CHAPTER SIX
Emily realised something was wrong before she climbed out of bed. She’d instinctively reached for the bedside lamp—a cumbersome thing shaped like a football boot—and found that there was already something illuminating her bedroom.
But it wasn’t her bedroom, was it?
No soccer posters or laptops and books on shelves. Instead, there was only a cramped space, thrown into uncertain shapes of brown and deep shadow by the sputtering candle on a small stand next to her cot. The walls were made up of horizontal planks of wood, the grooves where each plank joined was a dark scar that wept sea water. The whole room reeked of forest and ocean.
Her heart thudded in her chest, matching her fierce curiosity. She threw off the coarse blanket and slipped out of the cot. Beneath her feet, the floor was warm and unpleasant, as though she was not on a ship but in the belly of a great creature that had somehow swallowed her whole while she’d slept.
She stood, moving tentatively across the room towards a door with a latticed window, devoid of glass, and peered out through the tight, wooden squares. Through the grid, she gasped as she looked upon the deck of a great ship, masts streaking up into the air, the great sails flapping lazily on a meagre breeze.
Then she saw the man sitting on the deck.
He was facing away from her so it was difficult to make out what he was actually doing. His body was hunkered down, his heavy coat pooling at his feet. Fascinated, Emily noted that his whole body was framed by a golden glow, as though something at his feet was giving off an ethereal light. Slowly, and without fear, she pulled open the door to her cabin.
The door handle was cold to the touch, it jarred in her hand as she pushed the iron bracket downwards, causing her to hesitate as she peered at the figure ahead, expecting him to stand and turn, yet nothing it seemed was going to distract him from his deeds.
Emily went through the door and took tentative steps out onto the deck. She became aware of moisture beneath her feet, seawater was making the boards as slick as the sweat on her neck and forehead. The breeze from the ocean was as breath, slight and only perceptible from the small shiver it sent through her.
She moved forward, eyes never leaving the man ahead, her steps taking her out into an arc so that her advance was measured, just in case the dynamics changed and she needed to escape. Her approach allowed her to discreetly observe the man. She saw a small wooden sea chest appear, nestled between his boots, lid open and locked in place. She allowed a small gasp to emerge when she saw the shimmering golden coins heaped inside. There were so many, in fact, that they gave off their own glow. It was this—and this alone—that was casting the watery orange light about the deck.
Emily looked past the chest and out to sea and the blackness beyond the ship was total, as though someone had put out all the stars and the sudden, crushing sense of dread almost left her unable to breathe. She felt dizzy and used a large barrel for support. The wood beneath her hands was as moist as the deck and unpleasant to touch. She moved her hand away and her palm brushed against something, causing her to look down.
There was a wizened hand resting on the barrel. She took a step backwards, heart pounding, the hand was thin and the flesh was desiccated, the fingernails, long and uneven. It was attached to a withered arm. Emily’s widening eyes followed the reed-thin wrist to the forearm, a macabre curiosity taking over until she found herself staring at the ghastly grin of a skull, a buccaneer’s hat pushed upright behind it like the lid of a peddle-bin. There were eyes but they were glassy, lids pulled down halfway like living room blinds on a bright summer’s day.
Inexplicably, once Emily had found the body, so more emerged from the gloom, shapes of many men—the ship’s crew, she assumed—scattered about the deck as though they had been there the entire time and were only now prepared to reveal themselves to her.
They were all emaciated, limbs as thin as sticks, bellies distended with starvation. Emily blinked several times. Her breathing came as stuttering gasps of fear, the confusion in her mind threatening to dull her senses. She fought it off, telling herself that she needed to keep her wits about her, that this was not the time to lose control.
Despite her revulsion she forced her feet onwards, small steps until she was level with the man, who was now plucking a coin from the chest, seemingly unaware of her presence. Emily tried to get a better look at him but his wild hair and bushy beard hid his face.
He brought the coin up and peered at it, his fingers toying with its glittering surface, turning it one way then the other so that he scanned both sides.
