain and spray hammered the windows. She stared at Devil’s Point rock through the gloom, locking her eyes on the body of her stone beast. Her body tingled, as if an electric current traced every muscle, every fibre of her being. She turned her head towards Mike. Snoring now.
She turned her head the other way, to the cabinet.
The rotten weather had anchored Tim to a pub farther down the main street. It was rustic, serving real ale and hot food. He needed a meal to soak up the delicious beers he’d been sampling. Although it was only late afternoon, it looked like evening outside. He’d taken a table set against a panelled wall rather than by the window. The sea was rough, but he thought it was slowly retreating.
He waited for a pie and chips early supper when a drenched man walked in. He looked to be in his early sixties, a similar age to the woman serving behind the bar. He shrugged off a long, waxed coat, leaned over the bar, and kissed the woman on the cheek. He wore a police uniform.
‘Exciting day, love?’ she asked.
‘Nope, usual stuff.’
She handed him a pint of bitter. He removed his jacket and tie, handed it to her in exchange for a thick woollen jumper.
‘That’s better,’ the woman said. ‘Can’t do you now for drinking in uniform.’
Tim pretended to read his newspaper; people-watching was far more interesting.
‘Something a bit weird though. We had a call from England, down south somewhere. Some old woman’s in a tizz about a woman and her son. Says they’re here and they’ve been here before, a long time ago.’ He took a long drink of his beer. Tim strained to listen.
The woman laughed. ‘What’s weird about that?’
‘Hold on, I’m getting to it.’ He put his glass down on the bar.
‘She reckons this woman tried to murder the boy last time, but she got away with it.’
‘Yeah, right,’ the woman said. She was grinning. ‘And when was this then? I’m sure the whole town would know about it if it were true!’
The policeman shrugged. ‘Thirty odd years ago, she reckoned. No witnesses, no arrests, nothing. I know, some people and their fantasies, eh?’
