ten

When the phone rang the next morning Jemma thought it was Martin. She composed herself for a moment before answering - flicking at her fringe and straightening her dressing gown. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted the receiver, but the flutter of excitement turned to disappointment as she heard Wendy’s voice.

“Are you OK?” asked Wendy. “You’ve not gone down with this flu as well have you?”

“No,” said Jemma. “I’m fine. I just didn’t sleep too well, that’s all.”

“Well if you feel up to it later, we were going to meet at the Dolphin for lunch. Vicky’s only got an hour, but I’ve got the afternoon off, so there’ll be no rush.”

“Sounds great. I better go and check on Lavender Spray and The Cherries this morning, but after that I’ve nothing major on. And it’ll be good to catch up. I don’t think I’ve seen you since the New Year do at the Glenn View?”

“So where did you disappear to at midnight? I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

“I was out on the balcony by the pool. It got a bit hectic on the dance floor towards the end.”

“Yea, eventually, after they put some decent sounds on. That Andy Rees does my head in. He’s like a disco for the living dead!”

“No, he’s not exactly top twenty,” said Jemma.

“More like 1920s,” said Wendy. “Anyway, I’m sorry I’ve not called you earlier, Cindy’s had the flu for a fortnight and Megan didn’t have your home number. I was going to knock on your door. But I hadn’t seen you out and about much, so I didn’t like to disturb you. But then Cindy called and gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. You’re very welcome to call me or drop by any time. I’m generally about during the day.”

“Great. Well, Vicky’s free from one this lunchtime, if that’s good for you. But Cindy’s not sure she’ll make it. She’s still a bit sniffly. And Megan’s looking after the shop”

“Poor Cindy. I’ll give her a quick call later. I’ll see you at one then?”

“Yea around then. It’ll be good to catch up.”

“Thanks Wendy. Looking forward to it.”

It was barely above freezing outside and the ice patches that lingered in the shade made the short walk to the Dolphin perilous in places. Jemma wore her thick black coat, her big blue comfort cardigan and grey scarf. They didn’t match properly, but she knew Wendy and Vicky well enough not to be too bothered about that.

It was warm in the café and quiet. Jemma was the first there. She hobbled to a table at the back overlooking the sea, shed her coat and scarf, and ordered a Cappuccino.

Vicky and Wendy arrived together, laughing and chatting, pulling off their own scarves and coats as they slid into the table beside Jemma.

“You’ve looking well,” said Wendy.

“Am I?” said Jemma.

“Isn’t she, Vicky?”

Vicky nodded. “Must be all those walks on the beach.”

“I haven’t been doing much of that lately,” said Jemma. “Too cold and wet.”

They both nodded. “Miserable isn’t it,” said Wendy. “So what have you all been up to.”

“Not much,” muttered Vicky.

“I had a nice meal last night,” said Jemma. “At the Linden Tree.”

“It’s lovely there,” said Vicky.

“Did you go with your mum and dad?”

“Martin took me,” said Jemma.

“Nice,” said Wendy. “Are you...?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Oh, no, no. Nothing like that,” blushed Jemma. “He’s just a family friend.”

Wendy exchanged glances with Vicky.

“Oh, stop it,” said Jemma. “It’s just nice to get out of the village and have some civilised conversation.” She paused and spooned froth off her cappuccino. “But he is a nice man.”

The waiter came with menus, and Vicky and Jemma ordered coffee.

“It’s funny that you should be friendly with Martin?” said Wendy.

“Oh?” said Jemma.

“It’s just that we’ve known him for years,” said Wendy. “He was at art college with my mum?”

“At art college with you mum?”

“Don’t worry, they never went out or anything.”

“When was this?” asked Jemma cautiously.

Wendy thought for a moment. “Must have been in the mid 1980s. Mum’s only 42. And she had me when she was 19. Just after she left. It was an art foundation course. Martin was slightly older I think. He’d been to medical college before that. You know, his family were doctors.”

“Medical college?” asked Jemma.

“I don’t know the full details. I just remember him chatting to my mum about it. I think he did a couple of years, but it wasn’t his cup of tea. He was apparently quite alternative and arty back in his youth. A bit different.”

“In what way different?”

