Desperation Point

by Malcolm Richards

  THE BLUE CLAM CAFÉ was all dark wood and silver trim, with clean, modern furniture and nautical murals on the walls. It was just after four and it was already growing dark outside. Aaron sat at a table in the far corner, nursing a watery black coffee and watching the customers dotted around the room; students meeting after class, he guessed, and a few old timers waiting for the rain to ease off. He had a feeling they’d be waiting forever.

  His gaze moved to the glass front of the cafe, where people hurried by, their collars pulled up and their umbrellas colliding. It felt good to see something resembling city life, even if it wouldn’t last. In a few hours, the streets would be empty again. Cornwall in winter really was one giant ghost town.

  Aaron was tired. After a few hours of tossing and turning, he’d given up on sleep and given into curiosity, spending the rest of the night and most of the morning hunched over his laptop in research mode.

  While scouring news websites for evidence of the barman’s macabre tales, he’d been surprised to find an abundance of stories, detailing lurid acts of animal mutilation and dismemberment right across the county. Each story contained sensationalist phrases like devil worship and satanic ritual, with no real evidence to prove such outlandish claims. Some even contained images of the slaughtered animals, with the gorier aspects blurred out.

  What had been most perplexing to Aaron, however, was that the majority of stories had been reported long before Cal Anderson had disappeared from the face of the earth.

  Losing track of time, he’d gone over the stories again, this time looking for discernible patterns and discovering that several of the attacks had occurred under a full moon or during summer and winter solstice. Symbols, drawn in blood, had been found on the animals’ bodies or on nearby trees and rocks. Research into the occult, and more specifically, satanic ritual, had revealed that these same attacks had occurred on specific dates of the Satanic calendar, notably St Winebald Day, Candlemas, Feast Day, and Lamass Day.

  Feverish from lack of sleep, Aaron had come to the startling conclusion that it was entirely possible satanic cults were indeed roaming the Cornish countryside and sacrificing animals—which shocked him, even if it did nothing to sway his belief that the devil was not real but a form of control, dreamed up to scare people into behaving themselves.

  Cal Anderson was very real, though. Aaron had seen him with his own eyes. And there had been no evidence—regardless of local beliefs—to suggest that he was in league with the devil.

  No. Cal Anderson was a victim just like those other poor children; the only difference being that Cal was still alive.

  Now, with his notebook in front of him, Aaron stared at the list he’d made. Taking his pen, he crossed out all the attacks that had occurred before September, and all those he’d linked to satanic rituals. This left five attacks, including the two the barman had relayed last night, and the killing of Margaret Telford’s dog, Alfie.

  Aaron drew a ring around each attack and wrote: CAL?

  A cold blast of air pulled him back to the room. Nat stalked through the door, short hair wet and glistening, eyes darting from table to table. Aaron raised a hand and watched with amusement as Nat collided with an empty-handed waitress.

  Scowling, she stomped her way to Aaron’s table.

  “Glad you could make it,” he said, closing the notebook.

  Nat slumped onto the opposite chair. “I have to catch a bus in thirty minutes. You look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  The waitress approached and lifted her order pad in silence. Nat ordered a coke, Aaron another coffee.

  “Good day at college?” he asked, once the waitress was gone.

  “It sucked.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Aaron smiled. “There’s this thing called small talk. You should try it some time. You might make a few friends. . .”

  “I didn’t come here to make friends. I came here to get the rest of my money.”

  Nat glared as the waitress returned with their drinks.

  “So, I’ve had an interesting couple of days,” Aaron said, spooning sugar into his coffee. “Turns out the only people in Devil’s Cove who want to talk to me are raving lunatics. Did you know there’s a curse on your town?”

  Nat sipped her coke and eyed the room. “It’s not my town.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re getting out. Just as well, or an evil spirit might take a bite out of you.”

  “Look, do you have my money or not?”

