Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  She’d had no choice but to go to Reg.

  She’d stood in the same place on that journey, looking at Guernsey disappear into the distance, that small island, with its roads and cars, looking like a beacon of hope and opportunity compared to where she was headed.

  Now this crossing. A whole week in the Princess Elizabeth Hospital. She’d lost the baby. She should feel relieved, but she felt hollow. She wanted it back with a ferocity she’d never before experienced.

  He had Len pick them up in the tractor. She sat in the cab, he in the trailer. She was relieved at the break from the unbearable intensity of his stare. Len helped her out at the house. She wondered how much he knew, if men talked about things like women did—or like she assumed women did. She had not spoken to Meg since she’d left home, and had exchanged no more than a few words with the island women.

  He held the door open for her and followed her into the bedroom. He had replaced the sheets—no amount of scrubbing would have got the stains out of the old ones. She sat on the edge of the bed, ran her hands over the fabric. The bright swirls of the pattern looked out of place in this small, sombre room.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘There’s no reason for me to be here now. I’ll leave. Soon as I feel better.’

  He looked confused. ‘Said I’d marry you. Still will.’

  ‘Why? Why would you do that? There’s no baby.’

  He was quiet for a moment. ‘Stay. Please.’

  She lay on the bed. Turned her back to him.

  He was sleeping. Snoring in the armchair. A tumbler at his feet, bottle of whisky half drunk. She picked up the glass. Drained it of the last drop. It burned her throat. A log glowed in the fireplace, a slash of bright gold shining in the centre of the charred wood. She prodded at it with the poker, watched the shower of sparks float to the floor and shrivel to grey. He stirred. It was cold and she thought about covering him with a blanket. That would be a wifely thing to do. Instead, she took her coat from the peg next to the door and walked out into the night.

  The road was empty. The gritty earth crunched beneath her feet. The only light came from a sliver of moon and the stars. There were so many stars in the sky; they swirled across the blackness, like spilt milk. She told herself she walked without purpose, without destination, but her feet said otherwise, taking her in a particular direction: left at the crossroads, right at the gate, towards La Moinerie, where he’d told her a monastery once stood.

  The path here became uneven, rutted by tractors, broken by the twisted roots of the beech trees lining the way. They thickened as she walked. This was a wood, she supposed. Or the closest thing to one on this island of meadows and hedges, of bracken and gorse. It was rocky underfoot. It was rocky everywhere—the paths, the cliffs, the houses, the walls—all hard and grey and unforgiving.

  It was darker under the branches. Hard to see the way down rough steps carved out of the earth and stone. She stumbled. Sat. Felt her way forwards with her hands, her frozen fingertips grazing against sharp edges, feeling damp hollows. She pulled herself down, blind save for the glint of moonlight through the branches, down into the valley, the earth tipping towards the sea, until she emerged from the shelter of the trees, onto open land, exposed to a biting wind, which struck her face with icy fingers. The path tapered, and at its point, more rock, a wall of it, blocked the way.

  Except for the window.

  It was one of the first places Reg had shown her. Someone had blasted through, many years ago—a mad seigneur’s folly. He’d had people blow a hole with dynamite to frame a perfect view—an azure sea, passing ships, Guernsey in the distance. From here, in the dark, it looked like a way out. There was light at the end of the tunnel, a strange luminescence, the glow of moonlight on water.

  She walked through. The gale battered her body. A few feet in front of her was a sheer drop. She stepped forward, held herself stiff against the gale. Looked down at the white horses turned silver, the blue water black.

  This whole thing was madness. Island madness. That’s what he’d called it, that first night. After the drinks. After the walk and the hot, uncomfortable mess that followed, and then dinner and more of the same, because after the first time, she’d thought, Why not? Why not see him again, spend a week pretending that her life was her own, to do as she pleased, that she was happy, having fun, in control? She shook herself. What a fool she had been. Everything about her life had been decided by other people. As a child, she’d had no choice. She had listened to Mother, and Mother had listened to Father, and hellfire and damnation would surely have followed if they hadn’t. She’d wandered into adulthood in something like dream, she realised. Or more like an enchantment, one that made her powerless, bound to follow the orders of others. She felt like she’d woken up a week ago. Her screams had broken the spell.

