The Darkness and the Deep

by Aline Templeton

  ‘Paedophile. Don’t act stupid – my girlfriend’s speaking to the Child Protection Officer this afternoon.’

  Luke could barely frame the words. ‘Your girlfriend – who is she?’

  ‘You mean there’s others you’ve touched up as well?’

  The response to that was totally unnerving, a sort of growling, hissing swell of anger from the class. Nat glanced round them, a smirking sneer on his face. ‘She’s Kylie MacEwan. But it sounds as if she’s not the only one. She’s thirteen, you dirty old man!’

  Luke knew he should have stood his ground, defended himself, laughed at such a ridiculous charge. He knew the girl by sight, largely because there had been anxious discussions at staff meetings about the problems she was presenting – including her relationship with Nat – but he didn’t teach her, had never spoken to her, far less been alone with her. He should have declared that immediately. He didn’t. What every teacher most dreads had happened and he was frozen with the horror of it all.

  He had fled the classroom, knowing from the rising decibel level that Nat had caused a sensation. The story would be circulated without even his denial to counter it.

  The next thing he ought to do was see his union representative and Fiona Walker, the pleasant, sensible, middle-aged mother of three who combined teaching French with her role as Child Protection Officer. Fiona, surely, would understand the evil game Nat was playing. No one could possibly take such a ludicrous allegation seriously.

  But she would have to. They all knew that. They all knew what an allegation of this sort meant: immediate suspension, with the attendant publicity, which would only be lifted if the child could be persuaded to admit that it was a malicious fabrication, or a court cleared you, months later. One or the other happened in 95 per cent of cases, but your life was ruined anyway. He had seen the ordeal inflicted on a blameless colleague in Glasgow, who’d had a breakdown and never worked again.

  He couldn’t face it. Not yet, not until he had to. A bell pealed, announcing the end of a lesson. Usually it was music to Luke’s ears; now it was a warning that in another moment or two he would no longer be alone. It wouldn’t take his colleagues long to hear the scandalous story.

  A minute later he was in his car, heading for his home in Knockhaven with the instinct of a wounded animal.

  5

  Willie Duncan glanced at his watch. Five o’clock: time to lock up the lifeboat shed and head up the hill home to his tea. His last chore, as always, was to glance over the Maud’n’Milly, lying in readiness at the top of the slipway, to check that all equipment was in place, and he climbed in over the nylon tubes which, on top of a glass-reinforced plastic hull, formed the sides of the boat – such as they were. It looked such a flimsy, vulnerable construction, with no superstructure at all to protect its crew from the effects of severe weather, and yet it was one of the fastest boats in the RNLI fleet, flexible and highly effective for inshore operations.

  The old shed was full of shadows; Willie never wasted money by putting on all the lights when he was there by himself. There was talk of a new building, with all mod cons, but that would never have the atmosphere of this great vaulted space. It was creaking and groaning now like a ship in the gale but he barely heard it, any more than he noticed the smell of the creosote which coated its timbers or the dry dustiness of the coils of rope. As he mechanically performed his check, his mind was on the problem which had gnawed at him for days now.

  When the side door opened, letting in a blast of cold, fresh air and the sound of the storm, he didn’t need to turn his head to see who was standing there. He felt the man’s presence as an animal senses a stalking predator, and his hand, resting on the rail by the helmsman’s seat, gripped it until the knuckles showed white.

  Tam MacNee stepped inside, shaking himself like a wet dog. His dark hair was plastered to his head and water streamed down the black leather bomber jacket. He had to shout to make himself heard above the roaring sea and the wind.

  ‘Fine weather, eh, Willie? You’ll be hoping they’ve all had the gumption to tie up safe in harbour tonight.’

  Duncan turned to look at him sourly. ‘Shut the bloody door. With you outby.’

  MacNee complied with only the first part of the request, then walked round the boat to the farther side, where a crew room, a galley, changing rooms and a workshop had been constructed within the soaring central space, along with shelves and a counter for the inevitable souvenir stall. ‘Now, now, that’s not very nice, is it? Come on and we can have a wee chat.’

