The Angels' Share

by Maya Hess

  The Angels’ Share

  Maya Hess

  Rover Books

  New york

  www.RoverBooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction.

  In real life, make sure you practice safe sex.

  This book is made available in electronic form by permission of VirginBooks by RoverBooks.

  www.RoverBooks.com

  First published in 2006 by

  Black Lace

  Thames Wharf Studios

  Rainville Road

  London W6 9HA

  Copyright © Maya Hess 2006

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN 0-7952-9908-7

  ISBN 978-0-7952-9908-7

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  The author and publisher specifically disclaim any responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  1

  Two hours into the journey and the swell caused passengers to stagger from their seats in search of a place to lie down or thrust their faces somewhere obscure. They clutched onto tables, railings, each other, as the ferry lolled through the Irish Sea and the endless darkness of a night crossing. Grown men, tinged with jaundice, paled while their wives comforted wailing children and tried to be stoic during the four hours it took to reach Douglas Harbour.

  I sat cross-legged, wedged on a plastic-covered banquette with a can of Coke nestled in the crook of my knee and my diary cradled in my left arm. I nibbled the end of my pen, watching the passengers’ sickness transform from mild discomfort at the start of the journey into outright illness by the middle. I wrote about the unusual last week of my life, my thoughts punctuated by extra-loud shrieks as a rack of glasses crashed from behind the deserted bar. Silence followed and then the boom and thunderous vibrations as a twenty-foot wave hit the bows side on.

  ‘Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?’ A young woman teetered up to me, thrown off balance as if she’d drunk a bottle of rum. She grabbed the chrome rail to the side of my seat, her backpack causing her to stoop and hunch. I was keen for her to take the empty space because, like me, she didn’t look in the least bit sick. There was no chance I’d have to scoop my belongings or heave my legs away from anything projectile. She grinned and then giggled before releasing her grip on the rail. ‘Look, no hands.’ Her steep Scottish accent made her sound even cheekier than she looked.

  ‘I think we’re the only two with our sea legs on,’ I replied. ‘Feel free.’ I patted the orange plastic, at which she took off her pack as deftly as a winter coat, dumped it on the floor and sat beside me.

  ‘Steph,’ she said. Pointlessly, I thought, as I doubted I would ever see her again.

  ‘Ailey,’ I replied to be courteous, realising it was the last sociable gesture I would make for a long time.

  ‘Going home?’

  I considered her casual question very carefully. Having left my home nearly a week earlier, I would be lying if I said yes. I was six bus rides, eight hitched lifts, a train journey, much walking and two ferry crossings away from home. The dust, the heat, the dogs, the guitars at night seemed an eternity away. I was steeped in my mission.

  ‘Yes. I’m going home,’ I answered, looking at her directly. ‘You?’

  ‘Nah. I’ve been travelling Europe for months but before I go home to Scotland, I’m going to visit someone on the island.’

  ‘The Isle of Man isn’t much of a place to end such a glamorous trip.’ I took a swig of Coke.

  Steph was thinking now, her dark eyes pulling together to make a narrow groove above her straight nose. I didn’t mean to shatter her dream.

  ‘But it has a beauty all of its own,’ I added.

  ‘You’re right.’ Another cascade of crockery followed the biggest dip starboard we had encountered so far. Several predictable screams ensued and then the inevitable silence during which the four hundred passengers held their breath to see whether we were still afloat. ‘I’m completely tired of cathedrals and big cities and expensive tourist attractions. My visit to the island is a treat before I have to go back to work.’

  I could have asked her where she’d been, how long she’d been away, what her work was, where she lived, did she have any brothers or sisters? Our conversation could have easily filled the remaining two hours. The fact was, I didn’t care. I turned my mouth into one of those polite smiles that carefully punctuates the end of a meaningless chat; a kind of facial semaphore signalling that I didn’t want to talk any more. So she really took the hint, I hoisted up my tatty pocket-book to create an A5 barrier between us and continued writing.

  ‘I’ve just come from France. Paris, to be precise.’

  ‘Nice,’ I said without looking up. She’s been to Paris, I wrote.

  ‘I had great sex there.’

  Slowly, I lowered the pocket-book barrier, being careful to lay it face down so she couldn’t read that I’d been writing about her, and reinserted the pen between my lips. I put on a patient, interested look so that she might divulge a little about the great sex she’d had in France but the little witch unbuckled a side pocket of her backpack, plucked out a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, put up her own literary barrier and began to read.

  I left her alone for fifteen minutes, frantically scribbling notes in my book about the young woman I’d met on the Isle of Man Steam Packet. And I also made note that we were about the only two passengers who weren’t being sick or lolling about with droopy eyes and our hands clapped to our mouths. I glanced at her a couple of times, just so I could get an accurate description for the record, and wrote everything that I knew about her so far: she’d been travelling; she’d got a temporary job on the Isle of Man; she was reading Harper Lee; she didn’t get seasick and she’d had good sex in Paris.