  Smiling, Aaron reached for his wallet, pulled out some notes, then held them just out of Nat’s reach.

  “You know, you were very helpful the other day,” he said. “And I can see you’re desperate to save what you can and get the hell out of that godforsaken place. So, how would you like to earn a little more cash to add to your escape fund?”

  Nat leaned across the table and snatched the notes from his fingers. Once she’d checked to see it was all there, she tucked the notes inside her jacket pocket.

  “Doing what, exactly?”

  “Research,” Aaron said. “Something’s come up, a development . . . which means I don’t have time to get it all done myself. Primarily, I’d need you to build a profile of Grady Spencer. There’s been very little about him in the newspapers, so it’ll require some asking around, searching public records, that kind of thing. . .” He paused to slide a sheet of paper across the table. “I’ve made you a list. There are no reports of any family, so let’s start with the basics. Where did he live before moving to Porth an Jowl? What did he do for a living before he retired? Any history of mental illness or previous criminal convictions? And see if your foster carer knows how he got that limp.”

  Nat’s face reddened. “Her name’s Rose.”

  “Of course. Rose.” Aaron was suddenly tempted to ask how Nat had ended up in care, but her expression made him quickly change his mind. “So, what do you think? There’s a few hours work there. Maybe more if you do a good job. Perhaps even a special bonus if you can help me get a certain interview. . .”

  Nat’s eyes narrowed. “You mean the Pengellys? Because I already told you—not happening.”

  “We’ll see.” Aaron flashed her a smile, which Nat countered with a glare. “So, what do you say?”

  “What kind of development?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You said something came up. A development. What kind?”

  Aaron stared at her, suddenly tempted to tell all about his encounter with Cal Anderson. But he couldn’t. Not yet. All Nat had to do was tell a single person that Cal had been seen in Devil’s Cove and it would be pitchforks and burning torches, and any chance of Aaron finding him first would be snatched away.

  No one was going to steal this opportunity from him. Not the people of Devil’s Cove. Not even Carrie Killigrew. She had called him a liar, but he had seen hope flickering in her eyes. If there was a chance of getting her son back, he knew she wouldn’t waste it by going to the police. They would take Cal away from her. She would never see him again.

  Aaron stared at Nat. He shrugged.

  “I’m not at liberty to say. Anyway, you haven’t answered my question. What do you say? Do you want to be my research buddy?”

  He watched as Nat curled her lips into a grimace.

  “Not if you call me your buddy,” she said.

  “Excellent. Any questions? No? Good. Then feel free to get started right away.”

  Nat stared down at the list of research tasks. “How much am I getting paid?”

  “Enough.”

  “Enough? That’s not exactly an enticing proposition.”

  “Neither is being stuck in Devil’s Cove for the rest of your life. Take it or leave it. It’s up to you.”

  Aaron watched Nat’s face pull into an angry scowl. After a long silence, she picked up the research list, folded it neatly in half, and slipped it inside her jacket pocket.

  “Good. Now, off you go befor
e you miss your bus.” Taking a business card from his wallet, Aaron handed it to her. “Call me when you have something.”

  Nat stood. “So much for small talk.”

  She hovered for a moment, as if unsure what to do, then stomped toward the exit. Alone again, Aaron opened his notebook. He was relieved Nat had agreed to take on the research. He still had the Baker interview coming up on Friday, but it meant he was now free to focus on his hunt for Cal Anderson.

  He eyed the list of remaining animal attacks. He would start searching tomorrow, in the safety of daylight.

  15

  ROSE TREWARTHA’S KITCHEN was warm and cosy, with floral print curtains hanging in the window and a bumblebee shaped clock on the wall. The heat was like a welcome hug as Nat entered and threw her backpack down on the floor. A large pot of stew bubbled on the stove, tantalising her taste buds.

  At the counter, Rose was busy slicing a freshly baked loaf of bread. Nat took in her portly frame, flowery apron, and shock of grey hair. Sometimes Rose reminded her of the archetypal fairy-tale grandmother.

