Breakers

By Barry Litherland

No-one who was aware of the events of September and October 20__ will ever forget them. For those people who were directly involved, the memory will haunt them to the grave. Recollecting the storms alone is enough to cause nightmares; but recalling the events which took place under the cover of that violence, well... that is another matter altogether.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barry Litherland
• Release date: Jul 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393106920

Barry Litherland

Barry Litherland lives and writes in the Far North of Scotland. He has written several crime and paranormal crime novels and Middle Grade children's novels. You can find out more about him and his work by visiting his website.

Book preview

Chapter 1

BILLY

There’s something I’ve got to ask.

Do you believe in anything?

God, the Devil, heaven, hell and all that shit, miracles and eternal life, saints and sinners, angels and demons?

I didn’t used to — not a word. Think about it for a moment: God created everything, right? So God must be bigger than what he (or maybe she) created, and that’s pretty damned big. I mean, it stands to reason. And that makes God bigger than everything out there — planets, stars, galaxies, the universe — the whole thing. So if he exists, he’s sitting out there, curled round the whole of creation, while he moves bits here and bits there, tinkering with them until he’s got them just right.

Now, you want me to believe that this God, who’s playing with his creations like they’re part of one huge construction kit, can see me, down here on Earth? I don’t think so. No, I really don’t. It’s like me seeing inside an atom, inside a neutron, inside whatever the hell is inside a neutron.

No, if God’s out there, he surely doesn’t give a damn about me. Shit, even my neighbours don’t give a damn about me and they see me most days. Apart from my family - especially my sister, Jenny - and a couple of friends, I’m about as significant as that neutron.

I’m just some malignancy deep inside a bacterium.

At least, that’s what I used to think.

There’s another question I’ve got to ask.

Do you believe in evil?

Good and bad used to be enough for me. They kind of made sense; good people can do bad things, and bad people can do good things, and most people drift between the two on a regular basis. That’s life, I guess. I’ve done some pretty bad things myself — even ended up doing time. I can understand all of that.

Evil’s different. You can’t switch from good to evil and back again; you can’t be a bit of both and change from moment to moment. If you’re evil, it goes through and through; there’s no gap where the light can get in. I figure that’s why I didn’t use to believe in evil. Even the worst people I knew — and I’ve met some truly terrible people in my time — had a glimmer of light about them. Maybe they made me laugh, maybe they were good to their wives or kids, maybe they liked dogs or were loyal to their friends. Maybe they cried over sentimental songs.

But if there’s no such thing as evil, how do you explain Murdo Carr? I mean, that guy never wavered towards good, not once. Whatever he was — call it evil, call it bad through and through, call it whatever the hell you want — there was no crack in the fabric and no light of goodness. There was nothing but blood darkness.

Sometimes, I find myself wondering if he was always like that. I mean, he must have been a baby once, then a toddling infant, and then a child. Once upon a time, he must have been a cuddly, warm bundle of goodness. Did he grow evil over a number of years? Or did it happen all at once, in a cataclysmic moment that left goodness eviscerated?

I’ve thought about that a lot.

The trouble is, I don’t want to understand him or feel anything for him. As far as I’m concerned, he never was a baby, never an infant, never a child. He emerged into the world fully-fledged, and he was evil from the very first moment. He was divorced from humanity — something different.

How else can I explain him? I mean, he just wasn’t like the rest of us.

There was some weird shit that went on round Murdo. Maybe, as the months have passed, I’ve made more of it than I should have, but it was strange. I mean, how do you explain the fact that he never once featured on street cameras? By the harbour in our village, there’s a camera that points right at a spot where he stood, but, when you look at the recording, he’s not there. Neither is his car or his driver.

But they were there; I saw them. We spoke.

All the camera shows is me, looking like I’m about to wet myself. I’m standing there talking to nobody, and, even in that light, my face is pure white. Shit, I look scared. Then suddenly I’m running past the camera like there’s someone behind me with a flamethrower. I’m still running when the camera outside the chemist picks me up. But there’s no one behind me; as far as the cameras are concerned, I’m running away from a great big, scary nothing.

