Dark Sky Island

by Lara Dearman

  Elliot had called the office her ‘incident room’ due to the fact that she had covered the walls with pictures and notes during the investigation into Amanda Guille’s death. Margaret had taken them all down while Jenny had been in hospital recovering from her shoulder wound. She had placed everything neatly in a folder, put it in the desk drawer and moved Jenny’s box full of articles and research from her time working as an investigative reporter in London from the bedroom into a corner of the office.

  London. It was perverse, she knew, to miss it, after everything that had happened there. She needed to accept that she was an island girl after all, chewed up and spat out by the big city, still trying to wash herself clean, to shed the grit and the grime and the bad memories in the cold, clear water of the English Channel. She wondered if she’d have felt differently if she had managed to finish her last job there, instead of running back to Guernsey, frightened for her life.

  She should put the box into storage. But something stopped her. A sense of disquiet that never truly settled, even when all else was well. The constant nagging of unfinished business. But there were issues closer to home that required her attention now. Bones on Derrible Bay. And finding out what had happened to her father.

  She looked at the items she had pinned to the study wall. A photograph of Charlie—a close-up Jenny had taken, his face weathered, the lines on it deeper than his years warranted. He’d spent most of his life out on his boat, hauling in the catch, a permanent layer of salt seeming to toughen his skin and his hair, which lay in all directions, thick and wiry, poking out from beneath his hat. The obituary, pinned next to the photograph, had taken up half a page in the Guernsey News on account of Charlie being a local ‘character’. Could be found on his beloved Jenny Wren come rain or shine . . . always a friendly word . . . a great teller of island tales . . . leaves behind a wife and daughter.

  Next to this, pages from his sailing log, charting his fishing trips in the months before he died. These, she had colour-coded, looking for a pattern in his movements. The only thing she had noted of interest was the frequency with which he had visited Sark.

  On the desk lay an open folder containing notes she’d made—interviews with his friends (or ‘chats’, as she’d called them, not wanting to alarm the people who loved him, or her mother, by hinting that she had her suspicions about his death). Next to the folder, a pile of his diaries.

  Charlie had kept a diary ever since Jenny could remember, buying the same type each year, either red or black hardcover with the year printed in gold in the top right corner. Margaret had not wanted to read them, but told Jenny that she should, that Charlie would want her to.

  The pages were lined, one per day, but the entries were irregular in length. Some days contained only appointments—Dentist, 2 p.m.—or observations about the weather, all in his strange, overly elaborate hand. Occasionally he wrote longer, more personal pieces. They were often sombre in tone: reflections on a bad mood he’d been in, or questioning a decision he had made, or the way he had spoken to Margaret over some trivial disagreement or other. Jenny had read them with tears in her eyes—the vulnerabilities of a man who had always seemed so sure and steadfast revealed.

  The pages she focused on, though, the ones she had copied and highlighted and pored over, were the ones that, so far, revealed nothing. Numbers underlined—possibly times? Letters circled—initials? Brief notes—Same as last time. Check again Friday. All of these entries were made in the months before he died, and all of them coincided with his visits to Sark. Nothing about Charlie’s death looked suspicious, Michael had assured her. But Roger Wilson’s words still echoed in her ears: ‘Fancied himself as a bit of a detective . . . We all thought it was rather funny . . . until somebody stopped laughing . . .’ The words of a psychopath and a killer, Michael had said. They were nonsense, the ramblings of a madman, uttered when Roger was cornered and desperate to confuse and disarm. Except, Jenny thought, something about them had rung true.

