Chapter 16
Connor’s ankle starts to hurt as we walk up the hill to the car.
I grab a copy of a free newspaper at the general store where there’s another headline about local drug trafficking and a photograph of a family – the same one as the police showed us on the boat.
Seeing it makes me recall my day with Ollie, but also, the encounter with Will.
There are caves underneath his house, and Ollie as good as told me that Will is not as upstanding as he seems. But could a surgeon, landowner, and pillar of the community really be involved in nefarious deeds like smuggling or people trafficking?
As much as I don’t like Will Penhelion, my gut tells me no.
I end up ditching the paper in a recycling bin at the car park.
The police are taking care of any shenanigans in the area, and it’s nothing to do with us.
Back at the inn, I settle Connor in his room with the iPad, elevating his leg on a stack of pillows.
I texted Bridget earlier to tell her about her brother’s mishap, but when I pop my head into her bedroom to tell her we’re home, she displays nothing but her usual disinterest. She’s sitting at her desk, the window framing her silhouette.
She’s washed her hair and instead of plaiting it, it’s dried long, falling past her shoulders in natural waves.
She’s staring down at her phone, but the lighting and the angle enhance her resemblance to the girl in the portrait.
‘Go away, Mum,’ she says, not looking up.
My default response is to obey. Bridget is one of those kids who has their own mind and can’t be dictated to do anything and won’t take any ‘mothering’ on any level other than necessities such as someone else doing the laundry, cooking, and driving her around.
I usually just say, Love you, bye, and leave it at that. But today… I just can’t.
‘Bridget,’ I say. ‘Are you doing OK? Because if you’re not, I’d understand.’
She puts down her phone; her eyes look strangely shiny.
‘I’m fine,’ she says.
‘I’m sure you must miss your friends, and your dad. And maybe… Mark?’
‘Don’t put words in my mouth,’ she says. ‘I don’t miss any of them. I’m fine. I have Alex now.’
‘That’s great. But do I get to meet him? Why don’t you invite him over for dinner?’
‘To this place?’ she snorts. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘OK, well, if you ever want to help get the place in order, there’s lots to do.’
‘I don’t,’ she says. ‘And besides, Alex is busy. We were supposed to go into town, but he’s working on the boat tonight.’
‘Oh.’ I suppose that explains her bad mood. ‘What boat?’
‘The Halcyon. He’s learning to crew. Then he can work on some rich person’s yacht, travel the world, and make a lot of money. He says I might be able to do it too.’
This is a new one. Good or bad? I’ve no idea.
‘I thought they didn’t sail the Halcyon at night,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘How should I know?’
‘No reason.’ I sigh. ‘Anyway, I’ll have supper ready in half an hour.’
‘Can you put my laundry in the dryer?’
‘Sure,’ I say through my teeth. ‘I will.’
* * *
The next few hours pass without incident.
I tidy up, deal with the laundry and cook spaghetti Bolognese for dinner.
I’d planned on making flapjacks too, but when I check the cupboard, the porridge oats are gone.
Over the last week, food has regularly gone missing.
In my mind, I blame Connor, but I suppose it could be Elspeth or Cliff, or maybe even Bridget.
I don’t have a problem with someone eating if they’re hungry, but it would nice if I knew what to stock up on.
Connor hobbles downstairs while I’m cooking, and Bridget emerges when the pasta is ready.
In a rare moment of bonhomie, she agrees to watch two episodes of a crime show with me on the small television that I’ve moved from Victoria’s room into the common room of the inn, which we’re using as a makeshift lounge.
It’s a large space, especially now that the waxworks have been relocated to the old stables.
My plans involve partitioning it into smaller, cosier spaces that will lend atmosphere to a future gastropub-style restaurant, but for now, all we have is a couple of old sofas and a tatty wingback chair clustered near the fireplace.
Although it’s a far cry from the comfortably cosy den at Polgothley, I make popcorn and hot chocolate for the kids, and generally try my best.
When Connor and Bridget have both gone up to bed, I pour myself a glass of wine and sit at the kitchen table staring out of the window into the darkness.
The moonlight draws a jagged line that bisects the sea and I can’t see any other lights along the cliffs that frame the bay.
It’s daunting to be so far away from the nearest neighbour.
It may be a safe part of the world, but still, if something were to go wrong…
Out at sea, a faint light flickers at the same time as clouds cover the moon. I feel a strange chilling sensation sweep through me and I wrap my arms around myself. I could go upstairs to bed and pull the covers over my head. Or…
I go out of the kitchen door to the terrace. The clouds shift again and I see it – the faint glowing outline of a tall ship floating just above the horizon. The ghost ship – the Halcyon.
