by Jane Jesmond
But as Jen turns the last corner before the ledge, a gust of wind blows the sound of people calling and the rasp of a pulley towards her. Unthinkingly, she continues and sees a group of men leaning over the edge and shouting down to a boat below. They haul on ropes and a white-wrapped package lurches over the ledge. They drag it onto the rock and the torches strapped to their heads catch Jen in their beams.
No. It was day. Evening. Maybe the sun was setting but it would still have been light. It didn’t matter. So what? Forget the dark. Forget the torches. It was a myth that stuff always came in at night. Far easier in the day. Especially early evening with a storm threatening. Who would be around on the cliffs to see them? No one. Except idiots like me.
They see Jen. They stop dead and she knows something is wrong. Her heart bangs in her chest and she turns to run up the path but, for once, she is not quick enough and hands grab her legs and force her to the ground.
I thought about the myriads of bruises that were still appearing on my legs and arms. Had they come from fighting? From hands grappling me to the ground? And the head wound from a bang? Or had they knocked me out?
Whatever! No point sweating about the details. Just say I’d come across something illicit. Forget the romantic image of ponies trotting through the dark. The people who brought drugs into the country weren’t nice. They’d have got rid of me without thinking twice. One of them must have recognised me. Known about my reputation. The lighthouse was nearby. How easy to use it. Make it look like a drug-fuelled prank carried out by a woman who was known for that kind of escapade.
My mind went back and forth over the scenario during supper. Kit and Sofija didn’t notice my long silences. None of us said much anyway. They discussed the details of an open day they were planning for next week. For local journalists and the like. And I thought. I thought about the cove and the lighthouse and I thought about Nick Crawford and our strange encounter in the middle of the night. What had he been doing on the cliff road? Coming back from collecting his merchandise? He had to be involved. It was too much to think that there’d be two separate drug smuggling operations in the same village.
‘Tell me about Nick Crawford,’ I said. ‘He’s recent, isn’t he?’
They both stared at me, forks of rolled pasta halfway to their mouths.
‘You fallen for his charms?’ Sofija said. ‘You’ll have to join the queue.’
No surprises there. He was charming. With a hint of toughness. A winning combination that clearly he made use of.
‘I met him at the lighthouse this morning,’ I said. ‘He and Gregory seemed very friendly.’
‘Are they? I thought Gregory had more sense.’ Kit wrinkled his nose.
‘Kit. That’s not nice. He’s been very patient with us,’ Sofija said.
‘Do you owe him money, too?’
‘Yes. He’s a carpenter. Made some doors to replace old ones that were completely rotten.’
‘He did a good job. Your mother didn’t even notice they were new.’
Kit rolled his eyes and carried on eating.
‘Why don’t you like him?’ I asked.
‘Very friendly to us when he first got here,’ Kit said. ‘Then he started hinting he could put me in the way of some cheap furniture for Tregonna. Antiques. So long as I wasn’t bothered where they’d come from. He left us alone when I said I wasn’t interested. He didn’t even bother to hang the doors himself. He sent one of the local joiners instead. A lot of locals don’t like him. He mixes with the wrong people.’
Mixing with the wrong people. I knew what Kit meant.
‘The wrong people?’ Sofija said. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that,’ he said. ‘Dodgy people. Who skate close to the edge of the law.’
‘Fishermen?’ I asked.
‘Yup. Among others.’
He went back to eating and Sofija chatted on about the preparations for the open day, while I thought.
Dodgy people. Dodgy fishermen. Drugs in Nick’s sideboard. It all made sense. Plus he was the one person I knew had been out and about on Friday night. Not a dealer, then. A trafficker. A link in the chain that brought cocaine from South America to the streets of the big cities in Britain. Brought in by boat locally and transported from here in his furniture.
The sound of the back door opening and closing came up the passage. Ma swept through the kitchen without stopping. Kit and Sofija ignored her and carried on talking.
‘I looked at the outside of Tregonna,’ Sofija said. ‘The windows are filthy. We must do them before the open day.’
