Tourmaline

by James Brogden

  He was checking his driftlines for the nth futile time and clearing them of some seaweed when he noticed that at the base of each leaf-frond was a tennis-ball sized flotation pod which sloshed half-full with some kind of sap.

  He cut one open and took an experimental sip. It was warm, brackish, and heavy with the taste of iodine, but his parched body was in charge now. He felt the shrivelled sponges of his insides swell and grow blissfully heavy, and he drained three of the globes before he was able to exert enough self-control to stop. Seven left. Probably enough for two or three more days if he was careful. And where there was some, there would be more. He might even be able to dive down and collect some if it weren’t too deep in these parts; he might just stand a slim chance of making it to his destination alive.

  He was figuring out how to calculate the depth when relief and exhaustion overwhelmed him and he sank into something resembling sleep.

  In this manner, another four days passed.

  When he woke at dawn of the fifth, a small boy’s anxious face was peering upside down into his own.

  Chapter 3

  A Real Work of Art

  1

  Steve knew that something was wrong instantly when he saw the state of her. She looked like she hadn’t slept or eaten for days; there were deep shadows under her eyes and hollows beneath her cheekbones, and she was wrapped in a shapeless coat which made her seem frail and ill, like an escapee from a cancer ward. She staggered in the doorway, and he leapt up to catch her.

  ‘Please…’ she gasped, ‘Steven, please… take me to her…’

  He didn’t have to ask who ‘her’ was.

  He half-carried her upstairs to the galleries, shocked by how light she was, as if she lacked some essential substance. It felt like a strong draught would simply blow her away altogether. They shuffled along like this until she came within sight of the painting, at which point she stopped, straightened, and heaved a huge sigh of relief.

  ‘I think I’m going to be okay now, thanks,’ she said and completed the rest of the distance under her own power.

  Just like Caffrey before him, the thought that she might reach out and touch the painting never occurred to him until she’d actually done it, but Steve was both closer and faster than his missing colleague.

  ‘Ah, no,’ he warned, pulling her away with gentle firmness. ‘You can’t, I’m afraid.’ It must have been his imagination, or the sort of optical illusion which happened in the corner of one’s eye, which made him think that he saw the paint move under her fingers, because when he turned to look more closely it had stopped. But of course, it had never started in the first place, had it? ‘Coffee,’ he ordered. ‘You and me. Now.’

  ‘But I’m not thirsty.’

  ‘It’s not you that needs it.’

  2

  The Costa franchise in the University’s Guild of Students was largely deserted at this time of the morning. Probably, Steve thought, because most of its customers wouldn’t be dragging themselves out of bed before noon. Students. He bought her a large slice of carrot cake and watched her wolf it. She still looked haggard but had already regained some of the composure from before.

  Nearly finished, she stopped. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked, her suspicion plain.

  ‘Because you needed help. You’re welcome, by the way.’

  ‘Besides that.’

  ‘There is no besides that. You were in a state, you needed help. End of. I’m not going to pretend that I’m not curious about whatever’s going on with you and that painting – understatement of the year there, but whatever – the point is that you don’t know me from a hole in the ground and whatever it is, it’s none of my business. Cake. Eat.’

  She looked at him as if seeing him properly for the first time. He had a round, open face with hazel eyes which were looking at her in genuine concern, but which also seemed at odds with the tightly-cropped hair and security guard’s uniform. ‘You are a very interesting person,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Except here’s the thing. What you did just now, if it happens again you are going to get arrested, and I am going to get sacked. So it’s not going to happen again, is it?’

  ‘I wish I could guarantee that.’

  ‘Miss, it’s not down to you…’

  ‘It’s Vanessa. Vanessa Gail. Please use my name.’

  ‘Alright then, Miss Gail. You’ve obviously experienced some kind of shock or trauma, and the last thing I want to do is add to your troubles, but you need to understand that the next time you turn up to the Barber, I might choose to simply not let you in if you can’t guarantee that you’re not going to get all happy slappy with the national treasures again.’

  ‘I thought you said you wanted to help.’

  He was getting exasperated now. ‘This is me helping! By rights I should have already called the police.’

  She was silent for a long while, absently tearing a paper napkin into thin strips. She seemed to be resolving some inner debate. ‘You’re right, of course,’ she said finally. ‘I’m sorry. I owe you the mother of all explanations, despite what you said. But I’m in no fit state to give it at the moment. Are you free this evening?’

  His double-take was not entirely faked. ‘I’m sorry – for a moment there I thought you’d just asked me out.’

  There was playful gleam in her eye despite everything. ‘I work an evening shift at the Grange, just around by New Street,’ she replied. ‘It’s going to be a bit busy, but when I’m done I can buy you a drink in return for this coffee and try to explain why a silly painting gets me so worked up. If that’s your idea of a date, I mean.’

  It turned out it was.