There’s another thing.

It’s always dark round Murdo. There are blazing arc lights at the end of the harbour and lights on the warehouse wall, but when he comes back, my mate Christie’s the only one there, standing in the moonlight like he’s in a spotlight on a stage. He looks like he should start dancing or something. He’s talking, gesturing, backing away. There’s no one else there.

Darkness follows Murdo like it belongs to him.

Detective Inspector Jack Munro has an explanation. There was a power cut, he says. It affected the factory lights. He checked it out and there was definitely a power cut. As for what I saw, he reckons it was the result of too much drink or drugs or maybe both.

He’s got a point, I guess.

Anyway, it’s time to start my story, so I’d better take a step back and start at the beginning.

But where is the beginning?

Maybe it's when the English guy arrived at the ruined croft behind Sandway Beach. He was planning to renovate it and wanted to bring his family up here. That’s just what we need, I thought to myself, more incomers.

When I saw him in the pub and he opened his mouth, I knew I didn’t like him. All those oily vowels were like a red rag, and he was leaning on the bar like he owned the place. I’d had a few drinks — more than a few — which didn’t help. I’m an angry drunk when incomers are concerned.

Anyway, me and the English guy didn’t hit it off. Ten minutes into our conversation, I’d lost my temper; fifteen minutes later, I was banned from the bar again and had to fork out for the damage — a chair, a table, and a few beer glasses. Still, it was good of Benny not to call the police. It made me feel sort of guilty, though. Benny’s the landlord, and he’s a decent guy; I’ve known him forever. He and my dad go way back. Benny says I should cut down on the booze. He says it brings out the worst in me.

Maybe drink can explain what happened on the boat.

But Denny hadn’t been drinking. As far as I know, he hadn’t touched a drop.

It still happened.

Chapter 2

BILLY

I’m still angry at the incomer the next morning. I don’t forget things like that; I don’t forget his sarcastic remarks — far from it.

But he can wait. I have other fish to catch today. Literally.

This morning, I need to check the pots with Denny. I love going out in the boat. I feel sure of myself when I’m out on the waves; I’m safe, at home. I was born around boats, see; I was brought up on them. There’s nothing I don’t know about them. I know every inch of the coast around here too — every rock, every cove, every stretch of sand. I know the currents and tides, and I can read the weather from the sky. I’m more at home on the sea than the land.

We’re going out again tonight too. Only, I don’t feel quite so good about that trip. I’m excited, yeah, but I feel kind of guilty too. I have to remind myself that it’s these night trips that keep the boat running, and it’s the boat that keeps me running, so I try to shrug aside the bad feelings. Yeah, it’s illegal; I know that, but needs must, right? Besides, we’ve done it before, and, if it wasn’t us, it’d be someone else.

The trouble is, it’s different this time. We’re taking extra risks tonight. We’re going way beyond anything we’ve done before, and I don’t like it. It feels greedy.

Christie is my partner, so I figure I’d better call in on him on my way to the boat. I douse my head under cold water then pour myself a glass of milk. Another glass follows the first, and then I’m ready. I’m lucky: I inherited my dad’s constitution, and he could digest rocks. I wash away the debris of last night and make myself a fried breakfast before setting out.

Christie’s cottage is only a few doors down from where I live with my sister, Jenny, and her husband, Fraser. Jenny likes my company, because Fraser is away a lot, working on the rigs, but I’ll get my own place when I’ve saved enough. We’re on the narrow lane which stretches across the neck of the headland, connecting the new harbour to the old harbour. There’s a stream opposite, which can be a bitch when the weather turns bad; in storms, when the tide is high, it can flood the whole road.

When I knock on Christie’s door, a familiar, wizened woman in a dressing gown and slippers sticks a wispy head through a crack in the door — Christie’s mum.

‘Christie?’ I ask her.