  Duncan ignored him, making a meaningless check on the first-aid pack. If he said nothing, even MacNee would have to give up, surely.

  There was no sign of it, though. Whistling through his teeth, MacNee took the opportunity to inspect the lifeboat souvenirs, stacked in a case ready to lay out the following day to tempt any passing tourist. ‘I doubt you’ll be missing your sales target, with this rain. I wonder if maybe Bunty would fancy a tea-towel?’

  ‘We’re closed.’ Abandoning his tactics before they had a chance of success, Duncan climbed out of the boat. Keeping his voice level, he said, ‘I’m away to lock up now. Are you wanting shut out or shut in?’

  ‘I’ll come with you. Buy you a drink, even – don’t say I’m not good to you.’

  ‘Will you, hell!’ His hands were shaking and he could see that MacNee, watching him clinically, had noticed that.

  ‘Feart to be seen with the polis, Willie? Now, what way would a fine, upstanding man like yourself need to be feart?’

  ‘I’m not feart. Just like to choose my company.’ It sounded hollow, even to his own ears.

  ‘See you, Willie!’ MacNee stepped in close. The cox was a big, burly man who might in other circumstances have described MacNee as a shilpit wee fella, but that slight frame exuded a menacing physicality that made him take a step back.

  MacNee smiled his unsettling, gap-toothed grin. ‘I’m here today, son, and I was here yesterday and I’ll be here tomorrow and the day after that. I always quite like to take a wee run down the coast. Sooner or later you’re going to tell me “the honest, open, naked truth”, as the Great Man says, so why not make it sooner and save the aggro?’

  ‘I’ve nothing to tell you about, MacNee. And this is harassment – I could complain . . .’ He knew it was bluster and MacNee made no response, only raising a sceptical eyebrow.

  It helped, being angry. ‘Anyway, you’ve no right being in here without a warrant. I’m telling you to get out.’

  MacNee shrugged. ‘Have it your own way. But I’ve tried nice, and I’m warning you, it’s nasty from here on in. You see, in dirty stuff like this what you need to do is work out where to put the pressure, and I’ve done that. You are the weakest link, Willie. Goodbye.’

  Willie saw MacNee silhouetted in the doorway as he went out into the dark fury of the storm like, he thought with uncharacteristic fancifulness, a demon returning to hell. He hurried to lock the door behind him, then retreated, shaking, to the crew room.

  Had anyone seen MacNee coming here? Had he been spotted in his company any time over these last few nerve-racking days? He had denied being afraid, but it wasn’t true, except in so much as he was less ‘feart’ than terrified. He should have said right at the start that MacNee was sniffing round, but no one was trusted and any contact with the police could be taken as suspicious. He knew what had happened to the lad from Ayr who’d thought he could play both ends to the middle – he’d had a nasty accident falling into the harbour one night.

  The terrible thing was, Willie was beginning to feel there might be comfort in talking to MacNee. He was getting in deeper and deeper; if he told him now before it got any worse, took his punishment and got it over with . . . But it wouldn’t be over. They had people inside too, and even if he survived the jail, they’d be waiting for him when he got out.

  He felt sick. He could almost hear his nerves twanging as he went over and over it in his head, like a fox in a trap gnawing frantically at it
s foot in an effort to escape. There was only one thing now that gave him any respite from the agony of his fears. He glanced out of the window at the livid sky, heard the rushing of wind and water; it was tempting fate on a night like this, but, he told himself, if he didn’t take something that would calm his nerves, he’d be useless anyway. He fumbled in his pocket for the tin and the cigarette papers.

  Jackie saved his tea for him in the oven but the bridie, beans and chips were pretty well welded to the plate by the time he got home. Not that he cared much.

  The pub wasn’t the sort of place Ashley Randall normally frequented, with its shabby paintwork and the lights of gambling machines flickering through the windows. Indeed, she couldn’t remember having been in a place like this since her student days when you went wherever the beer was cheapest. She parked as close to the door as she could, then pulled a soft scarf over her head and ran for shelter from the teeming rain. Inside, she pulled it off and shook it, looking round for Ritchie.