  She took a step forward. Disturbed the unstable ground at the edge of the cliff. Heard a pebble clatter, crack-cracking as it bounced off the rock face to the sea. She lifted a foot. Waved it in the nothingness. Was blown back, towards the window. She wondered if it might hold her and she spread her arms, eyes streaming, vision blurred, so at first she thought she imagined it.

  Flashing lights. A little way out. She stepped back, pulled her coat tightly around herself, rubbed her eyes, squinted. Surely nobody in their right mind would be sailing or fishing in this weather.

  On, off, on, off.

  There was a pattern to it. Some kind of signal. As she focused on the light, sharp and bright, the scale of her surroundings seemed to magnify—the height of the cliffs, the depth of the ocean, the breadth of the sky above, the ferocity of the cold and the wind—and she wanted nothing more than to be back at the cottage, to wrap herself in a blanket, to lie in front of the warm embers of the dying fire.

  She turned.

  She was not alone.

  A shape, on the other side, a black figure, edges defined only by the moonlight. It was him, she thought, come to bring her home, but as she took another step towards the tunnel, she faltered. The shape was all wrong. Too short, too stout. She pressed her back against the rock face. Heard shuffling. A cough. The smell of cigarette smoke.

  ‘Someone’s going to get killed, out in this.’

  ‘Can you see it or what? I’m fucking freezing.’

  Two of them. Their voices echoed in the tunnel. Her coat flapped about her legs. She tried not to move, not to breathe.

  ‘I see it.’

  ‘It’s done?’

  ‘Wait a minute. Gotta count them.’

  Out to sea, the light flashed. On, off, on, off.

  ‘It’s done. Fuck me, in this weather. Not messing about, are they?’

  Another cough. Voices faded.

  She waited. Five minutes. Ten. She was so cold, so stiff, she dropped to her hands and knees for fear she would fall and bounce like a rock, crack-crack, into the sea below. She crawled through the tunnel, over the grass, into the woods, stumbled up the path and then ran to the cottage, stopping only when she reached it. She tried to quiet her breathing. Pushed gently so the door would not murmur. Shook uncontrollably, felt like the cold had frozen her bones. He was still in the chair. Still snoring. The fire had burned to ash. She unbuttoned her coat. Her ears were ringing; her hands were numb and bleeding, her trousers filthy and ripped. She couldn’t stay here, in this tiny house on this tiny island. There was something dark about this place, something wrong and sinister.

  She had to get away before it consumed her.

  13

  Jenny

  She paused at the top of the steep approach to La Coupée. The cycle from the village had been short but arduous, the ascent over the last quarter of a mile relentless. She pushed forward, head down, finally getting off her bike and walking the last few feet before the main island ended abruptly in an outcrop of red and ochre rocks. Between them, the path narrowed and then dropped, sharply, a three-hundred-foot taper of la
nd forming an isthmus between the main island and Little Sark. On either side, sheer cliffs tumbled into clear, cold blue.

  She pushed her bike down onto the bridge, squeezing the brakes to hold it back as the loose, dry grit that dusted the concrete path slipped beneath her shoes. After several feet, the decline flattened. She stopped. It was impossible not to.

  To the left, the water stretched to the coast of Jersey, hazy on the horizon. To the right, several boats were moored in the turquoise waters of La Grande Grève, a wide, shallow bay that met the sandy beach nestled into the bottom of the cliffs two hundred and fifty feet below. Steps hacked into the rock led down to it, a faded sign warning of soil erosion and telling visitors to attempt the descent at their own risk. There was somebody down there now. Jenny watched the tiny black speck picking its way across the white sand.

