3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Days earlier
T he hum of the engine and monotonous vibration confused him as he struggled to open his eyes. His head thumped with every rotation of the car wheels, hitting the window he slumped against. All he could see was a vast amount of inky sky. Where was he? His neck muscles protested as he straightened, and the throbbing pain throughout his head intensified. The car dipped and lurched sharply to the left, his stomach following it. Nausea hit. The smell of the cream leather interior and air freshener swaying under the rear-view mirror, mingled with the stale alcohol emitting from his crumpled shirt, amplified the feeling.
‘Stop!’
The car climbed another hill.
Come on, thought Nate, as another wave of sickness hit. The driver pulled into a passing place when it reached the snowy brow. Nate flung the door open, staggered out, and threw up. Freezing air hit his face, and he took some deep breaths, each one soothing his heaving stomach. Only when he knew he wouldn’t be sick again did he look up. He stood in awe at the panoramic view of a vast, dark night littered with bright stars, the Milky Way running across the sky untouched by the artificial lights of a city.
‘Here you go, Mr Reynolds.’ The driver passed him a bottle of water, which he gratefully took.
‘It’s stunning, isn’t it? You don’t see that in the city.’
Nate nodded. ‘Where are we?’ he asked. The land dipped and peaked while the road, highlighted by the car’s headlights, twisted and turned. No wonder he felt ill. A few silhouettes of trees dotted the landscape.
‘The Yorkshire Moors, sir.’ The driver studied his drunk passenger. ‘Not far from Whitby. In fact, if you look over there, you’ll see the Abbey.’
Nate looked and saw the ruins lit by multicoloured spotlights overlooking a black sea. He recognised the skyline from vague memories from childhood, or maybe a photo, but Nate was still none the wiser about why he was in North Yorkshire. What was he doing heading for Whitby? And why? He looked down to see himself dressed in a creased dinner jacket, a bow tie hung open round his neck, and a stain spread on his white shirt, the smell of whisky wafting up. Whisky. He could feel the burn in his throat and the warmth of his stomach as he recalled gulping down a shot before demanding another. He rubbed his brow as he caught snatches of the night before: Rebecca in her stunning red dress with a low-cut back which emphasised her curves, her pinned-up hair falling loose as she danced to the live music at the Hilton’s Christmas Ball in London, the barman handing him another drink as he watched, and a concerned hand touching his shoulder. Nate patted down his pockets, pulled out his phone, and switched it on to a flurry of notifications of missed calls and text messages.
All variations of ‘Where the hell are you?’ With more expletives added with each new message.
***
‘This is as far as I can get, I’m afraid,’ Rick, the driver, said, jolting Nate awake. The car drew up in a narrow, cobbled street, flanked either side by tiny traditional fishing cottages. Christmas trees sparkled in the windows and wreaths hung on the front doors. Shadows moved behind closed curtains as the morning inside began. opened the car door and Nate climbed out to the sound of the hubbub of traders on a nearby street preparing for the day above the constant lapping of the sea against the harbour wall. The smoky aroma of kippers mingled with the saltiness and tang of the sea, making his stomach rumble despite the lingering nausea. He stood confused, clutching a bag gave him and willing his head to stop thumping. The church bells tolled seven, and his heart froze. He was supposed to be on a train to his office in London five hours away. There must be a mistake. He turned to get back in the car, but the rear lights disappeared around the corner, leaving him alone.
‘There you are, love.’ A lady with an oversized cardigan pulled tightly around herself appeared from a nearby cottage. ‘You made good time. I’m Kelly. George called, so I was expecting you. I have the key, but maybe you’d like a cuppa or coffee? It’s been a while since anyone stayed, so it’ll be chilly in there. A cuppa will warm you up.’
Nate shook his head. George. He breathed a sigh of relief; if George was behind this, he would be okay. He hoped. He needed to remember, but the foggy patches of his memory refused to clear; a chill spread through him and a crushing knot in his stomach formed when he tried. Kelly handed him a key and directions, but he soon found himself alone when she was called back in by the children running through the house.
Sand Dale Cottage hid in a tiny yard of three sandstone-bricked houses squeezed into the small space. He unlocked the front door designed for people half his height and staggered straight into a small lounge with low ceilings, causing him to remain stooped. The air was stale, and the house was cold, as Kelly predicted.
Nate ignored the immaculate décor and furnishings but stumbled up the stairs to the first bedroom he could find. He flopped onto the bed and fell into a deep slumber, ignoring his vibrating phone as it rang again and again.
***
The incessant ring forced Nate awake and he wished it hadn’t. The bright light intensified the pain in his head. How much did I drink? He sat on the edge of the bed, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. And where the hell am I? Faint recollections of the car journey came back, but the rest remained lost in the thick drunken fog of his mind. The ringing continued. He stumbled down the stairs following the noise and answered the heavy corded telephone which predated the seventies. It felt alien in his hand, yet strangely comforting, reminiscent of his childhood.