She turns her eyes upwards. ‘I’ll not wake him. He’ll give me hell. He was out late.’

‘Remind him I need him tonight — ten o’clock at my place. He’ll know what it’s about.’

She nods and wipes a bony hand across her face to stifle a yawn. ‘Your place at ten. I won’t forget.’

The door slips to, and I walk on to the main harbour, where my boat lies ready at the quayside. I clamber down the iron ladder and set about preparing for cast off. I glance at my watch; Denny’s late. I frown and mutter a few oaths. There are rules with my boat — no drink, no drugs, you come on board sober, and you arrive on time; it’s the same rules for me as for everyone else. Denny knows the rules. We’ve been mates since school, and he’s always helped me on the boat.

I’m starting to get impatient when I see him hurrying down the quayside. He clambers down the iron steps onto the deck, and, with a nod, he prepares to cast off. He’s a man of few words is Denny, especially in the morning. We head away from the harbour, westerly at first and then north around the promontory and out to where we’ve set our pots.

We’re the only ones out this early. Nowadays, most of the boats in the harbour are leisure crafts. There are only a handful of working inshore vessels; the deep-sea ships, for which the harbour and deep anchorage were built, are long gone. Most of the warehouses on the harbourside are either disused or have changed function and now house heavy vehicles for the haulage industry. It’s a shame. In my father’s day, the place used to be alive with people. Now there’s just the one small factory for what’s left of the fishing industry. It has a manager, a secretary, a foreman, and a couple of casual workers. Ron Cameron is the manager.

If I knew whom to blame, I’d hate them.

Instead, I get angry with myself.

The old harbour on the other side of the promontory is largely unused. It’s been crumbling away for years, and it’s only useful as an occasional anchorage; passing vessels and inshore boats sometimes moor there but only for a night or two. Only the rusting haulage gear and crumbing stone buildings show how important it used to be. There’s a long harbour wall which still offers some protection; everything else is gone.

Once we round the headland, I steer north-east and follow the line of the cliffs towards a small bay, where the first of my pots lies, marked by a buoy.

Denny holds the rope and guides the pot on board.

‘Empty,’ he calls.

We resettle the pot and the engine chugs as we sail on to the next buoy.

‘Empty again,’ Denny calls, and we both swear. Sometimes, you get days like this.

There’s no change in our fortunes at the third pot, or the fourth, or the fifth. Each time, Denny helps the pot onto the deck, trailing water and weed. Each time, he inspects it, and, each time, the message is the same.

‘Empty again.’

This is getting really irritating — no catch, no money. Suddenly, I realise how important tonight is going to be. Those drugs give us a steady income.

Eventually, we turn towards a narrow bay. It lies hidden beneath towering cliffs which cast a dark shadow over the sea. That shadow’s always there, except for a few days in the summer months when the sun slips through.

Denny shudders.

‘I hate this place. There’s something about it that makes my flesh creep.’

Denny isn’t the only person to feel that way. It’s a place avoided by other vessels — fishermen are a superstitious bunch. They say they get a strange, uncomfortable feeling as they pass the bay. I used to tell them it’s just the shadows and the cold you feel as you slip out of the sunlight and into the shade.

But I don’t say that anymore.

Denny is watching the waves break against the shingle, deep in the tiny bay. We call them geos round here, the inlets left when a sea cave collapses. Deep in its shadows, a stream tumbles from the clifftop and leaps down a steep, mossy slope to the sea.

‘That stream looks as if it’s trying to escape the place,’ Denny calls.

‘It’s you who wants to escape,’ I call back.

‘Something bad happened here; I know it. I can feel it.’

He says the same thing every time we visit the bay.

‘Something bad will happen if that pot’s empty,’ I shout back, but, at that moment, I feel it too.

‘There’s something evil about this place,’ Denny mutters.

He raises the pot, glancing back towards the shore all the time.

‘Empty,’ he shouts at last. ‘Now let’s get out of here. I don’t know why you have to set a pot out here. No one else does.’