  There were stories of hauntings here. The moans and screeches of the dead heard at dusk. There had been no railings until 1900. No road until German prisoners of war laid one after the Second World War. Before then, this bridge had been only five feet across, the path rough and crumbling. Children had crawled over on their hands and knees. One man, a farmer, attempting to bring his tithe of corn to the main island during a storm, had been blown clean off. Charlie had shown her, marked on a map in the bay below, La Caverne des Lamentes. That was where the eerie wailing sound came from, he said—one of the island’s many souffleurs, made by the tide sucking in and out of a narrow passage below and driving pockets of air through stone channels. Or perhaps, he had said with a smile, it was that poor farmer, looking for his scattered corn. There was nothing ghostly about the place now, Jenny thought. With the sun shining, the cliffs lush and green with heather and gorse, the spectacular view; it was a picture straight out of a tourist brochure.

  There was no time to linger. La Coupée finished with a steep incline up to Little Sark, matching the descent on the opposite side. She pushed the bike up, then freewheeled down the hill. After half a mile, the road forked. A sign pointed the way to the silver mines. She checked her watch. Less than an hour before she’d have to head back to the main island if she was going to take advantage of Michael’s offer of a lift home. Plus she needed time to come up with a story about where she’d been—Michael wouldn’t be impressed if he found out she’d visited Len Mauger against his advice. But she had a job to do and could hardly ignore a lead connected to both Reg Carré and her father. Both dead, Michael’s voice whispered in her ear. She would find the house. Decide what to do when she got there. She followed the sign to the silver mines.

  She soon found what she was looking for: a small, granite house with a bright red door. She set her bike against the hedge. Wind chimes hung from an apple tree in the front garden, ringing softly. On the doorstep were a pair of black wellington boots, wet nearly two-thirds of the way up, and a faded blue bucket, rim buckled. The same scene had greeted her countless times at her own house, Charlie having returned from a day on the boat with something for tea, or perhaps some ormers he’d promised a friend. From somewhere nearby, she heard a shrieking and then a laugh. Next door was a few hundred yards away, but close enough that she could see the children playing in the front garden. Close enough to run to, should the need arise.

  She approached Len’s house. Peered into the bucket. It was empty save for a puddle of water and a frond of seaweed. She knocked on the door. A sharp clang. Footsteps. Then, to Jenny’s surprise, the turning of a key. Hardly anyone on Guernsey locked the doors, not even when they went out, never mind in Sark. The door opened, but only a crack. Only as far as the security chain on the inside would allow.

  ‘What?’ A voice from behind it. Dry, raspy.

  ‘Mr Mauger? I was wondering if I could talk to you?’

  ‘Fuck off. Keep telling you lot. I don’t need any help. Leave me alone.’

  The door slammed shut. She knocked again.

  ‘I’m not here to help you, Mr Mauger. I was hoping you could help me.’

  He was still standing behind the door, she thought. His words came through muffled but loud enough that she could hear.

  ‘What are you talking about? Why can’t you all leave me in peace?’

  ‘I don’t know who you think I am, Mr Mauger. I was wondering if you’d mind answering a few questions.’ She hesitated. This was not a man who would talk to a reporter. ‘Mr Mauger, I’m Jenny Dorey. I just . . . I wanted to ask you about my dad. About Charlie Dorey.’

  There was silence. A gentle thud. The door shifted in its frame. He was leaning against it. She waited. One minute. Two.

  Next door, she heard somebody call the children inside. It was still bright as noon, but the sun had dipped in the sky; the heat abated, just a little. She would need to head back to the main island soon.

  ‘Mr Mauger?’ She knocked again. ‘I really won’t take up too much of your time.’

  A creak. A rattling of the chain. The door opened.

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  The house smelled like a boat. Like the Jenny Wren the day after Charlie had brought in a big catch—not just fish but sand and salt, the faintest hint of tar and engine oil. In the low-ceilinged kitchen, a large pot of water was coming to the boil on an ancient-looking Aga. Next to the sink, a door led out to a back garden. It was open, but Jenny couldn’t help noticing the bolt above the handle. Still shiny. A much later addition than the scuffed and rusted barrel lock beneath it.

