Lucas (35 page)

‘I'm not your son,' Lucas said calmly, looking into his eyes.

Dad's face tightened. I thought for a moment he was going to hit him. But then he nodded slowly and said, ‘All right. Fair point. I apologise. Now, tell me you understand what I'm saying.'

‘I understand.'

‘Good.' He looked at him for a moment then turned round and spoke to Dom. ‘Go back to your room.'

‘But I wanted—'

‘Don't spoil it, Dom. Just go back to your room and get some sleep. You're probably going to need it.'

‘OK.'

Dad watched him go, then turned back to Lucas. ‘You go and wait outside.'

Lucas walked out without a word. He hadn't looked at me since the light came on, and he didn't look at me as he left.

Dad closed the door then came over and sat on the bed. ‘Are you all right?'

I nodded.

‘What's going on?' he said. ‘What's he doing here?'

‘They're after him, Dad … he's got nowhere else to go.'

‘How long has he been here?'

‘A couple of minutes—'

‘Are you sure?'

‘I just woke up—'

‘Did he try anything—'

‘No! Of
course
he didn't. How could you—'

‘I'm your father,' he said, as if that answered everything … which I suppose it did. ‘Listen to me, Cait,' he said. ‘I know you've been keeping things to yourself recently – no, let me finish. I'm not having a go at you, I'm just telling you how it is. Please, listen a minute. It's important. OK?' I nodded and he carried on. ‘It's all right to keep stuff from me, it's natural. I'm not saying I
like
it, because I don't, but I can live with it. I trust you – even when you're wrong. That's fine. It's OK to be wrong. But you mustn't be afraid of it. Just take it as it is – don't try to mend things, don't punish yourself, don't dwell on it. Just take it, use it, make it good and keep it pure. All that matters is knowing your own rules. Because if you don't know them, you won't know when you're breaking them.' He sat back and looked at the ceiling. Then he sniffed and looked at me. ‘Does any of that make sense?'

‘Not really.'

He smiled. ‘I didn't think so.'

I held his hand. ‘I'm trying to do what I think is right, Dad. But it keeps going wrong.'

‘I know.'

‘Do you?'

He picked up Lucas's carving from under the duvet and tapped it on the back of my hand. ‘You're not the only one who's been listening to the wind, you know.' I stared at him. He stood up and tightened his dressing gown then tossed me a bath-robe from the back of the door. ‘Put that on and then I'll call the Lone Ranger back in. We've got some serious talking to do.'

F
ifteen minutes later Dad and I were sitting side by side on the bed while Lucas paced around the room with his hands cupped to a mug of strong black coffee. He'd refused any food or a change of clothing, but had gratefully accepted the coffee, asking with some embarrassment for three spoonfuls of sugar. Dad had dressed in a thick shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers. He was smoking a cigarette. The window was open to let the smoke out. The air was cold.

Lucas paused at the window, stared into the depths of his drink for a moment, then raised his head and continued pacing up and down, his boots creaking on the floorboards. The room ticked patiently in the dawn silence.

Dad watched him closely for a while, then said, ‘Start talking, kiddo.'

Lucas talked.

First of all he told Dad that there were certain things he didn't have the right to divulge. Things about me.

‘There's nothing to hide, Mr McCann. You have my word. But if I told you something your daughter hasn't told you, I'd be betraying her faith in me. And I can't do that.'

Dad studied him long and hard. Finally he said, ‘OK. I'll buy that for now. But I want to know what happened on the beach today. No conditions, no rights, no bullshit. I want to know everything.'

Lucas nodded. ‘OK. It started on Friday evening. I was looking for crabs across from the bay when I overheard a couple of teenagers talking about a girl who'd been attacked near the cliffs. They were a young couple, and they were a bit … busy. They didn't know I was there, and as soon as I realised what they were up to I left them to it, but I heard enough to realise that the girl they were talking about was Angel Dean, and that the description she'd given the police was meant to be me.'

‘And was it?' Dad asked.

‘Dad!' I said. ‘You can't—'

He held up his hand. ‘Let him answer. Did you attack Angel Dean on Friday?'