I don’t move. I’m staring towards the clifftop, to a point at the top of the geo. Someone is standing where the spray of the waterfall blows back towards the land.

‘Come on, Billy. It’s just a tourist.’ Denny is growing impatient. ‘Let’s get going.’

‘It’s not a tourist.’

‘Whoever it is, let’s get the hell out of here. Hang on, what’s...?’

Denny turns sharply towards the stern, as if he’s been disturbed by a sudden movement. He stands frozen, his mouth half-open, a cry stuck in his throat. It’s like he can’t speak, like he’s transfixed. He raises a hand as if to ward off some hideous apparition.

I don’t pay too much attention at first. I figure it’s just Denny pissing about as usual, pretending he’s right about the bay and that something’s out to get him. So I turn to look again at the strange figure on the cliff. It’s then that I hear a strangled cry, and, when I spin round, Denny is backing away towards the wheelhouse, his eyes wide and looking as though some devil, unseen by me, has crept from the ocean and is crawling across the deck.

‘What is it? What’s the matter? Stop messing about, Denny; it’s not funny.’

Denny points, but no sound emerges from his throat. He stumbles and falls backward and covers his face, and, at last, the scream comes, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. It’s unearthly and alien and savage. Within seconds, everything has gone to hell. It’s like something is dragging Denny towards the stern. His arms flail as he tries to grasp anything that can save him, and the scream continues like it’s being drawn bleeding from his throat.

At last, the words come. ‘Help me, Billy! Help me! My God, have you seen it?’

He says nothing more. He rips at the boards in an attempt to gain some purchase with his fingernails, but nothing can save him. I watch like I’m glued to the boards as he disappears over the stern and drops beneath the waves. Then there’s silence and nothing moves. It’s like nothing has happened and Denny is still somewhere on the boat — like it’s just a weird dream or one of Denny’s stupid jokes.

I stumble towards the stern and peer into the water, but there’s nothing to see, nothing at all. Denny has disappeared; he’s been dragged to his death, drowned, and I can’t move, and I don’t understand. Nothing makes sense. I kneel down and lean against the stern. The water, an oily blue, rolls beneath me. There’s nothing down there, nothing... until, slowly rising from the depths, something appears, and its eyes meet mine.

I roll back, flailing my legs, and then I throw myself back and back again.

On the distant cliff, the old woman watches.

Chapter 3

BILLY

Two hours later, I’m sitting on a hard, wooden chair in Christie’s back room. I’m leaning on the table, sipping brandy from a chipped wine glass, and my hands are shaking. Christie is sitting opposite me, and, out of sympathy, he pours himself a drink too. There’s never a shortage of alcohol at Christie’s place.

‘Christ, Billy, we’ve got to call the police. It’s going to look really suspicious if we don’t.’

Christie shares my stocky build, but he has straight, fair hair which falls like damp hay down the side of his face. He always sports a single, looped earring, and he has a tattoo of a mermaid on his left arm. His eyes sit close together, like tightly fastened black buttons that draw his hollow cheeks together. He also shaves every day. He’s fussy about that and always has been. The only time he doesn’t shave is when he’s going out to sea; he’s superstitious — most fishermen are.

I stare across the table at him. I still can’t figure out what’s happened, and he doesn’t seem to know what to make of it either.

‘It looks pretty suspicious, no matter how you look at it,’ I tell him, reading his mind.

‘They’ll be looking for him. Maggie and Tam know he was going out on the boat with you. The longer you wait, the harder it’ll be to explain.’

Maggie and Tam are Denny’s parents, and they’re local to their core; the family goes generations back — all fishermen. Check the graveyard. Look for their names. They’re everywhere.

‘What will I tell them?’ 

‘Not what you told me, that’s for sure. They’d have the police carting you off within minutes, especially with your track record.’

‘What do you mean, my track record?’

