Dark Tides (24 page)

David and I leaned on one another and staggered through the backlit fog, circling the house. The downstairs was fully ablaze. The heat was furious. The map room glowed like a furnace. In the rec room, the fire had burned a hole through the ceiling. Plaster and joists were collapsing, feeding the inferno. The walls seemed to be peeling in on themselves.

We lurched around the end wall just as a window blew out on the ground floor. I brushed heated glass fragments from my hair and clothes, then crooked my arm in front of my face and gazed up at the first-floor window.

Callum was standing there in his boxer shorts and a T-shirt, wrestling with a key in the security lock. At first, it looked as if his back was alight, but it was just an illusion created by the flames crowding over his shoulders. He freed the lock and pushed up the lower sash with both palms, then hollered in fear and pain, his face flushed and sweating.

‘Jump.’ David yelled, beckoning him down. ‘Jump right now.’

But there was no sloping roof below Callum. There was just a fifteen-foot drop to a poured concrete pathway and the scattered glass from the blown window and the angry flames scrabbling out.

And not only that. A metal pipe was fitted to the exterior of the wall. The pipe drilled through a vent just below the window. Halfway along the pipe was an emergency shut-off valve. Beyond the valve the pipe kinked left, then down, terminating in the caged orange propane tanks.

Callum contemplated the drop and hesitated. I guessed he was thinking of his pelvis – asking himself if it could take another fall. Maybe he was thinking of the long and painful recuperation he’d endured throughout the past year.

‘Jump,’ I shouted. ‘Callum, jump.’

He was distracted by the flames that surrounded him, turning and twisting his body, batting his arms as if he was being attacked by a swarm of bees.

‘Jump.’ I hacked and coughed.

‘Jump,’ David bellowed.

The panic in our voices must have got through to him at last. He stuck a leg out through the window and straddled the sill. Flames lapped his toes from below and he snatched his leg back as if he’d dunked it into a too-hot bath.

‘Now, Callum.’ I spread my arms wide. ‘It has to be now.’

He looked at me and nodded and fed his leg back out. Flames sheathed his ankle. He bared his teeth, his bearded face twisting in agony. He perched on the sill, hands braced on the exterior of the window frame, poised to leap and save himself.

That’s when I heard a sudden low rumbling followed by an urgent metallic shake. I stared at the pipes and the rattling propane tanks and I knew, for a terrifying fraction of a second, what was about to happen right before it did.

The tanks exploded with a wild percussive force. Raging air tore at my clothes and skin and hair. A gaseous fireball billowed skywards, growing in force and dimension and heat, pulsing a startling yellowish-white tinged with blue.

Time passed. I’m not sure exactly how long. But I came round to find myself lying flat on my back against the sodden gorse, winded, terrified, a foul chemical taste in my mouth, gazing skywards as a sequence of crackling eruptions illuminated the mist.

I didn’t move for a very long time, and when I finally did, it was only to squeeze David’s hand. He was crouching over me, clearing the grime and debris from my face, speaking with fear and urgency.

But I couldn’t hear a word he said.

The fire took hold faster than you expected. It’s burning brighter than you could possibly have imagined. But then, you didn’t anticipate the explosion. You weren’t prepared for it at all. You’d like to take credit for it because it was mighty impressive and hugely disabling. But you can’t, not really. It’s happenstance again. It’s fate, pulling for you once more.

The effect is really quite something. The house is a riot of flames. They flicker and crackle, colouring the fog all around. You see yellows and reds and pinks and blues, and you feel oddly primitive staring into the very heart of the inferno, almost as if this is some grand sacrificial gesture.

Which it is, in a way. You wanted a statement and now you have one. There can be no doubting what happened here. This was clearly deliberate. It was targeted. It was devastating.

The damp gorse smoulders around you. Smoke and ash twirl and mingle in the misty night air. You watch the house burn and you watch Claire sprawled in front of it, the vivid lightshow playing across her skin, and you think to yourself how unlikely it is, how improbable, that you’ll ever feel this alive again.