I blink, hoping it will go away. Or that I’ll see some movement or evidence that it’s the replica Halcyon piloted by Ollie.
But Ollie told me that they don’t sail the ship after dark, and I believe him.
I can hear the sound of waves crashing in the cove below the inn, which means that the tide is in.
In a way, that makes it even more treacherous as the rocks that are near the surface wouldn’t be visible to a ship close to the shore.
The ship doesn’t go away, but on second glance, it is in fact sailing on the horizon, not floating in the sky. My eye snags on something else moving along the path of moonlight. The rhythmic dipping of oars as a small boat is rowed towards the shore.
Time seems to curve in on itself. I stare out to sea until a misty haze swallows the moon and I can no longer see anything on the water. Could it all have been my imagination?
From the edge of the cliff, a sound catches my attention. Footsteps, a whistling breath, the panting of a dog. A chill ‘presence’ coming up the lawn towards the house.
‘Who’s there?’ I call out, my heart racing.
I’m about to go back into the kitchen – get my phone, get a knife. The whistling grows louder, then stops. The dog gives a disembodied yap. I still see nothing and no one, but a cold breeze buffets my face, as if something is moving past me. Who – or what – ever it is disappears inside the house.
Frantic, I rush back inside, find my phone, and call 999. In a whispered voice, I explain where we are, and that there’s an intruder inside the house. ‘We’re alone here,’ I say. ‘Me and my kids. What should I do?’
‘We’ll send a car,’ the dispatcher confirms. ‘In the meantime, do not approach the intruder.’
‘But…’
Footsteps, whistling, the panting of a dog…
‘They’re going upstairs. My kids are up there.’
‘The car will be there in an hour.’
‘An hour! We’ll all be murdered in our beds.’
‘Do not approach the intruder, ma’am.’
‘I have kids!’ I yell. ‘I’m their mother. What if Old John Dog is back again because my daughter looks like Bess?’
‘Sorry, ma’am, I don’t understand. What was that about a dog?’
‘Old John Dog!’ I repeat. ‘Don’t you know your local history? He murdered Bess upstairs at the inn, and his dog licked up the pool of blood.’
‘A murder?’
‘Back in the 1800s, I think.’ I realise I must sound like a lunatic. ‘Never mind. I’m going now.’
‘But ma’am…’
Ending the call, I grab a knife and run upstairs. There’s a muffled sound of footsteps in the empty corridor. I run to Bridget’s room and fling open the door. She’s sleeping soundly in her bed. Which means… oh God, the noise is at the end of the hall… Connor.
‘Stop right there,’ I call out. ‘Do not go up those stairs.’
‘Mum?’ Bridget comes to the door.
‘Lock yourself in the room,’ I say. ‘There’s an intruder in the house.’
‘What?’
‘Do it!’ I yell.
‘I don’t have the key.’
‘Well, then just get back into bed.’
‘No—’
Footsteps above us. For a split second, Bridget and I exchange a glance.
‘Connor!’ I shout.
‘Connor,’ she echoes.
Together, we run to the end of the corridor. I brandish the knife, ready to mount the stairs, expecting to see the intruder and his dog leaning over my son, murdering him…
Connor is standing at the top of the stairs looking down at us.
‘Mum?’ he says. ‘What’s going on? Why are you holding a knife?’
‘Um… we thought. I mean… um, no reason.’
Only then does it dawn on me that no one is in fact murdering either Bridget or Connor. Sheepishly, I lower the knife and take a breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
‘I’m tired,’ Connor says. ‘Can I go back to bed?’
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ Bridget says, sarcasm biting in her voice. ‘You don’t need us to check your room? Make sure no one else is in there?’
‘No,’ Connor says, frowning. ‘I’m fine – like I said.’ Fleetingly, I wonder if he was lying awake listening for me to go to bed so he could go down to the kitchen and make himself a midnight feast. He’s a growing boy. As his over-protective mother, I’m glad to know that he’s eating.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I say. ‘Now, go back to bed. I love you.’
‘Love you too, Mum.’
He shuts the door at the top of the stairs. Bridget is already making her way back down the corridor to her room. I hurry after her.
‘I heard and saw something,’ I say. ‘I swear I did.’
‘Yeah.’ She shrugs like it’s no big deal. ‘I guess it’s the ghost of Old John Dog.’
‘You don’t believe that,’ I say.
