Jamie’s only answer was to shoot Adam a truly evil look, before stomping out of the restaurant with as much dignity as a man covered in tomato sauce and flakes of lobster could.
Pausing at the door, he barked at Lucy, “Well, come on then. Don’t just sit there like an idiot!”
Pavlov’s dogs had nothing on Lucy: she was on her feet and reaching for her bag in seconds, the dinner and her pretty frock forgotten now.
Adam caught her wrist. “Lucy, what are you doing? You’re not seriously going to follow him, are you?”
“He’s my brother.”
“He might be your brother but nobody should treat you like that. Christ, he’s a liability.” He shook his head. “Lucy, please, let him go.”
But Lucy couldn’t. Jamie, for all his faults, was still her little brother. Right now he was drunk and angry – a bad combination anywhere, but especially bad in Cornwall where there were cliffs and riptides and high quay walls. Anything could happen if he stormed off alone. She had to go after him.
The door slammed in her brother’s wake and the waiters exchanged weary looks. The people of St Pirran were used to Jamie Penwellyn, but this didn’t make Lucy feel much better. If anything, it made her feel even worse.
“He’s really drunk. I promise he’s not usually this bad,” she told Adam. Even to her own ears this sounded a pitiful excuse.
“I think we both know that’s not true,” Adam said quietly.
“I can’t just leave him.”
Adam looked her right in the eye. “You can. He needs to grow up sometime; pandering to him isn’t going to help.”
“I’m not pandering to him!” Stung, Lucy pulled her wrist away from his grasp. “He’s family and I can’t just stand back and watch him self-destruct.”
“Even if he’s going to do his best to destroy you in the process? Lucy, I mean it. He’s not on your side. Stand up to him. For your sake, please, don’t go. Stay here, Lucy. Stay with me.”
But Lucy couldn’t do this any more than she could change her blood type or her love of music. Caring for Jamie was what she did. If she didn’t go after her brother then guilt would certainly destroy her from the inside out. She couldn’t win.
With a strangled cry of misery, she fled the restaurant with her little red shoes scuffing against the pavement and her carefully applied make-up running as the tears fell. She’d left Adam alone with the overturned pasta and an empty seat. He must feel insulted and abandoned.
Lucy feared that things between them would never be quite the same after this.
Chapter 25
Fern felt sick. She sat on the floor in the Small Hall with the telephone held limply in her hand and waited for the room to stop whirling. She didn’t notice the unyielding stone floor against her bare legs or feel the ache of cold spread over her flesh. None of this mattered to Fern, because the world had lurched and pitched and tipped her upside down. What had once been safe was now fraught with danger and where there’d been sunshine there was nothing but shadow.
Logan had found her.
This time he wouldn’t let go, not until he’d managed to destroy everything – and this time there was nowhere to hide. The shock of hearing his voice whispering her name in that low possessive way of his was almost too much to bear. She’d hoped never to have to hear it again. All she wanted to do was curl up somewhere, close her eyes and give up. She was tired of running, tired of looking over her shoulder and, most of all, tired of being afraid. In a strange way it would be a relief when Logan arrived. The worst would have happened and there would be no more fearing it.
The day had started off so well. Most of the arrangements for the island’s festival were in place. Several big local bands had confirmed and the St Pirran Hotel had agreed to loan its wedding marquee. Adam’s friend had wangled stage and sound equipment for them and persuaded some of his colleagues to help set it all up in return for a free weekend in Cornwall. The insurance had come through too, and although the cost was high Ness had been willing to pay it. The only things left to worry about were organising marshals and sorting out refreshments. With tickets at twenty pounds a head and the county fired up about the festival, Fern had already been hopeful that they’d make a decent profit. Then a local fireworks company had called and said it was willing to put a display on for free if it could use the event for advertising.
