Little Black Lies

by Sharon Bolton

  ‘What did you call her?’ Rachel asked me later.

  I shrugged. Dad and I had been working too hard trying to save her, we hadn’t thought to give her a name.

  ‘One day, when you’re lost on the ocean and about to drown, she will appear and save you,’ Rachel announced, in the emphatic way of hers that told you there was no point arguing. ‘When she does, give her a name.’

  * * *

  Dreaming of Rachel has woken me, as it always does, and with that grinding, impossible-to-settle rage that her mere presence in my head always brings. I get up, trying not to disturb Queenie. In the main cabin all seems still.

  Midnight has come and gone. It is Wednesday. One more day to the anniversary of the boys’ deaths. One more day until everything changes.

  The door opens quietly. Callum shouldn’t be asleep at all, given that the bench he’s lying on is two feet shorter than he is. His feet are propped up against the cabin wall, his shoulders hunched uncomfortably against the side of the fridge. He is sleeping, though. His breathing is heavy, his face completely relaxed.

  I take deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down, to stop shaking.

  Callum sleeps so deeply, an army legacy of having to snatch rest whenever he could. We used to joke that a lit firework under his bum wouldn’t wake him ten minutes after he’d dropped off.

  I will never get this chance again.

  I walk over, my bare feet making no sound. I’m calmer already. I’m not shaking any more, or if I am, it’s for a different reason. I kneel beside him and lean closer, until I can feel his breath against my face. Closer still. I can smell coffee, the oils in his skin, whatever he last washed his hair with. I touch my face against his, feel his skin, the stubble of his beard next to my cheek, then let my lips meet his.

  I stay like that for long seconds, breathing in time with him, willing him to wake up, praying that he won’t. Then I see him, once again, grinning down at Rachel, and I can’t bear to be near him.

  * * *

  I’m disturbed once more before morning. A boat has come alongside. I hear lines landing on deck, feel the gentle thump of another vessel’s fenders. I think I hear my name and wait to be roused. The call doesn’t come, and so I drift away.

  DAY THREE

  Wednesday, 2 November

  7

  I’m awake again before dawn, but light is growing as I step out on deck. Queenie and I are alone. The sounds I heard in the early hours were those of Callum being picked up by the police boat.

  A fret, or sea fog, has arrived in the night and the harbour entrance is filled with white mist. It looks solid enough to run across, a wall of white. It looks like a giant wave, stretching between the two cliffs, and for a moment I have a sense of it moving towards me. It looks like a barrier, something that will stop me leaving this safe harbour, and maybe I should listen to what nature is telling me. Maybe that wall of mist is here to keep me safe.

  But the light grows, the clouds take on the soft, ivory warmth of the sun’s first beams and the wall begins to break. After a while, I can see the point where the ocean meets the sky on the other side of it. Whatever is waiting for me there, the mist is letting me through.

  There’s traffic on the shipping channel, and I hear that the search of the boats last night proved fruitless. Archie West, the little lost Arsenal supporter, has been missing for two nights now. I also hear some of what’s going on around the headland.

  When I turn into Port Pleasant I see immediately that I’ll get nowhere near the Endeavour. There are two police vessels, a military boat and a dive boat anchored close to it. Callum is standing on the bow. Sound travels a long way here and he obviously heard me coming. He turns to talk to someone on board and then Stopford appears. I watch the two of them climb down into one of the police launches and head my way.

  * * *

  ‘Catrin, what do you know about the tides round here?’ Stopford doesn’t waste time once he and Callum are on board. ‘People tell me a lot of stuff gets washed in here.’

  ‘That’s true.’ I talk to Stopford but I’m looking at Callum. His beard, that odd mixture of blond, red and brown hairs, is clearly visible around his chin and lower cheeks. There are grey hairs in it too now. His face is thinner than when I first met him. Or maybe he’s just tired, having had little or no sleep the last two nights. As if confirming my thoughts, he sinks down on to the wooden slatted seat that runs around the side deck and Queenie leaps into his lap. He reaches out to stroke her muzzle and his hand is shaking.