  3

  Steve didn’t think pubs like The Grange existed anymore – certainly not in the City Centre. He’d assumed they’d all either gone bust or been bought up by the big brewers, but this place appeared to have been entirely overlooked by the urban developers and their rampant desire to modernise everything by covering it in chrome and plasma screens ramming twenty-four-hour sport down the customers’ eye sockets. This place was narrow and cramped, gleaming with brass and dark furniture which sat unevenly on a sloping floor. There was no concession for the smokers, who stood outside on the pavement with their collars turned up like extras in a wartime movie, and no celebrity-endorsed gastropub menu; he watched men in flat caps tucking silently into steak-and-ale pies while their wives nursed half-pints of stout; the inevitable Lone Weirdo, sitting at a solitary table in the corner, either a retiree widower or a serial killer in training; gangs of tattooed builders jostled pints with salesmen in wrinkled suits, potato-shaped white-van drivers and a handful of students who were either lost, or slumming it, but either way determined to enjoy the place on an ironic level. It was like walking into the middle of a Giles cartoon. Much more his kind of place.

  It quickly became obvious that Vanessa was going to be far too busy for any kind of meaningful sit-down conversation. The bar was crammed from one end to the other for most of the evening. Every so often the pub cat would stalk imperiously along between the pumps and the pints, totally unfazed by the noise, just to remind everybody who was really in charge around here. Steve settled himself into a quiet corner and watched Vanessa work.

  She had a smile and a bit of chat for everyone, even the Lone Weirdo, and at the same time was able to pull pints with an efficiency which surprised him. There was banter and some good-natured flirting from the customers, but most of them were probably twenty years her senior and none seemed to be seriously hitting on her; he got the impression that they all looked on her more as a younger sister.

  Which reminded him. He texted Jackie about his ‘date’, to which she helpfully responded: yay bigbruv! jst don’t fuk it up ok? ;)

  For a moment the bar was slightly less frantic, and before he knew it Vanessa plonked herself down on the stool opposite with a pint for him a
nd a lemonade for herself. It was obviously hot work; her hair was tied back, and there was a light sheen of sweat on her collarbones which he couldn’t help noticing.

  ‘Right,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Sorry about this. It’s utterly manic, but I’ve got a bit of a break. You’ve got thirty seconds to tell me your life story. Speed-dating rules apply. Go.’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘You can’t seriously…’

  ‘Twenty-five.’

  ‘Okay! Okay!’ he laughed. ‘Uh, alright then, Steven Peter McBride, born and bred Brummie, big Irish Catholic family, one brother four sisters. Uh, school, not especially clever, decent forward for the football team, fairly okay at Art and Design. Allergic to penicillin…’

  ‘That’s not school.’

  ‘You didn’t exactly give me a lot of time to plan this!’

  ‘Fair point. Ten.’

  He flapped. ‘Okay, so, tried to join the police, history of heart disease in the family even though I’m fine, shop jobs…’

  ‘Time’s up.’

  He sank back and took a well-earned swig. ‘Your turn,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ she shook her head. ‘What you want to hear can’t be told in thirty seconds. Can you hang around until I finish up here? I knock off at ten.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, even though he was beginning to get the distinct feeling that he was being given the run-around.

  ‘Good then.’ She flashed him a dazzling smile and returned to the bar.

  4

  Barry, the head barman, was holding the fort single-handed and tipped her a wink when she re-joined him. ‘That your fella then, is it?’ he grinned, revealing a mouth which was a stranger to modern orthodontics.

  ‘No!’ She swatted him in mock outrage. ‘He’s just a friend who’s doing me a favour, that’s all.’

  ‘Oh aye, Vessa, and I know the kind of favour he’d like to be doing to you, alright.’

  ‘You are a dirty old man.’

  Barry leered amiably and hip-bumped her as she moved past him to the pumps. He was not a small man – almost as round as he was tall – capable of astonishing violence in defence of his bar but without a malicious bone in his body. He took the welfare of his female staff seriously, juggling shifts as well as he could to let them work around their other commitments. It was a pain in the arse finding decent staff like Vessa these days, for all that you’d think they’d jump at the chance for work in this economic climate, and he did what he could to keep them sweet. Within reason.

  ‘Really, flower, what I need to know is whether or not you’m still going to need that taxi home tonight.’

  ‘Will you shut up!’

  ‘No, seriously. I was thinking I might have to re-book it anyway. Need to ask you a favour.’

  ‘Oh, I know where this is going.’

  Their conversation danced in and out between serving customers, collecting empty glasses from the bar, emptying the drip-trays and the hundred and one other tiny jobs which could be done on autopilot.

  ‘Just ’til eleven. One extra hour. All I’m asking.’

  ‘I don’t do past ten, Barry; you know that.’

  ‘Tonight, flower, I don’t know any such thing. Everybody else is either away or off sick, and you can see how busy we are. I promise I will owe you big-time.’

  ‘Barry, you know I’m good for weekends, bank holidays, anything like that. But I can’t do past ten. I just can’t. Sorry.’

  ‘Maybe I can’t guarantee you’ll have a job by the end of next week.’

  ‘Oh, get real, Barry.’

