The Wave at Hanging Rock: A Psychological Mystery and Suspense Thriller (5 page)

“That’s right.”

He didn’t say anything to this, but waited for her to go on.

“And just now in the bar, everyone here was like that. Wishing someone else would do something about those men. But only you did.”
 

Jim sat back in his chair at this, and it was only when he did that Natalie realised how close together they had been.

“It’s hardly the same thing though.”

“No,” she hoped he’d lean forward again and told herself off for thinking it.

“But how did you know they wouldn’t retaliate? They could have turned on you. There were two of them, only one of you.”

“Ah. Not true. I’m with some friends over there, the rugby players.” He pointed at a table where two very slight men were sitting. Boys really. They both wore glasses. Natalie got the joke more quickly this time.

“Does the one on the left actually have a pen tucked into his shirt pocket? Or does he just look like he should?”

“It writes in three colours. They’re amazing kick boxers though. Black belts. They do the nerd look to keep the element of surprise.”
 

Natalie couldn’t help but smile.
 

“So you see it was always three against two.”

“Are they really your friends?”

“I’ve never seen them before in my life.”

Natalie shook her head, then allowed herself to look into those strange eyes.
 

“Seriously, how did you know those thugs wouldn’t retaliate? I’m interested to know. Maybe you could call it professional interest.”

The eyes didn’t blink.
 

“Seriously? I knew they wouldn’t. People like that never do.”

eight

THE EVENING TURNED into night, and still there was no answer on Jim’s mobile phone, just that strange beep that presumably meant a dead battery. She was concerned now. So much that her anger was nearly gone, replaced wholesale by fears for where he might be. Rationally she knew she shouldn’t panic. The most likely explanation was that he’d gone for a late surf, then stopped at a pub for a meal and was now driving home. Or perhaps the car had broken down and he was waiting for the AA to pick him up. The most sensible thing to do was go to bed. She’d probably wake up when he came in, if not she’d see him when she woke in the morning.
 

She dreamt he was there when she woke. It was so real she could still see the image of him lying there, his broad, tanned back curving away from her in their bed. But he wasn’t there. She called out, in case he’d already risen and was in the bathroom. But the house was silent, her mobile showed no messages, no missed calls.
 

Now she was scared. Inconsiderate was one thing. This was something else. Before she was even dressed she phoned Dave to ask if he’d heard from him. The surprise in his voice convinced her she had no choice. She dressed and made herself a coffee, and then she picked up the phone and dialled the number for the local police. She didn’t know what else to do.

Right away it felt weird. “I’m phoning because I think my husband is missing,” she said. The words sounded like something you’d hear in a film.
 

The police officer she’d been connected to was a man. He’d told her his name but she forgot it at once.
 

“OK.” He had a grating voice. He sounded young and inexperienced.
 

“And when did you last see… Mr Harrison?”

“Four, no five days ago. He went away on a surfing trip.”

“On a surfing trip?”

“That’s right.”

There was a pause.

“Was he alone, or was he with anyone?”

Natalie hesitated, thinking of her conversation with Linda the day before.
 

“He was alone.”

“And can you tell me where he went?”

“No. I’m sorry. I just know that he was going surfing. He normally goes to Devon I think. Saunton or Croyde.”

“And that’s where he went this time?”
 

She remembered how it had been when they parted.
 

“I don’t know. He might have been going somewhere else. Sometimes he goes down to Cornwall. Or other places,” she finished lamely.
 

The silence the man left went on for a long time and Natalie imagined it filled with accusation, until she suddenly realised it was only so long because he was writing everything down. She could visualise a slow longhand scrawl.
 

“And how did he travel? Is he in a car?”

“Yes.” Natalie gave the details and then had to repeat them several times because the policeman kept getting the registration wrong. The man sounded barely literate but finally they moved on.
 

“So when were you expecting him to be back?” He asked, seemingly unaware how his slowness was irritating her.