  ‘That should be great sex,’ she suddenly said, causing me to hug my pocket-book as if it was a newborn baby. ‘Good sex implies it was pretty average and what I had in Paris was way above that. I wouldn’t mind if you put fantastic or out-of-this-world or mind-blowing. Any of those will do but not good, please.’ Then she went back to reading her book and I blushed and scribbled out ‘good’, inserting ‘great’ instead.

  I pretended to jot down a few more thoughts although I was really doodling in the margin while squirming with embarrassment and I bosomed my book as if I was playing poker for my virginity. It may have been my imagination but I suspected that the waves were pounding the vessel less frequently and no longer washed over the salt-encrusted cabin windows. I stood up and stretched.

  ‘Would you like a coffee or something to eat perhaps?’

  Steph slowly looked up from her book, clinging on to the words as if she was pulling gum off her fingers. ‘No thanks,’ she replied with a tight smile. She also stretched and looked around the boat. It was a sorry sight with exhausted passengers draped over each other or the floor as they sea
rched for oblivion from their misery.

  ‘Me neither.’ I sat down again. I’d only asked so I could perhaps glean more about her sexy story and add it to my book. What are the chances, really, that you meet a stranger on a boat who offers you a glimmer of a good, no great, sex tale and then clams up and reels the whole thing back in as if she’d never mentioned it?

  I snapped the elastic bands around my well-worn pocket-book and slid it deep into my backpack. Then I fastened all the catches and pulled the straps tight. I couldn’t risk it falling out. The thought of a stranger, or worse still someone I knew, reading my thoughts and desires and wild ramblings that more often than not ended up describing my wildest fantasies was more than I could bear. The book was private and that was that. Even my oldest friend Nina had never peeked at one word and I’d been writing a journal for many years. I had volumes of diaries, not just this book, all padlocked away in a metal casket and hidden at the back of our grain store, where I knew they were safe. It was always my current, exposed volume that caused most concern. They really were very private thoughts.

  ‘Maybe I will have a coffee then,’ Steph said. I grinned and staggered down the boat to the drinks machine. Minutes later, we were chatting like best friends, trying not to slosh coffee from our polystyrene cups, while she provided plenty of detail about Paris. I planned to write it up in my diary later and knew that the luxurious thought would keep me fired up until I found where I was going and got settled in.

  Briefly, my stomach lurched like the Irish Sea surrounding us. What if, after fourteen years, the cottage wasn’t there anymore? I hadn’t considered that it could have been washed away during years of storms worse than this one. And I hadn’t thought either that it might be occupied now and not the sporadically used clandestine retreat of any estate workers who wanted to get their leg over when the boss wasn’t looking.

  ‘We did it for thirty hours solid. Oh, except when he cooked for me and we ate on the balcony overlooking Notre Dame.’ Steph clasped her hands at her chin, eager for my response. But I was overcome with apprehension and while I had been listening to Steph’s sexual escapades around Europe, I was a bit concerned that I would be spending the night in a ditch.

  ‘And everyone in the street below could see up my little skirt. I didn’t have any knickers on but I didn’t care. I just gorged on the wonderful food and then went back inside, whistles and cheers below, to start all over again with what’s-his-name.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said flatly. I could virtually feel the wind stinging my face and the sheep nuzzling my ears as I nestled beneath a hedge in desperate need of a good night’s sleep. Having been on the road for what seemed like a lifetime, crashing in cheap hostels and hitching lifts, riding buses and living on crisps and sausage rolls, well, it was all wearing a bit thin. My big adventure was testing me and I just needed to get where I was going. I looked out of the cabin window.

  ‘Hey, look! The lights of Douglas.’

  Steph peered out into the blackness and ceased regaling me with her Paris story. We both remained silent as the string of Christmas fairy lights that was Douglas Promenade grew larger and larger. I felt my heart skip and jump with both fear and nostalgia. It had been fourteen years. Tears filled my eyes as I remembered the same scene but in reverse. My mother and I sat in a darkened corner of the boat, hardly speaking as we watched our life disappear on the horizon. We had quite literally been kicked out.

  ‘It’s so pretty,’ Steph said and I had to agree. The once busy Victorian seaside resort boasted a lengthy crescent-shaped Promenade complete with horse-drawn trams during the summer months. It was a folly of a town, these days given over to a small helping of tourists and a thriving financial community. The Isle of Man has always attracted the rich. Now the forgotten heiress had returned to claim what was rightfully hers.

  Moments later, as we approached the harbour walls, the vessel’s rolling transformed into a gentle rocking and then a virtually motionless passage to the docks. The engines quietened apart from a few purposeful groans as the captain guided his craft into place. As if awakened from a hundred years’ sleep, the passengers came back to life and gathered their belongings. An announcement guided all foot passengers to the disembarkation point and Steph and I helped each other with our packs. Mine was stuffed so full and heavy that it took her several attempts and much fiddling about with the straps and clasps to make it go on my back. Eventually, she had it in place and we said our good-byes.

  ‘I hope you have as much luck here as you did in Paris.’ I winked at her and she grinned back, her slight body bowing once more under the weight of her belongings.

