by Matt Drabble
There was a storm coming in more ways than one. Some of the old-timers on the island were worried about it and that worried him. Those old bastards didn’t get much wrong when it came to reading the signs.
He was a neat man, always dressed impeccably - regardless of the rugged casual nature of the island - shunning plaid lumberjack shirts for smart suits.
He could feel every eye watching him from every window on the dock. The town was nervous and he could almost taste the fear in the air; he could also feel the pressure pressing down on his shoulders as the entire population looked to him to save them.
The logging business was dead. It had limped on for the past few years, but now it was time to pull the plug and let it die.
For over 700 years, a Clayton had run the town and overseen its survival. His own father had told him on multiple occasions that he was a disappointment and had even foreseen the demise of Clayton under Dale’s reign; now it was coming true. It seemed like the more he tried to avoid his father’s prophecy, the quicker it was coming true.
He resisted the urge to stamp his feet against the creeping dampness as he refused to look frail in front of the watching town. Much of his life had been about hiding his weakness. He had never been a strong man and had to rely on his quick mind over his slow body, but now he was barely hanging on.
The mill would officially go under within weeks and the development deal with Merlin was all he had left. It was the only thing that could save his town and prove his father wrong, and that was the only thing that mattered.
He’d shut the mill down a couple of weeks ago, telling everyone that it was just a routine holiday, but the truth was, it would never reopen.
He looked around the dock and saw a familiar sight that now blighted his town. There was peeling paint and rotting wood. A slow creeping sickness had come to Clayton and he had to stop it before it took hold and killed the town.
‘Cartwright’s Boat Repair’ had boards up across broken windows because old Sam couldn’t afford to replace the glass.
Pearl Christian ran the local cafe and was surreptitiously walking her dog, Jasper, in the background. The woman was always pleasant and friendly, but she had one of the sharpest minds on the island and her eyes were always watching.
Bernard Hale was the harbour master and ran a tight ship, pun intended. He was a salty old sea dog and always seemed grumpy regardless of his actual mood, as though misery had seeped into his bones along with the sea air.
“Clayton,” Bernard said with a curt nod as he approached, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his thick overcoat and a small hand-carved pipe protruding from his lips.
“Bernard.” He nodded in reply.
“Be here soon. Just rounded St Julian’s drift; won’t be long.”
“Guess not.”
Bernard absently fiddled with his pipe. Since his heart attack 9 months ago, Dr Simmons had suggested he stop lighting his pipe. Bernard had protested, but Dr Marion Simmons was probably the only person on the island more stubborn than the harbour master.
“Reckon he’ll save us then?”
Clayton bristled at the wording of the question. It seemed that no matter what he did, he would never be afforded the respect that his father had.
“I think I’ll save us, Bernard. Let’s not forget who’s bringing the man here. Let’s not forget whose plan this is.”
“Crying shame about the mill. Can’t imagine your father ever letting that happen.”
Clayton resisted the urge to lash out at the old man. No one seemed to know exactly how old Bernard was, but it seemed like he’d run the harbour forever. Like most of the old-timers on the island, they viewed the past through tinted glasses where everything was better and everything bad was filtered out.
“Times change, Bernard. We have to change with them.”
“Nothing much changes here,” Bernard said as he spat onto the dock.
“Yes, but like it or not, we exist within the confines of the rest of the world. No one’s buying lumber much anymore and we have to adapt.”
“Reckon your father would have found a better way.”
Clayton turned to snap as his temper slipped a notch at the old fool standing next to him, but his words were stopped as the ferry sounded its horn and rounded into view.
He could feel the attentions turning of all of those in the background as they stopped all pretence of minding their own business and stood watching. This was supposed to have been a secret meeting, but nothing ever stayed a secret on the island. Everyone soon knew who was coming and why.
Dale Clayton stood up straight and put on his game face. He had gone to college on the mainland and he knew how they thought. Jeremy Haynes was coming to exploit them, of that he had no doubt, but the man was in for a rude awakening.
----------
Quinn watched on as they pulled into the harbour. Even from here, she could feel the eyes watching from the shadows. Nothing seemed to have changed from the day she’d left, except maybe a little ageing, but then they’d both done their fair share of that.
“What should we tell people if they ask?” her boss asked, whispering.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, what sort of cover story? Mr Clayton assured me that he’d keep our meeting’s reason private.”
“Everyone knows.”
“He promised me that he wouldn’t tell.”
“Probably didn’t.” She shrugged. “This is a small island, Mr Haynes. Everything comes out whether you want it to or not, but if it’s any consolation, we keep our secrets; they bury them deep in Clayton.”
On that ominous note, the ferry bumped up against the harbour wall and soon a couple of mates had slipped the ropes over sturdy metal posts to secure the ship.
The ferry was only large enough for a couple of vehicles and had a licence to carry 25 passengers at a time.
Haynes had wanted to drive over, but she’d stopped him. Bringing over his kind of flash vehicle seemed wrong to her somehow. Islanders didn’t like ostentation and he was going to have to build bridges quickly.
