Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  She watched the sun rising, diminished to a hazy patch of light by the heavy, sombre sky. Today was different, she thought. Today was the first day she’d woken up knowing that something she’d suspected for so long was true. She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t imagining things. Charlie had been murdered. She didn’t know why. But she was going to find out. And she was going to bring his killer to justice.

  Mark had taken over the running of the morning meeting and had called it for 7 a.m. Everyone was bleary-eyed but on time. Jenny gave a rundown of her day in Sark. Focusing on Reg’s murder and the reaction of the locals.

  ‘We need a detailed look at his background,’ Mark interrupted her. ‘Family, friends, job, involvement in the community. Sounds like you’ve got a fair bit of info already, but we need to flesh it out. There’s a son, you said?’

  ‘Yes. Lives on Guernsey.’

  ‘Right. We’ll need to try for a comment. He might have some photos? Tell him it will help jog some memories, assist with the investigation if he needs some encouragement. Which it might, obviously. Elliot, I want you in Sark with Jenny. Graham, you sort someone out to track down the son. And the bones on Derrible—we need someone working on that, find out when we should expect a steer on who it was and how they got there.’ He paused. ‘Do we think there’s a connection?’

  ‘Police haven’t given any indication they think so. But difficult to rule it out one way or another until we know who the body is. There’s another thing, Mark.’

  ‘What the hell else can have happened on Sark in the last twenty-four hours?’

  ‘It’s probably for another time, but Corey Monroe approached me yesterday. He wants to give an interview. Seems the tension between him and the locals has reached a bit of a head. He wants to set the record straight.’

  ‘Jesus. It’s raining news.’ Mark looked delighted. ‘Right, we’ll set that up. Have to put a senior reporter on it, Graham.’

  ‘I got the impression he wanted me to do it.’

  ‘Are you fucking serious?’ It was a whisper.

  Jenny looked around, unsure if she’d been meant to hear it.

  ‘I can suggest someone else to him. Maybe Graham should do it.’

  ‘No, no,’ Mark said. ‘We don’t want to fuck Corey Monroe off. Let’s do it as soon as we can. Get his take on the island, the murder. Outsider on the inside, something along those lines.’ He was excited now. ‘That’s going to be massive. Might get some interest from the nationals. Right. Quick rundown of the rest of the news, Graham.’

  Graham went through the regular daily items, assigning stories to reporters depending on which parish they covered. Jade, the new reporter, who was wearing a low-cut top and knee-high boots—ironically, Jenny suspected—had been allocated Torteval. She rolled her eyes as she was assigned a story about a dog that had escaped and attacked a neighbour’s chickens.

  ‘Seriously? There’s been a murder on Sark, two probably, there’s an exclusive interview to be conducted, and I get landed with some dead chickens? I had to wade through a field of cow shit last week so some old bloke could show me a nest of feral ferrets.’

  ‘Don’t knock it, Jade. “Living on the Hedge” was one of my favourite stories last week.’ Elliot grinned over at her and she responded with an exaggerated pout and, Jenny couldn’t help noticing, a blush of the cheeks.

  ‘All right,’ Graham admonished. ‘You’ve been here five minutes, Jade. There’ll be plenty more cow shit to wade through before you’re on to the big stuff.’

  Mark concluded the meeting. ‘Right, let’s get on with it. Jenny, I want front page ready to review by mid-afternoon. You’d better get a move on if you’re going to make the eight-o’clock sailing.’

  She glanced up at the clock. ‘Shit.’ She shut her laptop and shoved it into her rucksack.

  ‘I’ll drive.’ Elliot followed her out.

  ‘You all right?’ Elliot asked. He put the keys in the ignition but didn’t start the engine, turned to look at her.

  ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘You look exhausted.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘OK.’ He shrugged and started the car.

  ‘Sounds like it’s not OK.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk to me. Nothing I can do to make you. I’ve learned that much.’

  They said nothing for the rest of the five-minute drive to North Beach. He dropped her outside the ticket office.

