Lucas (31 page)

Under the circumstances, I don't think it was a bad decision. It probably wasn't the most
objective
choice I've ever made, but I'd like to think that's understandable. Even so, I can't help feeling that if I'd been a bit more thoughtful I might have realised … I might have done something else … I might have changed things. If I'd known … I would have tried to stop it … I would have tried. But I didn't. I didn't know. How could I?

I just did what I thought was right.

I thought I was
right
.

As the festival drew to a close, I began to think the worst of the day was over. I certainly hoped so. I was hot and tired, my feet ached, my clothes were dirty and damp with sweat, and my emotions were so mixed up I'd forgotten what it was like to feel normal. I was hungry, too. All I'd had throughout the day was a couple of bags of crisps and about a dozen cans of cheap and gassy Coke. My mouth felt sweet and sticky and I had a belly full of wind. All in all, I felt like – and probably looked like – crap. Mrs Reed, on the other hand, was still as fresh as a daisy. Chatting away, smiling, humming and singing to herself, with her clothes clean and dry and her skin as cool as you like … it was maddening. Simon was beginning to get on my nerves, as well. He'd hardly said a word since the incident with Jamie. He wasn't nasty or anything, just sulky. I didn't blame him for that. I expect he felt left out, cut off, perhaps even embarrassed. I just wished he'd
do
something about it instead of being so
meek
all the time. I wanted him to swear at me or give me a dirty look or something … anything. But all he did was mope around with a hurt but inoffensive look on his face. It was driving me mad.

By about quarter to six, I'd just about had enough.
While Simon and Mrs Reed were busy trying to persuade a man with a beard that they didn't have anything against caravanning
per se
, I snuck off to the back of the stall and sat down on a stool, determined to stay there until the day was over. It wouldn't be long now. Everything was winding down. One or two vans had pulled up at the side of the road and the stall-holders were starting to pack up their stuff. There were empty boxes piled up on the pavement and the street was scattered with bits of food. Discarded litter was rustling in the evening breeze. Although most of the visitors had gone, there were still a few stragglers hanging around, looking tired and weary, some of them a bit drunk. But that was all right. Dad would be along soon. A short drive home, and then I could run a cool bath and lie there in peace. After that, something to eat, a tall glass of iced water, and then an early night. Cool, fresh sheets, a night breeze drifting in through the window, a nice long sleep and a lie-in in the morning. Bliss. Tomorrow was Sunday. There'd be plenty of time for talking to Dom and getting things sorted out with Dad. Plenty of time …

The shouting came from the direction of the beach. At first I thought it was just some drunken yobs getting out of hand, and I didn't even bother looking up. I just sat there on my stool and kept my head down. I didn't want to know. But as the shouting became clearer I began to realise it was more than just high spirits. It was a lone voice, loud but clear, and although it sounded out of control I could tell it was perfectly sober. Sober but desperate.

Hey … hey … help me … I need some help … there's a girl
…

I raised my head and looked down the street. A skinny old man with a yellowing beard was running up from the
direction of the beach. He was about sixty or sixty-five, wearing baggy trousers with the legs rolled up and a pair of sandals and no shirt. For some reason I remember him quite clearly – I can still picture his half-starved chest and his caved-in stomach, all bony and white, and his withered arms waving in the air as he ran and shouted.

Help … please … help
…

I stood up, my heart quickening. I could see the old man's eyes, wide and terrified, and I could hear the breathlessness in his voice.

For God's sake … please …

People were moving towards him now, the sound of footsteps and puzzled voices getting louder as everyone realised that something was seriously wrong.

‘What is it?' Simon said. ‘What's he saying?'

‘Stay here,' Mrs Reed said. ‘I'll go and see what's happening.'

As she started off, I followed her.

‘You too, Cait,' she said. ‘Stay here.'

I ignored her and began running.

‘Cait!'