‘It’s the wind from the sea,’ Kit said. ‘It’s full of salt and leaves white marks behind.’
‘You said you’d wash them,’ Sofija carried on. ‘Once Jen was here. You said it wouldn’t take a minute then.’
Kit gave her a long, hard look.
‘It won’t,’ he said – and to me, ‘You up for it?’
I didn’t know what he was talking about, then I remembered the system of pulleys that Pa had fitted into Tregonna’s eaves. It meant someone – normally Kit – could harness up and clean the windows while Pa pulled and released the rope to raise and lower him.
‘Are the pulleys still there?’
‘Of course,’ Kit said. ‘You don’t think I’d get rid of them.’
‘I’m up for it.’
‘I’ll get the equipment out later. Check it over.’
We nodded at each other. For too long. It meant more to me than simply cleaning the windows. It meant the two of us working together. Almost like climbing together. And I thought it meant Kit was trying to move on.
Ma didn’t eat with us. She didn’t like Sofija’s cooking. Or so Kit said. She’d eat later when we’d all finished. I said I was tired and went to my room, newly decorated and furnished and not a bit like it used to be. Tasteful greys and soft greens and a complete lack of the miscellaneous and battered furniture it used to house. The room was chilly. No heat came from the radiator. They’d either forgotten to turn it on or couldn’t afford to. As quickly as I could, I got into bed, went online and transferred the money across to cover Talan’s cheque, then explored what the internet could tell me.
Quite a lot. Newspaper stories galore.
Cocaine worth £80m seized on boat off Cornish coast. A fishing trawler.
£٧m of Columbia’s finest found washed up on Cornish shore. And it wasn’t the only time. Five similar packages had been found in the past six months.
I also found the story about the bodies washed up along the coast that Talan had mentioned. Two bodies, three weeks ago. Perhaps the body I’d found had come off the same boat. The column hinted at smuggling. The bodies had not been identified. No one had been reported missing.
The more I read, the more likely it seemed that I’d come across something illicit on the cliffs. I’d been an unlucky witness to be got rid of. It hadn’t been someone who hated me. Because, after all, no one knew I was in Cornwall. I’d just arrived. I’d told no one I was coming. Not even Kit and Sofija.
And somehow that made me feel a lot better. But I still couldn’t sleep. Every creak, every rattle shook me awake.
I went downstairs, fumbling for switches in unaccustomed places, and made a cup of tea. Checked the outside doors were locked. Went back upstairs. Locked my door and wedged a chair against it, then got back into the massive bed that had replaced the old one with the lumpy mattress and scratched headboard. Still wide awake, I googled Seb.
First, I found a small paragraph in one of the dailies. A leap from a high roof to a lower one with a roll in between. A classic free running move. A moment’s misjudgement. He’d crashed into a gutter, scrabbled for a grip and fallen awkwardly onto concrete below. Pronounced dead at the scene.
Then a longer article in one of the local papers. Seb had started his career there and the first part was the ed
itor’s memories of him. A fiery youngster, passionate about literature and art, believing they could change people’s lives. Seb was someone, the editor believed, with a bright future. He hadn’t been surprised when Seb had got a job as an arts correspondent with one of the nationals. He’d thought he was waving Seb off to fame and fortune in London. Despite the clichés, you could feel his regret at the waste of Seb’s life.
I tried to remember when I’d last seen Seb. He was a thread running through the years so hard to pin down to a specific time or place. I had the impression he’d been low the last few times I’d seen him. Quieter and depressed. Some of the fire the editor talked about had gone out. The job had been a disappointment, less about the arts and more about the lives of celebrities. He’d written a book, I remembered, and it had been rejected. Countless times.
I huddled further into the duvet trying to stop the chill of the room stealing warmth from the bits of me that were uncovered. Not much of interest in the rest of the article. His funeral. A quiet affair. Private; family only. Standard words: young life cut short; tragedy; dangerous sport. No flowers. And a quote from his mother. ‘Why didn’t someone stop him? One of his friends? My Seb was never an athlete. He wasn’t sporty. How did he get into jumping off roofs?’
