The Angels' Share (4 page)

When sleep finally came, only two things were certain: I had to find Steph and I needed to know who had taken ownership of Creg-ny-Varn.

I woke to the same sound that lulled me into sleep. A shaft of sunlight passed across my face, warming my skin but making my eyes screw up into slits. The first thing I did was reach between my legs and feel a moist residue from the night before. I grinned, rolled onto my side and drew a finger up and down the slippery line between my lips. The images of the previous night’s display were still fresh in my mind and it occurred to me how lucky I was to have such considerate neighbours. I giggled at the thought and caught sight of the binoculars still on the window sill. The white early-morning sun proved just how much of a mess the place was. But I didn’t care, not yet anyway. Housework could wait and at least there was still a fire in the stove.

I grinned and struggled within the sleeping bag to remove my knickers. I needed a couple of quick orgasms to set me up for everything I had to do that day. It felt as if my pussy had been swollen all night, judging by…

I froze.

Someone was outside the cottage, crunching the pebbles in my barnacle-covered front garden. A dog, too – I heard yapping and the creature being called to heel. I unzipped the sleeping bag and, in a panic, searched for my knickers that were buried somewhere at the bottom of the feather-filled sack.

‘Christ, where are they?’ I gave up and cowered on the armchairs, trying to quickly assess my situation, the reality of which had ebbed and flowed several times a day since leaving Spain, like the salt-tide washing the rocks outside the cottage. Since my departure, I had felt free and trapped, frightened and fearless, cowardly and brave. My emotions were a confused surge, leaving me unable to discern the difference between what I wanted and how to get it.

In spite of my turmoil, I realised that if I was discovered so soon in my mission, I would be truly washed up. Word would travel around the island within hours that the Callister girl had returned, alerting the enemy. I had to get rid of whoever was outside my hideaway or lie low until they went.

I crawled to the window on all fours and slowly raised my eyes above sill level. Through the grime, I saw a man in a long jacket standing on the tallest rock in my front garden, staring out to sea with apparently no purpose other than to stare at the pale blue-grey horizon of another Manx morning. His dog, a scrawny terrier, jumped from rock to rock, sometimes slipping but quickly regaining its foothold. I never expected to see anyone down on this small, inhospitable beach, especially at this time of year.

The man turned to face the cottage and I ducked, but too slowly. He must have seen me, even through the muck and salt on the window. I waited, hardly daring to breathe. Apart from the regular small crash of waves dumping seaweed and driftwood onto the shore, there was nothing to hear. I trembled beneath the window, hugging my sweatshirt around my knees.

Then there came a sudden and urgent series of knocks on the door.

‘Hello?’ He called through the salt-bleached timber. I visualised his lips pressed close.

‘Damn you, go away,’ I hissed.

I glanced at the stove. Flames still licked at the giant log I put in during the night so that I’d have warmth in the morning.

‘The smoke,’ I whispered pitifully, realising that he would notice the grey-black curls from where he stood on the creaky front deck. I cradled my head in my hands.

‘Anyone home?’ He knew there was.

I had no choice. Which looked more suspicious – a disused cottage where a figure was seen lunging out of sight and a fire is lit but no one answers the door, or a disused cottage being given a new lease of life by…I thought frantically…by someone plausible?

I stood up, feathered my fingers through my straggly, sleep-mashed hair, breathed in deeply and opened the door. I forced a grin that told him I’d lived there all my life.

‘Morning!’ I said, as if I was expecting him for breakfast. Then I stopped abruptly, my mouth hanging open stupidly and my feet glued to the floor. He was the man from the cliff top cottage and was just as sexy, just as alluring at close range with his clothes on as he had been last night.

‘Hi,’ he replied in a drawn-out, already suspicious voice. His eyes were everywhere at once, flicking up and down my semi-dressed body and then into the dark cottage behind me. ‘So there is someone here.’ He called the terrier to heel. ‘Welcome to Niarbyl,’ he said, evidently very curious.

‘Well,’ thanks,’ I said, desperately trying to reani-mate myself. If I acted defensively he was far more likely to suspect something was up than if I behaved like someone with a right to be there. ‘Would you like to come in?’ Instantly kicking myself for the invitation, I stepped aside and beckoned him in. I glanced longingly out to sea as if it was a possible escape route.

The man, as rugged as the rocks on the beach, attached a lead to the dog’s collar and stepped inside, ducking his head under the perilously low lintel. ‘What brings you here?’ he asked.

