Little Black Lies (10 page)

Fishing nets are massive and very strong. We had two knives but mostly we had to pull. After thirty minutes or so we’d got the dorsal and one pectoral fin free. Discovering she could move again, the whale swam forward in a surprising burst of speed, taking us with her for a hundred metres or more, before she tired again and we resumed work.

After another hour the second fin was free and it was all looking a lot more hopeful. Another ride around the bay and the whale calmed enough for us to get the rest of the net off her tail. We lay back in the bottom of the boat until Dad found the strength to get up and start the engine.

The whale hadn’t gone. She was hovering about fifty metres off to port. As we started to motor she came with us, surfacing first on port, then on starboard. She breached high into the air before diving deep, only to emerge somewhere we least expected. We watched breach after breach, tail lobs and fin slaps in a spectacular display of aquatic acrobatics. She stayed with us until we reached Stanley harbour when Dad cut the engine again. As the propeller stopped spinning, and silence fell over the sea, the creature came right up alongside until we could see her liquid black eyes peering at us. We leaned out and stroked her smooth, round head. She left us then, flicking her tail in a last, joyful salute.

‘What did you call her?’ Rachel asked me later.

I shrugged. Dad and I had been working too hard trying to save her, we hadn’t thought to give her a name.

‘One day, when you’re lost on the ocean and about to drown, she will appear and save you,’ Rachel announced, in the emphatic way of hers that told you there was no point arguing. ‘When she does, give her a name.’

*   *   *

Dreaming of Rachel has woken me, as it always does, and with that grinding, impossible-to-settle rage that her mere presence in my head always brings. I get up, trying not to disturb Queenie. In the main cabin all seems still.

Midnight has come and gone. It is Wednesday. One more day to the anniversary of the boys’ deaths. One more day until everything changes.

The door opens quietly. Callum shouldn’t be asleep at all, given that the bench he’s lying on is two feet shorter than he is. His feet are propped up against the cabin wall, his shoulders hunched uncomfortably against the side of the fridge. He is sleeping, though. His breathing is heavy, his face completely relaxed.

I take deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down, to stop shaking.

Callum sleeps so deeply, an army legacy of having to snatch rest whenever he could. We used to joke that a lit firework under his bum wouldn’t wake him ten minutes after he’d dropped off.

I will never get this chance again.

I walk over, my bare feet making no sound. I’m calmer already. I’m not shaking any more, or if I am, it’s for a different reason. I kneel beside him and lean closer, until I can feel his breath against my face. Closer still. I can smell coffee, the oils in his skin, whatever he last washed his hair with. I touch my face against his, feel his skin, the stubble of his beard next to my cheek, then let my lips meet his.

I stay like that for long seconds, breathing in time with him, willing him to wake up, praying that he won’t. Then I see him, once again, grinning down at Rachel, and I can’t bear to be near him.

*   *   *

I’m disturbed once more before morning. A boat has come alongside. I hear lines landing on deck, feel the gentle thump of another vessel’s fenders. I think I hear my name and wait to be roused. The call doesn’t come, and so I drift away.

DAY THREE

Wednesday, 2 November

7

I’m awake again before dawn, but light is growing as I step out on deck. Queenie and I are alone. The sounds I heard in the early hours were those of Callum being picked up by the police boat.

A fret, or sea fog, has arrived in the night and the harbour entrance is filled with white mist. It looks solid enough to run across, a wall of white. It looks like a giant wave, stretching between the two cliffs, and for a moment I have a sense of it moving towards me. It looks like a barrier, something that will stop me leaving this safe harbour, and maybe I should listen to what nature is telling me. Maybe that wall of mist is here to keep me safe.

But the light grows, the clouds take on the soft, ivory warmth of the sun’s first beams and the wall begins to break. After a while, I can see the point where the ocean meets the sky on the other side of it. Whatever is waiting for me there, the mist is letting me through.

There’s traffic on the shipping channel, and I hear that the search of the boats last night proved fruitless. Archie West, the little lost Arsenal supporter, has been missing for two nights now. I also hear some of what’s going on around the headland.

