The People's Republic of South Devon

Read Mathew F Riley’s spooky short story for Halloween online, or download it

“Pass the cider, Steve, mate, there’s a good boy.”

Across the fire and eight empty cans of Stella, Dan saw Steve lean out of the circle of light and reach behind him, rummaging in the backpack.

“Don’t speak to him like that,” whispered Jessica, angry at her boyfriend’s patronising tone, “he’s only here because I invited him, so at least try to make him feel welcome.”

“I bet he’s just glad to be out of his stinking bedroom for once, away from his computer games… why the hell did you invite him anyway?” Dan hissed, his voice rising despite his attempts to keep quiet. He moved his face closer to Jessica, licking her earlobe. She backed away a little, seeing the look of hunger in his eyes, the smirk on his lips, sensing his impatience.

“Not yet Dan, let him go home first. Wait until we’re on our own can’t you?”

“Here you go.” Steve handed over the plastic litre container of Scrumpy Jack, pretending not to have heard the exchange. Talk to me, not about me.

He retreated back to the other side of the fire and added another piece of driftwood, hoping the renewed flames would hide his face from them both. He liked Jessica very much, but Dan was an ignorant jerk. One of those naturally big blokes who acted as if he just didn’t care what you thought of him, able to wind himself up and launch into vicious verbal assaults when the need, or opportunity, arose. He liked to reinforce the fact that Jessica was his girlfriend to anyone who’d listen, even to those like Steve, who already knew they were a couple, and had that fact shoved down their throats every day at college. Steve wondered if Jessica got fed up being shown off to everyone they met. He hated the way Dan called Jessica Jess. It just didn’t feel right: Jess was a name you gave a horse. He hated Scrumpy Jack too; it was a redneck drink. Perfect for Dan, then.

Still, Steve supposed, at least they had found each other; and he had to admit, he was jealous of their happiness. Shaldon was a small place, and there weren’t many kids of his age living here, let alone girls. Even though they went to the community college in Teignmouth, the larger town that overlooked Shaldon from the hills on the other side of the estuary, there was no question of them mixing socially with the kids there. It just wasn’t done, and never had been as far as he could tell.

Steve didn’t know why he’d agreed to come along tonight. Admittedly he’d had nothing better to do, but it didn’t stop him feeling used. There was absolutely no way he could relax or feel included, not with their cosy chats and lingering looks. Not with Dan’s constant mocking tone. Steve could practically feel the contempt Dan had for him circulating in the chilled air this late October night. Worse, Jessica’s giggles made him want to fade back into the darkness outside the fire’s narrow circle of illumination.

The three were huddled under the cliffs of the Ness beach, regardless of the danger of rock falls from above. It was a secret; that’s how the locals liked to think of it: their secret beach. The Ness, a great red sandstone headland, protected Shaldon from most of the elements that whipped in towards the village from across the sea. The great hill loomed over the thin channel of the River Teign at the entrance to the estuary; its shadows fell across the water, reaching Teignmouth’s gently sloping beach on a sunny day.

At this end of the village the land rose steeply, and most tourists were put off by the sudden incline. Up here was their not-so-secret secret. On foot it could only be reached via an old smugglers tunnel, built in Napoleonic times, Steve’s dad had told him. The tunnel wound darkly for a few hundred yards, getting steeper as it went, until it opened out onto a concrete level, some railings and a set of concrete steps that led down to the beach.

It was a favourite haunt of the village’s youth; small groups of teenagers could often be found having a barbeque or drinking session when the weather was mild enough. These gatherings were strictly invitation only, and definitely adult free. Shaldon’s kids considered the beach a secret worth defending and there had been run-ins with gangs from Teignmouth seeking somewhere to have an illicit joint. Teignmouth’s beach had nowhere to hide out; it was a stretch of sand and pebble, ideal for tourists and dog walking. Ness beach had its share of ragged natural features: vast boulders that had fallen from the cliffs above provided windbreaks and perfect sites for small fires; several shallow caves allowed shelter from the rain, when it didn’t sweep in horizontally from the sea.

Steve had spent a few evenings with his mate Howard that summer watching the waves break on the red sand in the failing light. As the sky darkened they liked to sit, eyes closed, listening to the surf as it crashed onto the sand and stone, then sucking itself out again, to return a second or so later. Steve enjoyed losing himself in the rhythmic flow of the tides as they came and went. He wondered where his friend was now. Howard hadn’t said goodbye, just left the village a few weeks ago, leaving his responsibilities for someone else to sort out. Maybe he had the right idea.

