He broke into a stumbling run not because he was starved of the affection this seemed to promise, but because he thought the glass ceiling that stretched across the central cluster of cafes, stalls, shops and takeaway food emporiums—all locked and shuttered now for winter—might provide him with temporary shelter from the rain. And so it did, though the wind angling in from the sea cut along the unprotected length of the pier like a ceaseless flurry of cold, sharp arrows, each of which struck him with unerring accuracy.
Though the pier remained accessible to whoever might wish to stroll along it, the fact that it was deserted made Skelton feel like an intruder. With every one of his clomping footsteps, across wooden boards worn smooth by the passage of countless feet, he expected to hear a sharp cry of reprimand at his back.
His apprehension couldn’t prevent memories that felt like magic from stirring within him, though. As a boy he had eaten candyfloss here; indeed, he had bitten into one of the most delicious things he had ever tasted, a fat hot dog that oozed fried onions smeared in ketchup over his hand. He had fed money into a Lucky Dip machine that had coughed up a flesh-coloured egg containing a yellow plastic car; he had wandered among an exhibition of mediocre waxworks; he had held on to the metal railings and turned his face up to meet the warm sun.
He had met… the girl.
What was her name? Skelton was appalled that at some point over the past three decades the information had eluded him. He had realized on the drive up, when he had been trawling through his old memories, that he could no longer remember.
He had the flavour of the girl’s name in his head, though. It had been a soft, almost dull sound. Gail? Bernie? Norma? It had been full of blunt letters, not sharp ones. She hadn’t been Tracey, or Susan, or Kate. Her name had been non-threatening. Almost bovine. It had partly been this that had drawn him to her.
Rain spattered on the glass ceiling above him, making it squirm. Stepping out from beneath the protective canopy at the end of the arcade, he scrunched up his mouth and eyes and rammed his hands into his side pockets as he angled his body towards the end of the pier. As the wind gnawed and slashed at him and the icy rain caused his scalp to contract like an over-tight cap, he wondered why he was here. He knew that he was running away, seeking solace, giving Janice the space and time she’d demanded in order to ‘reassess’ her life. But what he didn’t understand was why here, of all places. Was this run-down little seaside town really the location of his happiest memories? Had a ten-day holiday with his parents when he was fourteen really been the pinnacle of a life spanning almost five decades?
“Excuse me. Are you all right?”
At first, when Skelton turned, the woman seemed composed almost entirely of hair. It flapped and snapped around her head like ragged black wings, or thrashing tentacles, providing little more than glimpses of her face.
He felt too melancholy to be startled, though his hands did tighten on the upper rail, the metal so cold that it seemed to burn his palm. What surprised him, initially at least, was not that the woman was here, but that he was; Skelton had been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he had no recollection of having reached the end of the pier, or of removing his hands from his jacket pockets to grip the uppermost rail as the sea raged beneath him.
Realising that some response was called for, he said, “Fine.” And then as an afterthought: “Thank you.”
The woman raised an arm and used a black-gloved hand to scoop the unruly mass of hair from her face. Now Skelton could see that she was roughly his age. She was not conventionally pretty, but attractive all the same. Her fleshy, sensual lips were half-parted as though to form a question as her green eyes held his in a steady gaze.
At last she said, “Forgive me for intruding, but… well, you look as though you’ve been crying.”
“Do I?” Surprised, he unpeeled his hand from the rail and touched his cheek. Of course it was wet; he was drenched with rain. He barked a laugh. “Must be this wind, making my eyes water.”
She smiled with him, but in a way that suggested sympathy rather than mutual mirth. He broke the connection between them by looking out to sea.
“Have you just arrived?” she asked.
His head snapped back to regard her. “Yes. How did you know?” “I think you’re staying where we’re staying.” She wafted a hand towards the shore. “Mrs. Derry’s?”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Are you here with your family?”
“My husband.”
“Didn’t he fancy braving the elements?”
Now it was her turn to break eye contact. Turning her face to the sea, she gripped the upper rail with both gloved hands as though it was the safety bar on a fun fair ride. Released from her constraining arm, her hair began to thrash wildly again. “He’s not well,” she replied. “He’s confined to bed.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he makes a speedy recovery.”
Her reply was non-committal and after a moment Skelton slid her a sideways glance. For the first time it struck him as odd that she was here. Was it coincidence or had she followed him? But why would she? Perhaps she had sensed a kindred spirit in him? Perhaps her husband’s illness was taking its toll and she was desperate for someone to talk to?
He was toying with the idea of suggesting they retreat to a café for a cup of tea when a voice called his name.
He turned. With rapid, bow-legged strides, a balding man in a dark grey overcoat was emerging from the open-ended glass-ceilinged tunnel. As he approached he scowled fiercely, as if he intended to give whoever was responsible for the weather a piece of his mind. Skelton might have guessed he was a policeman even if he hadn’t spotted the distant white car with the central yellow stripe parked opposite the pier entrance.
Instantly he felt his stomach tighten, his extremities tingle, as though with the onset of fever. His immediate thought—his only thought—was: Janice.
“Yes?” he said, both admitting his identity and enquiring why he was being hailed.
“Mr. Marcus Skelton? Of-” The balding man gave Skelton’s full address, which made Skelton—particularly in front of the woman—feel unaccountably vulnerable.
“Yes,” he said again.
“Mr. Skelton, my name is Detective Inspector Parr. Might I have a word with you?”
“What about?”
DI Parr glanced at Skelton’s partner. “A private word, if you wouldn’t mind?” And then, to the woman, he said less officiously, “I’m sorry to intrude.”
The woman waved away the apology. “We were merely passing the time of day.” She startled Skelton by placing a hand on his arm. “Perhaps I’ll see you later? At dinner?”
Skelton nodded and she left—though her touch on his arm, light and warm despite the chill of the day and the thick jacket he was wearing, lingered.
On tenterhooks, his stomach crawling with apprehension, Skelton followed DI Parr back to the promenade’s entrance. Shouting into the wind and rain he asked again what it was about, but Parr only muttered something about finding somewhere warmer.
“Is it Janice?” Skelton asked.
“Who?”
“Janice. My wife. Has something happened to her?”
“Not as far as I know.” Parr forged ahead, either to prevent further conversation or because he was eager to get out of the rain.