‘’Llo,’ he slurred.
‘You got there in one piece, then. I thought I had better check since you haven’t answered your mobile or emails.’
‘George,’ Nate said. ‘What happened? Where am I? And why are you whispering?’
‘You can’t remember? I’m not surprised. The amount I saw you drink was enough to make your veins swim with alcohol, and I suspect you’d drunk more than that. You propping up the bar set a couple of tongues wagging, but most people were too drunk themselves to notice. Before you ask, I don’t know why you were drowning your sorrows. But you said you wanted peace and quiet, and to escape. At such short notice and so close to Christmas, Sand Dale was the best I could do.’
‘But why are you whispering?’
‘You know what this place is like. Even your office has ears—before you know it, someone would overhear and realise you aren’t dealing with an emergency in Strasburg. Your true whereabouts would be around the City in minutes. So, I’m in the gents where there is no one around.’
When Nate hired George over the string of young immaculate women waiting for an interview, it had raised a few eyebrows. He never thought the ability to have private conversations away from gossiping ears would be an extra advantage. When the battleaxe Mrs Ferguson, the PA he inherited from his predecessor, retired, it seemed the ideal solution. Despite her impeccable efficiency, he hated her; she looked down at him as if he was a scabby schoolkid dragged into being her boss. She resented any suggestion of change. Rebecca’s endless comments and suspicions about the temps who filled in also wore him down. George might not be a qualified or experienced PA, but he was as efficient as Mrs Ferguson and came into work every day with a spring in his step, grateful Nate had given him a new career path rather than being forced to retire after being made redundant from a job he loved. His grandfatherly ability to get on with everyone while standing his ground made him the perfect candidate.
‘Does Rebecca know?’
‘No, but she is on the warpath demanding where you are. I expect a bonus for covering for you, and my missus expects an excellent review on Tripadvisor. Sand Dale is her baby.’ Nate sighed with relief before tuning out as George gave him a lowdown on the house.
‘Anything else I can help you with?’ George said.
‘Only one thing. Where can you get a proper coffee round here?’
The hot shower and paracetamol Nate found at the back of the bathroom cabinet eased his headache enough to walk into the town. The streets of Whitby heaved with last-minute Christmas shoppers searching for the ideal gift. Many were tired, stressed, and oblivious to the festive cheer the shops displayed, while others buzzed with excitement and caught up with friends over coffee and cake in the thriving cafés. The River Esk sliced the town in two. He joined a jostling crowd at the swing bridge, waiting for it to close so they could cross into the newer town. He heard the deep sighs and groans from partners of eager shoppers and child tantrums mingled with the intermittent hums of carols and gossip. A girl aged around five bounced up and down next to him, holding her father’s hand.
‘Can reindeer swim, Dad?’ she asked, but he didn’t reply, instead concentrated on the child on his shoulders who with every jiggle of excitement kicked Nate in the back. The boat they were waiting for sailed past and out to the sea below. They even decorated the boats with colourful lights wound around the mast and sides to join the festive cheer.
The warm fragrance of cinnamon and spice from the Scandinavian-style stalls in the Christmas market and the large tree decked with white shimmering lights tugged at his emotions, deepened his unhappiness. He was grateful to grab a takeaway coffee and bacon roll to eat on the beach, away from the crowds and festive atmosphere. The bitter north-east wind and salty air cleared the remaining hangover as Nate stood on the shore looking out to the horizon. Maybe my drunken self was on the right track , he thought. I needed time away from everything, everyone . His breathing matched the rhythm of the waves flowing in and out, and a sense of calm followed. He shivered. The coat he’d borrowed from the cupboard at the cottage offered no protection from the cold. If he was staying, he needed to get provisions, warm clean clothes of his own, and a charger for his phone, which lay dead in his pocket. Reluctantly, he headed back towards the crowds, unaware his every move was scrutinised.
***
Nate’s icy hands struggled with the door key, but when it gave a satisfying click, he brought in the multitude of shopping bags, taking extra care not to hit his head on the door frame. Kelly, holding one small child and followed by two older ones, all bundled up in woolly hats and gloves, came around the corner.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello, love. You’ve a bit more colour in you now. Just checking you’re all right and to give you this.’ An older child offered him a small casserole dish. ‘It’s nothing fancy—just a bit of stew we’re having, but I always make too much and I promised George I’d keep an eye on you, but it looks like you have stocked up. Are you staying for Christmas?’
Am I? he asked himself. It was only a few days away. Am I really going to abandon Christmas at home to stay here alone? His muscles clenched and his stomach churned at the idea of returning to London.
‘Yes. I am.’