  He had chosen a table in the corner farthest from the bar; it wasn’t exactly cosy, with an uncurtained window beside it rattling in the force of the wind, but he was certainly right that here they were unlikely to be recognised. It was Friday night and there was a raucous group clustered round the bar, celebrating something or other; Ritchie was served by a young barmaid who barely glanced at him, delivering the vodka and tonics as if irritated by this intrusion on her social life.

  When he came back he set them down on the smeary zinc top of the table with a grimace. ‘The tonic came out of a pump, I’m afraid. It’s probably disgusting.’

  Ashley gave him a glinting smile. ‘I’m not really here for the beer.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. ‘No, nor am I.’ He looked down at his hands, rolling the glass between his fingers. ‘Ashley, I haven’t long, and I don’t suppose you have either. They’re expecting me at the site and I’ve told Joanna that’s where I’ll be.

  ‘We’re trapped by circumstances at the moment. I know that I don’t want it to go on like this,’ he indicated their seedy surroundings with distate, ‘and I know it could all get hideously messy if this comes out accidentally. What I don’t know is what you want – is this meant to be just a casual affair, or do you feel the way I do?’

  He looked around him again, and grimaced. ‘This isn’t exactly how I’d choose to do this. I’d have preferred the whole soft lights, sweet music, vintage champagne bit before I went down on one knee with the solitaire in my hand.’ He was still nervously playing with his glass.

  She looked at him from under her lashes, then leaning across the table covered his restless hands with her slim, manicured one. ‘Later will do,’ she murmured.

  He stared at her, those very blue eyes suddenly wide. ‘Ashley – oh God, Ashley! You’ll marry me? That’s fantastic—’

  His phone rang. They both jumped. It had an irritating, chirpy da-da-dee-da, da-da-dee-da ring and he swore savagely as he took it out of his pocket.

  ‘A thousand to one that’s Joanna. She has a talent that amounts to genius for being a pain in the arse. Oh! No, it’s – hello?’

  His face, dark with irritation, had changed. ‘What? For God’s sake, on a night like this?’

  Immediately Ashley was bolt upright, staring at him as if that might enable her to hear the conversation at the other end. Ritchie’s eyes met hers soberly as he listened in silence for what seemed a long time. Then he said, ‘I see. What’s the forecast? Right.’

  He put his hand to his furrowed brow and closed his eyes briefly. His voice was heavy as he said reluctantly, ‘I can’t do anything other than agree. Carry on.’

  Ashley was on her feet before he had disconnected. He explained rapidly. ‘It’s a Spanish trawler. Fishing in the Irish Sea, ran before the gale into Luce Bay looking for shelter. But they’ve lost power and now with the direction of the wind they’re at risk of being driven on to a lee shore. There’s no hope of putting up a chopper to take them off at the moment, apparently. The coastguards have called out Portpatrick and Stranraer, but it’ll take a while for them to get there round the Mull of Galloway. They want us to go and stand by in case the crew needs taken off before either of the bigger boats arrives.

  ‘I could have refused, I suppose – it’s pretty challenging out there for an inshore boat—’

  ‘Don’t be bloody silly,’ Ashley snapped. ‘We’ve been out in worse than that. What is it – Force 7, gusting 8?’

  ‘I know, I know. It’s just difficult, seeing you go . . .’ He sighed, getting up. ‘Still, that’s the job. The only good thing is that the wind’s forecast to ease down in the next hour or two, if they’ve got it right. But a south-wester – you know how much worse that makes it.’

  Ashley’s pager went off. ‘That’s the call. I’m on my way. We need to talk – I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  ‘Right. Look, I’d better go into the site office on the way past – the coastguard phoned the home number first and Joanna told them that’s where I was. I’ll check in with the girls and pretend to have been moving round between the houses. I hope I can get to the shed before the launch, but if not . . . Ashley, for God’s sake, take care!’ He kissed her, and was aware that she was somewhere else already.

  ‘Naturally,’ she said, and went to the door.

  He called after her, ‘You did say yes, didn’t you?’