Steve got up.

“I’m going for a walk, be back in a bit.”

“Take your time mate,” he heard Dan drunkenly respond. Jessica giggled again. There was a slithering of jacket material, then silence behind the crackling of the flames.

Steve walked towards the rocks at the far end of the beach, where the Teign met the English Channel, a surging chaos of currents, where the seagulls screamed.

+

Steve stood outside the weakening firelight. The moon was high overhead; Jessica and Dan sat in its silvery shadows gazing into the golden embers of the dying fire. The wind was biting now, driving a salty drizzle off the sea and into their eyes. The wood had run out, as had the drink.

Their conversation too, thought Steve, buoyed a little by this idea.

Dan sensed his presence, taking the opportunity to have another dig at him.

“I’m freezing, so’s Jess. We wanted to stay out all night, we had plans.”

Steve figured Dan’s plans were obviously not mutual.

“Before you go mate, you sure you don’t want to go find us some more wood?”

“I haven’t said I’m going yet Dan,” said Steve, annoyed and cold, “but if that’s what you want. See you then.”

“Hey man, what about that wood?”

Steve ignored him, “Bye Jessica.”

“No, don’t go Steve,” it was Jessica, “let’s talk.”

Why did she want him to stay? Did she feel sorry for him, or was it because she and Dan had fallen out when he’d been walking? Perhaps it was only because they’d nothing to say to each other. Should he give it ten minutes, see the way the conversation went? Steve could tell Dan was getting angry. If only he would go home, leaving just him and Jessica, that’d be perfect.

“Where did you go on your walk then?” she asked him.

“Just went to watch the water. Do you know what time it is? One forty. The tide’s been going out for a while now; another hour and it’ll be low tide.”

Dan guffawed, “Man. I can’t believe you know that sort of shit. Low tide? That shit’s for fishermen. You wanna be a fisherman? A salty old seadog, like your Daddy?”

Steve heard the words and knew there was an incredulous sneer on Dan’s hidden face. He shrugged his shoulders, hoping the older boy would see him.

“No, just wanted to check out what Howard told me about low tide around here. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

Dan snorted again, “Howard? Oh yeah, I remember him. Spookeee. Not! Bleeding Gothboy. He was your friend wasn’t he? Older than you wasn’t he?”

“Sod off Dan. He was just a mate.”

Dan scrambled to his feet.

“Don’t you tell me to fu-”

Jessica jumped up, “Dan! Sit down and shut up. Leave him alone. Steve, please don’t go yet. Tell us what Howard told you.” She grabbed hold of his arm, “please?”

Steve sensed something wasn’t right between them. Dan seemed well pissed off. Jessica seemed nervous all of a sudden, almost… scared. They must have had an argument, although he thought he would have heard it, the beach was so quiet, apart from the wind and the sea. He’d stay for a while, just to spite Dan.

“I’m sorry Dan, didn’t mean it. It is a cool story though. Want to hear it?”

“Go on then, if Jess wants to, then so do I.”

They sat down.

“See that light out there?” Steve indicated behind him, to where he’d been walking. Beyond the beach, out on the water, a tiny white light hovered about ten feet in the air.

“Hadn’t noticed that,” murmured Dan, barely holding in his temper.

“That’s a rowing boat; it’s out there at low tide. Howard told me it’s not there to do any fishing. It’s there to watch, that’s all.”

“Watch what?” asked Jessica.

“Well, don’t laugh at me. I’m only repeating what Howard said…”

“Get on with it.” Dan was becoming more exasperated with every minute that passed.

“Howard said… he said that when someone dies in Shaldon, their soul is washed out to sea on the low tide. Happens on the night they die. They go out with the water. That guy in the boat is there to make sure none of the souls get washed back in. The same boat’s been used for three hundred years apparently. Howard said that sometimes the souls get caught up in a current that takes them onto this beach, where they turn into pebbles, or something. In the old days the villagers used to go beach combing just before the sun rose. They’d wander along the beach to see if they could find any pebbles that had souls in them. They believed that if they kept the pebbles they could return that person to life. Some just wanted to see their loved ones one more time. Then they’d throw the pebble back in so that soul could move on.”

