by Alex Bell
I was about to start the long process of getting ready for bed when there was a thump at my door. “It’s open,” I called, thinking it must be Shell wanting something.
But there was no answer so I wheeled myself across the room and pulled the door open on to the dark corridor. There was nobody there, but a single witch ball rested in my doorway, a dark blue sphere of glass. It was one of the larger ones – almost as big as a bowling ball.
“Shell?” I called. I squinted into the darkness. There were no lights on and it was impossible to tell whether there was anyone out there or not. And yet … I had the definite feeling that there was someone in the corridor, watching me. And that feeling became ten times stronger when Bailey joined me in the doorway and instantly started to growl.
“Is anyone there?” I called out, and then felt annoyed with myself for the tremor I heard in my voice.
Silence. I swallowed hard. If we’d been at home I could have simply told Bailey to turn the lights on but I didn’t know where they were here, and neither did he. The blackness spilled out towards us like fingers.
I fumbled in my pocket for my phone and flicked on its torch. It was a feeble little beam but I swept it up and down the wall anyway, looking for the light switch. Once the corridor was lit I would be able to see that there was no one there. Or that it was Shell, perhaps, playing some odd kind of joke on me.
But I couldn’t see a switch. It was probably further along the corridor but there was no way I was wheeling myself into that blackness, closer to the cellar door and the monster staircase, not if I couldn’t see where I was going and what was in front of me.
I was about to turn the chair back into my room when Bailey stopped growling and barked instead – his ferocious bark that he saved for things he perceived as threats. And then he was squeezing through the gap in the doorway and I knew what he was about to do. I lunged for his collar, wrenching my back in the process, but he was too quick and, the next second, he’d run off into the blackness.
“Bailey!” I called after him. “Come here!”
But he didn’t come back. I could hear him at the end of the corridor, barking at something.
And then the barking abruptly stopped.
“Shit! Bailey!” I called again. “Bailey!”
He still didn’t come, and those silent shadows almost seemed to sneer at me. Why wasn’t Bailey barking? Why wasn’t he coming back? I was torn between feeling angry with him and feeling worried. And a little bit scared. Bailey always came when I called him.
I put the phone in my lap to wheel myself over the threshold, into the corridor. It felt like I was propelling myself forwards into total, inky blackness – the kind of impenetrable darkness you might find deep underneath the sea. My wheels seemed to creak excruciatingly loudly on the wooden floorboards as I inched my way further and further down the corridor.
I stopped and held the phone up again, shining the torch around, desperate to find a light switch. It was probably over by the restaurant door, right at the end of the corridor, opposite the staircase. Silently, I cursed Bailey for making me go after him. The whole thing was nuts. A disabled girl in a wheelchair trying to rescue a German Shepherd. It was ridiculous. He was probably fine. I should just leave him to it and go back to bed. But I couldn’t take that chance that he might not be fine. And Bailey always came back when I called him…
I was just about to continue on down the corridor when my wheelchair started to move all by itself. I heard the soft creak of the wheels and felt cool air brushing against my face as I rolled slowly forwards.
There was someone behind me.
And they were pushing me along.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jem
My shift was going fine until Dad arrived. I knew this would happen at some point; it was inevitable. Looe was a tiny village and if he wanted to find me then it was just a case of asking in one of the local pubs. And he frequented those regularly enough.
The last time I’d seen him was at the hospital. Shell had texted me to say they were heading there so I left straight from work and arrived before them. I saw Dad’s car pull up to the drop-off bay. He wasn’t going to even bother to come in with her. That was the thing that made me maddest of all. If I hadn’t got there first, she would have been completely alone. As soon as Shell saw me, she practically flew out of the car. I’d been afraid that there might be bruises on her face, or a cut lip, or a black eye. That, at least, wasn’t the case. It was only the arm. But that was more than enough.
“It’s OK,” I said, even though – plainly – it wasn’t OK at all. “Go in, I’m right behind you.”
She glanced over her shoulder at me, but did as I’d said and went into the hospital. Since I’d made no move to do it, Dad reached across and slammed the passenger door closed. Vaguely, I noticed that he had a nasty-looking cut just beneath his right eye, and I wondered for a moment if Shell could have done it with her nails, but it looked too deep for that. I guess he would have just driven off without a word if I hadn’t stepped out in front of the car, forcing him to slam on the brakes.
I smashed my fist down hard on the bonnet and there was a savage kind of satisfaction in feeling the metal crunch beneath my hand. Then I moved round to the driver’s door and pulled it open. I had never hit Dad before in my life, never hit anyone, in fact, but, in that moment, my arm ached to throw a punch, and it must have shown on my face because Dad shrank back from me.
“We are never coming back,” I said, slowly and clearly. I had never meant anything more in my entire life.
Dad didn’t reply. He just slammed the door shut. I think he’d hoped to catch my fingers but I pulled them away too quickly and, the next moment, he was driving off, and I knew that was the end of it, the end of the three of us ever again trying to live together like a normal family. Emma’s gran had sent me the keys for the Waterwitch that very day, so at least we had somewhere to go.
