Sealfinger (Sam Applewhite Book 1)

by Heide Goody

  “Whatever,” said Ogendus. He clutched at a stylised hammer pendant hanging at his chest from a leather strop. “I swear on almighty Thor that me lads are innocent.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Sam. “I’m sure you do.”

  “Do not deny my fervour, lass!”

  “You’ll keep your voice down in this place or I’ll be forced to have words!” she retorted hotly.

  Sam wouldn’t usually get confrontational with a man twice her age and a very loose attitude to conventional morality, but she was hungover, she had to present herself as an authority figure in front of the Odinson tribe, and this man, despite his manner, had come to her in the manner of a supplicant.

  “You think your boys are going to be blamed?” she asked.

  “They allus get t’blame,” he said simply. “You Saxons allus blames us. An’ Torsten is tryin’ his best.”

  “Ah.”

  It made sense now. Partial sense at least. Torsten Odinson – young, blond, beefy, with a softer heart and brain than he’d care to let on. Torsten Odinson was currently subject to a community payback order. Something about an argument outside a pub and an assault. DefCon4 had a regional contract for overseeing community service, and Sam had the power to refer people back to court if she thought they weren’t meeting the terms of their court order.

  “Has Torsten been picking fights in pubs again?” asked Sam.

  “He ’as not,” said Ogendus firmly.

  “Then he has nothing to worry about,” said Sam.

  “As long as tha knows that. Me an’ the lads are tryin’ to do right. We’re applying for a new ’ouse from the Saxon social. Not one of them B an’ Bs, but our own ’ouse. Do right by me lads.”

  “Away from the Odinson compound?” said Sam.

  Ogendus said nothing to that. It didn’t matter. The idea that he and his sons could get a housing association place, or any other kind of social housing, was a pipe dream. If children and single parents, particularly single mothers, were at the front of the housing queue, then adults, especially men, living as a family or not, were at the back. There weren’t enough spaces to accommodate existing needs, here in Skegness or anywhere else. Ogendus Odinson and his offspring could keep their noses clean for the rest of their lives; the chances of getting any assistance with housing was virtually nil.

  Ogendus began heaping teaspoons of sugar into his tea.

  “And how did you know about the break-in at Seal Land?”

  Ogendus narrowed his eyes. “Are police scanners illegal?”

  “Let’s pretend they’re not,” said Sam.

  “I ’eard that daft apath Hackett’s gonna get some evidence tested. Though ’is inspector ain’t impressed.”

  “Right.”

  Cat clattered in the kitchen as she served up.

  “I don’t think anyone’s going to blame your sons,” said Sam. “Although, if one of them is missing a trainer and a few toes, you let me know.”

  Her phone buzzed. The caller ID came up as Karen MoW and it took Sam’s struggling brain time to recall who that was.

  Cat came round the counter with a large fry up for Ogendus and a paper bag for Sam.

  “I’ve got to take this,” said Sam, standing. She took the sausage roll off Cat and then, because hangovers made her cruel, said, “Cat’s writing a play, Ogendus.”

  “Oh, tha’s one of them there authors?” said Ogendus automatically.

  “You read?” said Cat, surprised.

  “I … can.”

  “It’s a work of youth theatre set after a cataclysmic disaster,” said Cat. “Less of the hero’s journey, more the heroine’s journey. My beta-readers at Skegness Operatic and Dramatic Society say it’s a sort of Hunger Games, but I don’t want to pigeonhole it as science fiction. I think it’s got more of a non-linear experimental quality. I couldn’t even begin to properly describe it…”

  As Cat began to earnestly describe her indescribable play, and Ogendus’s breakfast cooled before him, Sam slipped out and answered the call.

  “Hey, Karen. What’s up?”

  “Hi,” said the regular meals on wheels woman. “How’s things? I’ve got a question about last week’s meals. Mrs Skipworth.”

  Mrs Skipworth. The woman in Welton le Marsh with the grumpy cat cups and the ghost sightings in the graveyard.