  She glanced back over her shoulder, her light blue eyes very bright. ‘Oh, I said yes all right!’

  Ritchie followed her to the door. Her head down, she ran to the car, started the engine and roared off into the darkness. He stood in the rain watching the red tail-lights until they disappeared.

  The Anchor Inn was busy this evening. Katy Anderson loved it when it was like that; it was hard work, of course, but the crack was always good and you got a real laugh. Now she knew so many of the regulars and the local people, it felt a bit like giving a party and being paid for it. It was a great life and sometimes she still couldn’t believe her luck in finding Rob, the sort of good man and loving husband she had once bitterly decided didn’t exist. Glancing along the bar to smile in his direction, she saw that he was coming towards her, looking serious.

  ‘Your car’s parked in front of the garage, isn’t it? Where are the keys?’

  Her smile faded. ‘At the back of the cutlery drawer. Oh, Rob, not a call-out – on a night like this!’

  He took her face in his hands and kissed her. ‘You’re not to worry,’ he said firmly. ‘We know what we’re doing.’ Then he was gone.

  She looked after him, her happy evening ruined. She wouldn’t know a second’s peace of mind until he walked back through that door.

  It opened and he came back in. He was wearing a yellow oilskin jacket and he was scowling. ‘They’re not there. I’ll murder that bloody kid when I get my hands on him. I’ll take mine.’

  Then he was gone again, before she could even frame an apology, make an excuse . . .

  But she didn’t want to make an excuse. She’d made too many excuses for her son in the past and it was time he faced up to the consequences of his actions. She was angry, very angry.

  ‘Can you hang on a wee minute while I make a phone call?’ she asked the elderly fisherman who had been waiting patiently at the bar.

  He smiled sympathetically. ‘Aye, lass, no problem. And don’t you go fashing yourself about Rob – he’s a canny man.’

  She bit her lip and tried to smile. ‘I know that. But it’s a wicked night.’

  ‘Och, I’ve seen worse.’

  She tried to comfort herself with that as she looked at the card by the phone in the corner of the bar and dialled the number of the police station.

  When his pager went, Luke Smith looked up dully, confused by the sound. He was sitting in the dark, with only the moaning of the wind around the thick walls of his cottage for company, so sunk in despair that he had no idea how much time had passed.

  He had waited for the inevitable call from the school but the phone had remai
ned silent. The Head and the Child Protection Officer were probably discussing it; they’d send for him tomorrow, no doubt, and tell him he was suspended and to stay away until further notice. Not that he would ever set foot in a classroom again, whatever happened.

  Then the police enquiry would begin. It would operate on the premise that, whatever he said in his own defence, it was the child who must be believed, because of course the official line was that children never told lies. Didn’t these people remember being a child?

  And even if, by some miracle, justice did prevail, he would be forever tainted. His parents – what would they feel? Oh, they’d say they believed him, of course, and would stand up for their son, but would there always be a lingering doubt that perhaps they had produced a monster?

  He just couldn’t bear it. What was the point in struggling on like this? He could see no way out, no future which promised anything but more pain. His next decision was easy; the hard part was working out how best to achieve release from a life which had become intolerable.

  There wasn’t enough paracetamol in the bathroom to provide an overdose – they sold them in small packets these days for that very reason – and though there was a sharp knife in the kitchen drawer he shrank from the idea of slitting his wrists. He’d always been squeamish about blood and he didn’t like the thought of the pain either. He just wanted everything to stop, all the elaborate systems that kept his heart beating and his lungs full of air and his mind active with these torturing thoughts, so that he could slip quietly away and not feel anything any more.

  When the pager sounded its urgent summons, he didn’t move for a moment. It seemed to have nothing to do with him. How could he possibly go out and face anyone, let alone the crew whose respect he had struggled so hard to gain?

  But then, if he went . . . Suddenly it was all clear in his head. It was quite possible – likely, even – that they wouldn’t yet have heard the terrible accusation, and if he answered the summons there was a chance, just a chance, that this time someone might be held up and he could go out with the boat. It would solve everything.