Page 21
I look into the garden. “Hello?” I call. Where the fuck has he gone?
It’s chilly now and I shift from foot to foot. The stone is cold under my bare feet, and I can see a faint mist creeping in. It’s tattered like old lace, and it drifts over the plants in the garden, moving gently. There’s nothing ominous about it—just a gentle sea mist. But nevertheless, I shuffle back towards the cottage’s threshold. I blink. The mist has thickened, rising to cover most of the garden. The path I just walked on has vanished, and the roar of the sea is muted. How did that happen so quickly?
The garden gate clicks, and footsteps sound on the garden path. “Hello?” I call again. “Can I help you?”
No one replies but the footsteps keep coming closer, light and fast and clearly headed directly for me. I want suddenly and desperately to retreat into the house, but I hold steady.
“Who’s there?” I call sharply.
The footsteps pause. The mist roils and then slowly pulls back, revealing… no one. The winding garden path is empty. I shiver. The mist feels suddenly horrible on my skin—cold and almost oily. I look down, expecting to see smudges where it’s touched me, but there’s nothing.
A light clicks on above me, bathing the front of the house in a golden glow. It’s coming from the bedroom where Levi has obviously just woken up. The window opens and his messy head appears. “Blue,” he says sleepily. “Is that you?”
“Ah, Jim Lad. It be a pirate,” I call.
He snorts softly. “Never ever go on the stage. You’d get thrown off it by force. What are you doing?”
“Just getting some food for us.”
“That’s the best idea. I’m starving.”
“Okay. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
The window closes. The mist has gone as fast as it arrived and the moonlight is once more bathing the garden, lighting it in a pearlescent glow. I hesitate for a second and then shrug and walk back into the house, closing and locking the door behind me.
CHAPTER 4
BLUE
I’m on a beach. The sand is soft beneath my bare feet and tiny shells bite at the soles. The wind is laced with salt and moisture, and it blows my hair back, bringing tears to my eyes.
It’s dark, with no sign of the moonlight from earlier. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and when I open them, I can see a little clearer. The sea is a restless black bulk, heaving and bursting onto the shore, sending up spumes of water when it hits the wicked-looking rocks.
Am I dreaming? I grimace. Or have I astral travelled? It’s been a while since I did that, and I haven’t missed it in the slightest.
Sudden movement out on the water catches my eye, and I gasp as I see a ship hove into view. It’s unlike any modern ship I’ve ever seen—not that I have a massive point of reference for that. However, even I know that this is an old ship.
It’s huge, with a wooden hull, three masts, and square sails that flap in the wind.
I’m officially confused. Does this mean I’ve gone back in time? Or is this another slip like when I trod on the wrong grave and the grumpy resident wanted to tell me off?
The ship treks slowly across the bay, its sails creaking and the rigging jingling, and as I concentrate further, I hear the faint sound of men on board calling to each other.
A sudden light flares in my peripheral vision. I spin around and stop dead in shock. The beach that had been empty before is now full of men. They wear masks and are dressed in dark clothing, and they move around calling to each other in low voices. Their central focus seems to be a large metal cage hoisted high on the beach in which a fire is burning brightly.
What is going on? There’s an urgency to their motions—a feverish anticipation that reminds me of my days out with Spud and the others when he was on the rob. The energy was similar. Often, I would go home with my fingers tingling, my breathing rough, and the knowledge that I had been bad. And there was no one around to care.
I turn to look at the boat again and my eyes widen. It’s changed its course and it’s now heading towards the shore. “No,” I breathe. “It’ll wreck.” The cove is too small and the rocks too sharp for a ship that size to land.
The men on shore become more frantic, their excitement heady on the breeze, their voices loud.
The ship is following the light.
“Stop,” I call to the men. “Stop!”
No one pays any attention, and I realise that they can’t see me. I try to move forward, but I can’t move a muscle. Instead, I’m forced to stand on the spot, my feet and hands freezing cold and my teeth chattering.
Knowledge comes in a flash. They’re wreckers—men who lit false signals on beaches to lure ships to their doom. The passengers and crew would then be killed so the wreckers could seize their goods. I’d read about them once when my mum had shacked up with a man from Devon. He’d been fascinated by the smuggling and wrecking communities and the romance of it all. There’s very little romance about this.