The cottage was a ruin by the time DI Shimmin arrived. The roof had caved in and the end wall had collapsed, blown apart by the gas explosion. The sooty, jagged brickwork that remained looked like a jaw full of broken teeth.

The fire service was working hard to bring the last of the flames under control. Two units had responded to the blaze and teams of men in fireproof uniforms and breathing apparatus were prowling through the smoking rubble, pumping water out of thick hoses, shouting muffled orders to one another from behind full-face masks.

I was watching the scene unfold from the back of an ambulance, a heavy woollen blanket draped over my shoulders, an oxygen mask fitted to my face, my ears buzzing and clicking with warped distortions of sound. David was sitting in the front of a silver police van a short distance away, giving a statement to a uniformed officer who I recognised and knew would ask the right questions.

Shimmin didn’t approach me to begin with. He held back, waiting to speak to the fire officer in charge of the scene. The fire chief briefed Shimmin as he paced back to one of the engine units in his thick rubber boots, shaking his head in frustration and dismay. He shot more than one accusing glance my way but Shimmin didn’t follow suit. His face was shielded by the raised collar of his mackintosh, his ear permanently angled towards the fire chief’s lips.

My breathing was bad. Even with the oxygen mask it felt as if my lungs were filled with wire wool. There was an itchy constriction in my chest whenever I inhaled but it got much worse when Shimmin finally peeled away from the fire chief, 
lowered his giant head and set off in my direction, looking a lot like a charging bull as he cut through the sombre disco mist, the coloured vapour twisting and eddying in his wake.

‘Ready to talk?’ Shimmin’s voice had taken on a wavering, garbled quality, as though he was speaking to me over a long-distance phone line. I didn’t yet know if the explosion had caused any permanent damage to my hearing, but the temporary impact was pronounced.

 He planted one foot on the tailgate of the ambulance and rested his crossed forearms on his raised knee. The pouched sacks around his heat-strained eyes were bloated from lack of sleep.

I sucked oxygen in through my mask, listening to the distant hiss and rasp of the pressurised air.

‘Fire chief says there are clear signs of an accelerant being used at the front and rear of the house. His guess is petrol sprayed in through the letterbox. Reckons he’s seen it before – an arsonist with a creative streak modifying something like one of those pump-operated weed-killer dispensers from a garden centre. That would account for the speed and spread of the fire, especially if the accelerant was sprayed liberally enough. Not an official finding, you understand. But it’s only a matter of time.’

Shimmin crouched forwards, his breath misting, heat evaporating from his back and shoulders as though even he were smouldering.

‘You can smell it, can’t you?’

I tried to ride out his aggression and stared past him at one of the fire officers. The officer was treading carefully through the crush of rubble in what remained of the kitchen, finding his way by torchlight, his booted feet probing and testing the ground ahead of him.

I wasn’t about to sample the air if I could help it. I knew it wasn’t only petrol Shimmin could smell.

‘They found your friend’s body. What’s left of it, anyway. They wanted to go ahead and pull him out but I had to tell them to wait for the SOCOs. Can’t send them in until the fire chief says it’s a safe environment and it’s too unstable for that at the moment. So he’s stuck in there. Poor sod.’

The fire officer was making slow progress through the kitchen, one hesitant step at a time, tiny avalanches of debris cascading beneath his weight. His face was hidden behind his mask, the glare from the temporary arc lights and blue emergency beacons reflecting off the curved glass. I wondered if he really believed he might find someone else. I’d already told them there were only the three of us inside, but several of the fire crew had been tasked with checking in any case.

‘In the meantime, I have questions for you, Cooper. You want them one at a time, or all at once?’

I sucked in more air through my mask, aware of a soggy rattle deep in my throat. Earlier, I’d hacked up a glob of blackened sputum. I guessed there was more still to come.

‘OK.’ Shimmin clasped his hands together on his knee. ‘We’ll go for all at once. Question one: what were you and your friends doing out here tonight? Questions two and three: what was with the heavy-duty locks on the doors and windows, and why the hell were you armed with a gun?’

I didn’t respond. I didn’t speak or shake my head or even blink. I was fixated on the fire officer making his way across the wrecked kitchen, his torch beam slicing through the smoking, hazy murk.