  “Yes. Ah…” Sam wondered if she’d have to explain a series of events that involved an anti-social seal, a bearded mannequin and a lot of ruined dinners.

  “Did you see her when you did your rounds?” said Karen.

  “Yeah. She made a complaint or something?”

  “Not at all. She didn’t answer her door yesterday. I made a note of it. She’s got a niece or something in Grantham, but I wasn’t aware she’d gone away.”

  “I saw her,” said Sam. “She was in fine spirits.”

  “Right.” There was an uncomfortable hesitation on the line.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go out there at some point,” said Sam. “I need to pick up Consuela. Um, a friend. I could drop in and check on her.”

  “Would you?” said Karen with undisguised relief.

  “Sure.” Sam took her phone away from her ear for a moment to look at her calendar. “I’ve got a house check to do first, but straight after, yeah. I’ll head out to Welton.”

  29

  Jimmy woke up late. It had been a long and extremely unpleasant night.

  He couldn’t take Wayne home. He didn’t want Wayne’s mum or sister asking questions about what the hell had happened to the man’s foot. The truth would have been out in seconds and, though they might not have called the police, they would have taken him to the hospital, which would have amounted to the same thing. No way was Jimmy taking Wayne to his place either. This horrid business had invaded Jimmy’s personal space, his mental space, far more than he liked. No, Wayne wasn’t coming home with him.

  He had considered booking them into the Premier Inn by the pier, but even with the automated check-in console and a low likelihood of facing awkward questions from staff, it still seemed a step too far. And so they had come to Shore View. The fitters had come in and put windows and doors on the first cargo container, turning a crappy, rusting box into a crappy, rusting building. With plastic-wrapped fibreglass insulation rolls Jimmy had constructed two narrow beds and then, exhausted, he’d slept.

  Wayne snored loudly in the other bed. Any other time Wayne’s appalling snoring would have driven Jimmy mad, but right now he was grateful the man was still alive. Sacha had seemed a little uncertain about some of the doses he was administering. The vet’s usual reference point was a horse, and it had been hard for Sacha to determine what size pony Wayne was equivalent to.

  Letting Wayne snore on, Jimmy got up from his sweaty, plastic-wrapped bed and stepped outside.

  The beach stretched for forever in either direction, Skegness town was lost in a haze to the south. The sun was high. The sea sparkled and almost looked blue for once, rather than its usual palette of slate grey and estuary brown. A stiff but not unpleasant breeze wafted in from across the waves. The world looked bearable. The vile deeds of the past days had not gone from his mind, the body was still in the back of the van, and the cold and calculating part of Jimmy which had carried him through the worst of it was still there, asleep in its cave at the back of his mind. But, for a moment, he could rise above those things, put his life on pause, and appreciate the sun and the sea.

  He went to the tiny site office, filled the kettle from a water drum, and put it on for a cuppa. He took two brews back to the half-finished container house. Wayne was stirring.

  “Hey, mate, how you feeling?” Jimmy asked.

  “Thirsty,” said Wayne, starting to sit up.

  “Take it easy. I’ve brought you a cuppa. You need to rest.”

  Jimmy made him a pillow of another fibreglass pack and passed him his tea. Wayne sipped. His face lacked colour and there was a sweaty, lemon-yellow sheen to his skin.

  “Whoa, cool
,” whispered Wayne.

  Jimmy followed the big lad’s gaze down to the end of the bed.

  One foot still had the trainer on from yesterday, while the other ended with the bizarre brace Sacha had fastened on. It wasn’t just held on with a strap. Clickable bands, like the fastenings on ski boots, clamped it to Wayne’s leg. His stump was a mass of dressings, nestled tightly within the framework of Sacha’s ironmongery, giving him a peg-leg but no foot.

  “I’m Robocop,” grinned Wayne. “This is even better than a bionic leg.”

  “Is it? Yeah.”

  “Sacha’s brilliant.”

  “Yeah, about Sacha. We probably don’t want to mention his name too much when we talk about this stuff.”

  “Look at me!” declared Wayne, ignoring Jimmy completely. He pushed off the bed and lurched forward onto his braced leg. He hit the floor and somehow did a very ungainly version of the splits. “Ooh, ooh. Help me, Jimmy!”