Jumping off roofs. Something came back. One night. In a bar. Soho. The end of a film shoot and two of the stuntmen had joined us. Us – me and Josie from work. I think one of them fancied her. And Seb was there too. His office was nearby.
We’d all drunk too much because the shoot was over and none of us had to be on top form the next day. The stuntmen and I swapped stories of our exploits in a friendly way but beneath our rowdy laughter a competitive edge sharpened the talk. And somehow the banter ended with us racing up the front of the building to the roof terrace bar. It was nothing. Three storeys max and covered with ornamental details, bars on windows, ledges and drain pipes that made climbing easy.
I won. They bought more drinks and Josie traipsed up the stairs to join us. But Seb wanted to have a go. One of the stuntmen went down and helped him climb to the top. His face as he emerged over the top wall reminded me of the old Seb, his dark eyes glittering with the firelight on the beach and excitement inside him.
Was that the beginning? I hoped not. Although really, really truly it was nothing to do with me. I hadn’t helped him. And I’d never suggested he should take it further.
I was cold all over now. And from Seb to Grid was a short lunge. One accident to another. Besides, Grid had been on my mind since I realised the lighthouse had been no accident. His face a recurrent one in my identity parade of murderers. It was my fault that Grid had been injured – injured so badly. Entirely my fault. He had every reason to feel bitter about me.
And I started to wonder again. Did Grid hate me? Enough to hurt me? Enough to…?
But he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. I knew he wouldn’t. And anyway, the same excuse held good. We hadn’t spoken in months. He didn’t know where I was. The thoughts whirled round my head and I gave up on sleep.
I had to know.
It took me an hour to write the nine words of the message I sent Grid and, even after I pressed send, I fretted I’d chosen the wrong ones.
Hey Grid
How’s things man?
I’m at Tregonna.
Jen
I didn’t expect a reply until morning but it came straightaway. Someone else was having problems sleeping.
He was fine. Living in Plymouth for now, in Vince and Ricky’s flat. The London flat had been too much. Going to physiotherapy daily. Did I want to meet up? Coffee, maybe? At a café near where he was living, as public transport was still a bit of an adventure. Or I could come round to the flat.
Friendly. Even cheerful. Welcoming.
And God help me, I hesitated before replying. Jittered about whether it was a trap. In the end I said yes to the café near him the day after tomorrow. Told him Kit knew we were going to meet up. Like I always shout at those stupid dicks in the movies to do before they go off to meet the villain. Not that I thought Grid was a villain. Not at all. I was sure he wasn’t. I knew he couldn’t be. It was the aftermath of Friday night that was poisoning my thoughts. Leading me into paranoia.
Love Jen
Delete
Bye for now, Jen
Delete
Love
Delete
Jen
Send.
Mission accomplished. Just the rest of the night to get through.
Thirteen
Kit and I cleaned the windows in the morning and it wasn’t as much fun as I’d thought it would be when I was a child watching him and Pa. The wind nipped at my damp hands, still sore from last Friday. It was tedious and it definitely wasn’t climbing. It was hanging off the end of a rope and being hauled up and down by Kit. Anyone could have done it. It was washing down the glass with a very wet cloth, then swishing the water away with a rubber-bladed tool, and finally polishing with a dry cloth that rapidly became damp. I didn’t have enough hands to hold everything so I was endlessly juggling stuff in and out of the bag Kit had given me to tie round my waist. And every few windows or so, he dropped me to the ground so I could rinse my cloth before hoisting me back to the top.
Below me on the overgrown and tatty lawns that rolled down to the sea, broken here and there by islands of weed-choked shrubbery and piles of stones that had once been beloved rockeries, Ma, serene and unfazed by Kit and I yelling at each other, did her yoga. I saw odd bits of it in between windows. The Cobra Pose. The Sun Salutation. Not that there was any sun.