  ‘Sit down.’ Len Mauger pointed to a stool tucked under a low, square table. He reached into the sink and pulled out a chancre crab, one hand on either side of its wide, flat shell. The crab waved its front pincers wildly in the air. Len dropped it into the pot and slammed on the lid.

  ‘I’ll enjoy eating that little bastard. Got my thumb earlier. Hasn’t happened for years.’ He shook his head. ‘Must be losing my touch. You want something to drink? I’ve got beer. Some milk?’ He was a short man, in his sixties, Jenny would guess, a little stout round the middle, but his shirt hung loosely from his shoulders. He seemed nervous, fidgeting with his pocket as he opened a narrow door to an old-fashioned pantry. A slab of butter wrapped in waxed paper on a shelf, a loaf of bread, a carton of milk next to it, bottles arranged in a rack, a box of vegetables on the floor and too many cans to count—peas and tomatoes, sweetcorn, mandarin slices, fruit cocktail. She looked around the kitchen. No fridge. No microwave. No kettle. No light fittings. She wondered if he was some sort of survivalist, with his over-the-top security, stockpiling food in case of disaster, living without electricity in preparation for a time when the grid failed and the world was plunged into darkness. She wondered what else someone like Len might have stashed around his isolated house. Nets and rope. Tools for working on his boat. Knives for gutting fish.

  The room darkened. The small windows and low ceilings typical in these old farmhouses seemed designed to keep out as much daylight as possible. She rose from her seat, stood in the open doorway, looked out onto an overgrown field with a large greenhouse at the bottom. A patch of cloud slid over the sun just as a small, bright blue La Manche propeller plane came into view, engines roaring.

  ‘Bloody pain, they are.’ Len appeared beside her. ‘Disturbing the peace how many times a day as they come in to land on Guernsey. Not as bad as that Monroe’s helicopter, mind you. Whole house shakes when he flies over. Don’t know who he thinks he is. Bloody helipad on Brecqhou.’ He shook his head. ‘Come on. Let’s sit.’ He motioned her back inside. She hesitated. There was a pallor to his olive skin, a frailness about him. He held on to the door frame as if he needed the support. He didn’t look like a madman. Or a dangerous one.

  She followed him back inside.

  ‘Have you heard the news, Mr Mauger?’

  ‘Not if it happened in the last three days. Last time I spoke to anyone.’ He took a swig of his beer.

  ‘You don’t have a telephone?’

  ‘No telephone, no TV. No internet.’

  ‘Mr Mauger.’ It was not her place to break thi
s sort of news. She spoke gently. ‘Reg Carré is dead. He was killed.’

  The lid on the crab pot tremored as the water bubbled beneath it. Len sat, pale and silent, staring at her, unblinking.

  ‘I’m sorry. I know you were friends.’

  ‘Killed how?’

  ‘I don’t know, not exactly.’

  ‘Not an accident?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not an accident. You don’t seem surprised.’

  He got up, angry. ‘What are you telling me about this for? I thought you wanted to talk about your dad.’

  ‘I did. I was asking about Reg and someone mentioned you knew him, and my dad too.’

  ‘Asking about Reg why? And who told you I knew him?’

  She checked her notebook. ‘A Mr Malcolm Perré.’

  ‘Course it was.’ He looked at the notebook, then at her. ‘Are you police? Charlie never said you were police.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m a journalist. With the Guernsey News.’

  ‘That’s right. I remember now.’

  ‘Was Reg a friend of yours, Mr Mauger?’

  ‘He was.’ He sniffed. Wiped his nose on his sleeve. There was no sign of tears, but his voice wavered. ‘I worked for him. Years ago. Helped him out with his gardening.’ He turned away from her, carefully folded a tea towel and wrapped it round his hands before lifting the pot off the boil. He drained it and brine-scented steam billowed out. He placed the pot into the sink and used the tea towel to wipe his eyes and brow before pulling the chancre out, its shell transformed from muddy brown to fiery red, the tips of its claws black and shining. He placed it on the side, remained with his back to her, his hands resting on the counter.