The Wave at Hanging Rock: A Psychological Mystery and Suspense Thriller (16 page)

“Why would he come back? He didn’t have the papers, there was nothing he could do.”

But Natalie hardly heard this, with a flash she remembered the red tail lights she’d seen that night.
 

“I saw a car. Driving away, before you shut the blinds. It must have been him. He must have seen us…” Natalie’s hand flew to her mouth, stopping her from going on, but the horror was clear in her eyes. But Dave was shaking his head.
 

“No. You’ve got to stay rational. Jim didn’t see us. He couldn’t have done. There’s no way he would have come all the way back from Cornwall to help with a few papers. This is Jim we’re talking about.”

Natalie didn’t move, her hand still clamped over her mouth.

“OK. The light you saw, this car. How close was it?”

Slowly Natalie brought her hand down, and concentrated on her breathing. She looked at the window, the thought that Jim might have stood outside there watching her was almost overwhelming - she remembered with a another layer of misery how she had beckoned to Dave to come back to her just before he turned off the light. But no, Jim couldn’t have seen that - the blinds were already down by then.
 

“Look.
Look.
Out the window. We’re the last unit on the estate. But you can see the corner of the main road. That’s what you must have seen. A car driving out on the main road, but they wouldn’t have been able to see in here.”

She tried to calm her breathing and focus on what he was saying. The light hadn’t been close she remembered.
 

“No one saw us Nat. They couldn’t have.”

Suddenly she got up and went to the window. Outside everything was quiet. Like normal. Most of the other units around them were empty. She saw the main road, some way away, and then a car drove along, slowing for the corner, its brake lights coming on for a moment or two. She began to relax a little.

Natalie went and sat back down. Dave had put a coffee in front of her and she took a sip. The bitterness helped.

“So if you you didn’t tell him, I didn’t tell him, and he didn’t see us through the window, then how the hell did he find out?”

“We don’t know that he did. There was no note or anything? Nothing else to suggest…?

“No. Nothing the police have found.”

“And you spoke to him after… On Friday night? On the phone?” Dave said. They both knew what he meant. Friday was two nights after their encounter.

“How did he sound? Was he suspicious? Angry?”

She shook her head, remembering the call now.

“No. It was… Good. I think we both felt guilty. Him because we’d had this row about him going off surfing again. Me because of… Well.” She shrugged sarcastically, and felt in danger of losing her composure again, but Dave carried on as if he didn’t notice.
 

“So the only suggestion it wasn’t an accident is these empty paracetamol boxes.”

Natalie considered for a second or two.

“I suppose.”

“And they definitely weren’t yours? I mean, I’ve seen your car. It’s often quite a mess. They couldn’t actually have just been left there?”

Natalie felt herself reddening at this. It was bizarre. She was suddenly feeling more guilt for keeping a dirty car than being an unfaithful wife. “No…” she stopped. “I mean there may have been one packet there, I’m not sure. But not three.”
 

He took a deep breath before replying.

“Then maybe there is a simple explanation. Maybe Jim got a headache. Pulled a muscle or something. That can easily happen when you’re surfing. And maybe you had an empty packet or two in the car and forgot to throw them away. And he bought another packet, and used them for something. I mean for something real.”

Natalie’s face stopped him. Her eyes were wide and pleading. He felt an overwhelming urge to protect her.

“Nat you did the right thing telling the police those tablets were yours. Imagine how much worse this would be for Jim’s mum, for everybody if they thought Jim took his own life. And there’s no way that happened. This was just a tragic accident. You did the right thing.”

Natalie looked away. She tried to look back at him and say something but her nerve failed.

“We’ll find out,” she said eventually. “When they find his body. They’ll do an autopsy. We’ll know for sure then. And then the police will know that I lied. What happens then Dave?”
 

He didn’t answer this and it looked for a moment like she was going to cry again.

