The Colony Trilogy

by Cottam, F. G.

  Napier had requested permission to inform the coastguard of the disappearance, a legal and moral obligation McIntyre had been woken to personally accede to. The search had resumed in the morning. There was still no sign of Blake. The coastguard helicopter had been scrambled and awaited weather fit to fly in to begin a search for the body off the Island’s coast.

  Lassiter said, ‘Would that be the Paul Napier? The same bloke who was awarded the Military Cross a couple of years ago in Afghanistan?’

  ‘I don’t think there can be two of them,’ McIntyre said.

  ‘He sounds like an impressive individual.’

  ‘Pure luck on our part,’ McIntyre said. ‘I delegated recruitment of the security personnel. I can’t do everything myself. It seems the company was chosen on the most competitive quote. They were just the cheapest outfit, frankly. A head rolled in my London office over that particular false economy last night. I’ve also sacked the existing team.’

  ‘You mean the surviving team. Blake will almost certainly be dead.’

  ‘The surviving team have been dismissed. Better people, in stronger numbers, are already on their way.’

  ‘That seems a bit hard on Napier.’

  ‘I spoke to Napier personally in the early hours of this morning. He advised me on the new security recruits. Effectively they’re hand-picked. He’ll lead them. I’m hoping this is his first and last experience of crisis management on the island, but I feel happier knowing he’s there.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to Captain Blake.’

  ‘That trail will be very cold indeed by the time you get there, Lassiter. We’ll have a better idea in the meantime, if the coastguard recovers a body.’

  ‘Any theories you’d like to float?’

  McIntyre shrugged. ‘Blake was single and he had no children. Strictly speaking marines are the navy, but in reality he was a combat soldier age had obliged to leave the military. The suicide rate is disproportionately high among men sharing his profile when they leave the only family they’ve known. I suspect he felt he’d endured enough of life. I suspect he waded into the sea. He could avoid the stigma of self-murder because no coroner could rule out the possibility that he slipped or was taken by a freak wave.’

  ‘And the scream heard by Malone?’

  ‘Maybe the water was cold.’

  Chapter Nine

  Alice had not derived the information she wanted to when she’d touched the cine film can. She was not in control of her gift. It dictated to her what it was that she saw. She had actually wanted to know something about the nature and fate of the apparition Shanks had filmed on New Hope Island on that blustery, black and white day back in 1934. She had not expected to witness his last moments of life. She felt no empathy for the man or sympathy for his predicament. Patrick Lassiter had told her that he’d been expelled from an artistic community in Cornwall for dabbling in black magic. She thought that people who did such things probably deserved what they got as a consequence.

  She had not even been curious about Shanks, really. But she had been very curious about what had happened to turn a little girl into the spectral predator that was the subject of the film shot by Shanks on New Hope.

  She had been transformed into something lurid and terrifying. She was a ghost, wasn’t she? She was a tormented soul who represented all the children lost to their own rightful futures on New Hope Island. Alice wanted to know what had happened to her and her brothers and sisters and cousins and schoolmates and friends.

  She had to know and she believed when she got there, her gift would enable her to see it. She might even be forced to see it, she thought, with a shudder. It would be a revelation of awful clarity. But she suspected that this task was what she had been given the gift to accomplish.

  She was afraid. She was frightened of the presence that had squatted observing David Shanks in his last moments on the cliff top at Moher in County Clare. Denser than the night, too large and far too still to be human, it had watched gleefully as Shanks bid a careless farewell to his long and bedraggled life. In some way it had coaxed and encouraged him. Or had it just filled him with such morbid dread that the plunge to the rocky waters below represented a sort of escape for him?

  Had it followed him there from the Hebrides? Was it some vile thing he had conjured through a baleful spell and been unable to govern properly? Did it slouch around the island, living still, guarding its domain? She didn’t yet know.