Then, to Emily’s horror, the man put the coin in his mouth and bit down upon it. Not only did he try to chew it, he slowly turned his head as he did so until he was looking at her. She could see that his eyes were bright with a green fire, and his mouth was bloodied and oozing, shards of shattered teeth trapped in his beard like writhing maggots in a fisherman’s bait tin.
When he saw Emily, the vile apparition smiled and tilted back its chin, as it gave an exaggerated swallow. She stared, her fascination as strong as her fear and loathing at what she was witnessing. The man merely laughed long and hard as green tears fell down his cheeks like luminous mucus. When he had regained his composure he took another coin from the chest, his terrible eyes never leaving hers.
To her surprise he held the coin out to her, his smile became the leer of an animal addressing its prey.
“Eat,” he said.
“That is your desire,” she said. “We must satisfy our hunger for that which we crave above all else. Without guidance, you are trapped in your dreams forever.”
The words were there without thought. It was as though someone was dropping them into her head like coins in a piggy bank.
Or gold coins down a man’s throat, she thought with a shiver.
“But this belongs to you,” the captain said, holding the coin for her to see. “Look. Do you not recognise it?”
Emily looked closer. The coin was made of a dull, rusted material and the edges uneven. On the surface were three, layered circles, each one smaller than the other, making it look like a target.
“It’s not mine.” Even as she said the words, Emily felt a yearning in her heart, and the need to reach out and snatch the disc from the man was powerful.
“Very well.”
He shrugged his big shoulders and put the coin into his mouth as though it was a stick of gum. When he grinned, his teeth were mere splinters, most of them already shattered and bloody against his bloated lips. He was no longer laughing; there was despair in his eyes as he fought back sobs.
“The Green Man is my judge, child,” he said as he sucked and slurped on the gold. “Soon he will be yours.”
“The sentence is already passed,” Emily said. “That is why you eat gold for your supper.”
With a great strangled sob, the man bit down hard on the coin and the ragged remnant of an incisor flew across the deck, bounced twice, and landed between her toes.
That was when Emily woke up.
***
Aunt Maud shuffled into the kitchen, swathed in a red, towelled dressing gown. Her X-Men slippers, a gift from Thomas for a birthday she personally no longer kept, whispered over the floor tiles as she crossed the room to the fridge. Built-in under lights from the kitchen units cast a muted glow about the work surfaces, stainless-steel storage jars, and utensils giving off tiny starbursts under the halogens.
Maud pulled open the door and retrieved a carton of fruit juice, and she became aware that she was not alone. She turned to see Beatrice standing in the doorway, red hair pulled up into a loose pony-tail and a troubled expression on her face.
“We’re at that time of the night where I’m a-thinkin’ are ye up too late or too early,” Maud said.
Beatrice came into the kitchen, her movements heavy and listless. She sat down at the breakfast bar, fingers playing with the corner of a discarded copy of Maud’s Chinwag magazine.
Maud reached for a glass from a wooden storage cupboard. “Ye want some juice?”
“No thanks,” Beatrice said.
“Ye sound like ye’re luggin’ the world in yer handbag, young’un,” Maud said as she poured her drink. She left the carton on the counter and came to sit opposite Beatrice. “Ye and Lucas okay?”
Beatrice smiled.
“Seein’ that grin when I mention that young rascal’s name is proof enough,” Maud said. She took a sip from her drink. “So what’s eatin’ ye?”
“Thomas,” Beatrice said flatly.
“Well, that ain’t anythin’ out of the ordinary,” Maud chuckled. “Ye’re brother an’ sister, gettin’ on like Tom and Jerry most of the time. Ye’ll look back on this an’ laugh when ye’re older. That’s what me ol’ mum used to say.”
Maud watched as Beatrice frowned. “Or not, in this case, I’m guessin’?”
Beatrice shrugged. “Tom’s always been weird. But tonight he was going for gold.”
“Ye mean he was lyin’,” Maud said. Her words hung in the air for a few moments before Beatrice recognised it was not a question but a statement.
“You saw it too?”
“Tom’s an open book as we old uns like to say,” Maud said. “He ain’t lyin’ without it standin’ out like a penguin at a party.”
“So why didn’t Mum or Dad say anything? About the tablet?” Beatrice said.