‘Some follow-up questions for you.’ There was gravel in Shimmin’s throat. His deeply burrowed eyes seethed with a rancour I wasn’t equipped to handle. ‘What is it with you and Hop-tu-naa, Cooper? Why do friends of yours keep dying at this time of year?’

The fire officer had made it all the way across the kitchen to a shattered window. He poked at some shards of glass with his gloved hands and tested the strength of the frame.

‘Another question for you, since we’re on a roll here. I fielded a call from Morgan Caine this afternoon. He wanted to register a complaint that you’ve been harassing his family. He seems to think you’re obsessed with the idea that his father is some kind of mass murderer. Care to comment on that?’

The fire officer raised his torch up beside his yellow helmet. He aimed the beam out of the busted window, carving a tunnel of light through the foggy black as he cast it around.

Shimmin growled and mashed the heel of his palm into his knee. ‘The thing I find so frustrating, Cooper, is that I like you. You’re a good detective. I want to help you. So talk to me. Do it now. Because I’ve seen your friend David and he’s a mess. He’s going to tell us everything we want to know whether you co-operate or not.’

Shimmin exhaled in a weary gush and shook his big head, a fast jerk of anger and resentment and disbelief. He leaned close and pressed his lips to my ear. ‘You’re going to talk to me, Cooper. One way or another. Even if I have to arrest you first.’

The torch beam had steadied now. It had zeroed in on its intended target. The fire officer tipped his head to one side.

I swallowed something charred and gritty. ‘You should take me to the station.’ My voice sounded lost and hoarse, even to my ears. ‘I’m going to need a lawyer.’

Shimmin backed off from me then, face falling, but it didn’t take him long to read my expression and track my gaze and utter a faint, defeated groan. We stared together through the smoke and mist at the disc of torchlight being projected against the stone wall of the dilapidated barn. An object was dangling there, hanging by a twisted lace from an old iron hook, glinting wetly in the halogen dazzle.

A black Adidas training shoe with three white stripes on the side.

It was your typical Friday morning in the Cooper family business. A lot had changed for me in the past year, and maybe for that reason above all others, I cared passionately about the routine Dad and I had fallen into. We were sitting side by side at the dining-room table with mugs of instant coffee close at hand, a packet of biscuits between us, and the stereo tuned to Manx Radio. I was reading off a list of customer orders from my laptop and Dad was busy processing them while I dispatched confirmation emails.

I’d moved back into Dad’s place six months ago. It was partly to save money, partly for emotional support. I liked to think that worked both ways – that Dad needed me just as much as I needed him. Together, I hoped we might finally heal one another.

As for what I’d said to him out at Scarlett Point, I’d tried to apologise but Dad had cut me off and told me it was over with. He hadn’t forgiven me exactly – it was more like he preferred to pretend that the incident had never happened in the first place – but he was willing to move on. I guess having your daughter almost killed in an arson attack will do that for most fathers.

I was content to follow his lead and let the subject drift. He’d been there for me when it mattered. He’d nursed me through my darkest moments. He’d held me and looked out for me and told me everything would be OK. I knew instinctively that he was a good man, that I could believe in him no matter what Edward Caine had said, and for now, at least, that was enough.

Meanwhile, we’d become colleagues. After my first few days back at home, I’d drifted into the dining room to find Dad hunting through a mass of wilting boxes, cursing extravagantly as he tossed postcards and baseball caps in the air, searching for a signed colour photograph of Michael Dunlop riding his Honda Fireblade to victory in the 2013 TT Superbike race. I took one look at the clutter and confusion and told him he needed a system.

It took me almost two months to organise things. I invested in metal shelving. I catalogued and tidied Dad’s stock. I set up a basic website with a facility for people to order TT memorabilia online. I created Twitter and Facebook accounts to promote what we had to offer. And then I sat back and watched Dad’s business grow. Slowly to begin with, sure, but the orders were multiplying every day and I didn’t think it would be long before he could quit his evening shift behind the till of our local petrol station. We had a strong customer base in Northern Ireland and Germany. We’d generated an encouraging amount of repeat business. We were beginning to thrive.

