The magazine has done very well, building up a pretty respectable readership. I came on board some months ago, fresh from college with a degree in journalism. But by then certain changes had already taken place at Missing Link. Derek had just sold the magazine but had decided to stay on as editor. The new owner was obsessed with credibility and wanted Link to focus more on oddities and freaks of nature, than on what he deemed ‘nonsense’. Out went the little green men and in came the flora and fauna. Soon we were re-branded a ‘science magazine’, dedicated to the weird and the wonderful. For me it was an exciting time and I was keen to get stuck into serious reporting.
Gradually, however, doubts crept in about exactly what I’d got myself into. I’d been aware for a long time that honesty and journalism could be a difficult marriage, but I was surprised by exactly how difficult it was. I had to accept that the distortion of facts was not merely commonplace but ever present. Gradually elements of the job lost their appeal, but one that didn’t was Gina Newport, the magazine’s star photographer. At twenty-two she was nearly a full year older than me and I’d liked her, a lot, from the moment I laid eyes on her. But somehow I could never find the opportunity or guts to do anything about the way I felt. Such is life.
Last Monday, a day that now seems lost in the mists of time, was the day the letter from Reginald Mather arrived. It was a glorious early autumn day, so I decided to run to work, taking my favourite route along the canal. After I’d reached the office, I showered, dressed and went next door to the newsagent’s to buy a carton of orange juice. Sitting behind my computer, I opened the juice and began sorting through the small pile of mail the office junior had brought me. Mather’s letter was at the bottom, and was the only one that didn’t end up being filed in the bin.
The letter was brief, something that caught my attention straight away. Usually the lunatics who write to me waste page after page of paper trying to convince me that they have an amazing story for the magazine. Mather’s letter was businesslike, concise and therefore more credible.
Dear Mr Reeves,
I have in my possession a specimen known as the ‘Ganges Red’, a unique strain of the Aedes aegypti mosquito family and the only one of its kind. If you were to ask an expert about it, they would no doubt tell you that it does not exist.
I have enclosed a map that will help you find your way to Aries Island, located in the middle of Lake Languor. I own the only house on the island, so you should have no trouble finding me. A boat can be chartered from Tryst harbour. I know the harbour master to be a very helpful fellow, and can assure you that his rates are most reasonable.
It would be splendid if you could come right away, though of course I understand that a journalist’s schedule must be fairly tight. I regret that I have no telephone, so shall expect you at any time, or otherwise a letter to say that you cannot come.
I must ask for your discretion in this matter. I am keen to share my discovery with the world, but being a private man I need to keep certain details to myself. Therefore I ask, if it is possible, that you should not divulge the specifics of this letter to a third party.
I have the honour to be, sir,
your obedient servant,
Reginald C. Mather
I read it through a second time. Unlike most of the letters I received, it was intriguing. I had a hunch that Mather’s claim was genuine, and that there could be an exciting story lurking behind it. At the very least it could mean a day out of the office. I read it again, then made up my mind to talk to Derek. I was about to go and see him when a scrunched-up ball of paper hit the back of my neck.
‘Ow!’
‘Hey, Ash.’ It was Gina. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Oh, I was just going to have a word with Derek about whether to follow this up or not.’ I held up the letter.
‘Anything good?’ She sat on the corner of my desk, her close proximity already making me nervous, and took the letter. While she read it I tried not to stare up at her face. Sometimes I thought she liked me too, but it was never clear if she liked me enough.
‘Sounds good,’ she said, handing back the letter. ‘You should go.’
‘Yes. There’s a chance he could be another crackpot though.’
‘That’s what makes it so interesting.’ She grinned.
‘I don’t know. Some of these people are dangerous.’
‘Don’t be so paranoid. Besides, you should jump at the chance of a nice day out.’
‘I know. I just—’
‘Where does this guy live anyway?’
‘It’s, er . . .’ I picked up the envelope and read out the address written on the back.
‘The Lake District?’ Gina’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh come on, how can you not go? If you don’t then I will.’
I nodded. She had a point. I’d never been to the Lake District, but I’d always planned to visit.
‘I suppose I should check out train times.’
‘You do that,’ Gina said, patting me on the back. She slipped off the desk and started to walk away.
‘Right.’ I looked towards Derek’s office to see if he was on the phone. ‘But listen,’ I called out to Gina’s retreating back, ‘if he does turn out to be a nutter, I’m blaming you.’
‘Would I ever lead you astray?’ She sat down at her desk and began leafing through a pile of photographs.
‘No, I suppose not,’ I replied, getting to my feet. I went and knocked on Derek’s door.
I might have known how he would react. He preferred the sort of story that could be researched and written in a couple of hours. This one was likely to take up the rest of that day and quite possibly the next. When I walked in he was looking out of the window, and seemed lost in thought.
‘Hi, Derek.’
‘What? Oh,’ he said, turning to me. ‘Sorry. I was . . .’
‘Are you OK?’ I closed the door behind me.
‘Yes, I’m fine. I’m just concerned about a friend of mine. We worked on a magazine together years ago. He’s been missing since last week. It’s a bit worrying.’