Maud lifted her hands to placate her. “Yer mum an’ dad will be seein’ this through different glasses, me girl. Their boy just got brought home by the constable, tales of swimmin’ in the ocean at high tide an’ all that stuff. They’re just happy he’s right as rain.”
Beatrice thought this over. She nodded, though her face said she didn’t quite buy it.
“Now, if ye’re like ol’ Maud, the real focus of yer grievin’ should be not what our young Tom was lyin’ about,” Maud said. “It’s why he’s doin’ it.”
***
When Emily found herself lying in bed, she realised that she was crying. Her long legs were tangled up in her Aston Villa duvet, and the restriction felt as though she was being held firm by a huge snake intent on crushing her before opening its great, elastic mouth and swallowing her whole.
She kicked the duvet to the floor and sat up, hands going to her face, covering any potential sounds her sobs may be generating for her parents to hear. She just could not have them come in right now. They’d ask her what was wrong and, yes, she could tell them she’d had a bad dream—a terrible nightmare where a man on a galleon was so hungry he was eating golden coins—and under normal circumstances, they would have all laughed it off. But Emily had already had an incident that day, and she’d managed to stave off her mother’s concerns. However, if Mrs Hannigan came into the room at that moment, she would bring with her ‘The Look’ and Emily was not in a strong enough position to make any more excuses.
Her mother gave her ‘The Look’ when she was concerned. Her face would take on an odd countenance, as though the muscles in her cheeks had been frozen in neutral, isolating and exaggerating the anxiety in her eyes, pulling her lips into a pale hyphen.
‘The Look’ always had a strange influence over Emily, making her feel loved but it also generated a level of vulnerability that she hated with great intensity. This conflict often left her questioning herself, her ability to cope as a Deaf sixteen-year-old in the Hearing World.
Most of the time, Emily did cope, her passion and belief in who she was, and what she could be in life, completely unfettered by her deafness. But ‘The Look’ stirred feelings of doubt that, on occasion, threatened such resolve, leaving her to shut off from the world around her and succumb to her enforced silence.
Even as she collected herself, pawing at the tears with the sleeve of her onesie, Emily knew ‘The Look’ was not the only reason she did not want to discuss her dream. As she brought herself to the edge of her bed, combing her golden hair with splayed fingers, there was a dawning realisation that was far worse than uncomfortable discussions and feelings of vulnerability.
It was the realisation that the terrible things she had just witnessed had not been a dream at all.
***
Lucas headed off to bed, a bottle of water in his hand. He’d left his mum dozing on the sofa, having nodded off an hour into a marathon game show session on TV. Lucas had tried to wake her twice so she would go up to bed, but she’d just looked at him through half-mast lids and smiled before falling back into slumber.
He climbed up to the landing, the narrow staircase creaking as his feet moved across thin, weary-looking carpets. In places, there were patches so worn, the thread came through the pile like brown atolls in a bottle-green ocean.
Lucas made for his bedroom, his territory marked out by a Saltier cross of faux “Caution, Police Crime Scene” sticker-tape. As he approached the door, his thoughts were on getting ready for bed and rereading another of his Hardy Boys novels. His pace quickened at the thought of losing himself in another mystery.
In truth, he was keen to distract himself from the ever-growing feeling of dread that lurked at the back of his mind. He could not help but feel that another, true-life mystery was writhing beneath the surface of the town, just choosing the moment where it would bubble to the surface, and reveal itself. Under normal circumstances he would relish such a concept, mysteries were his passion in life, as was the challenge of solving them.
Whenever he thought of the things happening in the town, though, his mind would beeline to Beatrice, and the need to make sure she was safe. Not that he thought he was the one who could protect her. Beatrice was, after all, more than capable of doing that all by herself. However, he certainly was the person who cared about her enough to make sure she knew he’d do anything to protect her.
He stalled on the landing.
“Lucas Walker,” he said to himself. “You’re trying to avoid thinking about the scary stuff by thinking about the scary stuff. How the hell is that meant to work?”
The distant sound of a bell came to him. In that moment, all other thoughts were swiped from his mind as he sought to locate the sound. The chime came again, low and mournful.
Then again.
