Chapter 1
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Sun, sea, sand, summer. Bonding time with the kids; time away from London.
Away from the firm where every day, I’m required to see Aiden through the glass wall of my office, across the conference room, through the glass wall of his.
Away from the wondering about whether the first time it ‘just happened’ between him and our second-year intern, Abigail, he bothered to pull the blinds, or just left them open because he knew I’d be at Connor’s school drama production of The Jungle Book.
And besides, when one inherits a grade II listed sea-view property in Cornwall from a distant relative one has never known, it’s only right to at least see the place before it goes on the market. I mean, really, it would be rude not to.
‘There. Is. No. Signal.’
The words descend like a headman’s axe, penetrating the already weighty atmosphere both inside and outside the car.
Bridget’s proclamation is heralded by a clap of thunder that shakes the car and lightning forks like a devil’s spear over the patchwork hills.
The solid wall of dark clouds bursts into a torrent of rain. A deluge of biblical proportions.
On the positive side, since leaving our soon-to-be-former family home in Highgate, approximately five (five!) hours ago, I have learned quite a bit about the geography of England of which I was previously unaware.
For example, I have learned that it is possible to drive for five hours and still not reach the far south-western reaches of the map.
Or even get all that close. Actually, I was pleasantly surprised at how seemingly quick we reached Exeter.
I even suggested that in the spirit of summer sightseeing, we should stop off in town and visit the cathedral – a true wonder of English ecclesiastical architecture.
The suggestion was met with a huffy silence from Bridget and a pleading ‘can’t we just go to McDonald’s at the services’ from Connor.
Which, despite my determination to keep a positive mindset, did, frankly, irritate me.
Now, my stomach roils like the Big Mac might repeat on me.
While Connor readily agreed to my summer plans, Bridget was not quite as enthusiastic.
Back in January, she’d talked about wanting to get a summer job now that she’s turned seventeen and Aide presented her with a vague bribe that he’d give her his aged Mini Cooper when she was able to pay for insurance and petrol.
But by Easter, everything had gone wrong for her too.
Unfortunately, at the same time my eighteen-year-long marriage was coming to an end, her eight-month-long relationship with a boy named Mark in her French class hit the rocks, which sent her into emotional freefall.
While I advocated that a change of scene might be just the ticket to getting over him, Bridget’s preferred route was stalking Mark’s every Instagram post and Snap that related to his new girlfriend, Samira.
Hence, while I am secretly relieved at the state of the mobile service (or lack thereof) as we cross the border from Devon to Cornwall, I am also secretly praying that our inherited accommodation has Wi-Fi.
‘Sorry, Bridge,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it’s only temporary.’
‘When are we going home?’ Connor asks unhelpfully.
My hands are clammy as I clench the wheel.
As many times as I have explained the divorce, the sale of the house, and the continuing haggle over Aiden buying out my half of the business, somehow, the true state of our circumstances does not seem to have landed with either of my children.
Home is a place that no longer exists for us back in London.
Home is the suitcases in the back of the car, the boxes and furniture that may or may not ever come out of storage, and the three of us, together.
God, what a nightmare.
‘We’re almost there – it’s not far now.’ Lying seems the best course of action.
For another thing I have discovered is that past Okehampton, everything is much further than it seems on the map.
The roads are smaller, the traffic heavier, the fog thicker – and the rain is becoming positively blinding.
Worse, with the loss of signal, the spinning circle of death has appeared in the centre of the satnav screen.
I no longer have any idea where we are or where we’re headed.
‘This is awful,’ Bridget announces.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. But right now, my daughter’s summation carries the day.
From out of the blue (actually the thick, grey mist) I see a sign to Penzance.
Braking hard, I half-hydroplane off the main road onto a much narrower one with tall hedges closing in on both sides.
Although it’s June and we should be due an hour or two more daylight, the sky is pitch-black.