Dan couldn’t hold himself back.

“Jesus H. Christ! I suppose they end up in France then do they? What a load of absolute shite that is. Howard wasn’t right in the head, hanging around with the likes of you. Can’t believe you actually went and had a look. You freak. C’mon Jess, we’re going.”

Dan jumped up and kicked the empty Scrumpy Jack container into the darkness to join the discarded cans of Stella. At least, Steve thought, he stamped out the embers of the fire. Steve regretted telling them now, but Jessica asked, “So, did you see anything then?”

As they walked up the beach towards the tunnel Steve looked at her in the moonlight. Was she really interested? He was tempted to make something up: a glowing pebble at his feet, or misty ghosts swirling beneath the surface of the water as it met the sea.

“Nah, nothing. Just a load of seaweed washed up on the beach,” he half-joked, “I guess that means nobody died tonight.”

+

Jessica couldn’t get Steve’s story out of her head.

It niggled at her for the remainder of the week and she found herself wondering how the man in the boat thought he would be able to catch a soul. Did they have special nets? And, how did the souls get from the dead body and into the river? What did they look like? She wanted to speak with Steve about it, to find out more, although she didn’t know why. It was so weird, to be thinking these things. She knew it was stupid, but… it just wouldn’t leave her alone. Unlike Dan. What was wrong with him? She liked him, but he was just too angry all the time. She’d refused to sneak home with him that night, and as punishment, she presumed, he was ignoring her at college. He hadn’t even asked her out yet this week. She knew he’d assumed they were going to go all the way. Yeah right. She wasn’t ready and wasn’t sure Dan was the one (but on the other hand, he was the best looking bloke at college). Then, thankfully, Steve had turned up. Just as well he’d brought Dan some cider, which had calmed things down for a while.

That afternoon Jessica made sure Dan had left for home; on Friday his last class finished an hour earlier than hers. She waited outside the college gates and took her chance as Steve wandered absent-mindedly towards Shaldon.

“Steve? Hi. Look, um, can we meet up tonight? You can tell me more about that weird story. I quite liked it.”

+

“I talked to my dad about it,” teased Steve, almost enjoying himself. Jessica was hanging on his every word. It was nine o’clock and they were hiding from the rain under a tree in the unkempt Botanical Gardens, another location the village hid so well without really trying.

“Dad said he’d speak to Arthur as he hasn’t heard the story before. He says Arthur’s the one who sits in the boat. He reckons Arthur fishes at low-tide because that’s when it’s easiest to catch the biggest Flounders.”

“Really? I don’t know him. Do you reckon we could go out with him on the boat? It’d be fun. Will you ask your dad?”

Steve nodded. He was definitely enjoying himself now. “I’ll try, but what about Dan? He wouldn’t exactly be happy would he? He really doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m a retard.”

“He wouldn’t have to know. The low-tide is so early in the morning no-one will be up anyway.”

Surely this was wrong? She really wanted to follow this through. Steve felt a seed of self-doubt germinate, grow and quickly flourish; suddenly he found himself trying to back out.

“Is it worth it though Jessica? I didn’t see anything at all. It’s just an old local myth, a silly superstition. He probably is just a night fisherman. It could be pointless.”

“I just want to do something different Steve. I can’t wait until college is over. I can’t wait to get the exams out of the way. Go to uni if I’m lucky. Dan and I, we just are, and it’s boring. Please don’t tell Dan I’ve told you any of this. If I told him my plans he’d only lose his temper. He’d kill you, me too probably…”

Jessica examined the ground closely, hesitating before continuing.

“He, he hits me sometimes, on my arms with his knuckles. I haven’t told anyone else this, so please keep it to yourself. Dan can’t see beyond the outskirts of Shaldon and Teignmouth. He knows he’s going to get a job with his dad in the garage, so he’s not worried about his exams. He’s not even trying. Just wants to get off his face.

“But that story you told us, it was cool, and weird. Shaldon’s spooky sometimes, have you noticed? All the old people stare at us as if we don’t belong here. Sometimes I think they’re right. All the little lanes and dark windows in this place give me the creeps; the people give me the creeps. I thought we could look into it together, you know, as mates? Give us something to do apart from getting trashed and revising.”

