The Salt Marsh (33 page)

He snorted. ‘I don't think it's likely. Although, gold would come in handy right now. No. I'm just...' He stared out the window. ‘I suppose sometimes your life starts... going into negative, a downward descent.'

‘When the gold turns to shit,' she said.

‘Exactly. What was it you said? Reverse alchemy. Yeah, that's it. When you reach a low point, feel like you're cursed and you have to try and turn your life around, one way or another. Twelve steps. God. Drugs. Whatever it takes.' He waved his hand at the test tube rack. ‘This is my therapy. I thought I'd give it a go, see if I can get myself out of the slough by concentrating on Allin's experiments. It gives me something to think about, a ladder, a way of reaching a better place.' His voice was maudlin. She wondered what had happened to make him so depressed.

‘What is in the test tubes anyway?' She wanted to sound upbeat. It seemed to do the trick.

‘Different kinds of plant life. One of Allin's letters has all the instructions – how to set up your own alchemical laboratory, notes on ingredients and methods. Collect the plants, heat them up, and leave them to brew.'

He handed her the spliff he'd rolled, lifted a cork-stoppered tube from the rack, swished it in the air. More yellow than green, fizzing, sparkling.

She toked and said, ‘You can see why Allin might have thought he could make gold out of that. What is it?'

‘Nostoc commune. A cyanobacterium. It used to be called witch's butter, or star jelly because it's only visible when it swells up after rain, so people thought it came down from the skies when it poured. It's a strange plant, a survivalist organism. Radiation doesn't kill it – which makes it a very suitable inhabitant of Dungeness.'

He shook the test tube again; the yellow matter swirled and she glimpsed Luke's face in the phosphorescent fronds. She narrowed her eyes and his image disappeared, replaced with her own reflection, coloured golden by the test tube's contents, distorted by the curve of the glass – a deviant angel.

‘Where did you find the star jelly?' she asked.

He nodded at the floorboards in the far corner, behind the desk. ‘There's a trapdoor and a space underneath.'

‘Oh. A space under the floorboards.' She sensed she'd found a thread to pull. She pulled on the spliff, exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Can I look?'

‘Yeah. Sure. Why not.'

She followed him across the room, peered over his shoulder as he levered up the boards to reveal an empty cavity, a shallow grave.

‘Do you think it's an old smuggler's store?' She wasn't sure she'd managed to make the question sound innocent.

‘Possibly. I don't keep anything down there, though.'

He lowered the trapdoor.

She said, ‘I suppose everybody in this area was involved in smuggling once, one way or another.'

Alastair walked over to the window. Sonny stepped back when he neared him, watched him from a safer distance.

‘Smuggling...' Alastair stalled, eyes on a container ship drifting along the far horizon. ‘This place is a law unto itself.'

He twisted his ponytail around a bony finger; the weak sunlight glinted on the steel strands among the black and deepened the lines in his olive skin.

‘People romanticize the smuggling now – the Hawkhurst Gang, Doctor Syn – but I would imagine the smugglers were terrifying thugs and most of the inhabitants around these parts were shit scared of them. People didn't always have much choice in the matter,' he said. ‘You find yourself in a situation you can't escape. You don't necessarily want to be part of it, but what can you do?'

He swung round, hand groping for a spliff. She passed it to him and asked, ‘Do you think there is much smuggling along this coastline nowadays?'

The question unnerved him. He tugged on the roach, inhaled, exhaled, obscured his face with a cloud of smoke and then he coughed, wheezed, spluttered, reddened. ‘Oh god, I need my aspirator.' He scrabbled in his pocket for the blue lifesaver, sucked, pressed and inhaled deeply. Removed the aspirator, toked on the roach again, coughed, switched back to the aspirator. Sam watched him with alarm, and was relieved when he stubbed the spliff and his breathing became less laboured. She assumed his asthma attack had closed down the conversation, but then he pointed out the window in the direction of the lighthouse, and the research station.

‘I saw a boat pulled up on the shingle the other day.' He frowned. ‘It might have been the day you were down here on the beach.'

‘You mean that Saturday?'

‘Yeah.' He hesitated. Backtracked. ‘I'm not very good on time. But I do tend to notice the boats around here. This one was small. Room for a couple of people in the cabin. Strange thing... the boat.'