On a roll and feeling inspired, Fern had set to work; several phone calls later she’d managed to get Cornish Beach FM on board – which was quite a coup, as the local celebrity DJ was going to broadcast his flagship drivetime show from the festival and had promised lots of mentions about how great a venue Pirran Island was. In need of a break, Fern had strolled into the garden, meandering through the herb beds and brushing her hand through lavender and thyme to release the soothing scents, until a shout from Lucy had told her she was wanted on the phone. Thinking it would be the final band confirming their slot, Fern had sprinted back to the Small Hall to take the call. Smiling, she’d cradled the receiver between her chin and shoulder and had given a cheery hello.
“And hello to you as well, Fern,” a soft voice had said.
Her body had frozen with horror; her inability to move had been the only thing that had stopped the phone clattering onto the flagstones.
“Nothing to say to me? That’s so disappointing, Fern, when we have so much catching up to do.”
“What do you want, Logan?” Her voice had been little more than a whisper.
He’d laughed. “You, of course, Fern. I never left, did I?”
How had he traced her? Who’d given him her number? Was he nearby? As the questions tore through her mind Fern knew that the answers didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that Logan knew where she was.
And he wouldn’t give up until he reached her.
She’d tried to quell the rising panic. When she was filled with terror like this Fern couldn’t think straight – and she couldn’t afford to give Logan that advantage. If he detected that she was afraid it would only give him strength; her fear would feed him like some dreadful, monstrous entity until he grew even more powerful. If she kept reminding herself that he was just pathetic and weak, every bit as dependent upon the drugs he peddled as the unfortunate creatures he drew into his web, then it helped her feel stronger. She’d untangled herself from him and the addictions.
She was strong. She was a fighter. She could handle him now.
“I know you’re missing me, Fern,” Logan had said softly. “Me and the life we had. We had the best of times, didn’t we? And we’ll have them again. You’ll see. It’ll be me and you together again, just like before.”
“No,” she’d answered. “It’s over, Logan.”
“Don’t say that, Fern. It’s never over with us. We’re good together. We belong together. You’ll see.”
“I won’t.” Her hands were clenched into fights.
“Yes you will,” Logan had said firmly. There was malice beneath the quiet words, like a flick knife hidden inside a woollen sleeve. “You owe me, remember? Don’t think I’ve forgotten that, Fern. I don’t like thieves and I always call in debts. Your payment is long overdue, and with interest.”
He’d ended the call then and although all she could hear was the dialling tone, Fern had slumped to the floor. For all her firm words and resolutions, she was afraid. Afraid of Logan and of what he could do. She knew him so well. She knew how he thought. He’d think that she was still the timid and sheltered girl he’d picked out, the one who’d felt special being the centre of an older man’s attention. He’d assume that she’d be easy to manipulate because she’d be too scared and ashamed to tell anyone the truth.
Was she still ashamed? As she rose to her feet, her legs as weak as a foal’s, Fern searched her heart for the truth. Secrets gave people like Logan Barrie power; she could see that now. They were a great device for making someone vulnerable feel special. It’s just you and me or Don’t tell your parents: this is just for us were his specialtie
s, and before she’d been aware of it those serpentine words had slithered between Fern and her family, hissing venom into what had once been a close relationship. Fern’s eyes filled with tears now as she recalled the bitter arguments with her mother and the ugly words she’d hurled at her father. When you were sixteen and thought you were in love it was exciting to rebel. A smoke here, some weed there, a little crack later… It had felt rebellious, and with Logan to encourage her she’d tumbled headlong into the abyss.
And what an abyss it had been. What was exciting when you were rebelling wasn’t quite so thrilling when you were cold and aching or when your face was smarting from the back of your boyfriend’s hand. Much of that time was a blur and Fern didn’t like to think about the dank bedsits or what Logan had forced her to do when they’d both been desperate. He’d been clever, never giving her enough to let her become dependent, but tempting her with just sufficient to keep her to heel. Fern choked back a sob because it was so intensely painful to think about the person she’d been then. Bitterly ashamed, she hadn’t dared to contact her parents for help. Besides, as Logan had often pointed out, they wouldn’t want anything to do with her now. She belonged with him. It was too late.
