Lucas (18 page)

‘We were sitting down.'

‘For three hours?'

I shrugged. ‘We were talking.'

He looked at me for a long time. It wasn't a threatening look, it wasn't even a questioning look, it was a look that said –
this is us, this is me and you, this is all we've got. You don't have to lie to me
.

I didn't like lying to him, I hated myself for it. But I didn't seem to have any choice. And besides, I could hear the echo of Lucas's voice in my head:

What are you going to tell him?

About what?

Me
.

I'll just tell him the truth
.

One day you will
…

I didn't know what he'd meant at the time, but I think I do now. I think he meant this – this story. This is my ‘one day'. This is my truth. I think I knew, even then, that it would always come out, and that when it did Dad would understand. And I think he knew it, too.

‘OK,' he said, with a smile. ‘I won't embarrass you any more.' He drained the whiskey from his glass. ‘Just be careful, Cait. All right? Please, be very careful.'

I nodded. My throat was too tight to speak.

Dad got up and rinsed his glass in the sink. With his
back to me, he said, ‘There's plenty of hot water if you want a bath.'

‘I had a bath this morning.'

‘Your hair didn't smell of wood smoke this morning.'

The next day I finally got hold of Simon on the phone and apologised for missing him on Friday. He seemed all right about it, although I sensed a slightly wary tone to his voice. That wasn't surprising, really. I'd let him down, I'd humiliated him, he had a right to be wary.

We talked about this and that for a while, mostly RSPCA stuff. I did my best to sound interested, but Simon isn't the most gripping of story-tellers, and as he mumbled on about the latest developments with the oil-tankers and the caravan park, my mind drifted back to what Lucas had said when I'd told him that if people hadn't been so greedy there'd still be some oysters left.
Left for who?
he'd asked. I'd thought it was a flippant remark at the time, but now I wasn't so sure. Those three little words had set me thinking, and I was beginning to ask myself questions that I'd never even thought of before: who
are
we trying to save the planet for? for ourselves? for our children? for our children's children? isn't that unbelievably selfish? self-important? self-gratifying? and if we're
not
trying to save the planet for our own sake, then what
are
we doing? what right do we have to decide the fate of any given thing? who are we to say that a whale has more value than a mosquito? a gorilla more importance than a fly? a panda more worth than a rat? why
does
it matter if we strip every single oyster from the sea? they're all going to die anyway, aren't they? doesn't everything go round and round, never really changing …?

They were just questions. I didn't have any answers.

Simon had heard about the incident at the cliffs. His dad had heard from someone at the pub – who'd heard from someone whose brother knew someone who'd actually
been
there – that young Kylie Coombe had dived from the raft in an effort to impress some boys on the beach.

‘That's rubbish,' I said. ‘She fell off the raft. I was there, Simon, I saw it happen. She slipped and fell, that's all.'

‘What about this gypsy boy?'

‘Oh, Christ! Not you, too?'

‘What?'

‘He's not a
gypsy
. Why does everyone think he's a gypsy? He's just a boy. And even if he
was
a gypsy … I mean, so what? What's wrong with gypsies? They're not monsters, are they? God! What's the matter with people around here? It's like living with a bunch of damn hillbillies.'

The line was quiet.

‘I didn't mean you,' I sighed. ‘Simon?'

‘I was only asking.'

‘I know … I'm sorry. It just annoys me when people make stupid assumptions about things they don't understand. What did you hear about Luc—' I stopped myself just in time. ‘What did you hear about this boy? What are they saying about him?'

He hesitated. I think my outburst had frightened him a little. ‘It depends who you listen to,' he said cautiously. ‘According to some, Kylie was in trouble. The sea was a bit rough and she was heading for the rocks when the boy dived in and pulled her out.'

‘And according to others?'

He lowered his voice. ‘Ellen's saying that he was … you know … that he was messing around with her. She says she's got witnesses to back her up.'

‘Who?'

‘I don't know – I'm only telling you what I've heard.'