Dave stood up and came back around the desk. He took her hands and pulled lightly so that she stood up, and for a second time he put his arms around her.

twenty-one

I’D BARELY THOUGHT about our secret spot while John had been with Cara, I was a bit busy wallowing in despair and misery I guess. But Darren had thought about it.

It turned out he’d gone on another reconnaissance trip, alone. He’d taken another look at the map and realised it was easier to get to Hanging Rock if you first went inland following the road up past John’s house, and then cut across along a farmer’s track by some fields. You then had to jump over the wall that bordered the estate, but it wasn’t that hard to do and as soon as you were across, no one from the outside could see you. From there you could scramble straight down the side of the valley and follow it all the way back to the sea and Hanging Rock Bay. It was a bit of a trek, but the big advantage was that no one from the big house would be able to see you, which was much better than the coastal route where you had to pass in front of it in full view.
 

The problem was the boards. Wetsuits fitted in a backpack, but you couldn’t hide three bloody great surfboards, and if anyone saw us on the road, it would be obvious we were headed towards the private estate.
 

Between them, John and Darren worked it all out. The night before we planned to surf it, we would take our boards as far as John’s house. Then we would leave from there early, before there was any traffic on the country lane. If we got unlucky and someone did come along we’d be able to hear then, and we could stash the boards in the hedge. The track would probably be easier, it was unlikely that anyone would be out walking that early. Once we were over the wall it was commando territory - we didn’t know what we’d be facing, but we figured that if you were rich enough to have a massive house and an estate, then you wouldn’t feel the need to get up early. We hoped so anyway.
 

It was all Darren and John making the plans. And if it hadn’t all taken place at the caravan, I might not have been involved at all. I didn’t know how to process the news that John and Cara had split up. On the one hand I was pleased, and of course I didn’t buy John’s bullshit that he’d split up with her, but on the other it made it difficult for me since John was around more than ever, and I still found it difficult to talk to him like before. I still found my stomach doing these stupid heaves when John mentioned her name. Darren didn’t help. He decided he wanted details and would pester him for hours, asking how many times they’d had sex and where and what positions and what it was like. John knew how it made me feel, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to brag about it.
 

A couple of weeks later, the weather forecast looked good for surf that weekend, and we put our plan into action. I told Mum I was taking my board to John’s to fix it, not that she’d have noticed it was gone, and Darren and me peddled up the hill into a freshening breeze, each with a board under our arms. John met us at his gate and we stashed the boards under some bushes just inside his fence. We didn’t hang around for long but each went home and set our alarms for five the next morning.
 

It was autumn by then, and only just light when I woke. My school backpack had been emptied of books to make room for my wetsuit and a few chocolate bars borrowed from the shop. Darren was already at John’s when I got there, and we set off right away, talking in whispers even though there was no one else around.
 

A couple of cars came past while we were hiking single file along the road, and John - in front of course - called for us to quickly lower our boards into the ditch that ran alongside the road. The occupants couldn’t have been less bothered, but it was still a relief when we made it to the track, it would be just our luck for one of the local surfers to drive past and stop to ask where we were going. We saw one woman with a dog in the fields, but they were a long way in front and walking away from us so we just stalked along behind, ready to drop to the ground if she turned around, but pretty soon she turned away and out of sight.
 

 
It didn’t take too long before we arrived at the estate’s perimeter wall. It had signs up saying “Private” and “Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted” but that didn’t look so likely since the wall was almost falling down in places. It was no trouble to jump up onto it, pass the boards up, and then drop down the other side.
 

We went from farmer’s fields to land that I guess was used for grazing sheep. Just grassland, a few little woods dotted around, and like Darren had said, no buildings or anything in sight.
 

Even though this was Darren’s route, it was still John that took the lead, and we followed him across a half mile of open land and then down into the valley. There was a lot of vegetation down here to push through and the path the sheep used sometimes disappeared, but we could splash through the stream for the few bits that had got too overgrown. Right at the end it got really thick and John had to go through first then we passed him the boards one by one.
 

