Mermaid in a Bowl of Tears (Exit Unicorns Series) (70 page)

“Damn it, Jamie!” she slammed the cream jug down on the counter, sending a wave of the thick liquid onto the floor. The tears, always hovering too close these days, spilled down her cheeks. “I understand how he feels. I do, but that ten minutes is all I’ve had to reassure me that he’s alright in these last few months. I’m scared as hell every minute of every single day—” she shook her head, “I’m sorry. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but I
needed
to see him.”

“I know that,” Jamie said. “I’m sorry, but I do think he has valid reasons for wanting you to stay away. I know your reasons for wanting to see him are equally valid. Perhaps—”

Whatever Jamie had been about to say was cut off by a terrible screech from outside. They looked at each other in startlement and then Jamie flew out the door, towards the pine coppice from which the horrible scream had sounded.

Finbar was barking madly as she ran down the stairs, Jamie’s fair head already disappearing in the inky blackness of the wood.

Sylvie stood next to the fire staring at the coppice, face tight with fear.

“What happened?”

“Lawrence was over near the trees, there was a cracking noise and Finbar shot off into the trees, and then Lawrence pelted after him. Then Pat and Jamie went off after him.”

The two of them huddled closer to the fire, neither wanting to approach the woods. The entire mood of the night had shifted to one of menace, the trees seeming to crowd in upon them. The flickering flames, which had given her such content before, now seemed like writhing snakes, ready to strike.

It was a small eternity before Jamie emerged from the dark bank of pine, head a pale glow against the dark. Something in the way he moved, though, warned her.

She could smell the sharp edge of cold and pine needles as he approached. The vertical crease in his forehead was deep as a knife cut.

“Where’s Lawrence?” she asked, tremors shaking her from head to toe.

“Lawrence is fine. Come with me,” he said grimly, “there’s something I think you had better see. Do you have a torch handy?”

She nodded, throat thick with fear. “Bottom drawer, right of the fridge.”

Jamie was back a second later, torch in hand. “Come,” he said shortly to Pamela. “Sylvie, go in the house and go upstairs. Turn the light on in the master bedroom please, and then in a few minutes, start walking back and forth across the room.”

Sylvie nodded, her pixie face ashen in the firelight.

Jamie turned and headed back toward the tree line, glancing back once to be certain Pamela followed.

The bobbing torchlight cast huge ghoulish shadows all around them, heightening the aura of menace. Her teeth were chattering uncontrollably, and she was freezing cold again, the small warmth of security that she’d felt earlier abruptly shattered.

It was dark and damp once they crossed from the fire-lit yard into the heavy undergrowth of the pines. She could feel the chill of her own breath as it misted onto the air. The set of Jamie’s shoulders as he trod ahead of her told her that whatever he’d found had greatly disturbed him.

Pat stood at the edge of a small area that lay beneath the arms of a lone oak. Finbar was stiff- legged and pacing the area, nose to the ground, hackles still up, a low growl emanating from his throat.

“Where is Lawrence?” she asked, voice sounding small and weak to her own ears.

“Up here,” came the muffled reply from above her head. She looked up to see the pale urchin face pop out from a network of black oak branches.

“Thought I heard something in the wood, an’ when I turned to look I saw someone movin’ through the trees. I yelled at him, an’ I must have startled him badly because he tripped over somethin’ and broke a bunch of branches before settin’ off runnin. He’d a bit of a head start, or I’d have caught him.” The head retreated as quickly as it had emerged, and she could hear the sound of his long limbs scuttling back up the tree.

Pamela looked around the space. Even in the limited light of the torch she could see that someone had most definitely been living in amongst the small band of trees. The brush was completely flattened, and there was more than one sign of recent occupation. A heavy shirt, sodden with October damp, the coals of a small camp stove and a scrap of cellophane wrapping from a cigarette package. A neatly rolled sleeping bag lay on its side on the ground. It looked as though it had been tossed down from the tree, which had a good-sized hollow several feet off the ground that would allow a grown man to sit fairly comfortably.

“I went up the tree,” Jamie said, “the view is quite astounding from there. Particularly when you use the binoculars I found stashed in the crux. I could practically make out the date stamp on your china. What do you see, lad?” Jamie called up.