I took a deep breath, calming myself. ‘Listen, Simon,' I said. ‘You tell your dad, and anyone else who wants to know, that Ellen Coombe is a liar. I was there, I saw the whole thing. Kylie was drowning. While everyone else was standing around doing nothing, Lucas dived in and saved her. He didn't touch her, he didn't hurt her, he didn't do anything wrong. All right? He didn't do
anything
wrong.'

‘OK,' he said defensively.

‘Look, I'm not having a go at you or your dad. I know it's not your fault. I'm just telling you what happened.'

There was a short silence. Then Simon said, ‘How do you know his name?'

‘What?'

‘You called him Lucas.'

‘Did I?'

‘Yes.'

Barely pausing to think, I said, ‘Joe Rampton told me. Lucas did some work for him. That's what he said his name was … Lucas … Old Joe told me.'

‘I see.'

He didn't sound too convinced – but, frankly, I wasn't that bothered. Why should I be? I had my own life to lead, didn't I? I didn't have to tell Simon everything. I mean, it wasn't as if he was my
boyfriend
or anything. And even if he was … well, he wasn't. He was just a friend. If I didn't want him to know about Lucas … well, so what?

The more you lie, the easier it gets.

The only trouble is, after a while you end up lying to yourself.

Anyway, I arranged to meet with Simon on Wednesday to finalise our arrangements for the festival. I didn't feel
too enthusiastic about it, and I suppose – if I'm honest – I was just trying to make amends for letting him down on Friday. It was a bit awkward at first. I didn't know how he'd react if I suggested he come over here, but I didn't really want to meet him at his house, either. It was hard to find the right words. He wasn't much help, he just kept humming and ha-ing while I jabbered away like a fool. In the end I simply said, ‘All right, I'll see you here at six. OK?'

‘At your house?'

‘Yes. Wednesday. Six o'clock.'

‘Uh … right, OK.'

‘And don't worry,' I said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘I'll be here. I promise. I'll be waiting at the door … if I'm not …' I tried to think of something funny to say, some hilarious forfeit I'd make if I broke my word. But I couldn't think of a damn thing. So I just said, ‘I'll be here. Trust me.'

‘OK,' he mumbled.

Afterwards I went upstairs and wrote
SIMON – WED @ 6
on a dozen large Post-it notes, and stuck the notes all around my room. On the walls, on the clock, on the ceiling above my bed, on the mirror, I even stuck one in my knicker drawer.

It was all very well trying to kid myself that I didn't care, that I wasn't bothered, that I had my own life to lead … but I still had a conscience. My heart might not care, but my head knew better.

I spent the rest of the day sitting around in my room doing nothing – reading, thinking, staring out of the window – just waiting for the hours to pass. I didn't know what I was waiting for. I didn't really care.

The house had a strange feel to it. It felt cold and clammy, like a house that's been empty for a long time. Windows rattled in the wind. Floorboards creaked. The air sighed in the weary light. I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I could hear the water tank dripping in the attic –
tack, tock, tock … tack, tock, tock … tack, tock, tock
– like a hesitant clock. It was a strangely hypnotic sound, and as I listened to it my mind drifted up through the ceiling and I imagined the draught of cold attic air and the smell of soot and old wood. In my mind I could see the dark beams and the scarred rafters and the light of the sky glinting through the cracked slate tiles. I could hear the rain ticking on the roof and birds scratching in the eaves … and I was there. I was a child again, playing alone in my attic world. It was a world of dusty things hanging from beams: coils of rope, shapeless bags, old coats, cardboard boxes, bits of wood, rolls of carpet, tins of paint, broken suitcases, stacks of yellowed newspapers tied with string … it was a world that was anything I wanted it to be. I could make a den out of an old piece of sheet draped over the beams and pretend I was marooned on a desert island, or lost in the woods …

A door slammed downstairs, and the memory vanished.

I was back in my room again. I wasn't a child. I was fifteen years old. In less than a year I'd be old enough to get married and have a child of my own. The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

T
uesday started off dull and cold, but as the day wore on the sun rose through a haze of mist and the over-cast sky gradually blossomed into a glorious sheen of blue. By mid-afternoon the air was filled with a sweltering heat that turned your limbs to lead. It was almost too hot to move. Even the sea seemed to be suffering. It just lay there, barely stirring in the heat, too breathless to raise a breeze.