  “Fuck’s sake, Wayne,” hissed Jimmy. The cold squid uncoiled in his brain-cave and prepared to take over. Jimmy forced it back. “Look. Rest up a little bit, for crying out loud.”

  “I’m fine,” said Wayne. “Cup of tea’ll sort me right out. We got a body to get rid of, haven’t we?”

  “You’re not wrong,” said Jimmy, “but that’ll keep for a while. Drink your tea.”

  30

  Sam’s phone beeped a reminder as she bit into the sausage roll. The accommodation inspection. No time for the sausage roll now. She put it back into the paper bag and stuffed it into a pocket. The address was about half a mile away. She could get there on foot if she hurried.

  She glanced around the houses after some serious power walking. She was looking for Lavender Court bed and breakfast. Inspecting accommodation facilities which were used for benefits claimants was another thing DefCon4 had scooped up in its efforts to step in where local government faltered. If the likes of Ogendus Odinson and his sons were at the back of the queue for social housing, the people at the front weren’t necessarily going to be placed in flats or houses of their own. Skegness had an abundant supply of bed and breakfasts and cut-price hotels. Placing claimants in those had originally been a convenient stop-gap, but was now a deliberate part of housing policy.

  Sam scanned the names as she walked. Sunnyside, Elrond House and yes, Lavender Court. She went to the front door and tried the handle. It was locked, so she rang the bell.

  It was answered by a teenager wearing earphones. “Yeah?” he asked.

  “I’ve come to do the inspection,” said Sam. “Maybe I need to speak with the owners?”

  The teen issued a grunting sound that Sam interpreted as “Do come in, I’ll find them for you,” but more closely resembled the noise her office chair made when she sat down too quickly.

  He led Sam inside and into what was probably the breakfast room. He closed the door and disappeared. Sam waited for a moment or two, but he didn’t return straightaway. She decided she might as well get on with the inspection while she waited. She consulted the notes on her phone.

  * * *

  Communal Facilities: Check for Cleanliness and Signs of Over-Occupancy.

  * * *

  This facility could accommodate thirty guests, so she looked around for signs that it was home to more than that. There was a door at the back of the breakfast room which led into the kitchen.

  Much of the inspection focussed on a basic hygiene assessment. She started with the cooker. It looked very basic to cope with thirty guests: one of those odd little ranges which turned up in some of the older houses. Not as functionally rich as an actual AGA, but some people swore by them. She opened the oven door to check for grease. Something in the dark cooed: a fluting ‘plibble plibble’ noise.

  She recoiled and pushed the door shut.

  She’d had quite enough of opening doors and finding unexpected creatures on the other side in the past week. The likelihood of there being a seal in the oven was very low (of course, she would have said the same of finding a seal in the back of her van), but seals did not go ‘plibble plibble’. In truth, she couldn’t think what creature did.

  Curiosity – damned stupid, uncontrollable curiosity – made her open the door again. Cautiously this time. But it wasn’t just her curiosity that had been roused. The moment the oven door was open, two small long-legged birds flapped out and jumped to the floor.

  Sam fell back in renewed surprise.

  The birds, grey and scruffy, with long legs and long necks, but no more than a handspan in height, padded across the floor like velociraptors.

  “What the hell are you?” she said softly.

  They ran together under the table and behind a large dresser.

  “And what were you doing in the oven?” she demanded.

  The dresser was one of those decorative ones with rows of mismatched plates on display. Animals in the food preparation area was a big no-no, an instant fail for the inspection, but she couldn’t leave things like this. She wondered where the teenager had gone, but she was worried about opening the kitchen door to go look for him, in case the birds escaped. What on earth were they anyway? She was not an expert on birds, so all she could say with certainty was that they were bigger than a magpie and smaller than an oven-ready chicken.

  “Here, chookie chookie!” she tried in a low voice.