When I turn into Port Pleasant I see immediately that I’ll get nowhere near the
Endeavour.
There are two police vessels, a military boat and a dive boat anchored close to it. Callum is standing on the bow. Sound travels a long way here and he obviously heard me coming. He turns to talk to someone on board and then Stopford appears. I watch the two of them climb down into one of the police launches and head my way.

*   *   *

‘Catrin, what do you know about the tides round here?’ Stopford doesn’t waste time once he and Callum are on board. ‘People tell me a lot of stuff gets washed in here.’

‘That’s true.’ I talk to Stopford but I’m looking at Callum. His beard, that odd mixture of blond, red and brown hairs, is clearly visible around his chin and lower cheeks. There are grey hairs in it too now. His face is thinner than when I first met him. Or maybe he’s just tired, having had little or no sleep the last two nights. As if confirming my thoughts, he sinks down on to the wooden slatted seat that runs around the side deck and Queenie leaps into his lap. He reaches out to stroke her muzzle and his hand is shaking.

‘What we’re trying to figure out is whether the little lad was left on the boat, or whether he could have been carried around by the tide and got stuck in the wheelhouse.’ Stopford raises his voice to get my attention.

I think about it for a second. Port Pleasant, like a lot of the inlets around Falkland, is long, thin and undulating. And it has the island directly in the middle of the channel. It’s a collecting ground for all sorts of floating debris. Even, I imagine, that of the human variety.

‘It’s possible,’ I say. ‘A big wave could have brought him on to the boat and after that, it’s not difficult to see how he could have become stuck. Is it Jimmy?’

Stopford’s face tightens. ‘Too early to say. We’ll get him back. Hopefully the dentist can help us out.’

I think back to the small skull we saw in the torchlight, to the double dentition that freaked Callum. ‘Did you find anything else on board?’ I don’t mean anything else, of course, I mean
anyone
else. I just don’t want to say it.

‘Not yet. But the divers will be here most of the day. If necessary we’ll tow the wreck itself back to Stanley. I’d appreciate you and Callum keeping quiet about what you found here. Until we’ve had chance to confirm identity and talk to the lad’s family.’

Half the islands’ population will know about the body we found by now, but I nod my agreement and so does Callum. Telling us to stay in touch, Stopford climbs back on to his launch and returns to the
Endeavour.

‘Anything I missed?’ I ask.

Callum shrugs. ‘Jury’s out on whether we found a murder victim, or the trapped remains of a tragic accident. No prizes for guessing which camp Stopford’s in.’

I think for a second. ‘So where does that leave Archie? I mean, the search for Archie?’

‘There was talk about searching all the other wrecks. Or at least the ones that have some sort of sheltered accommodation out of the water. That’s something. It’ll take time though.’

‘We need to get back. You’re frozen. You should go inside. Try and get warm.’

Somewhat to my surprise, he doesn’t argue. When he goes into the cabin, Queenie follows him as if she’s his dog, not mine.

I start the engine, lift the anchor and head out. After we’ve cleared the bay and I’m confident I can put the auto helm on, I steal quietly over to the seat in the wheelhouse where Callum left his jacket.

The toy rabbit is in one of the inside pockets. There’s hand stitching around one ear where the original seam came loose and someone – me, I think – sewed it back up. I feel sure that this is Kit’s toy. I can’t begin to calculate the odds of it ending up on the
Endeavour,
the odds of both this and the body of poor Jimmy Brown doing so, but this is the last comforting thing my baby ever saw. I tuck it inside my shirt. It’s filthy, cold and wet against my chest but I wouldn’t have it anywhere else.

As I drive into Stanley the fishing fleet are setting out for the day. I reverse into my mooring and tie the boat up. I haven’t heard from man or dog the whole trip back. So I’m not entirely surprised to see both of them curled up on the main bunk, snuggled under rugs and dead to the world. Queenie opens her eyes. I wait for her to scramble off and join me but she stays in the crook of Callum’s arm.

Just before I leave the boat, I tuck Benny Bunny into a drawer in the wheelhouse. I want him close, next time I head out from harbour. I want him with me at the end.