I just had one golden rule. Everything had to be legitimate. No faked signatures. No rip-off merchandise.

Dad had taken a bit of persuading on that score, especially when I made him throw away anything that wasn’t totally genuine. Now, though, he was reaping the benefits. His reputation was building and so was his profit margin. We were also getting along better than we had done in a long time. We were a team.

‘Next order is a pair of T-shirts.’ I reached for a chocolate digestive, sprinkling crumbs on my laptop keyboard. ‘Black, with the TT map printed on the back. Middle shelf on the right. One large, one XL.’

‘No problem.’ Dad pushed back his chair and sorted through the plastic-wrapped T-shirts until he had the correct sizes. He grabbed a Jiffy bag from the selection I’d laid out at the end of the table.

‘I’m printing an address label for you now.’

‘Right you are.’

‘Don’t forget the special invitation.’

Dad groaned. Including a glitzy silver envelope with every purchase was a marketing tool I’d introduced at the beginning of the month. The envelope contained a discount voucher for future orders as well as examples of our bestselling merchandise, which was mostly T-shirts, baseball caps, key rings and mugs.

‘How many more after this?’ Dad asked, pulling a face as he licked the seal on the silver envelope.

‘Twelve.’

‘
Twelve?
’

‘What can I tell you? There’s a reason I was voted Manx Small Business Entrepreneur of the Year.’

Dad jabbed an accusing finger towards a framed certificate that was hanging on the wall. ‘Don’t think I don’t know that you printed that out when I wasn’t looking.’

‘Diddums. Maybe if you work a bit harder you’ll have a chance of winning it next year.’

‘Is that so? And who votes for this prestigious title?’

‘That’d be me.’ I toasted him with my coffee mug. ‘But hey, buck up your ideas and you could be in with a shot.’

Dad blew a raspberry, then tore off the self-adhesive backing from the Jiffy bag he’d stuffed the T-shirts and the silver envelope inside. I passed him the sticky address label from the printer and called up the next order.

Like I said, teamwork.

It had been a similar story between David and me. Our relationship could have been blown apart by the gas explosion that had killed Callum. We could have been destroyed by the stresses and pressures that came afterwards. But instead those forces had gelled us together. David had helped to save my life and I’d helped to save his, and as a result we shared a bond that was far stronger than anything I’d experienced with him before.

Or at least, we’d seemed to, until September rolled around. With October fast approaching, David had suddenly gone from being my greatest support to becoming more and more distant. We still spent time together. We still talked and held each other and kissed and made love. But in the smallest, most crushing ways, it was obvious that something fundamental had changed.

It used to be that we saw each other every day without fail, but recently it wasn’t unusual for two or three days to go by without David being in touch. Even when we had plans, I couldn’t rely on him showing up. He sometimes failed to return my calls or blamed a sudden emergency at the airport for why he had to work late or couldn’t sleep over. He’d skipped the last two Friday takeaway dinners that we’d fallen into the habit of eating in front of the television with Dad. And there’d been no talk of where our relationship was heading, which was something he’d been almost obsessing over previously. Back in the summer, he’d even started to edge around the subject of marriage and kids.

But I noticed the difference in his eyes most of all. These days, whenever I fell silent and really tried to connect with him, his pupils would dart away as if there was something about me that he couldn’t quite stand to look at. The last time we’d slept together, he’d turned out all the lights, and when I’d reached up in the dark, I’d found that his eyes were tightly closed, as though he was trying to transport himself to somewhere else entirely.

I couldn’t tell for sure what had caused the shift. We hadn’t quarrelled or disagreed about anything of significance. There was nothing to suggest he’d found someone else. I’d tried talking with him about what was happening, but he’d told me I was imagining things, that he was just busy and stressed and I was only making it worse. I didn’t buy it. He wasn’t behaving like the David I knew. But despite my own insecurities and my worry that perhaps he was just summoning the courage to dump me, and in spite of my old, irrational suspicions that sometimes tormented me in the small hours of the night, my best guess was also the most straightforward explanation – David was suffering from a build-up of anxiety and fear. He was scared because Hop-tu-naa was drawing closer. He was terrified because we were the only ones left.