“You know, he was into all the alternative bands and everything. Mum’s still got a photo of him with masses of spiky hair and spray on trousers and those big DM boots. You wouldn’t guess to look at him now. But he was a real rebel and very arty. My mum’s still got one of his sculptures in her front room?”

“A sculpture?”

“Yes, it’s a bit abstract like Henry Moore. I guess it’s supposed to be a person, but all curved and polished. A kind of dark red colour. Cherry or something like that.”

“Cherry?”

“Some kind of dark red wood anyhow.”

“And it’s definitely Martin who made it,” said Jemma.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” said Wendy. “I know he looks quite straight now. But he’s quite different underneath. You ask him next time you see him.”

The waiter came to take their orders.

Jemma felt like she was on auto pilot, hovering on the ceiling, a paper shell of a person lifted by the warm air from the Dolphin’s wood burner, looking down on herself, listening to Vicky’s meaningless chit chat. She barely touched her mozzarella and dried tomato panini. “I’m sorry,” Jemma excused herself. “I think I may have a touch of this bug that’s going around.”

Jemma hobbled dizzily back to the chalet. She opened the kitchen cupboard and took out the high strength co-codamol. She was only planning to take a couple, but with a rush of anger started to pop all the tablets out of their silver foil.

They scattered across the table like spilled smarties. She took the untouched brown bottle of epilepsy tablets from her handbag, poured them out too, then scooped all the pills together into a heap.

She felt so empty, so numb, as if nothing would touch her - not pills, nor knives, nor water, nor her faithful old scarf knotted to the balcony above the lounge. What a fucked-up mess her life had become. She lashed out with her right arm scattering the pills across the kitchen. Then she made her way, spasming, through to the lounge to ring Cindy.

Cindy took a while to pick up the phone. Her voice was all croaky.

“I’m sorry,” said Jemma. “I didn’t get you out of bed did I?”

“Oh hi, Jemma. No, it’s OK. It’s just my throat’s still a bit sore,” she rasped.

“Look Cindy, I think you may have been right?”

“About what?” said Cindy. She sounded slightly confused.

“About Martin.” Jemma suddenly began to sob, and her body dissolved from paper shell to crumpled ball of soggy tissue.

“Are you OK? What’s happened?” croaked Cindy.

“I’m sorry,” gasped Jemma. “I didn’t know who to call.”

“It’s OK,” said Cindy. “ Just calm down and tell me what’s happened.”

“Oh Cindy, I just don’t know what to do,” she choked.

“Don’t worry,” said Cindy. “Just take a few deep breaths and tell me about it.”

“I’m sorry,” sobbed Jemma. “I don’t mean to dump this on you. But there’s no one else who knows about this.”

“It’s OK,” said Cindy. “Just take your time.”

Jemma’s body spasmed. She felt as if there was a ligature tightening around her throat, and the room spun like a roulette wheel. “I’ll have to call you back,” she gasped.

“It’s OK,” said Cindy. “I’ll keep the phone by me. Whenever you’re ready, just ring me straight back OK? And don’t worry. I’m here.”

“Thanks,” wheezed Jemma, her voice tailing away. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Jemma replaced the receiver and stumbled to the kitchen. She splashed cold water on her face and gazed out at cruel grey sea and sad grey sand.

She wasn’t sure how long she had been slumped there staring out at the empty beach, when the phone range again.

Cindy! Shit. She would be worried. She hurried back into the lounge to answer the phone.

“Hi how are you this morning.” It was Martin.

“Oh hi,” Jemma mumbled. Her heart felt as if it might explode out of her chest.

“Thanks for last night. I had a really nice time.”

“Nice,” she mouthed, almost inaudibly.

“Sorry have I called at a bad time?” He sounded a bit miffed.

“Yes, you have I’m afraid.”

Martin paused. “You seem a little down. Would you like me to come round?”

“No. I don’t think so somehow.”

“Oh,” he said. “Not feeling too well then?”

“Something like that,” she snapped.

“OK.” He sounded confused. “Well, if you want to give me a call when you’re feeling a little brighter.”

“Probably not,” she said.

“Right,” he said. She could imagine a look of confusion and irritation furrowing his rugged features. “There we are then.”

“Yes, whatever.”

“OK. Goodbye Jemma.”

The phone went dead.

She immediately dialled Cindy. She answered after three rings.

