Authors: Dean Vincent Carter

The Hand of the Devil (3 page)

BOOK: The Hand of the Devil

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‘Hmm. Well, if you want to do it, I guess it’s OK.’

‘Great.’ I turned to leave.

Derek stood and went back over to the window. ‘But,’ he added, ‘even if it turns out to be another fool’s errand, bring
something
back, OK?’

I looked at him for a few seconds, puzzled by what he’d said. ‘What do you mean “bring something back”?’

‘You know – make sure the time isn’t completely wasted. You should know by now that it’s bad practice to return to the office empty-handed, Ashley. Take some photographs of something. Fake them if you have to – just get something we can use.’

‘You’re not serious?’ I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. It was hard to tell with Derek. ‘You’re the one who’s always moaning about hoaxers and time-wasters!’

‘I despair,’ he said, shaking his head but smiling. ‘You’re supposed to have an imagination.’

‘Imagination? What about integrity?’

He just laughed. ‘Integrity, my arse. Go on, get out of my sight.’

‘I will. Oh – wait,’ I added, turning back. ‘Speaking of pictures, could I borrow Gina if she isn’t busy?’

‘No you can’t. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to.’

‘What do you mean? I’m not up to anything.’

‘Oh come on, I’m not blind, for God’s sake,’ he said, grinning mischievously. ‘Sorry, but I can’t spare her at the moment. You’ll have to take your own photographs.’ He sniggered as I left his office, and I couldn’t help wondering who else knew about my crush on Gina.

It made little sense to hang around the office so I quickly typed up an urgent article that had to be finished, then made a couple of phone calls to get train times for the journey. As I left the office I passed Gina, who was on the phone. She mouthed ‘Good luck’ at me. I wished she’d been able to come too. At the very least she would have been good company.

As I waited at the bus stop, I wondered if I should have had a look on the Internet for information on the Ganges Red. Still, Mr Mather was likely to be the best source of information, since he had the creature in his possession.

Back at the flat, I put all my work gear (notebooks, Dictaphone, etc.) into a rucksack along with my MP3 player and Nikon camera, and left home to catch the tube to Euston.

The station was busy as usual. I spent a good twenty minutes in a long queue before buying a ticket for the 12.45 train to Windermere, where I would get a connection to Tryst. With a few minutes to spare I bought some sandwiches and a drink from a food stand, and a paperback from the bookshop. When the train finally arrived, twenty-five minutes late, I was deeply irritated and hoped there would be no further delays.

I found a seat, and soon the train was thundering through the countryside north of London. Most of the other passengers were business people, with some day-tripping families and teenagers making up the numbers. I started reading the book I’d bought, barely registering the train’s passage through Watford, Milton Keynes and Rugby. The journey progressed without incident until, shortly after leaving Nuneaton, a signal failure added another half an hour onto our arrival time. It was becoming increasingly unlikely that I’d be able to get back to London before the last train left from Windermere. It wasn’t the end of the world but I just hoped the story was worth it or Derek wouldn’t be too happy about the expenses bill. I put down my book and stared out of the window at endless fields, rivers and roads, punctuated occasionally by a small town or farm.

At some point I fell asleep, rocked gently into slumber by the rhythm of the train. When I awoke we were pulling into Preston. I sat up, retrieved my MP3 player and listened to music for the next hour until we arrived at Windermere shortly before half past four. I spent the short trip on the connecting train to Tryst thinking of everything I knew about mosquitoes, which was practically nothing.

As the train approached Tryst, the number of passengers in the dilapidated carriage dwindled, until only an elderly gentleman and myself remained. I stepped off the train and onto the platform, surprised by how much the temperature had dropped in so short a time. It seemed as though winter had lost patience and arrived three months too soon.

Far above me was a wide bank of grey cloud that didn’t appear to be moving. I walked into the ticket office and asked for directions to the harbour. The woman behind the window asked if I was going out onto the lake, and I told her I was. She gave me a strange look.

‘Really?’ she asked. ‘You’ve picked a pretty awful day for it, young man. It’ll be pouring down any minute now. And it’s getting dark out there.’ She leaned forward in her chair so that she could see the station entrance through the side of the booth.

I followed her gaze and nodded. ‘Yes. Just my luck. Oh, by the way, when is the last train back to Windermere?’

‘Last train to Windermere,’ she began, turning to leaf through a large folder on her desk, ‘leaves at seven minutes past nine.’

I looked at my watch. It was just after five thirty. Time, as well as the weather, was now against me. I had to make arrangements. It was feasible that I could do the story and just about get back to the station to catch the last train. But by then the last train from Windermere to Euston would have left anyway. I wouldn’t be going back to London that night.

‘You wouldn’t happen to know of a bed and breakfast nearby, would you?’

‘You could try the Rocklyn up the street. They’re pretty good there.’

‘The what?’

‘The Rocklyn Bluewater. It’s owned by an old stage actress – or so she says. Nice lady though. She’ll probably have rooms available at this time of year.’

‘Right. Thank you.’

I stood outside the station for a while. It was getting quite cold and the sky overhead was attracting more and more dark clouds. I sensed approaching rain in the air. Looking to my left I saw the lake itself, which dominated the view in that direction. The road before me sloped down past shops and houses towards one side of the vast stretch of water. The woman at the ticket office hadn’t told me where to find the harbour, but it didn’t really matter: I could see a small wooden boardwalk at the bottom of the hill with a number of boats in the water nearby.

I met only a few people along the main street. Somewhere a dog barked, but apart from that there was little evidence of activity. The shops along the road were old and poorly maintained. They gave off an air of apathy, an absence of love. A weathered sign on the side of a boarded-up shoe shop read:
THE SHAMBLES
. I was amused by its accuracy.