  The warbling sounds from behind the dresser continued unchanged. She would need to flush them out, or move the dresser to get access to them. She looked around for a broom or something she could poke at them with. There was no broom, but in a corner was an old-fashioned feather duster. She’d never seen one made from actual feathers before. Mostly the ones in pound shops were rainbow-coloured plasticky stuff. Her dad loved to wield one on a monthly purge, ridding the house of any cobwebby traces. This one was made from huge, luscious feathers mounted on a cane. When new it had probably looked like a burlesque accessory. Now it was just dingy and sad. Still, it would do for getting tiny birds out from their hiding place. She held onto the feathery end and poked the handle into the gap hiding the birds. She slid it along gently, not wanting to hurt them. She heard an increase in volume indicating she had reached them, so she changed her grip on the feathers, intending to sweep the thing round and brush the birds out to the front of the dresser where she could see them.

  Something touched her hand.

  She looked down. The biggest spider she had ever seen edged from between the feathers onto her hand. She screamed involuntarily and threw down the feather duster. She wasn’t afraid of spiders as such, but she was as vulnerable to a jump scare as the next person. She cursed her lack of self-control as she heard the birds scrabbling in alarm and making even more noise. It sounded as though they were making their way up the wall in the gap behind the dresser.

  “Oh, no you don’t.”

  She was worried they would hurt themselves, either by getting crushed in an impossible space, or by falling down and smashing themselves on the floor. More than that, she was gripped by the challenge of a task needing completion. She grabbed hold of the dresser and tried to drag it away from the wall. She’d make enough of a gap to retrieve the birds, then push it back into place. It moved much more easily than she had expected for such a weighty piece of furniture. That turned out to be because the top and bottom were separate pieces. She’d put all of her weight behind pulling the top part, and now it skated across the cupboard it sat upon. She watched in horror as it toppled over, sending plates smashing to the floor.

  She stood for a long moment, expecting the door to open and someone to come and investigate the noise; find the catastrophic mess she’d made. The house remained silent.

  “Get birds back, sort out mess,” she muttered. “Don’t stop to worry about it. Just get on with it.”

  She returned her gaze to the dresser. Without the weight of the top half, the bottom part slid out easily. She found the birds cowering in the gap. She addressed them on hands and knees.

  “Come on now. Come out to Aunt
y Sam.”

  The birds – ostrich chicks? Really ugly chickens? – looked at her, tilted their little heads and made ‘plibble plibble’ noises, but didn’t move.

  “Come on!” she snapped. That didn’t work either.

  She rolled back on her haunches, considered the situation, then took the sausage roll from her pocket. She tossed a flaky crumb under the dresser. One of the birds approached, bent-kneed comedy footstep after comedy footstep and pecked at it.

  “That’s it,” she said. She threw down more. Crumbly pastry and morsels of sausage meat.

  The dinosaur manner of the creatures was unmistakeable and fascinating. She absurdly hoped the presence of pork sausage wouldn’t turn them into ravenous carnivores. The little birds were easily drawn by both pastry and sausage, until they were close enough for Sam to scoop them up, popping one in a nearby bucket while she grabbed the second one. The bird fought against her with its scratchy over-sized feet. Its friend gamely tried to jump out of the bucket. It was like juggling with balls that fought back. Eventually she managed to put them back inside the oven – it didn’t seem right but it was at least a place of containment.

  Sam located a bin bag and started piling smashed crockery into it. A thought occurred to her and she fished in her pocket and drew out the business card for Delia’s junk and upcycling shop. She dialled the number and munched on the sausage roll as it rang.

  “Back to Life,” croaked a voice.

  “Delia, it’s Sam.”

  Delia groaned. “Don’t talk to me. I’m not your friend.”

  “What?”

  “Friends don’t get friends drunk on fancy cocktails and drain cleaner.”

  “I did not give you drain cleaner.”

  “Then why does my mouth taste of zesty lemon and bleach?” Delia grunted at her own silly joke. “I love your dad.”

  “Me too. But try living with him.”

  “I’ve got my own circus and my own monkeys, thank you. Hey, and sorry about dashing out. My hubby got called out for work in the wee small hours.”