“Hi Cindy, it’s Jemma. Sorry I didn’t call you back. He called...”

“Who? Martin?”

“Yea, marvellous Martin.”

“So, what’s going on with you two?” asked Cindy.

“Well he took me out to dinner last night.”

“Right.”

“And then today I found something out about him?”

“He’s still married,” said Cindy.

“Is he?” said Jemma.

“I don’t know. I was just guessing. He’s obviously upset you somehow.”

“It’s a bit worse than him being married.”

“Oh Christ. Has he got AIDS or something?”

“No, nothing like that. I just found out he went to medical school and art college. He’s a bit of an outsider and enjoys making wooden carvings. Wendy’s mum has one in her front room!”

“You’re fucking joking me,” said Cindy. “I knew it. I fucking knew it!”

“I feel such a fool,” said Jemma. “I mean he must have studied anatomy. He’s a sculptor. He’s mad. He’s local. He mysteriously appeared on the beach that day in the storm. And then he suddenly arrived in the café, bang on cue. It’s not exactly a case for Columbo is it?”

“Who?”

“Oh, just some old TV show. But this is getting more like Twin Peaks. I’m not sure what to do, now. I kissed him, for God’s sake”

“Kissed him?”

“Yea. Twice, in fact. He took me to the New Year’s Eve do at the Glenn View. Brought me a massive bouquet of flowers. And this’ll crack you up, I even kept the ribbon and one of the rose buds, pressed in sheets of kitchen paper, inside The Pleasures of Welsh Country Cooking. I danced with him, for Christ’s sake. Can you imagine? What was I thinking? We were out by the infinity pool when the chimes went and I was kind of seduced by the moment.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t chuck you over the balcony.”

“You’re probably right,” said Jemma. “Then last night he took me to the Linden Tree. It was a lovely little restaurant. We had a lovely evening. And I kissed him goodnight. Now, it turns out in his spare time he’s some kind a psycho who likes leaving wooden body parts on the beach for unsuspecting cripples. It makes no sense. He must be some kind of schizo.”

“He’s a complete fucking nutter. That’s what he is.” said Cindy. “You should go to the police.”

“And tell them what? That I went out to dinner with him and he was charming all evening, and he gives me flowers and hand-made gifts.”

“His finger prints must be all over those wooden carvings?” said Cindy.

“What does that prove? He could just say he lost them or they were stolen or something? Is there a crime against carving a likeness of someone’s hand without their permission? Anyway, last time I called the police, they just thought I was completely bonkers. If I call again they’re going to lock me up. Mind you, at least I’d be safe then.”

“We’ve just got to catch him out somehow.” said Cindy.

“Oh no, not more of your schemes,” said Jemma. “I wish I’d never gone to the Harbour café in the first place. That’s probably what encouraged him.”

“It’s not my fault,” she croaked. “You’re the one who’s been snogging the psycho.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jemma. “You’re right. You’ve been brilliant about all this. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Well he better not try and come fucking near you when I’m around,” said Cindy fiercely, her accent broadening. “I’ll get Paulie and Jason to bloody sort him out?”

Jemma didn’t know who Paulie and Jason were. But she guessed they were sons of one of the archipelago’s nuttier families, inbred for generations. She wasn’t convinced their intervention would calm the situation. “It’s OK,” she said. “I don’t think we need to get anyone else involved.”

“Well what else are you going to do?”

“I guess maybe I should think about moving back to Westing.”

“You don’t want to go back to that shithole just because of him?” said Cindy. “He’s the one who should fuck off!”

“It’s not so bad,” said Jemma. “There’re shops, jobs, clubs. There’s life beyond Nant Llwyfen, you know.”

“I thought you liked it here?” said Cindy.

“I do. It’s a lovely little village,” She paused realising how condescending that must sound. “I just mean maybe it’s time for me to go back to what I know. Maybe it’s time I looked for a proper job, just part-time to start with, to try and make a new beginning. I can’t hide here forever.”

“Well, if that’s what you want to do,” said Cindy. “But I think you’re just trying to run away from him. How do you know he isn’t going to follow you up there?”

“I don’t know Cindy. I really don’t know.”

