by Lara Dearman
Luke Carré put down his book and gestured to the empty seats at the table.
‘You make friends quick, don’t you?’ Tuesday said. ‘I’ll get the drinks in.’
Jenny thanked her and took the chair next to Luke. not knowing what to make of the feeling she’d had when she’d first glimpsed him. She had wished, for more than a moment, that she had come to the pub alone.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Lonely. Drowning in sympathy.’
‘It’s frustrating.’ It had been the same after Charlie died. People insisted on telling her how sorry they were, offering help—like there was anything they could do. It wasn’t their fault. Margaret seemed to appreciate it. Jenny just wanted to change the subject, to keep her grief to herself.
Her phone buzzed in her bag. Twelve messages, a whole day’s worth.
‘Only place on the island with decent phone reception and free Wi-Fi,’ Luke said. ‘Everyone buzzes as they walk through the door.’
She scrolled through the messages. Her mum. Work. Graham wanted some more interviews with locals. She knew the sort of thing he was after. Pictures of people, wide-eyed and frightened, declaring themselves in fear for their lives. She wondered why she stuck with the Guernsey News. She could blame it on the lack of options—her only other choice on the island would be a corporate publication, writing for the La Manche in-flight magazine or one of the upmarket estate agents’ glossy monthlies, interviewing tax exiles in their three-million-pound post-modern glass-box houses on the cliffs. But it wasn’t that. She could hardly argue that what she was doing was any better, not usually. Reporting on vandalised hedge veg boxes, interviewing States’ deputies about planned changes to the education system. None of it was exciting. But every now and then, even on Guernsey, there was a story. And the Guernsey News, for all its small-town flaws, was the only place to tell one.
The last text was from Elliot: Can’t stop thinking about you. I should have stayed. Or not? Never know what you want! Let me know you’re OK. E
It was just past eight. According to the message she’d seen on his phone, the time he was seeing Jade for a drink. Perhaps he hadn’t gone. Perhaps it was a work-related meeting. Perhaps he was about to take her back to his place. Just like he had taken Jenny. She threw her phone back into her bag. This was why she stopped herself caring too much. The self-doubt. The complications. The constant feeling that she was fucking things up. She needed a drink. Tuesday was still at the bar, deep in conversation with the barman.
‘Bad news?’ Luke looked concerned.
‘Just work.’
‘You must be busy. Any updates from the police? I hear you’re friendly with DCI Gilbert.’
‘It’s a professional relationship,’ she snapped.
He furrowed his brow. ‘Obviously.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘Although you seem a bit touchy about it.’
‘I’m sorry. Long day. Have you managed to get into your dad’s place?’
‘No. It’s still a crime scene. I spent a couple of hours on the common. Used to play there as a kid. It was practically my back garden. One of my good memories. Lying in the sunshine, escaping my parents’ rows for an hour or so.’ He took a swig of his pint. ‘It’s funny. Sad, really. Back then, I never thought I’d miss them, you know? Thought if they’d both just disappear, my life would be brilliant. I’d be fine in the cottage by myself. And if anything went wrong, I could go and see Mrs Perré. She always looked out for me. Even before Mum really did disappear. God, I felt guilty after Mum left. Felt like I’d wished her away. I remember crying into my pillow a couple of weeks after she’d gone, convinced it was my fault.’
‘Ah, you’ve always been a wimp, Luke Carré.’ The sneering, slurred tones of Malcolm Perré, who had got down from his stool and was lounging against the bar, a short, heavy glass of what looked like whisky in his hand.
‘Stop it, Malcolm.’ The woman next to him looked mortified. ‘I’m so sorry, Luke. We’ve had a stressful day; he’s had too much to drink.’
‘No problem, Mrs Perré.’ Luke lifted his pint towards Malcolm. ‘You’re right, Mr Perré. And I was always grateful to your lovely wife for looking out for me.’
‘’S’actly right. Should be fucking grateful. Caused us enough fucking problems, didn’t you?’