Fern dashed the tears away with the back of her hand. She wasn’t that person anymore. She’d fought too hard not to be that miserable shadow of a girl: she wasn’t going to let him ruin everything now. She beaten the addictions and although her past wasn’t something she was proud of there was no way she’d let it define her. She’d go and find Merryn and ask him for help. Merry was her friend. He wouldn’t judge her and she always felt safe with him. He was the person she was closest to in the world and so many times she’d nearly told him the truth, both about her past and also about how she’d come to feel about him. How seeing his face was the highlight in her day and how when he’d been trapped during the storm she’d thought her heart would stop with terror. Only the fear that she might ruin everything between them and destroy a friendship that meant everything to her had kept Fern silent. Now, though, it was time to be honest. Merryn understood that people made mistakes. Armand Penwellyn had understood that too.
Fern and Logan been living in Plymouth, dossing in a squalid flat after skipping the rent on a place in Bristol. For once Logan had had some paid work lined up. It had only been for a few weeks but he’d managed to gather some cash together. The notes had been rolled tight and hidden inside a balled-up pair of socks – a place he didn’t think Fern had noticed.
He’d been wrong.
For several days Fern had bided her time. Then one morning, once Logan had headed out, she’d grabbed the cash and made a break for freedom. She’d made one call to her parents from the bus station, leaving an answerphone message to say she was well, before hopping on a bus heading over the Tamar and deep into Cornwall. With her temples throbbing from lack of nicotine and weed, and terrified that at any moment Logan would find out what she’d done and drag her back for a beating or worse, Fern had found herself alighting in St Pirran.
Cornwall. It was a magical place and as soon as the salty air had filled her lungs Fern had known that she was somewhere she could heal. It was a feeling deep in her heart, a peace that enveloped her when she stood on the harbour wall and gazed out over the sea. Fern’s childhood holidays had been spent in Rock or Watergate Bay; she had so many happy memories of eating sandwiches on the beach or waterskiing behind her father’s boat. As she’d wandered along the causeway to the island that day, Fern had been convinced that she could discover herself again here. If she could find a way to stay she knew that her toxic association with Logan and drugs would be in the past.
The castle had been full of visitors, so it had been easy for Fern to slip away and explore. The place was wild and tumbledown in places, and it hadn’t taken long to find somewhere she could hide. The coach house had a hayloft above, accessible via a rickety ladder, and there was a tap in the courtyard too. If she could swipe some food from the tea room at night then Fern had reckoned she’d be on to a good thing. The blonde woman running the tea shop looked fraught and if the odd pasty or two seemed to vanish or an entire cake dissolved into thin air, then she’d probably put it down to being exhausted and making mistakes. That and mischievous Cornish piskies.
This plan had worked, for a couple of days at least, until the old gardener – whose eyesight was unfortunately better than his hearing – had spotted her and told Armand Penwellyn they had a squatter.
Fern glanced up at the old man’s portrait. Those blue eyes held hers as powerfully now as they had the first time she’d met him – if met was quite the right word for a landowner confronting a runaway hiding in his empty coach house.
“Old Fred’s right: you’re a state,” was all he’d said. “For Christ’s sake, girl! Come up to the castle and have a bath and something to eat. You make me feel like a mill owner from a bloody Dickens novel.”
Fern, her stomach clenching with hunger (she’d found very little in the bins outside the tea room that day), had been stunned into acquiescence. She’d followed him into the castle, where Lucy – doing her best not to look shocked at the state of their unexpected guest – had heaped a plate with stew and dumplings and then run her a bath. The rest had been history. The next day Armand had offered Fern a place to stay in return for some chores. When she’d tried to explain her story, he’d said that he could guess.
“I’m old, not stupid,” he’d snapped in the curt fashion she’d soon learned was just his way. “Stay for as long as you want, girl. This is a safe place.”