  ‘I’ll meet you at the jetty.’

  He over-revved and managed a wheel spin before pulling a U-turn and driving back towards the car park. He was pissed off. She was fucking things up, she knew it. Didn’t mean she knew what to do about it.

  She bought the tickets. The woman at the desk slid them over the counter.

  ‘You’d better hurry up—it’s due to leave any minute.’

  She ran the short distance to the boat, waiting for Elliot before they both ran down the jetty, the boards shaking beneath their feet.

  A crew member took their tickets. ‘Feeling brave, are you?’

  ‘Is it rough?’ The sea looked calm.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Bit of a swell, nothing major. I meant the murder. Or should I say murders? Scared everyone off, I think. There’s only you and a couple of others on board.’

  ‘We’ll have the best seat for a change, then.’ She smiled.

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ He took her rucksack and held her arm as she jumped over the gap between the pontoon and the deck.

  She was the only person outside. Elliot had gone in after only a few minutes, wanting to talk to the captain and crew about the effect of the murder on business. He insisted everything was fine between them, but she could tell there was something on his mind. She suspected it was her.

  Guernsey had disappeared from view, obscured by a thick haze. Everything was quiet. No chatter from other passengers. Even the boat’s engines seemed muffled, as if the heavy air were dampening not just surfaces but sound. The benches were wet with condensation, the railings slippery beneath her grip.

  A cough. She turned. Another passenger, come up from the cabin.

  ‘Morning.’ He leaned against the railing. He had the beginnings of a beard—patchy, flecked with grey. The collar of his denim jacket was turned up. His hands shook as he lit a cigarette. He offered her one.

  ‘Pretty sure it’s not allowed.’ She pointed to the large ‘No smoking’ sign he stood next to.

  He looked concerned. ‘Reckon they’ll take me straight to Sark Prison?’

  She mirrored his expression. ‘Reckon you’ll get five years, minimum.’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t even smoke. Not really. This is a ritual of mine. Hangover from when I was a rebellious teenager. All the sea air takes the smell off you. I try to have a sneaky cigarette out here every time I come over. I’ve usually been scolded by an old lady by now.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to spoil your moment. I can scold you, if it would add to the atmosphere?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the same. You’re not an old lady.’ He half finished the cigarette, then ground it out on the railing and threw it in the bin. ‘You staying out here? Not much to see.’

  ‘I always sit outside.’

  ‘Hm. I’ve been on too many boats. Novelty wears off. Enjoy.’ He held on to the top of the door frame, ducked his head to get back into the cabin.

  For some reason she wanted to go after him. To tell him she’d been on lots of boats too and there was always something to see. The cry of a seagull cut through the rumble of the engine and she glimpsed its silhouette as it threaded its way through the opaque air. No fish for you here. There would be clouds of gulls behind the Jenny Wren when Charlie hauled in a catch. ‘Clever birds, seagulls,’ he’d said. ‘Ruthless opportunists, too. They learned to follow the boats,’ he’d told her. ‘Surely they were following the fish?’ she’d asked. He’d shaken his head. ‘Just you watch them,’ he’d said. ‘They follow the boats first.’

  ‘I’ve c
hanged my mind.’ He was back.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Novelty never wears off. I don’t know why I said that. And there’s a guy in there talking really loudly on his phone. Besides, the sun’s coming out.’

  He stood next to her. He was right. The fog was thinning. The water turning from black to green.

  ‘You just going for the day?’ she asked him.

  ‘I’m not sure. I think so. You?’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘You’re a reporter.’

  ‘I am. How did you know?’

  ‘One of the crew knows you. Said you were over yesterday.’ He paused. Looked at her intently. ‘I’m Luke Carré. Reg was my dad.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She kicked herself for nearly missing him.

  ‘Are you writing about him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you writing about me?’

  ‘Well, I was going to mention that Reg had a son. Nothing else so far. I’m not going to print anything you say here, for example. Unless you want to talk on the record.’

  He smiled. ‘You really say shit like that?’ He shook his head.