‘No.'

‘Can you prove that?'

‘No.'

‘Where were you?'

‘When?'

‘In the afternoon.'

Lucas thought about it. ‘I was in the woods until about three. I spent about an hour fishing at the bay. Then I went back to the woods.'

‘Doing what?'

He shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Eating, sleeping, reading, sitting around, thinking, watching things …'

‘You didn't go anywhere near the cliffs?'

‘No.'

‘OK – so what happened today.' He looked at the clock. ‘I mean yesterday.'

Lucas finished his coffee and put the mug down on the bedside cabinet. ‘Is it all right if I sit down?'

Dad indicated a chair by the window.

Lucas sat down. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?'

Dad nodded.

Lucas started rolling a cigarette. ‘Jamie Tait and Angel Dean rigged up a story to turn the island against me—'

‘Why?' Dad interrupted.

Lucas glanced at me, then back at Dad. ‘Several reasons.'

‘Such as?'

‘Tait's afraid of me.'

‘Afraid of you? Why?'

‘I'm different. He doesn't know what I am. He knows I'm not afraid of him. He knows I'd kill him if I had to. And he knows I'm better-looking than him.'

Dad grinned. ‘You think so?'

Lucas lit his cigarette. ‘I know so.'

There wasn't any arrogance in his voice. He wasn't boasting, he was simply stating a fact. He
was
betterlooking than Jamie. He knew it. And he knew it meant something. Despite what everyone pretends to think, looks
are
important.
You
might not care what you look like, but others do, and little things like that can determine their reaction to you.

I think that's what he thought, anyway.

A cloud of smoke drifted from his mouth and snaked out through the window into the rain. The wind had dropped and the rain was coming down hard and straight. In the distance, way out over the sea, daylight was paling the sky.

‘What about Angel?' Dad said. ‘Why did she go along with Tait?'

‘She wanted him.'

‘How do you know?'

‘I know desire when I see it.'

‘Yes, but—'

‘Please, Mr McCann – if you'd stop asking questions and let me carry on, it'll all become clear.'

A glare appeared in Dad's eyes, but it was a semirespectful glare. ‘Be my guest,' he said sarcastically. ‘And stop calling me Mister. It makes me feel old. My name's John.'

‘I thought they called you Mac?'

‘My
friends
call me Mac.'

Lucas nodded and went on with his story. ‘I would have left the island there and then, but I'd promised Cait I'd see her at the festival. I knew people would be looking for me, but I thought I'd be fairly safe in the woods. So I spent the night and most of Saturday holed up, and then I set off for the festival around four o'clock. I didn't know exactly what I was going to do when I got there, but with the festival going on I thought the beach would be quiet and I could work something out on the way.'

Dad said, ‘Why didn't you work something out during the night?'

‘I tried to. Nothing came to me.'

‘But you were still prepared to risk it?'

‘I would have thought of something.'

Dad lit another cigarette. As an afterthought he offered the packet to Lucas. Lucas was still smoking his roll-up. He shook his head and continued. ‘The tide was coming in. The shoreline was narrow and I had a good view of the beach up ahead. There was an old man sitting at the sea's edge reading a book, but apart from that the beach was empty. I was keeping in close to the saltmarshes, following the strandline. That way, if I did come across anyone, I could either take off into the marshes or drop down and hide.'

‘What about the path along the creek?' asked Dad.
‘Anyone there?'

Lucas shook his head. ‘Not then. Not that I could see.'

‘OK. Go on.'

‘As I approached the pillbox I heard faint voices coming from inside. A man and a girl, or a boy and a girl … it was hard to tell. The concrete deadens the sound. They were just voices. I was on the marsh side of the pillbox, the entrance side.' He hesitated, looking at Dad. ‘You know what goes on in there?'

Dad nodded. ‘Do you?'

‘Couples, men, junkies …' He shrugged. ‘Wherever you go there's always a place like that. I keep away. It's none of my business.'

‘But you didn't keep away this time?'

‘No … something didn't feel right. I'm not sure what it was. The tone of the voices, maybe. A scent of fear in the air … I don't know.'