  Alice valued her life. She valued its possibilities with the flawed, clever ex-detective she now realised she had probably loved without realising it for several years. Only when she’d come to in his flat, in his arms, had her feelings for him finally become obvious to her.

  She didn’t want to place Patrick Lassiter in danger and she suspected that the island to which they were going remained a hazardous destination. But she had to go. It was what she had been given her gift for. It was her destiny. And he had to go because in helping solve the mystery of what had been done there he would find some sort of purpose. When that happened, she believed he would discover the thirst slowly killing him was finally and utterly quenched.

  The rifle felt good on Napier’s shoulder. Its action was almost antique to a man familiar with the SA80 semi-automatic assault item supplied as standard to every infantry unit of the British army. But the SA80 had proven to be a dismally unreliable weapon. Bits fell off it. It jammed when it came into contact with sand. It jammed sometimes when it didn’t come into contact with sand. It was inaccurate and overheated far too easily.

  The weapon on his shoulder used a small calibre bullet. You would have to shoot for the vital organs or the head to have success in stopping any human target in its tracks. But Napier was an excellent shot.

  Anyway, he did not expect to have to use the rifle in anger. It felt good in a symbolic way. Troy had suggested he keep it, for the duration. It represented the respect the construction guys had for him and he was starting slowly to rekindle for himself.

  He had found something. He had lied to McIntyre about that. He had been obliged to do so because the thing he had found would have panicked the others, or spooked them, he thought.

  He felt a bit sorry for the Seasick Four. They were on the quay now, in the harbour, waiting for the fishing smack to take them to the mainland as the coastguard chopper lapped the island’s coastline looking for a body Napier felt confident would never be found.

  Blake’s disappearance had turned him from a loser into a winner literally overnight. That was something to ponder on, but the time for pondering on it wasn’t now, because there were much more urgent things to think about.

  The fishing boat had hove into sight. In another hour or so, the seasick four would have departed the island for good. Troy and his men were scheduled to fly back to the mainland later in the afternoon, their work accomplished and the weather benign enough today for their flight. They would leave Brennan behind because the radio hardware wasn’t functioning without severe and so far unexplained glitches. His own replacement crew would be here tomorrow morning.

  It meant that Brennan would be all he had for company – and backup – for about 16 hours, some of them dark. They had a rifle apiece. Brennan was temperamentally sound and really, would they be any worse off? Napier had no intention of allowing either himself or Brennan to stray into what he regarded as the danger zone, at the other end of the island, in the vicinity of the cottage built by the crofter, David Shanks.

  That was where he had found the object in his pocket. That was where he had found the bloody relic that told him for sure that Captain Bollocks was no more. It had lain in a tiny skid mark of blood and saliva on the stone floor and he had seen it straight away. He had covered it with a boot until the others vacated the cottage and began their search of the surrounding land and the shoreline a hundred metres away. He had bent at the knee and swiftly plucked it from the floor and concealed it. It was a single tooth, an incisor, and it had belonged to Blake until it had been plucked fr
om his head with sufficient brutal force to leave a circle of torn gum around its root.

  What possessed hands that could do that to a man? Napier didn’t know. What possessed the inclination to do it? Again, he had no ready answer. He’d seen the debris of men blown to pieces by roadside explosives and artillery assaults. He’d never in his whole military experience seen anything like that, though.

  To him it seemed mostly like a contemptuous act of mutilation. Like a clue, too, left behind to signal the Captain’s fate. And lastly, like a trophy, left rather than taken because it was there on display in the cottage for any passing visitor to contemplate and enjoy.

  He remembered that the New Hope Island community had vanished leaving nothing human behind. Not a hair, nor even a fingernail, ran the story he had been hearing on and off since his own schooldays. But then he couldn’t now be dealing with whatever had accounted for the New Hope Island settlers, could he? Nothing lived for almost 200 years. Nothing human, anyway, he thought.