And then we turned a corner and we were there.

twenty-two

THE WAVE AT Hanging Rock was special. What happened that day - later on I mean, when things turned bad - that would never have happened if the wave hadn’t been something special.
 

That first day we surfed it the wind was blowing strong and out to sea the horizon was lumpy from all the swell. Even inshore there were white caps everywhere, really it was no day for surfing. But right in close by where the rocky ledge lay unseen beneath the water, in there the surface of the sea had smoothed right off. Maybe it’s something to do with the steep sides of the valley, I don’t know, but where the wave was breaking it was like a different day. The swells would wallow in towards the reef like bloated whales, their backs ruffled and bothered by the wind, but in close they became spaced out and stretched like a strange creature waking up. And one by one they began to peel off down the point. By the time they were reeling past the Hanging Rock they looked like something out of a surf movie. Only better, for being real and unbound by some little square box in a magazine or on TV.
 

I don’t know about the others but I never really expected to go surfing that day. Not there anyway. I thought we would get there to find the place wasn’t like we remembered it, that the wave didn’t really work after all. That it was just some crazy dream we’d all had, and we’d hike back without even getting wet and that would be it. We knew Town Beach would be OK later on and that’s where I thought we’d end up. Splashing around in the wind with everyone else.

And because we’d arrived by Darren’s inland route it just felt such a shock to see it there laid out in front of us. We’d not seen the sea, just sheep droppings and branches scratching across our faces and then suddenly… this. This vast blueness stretching out in front of us and wave after wave after wave coming through like it had been sculpted by some giant machine. And no one there but us. It looked… I dunno how to describe it. It just looked fucking amazing.
 

You wouldn’t believe how quickly three boys can get into wetsuits, but when we were suited up, we slowed down a bit - the launch was sketchy. The wave broke onto a flat reef that runs up the north side of the inlet, it stuck right out from the cliffs with the Hanging Rock right in the middle. But the reef was studded with boulders and deep cracks so that it was constantly washed by foaming white water surging up and drawing back down again. Getting across wasn’t easy. You might make it, or you might stumble on a rock that you’ve not seen, and there’s a lot of seaweed so it’s really slippery. Eventually we’d figure out the right way to launch at Hanging Rock - you jump in at the waterfall at the neck of the bay and it’s an easy paddle out behind where the waves are breaking. But that first time we didn’t think of that. So instead we picked our way all the way along the rocks right out to the point, and tried to make the short paddle out through the breaking waves just before they began their long peel down the reef.
 

It was hard going walking. You could feel the wind catching at the board, trying to whip it around and slapping the leash against the deck. It was cold too, still early in the day. I didn’t have boots and the barnacles cut at my feet. Lower down the seaweed felt greasy and slippery. Eventually I made it down to the water’s edge, the point where the last of the wave’s energy pushed the water it was carrying onto the rocks. John and Darren were there already, their feet in boots had made the walk a little easier. But something was holding them back.
 

“Now what?” I asked as I stood close by to Darren. It was pretty much the first time I’d spoken that day.

He said nothing but crouched lower, holding his board in both hands as a bigger swell pushed in, sending water foaming over his feet and up to his knees. He was braced for it and managed to stay upright, but it hit me by surprise and the force of it took my legs away. I found myself carried back up the rocks on my arse, the board clattering off the rocks behind me.
 

“Shit!” I shouted when I got back to my feet, more to me than anyone else. “It’s got a lot of power.”
 

Neither of them answered but Darren was watching me, hesitating. John didn’t though. Just as the next swell pushed in he shouted “Motherfucker!” and he leapt forward into the water, holding his board out in front of him. He landed with his chest on the board in his paddling position and began to dig in furiously, strong strokes of front crawl, trying to make ground before the next wave hit. When it did all we saw was a pair of black legs and feet disappearing under a bubbling wall of crisp white foam.