Jessica’s words confirmed everything Steve had suspected about Dan: he was more than just mouth. He hit her. That cretin didn’t deserve her. Why did she even give him the time of day? But, Jessica was up for it. Just as mates though. Still, it was better than nothing. Maybe if they spent some time together she’d begin to like him more than just a friend, and that meant he’d have to come up with reasons for them to spend that time together. He had to think fast.

“Okay. Can you get out tomorrow night? The tide goes out at quarter past two. Meet me on the Bridge at two.”

+

Shaldon Bridge was once the longest in the country. Jessica decided it was certainly the coldest. The wind whipped itself horizontally down the estuary, the railings whistled eerily. The right side of her face had gone numb. She saw a hooded figure, illuminated by the lamplights that were placed at regular intervals along the bridge’s length, leaning on the handrail right in the middle of the bridge. She hoped it was Steve; she didn’t like to be out and about, alone in Shaldon, especially at this ridiculous time of night. She hoped freezing her tits off would be worth it. The figure waved at her. Who else could it be in that Paddington Bear coat?

“Alright? Thought you weren’t coming,” she tried to hide her relief.

“Hi, nearly didn’t make it, couldn’t get out of bed so soon after getting into it. I wasn’t sure if my mum and dad had gone to sleep. Their light was still on. What are we doing here anyway?”

“Well I figured that if someone dies in Shaldon tonight their soul is going to have to pass under the bridge at some stage. The village stretches back a bit doesn’t it, up to Ringmore, that’s where the graveyard of St Nicholas is, so maybe they come from there.”

Jessica contemplated the shadows forming Steve’s face.

“But, what if they die in bed and their soul goes straight into the river from their house? Standing here means we’ve got a fifty per cent chance of missing it. Even more standing here: look how wide the bridge is. We’ll be really lucky if a soul comes floating down the river right below us.”

Steve was mildly annoyed at her logic, and himself. She had a point. The Teign was wide at this point. And it was even wider upstream, further into the estuary. Jessica had obviously thought this all through. She was taking this a bit more seriously than he’d expected her to. How was he going to impress her if she out-thought him? He hid his sudden inadequacy deeper within his hood, turning away from her.

“Let’s give it a go anyway shall we? Now that we’re here.”

“I’ll stand over there,” Jessica moved further down the bridge, onto the Teignmouth side. The two of them went quiet for a few minutes, concentrating, trying to ignore the biting wind that made their eyes smart. Steve was beginning to think this was a stupid idea of his, but before he could take the lead and suggest they move on, he heard a sigh.

“It’s too damn dark to see the water,” Jessica complained. At its highest the Teign was about ten feet beneath their feet, and the Bridge’s lights didn’t reach that far. Jessica recalled that on those rare occasions when the Teign had flooded low-lying parts of the village: the football pitch, the streets that led directly onto the beach down in the heart of Shaldon, the water had never reached the Bridge and the road that crossed it. In fact, the only thing that had ever shut the Bridge that she could remember had been when one of those clay boats had broken its moorings in Teignmouth docks and wedged itself tight under the arches at high tide.

“Steve. If there is anything to see, we’re not going see it here are we? That whistling’s freaking me out too. Let’s go.”

They walked back together in silence.

But, thought Steve, what if the souls were coloured? Then they’d definitely see something. Shaldon was a small place. There wasn’t a death every night of the week was there? He couldn’t guarantee that, could he? It was a perfectly reasonable explanation why they wouldn’t be able to see anything.

No, don’t even mention it – keep it to yourself. He didn’t want to test her temper. There was no way he’d ever be able to argue with her. He felt like it was his duty to apologise for wasting her time, but again Jessica pre-empted him.

“Why don’t we go down to the village beach, just to see if the boat’s there? If it is then maybe we could wait until he comes back in. We could talk to him ourselves. Find out if we’re being stupid. We can wait in the ferry hut.”

Steve signalled his agreement. This was good. Jessica seemed happy to be out with him, even though it had gone three in the morning: not the most romantic of times and made even less so considering they were searching for the souls of Shaldon’s dead. A sudden clarity bubbled to the surface of his thoughts, surprising him: I want this to happen.

+

The light was out there.

“How long are we going to have to wait?” Jessica asked. They were snuggled together for warmth in the ferry’s hut, a wooden structure open to the elements. Inside, they perched on an uncomfortable bench, facing the beach, positioned so those waiting for the ferry could keep an eye on its progress across the Teign.

