Little Black Lies

by Sharon Bolton

  I’m strangely nervous, though, as I push open the door and step inside.

  The king-size bed is neatly made, a patchwork quilt that looks genuinely old folded over its lower half. The quilt is made from all colours, all fabrics, and looking at it gives me a sense of a couple of generations of Falkland women, sitting in the lamplight, sewing their way around this giant work of art. I see Catrin’s grandmother taking a tiny, dark-haired child on a tour of its memories. ‘And this is the dress I was wearing when I met your grandfather. Oh look, this lined your pram when you were a baby, do you remember?’

  We could have spent years, Catrin and I, huddled beneath that quilt, her telling me the history of every piece of fabric in its making.

  The room is L-shaped and I can see round the corner to an office space. Desk, filing cabinet, chair. The bottom drawer of the cabinet is open. A desktop computer has been removed, recently I’d guess, judging from the cables lying around on the desk and floor. A laser printer remains, an old Hewlett Packard model; the cable that would have connected it to the desktop hangs down towards the carpet. Closer, I can see a ring of dust.

  Three of the walls are covered in photographs of Ned and Kit, alone, together, with their parents. There are pictures they drew at school, even pages pulled out of medical records. The fourth wall is blank, although I can see drawing-pin holes and Blu Tack.

  Queenie starts and races out. I hear her on the stairs then scampering across the hall on the ground floor. I start opening drawers, trying not to be distracted as the scent of Catrin drifts up. I find trousers, a sweater, socks. In her underwear drawer I find things I bought, out of some needy, male compulsion to see her in clothes I’d paid for. It’s largely about territory, isn’t it, our dealings with women?

  Another door leads to a bathroom and I guess she’ll need a toothbrush, toothpaste. On the back of the door she’s hung her pyjamas and I can’t help myself. I lift them to my face and breathe her in. In three years this feels like the closest she’s been to me. I close my eyes and can almost believe she’s here, right now, in the room with me.

  ‘Hi,’ she says.

  I jump, let the silky fabric drop, feeling ridiculously guilty. I’m imagining nothing. She’s right there, in the doorway. Queenie, at her feet, is in danger of knocking them both off balance, her tail is wagging that hard.

  She’s shrunk, is my first thought. Her clothes are huge, hanging off her at the shoulder, turned up at the wrist and ankle. Her hair is lank and dull, pulled back from her face. Her eyes look enormous and almost silver in the half-light.

  ‘They told me you had Queenie. Thank you.’ She bends to pet the dog, keeping her eyes on me.

  ‘I thought you might need some clothes.’ I feel the need to explain why I’m here, in her bedroom, uninvited.

  ‘I do.’ She half smiles, looks down at herself, lifts her arms. ‘These are Skye’s. I’m not sure we’re quite the same size.’

  ‘They let you go?’

  Her head drops fractionally to one side. ‘No, I waited till they were looking the other way and made a run for it.’

  ‘How did you get here?’ I haven’t heard her car. Mind you, the wind is blowing up a real hooley by this time.

  ‘Broomstick.’

  She does this. She loves it when I’m the dumb squaddie and she has all the answers. Then she sees something in my face and takes pity. ‘Skye dropped me off.’

  ‘What’s happening? Why?’

  She shrugs, but doesn’t move from her place in the doorway. ‘The divers finished their search of Port Fitzroy and found nothing. Which means everything they have on me is circumstantial. Bob Stopford decided they don’t really have the facilities to keep prisoners over extended periods and, let’s be honest, it’s not as though I’m going anywhere.’

  The turn of events is so sudden I’m struggling to take it in. ‘It’s over?’

  She frowns at me. ‘Of course it’s not over. The divers will go down again tomorrow. I have to report back to the station tomorrow. Actually, could you give me a lift to the harbour? My car’s still there.’

  ‘First thing in the morning I’ll be glad to. I walked over.’

  She nods and the elephant in the room throws back its head and trumpets so loud I think the roof might come off. She hears it too. ‘Anything you want to ask me?’