*   *   *

I’m weary. Body and soul. Weary of being forced to think about children who mean nothing to me, of putting what little energy I have into looking for boys who are not mine. I never used to be so cold. I’m not naturally a monster. There was a time when I’d have been as distressed as anyone by the losing of Archie, by the finding of Jimmy. There are days when I think the old me is almost gone.

Now, for the short time I have remaining, I want to be left alone, with the only two people I care anything for. Even if they are ghosts. But at this stage I cannot do anything that will draw attention to myself. I have to go through the motions, just for one more day.

So I head for the office, to see if normal business has resumed or if we’re spending another day searching for Archie. Susan is in something of a flap.

‘Your Aunt Janey’s been on the phone. Needs you to call her right away. Problem over at Speedwell.’ She is holding the phone out to me and I have no choice but to take it and dial my aunt’s number.

Speedwell is an island off the south coast of East Falkland very close to George and Barren. Aunt Janey and her husband own it and live on it some of the time. She answers so quickly I know she has been sitting by the phone. ‘Catrin? We’ve got a big problem. Whales on the beach. Hundreds of them.’

Susan is watching me. I pull a face to let her know it’s bad. ‘Are they alive?’ I ask Janey, and to be honest, I’m hoping they’re not.

‘Most of them. But the birds are starting to have a go at them. Catrin, it’s really horrible.’

It takes a lot to upset my Aunt Janey. I tell her I’ll be with her as soon as possible, just as John arrives.

‘Mass stranding on the south coast of Speedwell,’ I tell him. ‘Well over a hundred, according to Janey. Pilot whales, most likely, from her description.’

Neither of my colleagues replies immediately. It’s the sort of disaster we dread, can never really prepare for.

‘We’ll have no help.’ Susan has gone pale with distress. ‘Everyone will be looking for the little boy.’

Ordinarily, with a major marine incident, we could rely upon both the police and the military for assistance. But with a child still missing the chances of them sparing personnel are slim.

‘I’ve got that fisheries meeting this morning,’ says John.

The meeting has been planned for months. We’re discussing selling fishing rights in certain stretches of water. It’s important. The islands need the revenue. John has to go to the meeting. Which means I’m in charge. Susan will have to stay in the office as a central point of contact.

‘But it’s your field, right?’ Susan looks to John for confirmation.

‘Cetaceans are Catrin’s speciality.’

I nod. ‘I know what to do.’

‘I can get on the phone.’ John is the first to pull himself together. ‘Explain the situation to Stopford and Wooton. See what they can spare us.’

‘The radio too,’ I tell him. ‘People should be able to decide for themselves.’ I want to tell him that Archie is almost certainly at the bottom of a bog or been swept out to sea, but there may still be a chance to save the whales. I don’t. Maybe it’s the memory of that tiny skeleton, lying alone on the
Endeavour
all this time, but I don’t.

‘What do you need?’ he asks me.

‘Couple of helicopters with load-bearing capacity would be good. Failing that, as many people as possible. Small boats with big engines, jet skis will do, ropes, stretchers, buckets and lots of large sheets or groundsheets. And spades. Lots of spades. Did I mention buckets?’

Susan makes a list, as John goes to find his phone book. ‘I can be there by mid afternoon,’ he tells me.

I spend the next half-hour getting everything I need. Pete arrives and makes himself useful. When John has finished his calls, we talk through the various scenarios. None of them inspires us with anything other than a sense of dread. We all hope Janey has been exaggerating the scale of the problem. I don’t say that Janey never exaggerates.

As I’m about to leave PC Skye arrives. ‘The Chief Superintendent asked me to pop in,’ she says. ‘We’ll do our best to get some people over to Speedwell, but we have to concentrate on the search for little Archie.’

‘Clear the area of livestock and do another infrared search,’ I tell her. ‘You’ll find him.’

Her eyes fill up. I forget how young she is. I forget that it’s possible to be so fresh and vulnerable that the death of a complete stranger can have a serious impact upon you.

‘Mr Stopford would prefer you to stay here,’ she goes on. ‘You and Callum. In case he needs to talk to you again.’

‘I’ll be contactable by radio all day.’

I haven’t given her the answer she wants but she chooses not to pursue it. ‘I’m sorry I can’t come to Speedwell,’ she says. ‘The boss has put me in charge of liaising with Archie’s family.’