The Road to Bedlam

by Mike Shevdon

  "Ravensby's not a village, it's a town. More important, it's a harbour town. If you've never lived in a place like this, then you wouldn't know."

  "These are all boats from the town?"

  "Some are, some are from other harbours. They're all still here, though, in a way."

  "Still here?"

  "Every one of these went down off this coast. These boats are out there somewhere, or were smashed to pieces against the rocks, or were driven up on to the beach. If they were lucky, the men will have been rescued. Often as not, they were never found."

  I looked around the room. There were boats of every size: trawlers, steamships, cargo ships, even lifeboats.

  "The ninth of February, 1871 was a nice day. Boats put out in a fair north-westerly. With the dawn on the tenth, though, the wind veered."

  The old man's eyes were open, but it wasn't the pictures he was seeing.

  "By seven o'clock next morning it had turned one hundred and eighty, south-easterly and building hurricane force. The waves came up and the sleet and snow were driven flat. Some boats tried to run before it, but the waves overpowered them, the wind stripped the rigging and they were driven on to the rocks, the bottoms ripped out. One tried to make port; it was crushed by the swell against the harbour wall, the men pulled from the sea on ropes thrown from the harbour by rescuers who lashed themselves to the mooring rings so as not to get swept away theirselves."

  His voice was soft, but somewhere in it was the force of the storm.

  "Others went for the beach. They grounded the boats on the shingle and the men jumped into the waves, only to be dragged back by the undertow. Men from the town were standing chest-deep in the waves, trying to haul them out, their hands numb with cold, their faces frozen with shock.

  "The lifeboat went out time after time, dragging men from the waves, but it was only one boat. There were ships swamped by the waves, men hanging from the rigging, calling out for aid. It was piteous. No one could reach them. The lifeboat went out for a collier brig. It was foundering and the men were clinging to the stern. The lifeboat tried to reach them, but a wave picked it up and smashed it into the fully laden brig. The lifeboat crew and the men from the brig were all lost."

  "It sounds horrific."

  "It was. Forty-four men were lost that day from this town alone. Up and down this coast, Scarborough, Bridlington, Filey, many more, 'twere the same. Women stood on the harbour within sight of their menfolk and watched them drown."

  "That's awful."

  "Not quite like village life, is it?"

  "No."

  "That was a bad one. There were other bad ones too. Happens about every twenty-plus years. The weather forecasting's got better now, and there's more warning, but even a warning's no good if you're two or three days away from port. You just have to sit it out."

  "You still lose boats?"

  "Aye. Even with the new lifeboat down the coast. All the technology, navigation equipment, radios; it's all naught if the sea takes against you. There's no fighting nature."

  "It must be harsh."

  "It is. It is harsh, but it's a way of life. The women are strong. They know what can happen. Many of 'em have seen it. It's a small community and a close one. There's always help, always someone to catch you when you fall. We look after our own."

  I wasn't sure what to say to that.

  "Not these lasses, though. Gone to the big city, lure of the bright lights. I can't blame them. It's a hard life when you don't know whether your man's coming home or not. The day was, they didn't know owt else. It's what they were brought up to. Now, though, it's all internet and mobile phones. They've seen a different life. That's why they've gone. I can't blame them."

  "So it's not happened before?"

  "Oh, there's always been those that didn't stay. They married out, or moved inland. The ties are still there, though. They never went far. It's in the blood, see?"

  "So what changed?"

  "These girls are part of it, going off, God knows where. What are they thinking? Who'll keep things together, if they've left? Who'll keep the lights on, make it worth coming back to port?"

  "Maybe they don't see themselves that way?"

  "The boats sit tied up in t'harbour. They say there's no fish, that the sea's turned its back on them."

  "Has it?"

  "There's fish, but you have to work for 'em. They don't jump into your hold on their own. It's hard, I know, but you don't catch fish in port."

  "Maybe they're only allowed to catch so many. Aren't there quotas for fishing these days?"

  "Aye, there are. None of our boats are close to reaching 'em. If they go out they come back wi' nowt. Empty nets, empty holds. It happens. The sea has lean years like everything else. It's happened before, it'll happen again. You don't stop. You keep at it until the nets are full again and things come right."

  "Maybe they've over-fished it. Maybe it needs time to recover."

  "Aye, well, it's time they don't have. No fish means no money. If they can't pay the loans on the boats then the banks'll pull the plug. By the time it comes back we'll be buying fish frozen from Norway. The town'll die and that'll be that."

  "There are other things. The call centre looks pretty impressive. Won't that keep things going?"