The boat. She dimly recalled he had mentioned a boat before, although she couldn't remember exactly what he had said; she hadn't registered it as an important detail at the time.

She asked, ‘What was the strange thing about the boat?'

The room was silent, a break in the wind's nagging.

‘It was a ghost boat.'

‘A ghost boat?'

‘A smuggler's boat. When you know what to look for, you can spot them. Sometimes it's the vibe they give off, the air of secrecy, but I recognized the lines of this one because I've seen similar boats before. I reckon it was purpose-built with a double hull and a large void between the two skins for storage.'

She scratched her neck. ‘Did you see anybody on board?'

Alastair shook his head, wheezed alarmingly again, pulled on the aspirator, eyes wide, face sucked in like Munch's scream, lined and petrified. He inhaled, exhaled. ‘I wouldn't ask too many questions around here. People mind their own business.' He dragged his foot along a faint chalk mark on the floorboards – the line of a pentagram. ‘There's a story they tell here about an informer who was captured by the smugglers,' he said. ‘They hacked his body to bits and distributed the pieces across the marsh. On nights lit by the full moon, his ghost can be seen wandering the ditches searching for his limbs.' He glared at her. ‘You've got to be careful. You know what happens to witches if they are caught.'

She twitched. Death by fire, King James decreed, and none should be exempted from the flames. She didn't say anything, a sickness gurgling in her gut, wondered what he was getting at.

‘You have to control your powers, if you want to stay out of trouble.'

Was that a warning or a threat? She sensed Sonny fidgeting behind her. He coughed, and Alastair looked his way, suddenly conscious of his presence. His eyes locked on Sonny's face.

Sonny said, ‘What is it?' His voice had a timid edge – a child not wanting to ask their parent when they would be back in case the answer was never. He didn't want to die alone. She moved closer to him.

‘Can you see something?' Sonny asked.

Alastair nodded. ‘I can see the shadows chasing you.' His voice was flat.

Sonny didn't react, petrified, unable to move, pinned on Alastair's gaze. She had to rescue him, she couldn't stand to see him so disturbed.

‘We'd better go now.' She checked her watch with an exaggerated arm movement. ‘It's later than I thought. Thank you for the tea.' She paused, reluctant to let any lead slip. ‘If we are passing this way tomorrow, perhaps we could drop in and see you again.'

Alastair shrugged. ‘Perhaps.' He held the door open for them. ‘Channel it,' he said as she passed. ‘Focus on the barn owl.'

She headed up the shingle, aiming for the Land Rover, trampling through parched clumps of valerian. The beach was devoid of life. A couple of Arctic skuas circled overhead, scavenging for dead matter. The wind hustled, carrying grit and discarded greasy chip wrappers. Sonny kicked at the pebbles as he walked. ‘He freaked me out.'

‘Don't take any notice of all his stuff about shadows catching up. It's all an act with him.' She didn't sound very convincing.

‘And what about the things he said about you and your powers?'

‘Do you really think I'm a witch?'

‘No,' he said. ‘Well...'

‘Well what?'

‘You seem to be quite good at putting spells on people.' He put his hands in his pockets. ‘Or perhaps you are the one who has been enchanted.'

*

They passed a dilapidated fisherman's cottage, reflections of a thousand clouds scudding across its shattered window panes. A crow crossed their path, flying backwards in the strengthening wind. They reached the Land Rover.

Sonny said, ‘I need a smoke.'

He searched his jacket for his fags and his lighter, cupped his hands to shield the flame from the gusts. He cracked his jaw, created a ring which held for a second before it was blown away. Sam watched it disperse while she attempted to make sense of what Alastair had told her – what he hadn't told her. The strange boat he'd seen on the Saturday that Luke went missing. The warnings about the gruesome fate of informers. He had seen something he wished he hadn't seen, a smuggler's boat dragged up on the shingle, a person with the boat doing something dodgy. And he was worried that whoever he spotted on board had seen him watching, and would come after him if anything was said. Had Alastair seen Regan? Had she sent the heavies round to see him?