Jemma hadn’t slept for 48 hours. She felt like she was on death row, waiting in limbo for the warden to announce her time of execution, like those poor Chinese girls in Mark’s grainy photos. This could be you. Well, Mark, you got your wish. It is me now.

She’d left the phone off the hook so that no one could call. It was only a matter of time before someone would knock at the door. Her mum or Peter, Cindy or Wendy, or Martin - wanting to know, the way they always wanted to know, why was she being like this?

She went to the kitchen to make tea. That’s when she saw him, wandering through the drizzle on the beach, as she rinsed out her mug.

She wiped the condensation from the kitchen window to get a better look. But she knew who it was, walking back and forth, waiting for her to spot him.

Fear condensed into rage. Jemma threw down the tea towel. And without pausing to put on her coat, stormed (as much as any cripple can storm) down the street, along the stoney path between the cottages and over the sand to finally confront Martin.

He stood by a long swathe of damp, grey pebbles, deposited where the waves had just turned. As Jemma approached, slowing slightly, uncertain of what to say or do, Martin picked up a jagged piece of shale.

“Shouldn’t be here, should it?” he said. “Crumbled from the cliffs in some landslide and carried by the waves, or maybe a child, and dropped down here with all the pebbles.” He picked up a smooth grey stone in his other hand. He weighed it up against the jagged rock - some celestial gatekeeper weighing souls. “All the pebbles start like this,” he said, pompous as ever - a teacher with a particularly thick student. “All jagged and cracked and flawed. Over the years, they are worn down and smoothed over until they are all slippery and dull and predictable - all the flaws, all the cracks, all the character washed away.”

Jemma shrugged. “So, your point is what exactly, professor? We are all pebbles on the beach of eternity?”

He laughed. “Not another of your good days then?”

“Oh fuck off you arrogant prick!”

He seemed startled by her ferocity. His face became a mask - eyes dull stones. His shoulders slumped. He slipped the rock and the pebble into his coat pocket, then he picked up another couple of large pebbles and added them.

“What do you want all them for? Your latest installation?” Jemma’s voice was barbed with sarcasm.

Martin ignored her and stooped to thrust another handful of pebbles into each pocket.

“You could exhibit it in the Tate gallery,” said Jemma. “Face of a cripple in stones. You could use that jagged one for the scars.”

He smiled, genuinely amused, for just a split second - a soft part of him revealed, like some mussel briefly opening in a rock pool, as a juicy prawn dances past. Then he clamped shut, rotten and hollow, as if any inner treasure had long since been plundered.

“What are you doing here exactly?” she asked. He looked up at her, lip out and back hunched like a sulky child who’s been caught sticking fingers in the icing of some forbidden cake. “And don’t give me any clever answers about the meaning of life. I’m not in the mood, as you can probably tell.”

Martin looked up briefly. “Just surfing the undertow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she glared.

He didn’t reply, just shook his head slightly, as if again despairing of a stupid pupil.

Even now, seething with indignation, she couldn’t bring herself to hate Martin. She almost understood him in a way. Although since the crash she’d been confused at times and gone into deep depressions, she wasn’t really mad - at least, not like Martin. Even so, she knew how it was to feel apart from other people and not know how to properly reach them, however hard you try. Long before the accident, for as long as she could recall, that’s how it had always been. Maybe he somehow recognised that in her. Maybe that’s why he’d tried to reach her in his own crazy way.

“Why me?” she asked.

Martin stooped to pick up more stones and put them in his pockets.

“Planning a rockery?” she sneered.

“Or a mausoleum?” he said, and smiled sarcastically.

“You really are a wanker sometimes,” she said. “I just don’t get it. You can be so nice. Why can’t you just cut out all this crazy crap?”

“They tried that.” He smiled grimly and raised a finger to each side of his temple, twisting his hands. “It didn’t work.”

“I can’t tell,” she said, “if you’re joking or being serious.”

Martin shrugged. He began to walk to the far end of the beach where the dunes met the rocks.

Jemma followed. “I’m not scared of you, you know.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” he said.

“Except yourself,” said Jemma.

“Very good,” said Martin. “Nine out of ten. Gold star.”

They walked in silence to the rocks, roles reversed - Jemma the hunter, Martin her quarry.