  ‘What we’re trying to figure out is whether the little lad was left on the boat, or whether he could have been carried around by the tide and got stuck in the wheelhouse.’ Stopford raises his voice to get my attention.

  I think about it for a second. Port Pleasant, like a lot of the inlets around Falkland, is long, thin and undulating. And it has the island directly in the middle of the channel. It’s a collecting ground for all sorts of floating debris. Even, I imagine, that of the human variety.

  ‘It’s possible,’ I say. ‘A big wave could have brought him on to the boat and after that, it’s not difficult to see how he could have become stuck. Is it Jimmy?’

  Stopford’s face tightens. ‘Too early to say. We’ll get him back. Hopefully the dentist can help us out.’

  I think back to the small skull we saw in the torchlight, to the double dentition that freaked Callum. ‘Did you find anything else on board?’ I don’t mean anything else, of course, I mean anyone else. I just don’t want to say it.

  ‘Not yet. But the divers will be here most of the day. If necessary we’ll tow the wreck itself back to Stanley. I’d appreciate you and Callum keeping quiet about what you found here. Until we’ve had chance to confirm identity and talk to the lad’s family.’

  Half the islands’ population will know about the body we found by now, but I nod my agreement and so does Callum. Telling us to stay in touch, Stopford climbs back on to his launch and returns to the Endeavour.

  ‘Anything I missed?’ I ask.

  Callum shrugs. ‘Jury’s out on whether we found a murder victim, or the trapped remains of a tragic accident. No prizes for guessing which camp Stopford’s in.’

  I think for a second. ‘So where does that leave Archie? I mean, the search for Archie?’

  ‘There was talk about searching all the other wrecks. Or at least the ones that have some sort of sheltered accommodation out of the water. That’s something. It’ll take time though.’

  ‘We need to get back. You’re frozen. You should go inside. Try and get warm.’

  Somewhat to my surprise, he doesn’t argue. When he goes into the cabin, Queenie follows him as if she’s his dog, not mine.

  I start the engine, lift the anchor and head out. After we’ve cleared the bay and I’m confident I can put the auto helm on, I steal quietly over to the seat in the wheelhouse where Callum left his jacket.

  The toy rabbit is in one of the inside pockets. There’s hand stitching around one ear where the original seam came loose and someone – me, I think – sewed it back up. I feel sure that this is Kit’s toy. I can’t begin to calculate the odds of it ending up on the Endeavour, the odds of both this and the body of poor Jimmy Brown doing so, but this is the last comforting thing my baby ever saw. I tuck it inside my shirt. It’s filthy, cold and wet against my chest but I wouldn’t have it anywhere else.

  As I drive into Stanley the fishing fleet are setting out for the day. I reverse into my mooring and tie the boat up. I haven’t heard from man or dog the whole trip back. So I’m not entirely surprised to see both of them curled up on the main bunk, snuggled under rugs and dead to the world. Queenie opens her eyes. I wait for her to scramble off and join me but she stays in the crook of Callum’s arm.

  Just before I leave the boat, I tuck Benny Bunny into a drawer in the wheelhouse. I want him close, next time I head out from harbour. I want him with me at the end.

  * * *

  I’m weary. Body and soul. Weary of
being forced to think about children who mean nothing to me, of putting what little energy I have into looking for boys who are not mine. I never used to be so cold. I’m not naturally a monster. There was a time when I’d have been as distressed as anyone by the losing of Archie, by the finding of Jimmy. There are days when I think the old me is almost gone.

  Now, for the short time I have remaining, I want to be left alone, with the only two people I care anything for. Even if they are ghosts. But at this stage I cannot do anything that will draw attention to myself. I have to go through the motions, just for one more day.

  So I head for the office, to see if normal business has resumed or if we’re spending another day searching for Archie. Susan is in something of a flap.