‘Malcolm, stop!’ Sharon’s voice cut across the chatter in the bar, which had already fallen to a hum and was now completely silenced.
‘Oooh, the missus is upset. I’m in for a right fucking ear-bashing when I get home.’ He drained his glass and attempted to slam it back on the bar. He missed and it fell to the floor, shattering into pieces. He barely missed a beat. ‘Sorry, Tom.’ He waved to the barman. ‘Sorry, mate. Missed the bar.’ He looked genuinely aggrieved that he’d broken the glass, but when he turned to Luke, there was nothing close to regret on his face.
‘And I’m sorry, Luke. Course none of this is your fault. Didn’t ask to be born, now did you?’
Tears fell silently down Sharon Perré’s cheeks.
‘And really, if I was going to blame anyone, it should be your old man, eh? If he hadn’t bumped off your mum, my Sharon wouldn’t have had to look after you, would she? Wouldn’t have had to look after your old man neither, would she? Fucking slag that she is.’
A fist came flying. A splatter of blood hit the table. Jenny cried out. Luke reached across and pulled her chair back, towards him and away from Malcolm Perré as the man crashed to the floor, moaning, hands held to a heavily bleeding nose.
Broken glass crunched beneath Tuesday Jones’s feet as she stepped back to survey her handiwork.
‘Sorry, darling’—Tuesday turned to Sharon, who stood shell-shocked—‘but your husband is a first-class cunt.’
‘Are you going to write about me in the paper, then?’ Tuesday finished her third rum and Coke, and slammed the glass on the table.
‘What would the headline be?’ Jenny was halfway through her second pint of cider and could see Tom at the bar lining up another round. She’d tried to drink slowly, had intended to guide the conversation to Reg Carré’s murder, to gauge Tuesday’s reaction, perhaps even to mention Len Mauger, but it had been difficult, the talk dominated by Malcolm’s outburst and Tuesday’s reaction to it.
‘How about “Mad Cow Hits Mad Bastard in Sark Pub”? Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? Joke! Don’t hit me!’ Luke had had too much to drink and half laughed, half sobbed as he slumped back in his chair.
‘We’ve all listened to years of Malcolm’s shit,’ Tuesday said. ‘He moans about everything and everyone. We just roll our eyes and ignore him, fine. But’—she pointed at Luke—‘I’m not having talk like that about his wife. That’s out of order. Sharon’s a good woman. God knows how she puts up with him. And I’m betting that’s not the worst of it either. It’s time someone put that man in his place.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jenny asked.
‘Man talks about his wife like that in front of other people? What do you think he’s like behind closed doors?’
‘Oh, I’ve seen him behind closed doors.’ The trace of a smile still lingered on Luke’s lips but faded as he cast his mind back. ‘He came over once. Couple of years after Mum left. It wasn’t pretty, believe me. Mouthing off. Think that’s the worst of it, though. He’s all talk.’
‘All the nasty things he says to his wife—you think mouthing off is as far as it goes? I wouldn’t be so sure.’ Jenny sensed a malevolence in Malcolm Perré that went beyond words.
‘Nor would I,’ Tuesday added. ‘You don’t know the man, not anymore. How many years since you lived here?’
‘Coming on twenty. But I do know Malcolm. I know this island. It never leaves you, doesn’t matter how long you’re away. If you’re a local, of course. Born and raised. Different for an interloper like you.’ He flashed another smile, but Tuesday was tense, eyes narrowed. For a moment, Jenny thought she was about to lash out again. The atmosphere was broken with the arrival of Tom, another tray
of drinks balanced on one hand.
‘Right, that’s your lot. Drink up. Your help with the cleaning up was much appreciated, but the last thing I need is the police busting me for a lock-in.’
‘Shit. Is that the time?’ Past midnight. Jenny looked out onto the courtyard. Pitch-black. The thought of the dark, silent roads back to the guesthouse made her shudder.
‘You all right?’ Tuesday asked.
‘Yes. I need to get back. I’ve still got work to do.’