Would someone come for us this year? I couldn’t say for certain but we weren’t taking any chances. We’d agreed to meet at the airport early in the afternoon and, supposing David didn’t cancel on me, we were going to fly away for the weekend. Our destination was unknown, even to us. We hadn’t booked tickets or accommodation in advance. David had grown testy whenever I’d tried to firm up our arrangements and he’d insisted that we shouldn’t tell anyone (including Dad) what we had in mind. Our plan, in so far as it existed, was to see which flights had last-minute seats available and to jump on board.

The theory was simple. If we had no idea where we’d be spending Hop-tu-naa, then there was no way that anyone wishing to harm us could know, either. There was no way they could possibly get to us.

And after that? I didn’t know. But I wanted to build a life for myself. A real life, with David, if only we could work through our troubles and get back to the way things used to be between us. I wanted what everyone wants – love, happiness and a future to look forward to with anticipation instead of dread.

I couldn’t pretend the past year had given me that. Much of it had passed me by in a blur of grief and depression and medication and hurt. There was a lot of it I couldn’t remember, and most of the parts I could, I didn’t especially want to. But I’d come through the worst of it now. I had to believe that. I had to buy into the idea that David and I could fix whatever had gone wrong between us, that Dad could finally move on with his life, that, in short, there was a future worth having for all of us.

So far today, I was doing pretty well on that score. I had my coffee and biscuits. I had my morning routine with Dad to occupy my mind. I had orders to process, a weekend bag to pack and a late-morning date with Dad and Nan in the south of the island that I’d finally agreed to keep. On any ordinary day, in ordinary circumstances, I’m sure that would have been more than enough.

But this was no ordinary day. It was Hop-tu-naa. And unfortunately for me, something as simple as the doorbell ringing still had the potential to unravel all my plans.

I looked up. ‘Expecting someone?’

‘Nobody.’ Dad’s voice was small, his lips pinched. ‘You?’

I shook my head and walked out into the hallway. The door was a white PVC unit with a reeded glass panel. I could see two blurred blue shapes waiting for me on the other side. 

I opened the door and time seemed to stall for a long moment. In those first few seconds it felt as if the world contained too much colour and brightness and noise.

One of the police officers was a young woman I didn’t recognise. Her platinum-blonde hair was styled into a severe bob beneath her police hat and her uniform had the knife-edge creases of a new recruit. The other officer was Hollis, my old Roads Policing partner. A silver squad car was parked on the street just behind them.

‘Shimmin wants to see you.’ Hollis was holding his white uniform hat under his arm. He squirmed as if someone had sprinkled itching powder on the collar of his shirt.

‘What’s happened? Is it David?’

Hollis must have sensed the fear in my voice. He smiled flatly and shook his head.

‘Then what’s this about?’

‘Can’t tell you that.’

I frowned. ‘When does Shimmin want to see me?’

‘Right now. You’re to come with us. If you refuse, we’re to arrest you.’

‘Arrest me? On what charge?’

‘Obstruction of justice.’

‘Seriously?’

The female officer moved her hand towards the cuffs on her belt, as if she was just crazy about the idea of placing me in restraints.

‘Tomorrow,’ I said to Hollis.

‘Tomorrow is no good.’

His colleague unclipped the leather strap holding her cuffs in place.

‘Claire?’ Dad had come up behind me. He rested a hand on my shoulder. ‘She can’t go with you today, Officers. She’s laying a wreath for her mother soon.’

‘I’m very sorry, Mr Cooper,’ Hollis said. ‘Believe me, I am. But we have our orders.’

‘She’s answered all your questions. She was promised this was over.’

The radio fitted to Hollis’s stab vest squawked and buzzed. He winced at the interruption and twisted a dial to minimise the sound.

‘It’s OK, Dad.’ I reached up and squeezed his fingers. ‘They only want to talk. That’s right, isn’t it, Pete?’

Hollis wriggled inside his shirt some more. ‘Give me a break, Cooper. You know what Shimmin’s like. We’re just the couriers.’