  Edith had lied to her mother about her contact with Jacob Parr. He did not confine his visits to her dreams. And she was afraid of him. She didn’t think that he meant her any harm. She didn’t even think that he’d chosen to seek her out. But she knew that he was a ghost and she thought it was quite natural for children to be afraid of ghosts and at 14, as grown up as she was, she knew that by anyone’s definition she was still a child.

  Parr was scary. How could he not be? He was from another time. He knew that he was dead. He’d returned reluctantly, apparently compelled to do so. Whatever had forced Jacob Parr to summon himself into ghostly life and visit her, Edith thought the really frightening aspect of the whole business. Someone or something had done it. It scared Jacob Parr, whatever it was, and he was dead and you would have thought the dead had nothing to be afraid of.

  She didn’t even want to think about that, really. Parr himself was uncomfortable discussing it. He made it obvious he’d come against his own wishes. He was churlish and sometimes seemed barely in control of a mean temper. But he’d been told to come to her and he’d obeyed and he was frightened of whoever had done the ordering and so was Edith, who thought you had to be something very sinister and serious indeed to scare the life out of a ghost.

  She’d told her mother Parr was kind. And he could be. But he was a creature of moods. Most of the time, he was melancholy and wistful. Sometimes he was boring, regretting aloud the way he’d frittered away his last years before the drink had killed him. Edith’s personal opinion was that it was a bit late in the day to moan about that now. Get a life, she was tempted to say, listening to him go on. But he’d had a life, hadn’t he, and he had completely wasted it.

  Once, he showed her his scars. They were furrows ploughed into the flesh of his scrawny back by the leather knots, he said, of the lash. He’d been lashed on two occasions. Brine had been thrown over his bleeding back in bucketfuls to clean the wounds. The salt from the seawater had stung more than the flogging, he said. But he’d been caught drunk on smuggled grog and Captain Ballantyne had been a master, he said, who knew no shred of mercy before the mast.

  He only ever came to her when she was alone. For this reason, she didn’t know if any of the other girls at the school could have even seen him. She knew he was real and not a figment of her imagination. The song had proven that. He had enjoyed singing in his lifetime. He enjoyed it still. He had enjoyed teaching her to sing and play The Recruited Collier.

  He’d learned the words of the song himself by listening to others sing it, he told her when he came to her on the evening of the day of her mother’s visit to the school. But he could have read the lyric written, so he could, he said. Reading had been a rare accomplishment in his lifetime, among men of his lowly station. But he’d been taught to read aboard the Andromeda by the ship’s surgeon, Mr Horan.

  Horan liked me to sing, he recalled, softly, seated at the end of Edith’s bed in his sailor’s whites and his frayed blue coat. She saw that the pewter buckles on his shoes had tarnished with neglect and that his pigtail was starting to free itself in fine strands from the tar into which it had been dipped, which was now dry and crumbling. She could smell an odour, sweet and cloying on his breath, she assumed was grog.

  And she knew again that these were details she could not have dreamed or made up. The man had lived and was dead and something fearful had summoned him to her.

  Mr Horan did not like the screams in the night from the slave hold, he said. They distressed him. And so he would ask me to sing and to play the accordion to drown out the sound. And in gratitude for this service done him, he kindly taught me to read.

  Horan the surgeon was a generous and sensitive soul, Parr said. He was too soft-hearted altogether for the cruel trade the ship he served on plied. Most of the men could ignore it. It tormented him. Life was hard and life at sea even harder. The pay on the slave vessels was good and it was steady. Best to take your wages and watch where your eyes and ears strayed and pay as little heed as was possible to the occupants of the hold on the leg of the voyage from Africa to the West Indies, or to the coast of America. Such was the strategy of sensible men.

  But Thomas Horan seemed incapable of doing that. Parr did not know whether it was conscience or curiosity. Something impelled him to communicate with members of their human cargo. They did not benefit from his medical skills. Ballantyne would have forbidden it and it would have contravened the company rules. But Horan spoke to them. They stirred his interest and his compassion in their bleak and fearful plight.