“As long as it takes,” responded Steve, feeling red and hot inside his coat. He hadn’t expected Jessica to come this close to him, “but the tide turns at about quarter to four, that’s in fifteen minutes.”

The Shaldon ferry had been running for over a hundred and fifty years. It was a black and white longboat, painted in a Tudor style. Why would anyone paint a boat like a house? Steve supposed it added character, for the tourists. Nowadays it had an engine and made the trip from Shaldon to Teignmouth every day of the year except Christmas Day, New Year’s Day, and strangely, the eleventh of July. He hadn’t been able to find out why.

“The water looks like oil in this light,” Jessica yawned and laid her head on Steve’s shoulder. “I’m nervous. What if he won’t talk to us?” Her hands wrapped themselves around his left arm. The moon showed itself from behind a bank of clouds and they watched as the little rowing boat approached the shore.

+

“Need some help Arthur?”

Steve waited for the elderly shadow to creak out of the beached rowing boat. Jessica cowered behind him, listening to the old man’s wheezing.

“Help me haul her up out of the water lad. I seen you from out there. Waiting for me is yer? Bit late for you young uns.”

Jessica barged forward.

“Hi Mr…, um, Arthur, we wanted to ask you about the souls on the low-tide. A friend of Steve’s… This is Steve by the way. I’m Jessica. How do you do? Yes, um, Steve’s dad said he’d ask you for us, didn’t he Steve? So, yes, we wanted –”

Arthur grunted, “wait up there young lady. Let me get ashore first.”

Jessica stepped back behind Steve again, embarrassed, how uncool was that you idiot? Steve must think I’m completely losing it. She watched him help the old man pull the rowing boat from the water. Not an easy task, as its timbers had soaked up a lot of water and salt over the years. Steve wondered how Arthur managed this on his own every night. He took out a bucket full of fish, wondering if Arthur was only a night fisherman; something about the way he’d looked at them made him think otherwise.

They’re not Flounders.

“Dad said you fished for Flounders at night?”

The shapes writhing in Arthur’s bucket were small and silver, not flat or spotted like a Flounder. Steve had helped his mum prepare the fish for dinner on several occasions.

“He’s wrong son. Help me turn her over.”

They heaved the boat onto its side and let it drop onto the sand, facedown, next to several other rowing boats. Arthur slowly leant over and picked up the oars, balancing them over one shoulder. Steve carried the bucket.

“Can’t leave my oars in the boat, they’ll get nicked. Young uns like you I suspect. Use em on those fires I reckon. Even nick the boats sometimes.”

“What about your fishing rod?” squeaked Jessica, slowly regaining her composure.

“Don’t need one on nights like this. The fish just jump into the boat, slippery beggars, maybe they’re trying to reach the moon,” Arthur chuckled.

Steve and Jessica followed him into the tight net of shadowed alleys and damp fishermen’s cottages that are the heart of Shaldon.

+

“Tea?”

Steve and Jessica nodded their heads as one. They were seated on twisted chairs at a pine dining table, the wood of which was marked and scoured like the fisherman’s weathered face, watching him potter.

Just how old is he? Steve looked around Arthur’s kitchen. A simple gas camping stove was set upon a wooden sideboard, next to a rusty kettle (boiling), and a stack of chipped, but washed crockery that leaned towards an unremarkable sink. What was remarkable however, were the wooden shelves that covered all four walls of the kitchen at regular intervals, all the way from the floor to the ceiling. On these shelves hundreds of empty bottles stood side by side. Clear glass bottles mingled with greens, yellows, and browns. The room stank like the rowing boat, of salt and seaweed, and of something else, a hidden, faint sweetness.

Arthur waved his hands at the walls dismissively, second-guessing Steve’s thoughts.

“I collect bottles. Always washing up on the beach, floating around in the sea. I bring em in, give em a wash and set em down here. Give em a home. Keeps the waters clean. Upstairs are the special ones. Found none tonight though. Now, you two: milk? Sugar?”

The fisherman looked at them with a piercing stare. His eyes were full of vitality, despite his angular, aged frame. Steve nodded and Jessica shook her head. Arthur sighed, “I’ll let you add your own then.” The old man shuffled around the kitchen, dropping tealeaves into a pot, pouring in the hot water.

