God. Why had this happened? If his mum hadn’t died, he wouldn’t be here. Sure, his dad wanted to get away to escape the bad memories, but they could have moved somewhere else in the city. This was just ridiculous.
He wondered whether his dad knew the story about the house. Obviously he didn’t. Rocky and the girls had to be making it up. Even Jen must have been in on it. But just suppose they were telling the truth…
Seagulls wheeled in the sky above. Their raucous din was starting to get on his nerves so he inserted his earphones and turned his mp3 player on. The American Idiot album assaulted his ears and he bobbed his head in time to the title track.
He dragged his feet through the pebbles, dried seaweed, shells, and sand that had accumulated at the edge of the road. When he drew close to the turning to Millhouse Lane, he took the packet of mints from his pocket to hide the smell of cigarettes. About to pop a mint into his mouth, he looked up and noticed a figure standing above the cove. He recognised her as the crazy woman from the house. And she was staring at him.
Jack flicked the mint into his mouth, trying to appear nonchalant. Then he looked back down at the road and increased his pace. The woman had scared him in the house, so he didn’t want to stare at her now in case it upset her. Sure, he could deal with kids his own age, but an old woman was something else. For a start, it wouldn’t feel right hitting her if she did attack.
He hurried into the lane and glanced quickly back over his shoulder, but the old woman was gone.
He didn’t know whether to feel relieved or scared. Damn this place. Further along the lane he could see the removal van. Two men were making their way out of it, carrying the brown leather settee between them. Jack hated that settee. He had tried to convince his dad it was wrong to sit on the carcass of an innocent animal, but his dad was adamant he wasn’t getting rid of it, not when it cost so much and there was nothing wrong with it. He remembered his dad saying, ‘The cow won’t mind’, which was a lame thing to say. Of course the cow wouldn’t mind. The cow was dead.
The movers stopped walking and dropped the settee. The older of the two raised his flat cap and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He looked about fifty-five and was dressed conservatively in a shirt and trousers that had seen better days. His friend appeared about thirty-five and was as big as a bull. He looked as though he could carry the settee under one of his enormous arms without breaking a sweat.
Although Jack wasn’t exactly skinny, he always envied people with big muscles. They had an air of confidence about them he imagined came from knowing most people wouldn’t say boo to them.
As Jack walked up to the van, his dad emerged from the house and waved. Jack took his earphones out and nodded in response.
“That was quick,” his dad said. “I thought you’d be gone hours.”
Jack chewed his lip and looked at the house. The windows were dirty. Set back into the brickwork they failed to reflect any light; looked like skeletal eye sockets. He shivered involuntarily.
“What is it?” his dad asked.
“Is there anything about the house you haven’t told me?”
His dad frowned.
“It’s just… I heard…”
“Heard what?”
Jack shrugged. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Tell me then.”
“Where do you want this settee?” the old man wheezed as he and his partner made their way up the path, carrying the settee between them.
“Just put it in the first room along with everything else. Until I decorate at least one room, everything will have to go in there.”
The old man nodded and then continued towards the house.
“Now, you were saying?” his dad said.
“I met a couple of locals in the village. They told me the previous occupants of this house disappeared without a trace.”
His dad shook his head. “They’re pulling your leg.”
Jack stared at his dad for a moment. He believed him when he said he didn’t know the history of the house, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
Chapter 7
Zander stood at the helm and steered his vessel into the inky black sea. The sound of the engines and the waves slapping against the bow carried easily on the night air.
Clouds masked most of the sky, and few stars were visible. A fine spray obscured the glass, and he switched the wipers on to clear it away. He preferred to see miles ahead of him, but when the sun went down it was hard to see anything.
He often thought being on a boat at night on the seas was one of the loneliest places in the world. Other than Brad toiling away in the engine room, he was alone. But he felt as though someone was watching him, which was ridiculous. He was four miles out, and there wasn’t another vessel in sight. In rough weather, the radar sometimes showed little blips on the screen from the tops of waves, but today it was calm and yet there were still a couple of blips showing up. He looked outside, but couldn’t see any running lights to indicate the presence of another vessel. Thinking it could be flotsam or there might be a problem with the radar, he altered its sensitivity to tune out the blips. Technology was a wonderful thing, but it wasn’t infallible.
Once the blips disappeared, he recalled the incident with the shredded net. It had taken days to repair and had cost more than he could afford. That’s why this trip was so important.
Satisfied no one was around to see, he flicked a switch and spotlights above the helm illuminated the sea, creating a glare that was almost blinding. Less than fifty yards off the starboard bow he spotted a red buoy that marked the lobster pot in the depths below. Easing back on the throttle, he headed towards the pot and dropped anchor.
The deck was slick with water, and he cautiously made his way to the starboard side. Using a hooked pole, he snared the buoy and dragged it on board. Then he started to haul the pot from the deep. The cold rope felt slimy in his hands, and he braced his feet against the side of the boat and pulled hand over hand. Weighed down with its contents and the pressure of the sea, the basket was heavy and it took all his strength to raise it.
Water sloshed against the deck and ran back out to the sea as the boat pitched in the waves.
Something banged against the hull and Zander jumped. The rope slipped through his fingers before he tightened his grip. He tied the rope onto the gunnel and peered over the side into the inky black depths where the spotlights failed to illuminate. There was always the danger at sea of hitting submerged objects, perhaps some of the flotsam he thought the radar detected, but he couldn’t see anything. The hairs prickled at the nape of his neck. Something didn’t feel right, and over the years he’d come to trust his feelings.
The sooner he was done, the sooner he could head home, so he returned to hauling up the lobster pot.
Eventually the pot broke the surface and he lifted it aboard. Inside he could see the sealed packets of cannabis, which had a value anywhere from fifteen to twenty thousand pounds. It was a lucrative sideline now the fishing grounds seemed to be drying up. Eager to finish, he removed the packets as quickly as he could and dropped them on the deck. When he was done, he threw the pot overboard and watched as the rope snaked back into the icy sea. When the pot was on the bottom, he threw the buoy back out and then picked up the packets and returned to the wheelhouse where he stowed the cannabis in a secret hatch in the boards beneath his feet.
When that was done, he raised the anchor and turned the spotlights off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a faint blip on the radar screen. When he looked, the blip disappeared. He gave the radar a quick tap, but nothing reappeared.