Shell and I went back to the cottage that night when we knew he’d be at work on the boats. I got the suitcases out of the loft, packed up my stuff and told Shell to do the same – to take everything with her that she didn’t want to leave behind. That was a mistake, I guess. I should have helped her pack. When we got to the Waterwitch I discovered that her suitcase was full of witch balls – and nothing else. She’d brought no clothes, no toiletries, nothing. When I went back to the cottage by myself the next night to collect the rest of her things, I found that Dad had changed the locks. It was a petty act of spite that didn’t surprise me at all. It was just the way I would have expected him to behave.
But I knew, at some point, he would resent the fact that I’d taken Shell away. And he would miss the money I used to bring in. And then he would come after me.
Today, I didn’t need anyone to tell me he was there – I heard him from the kitchen – that familiar shout of rage that seemed to be his default setting.
“Where is that selfish little shit?”
I almost dropped the plate I’d just picked up.
God, no, I thought. Not at work. Anywhere but here.
“Hey, Jem, you’re not going to believe this,” Sam said, coming into the kitchen. “There’s some drunk dude in the restaurant going crazy. Do you think we should call the police?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Mate, seriously, that guy is enormous! I really don’t think you want to—”
“I’ll deal with it. He’s my father.”
Sam’s mouth dropped open in shock and I was reminded of the look Ben had given me all those years ago as we sat together at the kitchen table, listening to those terrible slow slaps.
I went past him and pushed open the door to the restaurant. All the guests had gone silent. The Seagull was a nice, upmarket guest house. A drunken fisherman bursting in and screaming the place down was not the kind of thing these people would be accustomed to.
Dad stood in the middle of the room, wearing his filthy fisherman’s overalls. Bl
ood and grease and fish guts were smeared across the front, and his black lace-up boots were crusted with salt. Sam was right about him being enormous – not with fat but with muscle. Dad had worked as a fisherman since he was fifteen years old and a lifetime of hauling traps and dragging nets and lifting crates would make anyone strong.
“So this is where you’ve been slinking around!” Dad said, pointing an unsteady finger at me across the room, his upper lip curling in a snarl.
I walked towards him but it felt like I was moving through water, hot water that boiled and bubbled around me. This was the kind of thing that gave the Penhales a bad name, and caused people to whisper about us, and generally think that the whole damn lot of us were rotten to the core.
“You owe me money!” Dad said. “And I’m sure as hell not leaving without it.”
“Talk to me about it outside,” I said.
“I’ll talk to you about it wherever I damn well like!”
He lunged at me, but drink had made him slow and I was easily able to duck out of his reach. With nothing to grab on to, Dad’s momentum carried him forwards and he crashed on top of a nearby table. Cutlery went everywhere, glasses toppled over and smashed, Dad lost his balance and went down, dragging the entire tablecloth with him. Unluckily, I had just delivered main courses to that table, and he ended up covered in shrimps and linguini.
Behind me, I heard someone laugh. It was a nervous kind of laugh, but it was a laugh just the same, and I knew I had to act quickly because Dad couldn’t stand to be laughed at. I had seen him attack perfect strangers before when he was drunk, and I knew he’d do it again if the mood took him.
I grabbed his arm and somehow managed to haul him to his feet, although all the muscles in my arms and back felt like they were on fire. Stumbling blindly, I managed to half drag, half carry him across the room and out of the door to the street.
But, even drunk, he was stronger than me, and I couldn’t prevent him from twisting in my grip, grabbing my shoulders and then hurling his full body weight at me. He probably intended for us to go crashing to the ground but I managed to stay upright as I staggered back, which didn’t really help matters because then I hit the wall instead and the back of my head struck the stone so hard that, for a white, bright moment, I couldn’t see anything at all.
“You selfish little arsehole!” Dad roared in my face, the sour stink of alcohol strong on his breath. “I looked after the pair of you for years – fed you, clothed you, the works – and the first chance you get you stab me in the back!”
“No one is stabbing you in the back,” I managed, willing the flashing lights to fade from my vision. “You know why we had to leave.”
His fingers were digging hard into my shoulders, like he wanted to bruise the bone. It was bad, very bad, to be pinned up against the wall like this.
“You know what it’s like in October.” Dad spat the words at me. “Half the time the weather’s too rough to take the boats out. And if we can’t take the boats out then we can’t earn any money. I’ve had no food in the house since yesterday!”
I curled my foot around Dad’s ankle and yanked sharply. It wasn’t enough to make him fall, but it distracted him so that I could duck out from beneath his grip.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I said, moving back to a safe distance. “I’m not giving you any money, not a penny! We have nothing to spare.”
“Always thinking of yourself first! Why am I even surprised?”
He took a few unsteady steps towards me but he was swaying on his feet and it was easy enough to stay out of his reach now that there was more room. I guessed that the cold air had hit him, too. I looked again at his overalls, shook my head and said, “You’re not working tonight, are you?”
“Course I am – didn’t you hear what I just said? Practically no work this month but the boats are going out tonight and I’m going to be on them.”
“Dad, you can’t drive like this,” I said.