“So. Lad. I know your father. But he doesn’t know me very well obviously, or these waters. He’s been fishing off the coast here for twenty years or more hasn’t he? Perhaps he’d do better making ice cream for the grockels! No Flounder finds itself swimming in that place on the Teign I can tell you. Too many currents you see, each one fighting against the other. No peace on the riverbed there. No riverbed to talk of really. That’s the Teign’s deepwater passage, and so narrow ain’t it? Always thought it a miracle that the big ships squeeze themselves through into the harbour. Sometimes they don’t and that’s a sight you wouldn’t want to miss. You could throw a stone from Shaldon Beach and crack one of they Teignmouth scrotes on the back of the head if you so wished.”

They watched in silence as Arthur amused himself, pouring the now flavoured water through a strainer and handed each of them a gloriously hot mug of tea.

“Thanks,” Jessica murmured. Steve noted she took hers black, with no sugar. He added a little milk to his own. There was nothing to stir it with. Arthur sat down opposite them. Resigned expectancy seeped from the old man. Steve and Jessica glanced at each other, both trying to decide what to say, and who should say it.  Steve saw Jessica’s go-on say it look and averted his eyes quickly. It was Arthur who broke the silence again.

“So what do you want to talk with me about then? I take it you do want to talk to me, an not just look at me?” Arthur addressed Steve, as if, after Jessica’s outburst, he’d already made a judgment on who was the leader of this little expedition. Steve thought he might well be wrong, but answered the old fisherman’s question, as Arthur was staring at him intently. And so was Jessica, better make this good.

“Thanks for the tea Arthur. Yeah. We’re doing some research into local myths and stuff, for college? My friend told me that when people died in Shaldon their souls, or spirits, are taken away on the low tide, just before morning on the night they died. He told me you watched the spirits to make sure they go on their way? It’s probably a load of crap,” Steve looked at Jessica, “but we wanted to see what you could tell us. We thought you might let us go out with you sometime? You know, to see the souls.”

“Did you now? Low tides ain’t always this time of the clock. They goes round with the sun and the moon, rising and falling. You could come out with me on the afternoon tide, but not at night, wouldn’t be right.”

Jessica interrupted, “So are you saying you do watch the souls go out?”

Arthur shifted his gaze, “It ain’t my place to say young lady. I fish when I’m out there, no sense not fishing when you’re on the water, is there? These fishes they do jump into my boat, always have. I have to fight off the seagulls, they go mad for em. The cormorants, they’re the clever ones. They dive down for em where I can’t reach. Sometimes they come up with other things, crabs and starfish. It’s written in the Village Book, see. The tradition should be kept on with. That’s what a tradition is. So I goes out at low tide and watch the water. Been going out for as long as I can remember. Not every night mind you. Can’t be there all the time, can I?”

“But, what have you seen?” Jessica was obviously getting fed up with Arthur’s ramblings.

“I seen things that I can’t explain, but that happens on that television all the time too. Happens every day in Shaldon. If you live here as long as I have, you’d know –”

“So, what happens if people die after low tide? Does their soul wait until the next low tide? Could we see them in the day? You mentioned a ‘Village Book’. Where’s that kept? Could we see that too?”

“Young lady,” Arthur paused for effect, hoping Jessica might learn the importance of timing, “please do not interrupt… People see what they want to see. People believe in stuff that their head tells em not to, but that their heart won’t let em forget… I goes out because it’s written like that. Just as my father did, and his father…anyway, you gets the gist.

“And, yes, I seen some things in the water, don’t know what they were though. Could be just fish or seaweed deep down in the current. Not too bothered to think about what they were either. You can tell your teachers that if you like.”

Arthur finished his tea with a dramatic gesture, “And now, it’s late, or early, so I’d like to go to me bed if that’s all right with you two?”

They thanked Arthur for his tea and time. On his way out, Steve glanced at the bucket the old man had placed next to the back door. The fish were still squirming.

As they negotiated their way out of the maze of alleyways, not helped by the lack of streetlights, Jessica asked him, “So what do you think? He didn’t tell us much did he? The ‘Village Book’? My arse. He was just playing with us. There’s nothing to the story is there? He’s just a knackered old fisherman.”