  The boat shifted, the swell intensifying as they entered the treacherous current of the Big Russel, the channel that ran between Herm and Sark.

  ‘Let’s sit,’ he said. ‘It’s always choppy here.’

  She sat beside him, feet planted firmly on the deck to steady herself.

  ‘So would you be happy to speak on the record? One of our reporters was going to contact you today. You can just talk to me now, get it over with.’ Jenny tried not to think about how much shit she was going to get from her colleagues for delivering a reaction from the dead man’s son as well as the front-page story and an interview with Corey Monroe.

  He nodded. ‘I’m not sure what I can say that’s worth reporting. Other than my father’s dead and I’m devastated and I’d like to be left to grieve in peace without the News hanging around like vultures.’ He glanced at her. ‘I’m half joking.’

  ‘OK if I slightly rephrase, then?’ She smiled gently. ‘Nobody from the News will hassle you. We’re not like the tabloids on the mainland. As the case progresses, we’ll ask for your take on the investigation, how you think things are going.’

  ‘That’s why I’m going over. I’ve spoken to the detective in charge. He has no idea what happened. Or if he does, he didn’t share it with me. I haven’t lived in Sark for twenty years, but it’s still home. I know it. Only a Sarkee really can. Thought I might speak to some people. See if I could make a bit more sense of things. It’s a fuck of a funny feeling.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Losing a parent.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘My dad died just over two years ago.’

  He nodded, seemed to be deep in thought. The boat pitched from side to side as they approached the jetty.

  ‘I mean, you know they’re going to go at some point,’ he said. ‘That you’re going to have to deal with it. I just didn’t expect to feel like this.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Exposed.’ He paused. ‘It’s like a barrier’s been removed. Or a safety net. Depressing, eh?’

  ‘It is,’ she agreed.

  ‘Sorry.’ His voice cracked. ‘I should have known Dad needed help, last time I was here. I was avoiding the fact that he seemed frail, that he wasn’t with it.’

  ‘He was murdered. You couldn’t have prevented that.’

  ‘I could. If I’d been there.’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly have known what was going to happen.’

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘Did you have any idea he was in trouble? That someone might have meant him harm?’

  ‘On the record, are we?’

  ‘Jenny?’ Elliot, holding two coffees. He handed one to her. Nodded at Luke. ‘Sorry—I’d have bought a third if I’d known.’ He looked at her quizzically.

  ‘Elliot, this is Luke Carré, Reg Carré’s son. Luke, this is my colleague Elliot.’ She thought Elliot’s flinched a little when she said ‘colleague’ but put it down to paranoia on her part. They had never introduced each other as anything other than friends or workmates.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ Elliot shook Luke’s hand.

  ‘Appreciate it.’ There was a moment of awkward silence. ‘Well, it was nice talking to you, Jenny. I’ll leave you both to your coffees.’

  Elliot waited until Luke had disappeared down the stairs into the cabin. ‘That all looked very cosy.’

  ‘About as cosy as an interview with a bereaved person ever gets, I suppose,’ she shot back, too sharply.

  He stared at her. ‘I was joking, Jenny. Jesus.’

  She flushed. ‘I know you were. So was I.’ But she hadn’t been. She’d felt defensive. As if Elliot were accusing her of something. As if she were guilty of it.

  16

  Rachel

  1980

  Icicles clung to the window. When she woke, the first thing she saw was her breath. It was rare, Reg had told her, even in mid-January, to have a cold snap like this. They slept in vests and socks and pyjamas, a duvet and a blanket on the bed. The nights were long, and heavy with the silence of winter.

  But she was happy. Even as it froze outside, something inside her thawed. She reached down and scooped Luke up from the basket and brought him into the bed. He wasn’t even crying yet, had just made a few mewling noises. He was soft and hot, and she held him close to her cold chest, pulling the bedclothes up around them. Next to her, Reg was awake, she knew, but he gave no sign, lying still and quiet, his breathing low and regular.

