by steve higgs
‘You by yourself?’ the man asked, looking around to see if I had a wife or partner with me. ‘Come and join us if you like. ‘Ryan knows about it.’ He indicated across the room to what I guessed was his table where two seats out of four were already occupied.
‘Sure. Thanks.' I replied as he headed in that direction. I helped myself to a large bowl of granola as my tea bag steeped, then wove my way back across the room to join his table. They all had on clothing suitable for seafaring activities, which I soon learned was exactly what they had in store for the day. They were treasure hunters or at least part of a crew that served on a vessel that was here for treasure hunting. They were big men, each of them easily as tall and as broad as I, but far more weathered and a good decade older. Their haircuts were functional in that they were neat, but short and contained no trace of product to tame them. Their hands were calloused, and their faces bore a sun, wind, and rain etched hardness that made them look like men with tough jobs.
After introductions were made, the man I met at the tea urn, whose name was Harry, urged Ryan to explain what he knew about the ghostly incident of the previous night.
Ryan, who was sat opposite me, took a large mouthful of bacon and eggs to chew while he considered what he wanted to say. ‘I went for a walk down to the jetty this morning. I always check on the boat and the weather charts before breakfast, so I can plan the day while I eat.' He forked in another mouthful. ‘Well, it looks like there is a squall coming in from the south this afternoon. Should get here a little after lunch, maybe as late as three o'clock.'
‘The ghosts.’ Harry prompted.
‘Oh, Yeah.’ Another forkful went in followed by a bite of toast and a swig of his tea. ‘There was a Police car parked outside a shop down towards the jetty. The Asian place that sells pastries. It was easy to spot because the light inside the car was on. This was almost an hour ago, so the sun was still trying to come up and it was mostly dark. There was no one about, but on the way back there was an old fella walking his dog stood talking to a tiny Police Officer.
Roberta.
‘I heard her telling the chap that the ghosts had shown up in the middle of the night and that they had been trying to force their way into the property. Making all kinds of noise until they were seen, at which point they vanished. She also said it was not the first time they have targeted that particular property.'
He paused once more to shovel some more breakfast in and when he failed to restart his narrative I took it that he had nothing more to say.
I would have to check that out later, maybe ask Roberta what she could tell me. If ghosts have no physical form, how is it that they find themselves stuck outside a property trying to force their way in? There was something going on in Cawsand and it felt grounded in unpleasantness to me.
Before I could finish my granola, the three chaps reached the end of their breakfasts and politely excused themselves. They had a busy day ahead. Alone at the table, I considered the pirate ghosts and who stood to gain from the pretence. My immediate assumption was that someone was dressing up, maybe it was more than one person, but whoever it was they had to be doing it for a reason. There had to be something to gain from it.
I had no plan for my time in Cornwall other than to walk the dogs and relax. The relaxing part was supposed to involve reading a few books and overindulging with food and alcohol. Instead, I was going to spend more time poking around in the village. It would still be relaxing, I told myself. I would take the dogs with me and I would mostly be wandering around, taking in the sights while asking a few questions. Besides, I didn't have Roberta's number yet and quite fancied another bout of nocturnal activity for which I would need to try to accidentally bump into her.
I flashed to a memory of her last night, kneeling on the chaise lounge and gripping the back of it. Her pert little bottom was pointed towards me as she grinned coquettishly over one shoulder and beckoned me.
Okay, the genie is awake! How would you like to give the lamp a damned good rub?
I spent the next minute trying to rewire a plug in my head. Mr. Wriggly gave up and went back to sleep.
With the dogs in tow, I went out the front door of the pub. On the beach, directly in front of the pub were Gina’s spectral science team from yesterday.
I walked over to the railing. Gina had already spotted me.
‘Good morning, Tempest. Did you hear there was more paranormal activity last night?’
‘I did. Was your equipment able to capture anything?’ I asked, quite certain that it had not.
‘Not this time. One of the big problems is where to site it. I wish I could set up in a dozen locations but that would require more equipment than is practical to carry and a lot more money. It seems they came ashore elsewhere last night.’
‘How did you get into all this paranormal science?’ I was making conversation as much as anything, but I was also genuinely interested to hear how an intelligent woman found herself committing time and money to such a pointless pursuit.
Gina handed a piece of electronic something to the man nearest to her. None of the men had paid me any attention thus far save for the douchebag from yesterday that had offered me a basic hard stare when he had managed to catch my eye. I wondered if I was going to have a problem with him. Her hands now free, she came right up to the railing, rubbing them together against the cold.
