beats per minute
Authors: Alex Mae
DEDICATION
for
my mum
CONTENTS
Chapter Three: Meetings by Moonlight
Chapter Eight: Body, Heart, Brain
Chapter Nine: More than Kin, Less than Kind
Chapter Seventeen: Out on the Town
Chapter Twenty One: Fearful Symmetry
One: The Island
The bright red lights gleamed in the darkness, illuminating
the figure as it sprang bolt upright in bed.
Letting out a deep, shuddering sigh as she fought to catch
her breath, the disturbing images of the nightmare still dancing in front of
her eyes, Raegan turned to look at the clock. The lurid neon informed her that
it was 2:58, as she expected, and she rolled down onto her back with a sigh.
Staring into the blackness with sleep-fogged eyes, she tried
to quiet the still frantic beating of her heart. Every night since moving to
Ramsey, she had woken at this exact time, in this way – but with little memory
of what had caused her to jolt violently out of sleep. For the first time,
tonight, as she inhabited the uncomfortable, unusual place between slumber and
wakefulness, she tried to make sense of the fuzzy images that still littered
her mind. If she found some connection, perhaps she would remember. For despite
the forgetfulness she was uncannily certain that each night the dream was the
same...
A hooded figure and a white hand
The white hand and
An hourglass
An hourglass turning
An hourglass turning over
It was no good.
Weights were bearing down on her eyelids. She couldn’t hold
on. Letting go, she fell silently down, down, down into black, velvety sleep.
***
The sun was still low on the horizon when the alarm buzzed
the next morning. Despite the chill of the early morning air, the sky over the
farm was a clear, miraculous blue.
The promise of a beautiful day didn’t rouse Raegan from her
pit. It was the clattering and low murmuring vibrating up from the kitchen that
eventually forced her up and out, pushing through the heavy oak door of her
bedroom and trying not to creak the floorboards too much as she picked her way
over the gaps in the threadbare carpet.
The rusty shower squeaked uneasily into life. Trickles of
warmth soothed her aching body, which was weirdly sore this morning; she could
almost hear the creaking as, snail-like, she bent down to pick up the soap.
Ordinarily, Raegan liked to hop in and out of the shower; performing all daily
tasks at breakneck speed was a practice she had adopted over the past few
months, and it was working pretty well, ta very much.
The
less time for pause the better.
Today, however, her body just wouldn’t co-operate, and so
she stood, eyes closed tightly, soap cradled in her hands, her waterlogged,
tangled red hair streaming down her sore back.
And then – in an unbidden, fierce flash behind her eyelids –
there it was.
The image of the pale, broken body.
So very pale.
Fingers outstretched; white starfish against the inky night.
Not stars.
Translucent skin on tarmac.
Her eyes popped open and the steaming water nearly blinded
her. She was grateful for the distraction.
It had been three months but she was still surprised at the
pain.
Frantically, she rubbed her eyes, the soap falling from
nerveless fingers to skid across the slippery floor. White fingers... there
they were again, but they weren’t.... they weren’t. Not her mother’s hands,
this time.
As quickly as it had crept in, the image disappeared,
leaving Raegan with the puzzled,
nagging
feeling which
lived in the pit of her stomach most mornings. It was like she’d forgotten
something, but she couldn’t imagine what, in her current existence, would
warrant remembering.
A loud knock startled her out of her reverie.
‘Raegan,’
came
Bridey’s voice.
‘Chop chop!
Breakfast!’
The water was now tepid.
‘Raegan?’
‘Coming.’
***
Some mornings, after breakfast, Raegan liked to walk up into
the cliffs and stare out to the Irish
sea
. If she
looked in a certain direction there was nothing for miles. Nothing but quiet
and space and endless water. She had arrived in early January, to an angry sky
and storm clouds; now colour was beginning to break through the gloom so
characteristic of February. Like Dorothy moving into Technicolor, the grey sky
and stark brown of the landscape were slowly bleeding into patches of yellow as
the daffodils pushed through, accompanied by the occasional bluebell. Spring
was on its way.