  "The council's golden goose? Don't be daft. It's only there cos of grants and incentives. As soon as the money dries up they'll move the jobs out to India or somewhere."

  "What about tourism?"

  "Look outside. It's not Scarborough, is it? That beach is so steep that if you get in t'sea you can't get out again. No, this town lives and breathes fish, and at the moment it's mightily short of breath."

  "That's a very pessimistic view."

  "It's a realistic view. The women of this town are the lifeblood. When you never know if the men are coming back, they've had to be. Once the women start leaving, it's the beginning of the end."

  "Maybe they didn't leave. Maybe something happened to them?"

  "Something did happen to them. They lost faith." He turned to the book on the desk. "Every man that ever went missing, lost, drowned, is in there. There's no book for missing women, and I'm not intending to start one."

  He turned away and stomped down the stairs, leaving me with the book of names and the pictures of lost vessels. It was a sobering experience. I leafed through the pages, seeing the same names crop up again and again. By the time I'd reached the present day, I was wondering why they ever left port at all. To me it was inconceivable, after suffering such personal loss, to send another family member out on to the waves. But then, as he'd pointed out, I wasn't born here. I wasn't part of this community and I would probably never understand what kept it going.

  After a while I went back down and passed the printed guide back to him. There was no word of thanks or invitation to return. He didn't speak, just took the sheets from me and replaced them where he'd found them. As I turned to leave, the street door opened and a middle-aged man stepped inside.

  "It's bucketing out there. Fit for neither man nor beast." He shook the water from his sleeves.

  "Back again, Ted?" said the man behind the desk.

  He looked sceptically at my umbrella as I approached the door, knowing it would be useless in the wind, but then held the door open for me so I could leave. The water dripped from his orange waterproofs leaving a puddle inside the door. I stepped through quickly, not wanting to keep the door open longer than necessary and then found myself struggling to fasten buttons and turn up my collar in the blustery wind.

  Within moments, I was wet again. The rain found every gap, every crease. I made my way back to the harbour front, shoulders hunched against the wind, the halyards on the moored sailing boats tinging like manic vespers bells against the aluminium spars. Rather than make my way back to my room, I headed for the Harbour Café. The door was so swollen with damp that I had to push hard to get inside. I wedged the door closed again, shutting out the weather.

  I took my jacket off and s
hook it over the doormat, earning a disapproving look from Geraldine. I hung it over the back of a chair at a table by the window and took the other seat.

  Geraldine bustled up. "What'll it be?"

  "Coffee, please. Filter will do."

  She looked expectant, so I disappointed her further. "That's it, thanks."

  Her walk as she returned to the kitchen said just what she thought of men who ordered only coffee when it was still officially lunchtime. A scalding mug of coffee was delivered moments later, making me wonder whether she had simply put a mug of this morning's dregs into the microwave. It was far too hot to drink, but I was in no hurry and the café was all but empty.

  The windows of the café were steamy with condensation inside and running with rain outside, offering little in the way of a view. It left me to my thoughts: of the men and boats lost in storms like this one, of the girls and their different reasons for leaving the town, and of Blackbird. Where was she now? Where could she go that would be safe with Deefnir stalking her? The desire to follow her down to London was strong, but what would I do when I got there?

  I was lost in thought and took no notice when the door juddered open again and slammed against the stop before being shunted carefully back into place.

  Geraldine came forward and then hesitated.

  "I'll have whatever he's having." The voice brought me out of my reverie.

  "Raffmir."

  "May I join you? I find the weather here quite inclement, even for this forsaken backwater."

  I remembered Garvin's instruction to find out what he wanted. Then I remembered who it was I was talking to. "There are plenty of other tables."

  "True, but I thought we might talk."

  "About what?"

  He sat opposite me, unconcerned by my rudeness.

  "I was wondering whether you'd had an opportunity to consider my offer to assist you in the matter of your daughter's whereabouts," he said.

  "Her whereabouts?"

  "Oh, come. You're not still pretending you know where she is? Surely we're past that, aren't we?"

  "I'm not sure what it is that we're supposed to be past. Why don't you tell me what you want and then you can go and find somewhere where the weather suits you better. I think Mars is supposed to be dry."

  "You don't trust me. I understand that. I sympathise."

  "Fuck off, Raffmir."

  "No need to be abusive. I'm trying to help you."

  "I neither want nor need your help."

  "That's where you're wrong. You need my help more than anyone's. I'm the only one who can bring you to your daughter."

  "You don't know where she is." It was a statement. I was calling his bluff.

  "I know where she will be."