  “Dinner’s in an hour,” the woman called over her shoulder. “You got any homework, you best do it now.”

  Other times, she was just plain annoying.

  “It may come as a surprise but I’m almost eighteen years old,” Nat said, crossing her arms. “I don’t need to be told to do my homework.”

  Rose turned, her round, ruddy face pulled into a scowl.

  “How could I forget? You only tell me a hundred times a day.”

  “Whatever.” A smile tugged at Nat’s lips.

  Rose had a good heart, she supposed. She was certainly more understanding than the rest of the carers who hadn’t been able to cope with Nat’s anger. In fact, if she thought about it, Rose had been more of a mother to her than her own had ever been. She would miss her when it was time to go.

  Nat heaved her shoulders, suddenly wanting nothing more than to smoke three cigarettes, one after the other. But all that would lead to was another lecture from Rose. She thought back to her meeting with Aaron. She had almost turned him down—he’d been deliberately vague about how much he was willing to pay, which undoubtedly meant not very much—but in three months, Nat would officially be an adult, no longer a ward of the state. She would be on her own, and that meant she needed money.

  Beggars can’t be choosers. That’s what Rose would have said on the matter. And it was true. Ignoring the unease creeping up on her, Nat sat down at the table, pulled a notebook from her backpack, and turned to a clean page.

  “Hey, do you know how Grady Spencer got his limp?”

  “What’s that?”

  “He had to get around with a walking stick. Was it old age or something else?”

  Rose turned to stare at her. “He used that stick for as long as I can recall. Ever since he moved next door when I was a teenager. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  Nat scribbled into her notebook. “And you’re what, fifty-four? So, we’re talking roughly forty years ago. Do you know if it was an injury or a birth defect?”

  “No, I don’t. Are you going to answer my question?”

  “What about where he came from? He wasn’t from the cove originally, was he? Did he have family?”

  “Natalie Tremaine, what is this all about?” Rose said, throwing her hands in the air.

  Nat stared at her, unblinking. “School project.”

  “And pigs might fly. Tell me the truth.”

  “Okay, fine. I have a job. A temporary one.”

  “What kind of a job involves asking about Grady Spencer?”

  “Research assistant. For a writer.”

  “A journalist?” Rose said, her ruddy cheeks growing a shade darker. “You know better than to talk to those damn reporters. You seen for yourself what they wrote about this town. Made up stories, that’s what! No one knew what that mad man was up to next door. No one!”

  Nat held up her hands. “He’s not a journalist, Rose. He’s an author. A crime writer.”

  “And how did you meet this crime writer?”

  “He wanted to get inside Grady Spencer’s house to have a look around. I may have helped him.”

  Rose’s eyes grew round and wide. “So, you’re breaking the law now? Dear Lord! I can’t tell if you’re trying to get me struck off the foster care register or put in an early grave! What were you thinking?”

  “I need the money,” Nat said, folding her arms again.

  “You don’t need it so badly you have to go breaking and entering. Christ, girl! I’ve turned a blind eye on the drinking, I’ve ignored the mood swings and the bad language, but I refuse to sit by and do nothing while you behave like a criminal! What other illegal activities is this so-called writer getting you involved in?”

  “It’s not like that.”

  Nat was getting a headache, and now something else was pressing down on her. Guilt. She quickly explained who Aaron Black was, why he was here in Porth an Jowl, and what he had hired her to do. “See? It’s all legit. No more breaking and entering, just research.”

  Rose was quiet for a long while, her gaze somewhere off to the side. She shook her head. “No, I don’t like it. I want you to stay away from that man. People are trying to get on with their lives. All that book is going to do is stir everything up again. Do you want to be responsible for that?”

  Nat stared at Rose. She opened her mouth then closed it again.

  “I know you’re almost eighteen,” Rose said, less angry now. “I know you think I don’t have a right to tell you what to do, but I worry about you. Especially now that Jago’s gone and you’re. . .”