Up ahead the old man was bent over in the middle of the street with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He was surrounded by a growing circle of faces, with everyone firing questions at him –
what's up? are you all right? what's the matter?
Someone got him a chair and sat him down and someone else got him a glass of water. When I ran up to the crowd he was thirstily draining the glass and wiping the drips from his chin. I edged my way through to the front of the circle.

‘There's a girl,' he was saying. ‘There's a girl …'

‘Take it easy,' someone said. ‘Get your breath back.'

He shook his head. ‘There's a girl … on the beach. A
young girl. I saw her. It was terrible …'

A man in a white cap crouched down in front of him and spoke calmly. ‘Take your time,' he said. ‘What did you see?' I recognised the voice. It was Shev Patel from the village shop. He gently put his hand on the man's knee and looked in his eyes. ‘Tell me what you saw,' he repeated.

The old man looked at him and shuddered. ‘A girl … all cut up … I think she's dead.'

N
o one spoke for a moment. Everyone just stood there looking down at the old man, not sure whether to believe him or not. I could see the doubts in their eyes – he's old, he's been out in the sun too long, he's probably just seeing things. The old man looked back at them, recognising their cynicism, and raised his hands, showing the dried blood on his palms.

‘She's in the pillbox,' he said.

Someone said –
oh my God!
– and then everyone started bustling about, filling the air with a clamour of jostling footsteps and excitable voices –
what did he say? what's happened? a girl? who is it? where is she? is she dead?
Amid all the jabbering and head-shaking I caught the word ‘gypsy' a couple of times, and I thought I heard someone say ‘Lucas', but I couldn't be sure. A strange sense of detachment had come over me. I felt disconnected from everything, even myself. I didn't feel anything. I wasn't shocked. I wasn't scared. I had no emotions at all. I was there, but I wasn't
there
. As the initial panic subsided and everybody started
doing
things, all I could do was stand there motionless in the middle of the street watching them.

Shev Patel took charge. The first thing he did was whip out his mobile phone and dial 999. While he waited for an answer, he barked out a series of instructions. ‘Everybody stay calm. Keep the noise down – get back, give him some room. You two—' this to some ladies from the Women's
Institute stall ‘—look after the old man. Get him some more water and cover him up with a blanket.' Then he called over to Mrs Reed. ‘Jenny, find out exactly— hello?' As he started speaking into the phone, asking for police and an ambulance, Mrs Reed knelt down in front of the old man and spoke quietly to him. I couldn't hear what she was saying. The street was awash with noise.

I looked slowly around.

A group of young men had already got themselves organised and were starting off towards the beach carrying boards and blankets and first-aid equipment. One of them was also carrying a metal pole. There were people standing on the tops of vans scanning the beach with binoculars. Children were crying. I could hear people calling up friends on their mobiles to let them know that something was going on. Others were moving away: quiet couples, young women, families taking their children home. One or two solitary people were just standing around grimly enjoying the excitement.

Shev was still speaking into the phone. ‘—that's right, the pillbox by the Point. The man who found her is a Mr Willington, Stanley Willington.' Shev's eyes focused on someone up the street and he raised his hand and waved them over as he carried on talking into the phone. ‘Mr Willington's being looked after. He's in the High Street. I'll take someone with me and meet you at the Point … no, I know … I won't touch anything … OK … whenever you can.' He clicked off the phone and looked up as Dad appeared through the crowd.

‘Glad to see you, Mac,' Shev said. ‘Just a minute.' He turned and shouted at the group of young men hurrying off towards the beach. ‘Hey! Hold on! Wait a minute!'

The men didn't stop.

Dad glanced at me. ‘What's going on, Cait? Are you all right?'

Before I could answer, Shev took him by the arm and led him off down the street, talking quickly to him as they went and glancing anxiously at the young men who were picking up pace and starting to run.

Someone from the crowd shouted out, ‘Go get ‘im! Get the dirty bastard!'

Someone else called out, ‘Yeah! Teach ‘im a lesson!', and then they all started, egging on the young men with snarling shouts and clenched fists waved in the air.