  ‘Nope.’ Elephant or not, I’m not going to say it.

  ‘You’re a fool,’ she says, but her face has softened. I see her body twitch, as though she is a half impulse from crossing the room to join me, and I know that she has to be the one to make the move.

  ‘Have you seen Rachel?’

  It’s been three years since I’ve heard Catrin mention Rachel. I shake my head, assuming she means since the child went missing. ‘I’ve seen her parents. The two older boys. Not Rachel herself.’

  ‘Did they say how she’s doing?’

  ‘In shock. Struggling to take it in. Pretty much what you’d expect.’

  ‘Are people looking for him? The way they did for Archie? I couldn’t get any sense out of Stopford and his jokers. Have they got searches organized?’

  Shit, this is Catrin. Real Catrin, not the ghost I’ve been chasing for so long that I’d almost forgotten things were ever different. She must be seeing something on my face too. The lines on hers fade. Her cheeks seem to plump out. Is she actually on the verge of smiling at me?

  ‘I have been half out of my mind, worrying about you,’ I tell her.

  Not a smile, not yet anyway, just perhaps a memory that such things were once possible. ‘I’ve been in custody less than twenty-four hours.’

  ‘I’m talking about the last three years.’

  Do it, Catrin. Half a dozen steps towards me, that’s all it will take. I actually think she’s going to, when the sound of shattering glass cuts through the storm. Downstairs, someone has broken a window.

  Then we hear the explosion.

  21

  Catrin’s eyes are wide with shock. ‘That was a gun. There’s someone downstairs with a gun.’

  ‘It was a firework,’ I tell her, spinning her around and flicking off the light. Catrin’s bedroom is at the back of the house, the sounds we heard came from the front. ‘Probably kids messing around,’ I add, although I’m less sure about that last bit. ‘Wait here.’

  I jog downstairs, thankful I didn’t turn the lights on earlier, and that Catrin didn’t either, because there is a chance that whoever is outside won’t know we’re here. There is a stone on the kitchen floor and the firework that followed it through the window. Home-made, what we used to call a banger. As kids we’d toss them into the crowd on Bonfire Night. Well, I did, until I got my arse royally tanned by my da. I cross to the back door and turn the key.

  Outside, I can hear the revving of engines. Not cars. Quad bikes. They are getting increasingly popular on the islands, especially with the youngsters. You need a licence to drive a car here, but not to ride a quad bike off-road. And quad bikes can go places most cars can’t. I’ve seen kids as young as twelve hurtling around the countryside on four-wheel-drive bikes.

  I can see nothing outside, so I head back upstairs, meeting Catrin halfway and dragging her with me. In the small front bedroom that once belonged to Ned – that still looks spookily like the occupied room of an eight-year-old boy – I creep to the window. Catrin follows, resting her chin lightly against my shoulder. The wind has really picked up by this time, buffeting the walls of this old building, whistling around the roof. No wonder we didn’t hear the bikes approaching.

  ‘Lot of people out there somewhere,’ Catrin whispers in my ear.

  There are headlights outside and, from what little I can tell, parked cars stretch some way down the road, effectively blocking it. Not everyone arrived by bike.

  ‘Stay back. Stay behind me,’ I tell her.

  The security lights below us are on, giving us a temporary advantage. We can see more than the people outside can. The wind has blown away the clouds and the whit
e forms of Catrin’s macabre garden ornaments gleam in the artificial light.

  ‘Why couldn’t you have gnomes like normal people?’ I mutter under my breath.

  Then I see the torchlights. I count three, four, six at the front of the house, dotted among the skeletons and weapons. I watch them move closer. Shadows take substance. Movement becomes human form. A lot of people drawing nearer, and something tells me they’re not early carol singers. I’ve not known islanders behave like this before.

  I see a light outside, a naked flame, flickering close to the ground. Then something, a rocket, comes hurtling towards the house. It sails harmlessly overhead.

  ‘Look out the back,’ I tell Catrin. ‘See if they’re at the back as well. Don’t let them see you.’