‘I grew up in a large house as an only child and like many children without siblings, I had an imaginary friend. The difference between my imaginary friend and that of others though is that I did not imagine mine. I must have been three when Emily first visited me. At first, I was too young to understand what she was. It was only when my parents, my grandparents, my nanny and everyone else refused to see her that I came to understand that she was a ghost and that only I could see her.' Gina had a wistful, but earnest look to her eyes, making me believe that she believed what she was telling me. ‘Emily visited me day or night for years. When I was old enough to understand, I asked her how she had died and why she was still here. Her answer was that she was murdered by her drunken father and her body was buried in the grounds of the house in an unmarked grave. Now, I know you don't believe me, Tempest.' I gave no comment and tried to keep my face emotionless. ‘However, when I was nine, my father's men started digging ground works for a new extension to the East wing of the house. About three feet down, they found the skeletal remains of a little girl. The Police and the coroner came and days later confirmed the little girl had died from a broken neck, most likely deliberate. Emily vanished the day they found the body and I never saw her again. My parents wasted countless thousands on therapy, always convinced they could make me see reason. I knew though. I knew what Emily was and one day I will prove it.'
It was quite the story. Told around a darkened campfire with some marshmallows to toast it would get a round of applause. I had my explanation though, Gina was convinced from her own experience that ghosts existed and had dedicated her time and money to prove it. I had no idea what I was supposed to say at this point.
The silence stretched out while Gina waited for me to say something. ‘Do you, err... Have you met others with similar experiences?’ I asked finally.
‘Yes, Tempest. There are thousands of us. Emily is just one example. Ghosts are everywhere and the behaviour the pirates are displaying is typical of a malevolent spirit anchored here by events in their life that prevent them from departing.' When I still said nothing, she shrugged. ‘Look, Tempest. It is okay to not believe what I am telling you, a lot of people don't. That is why it is so important for me to use science to prove it. I only ask that when I present irrefutable evidence, you accept it.' She smiled at me.
I smiled in return. ‘Gina, I wish you luck.’ I was certain that luck was not a factor but wondered if she had really thought her plan through. If she produced scientific evidence she would most like spend the rest of her life defending it, not immediately be hailed as the next Nobel prize winner. The world was not ready to
hear that their dear departed parents were still hanging around in ghostly form. And what forms irrefutable evidence anyway? She would need to have a ghost in captivity. The chap that found the Platypus had to bring back a live one before the scientific community he was showing it to would believe it was real.
‘Thank you, Tempest.’ Gina replied. ‘I have plenty of work to do here, checking over the equipment and resetting it for tonight… but perhaps we can chat some more later?’
It suddenly occurred to me that Gina was flirting with me. I knew that I was dumb when it came to recognise that a woman was interested. I always had been, but she was smiling more than the situation required and her eyes were sparkling at me. Now that I thought about it, when I had seen her before she had not been wearing any make-up and now her features were delicately highlighted with a swipe of this and that. My first reaction was to wonder why. My sister and others have told me that like a person with body-dysmorphia I don't see the real me when I look in the mirror and that I am in fact far more attractive than I believe myself to be. I have accepted what they are telling me but still cannot see it.
Nevertheless, the cute, but tiny, cocoa-skinned lady in front of me appeared to be taking an interest. With Roberta having already thrown herself at me in the last twenty-four hours I was having a good week. It felt utterly wrong though to encourage Gina's advances if that is what they were since Roberta was probably less than a quarter mile from my current location and may yet plan to see me again. My old army buddy, Big Ben would have bedded them both at the same time of course and from below my waistline, Mr. Wriggly was yelling instructions that I was steadfastly ignoring.
‘Gina…' I started, unsure about what I wanted to say. Meeting for a chat was harmless enough. I didn't have to sleep with her and perhaps that was not her intention anyway. ‘Gina, I am staying in the Sea Pilgrim.' I pointed just behind me. ‘You can find me there whenever you wish.' Then I wondered if what I had just said sounded like an invitation to come find my bed. I probably worried too much. ‘I expect to be there most nights for dinner if you have free time and wish to spend it with me.' I fished in my pocket for my wallet and produced a business card. ‘Here is my number should you need it.' I handed it down through the railing to her.
Gina inspected the card, holding it in her tiny hands.
I bet I would look huge being held by them.
Once again, I ignored the relentlessly one-track thoughts of the creature in my pants. He had no memory and no conscience and would happily agree with any policy that delivered a naked woman. Or women.
She looked back with a big smile. ‘I will be sure to call, Tempest.’ Then she yawned, covering her mouth and turning away. ‘Sorry.’ She laughed. ‘We always have someone with the equipment at night. It can be temperamental, and it is expensive, so I don’t want to just leave it unattended. I could do with more sleep than I am getting.’ She looked like she wanted to say something else and was debating it. Big Ben would say something outrageous like offer to help her out with her sleeping arrangements, but I would just mess it up and come off as idiotic instead of cool. The moment passed.
I shot my cuff to check my watch: 1012hrs. As if on cue the dogs tugged at their leads, pulling me away. ‘I will see you later, lovely Gina.’ I called as I let them drag me away from the beach.
Walking back up the hill out of Cawsand towards the carpark, I had no plan for the day. Driving down here on Sunday, I had thought only about being away from my home and that environment for a few days. Unexpectedly embroiled in a ghostly mystery, I was now faced with alternative activities to those I had previously planned. My mental diary had intended for me to go to Bodmin moor today where the dogs and I would have bought an Ordnance Survey map and vanished into the wilderness for a few hours. Instead, I took a circuitous route around Cawsand to arrive at the eastern edge of the village where it joined the coast once more. I was going to find the Asian pastry shop they had talked about this morning.