  ‘Your Aunt Janey’s been on the phone. Needs you to call her right away. Problem over at Speedwell.’ She is holding the phone out to me and I have no choice but to take it and dial my aunt’s number.

  Speedwell is an island off the south coast of East Falkland very close to George and Barren. Aunt Janey and her husband own it and live on it some of the time. She answers so quickly I know she has been sitting by the phone. ‘Catrin? We’ve got a big problem. Whales on the beach. Hundreds of them.’

  Susan is watching me. I pull a face to let her know it’s bad. ‘Are they alive?’ I ask Janey, and to be honest, I’m hoping they’re not.

  ‘Most of them. But the birds are starting to have a go at them. Catrin, it’s really horrible.’

  It takes a lot to upset my Aunt Janey. I tell her I’ll be with her as soon as possible, just as John arrives.

  ‘Mass stranding on the south coast of Speedwell,’ I tell him. ‘Well over a hundred, according to Janey. Pilot whales, most likely, from her description.’

  Neither of my colleagues replies immediately. It’s the sort of disaster we dread, can never really prepare for.

  ‘We’ll have no help.’ Susan has gone pale with distress. ‘Everyone will be looking for the little boy.’

  Ordinarily, with a major marine incident, we could rely upon both the police and the military for assistance. But with a child still missing the chances of them sparing personnel are slim.

  ‘I’ve got that fisheries meeting this morning,’ says John.

  The meeting has been planned for months. We’re discussing selling fishing rights in certain stretches of water. It’s important. The islands need the revenue. John has to go to the meeting. Which means I’m in charge. Susan will have to stay in the office as a central point of contact.

  ‘But it’s your field, right?’ Susan looks to John for confirmation.

  ‘Cetaceans are Catrin’s speciality.’

  I nod. ‘I know what to do.’

  ‘I can get on the phone.’ John is the first to pull himself together. ‘Explain the situation to Stopford and Wooton. See what they can spare us.’

  ‘The radio too,’ I tell him. ‘People should be able to decide for themselves.’ I want to tell him that Archie is almost certainly at the bottom of a bog or been swept out to sea, but there may still be a chance to save the whales. I don’t. Maybe it’s the memory of that tiny skeleton, lying alone on the Endeavour all this time, but I don’t.

  ‘What do you need?’ he asks me.

  ‘Couple of helicopters with load-bearing capacity would be good. Failing that, as many people as possible. Small boats with big engines, jet skis will do, ropes, stretchers, buckets and lots of large sheets or groundsheets. And spades. Lots of spades. Did I mention buckets?’

  Susan makes a list, as John goes to find his phone book. ‘I can be there by mid afternoon,’ he tells me.

  I spend the next half-hour getting everything I need. Pete arrives and makes himself useful. When John has finished his calls, we talk through the various scenarios. None of them inspires us with anything other than a sense of dread. We all hope Janey has been exaggerating the scale of the problem. I don’t say that Janey never exaggerates.

  As I’m about to leave PC Skye arrives. ‘The Chief Superintendent asked me to pop in,’ she says. ‘We’ll do our best to get some people over to Speedwell, but we have to concentrate on the search for little Archie.’

  ‘Clear the area of livestock and do another infrared search,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll find him.’

  Her eyes fill up. I forget how young she is. I forget that it’s possible to be so fresh and vulnerable that the death of a complete stranger can have a serious impact upon you.

  ‘Mr Stopford would prefer you to stay here,’ she goes on. ‘You and Callum. In case he needs to talk to you again.’

  ‘I’ll be contactable by radio all day.’

  I haven’t given her the answer she wants but she chooses not to pursue it. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come to Speedwell,’ she says. ‘The boss has put me in charge of liaising with Archie’s family.’

  I want to tell her I can’t imagine anyone better, but I’ve rather got out of the habit of kind words, so I nod. She hovers for a few seconds, then walks into the door on the way out and disappears rubbing her hipbone.