‘What did you do?'

Lucas pinched the end off his cigarette and dropped the stub in his pocket. ‘There's a small window in the wall of the pillbox … not a window, exactly – what do you call it? Like a slot, a hole in the wall …'

‘I know what you mean,' Dad said. ‘Just tell us what happened.'

‘I decided to take a look inside.' He paused, visualising the scene. ‘The sun was high and facing me. I was in the shadows. I crept up quietly and squatted down beside the window. The sand was damp. The air smelled of waste. The voices were clearer, now. I recognised Tait's, but not the girl's. He was doing most of the talking. His voice was low and throaty and I couldn't make out what he was saying, but I could tell he was drunk. Not drunk enough to slur his words, but not far off.' He looked at Dad. ‘You
probably know what I mean.'

Dad nodded.

Lucas went on. ‘The girl sounded drunk, too. And frightened. She was trying to hide it by laughing and swearing all the time but that only made it worse. I don't think she knew what to do with it.'

‘With what?'

‘Her fear. It embarrassed her. And the embarrassment surprised her. She wasn't used to it.' He got up and looked out of the window. ‘After a couple of minutes I inched my head around and looked inside. There was a dirty old mattress on the floor surrounded by empty bottles and beer cans and all sorts of muck. They were sitting on the mattress with their backs to me. They couldn't see me, but I could see them. That's when I realised it was Angel Dean. Tait had his arm around her shoulder and was fiddling with her top. She was giggling and trying to pull it back up. Tait was swigging from a half-bottle of whiskey. He kept offering it to Angel, almost forcing it on her, and she kept taking it.' He stopped speaking and rolled another cigarette.

‘Was she
with
him?' Dad asked. ‘I mean, do you think she
wanted
to be there?'

Lucas lit his cigarette and turned from the window. ‘I don't think she knew
what
she wanted. She probably knew what he was after, and she probably thought it might be fun. But then reality kicked in, and I think she realised it wasn't a game any more. It wasn't a photo-story. It wasn't a snog and a cuddle. It was something else, something cold and dirty and mean.' He drew cigarette smoke into his mouth and looked at Dad. ‘She was scared.'

Dad couldn't think of anything to say.

Lucas blew out smoke and stared into the distance. The
air around him was charged with darkness and the room was filled with the same ghostly silence I'd sensed when I'd first set eyes on him. The wind had suddenly dropped and pale lights were shimmering in the morning sky. My skin was cold. I was there, on the beach, at the pillbox. I was there. In the dirty dark. I could smell it: stale beer, whiskey, urine, fear. I could feel the damp sand beneath my feet and I could see through Lucas's eyes. I could see skin, glass, cloth, hair, hands, fingers, contours, shivering flesh, opening mouths, a broken face rigid with need …

Dad clicked his cigarette lighter and the vision dissolved. My sight came back to me. I was sitting on the edge of the bed staring at Lucas, and he was staring at Dad. I could see everything as it was. The boy, the man, the walls, the window, twisted leaves blowing in the wind. I could see what I could see, nothing else.

Dad spoke quietly. ‘Time's getting on, Lucas. Tell me what happened.'

Lucas sat down wearily in the chair. He studied the glowing tip of his cigarette and his voice got cold. ‘They started … he got her down on the mattress and she closed her eyes. She wasn't struggling, she wasn't crying or anything. She wasn't
enjoying
it … but … I don't know. He didn't force her. Not physically. And she didn't say no … not that he asked her …' He lowered his head and stared at the floor. ‘I couldn't watch any more. I moved back into the saltmarshes, crouched down, and waited. I couldn't think what else to do.' He paused again, scratching at the scar on his wrist, then carried on. ‘It was quiet for a while. Then, after about ten minutes, I heard his voice again. Quiet at first, then louder, and then he was really yelling at her, calling her all kinds of dirty names. She started crying, he shouted some more, then I heard a slap and a sharp cry
and it all went quiet again. I was just getting to my feet when I saw him come out. He was pulling on his shirt and stumbling all over the place. Red-faced, drunk, glazed eyes. I sank down and watched him go, then I went in to see how she was.'