Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
CIARAN brENNER
Ciaran pulled himself up out of the water onto the jetty in a fluid, too-easy movement, water running down his muscular torso in icy rivulets, the cold wind whipping around him.
He loved the cold.
It was invigorating.
Necessary.
He and Fray had been out for a typical scout patrol of their cove—Ciaran’s favourite place on earth. His water, his town, his home. They didn’t find anything, but Ciaran hadn’t expected to. Life here was quiet, peaceful, and perfect.
Fraser was Ciaran’s best mate, and he’d been with him for as long as Ciaran could remember.
They were opposites in almost every way.
Fray was tall and lean, whereas Ciaran was short and stocky, Fray was blond and blue-eyed while Ciaran had reddish brown hair and copper-coloured eyes.
Fray was funny and carefree, and Ciaran was serious, the burden of responsibility the outlier of every decision he made, every rule he kept.
Fray kept Ciaran sane, most of the time. He knew him better than Ciaran knew himself. They had a simple, carefree life in the Cove, and Ciaran got to do what he loved for a job. Not that he really needed the money, but he was loath to sit on idle hands.
Just then, they heard the familiar sound of Tobin’s boat putting into the small harbour and watched as it pulled up to the pier.
Tobin was a member of his family, another of Ciaran’s closest friends, and he was the one with the most contact with the outside world.
He did the mail and supply run up north to Strahan or down to Southport every Monday and Friday, and this Monday was no different.
Except today he had company on the boat with him. He had brought someone back with him.
“What the hell?” Ciaran mumbled. His skin prickled with awareness and unease.
They watched as a man, carrying a duffel bag and a box, slung a fishing rod carry-tube over his shoulder.
The guy looked to be maybe in his early thirties, kinda fit, tall with a solid build, and had short brown hair. Of course he noticed Ciaran and Fray standing, still wet, on the jetty.
Fray was beside Ciaran then and planted a dry towel in the middle of Ciaran’s chest, silently reminding him that humans didn’t generally stand dripping wet in the freezing cold wind wearing nothing but board shorts.
Ciaran proceeded to dry himself, raking the towel over his chest and arms, then rubbing his hair. “Thanks.”
“Another fisherman trying his luck.” Fray snorted. “Don’t think he’ll be catching much around here. Doubt he’ll wanna stay till Friday.”
The man looked over at them then, as if he’d heard what they’d said, his ice-blue eyes locking with Ciaran’s. And Ciaran couldn’t look away. It felt as if a tangible line had snagged him, and the longer he stared, the stronger the pull.
His hearts thrummed, his blood sang, his whole body reacted.
It felt like he was being reeled in, hook, line, and sinker.
“Hey,” Fray said, nudging him with his elbow. “You good?” He looked from Ciaran to the newcomer and back again. “You know him or something?”
Ciaran startled, breaking eye contact with the newcomer, which also severed the invisible tension line between them.
What the fuck was that?
Jeez, and what had Fray just asked him?
“Uh, not sure. Maybe,” Ciaran mumbled, his hearts still thrumming. He itched to slink back into the cold water to escape from whatever the hell that was. He longed to disappear into the dark depths, and he could do exactly that anytime he wanted, but now.... Now something was stopping him.
The new guy.
Ciaran turned around and watched as the man in question carried his belongings across Bay Road and headed straight toward the police station, a small sandstone building, as old as the town itself. He took keys from his pocket, unlocked the door, and disappeared inside.
Well, fuck.
“Shit,” Fray said. “Another cop. How long do we give this one?”
Ciaran snorted, glad for the distraction. “Not as long as the last one. A month, maybe.”
Fray chuckled. “I’ll give this one two months.”
They never lasted long.
The last cop had started out okay. He’d been the wide-eyed do-gooder boy scout type. He’d made it five months, and the last Ciaran had heard, the poor guy had reportedly moved to Alice Springs to be as far away from the ocean as he could possibly get.
“Should we call a meeting?” Fray asked.
Ciaran couldn’t take his eyes off the police station door through which the man had disappeared inside. The pull he felt—the draw—he could neither explain nor understand it. His hearts were still thrumming, his skin buzzing.
It wasn’t that he knew him from somewhere. He’d never seen him before in his life.
He would have remembered.
He would have remembered how this felt.
“So,” Fray went on, “a meeting? Want me to call the boys in?”
Ciaran shook his head to clear it, bringing his mind back into focus. He met Fray’s eyes, but not for long. He didn’t want him to see what he was struggling to hide. “Not yet. Let me see what I can find out first.”
“Okay.” Fray was unfazed, as he was with most things. He was also completely oblivious to the shift Ciaran felt just moments ago. “Tobin must have spoken to him in the boat on the drive down. Got his name from the manifest, at least.”