The clouds scudded across the sky, covered the sun, cast the beach in shadow. She leaned against the Land Rover's door, slid down, gave in to her sense of despondency, crouched on the shingle, arms around her legs, face against her knees. She didn't want Sonny to see her cry. She lost herself for she wasn't quite sure how long. He sat beside her.

‘My father's dead. Dave's dead. I worry I'll never find Luke,' she said. ‘I can't deal with all this loss.'

‘Loss. It's part of life. Nothing lasts for ever. A rainbow. Shooting stars. Some kinds of love.' He paused. ‘Sometimes the most beautiful things are fleeting.'

‘I don't see beauty. I only see dead men.'

He put his hand on her arm gently. ‘Time blunts the edges.'

In the distance along the shore, the lone fisherman stood and waded into the waves. She wondered how far he would go.

‘I want Luke back,' she said.

She kept her eyes on the Channel.

‘I think you'll find Luke,' Sonny said. There was an unspoken
but
to his sentence. She decided not to ask. The fisherman was waist-deep in the water as the Land Rover pulled away.

SEVENTEEN

T
HEY LEFT THE
shingle ridges of Denge, the silver lakes of Wallands, and headed into the green sea of Romney Marsh. No sign of the black Audi. He pulled up on the verge by the bridge.

Sonny said, ‘I'm going to find somewhere less obvious to park the Land Rover.'

She dug out the gear from the back – sleeping bags, camping stove, saucepan, bag of coffee, biscuits – and crossed the bridge to the meadow. Pools of brown water shimmered among the grass, black clouds of midges hanging above. A heron stood guard over the ditch, its stick legs mirrored in the water, undisturbed by her efforts to drag the camping gear across the sodden field. The rain had given the vegetation a virulent potency; she had to beat back the brambles and deadly nightshade as she tramped across the mound. Nobody, she decided as a stinging nettle whiplashed her arm, had followed this path since the last time she was here. She glanced up at the hut, saw a shadow through the glassless window. She froze, skin prickling. Luke? Jim? A blackbird twittered. She unlocked her limbs, flung herself through the doorway, eyes flicking around the cramped interior of the ruin, as if anybody could possibly hide in one of its four corners. Empty. The willow leaves rustled. Her hand went to her penknife – though she knew it was only the breeze – and found the comfort of its smooth surface. She had mislaid her penknife a few weeks previously and had been distraught. Luke had bought her a replacement, a belated birthday present, and had given it to her the last time they had slept in the Lookers' Hut. The weekend before he had gone missing – the first proper summer weekend of the year. Hot and sunny, Dungeness a riot of yellow and purple, broom and bugloss, the shingle radiating the heat, the power station twinkling like a fairytale castle. Luke had cast a line, caught a sea bass. They had grilled it over the flames of a makeshift beach fire, then retired to the Lookers' Hut, lay on the blackthorn mound and watched the sky fade from coral to crimson and indigo. That was when he had given her the knife. She had been touched by the present – a reminder, he said, of the times they camped in the Lookers' Hut together. A knife to slay the bitter withies. She had only discovered the message engraved on the blade later, when she had returned to London and was alone.
Sam – love you. Luke.
She had been too coy to mention it to Luke when she saw him again. Didn't want to say thank you, make a big deal of it. Love you. Accepted it silently, mulled it over in her head, allowed the words to fill her with warmth.

She cradled the penknife in her palm and thought about the message Luke had left her on her answerphone.
Listen, there's something else... Dave.
Luke had been careful to shield her from his suspicions about Dave, she concluded. He wanted to protect her from danger, so he had followed up with Patrick Grogan by himself, driven down early to Dungeness, tried to keep her out of it. She gripped the penknife tightly.

Sonny appeared in the doorway, made her jump.

‘I didn't hear you coming,' she said. ‘How did you manage to creep up on me?'

‘You've got to think like an animal, Sam, imagine you are being stalked and behave as if you are the prey. Your life depends on remaining hidden, not being heard or smelled.'

Now they were out in the open, exposed, he snapped into a different gear – bushcraft, military training. Jim had been the same, dealing with difficult situations with what could seem like curt authority when he was merely following the drill, concentrating on what needed to be done. Emotional disengagement in order to survive. She had rebelled against it, of course, yet she found it reassuring to see the same reflexes in Sonny. He assessed the interior of the hut.