  Geraldine appeared with another mug of coffee. This one was freshly made and smelled considerably better then the one I was drinking. He smiled at her as she leaned down to place it at the table for him and she hesitated, then blushed, and hurried back to the counter.

  "Are you flirting with the staff?"

  "Flirting? Good grief, no." He shook his head, then sampled his coffee and grinned at me.

  Mine was still too hot to drink.

  "How will you know where she is, Raffmir? You don't have any more idea than I do."

  "Ah, then you admit you have lost her."

  "Now who's playing games?"

  "You are a hard man to help, Niall Petersen."

  I sighed. "You're not helping me. Whatever it is you're doing, you have your own reasons for doing it and they do not involve helping me."

  "That's where you're wrong. Hear me. Without me, your daughter will be lost to you. Without me, you will never reach her in time. Time is running out, Dogstar. Soon, you will have to make your choice."

  "What choice?"

  "The choice between obedience and duty, between honour and love."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "That time is fast approaching, but you need to trust me."

  "Why should I trust you? What possible reason would I have?"

  "Because I have sworn to see you unharmed. Because, despite your rudeness and your arrogance, I know you will do what's best. We are cousins, you and I. We are alike."

  "I am not like you."

  "We are more alike than you know."

  "We killed your sister, Blackbird and I." It was a remark meant to taunt, and for a fraction of a second there was something in his eyes that looked like hate. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.

  "It was the witch's hand that did the deed," he growled.

  "It was her hand, but raised in my protection. Your sister would have killed me otherwise, trial or no trial, rules or no rules. You know it's true."

  "I will not gainsay it." He drank carefully from his mug.

  "So why would you help me? You owe me nothing, Raffmir, nor I you."

  He stared out of the rain-smeared glass for a moment. "I cannot tell you why. You are right. There is more to this than can be seen, but hear me when I say this: your daughter's life hangs by a fragile thread. Her fate is intimately bound in with mine, I know this now. When I tell you that I am the only one who can help you recover your daughter, you know it's true. The lie would be obvious to you, were it otherwise."

  "OK. But nothing is free, is it? What do you want in return?"

  "For now? I need your silence. I am aware that Garvin and the other Warders will want to know what we have discussed. It is only natural that they will try and come between us. But if you want your daughter back, you must keep the subject of our discourse to yourself."

  "What? No way…"

  "Then you seal her fate. Will you do that, Niall Petersen?" He looked straight into my eyes and spoke levelly and calmly. "For as sure as you can hear the truth in my words, if you tell them, your daughter will die."

  FIFTEEN

  "Are you threatening her, Raffmir? Because if you are…"

  Raffmir shook his head. "As always, Dogstar, you interpret my actions in their least favourable light, and quite unfairly, I might add. I have taken an oath that I will not harm your daughter and I intend to keep it. If you will only let me help you, I will see to it that you are reunited. How can I say fairer than that?"

  "You could tell me what you're doing here."

  "I did tell you. I'm trying to help you. There are things here that I am not at liberty to discuss, but I am not the only one who is holding things back."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Has Garvin told you how the negotiations are progressing?"

  "In summary, yes."

  "He's not mentioned any of the detail, then?"

  "He doesn't normally discuss the inner workings of the High Court with me. I'm not his confidante."

  "Even when those discussions concern you and yours?"

  "What does that mean?"

  "I am merely saying that while you are ostracised here in outer obscurity, negotiations are taking place that affect you and all the other mongrel fey. Did you never wonder why neither you nor any of the other half-breeds are part of those negotiations?"

  "That's clever, Raffmir. Without directly saying anything you attempt to drive a wedge between me and the other Warders."

  "Then why are you here?" He gestured through the rain-streaked window at the blurry harbour.

  "I'm here because of you. Garvin's well aware that if I stayed at Court, you would create some sort of incident. It's just the sort of thing you would do."

  "I am offended. Have I not sworn to see you unharmed?"

  "Then call Deefnir off. He's out there somewhere, harassing Blackbird."

  "Deefnir is not mine to command."

  "How convenient."

  "That still does not explain why you were sent all the way out here. If the purpose was to keep you away from me, we can both agree that it isn't working. Perhaps there is another reason."

  "Garvin wouldn't lie to me."

  "Neither would I. There would be no point. Can I suggest that the reason you ar
e not in Court is because your very presence would prejudice the negotiations. With you there, it would be awkward to place certain options on the table."

  "Suggestion and innuendo – it's your usual trade, isn't it Raffmir?"

  "You are letting your prejudice blind you to the truth."