Before I found it though I bumped into the couple themselves. As I turned onto the seafront I spotted a moving van with items going into it rather than coming out. Someone was leaving. Walking towards it I saw a lady in a burka, then a man. His tan skin and dark hair could make him a descendant of one of a lot of different Muslim nations, yet the overriding feature on his face was fear. Their movements were hurried as if they were desperate to get away.
I stopped by the van as I saw the couple struggling out with a sofa, hooked the dog leads around a lamppost and offered to help the lady. ‘Please, let me.’ I insisted. She allowed me to take her end of the bulky item and they both thanked me as it went into the back of the van with ease.
‘Is everything alright?’ I asked. ‘You seem to be in something of a hurry.’
‘We just want to be gone. To leave this awful place behind.’ The man replied.
Awful place?
‘I am a tourist here, but the village seems wonderful.’ It was a leading statement.
He took the bait. ‘It looks wonderful, yes. Do you believe in ghosts?’ he asked.
I shook my head with a wry smile.
‘Nor do I. Our shop has been targeted by the ghosts,’ He did the quote fingers in the air thing when he said ghosts. ‘Three times in the last two weeks. We are not wanted here, that is the bottom line. We have seen them outside our window – I will admit they look real enough. Damned scary in fact, and we have had four, no five of Tilda’s council warning messages to make the shop appear more in keeping with the tone of the village.’
‘How can she impose that?’
‘She cannot. But that does not stop her from trying and the village council believes she is the best thing to ever happen to the village. Under her leadership all the less desirable properties have been brought up to match the standard of the others, the beach is always clean, the streets are spotless and the businesses in the village are all doing so much better than they were.'
‘So, what was wrong with your business that she wanted you to change?’ I asked.
‘We sold pastries.’ That seemed harmless enough. ‘But not traditional Cornish pastries. We sold Muslim pastries, things like Iftar and Kunafa. I believed that by diversifying from what everyone else was selling we would capture a segment of the market not catered to by others and there are plenty of Muslim tourists that come here.’
‘Not that we sold only to Muslims.’ His wife spoke for the first time. ‘We gave out samples to all the locals several times to create interest. The shop did a steady trade all year round.’
The man took up the narrative again. ‘Three years we have been here, but the last six months have been hard with Tilda pushing us to change the name of the store and to put the Muslim food to the back of the store away from the window so that we could display more regular,' he did the quote fingers thing again. ‘Cornish food instead.' He slumped his shoulders defeated. ‘The shop is with an agent to sell. After the murder, I am worried they might target us next. We are moving back to Manchester with my brother for now.'
There seemed to be little more to say. I wished them good luck and left them to pack the rest of their belongings. It was quite troubling. The familiar tug of the unsolved mystery was back. There was something rotten at the heart of this village if a nice Muslim couple was being forced to flee.
Further along the path, I came across a bench facing out to sea, there were a number of them dotted along the shoreline for tourists, or locals I supposed, to use. I picked up the two dogs and settled them either side of me.
In my head, I was trying to work out how to connect all the bits of the puzzle. The ghosts, the ghost ship at night, the treasure. Were they all linked? Was none of it linked? What about the business owners and others that had been forced to flee and the man that had been murdered? My simple assumption was that one thing was being used to cover up or draw attention away from another thing. Someone had murdered the man on the boat since he had not stabbed himself with a cutlass and then hidden it. That it had been bl
amed on the ghosts indicated that someone was creating a story to misdirect the blame. The same ghosts had allegedly attacked the Muslim couple I had just met. They had seen them, and I was willing to bet that some of the other witnesses would also report that the ghosts looked real. So, what were they seeing?
I sat on the bench until the cool air began to penetrate my clothing and make me feel cold. ‘Come on, chaps.’ I said, scooping the dogs from their happy slumber nestled either side of me.
Without checking my watch, I estimated that it was close to noon. The granola I had eaten for breakfast had burned off leaving me with the first pangs of hunger. I knew the pub served drinks at lunchtime and their bar menu included some sandwiches that sounded enticing. Heading there, I spotted Thirty-Three coming out of a building ahead of me.
‘Hello.’ I said in greeting as I went past him.
In turn, he said nothing, giving me a blank look in return. I might have thought it rude from anyone else but told myself it was in keeping with his general demeanour.
Thirty-Three was dirty, or at least his clothes and hands were. He looked sweaty as if he had been grafting hard at a manual task for some time. The muscles in his arms, which were bare despite the cold, were shiny with sweat and the veins running over them were pronounced – an effect I only see on myself after a hard session in the gym. Did he have a set of weights inside the building that he had access to? It would certainly explain his huge muscles.
Following the dogs, I soon left the man behind me and arrived back at the pub where I found Gretchen behind the bar once more. Charlie was, as always, in his usual chair with a newspaper folded out on his lap, a half-drunk pint of Guinness on the bar next to him and his glasses perched at the end of his nose. Two stools along from him was Tilda. I recognised her from the jetty and next to her was Roberta. She was in civilian clothes rather than uniform.