Death Toll

35

Ian Murray saw the same meteor fall. He was a hundred yards from the old coal barn, so he cut the engine and drifted, watching the night sky. It was like an omen, he thought. Here, inside the protective arc of the outer sand dunes, the sea was just choppy, slapping against the fibreglass hull of the Sandpiper. The boat had been another one of his ideas — in summer they’d hire one of the fishermen to take out guests from Morston House to see the birds on the marsh. You’d be surprised what you could charge, he’d told Bea. Thirty pounds a head; forty. A minute passed and more meteors fell, this time a dozen, like stardust thrown across the sky. The coal barn was a black silhouette against the churning water. A wavelet caught the Sandpiper side-on, the spray soaking Ian, so that he decided to fire the engine back into life.

John Joe Murray was waiting for him on the stone quay. He grabbed the line that his stepson threw. When he got ashore John Joe went to hug him but the young man looked away, letting the awkward moment pass. That should have been the first sign that something wasn’t right, but John Joe missed it; or rather he misinterpreted it, thinking it was just a fresh estrangement, another notch on the spectrum of distance as his stepson moved emotionally closer to the father he’d never known. It was a cruel moment, John Joe thought to himself, because in his life he’d done so much that was wrong, even shameful, but he’d never once tried to hurt Ian. He’d never aspired to being a good man, but in his stepson he’d invested all that was good in himself.

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ he said. ‘I told Bea.’ He helped Ian haul out a fresh bag of provisions. ‘But thanks,’ he added.

They stood apart, listening to the waves thudding out on the sandbank at sea. The ghost of Pat Garrison seemed to stand between them.

‘I made tortilla, the way you like it,’ said Ian, handing him a parcel in silver paper. It had been their last holiday together, to Galicia, as a family. Ian, just sixteen, had collected recipes for the restaurant that was his dream. And that was the thing that John Joe was proud of still — the fact that he had dreams, as he’d had a dream, and he liked to think that was something he’d given Ian, not something that had come down to him through some arid string of DNA.

Ian lugged the provisions inside the stone barn, looking round the ground floor, clogged with flotsam and old nets.

‘Go up,’ said John Joe. ‘The tide comes in now — tonight, it’s a high tide, it’ll flood.’

Ian considered that, then climbed the stone steps. He took out more food, a flask, a loaf of fresh bread and a greaseproof-paper parcel. ‘Ham — Serrano,’ he said, setting it on a stone shelf. He gave a big ugly shiver. ‘Christ, it’s cold in here.’

John Joe was by the fire, working the logs, kindling the flames, and he wondered why Ian didn’t join him.

‘How’s your mum?’ he asked.

The flames flared, creating a sudden atmosphere of warmth, even if they could still see their breath.

‘She’s confused. She won’t talk — not to me, at least. Bea said not to tell her where you were. Mum thinks you’re pissed with us, over Pat. That we’ve written you out of our story.’

John Joe was pleased with that, because it took them where he wanted to go.

‘It’s best,’ he said. He rubbed his neck, massaging the tattoo of the green guitar.

‘Are you going to tell me?’ asked Ian. He still hung back from the fire, leaning easily against the rough stone wall, as if he didn’t want to be drawn in to that circle of light.

John Joe ignored the question. ‘And how’s Bea?’

‘She says the police came. But she didn’t tell them where you were. She says with the spring tides you can stay as long as you like. Even with the water out, you’re on an island.’

John Joe ran a hand back over the greying hair. ‘Someone wants to kill me,’ he said, and laughed as if he didn’t believe it either.

‘They killed Freddie Fletcher and Sam Venn. I’m next. I should have been there, with them, at our table at the Shipwrights’ Hall.’

Ian pushed himself away from the wall with his shoulders. There was something about the languid ease of the movement that John Joe didn’t miss, and for the first time he felt a wave of unease, a feeling that he was talking to a stranger.

‘Why?’ asked Ian, and there was a tone to the voice that turned it from a question into an accusation. ‘Why would someone want to kill the three of you? Police said it was food poisoning — some nutter up at the cannery. Who’d want to kill you?’

‘It’s not important now,’ said John Joe. ‘Staying alive’s important.’

‘They were scum — Fletcher and Venn,’ said Ian, and in the gloomy light John Joe saw a flash of Ian’s white teeth as his upper lip curled back. ‘Mum always said that. She said her flesh used to crawl when they came through the door. Sam, self-righteous Sam. Mum said he was just like Grandma: afraid that people would know that he didn’t feel anything inside. And Fletcher — do you know what I felt like when Freddie Fletcher used to look at me?’

‘How should I know?’ asked John Joe, reflecting the angry timbre of his stepson’s voice.

Ian spread his hands, the palms lighter than the dark skin on the backs. ‘He was a friend of yours.’

John Joe stood. ‘They weren’t friends of mine,’ he said.

‘Right. But you were all in the club — the lunch club.’ Ian smiled, a smile as insincere as a smile can be, just a rearrangement of facial muscles. ‘But there was something else there, between the three of you,’ he continued. ‘’Specially this week — all on the same table in the back room. I saw you. Heads together, at lunch. Then someone tries to kill you — and them. But you’re not friends. That’s the line, right?’

‘I told you, we’re not — ’

‘Your fire’s going out,’ Ian interrupted, surprising his stepfather with the sudden change of subject.

Ian walked to the wood store, selected a single piece of solid driftwood, then walked, finally, into the firelight. But as he took the final step he lifted the wood and hit his stepfather with the flat side, just above the right ear. John Joe went down on one knee. Ian hit him again — harder this time, at the back of the head. He fell forward into the ashes on the edge of the grate and Ian watched as a thin trickle of blood crossed the green tattoo on his neck.