All baggage, along with their cases, had been carried out of storage and stacked on the deck. Quinn watched in slight amusement as Haynes waited for someone to appear and carry his bags for him.
“We carry our own weight here, Mr Haynes,” she told him quietly as she picked up her bags.
She had to suppress a grin as she watched her boss struggle. She had given him a list of what to bring - appropriate footwear and clothing - but judging by the weight of his cases, he hadn’t listened.
There was the oddest sensation as she stepped from the ferry and onto the dock. A chill ran up her spine, making her shudder, and her breath caught in her throat.
The feeling was gone as quickly as it had arrived, and she silently scolded herself for being childish. She had left Clayton as a child, but was returning a woman and determined to show it. That didn’t mean, however, that she intended to spend a second longer on the island than strictly necessary.
----------
Caleb Bowman heard the ruckus way before he reached the door of Ieuan Clarks’ store. The hunting supply outlet was the only stop on the island for those with such a disposition.
There was a distinctive camouflage-coloured quad bike parked outside and its owner, Cooper Fox, was a known trouble maker with a large personality and a larger mouth.
Caleb opened the door and stepped inside to a tirade of raised voices.
“It’s over £200 you owe me, Cooper, and I’m not letting you have anything else until you settle your bill,” Ieuan announced loudly.
Caleb could see Ieuan standing defiantly behind his counter but Cooper towered over the small, usually timid, man and he could only wonder at the amount of provocation required to set Ieuan to such anger.
“You little weasel” Cooper snarled as he reached out and snatched a handful of Ieuan’s shirt. “All the money I’ve spent in here down the years, and you’re going to embarrass me in fr
ont of people?”
Caleb scanned the scene and wasn’t surprised to see Anderson Jennings backing Cooper up. Bullies like Cooper always needed an audience and Anderson followed the man around like a puppy.
“Let him go, Cooper,” Caleb announced as he walked to the counter.
“Constable,” Ieuan said with no small amount of relief in his voice.
“He insulted me.” Cooper pouted.
“I heard him,” Anderson chimed in.
“I want an apology,” Cooper pressed.
“If he insulted you, then it’s probably fair to say that you deserved it,” Caleb said before dropping his own voice an octave or two. “Now let him go.”
Cooper turned, and for a moment, Caleb wondered if the man was going to have to be upgraded from a pain in the ass to something more serious.
They were both around the same height at six foot two, but where Cooper’s bulk was soft and doughy, Caleb’s was toned and dangerous.
Cooper eventually relented and released his grip. He turned and made to slink away, but Caleb stopped him with a strong hand to the chest.
“I think you owe Ieuan something?” he added firmly.
“Sorry,” Cooper muttered under his breath with great reluctance.
“Actually, I was thinking more of your unpaid bill,” Caleb corrected him.
“£217.45,” Ieuan announced as he produced a sheet of paper to prove his figures.
“You heard the man,” Caleb said, still blocking Cooper’s path.
“I haven’t got it,” he muttered even lower under his breath.
“Then we’ll take a down payment. Empty your pockets.”
“Hey, you can’t do that! Tin badge or not, that’s not right!” Cooper blustered.
“You want me to turn you upside down and shake it out of you?” Caleb asked pleasantly.
He waited while the man emptied his pockets, and then Cooper forced Anderson to do the same.
“£85.43,” Caleb said as he counted the money out and handed it over to Ieuan.
“Can I go now?” Cooper whined and Caleb waved him towards the door.
“Have you seen her yet?” Anderson suddenly piped up out of nowhere.
“Excuse me?”
“Quinn. I heard she’s coming in on the ferry today. Have you seen her yet?” Anderson asked, blushing furiously.
“No, Anderson, I haven’t. I know that you carried a torch for her when we were kids, but don’t let me catch you bothering her, understand?”
Anderson dropped his gaze and nodded frantically.
“And one more thing, Cooper,” Caleb added as the men slinked towards the door. “Don’t let me catch you drinking in Casey’s until this bill is paid.”
The man said something that Caleb assumed was vile as he left, but he left all the same.
“Thank you, Constable,” Ieuan said gratefully when the door was slammed shut.
“You keep an eye for him, Ieuan. You hear me? Cooper’s a one for grudges, we both know that. He comes back around, then you call me; clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Ieuan replied with a comical salute.
Caleb wandered back outside and checked the street to make sure that Cooper and his buddy weren’t lurking nearby waiting for him to leave. Once he was sure, he started back up the street again.
Clayton was by and large a peaceful community. He was the only policeman on the island, but he was never required to do much more than break up the occasional bar brawl.
There had been a spate of petty thefts a couple of years back but the culprit, a 15 year old boy, had been handed in by his mother. That was the thing with island life: they looked after their own and dealt with their own too.
The entire Clayton police force consisted of him and Dorothy Peck. Dottie was a crabby old bird who barked rather than spoke. She had run the office for as long as anyone could remember and carried more respect around town than Caleb could ever hope to obtain.
Caleb took the radio from his belt and raised it to his lips.
“Dottie?” he asked.