  Another rocket comes flying towards us. It misses the window, hits the wall and falls harmlessly to the ground. Another may follow it. Another may not miss. If they keep sending fireworks into the house they’re going to set it alight. I shake my head to clear it. The Sir Galahad in flames. Screams of burning men.

  She’s back, in the doorway behind me. ‘They’re at the back of the house. I counted three of them. Who are they?’

  Nine torches. At least nine people, but given the number of vehicles, quite possibly more. ‘Get me the phone, Cat. Don’t switch on any lights.’

  There is a loud banging on the door then I see someone step back and look up. A torch is shone upwards but it hits another window first and gives me the chance to get out of sight. Something tells me these guys don’t know we’re here. They’re expecting Catrin to be in custody and there was no vehicle to give away either her or my presence.

  So if they don’t want us, what do they want?

  My question is answered a second later by several of the torches moving away from the house towards the whale skeletons. In a flickering beam I see a hammer being swung and striking the orca skeleton. Glued and nailed together, it’s suspended on a plinth, to give the impression of a large mammal moving swiftly and gracefully through the water. The plinth tumbles under the force of the blow and the skeleton hits the ground. Another swing and the tail breaks in two. Another, and a fin is shattered.

  Someone else has a spray can and goes to work on the long pointed skull of the blue whale. A third vandal picks up a harpoon and hurls it towards the house. You wouldn’t put him in the javelin team but his example is soon copied and spears start to fly in our direction. We hear some of them striking the walls.

  Further back, smaller pieces of bone are being thrown over the hedge, to land on the beach, a couple of dozen feet below.

  ‘They’re wrecking everything.’ Phone in hand, Catrin is wide-eyed with dismay. While the whale graveyard might be deeply unpleasant to some people, certainly to me, it’s part of her heritage, part of the islands’ history. ‘I’m going out,’ she announces.

  ‘You’re fucking well not.’ I grab her with one hand, the phone with the other, and dial 999 with my thumb. While I’m waiting, the entire orca skeleton goes over the cliff and the crowd outside gets to work on the dolphins. Catrin is trembling at my side and I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold her.

  As I’m explaining the situation to the desk sergeant at the police station, people outside start picking up the stray harpoons again and hurling them at the house. I hear another window break.

  It will take fifteen, twenty minutes at best, to get a police car out here. With the road outside blocked by vehicles, that time could be doubled.

  ‘These people all think I took Peter.’ I notice she doesn’t say killed Peter.

  ‘It’s not just about Peter.’ I hate saying this, but she has to realize what she’s dealing with here.

  ‘What then? The whales? I know no one liked that, but people here understand it was necessary.’

  I push her back closer to the door as fireworks continue to explode outside, as increasingly shrill cries of encouragement accompany the bones and whaling memorabilia going over the clifftop.

  ‘The two boys who went missing before Archie and Peter? The two local boys?’

  She stares back at me, scared, not following. ‘Jimmy and Fred?’

  ‘People have realized they looked a lot like Ned and Kit. And the first of them vanished not long after the boys died. People aren’t thinking straight, Cat. Their kids are disappearing and when people are scared enough, they turn on their own.’

  Downstairs, Queenie starts barking. We’re out of time. They know we’re here.

  ‘Get on the phone again,’ I tell her as I head for the stairs. ‘Tell the police to get a frigging move on.’

  More shouts from outside. Something else hits a window. It doesn’t break, but it’s only a matter of time.

  ‘You can’t go out there.’

  ‘The police will be here in ten minutes. I’ll keep them talking.’

  She tries to hold me back but I have gravity and a five-stone weight advantage on my side. I tell her to make the call, then wait for me at the back of the house. I stride across the kitchen, my heart hammering in my chest. No one likes to go into a hostile situation blind and I have no idea who’s out there or what they have planned. What I do know is that I have to act fast, take them by surprise. I open the door, step into the security light, then close and lock the door behind me. The key goes into my pocket. He’ll be a brave bloke who tries to get it from me.