Lucas looked up. He was standing beneath the hatch to the attic and when the next chime came, he realised it was emanating from inside the loft-space itself.
Lucas imagined the attic, trying to recall any of his old toys and items that could possibly make such a sound. The bell continued to toll and an odd sensation overcame him, a tingling ball in his sternum that compelled him to follow the pealing bell, and without any thought, he raised his hand and pulled on the small cord dangling from the loft-hatch to activate its mechanism.
The hatch dropped and the ladder slid down smoothly, landing with a dull thump. Absently he looked back down the stairs, expecting his mum to be there calling up to him to ask what was he doing at that time of night. It was not to be.
The bell sounded again, and he climbed the ladder, his desire to find the source stamping out his need for caution. He dug a hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulled free his Smartphone, activating the torch in seconds. He cast the beam into the attic.
He made a sweep of the dark space beyond, the light blanching out the far corner of the room, an old hat stand and a bureau stood to attention. As his eyes registered the items something shuddered beyond the beam. His peripheral vision said that there was someone, something, standing there—a hooded figure that was watching from the safety of darkness. He held his breath, extending his arm so that the beam of light could move forward and challenge the dark.
Then he saw it!
A bed sheet clumsily draped over an old, tall bookcase.
He chuckled in relief.
“For God’s sake, Walker! If the Dark Heart doesn’t get you then your bloody imagination will.”
He climbed into the attic and listened. Mere moments passed before the bell pealed again. It remained distant, as though coming from beyond the walls. This time he counted the chimes. There were eight in total, each one with a five-second break. They made him feel sad and he pushed the unsettling feeling away.
He walked carefully into the centre of the attic, his light creating a monochrome scene of clutter. His foot caught something and it skittered away from him, and he aimed the Smartphone after it. His quick action chanced a small object that sparkled at the touch of stark light. The object bounced against the far wall and stopped. Lucas went to it, all thoughts of hooded figures and the oppressive darkness gone from his mind. He stood over the item, his hands inexplicably trembling as he stooped to pick it up.
When his fingers touched the shimmering object, the feeling in his mind, his heart, was almost too much to bear, and at once tears fell like rain. His legs gave out and he came to his knees, the object clamped in a fist that was now clutched against his sternum as though it was the most precious thing in the world.
That was how Lucas remained for the next hour. And he would remember nothing of it.
***
Thomas Beecham stared across his bedroom, where his rucksack rested against his computer table. However, it was not the misshapen swatch of canvas that was the focus of his attention. It was the thought of what was stashed inside one of the pockets.
The electronic tablet.
He had intended to show the police officers the device on the beach, and again when they had referred to it as his family looked on. He regretted even mentioning the find at all because now he’d had to lie about losing it.
He couldn’t articulate his reluctance to talk about it. Every time the thought about it, he got an intense feeling that he shouldn’t, and something terrible might happen if he did. All of this was so overpowering it made his head spin, and put an awful churning sensation in his stomach, making him want to throw up.
This didn’t mean he felt good about lying. If nothing else, Thomas had no problem being open to what he’d done. Sometimes he said things and had been sent to his room or grounded for a few days, but he would have rather have done that than make stuff up to get out of a punishment. After all, being sent to his room to read or amuse himself was not exactly any punishment at all, so why lie about such things?
So, as he sat looking at his rucksack, Thomas felt bad. How could something that felt right seem wrong? He answered his dilemma with a huge sigh and shuffled off the bed.
He approached the discarded rucksack as though he was stalking something dangerous, his footsteps light, and his movements, cautious.
He squatted, his hand hovering over the side pocket where he’d stashed the tablet whilst on the beach. His fingers were hesitant and uncertain, but after the briefest of pauses, dipped into the pocket.
The pocket was empty.
With a puzzled expression Thomas grabbed the rucksack, his trepidation now a thing of the past as he went through every pocket, nook, and cranny, dumping the contents unceremoniously onto his carpet, the frustration at not being able to find it growing with each passing second.
After several minutes it became clear that, despite his best intentions, the tablet was no longer in his possession. The question that stepped up and demanded attention came as soon as realisation dawned.
If the tablet wasn’t here, then where the hell was it?
