by David Haynes
“I also remember you being…” She paused again, carefully selecting her words. She was in a stranger’s house and he seemed quite angry. “Err…quite rude to me?” May asked this as a question; partly so as not to appear accusatory but also for reassurance that she was recalling actual events.
Joe could see she was in a lot of pain and was either a very good actor or was being sincere. He shook his head. “I wasn’t being rude I just didn’t want to talk to you. Besides it was you who called me a twat!” He was getting tired of this; he just wanted this woman to leave now. This was one of those irritating episodes which he could do without. One of the reasons he wanted nothing to do with people.
“Look, I’ll get you some pain killers, then I’ll walk you back up to the car park. I presume you’ve parked up there?”
May nodded and buried her face in her hands.
Joe walked into the kitchen and searched in the cupboards for a box of painkillers. He couldn’t remember buying any since coming out here and quickly realised there weren’t any. Instead, he picked up a half-drunk bottle of single malt whisky and two clear plastic beakers.
May was standing next to the burner when he came back in and he handed her the plastic beaker. “No painkillers sorry, but this is the next best thing.” He poured a generous slug into her beaker and one into his own.
She didn’t like whisky and as she raised it to her mouth the aroma stung her nostrils but she managed to pour it down in one swallow. The coughing fit which followed made her regret that action. Each cough felt like someone was hitting the back of her head with a hammer. Her thoughts were still playing catch up but she was aware enough to know she was exactly where she had planned to be before falling on her head.
Joe took a sip from his malt. He regarded it as something special, something to savour, even in the current circumstances. He placed the beaker on the windowsill and picked up his jacket and shoes. “I’ll walk you back.”
May had no intention of leaving just yet; she still had to get the answers she’d initially come for. Besides her head still hurt like hell. She rubbed her eyes and sat back down on the scruffy looking sofa. “I’m sorry but can I just have another ten minutes? I couldn’t manage the walk yet.” She held out the bright yellow plastic beaker into which Joe reluctantly poured another measure.
It had been a long time since Joe had been in a room with other people for anything more than a cursory few moments. He was already starting to feel anxious and uneasy about this situation. “Just ten minutes. I was just in the middle of something.” He picked up his beaker of whisky and swallowed what was left.
May looked around, taking in her surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished and even more sparingly decorated. Even so, in the warm glow of both the burner and the lamp it felt homely. “Nice place. I didn’t know anyone lived up here.”
“That’s the idea.” Joe replied and turned away.
‘This guy is one cold fish’ May thought as she took a tiny sip from the beaker.
The last thing she remembered was the rain lashing at her face; the wind buffeting her with each step and the feeling of her legs going from under her. “From what you said I must’ve fallen? Which means I was either blown in here by the wind, or you carried me inside? I suppose I could’ve been out there all night if it weren’t for you. Thank you.” She shook her head. “It was pretty stupid coming out here tonight, wasn’t it? My name’s May by the way and I run the local rag, The Penwith Guardian.” She held out her hand.
Joe turned back towards her. “You shouldn’t have been out there on any night!” He saw her outstretched hand and in spite of himself he took her hand.. How long had it been since he had touched another person’s skin? Six months? A year maybe? Her hand felt small beneath his grasp, soft and warm. “Are you ready to go now?”
She stood up. The whisky had made her feel a little bit fuzzy but it had also dimmed the pain in her skull. “More or less. Will you tell me about the swimmer before I go? I didn’t catch your name?”
Joe was already sitting on the floor putting his damp shoes back on. “Will you leave me alone if I do?”
May smiled. “I promise not to make you look like a hero again?” She thought she saw the first glimpse of a smile on his face.
Telling her about the swimmer was a small price to pay for getting her out of his house. “It’s Joe, and there’s really not much to tell. I watched him go out swimming, the same way as he had the previous week and then they found him. That’s it.” He shrugged.
May frowned. “That’s it?”
“Well yes, what else were you expecting?”
“Well, where did he swim to? How did he drown?”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t know the answer to either of those questions I’m afraid. He looked like he was heading towards that island, The Brisons? Don’t they have some ridiculous swimming contest in the summer involving them? Maybe he was practising or something.” He paused, allowing his memory to recall fragments. “He was wearing a wet suit though, and the guy could swim, I mean properly swim.”
“Why d’you say that?”
Joe exhaled. “He looked like he knew what he was doing, like the guys in the Olympics. The first morning he came down, at least the first morning I saw him down there, I watched him swim way out past the rocks. He looked like he was trying to get to The Brisons and back in about five minutes. He was really powering through the waves. After that I only ever watched him for a couple of minutes. Bit boring really.”
May looked towards the flames dancing in the glass of the burner. “No one knows who he was. Bit sad really.”