The darkness swallows the headlamps, and the water on the road slows our already glacial progress.
Miraculously, however, the signal returns; the satnav practically jumps forward with our position.
And we are near our destination. In the light of the high beams, I can just make out a sign indicating a turn off to a place called Penglas Cove, that promises a beach and a car park in two miles. I slow down to make it.
An armoured Range Rover comes steaming up the track in the opposite direction. My heart jumps in my mouth as I run hard into the bank below the hedgerow.
‘Idiot,’ I mutter under my breath.
‘I hate the countryside,’ Bridget moans. ‘I want to go back to London.’
Shut up. Shut up. I want to shout at her so badly. But that’s unacceptable language in our household.
‘We’re here now,’ I say, ‘so keep an eye out for the cottage. It should be just ahead.’
The rain redoubles its efforts. We thunk over a hidden speed bump, and I practically scrape the car on a sign protruding into the road: Caution Slow Children. Maybe it’s meant as a joke… though, I can’t imagine anything on earth being funny right now.
We pass a few sideroads – maybe I’m supposed to turn down one of them, but I keep going, following signs to the beach. Up ahead, a light glows faintly. A house? Our cottage?
The satnav beeps suddenly. We’ve reached our destination. I turn into a cobblestone yard in front of a large, ramshackle building. I check our position. This is the right place. But it’s not a cottage.
It’s a pub of some kind. A wooden sign is hanging above the door, creaking in the wind. The Cross Keys. My heart pounds hard in my chest. The cottage is called the Cross Keys. We haven’t gone wrong… This is it?
‘We’re here,’ I say with a brightness that might kill me.
‘What?’ Bridget says. ‘But it’s the middle of nowhere.’
‘No, it’s not,’ I say through my teeth. ‘We’re near a car park, and a beach.’
‘Where’s the village? You said we were going to a cottage in a seaside village.’
‘I don’t know, OK?’ I turn on the overhead light and dig in my handbag for the key the solicitor sent me in the post – old-fashioned, and attached to a key ring made from a miniature ship in a bottle. ‘Right now, let’s just get inside.’
* * *
Sod’s law – the key doesn’t work. Nor does the drainpipe above the door, which serves only to funnel a torrent of water directly onto my head as I stand on the doorstep.
Bridget stays in the car while I try to jimmy the lock, but Connor gets out to explore.
In his dark-grey hoodie, his flickering phone torch is the only part of him I can see.
I abandon the front door and follow him, squelching across the waterlogged cobbles. He goes around the side of an L-shaped extension to the main building, disappearing into the murk.
‘Wait for me,’ I call out, but he’s already gone.
Around the side of the building, I see him stopped underneath the dull orange glow of a security light. It’s a side entrance with another wooden sign swinging above it. The old-fashioned script is faded and faint, but I manage to read:
Smugglers’ Museum and Pirate Cave.
Entry ￡1.
A bargain if we can get out of the rain.
Connor tries the door. It opens with an almighty screech and he goes inside. I rush to follow him; the wind blows the door shut behind me with a heavy thud.
It’s dark inside – the place is lit only by a few sparse security lights and Connor’s phone torch.
I grope on the wall for a light switch but don’t find one.
I make out the silhouettes of cases and exhibits, but mostly, I’m aware of the smell.
That peculiar pong of old things: the decay of dead sea creatures, the ancient formaldehyde of moth-eaten taxidermy, the dust of old wood.
My phone is almost out of battery, but using the torch, I make my way over to an old desk covered with brochures of local attractions, a battered cash box, and a banker’s light, which thankfully turns on, giving off a green glow.
I look closer at the dark wood apothecary cabinets full of all manner of flotsam and jetsam: shells, fossils, scrimshaw, and nautical instruments.
The shelves are dusty and cluttered, the glass cases finger-marked.
I suspect, however, that whoever ‘collected’ all these old things must have thought themselves a careful curator of the past.