To my right, not far away at the top of the hill, I could see a large building with a board outside that read:

THE ROCKLYN BLUEWATER GUEST HOUSE VISITORS WELCOME
!

After entering the building I approached the reception desk and spoke to the proprietress herself, who was a small, thin, elderly lady in rather eccentric clothes and what appeared to be a blonde wig.

‘Oh, hello, young man! I’m Annie Rocklyn – very pleased to meet you!’ Her over-friendly attitude caught me off guard a little, as did the remarkable amount of make-up she’d lavished on her face. ‘Now what can I do for you? All our rooms are fully furnished and—’

‘If I could just book a room for tonight, that would be great. I’m visiting someone on the lake.’

‘Of course! You’re in luck as we have a number of rooms available at the moment. Er . . . did you say the lake?’ Her smile dropped a little.

‘Yes, I’m a journalist,’ I said, in an attempt to impress. ‘I’m visiting a Mr Mather. He lives on the island. Do you know him?’

‘Not personally. Well, no one does really, dear. He doesn’t come into town.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Keeps himself to himself, if you know what I mean.’

‘I see. So, shall I check in now or wait until later? I should only be a couple of hours.’

‘I lock the door at eleven thirty, but if you get here later just knock – I’m usually up late. I have always been something of a night owl.’ She smiled, the abundance of lipstick around her mouth catching the light from the gaudy desk lamp that stood beside the guest book.

‘Right. Thank you very much.’

I turned to leave. As I walked out I could hear Annie Rocklyn following me across the foyer, calling out, ‘You’re from London, aren’t you? Did I mention I once trod the boards in the West End?’

‘Really?’ I asked, not wanting to ignore her. ‘Were you in anything I’d have heard of?’

‘
Run for Your Wife
.’

‘Ah,’ I said, unsure what to say next. ‘Good stuff . . . Well, thank you very much. I’d best be off, I suppose.’

‘Oh, of course. And you take care now! Those can be treacherous waters in weather like this.’

‘I will. Thanks again.’

I walked briskly down to the harbour, nearly tripping on one of the loose stones that lay strewn across the dirt slope above the lake. I saw a boardwalk and an office or cabin of some sort, so I approached and knocked on the door. There was a loud cough, then a muffled curse. The door opened.

Whether it was bad timing or whether he just hated interruptions I don’t know, but the man clearly wasn’t pleased to see me. He was short, overweight and limping slightly. His long grey hair was yellowing in places, exposing him as a dedicated smoker.

‘Well,’ he began brusquely, one eye opened wider than the other, as he exhaled a long plume of smoke into the air. ‘What do you want?’

‘Excuse me, but are you the harbour manager?’

‘Master,’ he replied, without changing expression.

There was an awkward pause before I replied, ‘Sorry. Harbour master.’

‘I am.’

‘Oh, great. Could I hire a boat to get across to the island, if that’s possible?’

‘The island, eh?’ He looked me up and down and smirked, as though something had amused him, then limped over to a desk and opened a large logbook. He seemed to take a long time to find what he was looking for. Through a grimy window I could see the rain clouds bunching together over the lake and the town. They looked certain to open at any minute. It was as though they were waiting for me to get out on the water before unburdening themselves.

‘Name?’ He licked the end of a ballpoint pen and prepared to write.

‘It’s Reeves. Ashley Reeves.’

‘And what is it you need?’ He started writing in what looked like an uncomfortable manner, his hand curled around the pen like a claw.

‘Just something small and simple to get me to the island and back.’

‘I see. You’ll need something pretty nippy then if you’re wanting to miss that rain,’ he said, staring through the glass.

‘Yes. Rain’s no good.’

‘No, it ain’t. Pretty odd you choosing to go boating this evening then, ain’t it?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Number six,’ he replied, ignoring me. He took something from a shelf above the desk then went out of the door, sniffing as he went. I followed.

Outside it felt as though a huge lung had sucked most of the oxygen out of the air. I could hear the sound of wood scraping on wood as boats bobbed against the dock.

‘Should have brought some spare clothes,’ I said to myself.

‘Eh?’ The old man looked bemused. He took a deep drag on the soggy cigarette that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face.

‘Sorry. I was just thinking aloud. Mental sewage.’

He shook his head and turned away.

At the end of the boardwalk the harbour master stepped down onto the rocks at the edge of a small beach. A sorry-looking boat had been dragged onto the shore and abandoned.

There was a loud rumble from above, and a dirty smell in the air. Rain was now inevitable. The old man looked up at the sky, squinting as he did so.

‘Not many people about,’ I remarked.

‘No. Most folk have enough sense to be indoors.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I, er . . . I don’t blame them.’

‘You’ll wish you were one of them.’ He’d spoken the words so softly that I’d almost missed them.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothin’,’ he replied, seeing my puzzled expression. ‘Just mental sewage. That’ll be your boat there.’ He indicated the forlorn vessel on the sand. I looked at it, then looked back at him. He was staring up at the sky again, regarding it with what looked like contempt. As I felt the first few droplets of water land on my nose and cheeks, I wondered if the trip had been a good idea after all.

‘So, does it have a motor?’ It was all I could think of to say besides,
You don’t seriously expect me to take that crate out onto the water, do you?

‘Yep,’ he replied, pulling his coat around him. ‘That’ll be that big thing in the back.’ He removed a blue tarpaulin, revealing an outboard motor.

‘Ah, right,’ I said.

‘That’ll be twenty quid. Cash.’

‘Oh . . . of course,’ I replied, fishing in my pockets for the money.

BOOK: The Hand of the Devil

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