‘You’re staying at Rosie’s guesthouse?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
‘But that’s silly. You live across the street.’
‘Tell you what’s silly—you riding around by yourself while there’s a killer on the loose.’
‘But then you’ll have to get back to your place alone.’
‘I think we all agree I can handle myself. Like Lukey here says—I’m a mad cow.’ She downed her drink and picked up her bag. ‘I’m going to have a quick cigarette. I’ll see you outside.’ She bade good night to Tom and strode out of the door.
‘I offended her.’ Luke shifted in his chair. ‘Shit. I’ve had too much to drink. This place. I don’t know why I came here. It’s just making everything worse.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘Should have come more when he was alive. Waste of fucking time being here now. Calling myself a local. What a dick. Will you apologise for me?’
‘To Tuesday?’
He nodded. ‘I should have punched him. Should have stood up for Sharon. Everything she did for me.’
She recognised his grief and the guilt he felt for leaving home, for never returning, for not being there for Reg, and she knew it was a weight he would carry for a long time, perhaps for ever. She reached across the table. Placed her hand over his.
‘It gets easier.’
‘Does it ever go away?’
She shook her head.
‘Everybody out!’ Tom switched off the main lights. The glow from the exit signs bathed them all in a dim, sickly green. Luke took her hand in his. Gave it a gentle squeeze.
‘Time to go.’ His expression was unreadable. He got up, pushed past her chair and left without another word.
They’d started walking, Jenny holding her torch, Tuesday smoking another cigarette, when Jenny remembered.
‘Shit. I’ve left the bike.’
‘No worries. Go back and get it. I’ll wait here.’ Tuesday settled back against the wall of Ariel’s Grotto.
It was only fifty or so feet back to the Mermaid. She had left the bike in a rack at the rear of the pub. She entered the courtyard. Darker here. She shone her torch around quickly. Unnecessarily. She’d left only minutes ago.
Hers was the only bike there. The tyre was jammed into the stand and she had to rock it back and forth to work it loose. It popped out, suddenly, and she stumbled backwards, dropping her torch, which skittered over the paving stones and into a ditch, the border between the pub and the fields behind it.
She was in almost complete darkness. She resisted the urge to shout for help, to curl up in a ball, wrap her arms around her, to protect herself from the night. Instead, she took a deep breath, propped the bike against the wall, took tentative steps towards the faint glow of torchlight. The ditch was deep and wide, and the only way to reach the torch was to get in. She sank into leaves up to her knees. They were cool and damp round her ankles, brittle and dry on top. She waded over to retrieve the torch. It sank further into the leaves and the light dimmed until the blackness was almost unbearable. She could feel the scream growing in her chest, rising, her mouth open, ready to unleash it, when she felt the handle, grabbed the torch and shone it back and forth, side to side.
A noise from the field.
She stopped. Listened. Nothing. The gentle swishing of the grass in the meadow. The rustling of leaves at her feet. She’d imagined it. She turned to climb out of the ditch. Heard it again.
A low rumble. Not mechanical. Animal.
And then something else.
Closer, closer, until she could clearly hear the padding of feet over the thudding of her heart.
A deep, sustained growl.
It was a dog. But the sound was longer and lower than she’d ever heard before. It echoed around her, filling the air and her ears, making her skin tingle, the hairs on her arms stand straight. When it stopped, the silence was heavier than it had been before and loaded with menace.
Calm down. Her earlier panic at being alone in the dark had left her feeling vulnerable. Exposed. It was just a dog. Dogs acted on instinct. She had come too close to its territory; it wanted her to go, that was all. She was going. It had no reason to harm her.
No sudden movements. She turned, a slow pivot, trying to make as little noise as possible, and pulled herself out of the ditch, muscles tensed, elbows straining, legs trembling.
Slowly. Softly. A few steps back to the pub. She eased the bike away from the wall and waited until she was astride it before shining the torch back in the direction of the field.