Shev looked angrily over his shoulder and the crowd momentarily quietened. He called back to one of the women looking after Mr Willington. ‘There's a high tide coming in, Betty, so the police might be delayed. If they're not here in half an hour get Mr Willington inside the library, but make sure you leave someone out here to wait.' The woman called Betty raised her hand and nodded. Shev turned to the crowd. ‘The rest of you – stay calm and keep out of it. And for God's sake keep away from the beach.'

With a final glare he turned back to Dad and the two of them hurried off after the others. As they moved out of earshot I heard someone say, ‘Bloody Paki – who the hell does he think he is? He's only been here five minutes and he thinks he runs the sodding place.'

This was met with murmurs of agreement.

‘That Paddy, too,' someone added.

‘Yeah …'

I had my eyes lowered, but I could feel people looking at me. I could feel the growing hysteria in their voices.

‘Coming here and taking our jobs—'

‘Scum!'

‘It's our island—'

They were losing control.

‘Get the van, Tully,' someone said. ‘Let's find us a gyppo.'

Feet started moving, keys jangling, car doors opening.

Betty said, ‘Now hold on, you heard Mr Patel. The police will be here soon—'

But no one was listening any more.

‘Someone get up the Stand, block it off, make sure he don't get away.'

‘Right.'

‘Tide's coming up – get a boat out there.'

‘Check the old woods, flush him out – get old Jack, he knows the flats.'

‘Who's up for it?'

‘Come on!'

The whirlpool raged around me and all I could do was hang my head and listen to its ugly roar. The sound of vans starting up, heavy feet running, the primitive rush of violent voices …

It was beyond belief.

Within about ten minutes most of the men had gone and the street was quiet again. The wind was getting up, scattering litter around the half-empty roads, and the temperature was dropping quite rapidly. Dark clouds were looming in the distance and the air smelled of thunder.

I looked around at the people left behind. Some of the faces I didn't recognise, and I guessed these were people from the mainland hanging around to see what happened, but most of them were locals. Apart from a handful of youngsters they were mainly women and older men. Simon was there, standing with his mum. Betty and some
others were still tending to Mr Willington. Dominic had turned up with Rita and Bill. And in the background the remaining stall-holders were shuffling back to their stalls to continue packing up. A cloud of shameful resignation darkened the street. It was everywhere. In the way people walked, the way they talked, the way they avoided making eye contact. Everyone had that ‘nothing-to-do-with-me' look on their faces, the look of people who
know
that what they're witnessing is wrong, but are either too scared or too embarrassed to do anything about it.

It was an incredibly depressing sensation.

As the storm closed in and the first spots of rain began moistening the ground, Dominic walked up to me and put his arm round my shoulder.

‘Come on,' he said softly. ‘Let's go home.'

I shook my head. ‘I'm staying here.'

‘There's nothing you can do—'

‘It's Angel,' I said.

‘What?'

‘The girl – it's Angel.'

‘How do you know?'

I looked at him. ‘I saw her with Jamie earlier on. They were heading for the beach – I
saw
them, Dom.'

‘When?'

‘I don't know – about an hour after we saw him with Sara. About three-thirty, I suppose. They went down the path at the end of the street.'

‘Together?'

I nodded.

‘Have you told anyone?'

‘Who? There isn't anyone to tell.'

‘Where's Lenny Craine?'

‘In Moulton, probably, looking for Lucas.'

The rain was coming down quite heavily now and gusts of wind were flapping noisily in the canopies of stalls. People were putting on coats and struggling with umbrellas and some of the mainlanders were beginning to drift away. Mrs Reed was helping Betty with Mr Willington, getting him to his feet and into the shelter of a nearby shop, and I could see Simon and Bill standing together on the library steps.

Dominic looked up at the sky. ‘We'd better go,' he said. ‘Get Bill and I'll meet you at Rita's car.'

‘But what about—'

‘There nothing we can do here. I've got Shev's mobile number. When we get home I'll give him a ring and then I'll call Lenny and tell him about Tait.'