He’d worked on a mackerel boat going out from Looe until they’d fired him – he never told us what for, but I guessed it was probably for being drunk on board, or maybe punching the captain, or missing the boat. Dad took it as further evidence that the whole world was out to get him, that he’d been stabbed in the back again, that no one in his life was worth knowing or trusting. Now he fished lobsters and brown crabs on a fishing boat moored at Fowey, a forty-minute drive away.
Dad glared at me with bloodshot eyes. “Don’t you tell me what to do.” He spoke quietly, which was almost worse than the shouting. “Don’t you ever tell me what to do.”
Then, all of a sudden, he bent over double and vomited into the street. I glanced at the Seagull and saw curious faces pressed up against the glass, staring out at us, mesmerized by this show we were putting on for them.
Once he’d finished, Dad just sort of folded up on the spot and sat slumped on the cobbles, wiping strings of vomit away from his face with the back of his hand. My head throbbed from the force of the impact with the wall and I felt something warm creeping down the back of my neck. I raised my hand to run my fingers over it and they came away smeared with blood. Bizarrely, I was suddenly reminded of finger-painting with Dad one day when I’d been really small. Mum had brought us egg cups filled with chocolate drops. It had been one of the good days.
Part of me was screaming that I should just walk away and leave Dad in the street, just leave him to take his chances and make his mistakes, but some other tiny part of me ached at the sight of him slumped there like that.
In her own way, Mum had not been an easy person to live with. And Shell could be odd, too, with her witch balls and her birds, but that didn’t excuse the things Dad had done. It didn’t excuse the bruises and blood and broken bones. Nothing could.
It would have been simpler if there had never been any good times at all. If Dad could have been awful to us all the time, that would have made it easier in a perverse kind of way. Easier to leave for good, to cut ties, to never have anything to do with him ever again. I wished I could believe that he was evil through and through. I wished I didn’t remember the finger-painting, or the day he took me crabbing, or that time he came to my school play and sat in the front row and clapped and clapped with everyone else, and actually looked proud, and didn’t once shout or swear or punch anyone.
If I could only hate him then this would be easy; it was loving him that made it so unbearable.
“Even if I wanted to, I’ve got no spare money to give you,” I said quietly. “You can believe me or not but it’s the truth.”
I stepped forward and, in his current state, it was simple enough to slip my hand into Dad’s pocket and whip out his car keys. “I’m going to put these behind the bar,” I said. “You can come back for them in the morning. If your mind is set about going to work then do yourself a favour and go and get some coffee or something. Try to sober up. Then get a taxi. You can’t drive to Fowey like this. You’ll kill yourself. Or someone else.”
I turned to walk away from him. But then he said thickly behind me, “How am I s’posed to get a taxi with no money, Jem?”
He hardly ever called me by my name and it felt like a giant fist squeezing around my heart.
Just leave! The voice inside my head screamed. It’s not your problem. Just leave, just leave, just—
“Here,” I said, holding the note out to him. It was like I’d taken it from my pocket without even realizing it. “This should cover the taxi.”
Dad snatched it from me with a grunt.
“Don’t try to find Shell,” I said. “If you see her in the street, don’t speak to her. She doesn’t have any money. And she’s never coming back to live with you.”
Dad looked up, his bloodshot eyes squinting at me in the dark. “Live with me?” he said, croaking out the words. “Live with me? Are you kidding? I would never have that psycho back in the house again. Not after what she did.”
I stared at him, the blood pounding and pounding in my ears. “What
she did?” I repeated. “God, Dad.” I ran both hands through my hair, resisting the urge to grab great fistfuls and start pulling it out. How were you supposed to communicate with someone who always twisted things around so that no matter what they did or said, no matter who they hurt or how despicably they behaved, in their own minds they were never to blame?
“You broke her arm!” I burst out at last.
Dad scrambled to his feet and suddenly he was towering over me again in the road. “Didn’t she tell you what happened?” he asked, leaning closer. “Didn’t you ever ask her?”
“I didn’t need to,” I replied, refusing to step back this time. “I know what happened. I can imagine it easily enough. Christ, hasn’t the same thing happened to me a thousand times?”
Dad did something then that astonished me – he laughed. Then he laughed some more. “You think you’re so noble, don’t you?” He reached out and shoved me hard enough to make me stagger back a couple of steps. “The hero of the hour,” he snarled, “protecting his poor defenceless sister from their drunken brute of a father. You said to me once that I twist everything up in my head to come up with a reality that suits me – well, guess what? You do exactly the same thing! It’s easy to blame me for everything, isn’t it? But you just ask her! Ask her why I broke her arm. I wouldn’t have that girl back in the house for anything, do you hear me? Not for anything! Why do you think I changed the locks? And if you’ve got any sense at all in that thick head of yours, you’ll drop her off at the nearest mental hospital and you’ll never look back. Cut her loose, maybe you’ll have some kind of a chance then. That girl is cracked. Her mother saw to that.”
I turned away from him, disgusted. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”
Dad didn’t reply, he just laughed again, and I left him like that – drunk and laughing in the street.