Ciaran looked over at the boat to see Tobin was now standing there, leaning against the wheelhouse. “You two just gonna stand there looking pretty all day?” he called out. “Or you gonna come help me offload this?”
Fray laughed. “Well, I look pretty all day, no matter where I stand, thank you very much.”
“Then come be pretty over here, carrying shit off my boat.”
Fray snorted, and they traded insults as Fray headed over to the pier. Ciaran got the feeling Tobin was yelling for the sake of appearances because the new cop in town was probably watching them.
Ciaran smirked as he followed Fray over, and Tobin met him with a grin as they went into the enclosed cabin.
“His name’s Douglas Sawyer, cop from Hobart.
That’s all I know. I asked him about his fishing gear, what he likes to fish for, and he said something about finally having some time to throw in a line.
He asked me if I live in the Cove. I said yes.
” Tobin shrugged. “Other than that, he never said a word.”
Ciaran nodded slowly. “Hmm. I might have to go say hello.”
Fray grinned as he picked up the first crate. “The good old Tenebrae Cove welcoming committee. Because that worked out so well last time.”
“The last cop was an idiot,” Ciaran muttered.
Tobin picked up a crate and shoved it into Ciaran’s arms. “This guy’s different,” he said. “The last guy was chatty, said too much. This guy’s older. The silent type, watchful.”
“Great,” Fray said, giving Ciaran a pointed nod. “A moody asshole. Just what this town needs one more of.”
“Hey, Fray,” Ciaran said with a sweet smile. “Fuck off.”
“Dunno, Ciaran,” Tobin said. “In the box he was carrying, there was a coffee machine and an old vinyl record player. He had a few albums stacked to one side. The first one? Bruce Springsteen, Born in the USA.”
Fray shot Ciaran a fantastical grin. “Holy shit. Your favourite. Maybe your luck’s about to change, Ciar. Wonder if he likes dick.”
Ciaran bit back the sigh he desperately wanted to let out. “Hey, Fray,” he said again, his smile not so sweet this time.
“Fuck off,” the three of them said in unison.
Ciaran couldn’t help but laugh... but damn. Bruce Springsteen? On vinyl? Maybe this guy wasn’t as bad as the last one. Ciaran was still trying to forget about his initial reaction to seeing him, the curiosity, the pull he’d felt, and he’d missed whatever joke Fray had aimed at him.
“Sorry, what was that?”
Fray snorted. “You’re picturing listening to Springsteen on vinyl right now, aren’t you?”
Ciaran sighed long and loud that time. “Hey, Fray,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah, off I’m fucking,” he replied with a laugh as he carried the crate out.
Tobin and Ciaran followed him, and before too long, they had the boat unloaded, and then they each set about their day.
Tobin would spend the morning working on his boat, cleaning it from top to bottom, logbooks for coastguard purposes, and whatever else he did on it; Ciaran wasn’t entirely sure. He lived in the boathouse down past Fray’s place. He was a quiet guy, mostly. Happy with his own company or a good book.
Fray was the town’s resident mechanic and handyman. His shop was at the end of Bay Road past the jetty, and it was also the refuelling station. It kept a steady pace with passing fishing boats and trawlers, and he kept all the engines in town running.
Not that there were many.
No need for them, really. Everything was easily walkable, and no one ever came or left by car or truck, since the only road in and out of town was washed away.
It was mostly boats, though a few of the guys had motorbikes, and then there was old Mr Brown’s station wagon, and the police cruiser, of course.
Ciaran spent his days working in his antiquities store. An unusual venture, given the town had no passing tourism, but the internet provided an incredible platform. He sold artefacts and antiques to people all over the world.
The majority were items he’d procured himself from shipwrecks. The Southern and Indian Ocean floors were a treasure trove of voyagers past being wrecked by the untameable waters and winds.
He sold coins, gold, jewellery, bottles, jugs and jars, compasses and even the odd sextant, and various other tools, most dating back hundreds of years.
He did a lot of paperwork to keep it all legit, and some items he gave freely to maritime museums and the underwater heritage folks.
He also bought and traded items and restored and resold some of them.
He loved his job.
How he procured most of these items was his secret. He kept an updated SCUBA diver’s licence. Not that he needed it, but it was all about appearing legitimate to anyone who would go looking.
And every time a new cop came to town, they always started looking.
Ciaran set about his work—getting mail orders out and taking inventory of new stock acquired in the latest haul—trying to put his reaction to the new cop out of his mind.
Trying to ignore how he’d felt. The pull so intense, it was almost tangible.
So physical.
Visceral.
The need to look at him, to go to him, to hear his voice.
To touch him.
Yeah, Ciaran was ignoring that the most.