  He flipped the tap off midway through a pint of Stella and turned to glare at her. Vessa mentally kicked herself. She’d overstepped the mark and pissed him off seriously. ‘Tell me that was a joke,’ she said, worried.

  ‘Vessa, look, you’m a lovely girl and all, but I’ve got a shift needs covering, and if my staff can’t come up with a better reason than missing their frigging beauty sleep, well, this ent a job where employees have too many rights, know what I’m saying?’

  ‘Are you threatening to sack me?’

  ‘I’m saying I don’t want to, flower.’

  ‘No choice, then. Fine. I’m going to need a break – I have to explain to my fella over there why he’s going to have to hang around even longer tonight.’

  5

  ‘Hello again!’ she said brightly, appearing opposite Steve once more.

  ‘Hi,’ he replied. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

  ‘Very funny. You’re supposed to say it’s my turn now.’

  Steve shrugged. ‘Okay, whatever. Your turn.’ He’d decided that it was a waste of time trying to keep up with her and to simply go with the flow of whatever this was. ‘Although I have managed to fill in a few gaps on my own,’ he added, and went on to tell her what little he’d discovered about the painting.

  She seemed impressed. ‘You’ve done your homework, I see. Gold star for effort.’ She sighed and composed herself, hating what she was going to have to do next because he really was rather sweet after all, and began.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ she started, ‘I had a very good friend called Sophie. We went all the way through school together, hung out all the time, you know the thing. Or maybe you don’t. I don’t think boys ever have those kinds of really close friendships that girls have – where you practically live each other’s lives. Or do they?

  ‘Anyway. Sophie’s home life was not a happy one – understatement of the century, there – and we used to sack off school and go up to London to do the shops, and the museums and galleries. Anything free, basically. So this big old painting of Eve just clicked with her and seemed to comfort her for some reason. She tried to explain it to me once; she said it was like the Goddess of Everything being created, but not from on high – it was like she was making herself. I never really understood that bit.

  ‘And then one day Sophie ran away from home and disappeared. I never saw her again. She didn’t write, didn’t call – nothing. It hit me hard, I’m not ashamed to say, harder than I thought it would. I started getting anxiety attacks, couldn’t go out, couldn’t eat, couldn’t even pick up the phone. But I found that spending time with the Eve painting and having a bit of a think about Sophie made it easier to cope. Then it moved up here, and so I followed, and then it was now.’

  As lies went, it was a work of art in itself. There was enough truth to make her responses convincing and little enough elaboration for him to pick holes in it if he chose. Not that he would. He was sweet and seemed to be genuinely well-intentioned, unlikely to press her on a matter of personal grief even though it came nowhere near answering any of his real questions. To pursue it further would make him crass and insensitive. He’d go back to the gallery, unsatisfied but unable to do anything about it, and she would continue to visit the Goddess as Sophie ordered.

  Vessa left Steve inspecting the froth at the bottom of his pint, as if reading tea leaves for a way out of the uncomfortable silence which had fallen between them, and went back to the bar, wondering if her story had worked.

  It must have, because the next time she looked up, he was gone. Sophie would have nodded in grim satisfaction, but all Vessa could feel was an unfamiliar, aching disappointment.

  6

  Later that evening, as she was gathering her coat and bag from the staff hooks by the Grange’s delivery door, Barry appeared, grinning with all of his gravestone teeth. He’d torn a notch out of a beermat and wedged it onto the bridge of his nose so that it resembled a ninja throwing star embedded in his face.

  ‘Who threw that?’ he asked, mock-surprised, and sketched a little ta-daa!

  ‘Sorry, Barry,’ she sighed. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Some big museum security guard, I think,’ he continued, taking it off and inspecting it
. ‘Maybe you can give it back to him.’ He tossed it to her.

  ‘What…’ she began, but when she caught the beermat she saw that Steven had scribbled something on the back: Free concerts at the Barber, Tue + Fri 1pm. You owe me cake, to which he’d added his phone number.

  ‘How long have you been holding onto this?’ she demanded, waving it at Barry accusingly.

  ‘Long enough to enjoy seeing the look on your face, flower. Last of the big spenders, your new man, ent he? Just make sure he buys his own condoms, that’s all.’ He leered, about-faced, and headed back to the bar, whistling cheerfully. But Vessa was too elated to take much notice. She slipped the beermat into her coat pocket so that she could keep hold of it during the taxi ride home.

  There was no possible reason for her to notice the homeless old man who stopped rummaging in the bin nearby to gaze after her with curiously blank eyes.

  Chapter 4

  Stray

  1

  Bobby yelped.

  The boy screamed and fled.

  Bobby scrambled up onto his elbows and saw something impossible: the boy was running away across the water. He was wearing only a tattered pair of shorts, and his bare feet kicked up spray as he ran.

  When Bobby looked more closely, he saw his mistake, but the truth didn’t make much more sense. The boy was running with incredible agility along a thick wooden boom which lay on the ocean’s surface. It was made of mismatched timbers and bundles of smaller spars lashed together, which his raft must have bumped into in the night. It had to be at least a quarter of a mile in length, leading towards…