“Yesterday. Sometime yesterday. I don’t know exactly when. In the evening at the latest.”

There was a longer pause.
 

“Did he say what time yesterday evening?”

“No, he didn’t say yesterday evening, he just said yesterday. I said yesterday evening. That was the latest I thought I’d see him.”

This baffled the officer for what felt like minutes.

“So when did he say he’d be back?”

“Yesterday. Evening, afternoon.
I don’t know.
He didn’t say. But he had to work this morning. He hasn’t turned up for work.”

“OK.” Something had crept into the officer’s voice, there was promise in this call after all.
 

 
“So your husband works does he?” With the tone of his voice the officer managed to imply he had thought this unlikely.

“Yes, of course he does.”

“OK Mrs Harrison, I need you to calm down a little bit now.”

“I am calm.”

“OK. That’s good. Let’s try to keep it that way shall we?”

Natalie bit her lip. She realised her breath was coming short and fast.

“So what exactly does your husband do?” The officer asked, as if he still couldn’t quite picture a surfer who worked.

“He owns a business operating helicopters out of the airport. He also flies the helicopters. He flew your chief constable to Edinburgh last month,” Natalie snapped.
 

This brought on the longest silence yet on the other end of the line, and when the man spoke again his tone had changed.
 

“OK… Look normally we wouldn’t necessarily list an adult as missing until at least twenty four hours after the person was expected back. But in this case… I think we can put the wheels in motion as it were. I should say now, it’s most likely that your husband will come back of his own accord, that’s the outcome in the majority of cases like this.”

It sounded to Natalie that the man was describing Jim as if he were a lost dog, but she didn’t say anything, and she regretted her outburst.
 

 
There were more questions before the conversation finished. A description of Jim and his vehicle were circulated around all the police forces in the UK, with particular directions given to those in Cornwall and Devon to look in coastal areas. After she put the phone down she stood at the sink and drank a glass of water, then refilled it but didn’t drink any more. She just stood holding the glass. Her face felt flushed and hot. She listened to the silence in the house, the only noise the faint humming from the fridge. She wondered if she had done the right thing. Jim would hate to be the centre of any fuss like this. But then it was his bloody fault.
 

“Oh Jim, where are you?”
she said out loud.

nine

JOHN WAS RIGHT, the surf really did come in two or three times a week, at least for the next few months. We always surfed the same place, the beach right in front of the campsite. Everyone called it ‘Town Beach’ even though the village was way too small to be called a town. It never exactly got good, at least not by Aussie standards, and even with my new wetsuit I could feel how cold the water was. But it was surfing. And I grabbed it like a rope lowered down to pull me out of my own private hell.
 

Or maybe I grabbed John. Usually we could only surf weekends, but we’d spend hours in the water, and then we’d come ashore and stuff our faces with cereal and bananas, and then go right back out. It didn’t matter if the waves were shit, we’d still want to be out there.
 

If the waves were really bad we’d be out there alone, but if they were ok there was always a local crew out. I didn’t mind, in fact I quite liked it. Back in Oz there were so many surfers that I learnt how to give respect and not drop in or mess up anyone’s waves. Back there you saw fights in the line up most days. Normally no one would actually hit a kid even if they did drop in, they’d just swear and shout and generally do their block, but everyone would look at you and know what you’d done. If you were really bad the lifeguards would tell you to fuck off and not come back as you walked back up the beach.
 

 
So at first I was respectful, waiting till the other guys had taken a wave before I took one, but most of them weren’t that good, so pretty quickly I was taking my fair share too, and then a few more. And it wasn’t a problem. I think they thought I was exotic, and it was why we were there, to catch waves, so if I was showing a bit of attitude to the waves, they seemed happy with that. And John seemed to like it. Being associated with me I mean. He seemed to get a kick from hanging out with another kid who could kick up a bit of spray, take on the bigger waves and put down some powerful turns. And if John liked it, I liked it.
 