Steve felt a surge of desperation. Arthur had been evasive in his answers. He had to keep her interest. She’d find someone else to befriend, forget him and move on. Do her exams and leave Shaldon. He’d not have another chance.

“He didn’t deny it though did he? I mean he didn’t say it was true, but… um…” He was losing the thread, confusing himself. Think. “Um… look Jessica, we haven’t been out there yet, have we? Maybe it is a load of bollocks, but give it one more night. He said he’d seen some weird stuff didn’t he? Let’s meet at Ness Beach on Monday night at half past three. We’ll get a boat, go out and see for ourselves? What do you say? It’s still better than getting trashed, isn’t it?” Christ, did he sound as desperate as he felt?

Jessica yawned.

+

Thick fog rolled off the River Teign. It wrapped itself around the Ness, flowing onto the beach where Jessica waited for Steve. She was early. Enveloping her, a sea fog clashed with the sodden silence, approaching silently from somewhere. She imagined the fog rising up and out of the water itself. She shivered.

Where is he? It was just before three. On Halloween night of all nights! What was I thinking? Steve wasn’t going to get a boat in this weather. He’s probably tucked up in bed, snoring his geek arse off. Typical. The sooner I get out of this shithole place the better. You can’t rely on anyone. She liked Steve, but was beginning to think he might be just as much of a loser as the rest of them.

Jessica peered out into the gloom, funny how the fog seems to lighten the night. Nevertheless, it was too opaque for her to discern any details. She didn’t think mad old Arthur would be out there tonight. It was far too dangerous for someone so past it. And if he were out there, the light from his boat would surely be insufficient to reach her at the very edge of Ness Beach. She could hear the outgoing Teign’s waters meeting the vast black volume of the sea only metres from where she stood.

The silence suddenly deepened, the waves calmed, the water lapping at her feet missed its rhythm, pausing… she found she was holding her breath. The fog reacted with an unseen pressure and lifted perceptibly a few feet into the air. From up above the cliff, towards the back of the village she thought, but couldn’t really tell, there was a low whump followed by a crackling and cracking, like a vast pillow had been smacked down onto a field of dry wheat. As if released, the fog pushed down on her again with all its weight.

Jessica exhaled and a screaming filled the air. She whirled around to look up at the cliffs above her. There was movement in the fog as many things swooped through its cobwebby textures. The screaming wasn’t coming from the village. It was passing over her head. She turned back to face the sea, it was out there, over the water now: the screams of seagulls. She put her hands over her ears so piercing were their cries. One night she’d heard foxes fighting and screaming at each other outside her house. They’d sounded like babies in agony. That was bad, but this was unbearable. Beneath the screaming she heard a splash, another. Something was diving into the water, again a splash: cormorants? They’re the clever ones…

Waves broke across her shoes and Jessica took a step back, away from the splashing.

Minutes passed, perhaps hours, and she became progressively uneasy, extremely aware that she was alone.

“Steve? Where the HELL are you?”

The fog gulped down her words. Were those footsteps echoing along the smuggler’s tunnel? He was here at last, wasn’t he?

“You idiot! Where were you?”

She was relieved he hadn’t forgotten her. She turned around. Was that dark circular shape the entrance to the tunnel? She looked again, the shape moved with her gaze. The fog was playing tricks with her. She closed her eyes and listened: nothing, just the screaming of unseen seagulls.

She couldn’t stay here much longer. She felt as if the world had faded away while she’d been standing here. At this moment, she truly believed she would walk into the fog and find nothing: the sandstone cliffs that towered two hundred feet or so above her would be gone. Shaldon would be gone. She would simply walk, and walk, alone into the fog.

+

“Jessica?”

Steve’s voice took a long time to reach her in the bitter air. A strong smell of petrol invaded the beach. His silhouette drifted into focus, then his features. Half his face was red-raw, his hair singed. One eye was glued shut, his right arm unmoving by his side.

“Steve. What, what happened to you?”

He stopped a few paces from her and indicated with a stiff nod of his head.

“Watch the water, Jessica.”

The seagulls quietened and she turned back to the sea. A wave soaked her up to the knees, dragged itself out into the fog. How could that be? The tide was going out wasn’t it? She looked at the water’s edge. No more waves came.