‘I mean, it doesn’t take much to imagine you lost your temper, lashed out, and sent him to a watery grave. You’ve got form. I mean, it looks pretty damned suspicious, doesn’t it? Even I...’

‘Even you what?’

Christie shrugs. ‘If we weren’t mates... that’s all I’m saying. Something you couldn’t see climbs onto the boat and starts dragging him over the stern, while you’re standing there watching, and he’s screaming and clawing at the deck, I mean...’ He gestures helplessly. ‘If I didn’t know you... that’s all I’m saying. And what was it you saw in the water when you looked after him? You haven’t said.’

I shudder. ‘Something rising towards me — a hand, an arm, a face, coils of seaweed, and eyes... my god, the eyes...’ I wipe a hand across my face to drive away the image.

‘You can’t say that to the police. They’ll never believe you.’

‘So what the hell do I say? Help me out here.’

We’re quiet for a few minutes, then Christie passes me a phone. ‘Tell them you’d both had a drink or two and he slipped and fell.’

‘They won’t believe it.’

‘They can’t prove anything else.’

I have to agree. What else can I say? The story I tell Christie seems pretty far-fetched even to me. ‘Anything’s better than the truth, I suppose.’ I pick up the phone and dial the police. A few minutes later, after a conversation in which even I could tell I was lying, I hand it back to Christie.

‘The police are on their way. The coastguard is going to search for Denny; they might even bring out a helicopter.’

‘Shit, what about tonight?’ Christie asks.

‘We’ll have to tell them we can’t make it. We can’t go out with the coastguard about. Besides, I’m not going anywhere after what I saw.’

‘The Glasgow guys won’t understand. They’ll think we can’t be trusted. You know what that means.’

‘I don’t care what it means. Besides, no one’s going to sail a yacht into a search-and-rescue zone, not with the cargo they’re carrying. The yacht can sod off for a few days until the police give up the search.’

‘They won’t like it. And then there’s the other cargo... you know... I mean, it won’t wait, will it? Shit, Billy, what are we going to do?’

‘I’ll phone Ron Cameron. He’ll know what to do. It was his stupid idea anyway. Have you got the phone?’

Ron Cameron manages the fish factory, or what’s left of it, but he’s always got a few money-making schemes in mind, most of them bad. The latest one is the worst yet, and he’s got me and Christie in it so deep, our chins are resting on the surface.

Christie roots in a drawer and pulls out another phone. A clutter of papers, string, rubber bands, and cards fall out and litter the floor. He swears under his breath. ‘Have we used this before? Ron said to use it once then throw it away.’

‘Ron watches too many police dramas. Pass it here.’

A soft-spoken voice answers. It’s Megan. She’s been at the factory for years; she lives in a hamlet a few miles along the coast. I picture the smile she switches on for visitors and the weary face left behind when she switches it off again.

‘Mr Cameron, please. It’s...’ I pause. ‘Tell him it’s Bill Jacks. He’s expecting the call.’

Christie stifles a laugh. ‘Bill Jacks?’

‘It’s what we agreed, remember?’

An abrupt, business-like voice answers — Cameron in professional mode.

‘Mr Jacks, how good of you to phone. Wait a moment; I’ll close the door.’

The door clicks shut, and the sound of echoing voices from the factory floor goes quiet, as if a switch has been thrown.

‘What do you want?’ he snaps, abrupt now. His voice is coarse, as if a professional veneer has been stripped away to reveal the unfinished wood below.

I don’t like Ron Cameron; we were never close.

‘We can’t sail tonight,’ I tell him. ‘We’ve got to call it off. It’s not safe.’

‘What the hell do you mean? It’s too late to back out now; you have to meet the yacht at midnight. It’s all arranged.’

‘The police and the coastguard are all over the place.’

I try to be patient, but, even over the phone, I want to punch him.

‘What? How do they know?’

‘Calm down. They don’t know anything. There was an accident; someone fell off a boat. It’s a search and rescue.’

Cameron swears and starts mutters to himself. ‘The Glasgow guys won’t like