And it had been a safe place – until today’s phone call.
Merryn would be working on the boat, Fern thought. His wrist was slowly healing and he was learning to do lots of his marine chores one-handed, although he’d said he could always do with help hand-tightening nuts or selecting spanners. She’d go down to the pier and tell him the truth about her past. It was long overdue.
The sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds and as she crossed the courtyard Fern shivered. She was passing under the Pilgrim’s Gate when a hand came down onto her shoulder, yanking her around. The seconds it took Fern to realise this wasn’t Merryn messing around cost her the opportunity to escape: before she knew what was happening, the person’s other hand had been clapped over her mouth.
It was Logan.
As Fern’s eyes bulged, he shook her so hard that her teeth rattled. “Surprised to see me? Aren’t mobile phones great?”
Fern writhed to free herself but Logan, although skinny, was strong. He pulled her round and held her tightly against his chest while she continued to struggled and fight. His face, once boy-band handsome, had become sallow and his cheeks were sunken. He still kept his hair long but it was lank now and there was a crop of angry red spots near his mouth. In his appearance Fern saw the road her life would have taken if she hadn’t found the strength to run away or had the gruff kindness of Armand to support her. Her friends here, her garden and her new island life had saved Fern from becoming someone she despised.
“You’re probably wondering how I found you,” Logan continued, his sharp fingernails biting into her skin. “It wasn’t easy. You did a great job of going to ground and I’d never have thought for a minute you’d be here. Call it luck or call it fate, but I was listening to the radio and I heard the DJ mention that somebody called Fern Morris was organising a festival here.”
Fern hadn’t dreamed the DJ might mention her name on air. She could have kicked herself for the oversight – and kicked herself twice as hard for not adopting a new name when she’d first arrived on the island.
“So now we’re reacquainted,” Logan said softly, dragging her away from the gate and towards the ruined part of the castle, where people seldom ventured, “it’s time I reminded you why taking anything of mine is a very bad idea.”
Fern twisted and tried to kick him but it was no use: Logan stronger than she was. She had no doubt that he could hurt her if he really wanted to. It wouldn’t be t
he first time – but in the past he’d been drunk or high, and for a long time she’d been able to tell herself that he didn’t really mean it.
Today he most definitely did.
“Three hundred quid you stole from me, you bitch,” he hissed, his clammy hand still clamped over her mouth. “That was my hard-earned money.”
Fern disagreed. The way she’d seen it, the cash was the least he’d owed her. Managing to twist her torso, this time Fern kicked him sharply in the shin. For a moment Logan released her, but the victory was short-lived; the hand swung back and dealt her a stinging blow to the face.
The castle walls dipped and rolled and Fern lurched backwards, her vision blurring. She raised her hands to shield her face, knowing from experience that the worst was still to come.
Except it didn’t.
Unseen by her ex, Merryn had appeared behind him. Before Logan had a chance to strike again he was rugby-tackled to the ground, landing with a thud and a yelp of pain. Then Merryn’s left hand dealt him a punch to the jaw, followed by another and another. Even though Merryn was fighting with only one hand, Logan didn’t stand a chance: Merryn was six foot of pure muscle and rage. Within seconds Fern’s ex was curled up with his arms across his face, trying to protect himself as the other man rained blow after blow down upon him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing to Fern?” Merryn was shouting. “Well? Want to tell me, you worthless piece of shit? Or shall I hit you with my plaster cast?”
Logan couldn’t have told Merryn even if he’d wanted to. Blood and saliva bubbled from his split lip and he was gasping for air. Although her head was still pounding, Fern knew that she had to pull Merryn off. Her friend was white with fury and he was pummelling his felled opponent like a rag doll. It was so strange; she’d known Merryn for a year or so now, but she’d never seen him like this before. For the first time Fern realised just how strong and powerful he was.
The Island Legacy Page 29