The rock formation was known as Black Gill, on account of its dark colour and the ravine that ran down its middle, where the local youths would tombstone as the waves crashed in and out. In the autumn gales a large oak trunk had been jammed between the two rocks like a fish bone caught in a throat. The youths had a new game then, running across the trunk as the tide was turning. It was a wonder no one had been killed, the parents fretted. But boys will be boys.

“You’re not going across there,” said Jemma, as Martin started to clamber up the rock. The tide was in and the waves exploded into the ravine like an advert for some mouthwash. “Come down,” she called. “It’s too slippery.”

Powerless to follow, she watched as he negotiated his way to the rotting trunk. “Come down,” she called again, but he stepped out onto the wet wood.

He was three steps from the end when he fell, suddenly disappearing from view, with more of a whimper than a cry. She waited for him to emerge wet and dazed from the water. Maybe he was clinging to the rocks, she thought. Maybe he’d clambered out on the other side. But it would take her several minutes to walk round by the road to find out. And he’d be long gone by then, or hiding somewhere in his usual infantile way.

“Martin,” she called. “Are you all right?” There was no reply. She felt suddenly angry. This was just another one of his stupid mind games. “Martin! Stop being such a tosser and tell me you’re all right. Come on. This isn’t funny.” There was still no reply. She wasn’t sure what to do. What if he was trapped at the base of the rocks? She shivered. The water was icy. Hypothermia could set in in minutes. “Martin, if you don’t answer. I’ll have to go and get someone. Please just let me know you’re all right.” She listened. But all she could hear was the relentless crashing of the waves. “OK I’m going for help,” she said. “If you’re there somewhere just hang on.”

Jemma started to run back across the sand towards the cottages - a rapid limp like Dustin Hoffman in Midnight Cowboy. She slipped at the edge of the dunes covering her coat in sand. She scrambled to her feet, starting to weep, and continued to the road. There was a builder who she didn’t recognise. He was in his thirties, squat with a shaven head, skulking by a rusted flat bed full of ladders, cement bags and plastic water drums.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” she squealed. He turned and scowled as she hobbled hysterically towards him - perhaps thinking she was about to complain about where he’d parked his truck. “Please there’s a man. He was trying to climb the rocks, he slipped on the tree and...”

The builder stared at her for a split second with cool green eyes, robotically processing the information. For one terrible moment, Jemma thought he was going to turn away.

“I think he’s in the water, please...”

And suddenly the builder jerked into life and began sprinting towards the beach.

“I think that’s all,” said the constable. She placed the statement form down on the desk. “Mr Griffith’s statement has covered his initial search on the beach. Unless there’s something further to add - anything you can think of that might help the enquiry?”

Jemma could tell the constable was just going through the motions, rather than seriously trying to glean any further piece of vital evidence, so she just shook her head.

“No, only what I’ve told you. I saw him slip on the trunk and fall. He must have landed in the water. And I don’t know if he went under or if he got out the other side. The builder, Mr Griffiths, ran straight over to the rock. He took the orange ring from the path between the cottages. And he just called down to me that there was no sign of anyone. Then he called the police on his mobile, and ran round to look on the other side of Black Gill.” She began to well up again, and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

“It’s OK,” said the constable. “There’s no need to go over it all again. You’ve given a very detailed statement. You just need to try and put it behind you for the time being.”

“I know, I know,” said Jemma quietly. “It’s just I definitely saw him fall.”

“Well, the coast guard carried out a very thorough search and there was no sign of anyone in the water, so there is a possibility that Mr Chapman got out OK. If he was concussed he may have become disorientated. We had an RTA on the Penlyn Woods road a couple of months back. The driver was thrown clear of the vehicle and wandered off. And he didn’t turn up for a week until someone saw him sitting on a park bench ten miles away. So it does happen.”

Jemma nodded. “Thanks.”

The constable lowered her voice. “Look I shouldn’t really say, but it’s fairly common knowledge that Mr Chapman has a history of mental illness, and he has disappeared before now for weeks on end. I’m not doubting what you saw. And I fully understand it must have been extremely upsetting. But as far as we’re concerned this is still very much a missing persons enquiry. Our main concern is to locate Mr Chapman and offer him the support he needs. OK? Now there is a possibility he got into difficulties in the sea. And to tell the truth, if he was unable to get out of the water, we would expect to recover him along the coast within the next ten days. But until such time as we have concrete information on his whereabouts, we have to keep a completely open mind.”