Jessica saw colour. Yellow and pink pebbles stood out from the greys, browns and greens of eroded stone and stinking seaweed. Three shimmering pebbles lay at her feet. Could it be? She bent down and picked one up. It was warm. Something familiar… she gasped.

“Dan?” God she could taste him: his tongue, teeth. He walked through her. She felt the pull of him as he moved somewhere unseen, somewhere near perhaps. Don’t go!

He didn’t, not yet.

Steve, Dan, or was it her? Someone said, “It’s true.”

She tasted heat and surprise, utter helplessness and a gradual build up of incendiary pain she’d never recover from. Jessica fell to her knees. Her stomach flipped and she vomited, as she understood what Steve had done. He’d murdered Dan and his parents, just to show her.

“Oh God, what’ve you done? I wanted to believe, I really did. You didn’t need to prove it to me. You didn’t need to kill anyone.”

“I wanted you to see…”

Steve’s voice broke and Jessica thought she heard him sobbing.

“Get away from me,” she cried into the sand.

+

Distant sirens sounded, muffled somewhere along the enshrouded estuary.

Jessica looked at the other pebbles; they were losing their colour. She didn’t want to touch them, but felt she should, Dan’s mum and dad? Who else could they be?

The fog moved suddenly, imploding, parting in panic as a white shape landed. In the second it took Jessica to realise it was a seagull the bird grabbed the two pebbles in its heavy beak and gulped them down greedily. It looked at her, its eyes betraying knowledge, or a desire, that she tried to deny.  The powerful bird twisted on its thin legs and pushed off with its webbed feet. She heard one, two beats of its strong wings. Then silence.

+

Would it work?

What if she walked back home, taking the pebble with her? Would Dan be there next morning, as if nothing had happened? Would he be all burnt up? She refused to even think the phrase, bring him back to life. But how would she do it? It was a pebble for God’s sake; a little bit of rock. Would planting it work? Should she even consider doing this? It must be against nature. But what if it is nature? What if this IS the way things are done?

And Dan’s parents, Stan and Jill; the seagull had eaten them. One summer, walking on the Dawlish Green, she’d seen a seagull swoop down and carry off a tiny duckling. The seagull had done the same thing to them. Carried them off somewhere. It knew. What did that make seagulls? Angels? Something worse? Shit, she couldn’t bear to think about it.

Jessica felt Steve watching her. His figure was blurring, thinning as the fog thickened.

“You knew all along it was true didn’t you? Why couldn’t you have had some patience?”

She had wanted it to be true so badly; wanted something new and exciting, something more out of her life in Shaldon. But not like this.

Steve remained silent, hardly there.

And what about Dan? Did she want him back? He wanted to own her. To keep her locked up in this tiny place, this damn village. She had always known that. Why would she want a violent and selfish person like him back in her life? Did he deserve another chance?

Jessica watched the fog, hovering above the black water, filling the air. She could return the pebble to the sea. Throw it into the greyness and listen for its splash. Let Dan continue whatever journey he had in front of him. Would it be cruel to prevent him from doing so? She’d seen him one last time, whether or not she’d wanted to.

She squeezed her hands around the cooling pebble, crushing it to her palms, enclosing it wholly within her stiff fingers. What if it went completely cold? It didn’t matter now she supposed. Dan’s smell, his violence, her memory of his abuse, everything about him had merged within her, and with the fog, as she stood debating with herself. She felt herself shying away from his presence.

She wondered if this feeling would fade over time. Would returning the pebble to the sea cut off the sensation immediately? Did she want that? There were simply no answers to questions such as these. Darker possibilities filled her thoughts.

I’m scared. Dan didn’t want me to leave. What if he doesn’t fade away? Will he try to keep me here, to rot in Shaldon?

Jessica put the pebble into her right hand, closed her eyes, and threw it as far into the fog as she could. She listened for its splash, but heard nothing. She turned around to face Steve.

The beach was empty.

++++

All words © Mathew F. Riley

Contact: ghos...@gmail.com; mathewfriley.com

Illustrations by Owen Priestley; 20three.com

PDF designed by Matt Hawdon

Thanks to Joseph D’Lacey, Johnny Mains and Kealan Patrick Burke for editorial advice

Tide times by Pike Ward Ltd; pikeward.co.uk

© People's Republic of South Devon, 2011. | Permalink | No comment | Add to del.icio.us

Feed enhanced by Better Feed from Ozh