  ‘What do you want, guys?’ The question is polite enough. The tone of my voice says don’t mess with me. Privately, I’m shitting myself, but if I let them know that, it’s all over.

  A torchlight shines directly into my face. Then another. Fuck’s sake!

  ‘We want to talk to your girlfriend. Get her out here.’ A woman’s voice and I’m pretty certain not an islander. That accent was estuary, not the soft, almost West Country burr that a lot of the locals speak with. I turn my head to one side. If diplomatic negotiations break down, I need to see what’s coming. If the police set out straight away, they’re ten minutes away at best. For now, I’m on my own.

  ‘Who wants to talk to her? And get that friggin’ torch out of my face or I’ll ram it up your arse!’

  There are jeers from the oncoming line, but the beam falls. I can look directly ahead again. Shapes stand out against the remaining sculptural forms of the whale graveyard. Adults, wrapped up for the weather in thick coats. Hats and scarves partially covering faces. Anonymous. I hear more vehicles approaching but it’s too soon for them to be police.

  ‘Anyone here I know or are you all off that cruise ship? Because if you are, you probably want to think twice about getting yourself in trouble with the law here. That ship won’t wait while you get bailed.’

  Silence. I sense an advantage. ‘You’ll pay a thousand quid a head for flights home. I doubt your travel insurance will cover that one.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to be in trouble with the law.’ A bloke steps forward. Big, though not quite my height, and soft around the edges. Not from the cruise ship. I’m pretty certain he’s Jimmy Brown’s father. ‘We just want to talk to her.’

  ‘She’s been talking to the police all day. They’re dealing with it. Go home.’

  A woman comes striding towards me, pushing past the bloke. Then another follows her. I don’t know either of them. She comes right up to me. Mid forties, with the coarse skin and lines around the mouth that suggest a drinker. I can smell alcohol. This is trickier. A bloke would be wary of me. A woman less so. She’ll tell herself I daren’t touch her. She’ll be right too, not in front of so many witnesses, especially as I’m pretty certain, at the back of the crowd, keeping a very low profile for now, I can see the gleam of a camera lens. That frigging TV crew have followed this lot out here.

  The woman stands inches away, trying to intimidate me with proximity. ‘There is a two-year-old kid missing.’ She points into my face with a gloved forefinger. ‘Four kids missing in three years. Do you even give a shit?’

  ‘Get her out here!’ The line of people presses forward a
gain. These are not just visitors. The locals are hanging back but they’re here. The Brown family certainly, probably one or two of the Harpers as well. Behind the tarnished skull of the blue whale, I can see the black and white tufts of Bob-Cat’s hair.

  Still too long before the police get here. These people are scared. Their children are being spirited away and they feel helpless. Fuelled by drink and bolstered by numbers, they’ve found an outlet for their frustration. There is no way on earth they’re getting the key out of me, but more than one window has already been broken. They can get in.

  ‘You want to talk to Catrin?’ I look over the woman’s head towards a man who I’m pretty certain is Archie West’s dad. ‘The woman who found your son, by the way. The woman who handed him back to his mother not twenty-four hours ago? Is she the one all this is for?’

  He has the grace to look ashamed of himself, but others still feel they have the courage of anonymity. Some kids at the back actually start singing the Queen song, the one about the woman they call the Killer Queen. I hold up both hands.

  ‘OK, you win. I’ll get her.’

  That surprises them. They stop with the stupid singing but they’re drawing closer all the time.

  ‘Give me two minutes. But she’s coming out to talk, that’s all. She’s one woman, who hasn’t done anything wrong. She’s had a hell of a day and you can treat her with respect.’

  Gobby Cow pushes after me as I step back to the door. ‘How about I come in with you?’ she says.

  I lean down, talk directly into her face, so that only she can hear me. ‘How about I break your ugly nose?’ I straighten up. ‘Two minutes.’ I call out as I unlock the door and open it. ‘And nobody hurts her, or you’ll have me to answer to.’

  I slip inside and turn the key. Catrin is waiting in the hallway. She looks past me to the back door. ‘I’ll talk to them. I’m not afraid.’