“You’re kidding? He had that little dog with him. It used to sit and guard his clothes. I only ever saw him come back in once, must’ve been a good four hours later. He just put his clothes back on and walked off up the slipway. Wasn’t the dog chipped or anything?”
May looked back at him with astonishment. “You mean you haven’t seen any of the media coverage?” May looked around the room for a TV or radio and realised neither was present.
“Nope not really my thing. He started towards the door. “Come on I’ll walk you up to the gate.
May had a hundred questions to ask on the way back and not just about the swimmer. Each time she opened her mouth to speak, the wind snatched the words out of her mouth and blew them into the ocean below. When they reached the gate she held out her hand. “Thanks again, Joe. Next time you’re in the village drop in the office?”
Joe turned. “Bye.” His raised hand was already becoming blurred in the darkness.
May squeezed the teabag onto the side of her mug and topped it up with milk. The thumping headache wasn’t from the whisky she’d drunk last night but from the large egg pulsing on the back of her skull. She took a bite from a slice of toast and grimaced; each chew caused a burst of fresh pain to flash along her nerves.
She sipped the tea and considered taking a day off to recover. There was no way she would be able to concentrate, let alone write anything. She dismissed the idea; she hadn’t managed to find anything of interest about the swimmer last night but another mystery had arisen. Who the hell was the odd-ball living in the cottage? She took a last bite from the toast and put her damp coat on. She might not be able to write very much, but with a bit of luck, she might be able to find out who the mystery man was.
The office was already open when she arrived and May cautiously pushed the door open. “Hello?” She was positive she had locked it last night.
“Good Morning, May. God you look awful.” David grabbed the office chair and ushered May to sit down. “What happened to you?”
May sank gratefully into the chair and sighed. The five minute walk to the office had been refreshing in the wind but each step had caused her bump to complain. “Don’t ask, David. You were right about going to the cape last night, big mistake.”
David shook his head and smiled. “I don’t want to say it but...”
‘Then please don’t.’ she thought.
“I told you so. Why couldn’t it wait til this morning you silly girl?”
May ignored the silly girl comment. David often used this phrase to her, and she supposed it was his awkward way of being humorous and nurturing. It was actually just plain irritating. “Just a feeling I had.” She shrugged. “I don’t know really, I just wanted to see for myself.”
“And what did you see to make you look so ghastly?”
May was already getting tired of the conversation. “I fell over in a cold wet field, David. Next thing you know I’m inside some hermit’s house drinking whisky from a plastic beaker. How does that sound?”
David raised one eyebrow. “Ridiculous but I never know when you’re pulling my leg May”
“Strange as it sounds, it’s actually true.” She straightened her back into the chair. “Any idea who lives in the old cottage on the headland? The one right on the end?”
If anyone knew who lived up there it was David. His life was based around the local community and he made it his business to know exactly who was living in it, especially if they came from outside the area. His position on the parish council also gave him access to the planning and real estate issues which sporadically arose.
David adjusted the belt on his beige corduroys and puffed out his chest. “I was led to believe that the chap is, or was, some sort of artist or maybe he’s a writer. I can’t be sure, but he’s in the arts.” David said ‘arts’ like it was a disease and May knew his regard for the resident artists’ community was low. His family had built their reputation and subsequent financial security on the success of the local tin mining industry. The arts were not thought to be honest toil by David Polglaze. “Did he make an impression on you May?”
May nodded. “Yes he did and not all of it very good to be honest. He was incredibly rude, then heroic, then rude and distant again. Not sure what to make of him really.”
“Heroic?”
May continued, she knew describing someone as heroic to David would probably irritate him. As harmless as he was, her headache was making her feel irritated by him. “Yes heroic, David. Somehow he managed to carry me across a field in the driving rain whilst I was unconscious. I suppose he could’ve done anything to me.”
David leaned closer. “And did he?” He looked anxious.
“Don’t be silly! He didn’t seem to be very comfortable around me though, that’s for sure.”
David relaxed. “Anyway, I brought this for you to start work on. There’s likely to be a lot of noise about this once the news comes out.” He dropped an envelope file onto the desk. A big, childlike grin spread across his broad face. “We’ll be the first to release the news, so give it a really big send-off.”
May ignored the file. If it was another plan to open a supermarket in the village, she was going to cry.
“What about the swimmer story? It’s got people talking. They’re coming up with all sorts of theories about him. I think…”
David interrupted. “That’s old news May, forget about it.” He bent down and tapped the file. The smell of expensive aftershave was almost overwhelming. “Believe me, this is what our people want to read about.”
He straightened up. “Besides, I’ve got a vested interest in the story and what’s the use in having my own newspaper if I can’t manufacture some free publicity?”