‘Oh, I hope he’s all right.’
‘Yes, me too.’ He sat down behind his cluttered desk. ‘Anyway,’ he said, putting the matter aside, ‘what can I do for you?’
I showed him the letter. When he’d finished reading it he asked me a few questions about what sort of article I could make out of it. He often did this, just to make sure I was already thinking ahead. ‘Is it really worth the trip though?’
I had the feeling that he’d already answered this question himself. Nevertheless, I tried to assure him of the story’s potential.
‘This guy,’ he said, his eyebrows arched in doubt, ‘he sounds like a scientist or something. Has he written in before.’
‘Not to my knowledge, but he sounds like he’s on the level, which makes a nice change. He doesn’t say what his profession is in the letter.’
‘Hmm. Well, if you want to do it, I guess it’s OK.’
‘Great.’ I turned to leave.
Derek stood and went back over to the window. ‘But,’ he added, ‘even if it turns out to be another fool’s errand, bring something back, OK?’
I looked at him for a few seconds, puzzled by what he’d said. ‘What do you mean “bring something back”?’
‘You know – make sure the time isn’t completely wasted. You should know by now that it’s bad practice to return to the office empty-handed, Ashley. Take some photographs of something. Fake them if you have to – just get something we can use.’
‘You’re not serious?’ I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. It was hard to tell with Derek. ‘You’re the one who’s always moaning about hoaxers and time-wasters!’
‘I despair,’ he said, shaking his head but smiling. ‘You’re supposed to have an imagination.’
‘Imagination? What about integrity?’
He just laughed. ‘Integrity, my arse. Go on, get out of my sight.’
‘I will. Oh – wait,’ I added, turni
ng back. ‘Speaking of pictures, could I borrow Gina if she isn’t busy?’
‘No you can’t. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.’
‘What do you mean? I’m not up to anything.’
‘Oh come on, I’m not blind, for God’s sake,’ he said, grinning mischievously. ‘Sorry, but I can’t spare her at the moment. You’ll have to take your own photographs.’ He sniggered as I left his office, and I couldn’t help wondering who else knew about my crush on Gina.
It made little sense to hang around the office so I quickly typed up an urgent article that had to be finished, then made a couple of phone calls to get train times for the journey. As I left the office I passed Gina, who was on the phone. She mouthed ‘Good luck’ at me. I wished she’d been able to come too. At the very least she would have been good company.
As I waited at the bus stop, I wondered if I should have had a look on the Internet for information on the Ganges Red. Still, Mr Mather was likely to be the best source of information, since he had the creature in his possession.
Back at the flat, I put all my work gear (notebooks, Dictaphone, etc.) into a rucksack along with my MP3 player and Nikon camera, and left home to catch the tube to Euston.
The station was busy as usual. I spent a good twenty minutes in a long queue before buying a ticket for the 12.45 train to Windermere, where I would get a connection to Tryst. With a few minutes to spare I bought some sandwiches and a drink from a food stand, and a paperback from the bookshop. When the train finally arrived, twenty-five minutes late, I was deeply irritated and hoped there would be no further delays.
I found a seat, and soon the train was thundering through the countryside north of London. Most of the other passengers were business people, with some day-tripping families and teenagers making up the numbers. I started reading the book I’d bought, barely registering the train’s passage through Watford, Milton Keynes and Rugby. The journey progressed without incident until, shortly after leaving Nuneaton, a signal failure added another half an hour onto our arrival time. It was becoming increasingly unlikely that I’d be able to get back to London before the last train left from Windermere. It wasn’t the end of the world but I just hoped the story was worth it or Derek wouldn’t be too happy about the expenses bill. I put down my book and stared out of the window at endless fields, rivers and roads, punctuated occasionally by a small town or farm.
At some point I fell asleep, rocked gently into slumber by the rhythm of the train. When I awoke we were pulling into Preston. I sat up, retrieved my MP3 player and listened to music for the next hour until we arrived at Windermere shortly before half past four. I spent the short trip on the connecting train to Tryst thinking of everything I knew about mosquitoes, which was practically nothing.
As the train approached Tryst, the number of passengers in the dilapidated carriage dwindled, until only an elderly gentleman and myself remained. I stepped off the train and onto the platform, surprised by how much the temperature had dropped in so short a time. It seemed as though winter had lost patience and arrived three months too soon.
Far above me was a wide bank of grey cloud that didn’t appear to be moving. I walked into the ticket office and asked for directions to the harbour. The woman behind the window asked if I was going out onto the lake, and I told her I was. She gave me a strange look.
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘You’ve picked a pretty awful day for it, young man. It’ll be pouring down any minute now. And it’s getting dark out there.’ She leaned forward in her chair so that she could see the station entrance through the side of the booth.
I followed her gaze and nodded. ‘Yes. Just my luck. Oh, by the way, when is the last train back to Windermere?’
‘Last train to Windermere,’ she began, turning to leaf through a large folder on her desk, ‘leaves at seven minutes past nine.’