Dad and I drove into the village to pick up some groceries and a couple of magazines. We got the groceries from the village store. It's more expensive than Sainsbury's or Tesco's on the mainland, but Dad has a friendly arrangement with the man who runs the store – Shev Patel. Dad buys his groceries from Shev, and Shev keeps a supply of Irish whiskey for him. They both cheat, of course. Dad gets Rita Gray to buy him stuff from Sainsbury's whenever she goes, and Shev overcharges Dad for the whiskey. But neither of them seems to mind.

When we got back to the house there was a police car parked in the yard and Lenny Craine was sitting on the front step mopping his brow. He's a big man, with one of those big men's bellies that seem to start at the neck and continue down to the knees. He's scruffy, too. His tunic was undone, his shirt unbuttoned, and his face was glistening red. Dad parked the car and Lenny came over and helped us inside with the shopping.

In the kitchen, Dad got cold beers for himself and Lenny, and a Coke for me, and we all sat down at the table. Lenny had to pull the chair away from the table to make room for his belly. A slight groan escaped from his lips as he lowered himself into the chair, a mixture of tiredness and the strain of being overweight. He popped his beer, took a long drink, then wiped the froth from his mouth. He looked worn out. Dark circles ringed his eyes and his skin was sallow. His sparse hair had that lustreless look that comes from working too hard.

Dad was obviously of the same opinion. ‘I hope you don't mind me saying, Len, but you look like crap.'

Lenny smiled. ‘Thanks.' He sipped his beer and looked at me. ‘And how are you, Caitlin? Still keeping your old dad on the straight and narrow?' His tone was cheery but I could sense the concern in his eyes. He really cared about Dad.

‘I'm fine,' I said. ‘Everything's fine.'

‘Good,' he said. ‘I hear Dom's back?'

‘Not so you'd notice,' Dad said sourly.

He offered Lenny a cigarette.

Lenny shook his head and pulled some papers from his pocket. He laid them out on the table. ‘I need to take your statements about what happened at the regatta.'

‘Is Ellen Coombe still pressing charges?' Dad asked.

Lenny sighed. ‘I don't think she knows
what
she's doing. One minute she's ranting and raving about having the boy locked up, the next she's complaining about police harassment. I think she just enjoys being in the limelight.'

‘So why don't you tell her to get lost? You know it's all bullshit.'

Lenny looked hesitant. ‘It's a bit more complicated than that.'

‘What do you mean?'

Lenny stared at the table for a moment without answering. Eventually he said, ‘Look, we have to be extremely careful with this kind of thing. You know what it's been like with all the recent media coverage. We have to make sure that every angle is covered, we have to be thorough.'

‘So?' said Dad.

Lenny went on. ‘I've talked to everyone who was on the cliffs that day, at least everyone who admits to being there. And I've also spoken at length with the boy.'

‘You've interviewed Lucas?' I said.

Lenny nodded. ‘I had to.'

‘What did he say?'

He looked at me. ‘How well do you know him?'

Suddenly, the room seemed very quiet. I could hear my heart beating. When I spoke I couldn't keep a tremor from my voice.

‘I don't know him very well,' I said. ‘I've met him on the beach a couple of times, that's all.'

Lenny nodded slowly. He looked at Dad. ‘Mac?'

Dad shook his head. ‘I've not had the pleasure.'

Lenny turned to me again. ‘What do you think of him?'

I could feel myself blushing. ‘I think … well, I don't know … I think he's nice. I know he wouldn't hurt anyone. He
didn't
hurt anyone.'

Lenny didn't say anything, he just looked at me. There was a strange look in his eye, a look that was almost fearful, but not quite. An odd mixture of curiosity, wariness, and uncertainty.

‘Did he tell you anything about himself?' he asked me.

‘Not really,' I said. ‘What did he tell you?'