Suddenly remembering my state of undress, I turned around helplessly a couple of times, as his dog might do before it lay down to sleep, and rummaged around the armchairs in search of clothing.

‘Are these what you’re looking for?’ He bent down and picked up a pair of my knickers from underneath an armchair.

My head thumped with a sudden rush of embarrassment before I iced over and turned into a glacier. I wanted to hurl myself at his hand, make a grab for what he had plucked off the floor, yank the flimsy lace from his grasp, but all I could do was stand and stare at him while he offered me my panties.

‘My knickers,’ I finally said in a voice as brittle as meringue. Before I could say anything else, he was sitting down on the makeshift bed and once again staring around the cottage. I reached out and took my underwear and also retrieved my jeans before silently retreating to the animal-infested back room. ‘Won’t be a minute,’ I called out as if trying on a new outfit in a boutique. I hopped and staggered in the dimly lit room while forcing my legs into the denim. I returned still wearing a pink flush on my cheekbones but also a smile that assured him this was nothing out of the ordinary.

‘I hadn’t expected visitors at this hour of the day,’ I said.

The man patted the dog’s tan and white rump as it skittered around his ankles. He leaned forward, his eyes wandering around the cottage as if he was on a reconnaissance mission. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you,’ he said. ‘It’s just that there hasn’t been anyone here for such a long time and I wanted to make sure things were…you know…’ – he trailed off and stared directly at me – ‘…OK.’

‘I understand.’ I stood primly before him, trying to suppress a laugh as the dog spun in circles.

‘Lewis,’ he replied and stood up briefly, extending a hand.

I took it and said, surprisingly easily, ‘Ailey.’ There was no way I was revealing my surname.

‘Nog.’ He gestured to the silly creature and grinned, his teeth too white for a man with stubble, a dirty parka and worn-out boots. ‘The dog.’

‘Nog the dog,’ I repeated because there wasn’t much else to say.

‘Are you on holiday?’ I could tell that his question was laced with hidden meaning.
What are you doing here?
was what he meant to say.

‘Kind of.’

‘Not the best time of year to be exploring the island.’ Nog finally became still and sat between Lewis’s legs.

‘The scenery’s dramatic,’ I said. ‘How I like it.’

‘Been here long?’

‘Just got here actually. It’s my uncle’s cottage.’ No response. ‘Great-uncle?’ I added for no particular reason, except perhaps to confuse him.

Lewis stared at me, his experienced eyes scanning my body, trying to assess if what he saw concurred with what I was saying. They were pale-grey eyes soaked in something dangerous, marinated in years of salty island living that had given him a weathered look and made him appear older than he probably was. My best guess was forty-two. It was at that point that I realised his undeniable attractiveness, despite our age gap.

‘So you’re a relation of Ethan Kinrade’s.’ It was a statement rather than a question although his intonation did slow considerably on ‘Kinrade’.

I closed my eyes and tried to swim because I was fast sinking below the surface. I needed to be vague. Getting Lewis and his silly dog out of my cottage was a priority but I found myself engaging him – or was it him engaging me? – in an exchange of information about my great-uncle Ethan. Whoever he was.

‘He seems very young to have a great-niece.’

‘Oh yes, he is, isn’t he?’ It was agonising. ‘But here I am!’ I held out my hands in a kind of personal fanfare and twisted my legs awkwardly. My shuffling feet did something to Nog, however, and the dog leapt at the over-sized socks that had dropped to my ankles. Although painful, the distraction was welcome.

‘Nog, leave!’ Lewis finally persuaded the terrier that my socks weren’t black rabbits. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with a clean, unsuitable grin, his eyes lingering on my breasts. ‘You were saying, about Ethan.’

‘I was?’

Think, woman, think. Lewis waited patiently for my response. His black jeans stretched across his thighs and his parka falling open to reveal a grey, oil-stained sweatshirt. A large, veined hand with surprisingly neat nails rubbed at the stubble on his chin while he sized me up, waiting for my reply.

‘There’s nothing to say really. I haven’t seen him in years. We have this’ – I thought frantically – ‘…arrangement. I’m allowed to use the cottage when I visit.’

‘So, you stay here,’ Lewis asked, gesturing around the dilapidated room, ‘and not in Creg-ny-Varn Manor?’

‘I like the tranquillity,’ I said, surprising myself. I was beginning to believe my own story. ‘Being so close to the sea, nature, the elements – I love it.’ I held my breath, waiting for him to accept my lies.