  Pete helps me load the equipment and we set off. Back at the harbour, my boat is empty. I feel a moment’s qualm about leaving Queenie with a man who is clearly emotionally unstable. I was prepared to be lenient when it was my own safety at stake but if he hurts my dog, I will kill him.

  There is nothing to be done. I don’t have time to track them down now and in any event, Queenie has been coping with emotional instability for three years. I doubt she’ll notice the difference.

  We don’t take my boat. It isn’t fast enough. The RIB will get us there in an hour so even if people have already set off overland, we’ll still beat most of them to it.

  ‘Pilot whales?’ Pete has to shout his question at me above the roar of the engine as we leave Stanley harbour.

  ‘Probably.’ I take the RIB up to its top speed. Janey is a true daughter of Grandpa Coffin, she knows her whales. Besides, pilot whales are among the most common to be involved in mass beachings.

  ‘It won’t be pretty,’ I shout back, which is something of an understatement. Of all possible marine disasters – oil slicks, pollution incidents – the grounding of a pod of large mammals is one of the trickiest and most distressing to deal with.

  As we near Speedwell we pass other boats heading the same way. One of them appears to be from the cruise ship, which isn’t great news. Island people will be pragmatic, ready to pitch in if there’s anything sensible they can do, stoical if not. Visitors from overseas, with no real understanding of the natural world, will be a different matter.

  ‘Why?’ Pete is mouthing at me. ‘Why does it happen?’

  I couldn’t answer that one in a few words and sign language. No one really knows why it happens. My father, who made something of a life’s work studying whale beachings, argued that they were akin to road traffic accidents. Any number of things could go wrong, but the result was the same. Animals can hit ships, be attacked by predators; in the northern US, pneumonia is a common reason for beachings. The animal could have a virus, a brain lesion, parasites. Quite often animals are washed ashore posthumously.

  With a mass beaching though, there’s something else going on. Strong social cohesion within a pod of whales means that if one gets sick or is injured and swims into shallower waters, it’s quite likely to be followed by the rest of the group. The whole pod then gets in trouble.

  Some scientists believe the echolocation systems that whales use to navigate are less adept at picking up the gently sloping coastlines around the Falklands. The whales simply don’t see the beach until it’s too late.

  The environmental lobby are quick to blame man’s habit of pillaging the planet, that military sonar can cause whales to lose their bearings, stray into shallow water and end up on the beach. On the other hand, there are reports of cetacean strandings dating back to Aristotle. My own belief is that Dad probably had it right. Lots of different causes, the same horrible result.

  We see our first whale when we’re
still a quarter of a mile from the beach. Dead, belly up. Janey was right. This is a long-finned pilot whale, sleek and black, with a bulbous nose. An adult, female at a guess, about four metres long.

  As we approach land, we see more whales. Some of them are floating in the shallows, gently bumping up against the shore with each new wave. Most are on the beach, in a grim, straggly formation.

  ‘Jesus,’ says Pete.

  There are several other boats in the bay, all creeping in. I count around twenty people on the shore, most of whom will be from the nearby settlements, although I can see a few of the red anoraks worn by visitors from off the cruise ships. I spot the bright blue baseball cap that Janey invariably wears to contain her mass of dark curls when she’s out of the house.

  She wasn’t exaggerating. There are well over a hundred. Possibly closer to two hundred. The surf around the water’s edge is red with blood. Some of the animals are being dashed against the rocks. And the petrels haven’t waited for the whales to die.

  When I glance at Pete he looks close to tears. I take the RIB up to the edge of the bay and head in. ‘I need you to be OK.’ I sound harsh, I know, but this is going to be hard enough without human sentimentality.

  He sniffs. ‘I’m OK.’

  A man jogs along the shore to meet us. It’s Mitchell, Janey’s husband. Pete throws him the RIB’s painter and he pulls us in.

  ‘One hundred and seventy-six, I counted twice,’ Mitchell tells me. I nod my thanks. Counting them would have been my first job and Mitchell has saved me the trouble. More people are arriving all the time. They’re wandering about among the whales. Some of them are going to get hurt.