  She remembered the first time she’d played detective with Charlie. They’d been walking round the reservoir at St Saviour’s, following the shady wooded path that followed the perimeter of the water, long before the States, the island’s government, tidied it all up and made it part of the ‘Millennium Walk’, with handy trail maps and ‘What to Look Out For’ guides, which brought hundreds of people to the area in the summer. Back then, it had just been Jenny and Charlie, maybe the odd twitcher—binoculars in hand, studying the banks of reeds, which sheltered nesting ducks and occasionally a heron or an egret. The path had been narrow and damp, gnarled tree roots twisting just under the surface. On the north shore, large steel gates had blocked the pathway, and walkers were redirected to the right, down a wide, grassy track that looped back to the reservoir a few hundred yards later. A foreboding ‘Keep Out’ was chained to one of the gate’s crossbars. Jenny would stand, fingers pressed against the cold metal, staring through the trees, which seemed thicker beyond the gate than anywhere else in the woods. She’d been convinced there was something untoward hidden behind them: a covert science lab perhaps, conducting strange experiments on the Guernsey water supply, or a secret government facility.

  When she’d relayed her suspicions to Charlie, he’d insisted they sneak round the gates to discover the truth. They owed it to the island, he’d said, to ensure there was nothing nefarious going on. She hadn’t known what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. They’d soon found themselves knee-deep in a bog, and Charlie had admitted the ‘Keep Out’ sign was probably there for benign reasons after all. ‘Not a word to Mum,’ he had said as he hauled her out of the swamp, holding on to a fallen tree to ensure he didn’t fall back in. When they’d got home, they blamed their wet things on a misguided duck-rescue attempt. Margaret had been unconvinced and given Charlie her look, the one that begged him not to be reckless—the same one she gave Jenny even now every time she left the house.

  The Guernsey News, the island’s only daily newspaper, was housed in a bright, purpose-built space located on an industrial estate on the north coast, a short drive from both Jenny’s house and the main town of St Peter Port. Its many glass walls afforded views over Belle Grève Bay, and beyond, on a clear day, to the islands of Herm and Sark.

  The news editor, Graham Le Noury, was talking to Elliot about Rock-Cane, a hedonistic music festival held at Rocquaine Bay every August bank holiday. There was some pressure to cancel from parent and community groups, worried at the increase in drug-related activity on the island. The mother of a teenager who had spent several days in hospital after reacting badly to taking a Black Pearl, a particularly strong strain of ecstasy that had flooded the local club scene, was spearheading the movement.

  Jenny attempted to interrupt Graham, as politely as possible, with the news of her lead. He waved her aside, gave her a look that told her to get in line, and she stood, fidgeting, waiting for an opportunity to get a word in without antagonising him.

  Graham had worked for the Guernsey News for as long as anyone could remember. This was, in Jenny’s opinion, the only reason he’d been given the news editor position when Mark Martel, a mild-mannered but diligent reporter with a keen sense of what made a good story, had been promoted to editor-in-chief following Brian Ozanne’s unceremonious firing several months previously. Brian had narrowly avoided prison, charged with perverting the course of justice for not revealing what he’d known about key suspects in the biggest murder investigation the island had ever seen.

  So the news team was stuck with Graham, a fine but dull reporter, the oldest member of the news team by at least twenty-five years. In fact, looking around the room, Jenny wouldn’t have been surprised if Elliot was the next oldest, closely followed by her. The rest of the team were in their mid-twenties. The job didn’t pay enough, and the hours were unsociable, and eventually most people went on to more lucrative positions doing marketing or PR at one of the banks. Graham finally finished his conversation and Jenny took the opportunity to grab his attenti
on.

  ‘Graham, just before you start, can I run something by you? It’s time sensitive.’

  Graham rolled his eyes: his resentment at her breaking the serial-killer story had nowhere near abated. He was not the only one, she thought. There was a shifting from the reporters, ten in all, who had gathered round Graham’s desk, and an audible sigh from someone. Elliot had told her there had been some bitching behind her back, other reporters saying that she was Mark’s favourite, and she could have sworn there was a palpable change in atmosphere whenever she stepped forward to speak. She carried on regardless.

  ‘I’ve had a message from my police source.’

  ‘You mean Cousin Steve, I presume?’ Graham asked.

  She laughed along with the others. There was not a hope in hell of keeping a source secret on Guernsey, not when everyone knew you were related to them.

  ‘Yep, Cousin Steve has come through again. Well, maybe. Suspected human remains have been found on Derrible in Sark.’