“What?”
“Any update on the storm?”
“Nothing particularly new, but Jared Macdonald thinks it will be a big one, maybe the biggest this century.”
“I meant more in line of something a little more scientific, like an update on the mainland weather report?”
“Well, I’ll take Jared’s gut over any machine,” Dottie replied haughtily, and Caleb knew there was no point in arguing.
“Well, make a note - Cooper Fox was making trouble at Ieuan’s.”
“Hope you gave that waste of space a good hiding.”
Caleb couldn’t help but smile. “You can’t solve every problem by hitting it with a blunt object, Dottie.”
“No, but I’d give it a good go. He have his sidekick with him?”
“Yeah. Anderson Jennings was in tow as per usual.”
“Consider it noted,” and with that she was gone, curt as always.
Caleb placed the radio back on his belt and continued on his way.
His biggest job at present was that apparently Taylor Cole had wandered off again. The man was a hopeless drunk but he wasn’t all bad. More than once, Caleb had had to make the man sleep it off in the town’s makeshift station.
Tommy O’Brien had called earlier to say that a window had been broken at his store and a bottle of whiskey was gone, and given the fact that Caleb had instructed Casey not to serve Taylor last night, it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
He figured that Taylor would come wandering back into town once he sobered up, full of remorse and promises to change, and Tommy would forgive the broken window. Islanders looked after their own.
Caleb was 42 years old with a 43rd notch rapidly approaching on the horizon. Life was good and he enjoyed his life. He was never short of offers of company but largely enjoyed his own.
Dale Clayton’s jeep made a distinctive sound and was one of the few cars on the island. The echoing nature of travelling sound here announced approaching vehicles in plenty of time for people to clear the street.
He stepped up onto the wooden walkway as the jeep drove past. Clayton was behind the wheel with a newcomer sat beside him, and Caleb raised a hand to the pair of them but the motion died as he suddenly spotted the blonde woman in the back and he recognised a pretty face that he hadn’t seen in more years than he cared to remember.
“Why, Caleb, you look like you have seen a ghost!” Casey Parker startled him as she walked out of her bar.
“Miss Parker, I think I just have.”
CHAPTER 2
Memories, all alone in the moonlight
The girl was 11 years old and her heart was pounding hard against her fragile chest with a heady mixture of fear and adrenaline.
The catacombs stretched out before her shrouded in darkness without a light to spare. She carried a small flashlight but still felt strange about switching it on and announcing her presence.
The dare had been simple, and she had accepted it eagerly: get into the monastery and get out with something of proof. Her best friend had dared her then double dared her and she never backed down from that sort of challenge.
Mentally, she was trying to remember her route so that she could find her way out again, but she already felt lost in the dark.
She pressed on regardless, determined to find a treasure that would impress everyone at school come Monday morning.
Everyone she knew had a story about the monastery and the nutcases that lived there. Although she was only 11, she already knew that most stories were just that - baseless tales from people with too much time on their hands.
She was sure that The Niners were just like everyone else in town, albeit a little too attached to their religion.
It was a fine theory, but of course it played better in her mind in the daylight rather than when creeping around the catacombs alone in the middle of the night.
She felt her way along the walls. The stone felt
damp to the touch under her trembling hand, and every now and then, she’d touch something wet and sticky.
As she rounded a slight bend, she spotted a glowing light at the end of the tunnel and crept towards it. As she drew closer, she was suddenly aware of soft voices echoing along the walls towards her.
She peered around the corner and saw a large ancient-looking door which was open and noticed that the tunnel opened up through it into a chamber. Lit torches hung from encircling brackets and cast a flickering glow into the room, illuminating several figures.
They were all wearing long white robes like something out of a late-night movie. The voices all seemed to be male in nature and all were chanting in unison.
Despite her fear, the girl still found herself moving forwards. Whatever was happening here, she was going to have a story to tell the whole school; that was, until she saw the knife.
The silver blade glinted in the light of the flame, and the head guy was raising the long knife high up over his head. The figures were all hunched over and obscuring whatever was on the stone table before them.
The man with the blade was chanting louder now, his voice rising in pitch and tempo.
The girl watched on with morbid fascination, unable to move. The blade hesitated in the air, and the whole world was on pause for a moment, but that was broken by the scream.
The girl leapt back in fright as the air was pierced by an impossibly high-pitched wail of sheer terror. She fell backwards and landed with a large bump, alerting the others to her presence.
Faces turned towards her, male expressions of naked anger buried beneath white ceremonial hoods. She locked eyes with the knife-wielding man. There was a powerful moment of electricity between them before a second scream broke the lock.
The lamb on the table whined in fright, its voice high-pitched like a girl’s. It writhed under the ropes binding it, its eyes wide and terrified.
The girl scrambled back to her feet and ran blindly back into the darkness from whence she’d come.
She sprinted until her lungs felt like they would burst. She soon lost all sense of direction but just kept running. In the darkness she could hear thundering footsteps chasing her, but the echoing nature of the catacombs made it impossible to tell how close they were behind her.