  ‘Oh, I will,’ she called and headed for the bus stop. She obviously knew where she was going and I didn’t want to be delayed with anymore idle chit-chat. I pulled my purse from my pocket and fondled the few notes that remained. Soon I would be running on empty and forced to find work but there was one luxury that I couldn’t afford to do without, especially at this time of night. As I walked to the taxi ranks, it felt as if the ground was swelling and crashing beneath me, as if I was still aboard the ferry. The offshore breeze nipped my cheeks, causing me to pull the knitted hat I had bought in London further down over my ears.

  ‘Can you take me to Niarbyl?’ I peered in through the driver’s window and he slowly nodded, undoubtedly wondering what a single young woman would be wanting with such a remote place at ten thirty on a Sunday evening. ‘You can just drop me at the cottages on the main coast road. I’m visiting nearby.’

  I had previously planned what to say. I needed to slip seamlessly back into island life and crawl silently into my chosen hiding place while I investigated where I once belonged. I remembered that the local people had a strict sense of their environment, especially on the west coast. Newcomers might as well wear a flashing beacon on their heads announcing their arrival or place an advert in the local paper. Mine would read: Long-lost heiress returns.

  I heaved my backpack onto the rear seat and climbed in beside it. We left Douglas via the harbour road, taking the TT motorcycle track as far as Ballacraine before heading for Glen Maye, Dalby and finally down the rugged coastline towards Niarbyl. It felt as if we were travelling through blue-black ink, so dense was the darkness. Perhaps it was tiredness or fear and apprehension at what I might find at the supposedly deserted cottage, but I fought to stay awake during that taxi ride, despite my unknown fate. The beach hideaway was on the western tip of the Creg-ny-Varn estate and I wouldn’t get a proper glimpse of my surroundings until first light.

  ‘You sure you just want dropping here, in the middle of nowhere?’

  I was standing beside the cab as it puffed hot, white exhaust into the salty sea air. It would most likely be the last bit of warmth I felt for ages. ‘I’m sure,’ I replied confidently. No point in arousing his suspicions. He’d only blab to old Bill down the pub that this girl was on her own at night, who’d tell his missus, who’d tell her cousin, who’d tell his mate and poof! My cover and mission would be blown when the impostor who had taken over my late father’s property discovered I had returned.

  ‘How much?’ My fingers rifled through my remaining notes. I’d have to risk a trip to the shop at some point.

  ‘Twenty-five,’ he said, virtually removing the money from my frosted fingers before I had the chance to count. I watched the red tail lights disappear into the distance and all I was left with was the faint glow from the windows of a cottage perched on the hill above the craggy cliffs. The little house screamed warmth at me, something I was in great need of. The last fourteen years of my life had been spent in Southern Spain, running barefoot around our community with nothing more than a square of hand-painted cotton tied at my waist and, as I got older, my breasts too. Now, standing quite alone in the darkness with distant, haunting memories of my childhood, I juddered against the northerly wind even though I was wrapped up in many layers of clothing. A noise at the cottage door forced me to duck, as quickly as my pack would allow, into the shadow of
a hedge.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  The cottage appeared as a patchwork of grey stone punctuated by small amber squares of delicious light and warmth. In the middle, I could see a larger rectangle of light – the open front door – and a tense silhouetted figure virtually filling the gap.

  ‘Who’s out there? Show yourself.’ It was a man.

  I held my breath and watched him stare out into the bleak night. I prayed that no cars would pass and what he saw would be nothing more than a black fog, dotted perhaps with the odd star or lone, screeching owl. I was so cold that I thought he would hear my shivering. For a moment, that was an appealing thought. I could stride out of the hedge, hands up as if I was surrendering, and beg for a hot bath and some food. I pinched my arm as I imagined myself offering a read of my diary in return for his hospitality and a bed.

  The man shook his head and finally turned, closing the door with a bang. I sighed heavily, realising that I hadn’t breathed for the last minute. I hauled myself out of the wet bushes and squinted through the darkness ahead. In the two cones of taxi headlights, I’d noticed a small sign indicating the narrow lane to Niarbyl. If I remembered correctly, there would be a bumpy private track a few yards further on leading down to the rocky beach – the very last leg of my journey home. I hoisted my pack further up my back, gripped the straps in my gloved hands and set off towards the rocky beach, praying that the cottage was derelict.

  * * *

  The pebbles ground together like oversized gravel announcing my arrival. For the last few hundred yards of my walk, I had been searching for lights reflecting on the shore – a certain indication that someone was living in my planned hideout. So far, there was only darkness but I dug my fingers into my woolly palms and gritted my teeth anyway, plodding on with the weight of my life on my back.

  I had brought with me the most useful items I could muster in Spain. A torch, which I had turned off as I descended the difficult path to where the tide licked the black, mussel-encrusted rocks; three boxes of matches and a dozen candles wrapped in a plastic bag; half a litre of Miguel Torres brandy, drinkable only in the most dire and desperate of circumstances (none of my hardships so far had come close to warranting consumption); some warm clothing, which had been difficult to procure from a wardrobe that consisted mostly of cotton and silk; and an assortment of gadgets and useful implements such as a tin opener and a penknife. And of course my journal.