  ‘Not a body?’ A tremor in the voice of the young female reporter who asked the question. Jenny knew why. None of them wanted to deal with the likes of last year again.

  ‘I don’t think so. At least, not a fresh one. Bones apparently.’

  ‘How do they know they’re human?’

  ‘No idea, Graham. I’ve just got a text. If I go now, I can find out.’

  ‘There was a big hoo-ha about bones found on Sark a couple of years ago, remember? Turned out to belong to a bloody great dog. It’s probably something like that. Sarkees trying to add a bit of drama to a slow summer. Tourist numbers are shocking this season, I hear.’

  ‘Could be, Graham. We won’t know, though, will we, unless I get over there?’

  Graham frowned at her, as though trying to work out if she was being impertinent. She smiled, as sweetly as she could, and he looked down at his notes, weighing up whether or not he could spare her.

  ‘You’ve got the piece on the beach clean-up to finish,’ he mused. ‘Maybe we should send someone with more capacity.’

  Several of the reporters in the room stood up straighter, shuffled forwards. She couldn’t blame them. She’d had more than her fair share of good stories recently. But she’d worked for them.

  ‘I can finish that on the way over. I’ll have it filed by ten.’

  He sighed heavily. ‘OK. Let me know what’s going on as soon as you get there. Right, on to the rest of the news.’

  Jenny gathered her things. Elliot got up quietly and stopped her with a hand on her arm on the way out. She wondered how many of her colleagues had guessed that they were sleeping together.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You left in a hurry this morning. And you seem a bit agitated.’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  ‘You want me to come with you?’

  ‘Graham will throw a fit if I distract you from the Rock-Cane story. He seems to have his knickers in a right twist about it all. Although, I swear, if anyone else had brought him this tip, he’d have had a whole team on the way to Sark.’

  ‘You sure you’re OK on your own?’

  She knew what he was thinking. Could see the concern on his face.

  ‘Graham’s probably right. I’ll be back later with breaking news about a sheep that fell off a cliff twenty years ago.’

  ‘And if Graham’s wrong?’

  ‘Then I’ll be back later with a different story. A big one.’

  3

  Reg

  He knew someone was there. Felt the familiar tingling at the back of his neck. He turned. But he was too slow to catch a glimpse.

  He could not remember when he first saw that flicker of movement in his peripheral vision, when he first heard the crackling of dry grass stalks or the crush of stones behind him on an empty pathway. Weeks ago. Perhaps months. Or had it always been this way? He was never alone, not really. There was always someone nearby. A neighbour just beyond the hedge. A friend passing by on his way to work. A tourist wobbling on her bicycle. A ghost. So many ghosts. Whispering their accusations. Taunting him. Brushing the back of his neck with their icy fingers.

  He shrugged. It was probably kids. The children of the children who used to follow him, daring each other to get as close as they could and then running away as soon as he caught a look at them. That’s how old he was. The kids had kids already. He was too slow now to catch them, and he wouldn’t even if he could. One of them had fainted once. Passed out cold as he’d grabbed the little bugger by the scruff of the neck. He’d only been going to give him a telling-off. He wondered what stories they told each other, what sort of bogeyman he was. He smiled. Nothing changed. Each generation had their monsters. Their horror stories. He and his friends had taunted an older lady way back when. Convinced she was a witch, they’d muttered charms whenever she’d passed, or crossed themselves and spat over their shoulders, lest she cursed them with her evil eye. Poor woman. Just a spinster. Old and alone. Like him.

  He looked at his shoes. Fine yellow dust coated the dull, scuffed leather. It had not rained for days and the main road through the village was dry; small clouds of the pressed, sandy surface surrounded his feet as he walked.

  He had gone out with a purpose this morning and managed to follow it through to completion. No mean feat these days. He pulled a trolley behind him. It was red-and-black tartan and heavy with bread, eggs, milk and butter. No national papers. There was fog over in Guernsey and the mail plane from the mainland could not land there in time to make the eight-o’clock sailing to Sark. No matter. He never read the papers anyway. And he had a copy of the Guernsey News, which would do nicely.