Jemma paused, taking it all in. She wondered if she should say anything about the pebbles in the pockets of Martin’s coat. Or his comments about the undertow and mausoleums. But it wouldn’t change anything - other than the wording of the Coroner’s report.

“Was there anything else?” The constable glanced down at her watch.

“No, no,” said Jemma. “I appreciate you being straight with me.”

“That’s quite all right,” she said, pushing back her chair and getting to her feet. “It’s a horrible thing to happen, but I’m afraid we just have to wait and see.”

Jemma nodded. She got stiffly to her feet and followed the PC out to reception area of the police station where her mum and Peter were waiting for her.

A week later, Jemma was awoken early in the morning by the sound of distant sirens. She went down to the kitchen and wiped the condensation from the window with the sleeve of her dressing gown. She could still barely see anything as the beach was swathed in a thick sea mist. She could hear distant shouts and just make out shadowy figures moving urgently down by the Witch’s Elm. She presumed it was itinerant cocklers or smugglers being intercepted by some police operation and went back to bed.

When she woke up properly the mist had cleared a little. She started to make herself tea and glanced idly out of the window. The beach was swarming with men in white hooded boiler suits (like the ones worn for spraying Japanese Bindweed). Maybe there had been a chemical spill from some passing tanker, she thought. Then she saw the white tent, pitched like a macabre Punch and Judy show, by a group of rock pools.

Jemma caught her breath. A body. Martin. Her head swam as she continued to watch the figures in white suits comb the sand around the tent. The scene seemed a thousand times more surreal than any of her past hallucinations.

Leaving the kettle still hissing, she hurried upstairs and tugged on jeans and jumper and headed out. The path between the cottages was blocked off by blue and white police tape. A PC was stood at the far end of the path, looking across the beach.

“Excuse me,” Jemma called out, ducking under the tape.

The policeman turned and immediately jogged up the path with his hand out, like an outside centre blocking a tackle. “You can’t come down here today, love. Crime scene.”

“Have they found someone?” she asked. “My friend went missing a few days ago.”

“Sorry love. I can’t say exactly what they’ve found. But if you’re worried about your friend, you’d best call Penlyn police station.” He reached inside his jacket and handed her a business card. “Number’s on the bottom there. That’ll put you through to Cwmllynion Police Headquarters. Ask for Sergeant Dyer in Penlyn. If you’re a friend or relative you should speak directly to her.”

“So when did they make the discovery?” asked Jemma. “Sorry, love I’m not at liberty to divulge any operational details,” he replied. “As I say, Sargeant Dyer’s the one to speak to.”

Jemma hurried past the chalets and Lavender Spray. Martin’s face was pasted at intervals down the Parade (the big red telephone number on the bottom of each poster making the card in her pocket somewhat redundant). She continued on to the seconds shop. It was closed, but by chance Cindy was just arriving.

“Hi Cindy. Do you know what’s going on?” asked Jemma.

She nodded grimly. “Bobby who works down the harbour saw something washed up on the beach. He thought it was a porpoise. Went down to take a look and saw it was a body wrapped in a load of netting and bits of dead crab.”

“Are you sure?” asked Jemma.

“I’ve just seen him - Bobby, that is. Looks like a ghost.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Jemma. She nodded at the poster of Martin stuck to the window of the Seconds shop. “Oh well, that’s it then I suppose.”

Cindy offered her hand. “Come in and sit down,” she said gently. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

It was early the next evening when Sergeant Dyer phoned.

“Hello is that Jemma?” she asked. “It’s Sergeant Dyer here from Penlyn Police Station. I have some news for you.”

“Oh, is it about Martin?” she said clutching the phone, and holding her breath, preparing for the news.

“Yes and no,” said Sergeant Dyer. “We haven’t formally identified the body on the beach yet. But I can tell you it definitely isn’t Martin Chapman.”

“Oh,” said Jemma. “Are you sure?”

“100 per cent,” said the Sergeant. “Wrong height, wrong build, wrong clothes, wrong place.”

“Wrong place?”

“Up shore from the rocks where you last saw him. It’s not possible for a body to drift that way.”

“Oh,” said Jemma.