She shrugs. ‘You don’t know what I believe. And something obviously freaked you out.’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I thought I heard footsteps and breathing, like the panting of a dog.’ Hearing myself say it, I feel utterly foolish. ‘I must be mad as a hatter.’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugs. ‘Or maybe this place really is haunted.’
I’m not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed that Bridget might actually believe me. I settle on alarm – which, when blue flashing lights shine in the window – quickly turns to shame.
‘Oh God,’ I say. ‘I should have called 999 back and told them not to come.’
Bridget shrugs. There’s a knock at the door. Too late now.
Not wanting to miss out on my humiliation, Bridget comes downstairs with me.
I usher in the two officers, a man and a woman, and fall back on the time-honoured offer of a cup of tea.
They refuse, hovering in the kitchen eyeing the half-empty bottle of wine and questioning me like I’m the criminal.
I tell them what I thought I heard and saw.
Then, to my further embarrassment, Bridget pipes up.
‘Mum thinks it was the ghost pirate, Old John Dog.’
The officers exchange a look of incredulity.
‘Bridget,’ I say. ‘Let’s stick to the real world. These officers aren’t here to listen to ghost stories.’
‘Do you mind if we have a look around?’ the female officer says.
‘Please do.’
When they’re gone, Bridget gives me her signature glare. ‘What’s your problem?’ she says. ‘I’m just telling the truth. You were totally scared.’
‘Of a real person, not a ghost.’
‘Could have fooled me.’
We glare at each other. I get up and make tea for myself (I don’t offer her any).
‘Fine, whatever,’ she says. ‘I’m going back to bed.’
‘Sweet dreams.’
She stalks off; I’m annoyed with myself for trampling on the tiny green shoot that might have grown into a bond between us.
I stare at the steam curling upwards from the cup, wondering what I really saw.
When I think of those footsteps going towards my children’s rooms, I feel terror all over again.
Which is why, when the officers return, I lurch in fright, spilling tea on the table and burning my hand.
‘We’ve found no sign of any intruder,’ the man says. ‘There doesn’t seem to have been a forced entry.’
‘That’s… good,’ I say.
‘The cellar door is locked,’ the woman says. ‘Do you have the key so we can check down there?’
‘I’ve never found a key to that door. But it should be unlocked. I was down there earlier, doing laundry.’
‘Well, it’s locked now. If you don’t know where you put the key, you might want to get a new one made.’
Her tone is clear. I’m a hysterical looney and they’re all done here.
‘Fine, I’ll do it tomorrow morning,’ I say. ‘And thanks for coming out. I’m sorry if it was a waste of your time. I really did think someone was inside. It was scary.’
‘You’re on your own here?’ the female officer says.
‘Me and the kids.’
‘You’ve got three?’
‘Two,’ I clarify.
‘Oh.’ She gives me a look that’s almost sympathetic.
‘You’re right to be vigilant,’ she says.
‘There have been certain worrying activities going on in this area. You’ve probably seen the local paper.
In the past, this stretch of coastline is known to be a haunt for traffickers.
They bring people from the continent, sometimes in small boats or hidden in the hold of larger boats and then taken to shore to be picked up by a lorry. ’
I stare at her – hearing the details makes it all sound very real, and much too close for comfort. ‘What do you mean by “in the past”?’ I say.
The male officer answers. ‘Patrols haven’t seen any evidence of activity in this area for years.’
‘As in hundreds, or two or three? I’ve seen the articles, but I’d assumed the problem was elsewhere.’
‘It’s everywhere these days,’ the man says. ‘And the cove below your inn is a good place to dock a small boat at high tide. But as long as you’re vigilant, I don’t think you need to worry.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Then I won’t.’
But it’s easier said than done. When the police are gone, I put away the wine and put the teacup in the sink.
I pick up the knife and turn it over in my hands, staring out of the kitchen window as I did earlier.
The night has completely clouded over, and there’s no sign of the moon – or any ghost ship or dead pirate.
But traffickers? Seriously? More and more evidence is piling up that I need to finish this project, sell the inn, and move my family back to a real place where we can start a real life.
Exhausted, I go upstairs to my room. In the corridor, I can hear the faint sound of Bridget’s breathing, and a gentle creak in the ceiling in Connor’s room above me. I also hear a muffled voice, like he’s talking in his sleep. If he’s dreaming, I hope it’s a good one.
I lie down in bed and tuck the knife under my pillow just in case. In this moment, we are safe.
But not safe enough for me to sleep a wink the entire night.