  His smile slipped as he tried to remember why he needed a newspaper that he wouldn’t read. To start a fire, perhaps. No, that couldn’t be right. It was summer. Hot. So hot that even now, early morning, sweat trickled down his brow and stung the corners of his eyes. He closed them. Shook his head. A sudden, sharp vision. A boy crying. He could hear him. Smell him. That’s how it was now. Memories from years ago were clear as though they happened yesterday, and yet it was a struggle to hold on to a new thought for more than a few moments.

  He wondered how long it would be before he stopped questioning his own behaviour. Before he was so lost there was no finding the way back, not even for a little bit. Perhaps one of his strolls would finish him off. He found himself in the strangest places at the strangest times. He would set out to watch the sunrise over the common and end up on La Coupée, the narrow, wind-battered isthmus that connected Sark to Little Sark, leaning on railings built by German prisoners of war, looking out over the sea to the sun rising from behind Jersey, the empty feeling in his stomach reminding him that he’d not yet had breakfast. It was a long way to walk without breakfast.

  Or, in the dark, at the edge of the cliffs at Gouliot, acutely aware of the caves that riddled the earth beneath his feet, the island of Brecqhou rising out of the water before him. It had been deserted when he was a boy. Just seagulls and seagull shit, the odd puffin, sometimes a seal basking on the rocks. Now there was a mansion made of marble and gold, so they said, each step leading up to it costing hundreds of thousands of pounds. So they said.

  Sometimes he would come round as if from sleep at Port du Moulin, sitting on the pebbles, the tide lapping at his feet, staring at the arch of rock that straddled land and sea, and reminded him of pictures he had seen in National Geographic magazine, of great stone arches in the American desert, Utah, or Nevada, he couldn’t remember which. Somewhere he’d never been. Somewhere he would never go. His was a life measured in footsteps, not air miles.

  He lived less than three miles from anywhere on the island. Less than one from the village. It would only have taken a few minutes on his bicycle, but he had left it somewhere. He had forgotten where. He’d posted a note up, a few days ago, at the Village Stores. The scrawny girl working there had laughed at him as she wrote it. She was one of those seasonal workers who came over for a
few weeks every summer. She’d said all the islanders had funny names and he’d had to spell his out for her. She’d had a tattoo of a butterfly on the inside of her veiny wrist, and her T-shirt had lain flat and loose over her chest. He preferred a little meat on the bones. Large breasts and fleshy buttocks. Like Rachel.

  It was still on the board. The note. There had been no sign of the bike. Truth be told, he’d been struggling to ride it anyway, with his knees. Better to walk. Maybe if his knees got really bad, he could get one of those motorised scooters the aged seigneur had used after his hip replacement. Sir William de Bordeaux, the island’s feudal leader, was approaching ninety. There’d been a big to-do when he’d asked for permission to use a motorised vehicle. But after much consideration, the Chief Pleas, Sark’s government, had agreed that it was impractical for the seigneur to be taken everywhere on a horse and cart, and that a mobility scooter was less intrusive than a tractor. They were right about that. Used to be hard to get a tractor licence on Sark. Now it seemed like anyone could get one.

  There was one now. Not just one—two, three in a bloody row. That was unusual, truth be told. And they seemed to be going very fast. He turned to watch them, spewing thick fumes into the heavy air as they chugged up the Avenue.

  Outside the new coffee shop, two women were talking animatedly. They pointed after the tractors. One was holding a mobile telephone to her ear, talking into it, then pausing every now and then to check something with her companion. Time was he would have tried to find out what all the fuss was about. But he didn’t know the women. At least, he didn’t think he did. It was difficult for him to sort out the familiar faces from the unfamiliar. People stopped and talked to him as if they knew him, but he could not place them. Each face seemed to blend into the next, their features blurred by the haze that settled on his eyes overnight and often didn’t clear until lunchtime. He should get his eyes tested, at the very least, but that would mean a trip to Guernsey and he’d rather go blind than go there.