 
Pretty soon I had the other surfers figured out. There was Charlie who was a fisherman who worked off a boat that came into the small harbour in the village. You could tell he was tough, so I kept out of his way. At the other end of scale was Gwynn, an old guy who rode a longboard. He only ever crouched down and trimmed along the waves but he was always talking and shouting encouragement to everyone, like he loved being out there more than anything else. Baz worked in the quarry that was out behind the village. You heard the explosions sometimes when they were cutting new rock and it had made him slightly deaf, so no one bothered talking to him much. Barry and Henry were mates of Gwynn who both also rode longboards and sat out the back. Those were the guys who were always out, and there was another group who made it out sometimes. Usually there were plenty of waves to go around. It was friendly, a pretty cool group.
 

But sometimes other people turned up too and sometimes that spoiled things a bit. There were often surfers staying at the campsite, or guys who’d turned up from out of town, from the cities down south. If it was just one or two it didn’t matter, but when there were too many our pack got a bit more tight knit. We’d kind of unconsciously help each other onto waves, we’d form a little scrum, talking a bit too loudly, making it clear we lived here. Like surfers do. The idea was to keep the visitors off the sandbar in the middle of the bay where the best waves broke. You know, locals only.

There was one other kid who surfed. His name was Darren. I don’t remember meeting him, he just seemed to appear from out of the background. Then I realised he was in some of my classes at school, I just hadn’t noticed him there either. I don’t know why but John had never bothered to talk to him before I came along. Consequently Darren used to sit a little way away from everyone else. He didn’t catch too many waves sitting out there, but every so often a good one would come in over where he was and he’d ride it OK.
 

I don’t really know when Darren officially became mates with me and John. He just hung about in the background until we were used to him being there. Eventually it felt weird when he wasn’t there. Or maybe just a bit more weird. Darren could be pretty weird when he was there too.
 

Anyway, soon it seemed that John, Darren and me, the three kids in the water, became our own little group even within the local surfers. At first I was a lot better than either of them but they learnt quick enough. In Australia the lifeguards would coach us all the time and swear at us if we didn’t do what they said. We’d had two world champions come from our beach back home, and the lifeguards wanted a third. And I told John and Darren what the lifeguards had told me. How you had to drop faster down the face of the waves before turning back up. How you had to find the steepest parts of the waves to do your moves. How you had to really lean in hard to make the rails bite in the water.
 

I taught them by showing them, and surfing with them, but most of all I taught them by talking about surfing. John had a massive collection of surfing magazines, and we’d spend hours sitting and reading them and I’d sometimes lean over and point out what the pro’s were doing. I think that was one of the reasons John stuck with me at first - he really wanted to learn this stuff, and there was no one else around that could teach him.
 

That first autumn we hung out a lot in John’s place. It was warm and there was always food in the fridge. But then John's dad started coming home unexpectedly. He didn’t approve of surfing, he thought John was wasting his time and should be playing rugby or whatever. As a result he didn’t approve much of me, and he
hated
Darren, he couldn’t even bring himself to look at him. Anyway, John’s house was a couple of miles from the beach so we couldn’t check the surf from there. Darren’s place was no good either. He lived in one of the little terraced houses up in the village. The rooms were tiny and his dad was always there drinking home brew. He’d been laid off from the quarry after he hurt his back. So in the end we often had no choice but to come back to the campsite.
 

Our house was bigger than Darren’s, but because it had the shop and the reception in there it still cramped our style a bit. But John noticed one of the caravans. It was right at the end of the row, and it was waiting for some renovation before it could be rented out. I guess it was obvious it was never going to get it, so John suggested to Mum that maybe we could use it as somewhere to do our homework in. She knew he was taking the piss, but she said yes anyway, and we moved a TV and video player in there, and John brought down his surf movies and some of his surfing magazines. It made a pretty cool base, and Mum never came in, even when she needed to tell me dinner was ready or something, she’d just knock on the door and walk away.