It was empty. But that made no sense. She could still hear it breathing, each exhalation slow and heavy with moisture. It sounded so close she fancied she could feel it, warm and damp against her bare skin, the nape of her neck, the tops of her arms, round her ankles. It chilled her to the bone. That ever-present fist of disquiet that nestled within, already shaken by the day’s events, opened, stretched its cold fingers upwards, grasped her round the throat, forcing out a strangled cry. With her feet on the ground, Jenny half ran, half rode the bike round the picnic tables and towards the front of the pub.
Behind her, the splashing of dry leaves. A thud, so heavy it felt like the ground vibrated beneath her. The scraping of claws on concrete.
She cycled as fast as she could, nearly coming off the bike as she came through the archway onto the loose earth of the path at too sharp an angle, righting herself just in time, screeching to a stop outside Ariel’s Grotto. Tuesday was sitting astride a mountain bike that looked far too big for her, smoking another cigarette.
‘Come on!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Dog.’
‘Where?’ Tuesday peered into the darkness. ‘I can’t see nothing.’
‘It was chasing me.’ Jenny’s hand shook as she held out the torch. The road was empty. ‘I heard it.’
‘What sort of dog?’
‘Didn’t see. Sounded big. Let’s go.’ She cycled ahead, imaging the feeling of those claws against her bare legs. Those teeth against her throat. She cycled faster, heard the creak of Tuesday’s bike behind. Only when she reached the end of the Avenue did she slow down and check behind her. Nothing. Tuesday caught up. She had somehow managed to smoke and ride.
‘Told you. There’s nothing there.’ She flicked her cigarette butt into the undergrowth.
There was nothing there. Not now.
They set off again, Jenny’s heart still thumping, her stomach still cold, the familiar aftermath of an adrenaline rush. She felt exhausted. Like she’d been on the island for weeks. And she’d got nowhere. Achieved nothing. Her dad. The bones. Reg Carré. Len Mauger. The boats. Her brain was in overdrive, churning the facts and the fictions, imagining connections that didn’t exist and creatures in the shadows. Get a grip, Jenny. Get a fucking grip.
They had left the village. The combined light from both bikes was just enough to keep them on the path. The cloud cover was still thick, the moon a milky blur. No stars. Tuesday wobbled alongside, barely able to steady herself, her feet several inches above the ground.
‘Is that bike yours?’
Tuesday shook her head. ‘Borrowed it.’
‘Who from?’
‘Whoever left it outside the pub.’
‘You stole it?’
‘Keep your hair on! I’ll put it back. You’re a right goody two-shoes, aren’t you?’
‘What? No. I’m not, actually. What makes you say that?’
‘You remind me of a school prefec
t or something. Not that we had them at my school. You’re what I imagine a school prefect would be like, though.’
‘I was a prefect, actually.’
‘Ha!’ Tuesday cackled. ‘Knew it.’
‘But I’ve never stuck to the rules. Not when they needed breaking.’
‘Is that right? Nosing around and selective rule-breaking—you should’ve been a copper.’
The track narrowed and steepened. Tuesday pulled ahead and Jenny followed, both of them silent as they put all of their effort into climbing the hill before freewheeling down the other side. Tuesday screeched to a stop outside Rosie’s.
‘Hope you’ve got a key? Old Rosie will have been in bed for hours.’
‘Yes. I have, thank you. Thanks for coming back with me.’ She paused. ‘It’s funny you saying I should have joined the police.’
‘Is it?’
‘I do like to investigate. Always have. I wanted to ask you about something, actually.’
‘Oh yeah?’ A hint of defensiveness.
‘I’ve heard rumours about boats out at night. Lights flashing. Around Brecqhou.’
‘I knew it. You listen to me—you can tell Corey Monroe I haven’t taken my tours anywhere near his precious island, as well he knows.’ Her face was in shadow, but her voice was clear as a bell.
She did not, Jenny thought, sound like a woman with something to hide. If anything, she’d shown a tendency to overshare. Both her feelings and her fists.
‘I didn’t hear it from Monroe.’