After a couple of windows, I was ready to stop. After ten, I prayed for rain, storms, snow. Anything that meant we could finish. Because I didn’t have time for this. I’d woken that morning in a rage. The confusion and weakness of the last couple of days had gone completely and, although I was tired, I was angry. Furious that someone had tried to kill me and determined to find out who it was. I just didn’t have a clue how to start. I’d thought of talking to Kit but when I’d gone down to the kitchen, I knew at once that he had told Sofija that their financial problems were far from over. She’d gone back into her shell, only her white face and rigid lips giving her away as she slopped milk onto Rosa’s cereal while Kit, looking sullen, coiled ropes, ready for us to wash the windows. I guess he thought it was the least he could do.
I made a few calls first and confirmed that the sale of my flat would leave Kit and Sofija around a couple of hundred thousand pounds short – the amount outstanding on my mortgage – and then we started cleaning. Both of us distracted and reluctant.
The front door opened and Rosa jumped down the steps. She saw Ma and ran over to her. Ma picked her up and swung her round, the two of them laughing. Sofija appeared on the top step and shut the front door behind her. Neither she nor Ma acknowledged the other.
‘Rosa,’ she called. ‘Vreme e da otidete v Tanya. Pobŭrzaĭ.’ And then she walked to the car without looking at Ma. Rosa came running over to join her while Ma turned her back and stretched into the Warrior Pose. Sofija and Rosa got in the car and drove off. Ma waited a few seconds, rolled up her blanket and stalked into the house.
I stretched over to polish the last corner of the last attic window. My left hand slipped off the window frame I was using to steady myself and I plummeted a few feet, bashing my knees against the stone, before Kit gripped the rope hard enough to stop me falling.
‘For fuck’s sake, Kit,’ I yelled. ‘Stay with it.’
He started hoisting me back up again, his hands pulling the rope easily through the pulleys above me.
‘Don’t. I’m coming down. I need to rinse the effing cloth again.’
But he wasn’t listening to me. A car swung round the drive from the back of the house and stopped. Talan and Kelly got out.
A brilliant idea came to me.
‘Let me down, Kit.’
I kicked and jerked the rope to get his attention. They all stared up at me and finally Kit fed the rope through his fists and lowered me to the ground. Talan was stuffing an envelope into his back pocket – my cheque, I thought – and speaking to Kit as my feet hit the gravel. Kelly watched me and laughed.
‘Definitely been in the water for a while,’ Talan was saying.
‘Any idea where it came from?’ Kit asked.
‘Impossible to say. Bodies can travel a long way.’
‘Morning, Talan,’ I said. ‘Morning, Kelly.’
She’d wandered over to an old birdbath and was talking to a ginger kitten playing in the tangled undergrowth beneath it. She didn’t look up and for a moment she reminded me of the old Kelly. Looking as though she was waiting to drift onto the stage and make exquisite shapes, with her fingers tapping in time to the music in her head. The music only she could hear. Beautiful, aloof Kelly, half with you and half somewhere else.
I left her to the kitten and tuned back into Kit and Talan’s conversation.
‘You talking about the body I found?’ I asked.
‘Just filling Kit in. It’s no one local. Nobody’s been reported missing.’
‘I guess there are boats in the Channel that wouldn’t report problems.’
Talan turned to me. He must have been off-duty because he was wearing jeans and work boots.
‘What do you mean, Jen?’ This was Kit.
‘Drugs,’ I said avoiding his eyes. ‘Smuggling. Don’t tell me it doesn’t happen.’ I pulled some of the stuff I’d learned on the internet out of my head. ‘Big ships, in the Channel, off-loading onto fast inflatables. They can land in the tiniest of coves. If one of them got into trouble, no one would report it.’
We turned as one to look out to the sea. Choppy this morning and dark grey with the tops smashed into white by the wind.
‘Maybe,’ Talan said. ‘It’s an ongoing problem.’
Kit’s mobile rang. He looked at it and winced. ‘I’ll have to take this.’