  A sudden anger rushed through Nat’s body. “And I’m what? Go on, you can say it—now that Jago’s gone and I’m all alone.”

  Rose stared at the floor. “You’re not alone. You have me.”

  “Only for a few more months.”

  “You can stay until you’re twenty-one, they’ve told you that.”

  “And you’ll get less money for me. I’m not having you pay for me out of your own pocket. Besides, they’ve probably lined up some other helpless runt for you to take care of.”

  The words hung there between them, filling the room.

  Nat stared at the notes she’d written. She shut her eyes.

  “It’s just research, Rose,” she said. “A few days’ work sat in front of my laptop.”

  Rose was unmoving, her face turned slightly away.

  “You better do your homework,” she said in a whisper.

  Nat picked up her notebook and got to her feet. “I’m going up to my room.”

  Rose held up a hand, then heaved her round shoulders and let out a long, sad breath.

  “Invite him to dinner,” she said.

  “There’s no need for—”

  “Oh, yes, there is. As your foster carer it’s my duty to make sure you’re not being exploited in any way. Invite him to dinner.”

  Nat stared uncertainly at Rose.

  “Fine,” she said.

  If a home cooked meal and interrogation-like scrutiny was what it took to get Rose on board, then Aaron Black would just have to deal with it.

  16

  THE HOUSE WAS ALIVE with noise. In the dilapidated kitchen, Cal tossed a chunk of wood into the furnace of the ancient Aga oven. Flames sprang up, licking the wood and making shadows dance around the room. Basking in the warm glow, he listened to the children’s turbulent chatter floating out from the back room. It was a rare sound at the farm. Usually, at this time, the only sound in the house would be Jacob’s voice as he delivered his evening lesson.

  But Jacob wasn’t here.

  He’d left this morning while the others had slept, taking Heath with him. A business trip, Cynthia had told them in her usual, vague way. But Cal and the older ones had all come to know what a business trip meant. Jacob would be gone overnight. Tomorrow, he would return with a brown package tucked beneath his arm. They all knew what would be inside. It excited them. But not Cal
. What the package contained made him feel like he had no control, which was no good to anyone.

  A squeal of laughter pierced the air, followed by a scolding adult voice. Playtime was over.

  Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and the children came spilling out. He turned in time to see three of them dart past the kitchen doorway, lanterns swinging through the dark. A second later, two of the youngest ones appeared—a boy and a girl no more than four years old, gently carrying another lantern between them. They stopped and stared into the kitchen. Their faces lit up with smiles as they spotted Cal.

  He stared back.

  Cut off the fingers and cut off the toes. Cook the skin until it’s nice and crispy.

  A dark-haired young woman stepped into view. Barely out of her teens, she was tall and athletic, her features sharp and angry in the dim light. She shooed the children along then turned in Cal’s direction, her eyes burning into him like two hot coals.

  “Morwenna, come! It’s too dark!” The child’s voice was shrill with panic.

  The young woman remained for a moment longer, glowering at Cal, silently challenging him, before following the children.

  Another body hurried by in the darkness. Probably Alison, he thought, who could always be found chasing after Morwenna and the little ones like a lost puppy.

  The hall was quiet then, the children’s voices still audible but dampened by ceilings and walls. Cal moved to the kitchen window and opened the shutter. Darkness shrouded the yard. It called to him. He closed his eyes, feeling the pull. In an instant he was back at Desperation Point, watching his mother choose between life and death. Watching that man spy on her.

  Checking over his shoulder, he moved up to the back door. Icy tendrils crept in from beneath. He would run, all the way to the cove. Just to take a look. Just to make sure she still wanted him.

  Why don’t you listen to me, boy? I should beat you black and blue. I should cut that heart from your chest and feed it to Caliban.

  Silently, Cal drew back the bolt.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The voice startled him. He spun around.