  It was a miracle she thought, that something so small could effect so much change. She was exhausted and yet more awake than she’d ever been. She rose the instant Luke cried, warmed bottles, hummed and sang, made soothing noises.

  Last night, for the first time, Reg had got up when she did. He’d held Luke, the baby wriggling and screaming and purple-faced. She’d warmed the milk, and Reg had handed Luke to her in the armchair, then stood behind her. The blanket she had wrapped around herself slipped as she shifted to get comfortable, exposing her shoulder, and he had placed his hand on her bare skin. She had not flinched. It was the first time he’d touched her since she’d returned.

  As soon as Reg left for work, she showered. She put Luke on a towel on the floor, next to the tub, so she could see him. He kicked his legs and screwed up his face, made angry, grunting noises. He was never still, never settled—even when he slept, he fussed and whimpered. Sometimes he would wake suddenly, as if from a terrible nightmare, screaming and gasping. He was too little for dreams, she knew, too little even to focus. It would be another week or so until he would be able to see her properly. Imagine that, she thought. All the love and energy a mother gives her newborn and it doesn’t even know what she looks like.

  The shower was always either too hot or too cold, and she chose, according to the temperature outside, whether she wanted to be frozen or scalded. He said she exaggerated, that hardly anyone over here had a shower at all, as if she should be grateful, which she supposed she should—better here on this tiny rock in the ocean with a shower than without one.

  He thought things were different. She’d come back. He thought that meant she loved him. Perhaps he was right. She had not been able to sort out the conflicting feelings he stirred up in her. Somewhere in there, she thought, there might be love, or some version of it. A flicker. Enough to build on. Enough to come back. The look on his face when he’d opened the door to them. She’d almost wanted to laugh. He’d stared at her standing on the step, shivering, her bag at her feet, the baby secured to her with a length of stretchy fabric. She had no pram. No pushchair. Luke had started to cry.

  ‘Are you going to let us in?’

  He’d stepped aside without a word.

  Afterwards, he’d watched her while she’d unpacked her things, clearing space for Luke’s tiny babygrows in one of her drawers. When
Luke grizzled, he’d bent over the basket and picked him up, held him awkwardly.

  ‘Did you know, when you left?’

  ‘After . . . what happened . . . my cycle hadn’t gone back to normal.’ Her cheeks had burned at sharing so intimate a detail. Stupid, after everything that had happened. ‘I had no idea. And when I realised . . . I was scared. I didn’t know how to tell you.’

  ‘I’ve a telephone, you know.’ He’d sounded bemused but not angry.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked up from her folding. ‘He looks like you.’

  He’d stared down at Luke. ‘The eyes, maybe. All babies look the same.’ But he’d had the whisper of a smile about him. ‘You’re here to stay, then?’

  ‘Of course. I wasn’t well when I left. I wasn’t thinking straight. I am now.’

  He hadn’t looked convinced. But he’d lain Luke gently in the Moses basket, adjusted the blanket around him and helped her to unpack.

  17

  Michael

  The foghorn had been going since the early hours. He lay in bed waiting for each muffled blast. Lucky he wasn’t flying anywhere today. The horn was the harbinger of doom for anyone who had a flight booked: heavy fog invariably meant cancellations and delays at the airport. Frustrating if you had a business meeting on the mainland; devastating if you had flight connections to Disney World, Florida, as he and Sheila had one year. Fortunately, they’d not told Ellen where they were going and the insurance paid out. They’d managed a week at Center Parcs instead.

  He gave up on sleep at 5 a.m. Made himself a coffee and sipped at it while it was still scalding-hot, standing in the back doorway, watching as night lifted, the sky shifting, black to grey, before settling on a dense, sickly yellow. The fog was so thick he could hardly see the trunk of the apple tree, only feet away, just the branches, twigs laden with fruit, pointing at him accusatorily. It’s all on you, it seemed to be saying. The safety of an entire island is in your hands. He rubbed his eyes. He needed to get back to Sark and get this nightmare sorted.