‘Well, if you find yourself at a loose end, you know where we are. There’s always room for one more at the table.’
He thanked her, eager to get into the warmth, but she continued to chat until the children squabbled. None of them noticed an uninvited guest silently slip into the cottage.
The blazing wood burner soon warmed the building. Nate slouched on the sofa, flicking through the TV channels; images of the ideal Christmas flashed by, giant trees, laughing children, and food galore. Even the grumpy characters he could relate to wore paper hats. He switched it off and flung the remote down. This is a Christmas-free zone. When George said his tiny seaside retreat was a doll’s house, he wasn’t joking. It could fit multiple times in the lounge of his flat, but George’s wife had good taste and had achieved a modern look while keeping the original features and ambience. He had everything he needed: food, alcohol, Wi-Fi, and a TV.
‘What the—? Where did you come from?’
A gigantic animal sat in the doorway. Its wide amber eyes intensely focused on him. Nate looked at his wine glass and the bottle on the coffee table, double-checking the amount he had drunk. He must be hallucinating—cats were never that big except in a zoo.
Is there a Beast of Whitby, like the one on Bodmin Moor? But if so, it would be black, surely? Not ginger, nor so fluffy. They studied each other. Its square head leant to one side inquisitively, long tufts of fur protruded from the top of his ears, and it even had a mane of longer fur around its neck. The tip of the long tail flicked. That wasn’t a good sign, Nate thought vaguely, recalling all he knew about cats. Dogs he knew, liked, and could understand, but cats—they unnerved him with their look of superiority and claws. He hated them.
‘I have nothing for you. Shoo.’ Carefully, he rose from the sofa and edged to the front door and opened it to the blast of frosty air.
‘Go. Get out of here.’
The cat ignored him, padded over to the log burner, and cleaned its enormous paws.
‘Don’t make yourself at home. You are at the wrong house.’
Or are you? George would have told him about another lodger, wouldn’t he? Nate thought back to the earlier conversations with him, but the words were lost in the drunken haze. He was certain no cat was mentioned, but the seed of doubt nestled in. He grabbed his phone and switched it on. A tirade of texts, missed calls, and message alerts flooded the screen. He switched it off.
‘Fine. Stay!’ Nate huffed and slammed the door. ‘You’ve got until I talk to George. Just stay over there and leave me alone.’
Nate woke trapped against the back of the sofa by the cat sprawled next to him. He held the remote in one hand while the other subconsciously stroked the cat’s long, dense fur, feeling the deep rumble of its appreciative purr. He snatched his hand away. So much for leaving me alone? A dull ache persisted in his bent neck.
‘Get off me.’ He shoved the cat, who sprang up in disgust, his long tail twitching. The scene unfolded second by second as the tail connected with a half-full glass of red wine. It wobbled, and Nate released his breath as it settled down. Another forceful swish of the tail tipped the glass over; claret drops sloshed onto the table and drip by drip fell onto the pale rug below.
‘That’s it. Out!’ Nate raged. He stormed across the room and flung open the door. A wintry wind blew in stray snowflakes.
‘I said out. I bet you don’t even live here. Out.’
With a sigh and body as low as it could get, the cat slowly slunk out into the dark.
What would George’s wife say? The stain refused to budge; instead it faded to pale pink and grew with every scrub of detergent. He hadn’t even realised George was married, never mind her name. Nate had assumed George was a widower. After working together in close proximity, how did he not know that? Nate wondered whether the accusation of him not caring about anything but his work, spat out at him several times in the past few months, were true.
Twenty-four hours ago, his life was mapped out; he knew what he was doing and where.
Arriving home to his flat early, he’d looked forward to a long shower and swift drink before the Christmas Ball. They were not his thing, but as the boss he was expected to attend and Rebecca would have been devastated if he cancelled; it was circled in the diary and preparations had begun in earnest weeks ago—the dress, shoes, and bag. Who knows what else she had bought? As a social butterfly, she saw this as an opportunity to flutter and fly, soaking up any compliments, and an opportunity to network.
He kicked off his shoes before doing a double take as he saw another pair of shoes stranded in the hallway, followed by hearing a giggle from his room. He stealthily crossed the large open-plan living area, briefly noticing the stunning sunset across the silhouette of London from the ceiling-to-floor windows of his apartment. Through the opened door of his bedroom, he faced what he already knew: Rebecca straddling a vaguely familiar man in his bed, her long hair trailing down her naked back. He opened his mouth to speak and confront them, but he left in silence.
Hours later, Nate felt a sense of déjà vu when he flung his shoes off on his return.
‘Darling, is that you? You’re late. Please, can you zip up my dress?’ Rebecca stood before him, stunning in a silk dress that hugged her body perfectly. She scooped her hair up before turning around. He zipped it up, and she purred her thanks.