“Light’s on now. Ye can see all four corners of the bedroom even without the eyeglasses,” there was a brief scuffle and a muttered curse as Lawrence presumably adjusted the ‘eyeglasses’. “With them—” there was a sudden silence from above.

“With them what?” Jamie prompted impatiently.

“I can see the stitchin’ on the pillowcases. I can see everything.” The boy’s voice was small now, and afraid. The emphasis he’d placed on
everything
leaving none of them in any doubt as to just how complete the surveillance had been.

A feeling of violation swept over her. So none of it had been her imagination. Right now feeling like a hysterical female would have been a great comfort opposed to the notion that someone had been peering through the windows for weeks.

“Lawrence tells me you’ve been jumpy as a foxed hare these last several weeks.” There was no mistaking the anger in Jamie’s voice.

“What?” She looked up to where a long leg was feeling about for a sturdy branch. At her sharply uttered question, though, it recoiled like a yo-yo back into the shelter of the tree.

She should have known better than to think she was hiding anything from the child, he’d lived most of his life looking over his shoulder and honing his primal instincts for survival to a fine and cutting edge. Those pale blue eyes saw a great deal.

“Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”

She crossed her arms over her chest in a defiant attempt to stop shaking. “It was just a feeling. I thought I was imagining it. I can’t run to you with every little problem that crops up. I’d no reason to think it was anything more than my imagination running rampant.”

He shook his head, mouth set in a grim line. “Pamela, I told you to come to me with anything, no matter how trivial. This is hardly trivial, though.”

She put her chin up, trying to summon a bravery she most certainly wasn’t feeling. She couldn’t shake the feeling that even now eyes were crawling all over her.

“I’ll be sure to tell you if it happens again. In the meantime I’ll keep the doors locked and curtains drawn.”

The fine golden brows arched in surprise. “Are you mad? You’re not staying here.”

“Then what,” she said, voice terse with fear, “do you suggest I do?”

“I suggest you pack up the boy, the dog, the sheep, yourself, and even that damned cat, and come home with me.”

“I can’t just leave the house empty,” she protested, “and we can’t all come huddle under your roof.”

Jamie gave her a very straight look that told her he’d had about enough of her nonsense for one day. “I’ll have someone out here to check the place everyday, and we’ll get the police to have a look at the things in the woods. But you and Lawrence cannot stay here any longer.”

“I don’t want to run, this is my home,” she said angrily. “For all we know whoever is in the woods means us no harm. It could be a gypsy or a tramp.”

“Neither scenario is comforting, and it seems unlikely to me that a gypsy or tramp roams the woods with binoculars in hand,” Jamie said grimly. “Be sensible Pamela, that’s your property, someone’s trespassing and has been for awhile. It seems doubtful to me that it’s for an innocent reason.”

“We’ve got Finbar,” she said, knowing it was a ludicrous statement even as she uttered it. As though to punctuate it, Finbar ambled over, tripping on his huge feet and ploughing, headfirst, into Jamie’s knees.

“Yes,” Jamie said, with no little sarcasm, “there is that.”

“I’m not afraid, we’ll lock ourselves down every night, and I have the pistol Casey left me. He made certain I know how to use it.”

“Could you just once make a decision based on common sense rather than your monumental stubbornness?”

“He’s right,” Lawrence said, dropping suddenly at her elbow, looking like an underfed wood elf with dried leaves and twigs in his hair. “We’d be best elsewhere for a few days at least.”

“
Et tu, Brute
?” she said acerbically.

“Yes, me too.”

She was surprised by this sudden volte-face, wondering when Lawrence had decided he no longer wanted Jamie strung up and skewered.

“I’ve seen ye lookin’ over yer shoulder when yer out of an’ evenin’ tending to the sheep,” Lawrence said. “I’ve felt it meself with the hairs up on the back of me neck. An’ there’s no reason to think he’ll not be back, once everyone else leaves an’ it’s just me an’ yerself.”

She turned toward Pat, grimly silent to this point, and saw that there would be no support there either. “It’s the only thing that makes sense Pamela, Casey’d not want ye here with someone lurkin’ through the woods, ye know anyone doin’ that doesn’t have good intentions. None of us can stay here twenty-four hours a day; at least under Jamie’s roof ye’ll be safe. Or ye can come stay with Sylvie an’ myself. It’s yer choice, but stayin’ here is not one of yer options.”