  It was because of Mr Horan, Parr explained that night, that he had come to Edith. Horan had kept a journal aboard the Andromeda. He had done so in secret. It was Edith’s job to seek this journal out, should it still exist. And when she had discovered it, she should give it to her mother to read. It was vital that her mother read Horan’s journal.

  ‘Does it contain answers my mother needs about New Hope?’

  ‘I do not know what it contains,’ Parr said. ‘I never so much as saw it. I know nothing more than what I have been told to tell you. You must seek the journal out and show it to your mother. That’s as much as I can say.’

  ‘How do you know about the journal, if it was written in secret?’

  ‘I have been told.’

  ‘Told by Thomas Horan?’

  ‘Horan is long dead.’

  ‘So are you.’

  ‘But Horan rests in peace,’ Parr said, with a chuckle.

  And you don’t, Edith thought, because you’ve been sent to see me, by someone who scares you, someone party to Horan’s secret, someone who has the power to make a ghost do things against its own stubborn will.

  She saw that Jacob Parr was smiling. And she knew that she was seeing her spectre for the last time. He’d fulfilled his obligation. He had passed the message on. The message about the physician Thomas Horan’s journal had been the whole point of her haunting. It was all to do with Captain Ballantyne and New Hope Island and the expedition her mother was shortly to join.

  She wondered would she fall asleep that night and awaken in the morning unable to remember the song he’d taught her, like in a fairytale. She didn’t think that she would, any more than she would forget about him. He smiled at her, a last show of his rotten teeth before rising soundlessly from where he sat and walking out of the door, closing it softly behind him.

  She wondered how she could possibly find the secret journal containing the information her mum required. She didn’t even begin to know where to look. She was allowed an hour a day on the computer and thought that an internet search was the obvious thing. But she was unlikely to find it on Google, was she, if it had remained a secret for nearly 200 years?

  Edith thought it a very tall order for a 14 year old. She would have to make a list. She knew that there was a Maritime Museum in Greenwich in London but didn’t think that 14 year olds would very likely be given the run of the library there. She thought that Thomas Horan might have living relatives who had inherited his stu
ff. But she thought it unlikely they would welcome enquiries prompted by the ghost of one their ancestor’s shipmates.

  The thing was, she had a feeling that this was a matter of great importance and urgency. She had to find a way to accomplish it. She just had to. She was totally the wrong person for the job but it was vital and there was no time at all to waste.

  Karl Cooper wanted to sleep with Lucy Church. He was fairly confident that the Hebridean adventure would create the right chemistry for that to happen. But if Lucy was as attracted to him as he thought she was, she might start to try to find out more about him and might discover that his track record with women was not exactly sweetness and light. She was a journalist, after all, and had a reputation for thoroughness. She would know how to dig.

  If she didn’t do that and just took him at face value and slept with him, her doing so gave him another potential problem on the trip. Jane probably harboured feelings for him still. Almost certainly she did. And if Jane knew he was sleeping with Lucy Church, that provocation might goad Jane into telling a few home truths about him to Lucy.

  Cooper smiled to himself. These were the sorts of dilemmas success brought a physically attractive man. They were not exactly a novelty to him; he was used to complications. They were nothing he could not handle when the time came to deal with them. He would find a way to subtly undermine Jesse Kale. He would entice sexy Lucy Church into bed. And he would somehow charm or placate poor spurned Jane in a way that would make her feel flattered and special.

  Ballantyne was still alive. He was sure of that. They would not have been so negligent as to let the leader of the transposed community simply perish. Keeping a mortal man alive and well for two centuries would be a completely unremarkable achievement for a civilization as advanced as that of the visitors.

  The captain of the Andromeda, the founder of the New Hope Island colony would be alive. And Cooper would be the first man from the modern age to meet him and shake his hand and ask the questions in his first interview about what had happened to him. The ratings would be stratospheric. The event would make Karl Cooper a household name around the globe.