I looked at my watch. It was just after five thirty. Time, as well as the weather, was now against me. I had to make arrangements. It was feasible that I could do the story and just about get back to the station to catch the last train. But by then the last train from Windermere to Euston would have left anyway. I wouldn’t be going back to London that night.
‘You wouldn’t happen to know of a bed and breakfast nearby, would you?’
‘You could try the Rocklyn up the street. They’re pretty good there.’
‘The what?’
‘The Rocklyn Bluewater. It’s owned by an old stage actress – or so she says. Nice lady though. She’ll probably have rooms available at this time of year.’
‘Right. Thank you.’
I stood outside the station for a while. It was getting quite cold and the sky overhead was attracting more and more dark clouds. I sensed approaching rain in the air. Looking to my left I saw the lake itself, which dominated the view in that direction. The road before me sloped down past shops and houses towards one side of the vast stretch of water. The woman at the ticket office hadn’t told me where to find the harbour, but it didn’t really matter: I could see a small wooden boardwalk at the bottom of the hill with a number of boats in the water nearby.
I met only a few people along the main street. Somewhere a dog barked, but apart from that there was little evidence of activity. The shops along the road were old and poorly maintained. They gave off an air of apathy, an absence of love. A weathered sign on the side of a boarded-up shoe shop read: THE SHAMBLES. I was amused by its accuracy.
To my right, not far away at the top of the hill, I could see a large building with a board outside that read:
THE ROCKLYN BLUEWATER GUEST HOUSE VISITORS WELCOME!
After entering the building I approached the reception desk and spoke to the proprietress herself, who was a small, thin, elderly lady in rather eccentric clothes and what appeared to be a blonde wig.
‘Oh, hello, young man! I’m Annie Rocklyn – very pleased to meet you!’ Her over-friendly attitude caught me off guard a little, as did the remarkable amount of make-up she’d lavished on her face. ‘Now what can I do for you? All our rooms are fully furnished and—’
‘If I could just book a room for tonight, that would be great. I’m visiting someone on the lake.’
‘Of course! You’re in luck as we have a number of rooms available at the moment. Er . . . did you say the lake?’ Her smile dropped a little.
‘Yes, I’m a journalist,’ I said, in an attempt to impress. ‘I’m visiting a Mr Mather. He lives on the island. Do you know him?’
‘Not personally. Well, no one does really, dear. He doesn’t come into town.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Keeps himself to himself, if you know what I mean.’
‘I see. So, shall I check in now or wait until later? I should only be a couple of hours.’
‘I lock the door at eleven thirty, but if you get here later just knock – I’m usually up late. I have always been something of a night owl.’ She smiled, the abundance of lipstick around her mouth catching the light from the gaudy desk lamp that stood beside the guest book.
‘Right. Thank you very much.’
I turned to leave. As I walked out I could hear Annie Rocklyn following me across the foyer, calling out, ‘You’re from London, aren’t you? Did I mention I once trod the boards in the West End?’
‘Really?’ I asked, not wanting to ignore her. ‘Were you in anything I’d have heard of?’
‘Run for Your Wife.’
‘Ah,’ I said, unsure what to say next. ‘Good stuff . . . Well, thank you very much. I’d best be off, I suppose.’
‘Oh, of course. And you take care now! Those can be treacherous waters in weather like this.’
‘I will. Thanks again.’
I walked briskly down to the harbour, nearly tripping on one of the loose stones that lay strewn across the dirt slope above the lake. I saw a boardwalk and an office or cabin of some sort, so I approached and knocked on the door. There was a loud cough, then a muffled curse. The door opened.
Whether it was bad
timing or whether he just hated interruptions I don’t know, but the man clearly wasn’t pleased to see me. He was short, overweight and limping slightly. His long grey hair was yellowing in places, exposing him as a dedicated smoker.
‘Well,’ he began brusquely, one eye opened wider than the other, as he exhaled a long plume of smoke into the air. ‘What do you want?’
‘Excuse me, but are you the harbour manager?’
‘Master,’ he replied, without changing expression.
There was an awkward pause before I replied, ‘Sorry. Harbour master.’
‘I am.’
‘Oh, great. Could I hire a boat to get across to the island, if that’s possible?’
‘The island, eh?’ He looked me up and down and smirked, as though something had amused him, then limped over to a desk and opened a large logbook. He seemed to take a long time to find what he was looking for. Through a grimy window I could see the rain clouds bunching together over the lake and the town. They looked certain to open at any minute. It was as though they were waiting for me to get out on the water before unburdening themselves.
‘Name?’ He licked the end of a ballpoint pen and prepared to write.
‘It’s Reeves. Ashley Reeves.’
‘And what is it you need?’ He started writing in what looked like an uncomfortable manner, his hand curled around the pen like a claw.
‘Just something small and simple to get me to the island and back.’
‘I see. You’ll need something pretty nippy then if you’re wanting to miss that rain,’ he said, staring through the glass.
‘Yes. Rain’s no good.’
‘No, it ain’t. Pretty odd you choosing to go boating this evening then, ain’t it?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Number six,’ he replied, ignoring me. He took something from a shelf above the desk then went out of the door, sniffing as he went. I followed.
The Hand of the Devil Page 2