Countless hours passed as she sat in her favourite spot, an
overturned tree with its roots still half in the ground, twisted and bleached
white by the sun, looking out with unseeing eyes. Time would simply slip away
without a thought to trouble her.
Today, however, her mind would not stop. For the first time
Raegan was so keen for a distraction that she did not delay her appearance at
the breakfast table. Another first was how quietly she managed to get down the
old stairs, for once bypassing the ubiquitous creaks which always signalled her
arrival.
‘A gift, perhaps.
She might welcome
it.’
There was a long silence from inside the kitchen as Raegan
paused at the foot of the stairs, wondering if she had heard correctly. They
couldn’t be talking about her – it wasn’t her birthday for a few weeks, and her
grandparents were not big spenders.
‘She’ll not wear it.’ The low rumble of her grandfather’s
Irish brogue surprised her. He tended to communicate only through grunts and
jerks of his head; or perhaps this was only in the company of his granddaughter
and her ‘city’ ways, whom and which he seemed to regard with equal parts
suspicion and dislike.
‘It’s worth a try. What else can we do? Unless... oh, Con,
could we not tell her
something-
‘
‘Bridey.’
‘Not everything! In fact, I’m sure it would be enough to
just mention how much it would have meant to her father-‘
‘
Bridey. No.’
There was a scraping sound, as if
her
grandfather had got up suddenly. Raegan froze. ‘I will not talk about this
again.’
‘Oh, Con, my love.
You can’t
protect her forever.’
Just the word ‘father’ made Raegan’s heart leap into her
throat - but it didn’t mean they were talking about her, she reminded herself.
Her grandmother worried about everything and everybody. Add in a good measure
of superstition
-
her grandparents had lived
alone on this island for too long, in Raegan’s opinion – and suddenly a tense
conversation in hushed voices didn’t seem all that surprising. It didn’t mean
they were talking about their son. They never spoke about him…
The floorboard gave an ominously loud squeak; unwittingly,
she had shifted her weight, straining towards the door. There was an answering
pause from inside the kitchen as she cowered, sure that her grandfather’s
glowering form would soon appear in the doorway. Instead she was met with
Bridey’s voice, a little higher than usual:
‘Raegan, is that you, dear?
Her breath escaped in a shallow gasp. Tripping over
her own feet as she pushed open the door, Raegan’s reply was a flustered
squeak: ‘Morning, Gran.’
The kitchen was panelled with heavy wood, with a ceiling low
enough to oppress and wide enough to give the impression of distance while
allowing for a quick getaway. True to the fact, her grandparents now occupied
opposite ends. It was as if no conversation had ever taken place. With Bridey
fascinated by the contents of her stove and Con obscured by the double spread
map and weather chart he examined every day, Raegan soon found that eye contact
was impossible – which was fine by her.
She slid noiselessly into her seat at the big scrubbed
table, aware of her grandfather’s large bulk like a stone at the end. The quiet
of the kitchen was punctuated only by the slamming of the oven door and the
rustling of Con’s paper as one of his huge hands appeared from behind it to
cradle a veritable tankard of mud-like coffee. But Raegan could not help the
loud clinking of her cutlery as she dug into the platter of hot oatcakes,
crispy bacon and tomatoes Bridey placed on the table. Starving, she was
initially too intent on shovelling food into her mouth to mind the shrieking of
fork against plate – until she gradually became aware that Con had put the
survey down. His eyes were now fixed on her.
Con O’Roarke was scary. A huge bear of a man, his weathered
skin was ruddy after years of toiling outdoors, alone, in punishing conditions.
He prized two things above all else: his birds, which he tended on a fulltime
basis as Warden of Ramsey Island; and his Bridey. He had known his
granddaughter for a few short weeks and had shown little patience with her.
Today, however, his blue eyes – which peered out from under heavy black brows
and a grizzled mane of grey hair – were appraising rather than hostile.
‘I could use your help, Raegan,’ he said gruffly after a
moment.
Raegan gawped. After a moment where her tongue seemed to
flap aimlessly around in her mouth, she choked out: ‘Yes. I mean- er. Sure.
What with?’