Fleetingly, I wonder who the museum collection belongs to now.
Not me, I hope.
I carry on through an archway past the desk.
There’s a room with an impressive display of model ships and ships in a bottle, all of which look delicate and well-crafted.
At the far end of the room, an old-fashioned hand sign points to a narrow descending staircase.
Stencilled lettering on the lintel reads:
To the Pirate Cave – “Abandon hope all ye who enter here.”
Tacked over the writing is a piece of cardboard that says Closed, and the stairs are roped off. But the door at the bottom is wide open; cold, subterranean air wafts upwards. Another orange light glows from below. Connor pauses at the top of the stairs.
‘There’s no one here,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
But just then, a sound comes from the lower level. Whistling.
‘Hello?’ Connor calls out. ‘Is someone there?’
The whistling stops; from below us comes a heavy thud.
‘Someone’s down there,’ he says. ‘I’m going to check it out.’
‘No—’ I start to say, but it’s too late. Connor bounds down the stairs and through the door.
I’ve no choice but to follow. At the bottom of the stairs, I shiver – the smell of cold, damp earth makes me feel like I’ve been buried alive.
Beyond the door is a natural cave or tunnel of some kind with rocky walls and a dirt floor.
The orange glow comes from further inside, and I see Connor’s silhouette.
He’s looking at something in a side grotto that I can’t see.
‘Mum,’ he says, waving me forward. ‘Come look.’
I go to join him, my creep factor on high alert.
When I reach him and look into the small cavern, I gasp.
Lit only by the dim orange light, the tableau is garish and unsettling.
Three poorly made, life-size wax figures stand over a table, pointing at a map.
At their feet is a mangy three-legged wax dog, lapping up the dregs of spilled rum.
From their painted-on leers, cutlasses, pistols and general shabby appearance, it’s clear they are pirates.
‘Did pirates actually live here?’ Connor asks.
‘I think in this part of the world they called them wreckers,’ I say, remembering my Daphne du Maurier.
‘In olden times, they used signal fires on the cliffs to lure ships onto the rocks. Then, when the ship was floundering, the locals would steal the goods that washed to shore. There were also smugglers who stole goods from ships and warehouses. They stored the loot in caves – like this one.’
‘That’s sick!’ Connor grins with enthusiasm. I would have thought he was too old for pirates, but I suppose lurid wax figures hold a macabre fascination at any age.
As he moves towards the next grotto, a light goes on and illuminates the display: a bedroom with a fake mullioned window with a triple-masted ship in a bottle on the sill. Beyond the window in the far distance is a ship at sea, its sails in tatters, with cellophane flames sweeping across its decks.
It’s the woman sitting in the bed, however, that makes my skin crawl.
A tangle of black hair cascades from underneath a lace cap, framing her pale wax face.
She’s wearing a white nightgown – with a knife sticking out of her chest. A pool of ‘blood’ is dripping to the floor; the three-legged dog from the previous tableau is licking at it.
‘This is creepy,’ I say. ‘And I think we should go. I thought I had keys to a cottage, not some tacky old pirate cave. But maybe the solicitor was wrong. And anyway, Bridget’s still in the car.’
‘There’s one more, Mum. Come on.’
Connor’s already making his way to the next display that illuminates as he draws near.
The large natural cavern is full of tatty wax figures in different scenes: pirates drinking from casks of rum, a fake beach with barrels and contraband washed up onshore, and bedraggled sailors being held under the water by the wreckers, whose number includes a few women with ample wax bosoms (and the omnipresent three-legged dog).
Another ruffian levels a pistol at a line of bayonet-toting redcoats on a ledge above.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I get it. I think we’ve seen enough—’
‘Look,’ Connor says. He points to the figure with the pistol. ‘That pirate. He… blinked.’
‘What?’ I say. But a second later, the pirate does more than blink. His face twists in a leer. Then, he points the pistol at us, and a deafening explosion rings out.