He scanned the room for any signs of her lover’s presence. There was nothing. Just the fragrance of her perfume, and he wondered if the excess was to cover up any lingering aftershave or smell of sex. He studied her as she finished getting ready. With her high cheekbones and a figure she worked hard for, she was as stunning as she thought she was. Maybe he had dreamt the last couple of hours driving round aimlessly, trying to make sense of it all. The evening passed in a blur, standing on the sidelines as he talked to colleagues and wished them merry Christmas. He watched Rebecca smile and laugh before talking to their wives. She fit into his world and looked the part more than he did. Everyone loved her, but as he waited for the anger to hit, he wondered if he did. Surely, he should feel angry and want to lash out after her betrayal, but he felt nothing. He ordered a drink and downed it in one gulp. The heat burned his throat.
He had another.
‘All right?’ George touched his shoulder.
Nate came out of his haze. ‘Not really,’ he slurred. ‘Don’t you just wish you could escape all this?’ He gestured with his drink. ‘Be by yourself, no cares and no bloody Christmas.’
Nate ignored George’s scrutinising stare. After the day he’d had he deserved a drink or two and if he was getting drunk, it helped banish the images of Rebecca naked with someone else. ‘Know anywhere?’ Nate hiccupped and ordered another whisky.
‘Strangely enough, I do.’
Within an hour and a flurry of phone calls from George, Nate fell asleep in the back of a car travelling north.
The wind whipped up outside, rattling the windows at Sand Dale. Swirls of white replaced the darkness of the night sky. The promised weather he’d heard murmurings about on the radio and news had arrived. Glad I’m in here. He poured himself another glass of wine. I’d hate to be out in that. Like the lumbering animal he’d thrown outside. Guilt kicked in, but it didn’t live here. It was nothing more than a sponging and using creature taking its chance. Just like Rebecca. A newsreel showing her played in his mind. She was using his flat, his things, and his bank card. The rage kicked in and he stomped around the cottage. He opened a random cupboard in search of food. The images froze as he saw a box of cat kibble.
***
The knock on the door vibrated through the small house. Nate staggered to the door and yawned. The low winter sun blinded him as he opened the door. He shivered, but at least the weather was calm. The storm had blown through, leaving behind a sludge of thawed snow.
‘Mr Nathaniel Reynolds?’
‘Yeah.’ His heart raced. Had Rebecca tracked him down already?
‘Packages for you to sign for.’
The man and his courier uniform came into focus. Nate grinned, allowing several boxes to be stacked inside.
‘Great. Thanks,’ Nate said. Unable to resist, he ripped open the largest box. Excitement bubbled up as he removed a top-of-the-range coffee machine. Now this was perfect.
‘Wow! That is massive. Maine Coon, is it?’ the courier said.
Confused, Nate shook his head. What was the delivery guy talking about? The machine wasn’t that big. His hungover mind shrugged it off. He signed the electronic device, wished him a merry Christmas, and watched him leave. Along with a new laptop and other essentials, today would be an excellent day. The cheery over-enthusiastic radio DJ didn’t grate so much now his mood lifted with the promise of caffeine. He sang and swayed to the music. The bitter aroma of fresh coffee filled the air with the comforting gurgle of the gleaming machine. Maybe it was too large for the petite cottage kitchen, but the taste was nectar, and the buzz running through his veins knocked the hangover away. Who needed the table to eat from, anyway? He wasn’t planning on cooking anything beyond microwave food. A mournful cry came from the kitchen door. Nate flung it open and grinned. Today was getting better.
‘You’re back!’
The cat, looking no worse for his night outside, strolled in. Nate crossed over to the fridge and poured some cream, hoping it would help make amends. He regretted kicking the poor creature out into the storm and guilt had made sleep impossible. A cat like that was irreplaceable.
‘You must be hungry too.’ The cat finished lapping up its treat and licked his whiskers. ‘You deserve to be spoiled.’
Over the next few days, they settled into a routine. During the day, the cat spent time with Nate before disappearing into the night for feline adventures. Nate discovered it enjoyed playing fetch like a dog, its fascination with water meant the bathroom door remained closed, and how much he enjoyed the animal’s company.
Another movie watched, Nate stretched and took a call from George. After catching up with the news. Nate looked at the contented cat. He scratched behind its ear to be rewarded by a loud, rumbling purr.
‘Oh, by the way, what’s the cat’s name?’
The purr stopped, and the cat edged itself off the sofa.
‘What cat?’ George chuckled. ‘We don’t have a cat.’
‘You must do. It’s been here since I got here. I found the cat food.’
‘Cat food? That must have been left over from my sister-in-law’s visit. Her cat always comes with her. Describe it to me.’
The flash of the phone’s camera dazed the wide-eyed creature before he slunk towards the front door.
‘Oh, that’s Vincent. He’s the witch’s cat.’