She sighed. “Alright, but only for a few days, whoever it is has probably been scared off. Come on, young man,” she nodded at Lawrence, “you can pack up the animals, while I get our clothes and things together.”

Pat stayed back with Jamie, eyes still moving from one item to the next.

“Who do ye think it is?” he asked when Pamela and Lawrence were well out of hearing, though they could still see their silhouettes as they approached the lights of the house.

“Were I a betting man,” Jamie said, bending to pick up the small shred of cellophane. “I’d put every farthing I possess on Robin Temple.”

“Aye,” Pat rejoined darkly, “so would I. What next then?”

There was a certain grim anticipation in Jamie’s voice when he responded, and Pat thought if he didn’t dislike Robin so much, he might have found it in him to feel a bit of pity for what the man had set loose upon himself.

“I think we need to have a chat with our bonny Robin.”

THE WARY PEACE LASTED ANOTHER FEW WEEKS and then was abruptly blown apart. Almost literally, as it turned out. Casey was out having a smoke by the wire with Declan, who was grumbling his usual litany of complaint about Roland’s attempts to whitewash his soul, when Matty, fair hair on end, came rushing out.

“Christ, what’s happened, Matty? Yer white to the lips,” Declan said, stubbing his cigarette out on the fencing that surrounded them.

“They’ve found the makins’ of a bomb in our quarters. Stash of sugar an’ some bleach under Shane’s bunk.”

Those two items were all that were needed, along with a bit of water, to rip a heavy-duty postbox in half. In large enough amounts it could do real damage on board the ship.

Casey swore softly under his breath. “What was the silly bastard thinkin’?”

Matty shook his head, “I don’t imagine thinkin’ played a great part in what he did.”

They went quiet then as the Sergeant strode out on deck, bony face suffused cherry with rage. Behind him came four soldiers, all blank-faced and sternly at attention. He began without preamble.

“It has come to my attention that someone among you is stockpiling explosives,” the words were aimed at them all, but the Sergeant’s pale eyes never left Shane’s face. Explosives seemed a rather grand term for the bit of sugar and bleach that had been found, but Casey knew it was as bad as if they’d all been caught with ten pounds of Semtex each under their bunks.

“This is a very serious offense. The lives of many good men are reliant upon my vigilance in such situations, and as such I cannot take this discovery lightly. It would be best for all concerned if the man responsible steps forward. Otherwise all will be punished with extreme prejudice.”

Casey didn’t even want to contemplate what this man might mean by those terms. The riding crop was being drawn through and through the Sergeant’s hand now, and despite himself Casey couldn’t take his eyes from it.

“Shall I tell you what I’ll do if none of you confesses?”

No answer from the small huddle of them.

“Well I’ll tell you,” he smiled luxuriantly, like a cream fed cat. “To begin with there will be no more family visits, no mail, no parcels to make your miserable lives bearable. Each of you will be questioned separately at
length
.” His tongue lingered over length, suggesting all manner of pain and misery. “I’m authorized to use all means at my disposal to keep the soldiers of Her Majesty’s army safe, and to ensure that safety at any cost. This ship is a world unto itself; the Geneva Conventions don’t apply here.”

None of them moved, though Shane was getting noticeably twitchy.

“Or perhaps we can keep the visits and make it—how shall I put this—very undesirable for your wives and sweethearts to come pay a call.” The pale eyes were hooded now, but Casey could feel the man’s gaze upon him.

Beside him he could feel Shane’s entire body straining to move forward and held just as hard in place by the fear that had him firm in its grip. There was something very ugly in the Sergeant’s face and even Shane wasn’t naïve enough to miss it.

Casey took a deep breath and stepped forward. “’Twas me,” he said firmly.

In his peripheral vision he saw Matty’s head snap around, and heard Declan swear under his breath.

The sergeant stopped mid-stride, the cat-like smile spreading across his face. “Was it then?”

Casey swallowed, knowing he’d just handed the man what he’d wanted from the first. “Aye, it was.”

The man slapped his palm smartly with the riding crop, an affectation that had caused the men no little amusement. Just at present, though, Casey didn’t find the sight of it the least bit funny.