‘We were just discussing it,’ he continued. Bridey smiled
anxiously. ‘One of our island girls has a daughter who helps out here sometimes,
too. Her birthday’s coming up.’ Over recent weeks an influx of temporary
workers had appeared on the island in preparation for the tourist season. ‘I’m
going into town anyway, and you’ll be about her age, sure.’
‘So- you want me to come?
With you?’
‘And choose her present,’ Con said impatiently. ‘You’ll know
better than Gran and me what she’d like.’
With that, the discussion was closed. Con turned his
attention back to his survey, leaving his granddaughter to ponder the
terrifying prospect of spending more than a few minutes unchaperoned in his
presence.
***
It was dark by the time they returned, the twinkling lights
of the tiny dock beckoning hazily through the fog. Con navigated the rough sea
at a discomforting speed, the rickety boat veering haphazardly from side to
side, but Raegan barely noticed. It had been a strange day; and even after
everything that had happened, Con’s behaviour remained confusing as ever.
Trying to work him out left
her
with an aching head
and even more questions but she couldn’t stop. Why did he make her come with
him, today? What had been the point of it all? The only thing she knew for sure
was that he seemed to be even less keen on her now than when they set out. The
gloomy silence on the boat was both a sad return to form and an echo of their
grim outward journey from the island.
The outing had not got off to a good start. Unprepared for
the turbulence of the sea, Raegan had been green and clinging to the side of
the boat within moments. Con did his best to pretend she was not there. When at
last they came to rest, embarrassed by her wimpishness, Raegan scrambled to her
feet with as much pep as humanly possible. She even managed a wobbly smile.
‘Great view.’
‘That it is,’ Con replied in a low voice, which became
loaded with sarcasm as he turned to face her. ‘Not that I reckon you’ve been
taking much notice, sure. Give us your hand.’
Even standing down on the dock he seemed to tower above her.
When Raegan hesitated, he sighed irritably. ‘So I can help you down! Have you never
been on a boat before?’ Flushing, she complied, eyes widening as he lifted her
out of the boat and set her down as if she weighed no more than the wispiest
feather, before taking off walking at quite a pace.
As they picked their way through the cobbled streets into
the town of St Jude’s, picturesquely situated on the Pembrokeshire coast,
Raegan was amazed by the number of people who stopped to say hello. Even more
astonishing was the way that her grandfather reacted, almost shyly responding
that they couldn’t stop, they were in a hurry. That struck Raegan as weird,
though – they weren’t really in a hurry, as far as she knew. She couldn’t help
but wonder if her grandfather’s haste was something to do with her: after all,
an introduction would mean admitting they were related.
He was half away up Crown Street, his long stride covering
the distance in no time, and Raegan hurried to catch up. ‘Everyone seems so
friendly,’ she commented, as two older ladies, one very glamorous with golden
swept back hair and pearls, arm in arm with her companion, headscarfed in
eyewatering cerise, waved at them from across the road.
Watching her return the wave with a curious expression on
his face, Con replied carefully, ‘It’s a small community, so it is. You live in
each other’s pockets.’
Still gazing around her, Raegan said nothing.
‘Lots of families,’ Con continued, as his eye fell on a
woman with a large twin buggy coming towards them. Lingering for a moment, the
corners of his mouth turned up slightly as the two babies inside waved fat
little fists at him, and then he sidestepped off the kerb to let them pass.
‘Can see why.
Good place for the little ones. Of course, we
didn’t come here until long after-
‘ Abruptly
, he
caught himself and stopped talking. Raegan’s heart began to beat faster,
thudding in her ears. He was about to mention her father, she was sure of it.
Suddenly Con halted and turned towards her. Her breath caught in her throat.
‘Fancy an ice?’
It took a moment for the words, so unrelated, to sink in. ‘
An
...
what
?’
‘From there!’ Con jerked his thumb toward the ice-blue
shop behind him, which Raegan now noticed bore the jovial, curly-scripted
words, ‘TOM’S PARLOUR: THE NICEST ICES’. ‘I’ll get you one, sure. I thought all
kids loved ice cream.’
Raegan found herself grinning.
‘Ace.
I could murder a chocolate chip.
And chocolate sauce, and a
flake, if they have them.
Basically, anything
chocolate.’