He walked towards the office door. “I’ll pop back later and see what you think.”
May swivelled the chair back to face her desk and fired up the computer. She put her hand on the blue file and stared at it. There was no point in rushing into these things. She might just do a bit of checking on the resident hermit first.
Joe stood under the hot stream of water and allowed it to flow down his head and over his eyes. He hadn’t slept well at all. The faint smell of her hair still clung to the cushions and even swapping ends hadn’t helped; her scent was everywhere. Even on him.
He dried and dressed quickly. The house took a while to warm up and he needed a cup of tea before he did anything else. He knew he had to send Gwen some chapters and was nervous about it; the material wasn’t like Desire and Decay in any way. Hearing the tone of disappointment in her voice when she finally realised that there were no dark and dirty deeds in it was something he was not relishing.
He couldn’t get May off his mind either. She was a good-looking woman, but that wasn’t the reason. He couldn’t stop thinking about her because she was the first human he had actually had a face to face conversation with in a long time; a conversation which didn’t consist of inane pleasantries anyway. He powered up the computer, switched on the lamp and walked in to the kitchen to make tea.
Sipping his tea, Joe looked out of the kitchen window into the blackness beyond. It was just after six a.m. and he knew it would be at least another hour before the sun properly rose into the grey sky. This had always been his favourite time of day. When he’d not been a writer, it felt like it belonged to him alone. When the world was quiet and his mind was clear. Even now, being in such an isolated spot, it still felt like his mind was at its most focused. The rain had died off at some point in the night but the wind still blew strongly and steadily against the solid frame of the old house.
The first thing Joe did on the computer was send the completed chapters to Gwen. The wireless dongle connected to the world silently and efficiently and a split second later, months of work was flying somewhere in the ether. He waited for the ‘message sent’ to be displayed and then opened up the internet browser.
He typed his name, ‘Joseph George’ and waited for the search to bring up what he feared and expected; his current location and the contents of his conversation with May last night.
He sighed with relief. There was nothing about him other than a few newspaper articles from two years ago. He didn’t read the material in the articles, he knew exactly what poisonous tripe had been written and was not in any hurry to pollute the atmosphere so early. He knew there was time for May to write something over the next couple of days but felt calmed by the lack of immediate action. He closed down the internet and opened up the word processor. The distant sound of the crashing waves and the howling wind were the only accompaniment to the rhythmic tapping of his fingers as he set about his work. Just the way he liked it.
May was quickly becoming frustrated with her fruitless attempts to find out who the hermit was. Part of her was starting to think he was actually a nobody who just wanted some privacy, but there was something about his manner when she mentioned being a journalist. It was something which made her think the man had fallen foul of the media in the past. You didn’t just wake up one morning and decide you didn’t like journalists.
She couldn’t reason it out but something told her Joe the hermit was involved in writing. Perhaps it was just a romantic notion; a good-looking guy living alone on the top of a cliff was the stuff of cinema. There weren’t any obvious signs which indicated he was, but the absence of any items suggestive of painting or drawing, ruled out the possibility of him being an artist.
The lack of information from the land registry or electoral roll wasn’t surprising. If he didn’t want to be found then putting his details on either would be like a neon flashing sign. She changed her search to include images only and typed: ‘Joe British writer,’ she scrolled down the page, staring at each of the photos. The photos were largely dust cover snaps which reminded May of cheesy school photographs. She made it to page three of the search and was about to give up when she stopped at an image which was entirely different from the others.
The picture showed a man in handcuffs being guided by a uniformed police officer. The prisoner was photographed from the side and the thumbnail size image made it impossible to see his face. She clicked on the image and another window opened filling the page with a large colour photo.
The caption beneath the photo read: ‘Controversial writer arrested in drugs scandal.’ May leaned in closer to identify the handcuffed man, but the photograph was at a poor angl
e. She read on.
“Former Detective Constable and provocative writer, Joseph George was arrested today on suspicion of supplying class A drugs. This comes in the aftermath of fierce debate in artistic and legal circles over the contents of his novel, ‘Desire and Decay’.
George wrote the book whilst still serving as a police officer and the circumstances of his arrest are thought to be based upon accounts contained within the book. Police refused to comment on the arrest.”
May clicked back to the search engine and typed in the title of the book, a title she was unfamiliar with. Immediately the page was filled with images of Joseph George. “Well, well, well.” She whispered.
She read everything she could find about Joe for the next couple of hours and discovered that most of it was nothing but speculation. The writer and the police had been tight lipped about the circumstances of the arrest and the lack of any follow up led her to believe it had been without substance. She could find no evidence of Joe ever having given an interview or comment to the media. Irritatingly the stream of reports slowly dried up into nothing about two years ago.