‘I’m going fishing later,’ he said unexpectedly. We both stared out of the window at the blue-green chop of a December morning.

‘Really,’ I said croakily, thankful for the digression.

‘I can guess what you’re thinking,’ he said.

No you can’t.

‘That I’ve come to sell you fish.’

‘The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.’ If only he knew how grateful I was to be discussing fish.

‘Do you cook on that?’ He nodded his head to the stove.

‘I intend to but I think it’s best suited for making tea and I reckon even that will take ages.’

‘I can wait,’ he said, grinning.

‘You’ll have to wait a long time then, because I don’t have any tea, milk or fresh water.’ Surely this was signal enough for him to leave although, strangely, I didn’t completely want him to go. I was intrigued by the way his appearance contradicted his manner. He was obviously a highly educated and worldly man and yet evidently lived a simple life on the island.

Lewis ignored me, stood up and walked over to the window. My heart pounded as he picked up the binoculars that I had left lying on the sill. It was now imperative that he leave.

‘Where do you live?’ I asked, desperate to drive him homeward.

‘Old Bridge Cottage.’ He put the binoculars to his eyes and gazed out to sea. ‘It’s the grey slate cottage on the cliff.’ He panned around the vista for a moment and then something must have caught his eye because he jerked the binoculars to the left again. ‘Good heavens,’ he said, lowering the glasses for a beat. ‘You can see it from here. Who would have guessed that my place was visible from down here on the beach?’

‘Heavens, indeed,’ I echoed. ‘But I wouldn’t know,’ I added. ‘I’ve not used the binoculars yet. I found them lying on the sill when I arrived yesterday.’ I felt my face turning scarlet.

At this, Lewis turned around and stared directly at me. His pale-grey eyes, set in a face that was too experienced to be conned by the likes of me, twinkled within the confines of his weathered face.

‘So you haven’t been tempted to spy on your surroundings? Or your neighbours?’ He stood motionless with the binoculars poised at his chest. The only movement about him was the wry smile he was failing to suppress.

‘Of course not,’ I replied, adding such a large measure of shock to my voice that I sounded like a guilty child caught red-handed. ‘Besides, it was pitch-dark when I arrived so I wouldn’t have been able to see you or your wife.’

It felt as if the ground had dropped away and I was speeding towards the earth’s centre at the speed of light, my entire body burning with shame, embarrassment and humility. One word,
one word
, had confirmed to Lewis that indeed, I had been spying. How else would I have known he had a wife?

Lewis placed the binoculars back on the window sill, walked to the door and clicked his fingers. Nog obeyed and trotted to his side. He turned abruptly and narrowed his eyes as if to say, ‘I hope you enjoyed the show’.

‘I expect to catch dogfish or cod later. I would very much like to share whatever I land with you. I’m a superb cook. Dinner at my place, say eight o’clock?’ The harsh features softened and he offered a charming smile. He pushed his fingers through his wind-tousled hair and took hold of the dog’s lead. ‘Elizabeth would love to meet you and you can tell us all about yourself and your great-uncle. The man’s quite an enigma.’

If I say yes, will you go away and leave me alone? I thought. My mind raced and I fiddled with my fingernails. I glanced at the binoculars that might as well have been labelled ‘I’ve been spying on you’, but then I was lost in his eyes, which told me going to dinner at his house would prove to be a warm, hospitable and thoroughly enjoyable evening. My mind was made up, regardless of the risk to my predicament.

‘I’d love to come!’ I almost squealed. ‘I’ve never had dogfish before.’

‘Excellent,’ he replied. ‘I do hope you have a torch to find your way up the path.’ And he winked, leaving me remembering how I had flashed my torch the night before.

*   *   *

I spent the next hour resurrecting the interior of the cottage as best I could. Without fresh water, cleanliness was nearly impossible but I found a broom and a bucket and after I had swept the floor, I drenched the table and windows with sea water. It would have to do. I beat the dusty armchair cushions against the jagged rocks, which gave me an idea for breakfast. When the cottage was as homely as I could make it and had lost most of its fusty smell, I returned to the rocks and used my penknife to loosen two dozen blue-black mussels from their bed of fuzzy seaweed. I stoked the fire and seared the shellfish on the now blazing flames. One by one, they hissed and popped open, revealing delicious salty pouches – the best breakfast I had ever tasted.