“So no news is good news as far as the whereabouts of Mr Chapman is concerned,”

“Yes, of course,” said Jemma quietly, feeling slightly cheated that she still had no closure.

The Sergeant went on. “Sadly, we’re fairly sure the body is that of a chap who absconded from a young offender’s institute some weeks ago.”

Rucksack Boy, thought Jemma. Oh, the poor, poor thing.

“We don’t know how long he’d been in the water,” explained Sergeant Dyer. “But we know he was sleeping rough near the coast path at Nant Llwyfen and no one had seen him since Christmas. The family have done an initial identification from items of clothing and jewellery. We’re just waiting on final forensics now. So, if you just keep it to yourself for a couple of days. Anyway, it’ll be in the Penlyn Advertiser by Wednesday, and doubtless on Radio Cymllynion before then.”

The days passed. Snowdrops made way for daffodils. Grass sprouted in dense tufts by the low wall in front of the chalets. There was still no sign of Martin. There were occasional sightings reported, each more ridiculous than the last.

He was spotted buying a Dire Straits CD in a service station on the M5. He was on a flight from Bristol to Cyprus, sporting a beard. He was working in a betting shop in Newport. Imagination and doppelgangers. People - complete strangers - read about him in the papers and wanted to find him, to solve the mystery. They couldn’t cope with a life in limbo, a life that was and wasn’t. Jemma was used to it.

Jemma should have been the one most affected by his absence (and the potential threat of his future appearance). But she was less bothered about his whereabouts than Wendy or Vicky or Megan even. She was tired of the endless speculation, the anticipation. Jemma would wait all year if she had to. Not Cindy. Like the ‘spotters’, she was totally obsessed with finding him a.s.a.p..

Wendy would tactfully try and steer their café conversations to other things. Cindy would steer them back to Martin.

“Don’t you want to know what’s happened to him?” Cindy would ask.

“Of course, I do,” said Jemma. “But talking about it all the time won’t bring him back any sooner.” She didn’t want Cindy to feel slighted. “I appreciate your concern all of you. I’d just rather talk about something else.”

Jemma could tell that Wendy thought she was in denial, blocking out that moment when Martin fell into the sea, unable to face the thought of him being found alive or dead. Maybe that was partly true. But she couldn’t spend every waking moment waiting for the day more men in white suits appeared on the beach, that phone call, that knock on the door.

Jemma stopped going to the café. The first couple of times she made petty excuses - that she had a migraine, that she had to let a repair man into one of the flats by the Jasmine Dragon to fix a dishwasher (she had, in fact, but that was a different day). The third time, she admitted she’d prefer not to come to the café for the time being. The girls accepted this rather too easily. She consoled herself that they were ‘giving her space’. But she thought they were probably a bit fed up with her. She couldn’t blame them. She wasn’t exactly a laugh a minute.

A few days after she’d last knocked back the girls there was a knock on the door of the chalet. It was a Monday morning. She wasn’t expecting anyone and hoped it was Wendy or Cindy and not just the postman with yet another Amazon parcel for the boy in chalet four. She answered the door to see a middle aged woman in a green tweed winter coat, a scarf tight round her neck like a tartan python.

The lady had a gaunt, tired face and a red tint to her hair. Jemma couldn’t tell if it was natural or streaked in to cover the grey.

Her first thought was that it must be a guest - staying with the Hendersons at Lavender Spray most probably. The lady looked a bit up market for the flats. But you never could tell. Maybe there’d been a problem with the dishwasher again.

“Jemma?” said the woman. “Jemma Webber?”

“Yes,” said Jemma cautiously. Maybe the woman was another reporter rooting around for some sordid sub-text in the ongoing saga of missing Martin.

“I’m Margaret Chapman.”

Jemma looked blankly at her for a moment. Then she twigged. The lady’s eyes had that same artificial sheen - like polished pebbles. It was Martin’s mother, daughter of the psycho doctor.

“May I take a moment of your time?” she asked. She spoke politely with false bon homie as if she were a Jehovah’s witness or selling replacement windows.

Jemma paused. What if she turned out to be as nutty as her father and her son? What are the chances that madness had bypassed her generation? thought Jemma. What if she blames me for her son’s disappearance and suddenly turns nasty?

“I just want to talk,” said Mrs Chapman. “I won’t take up too much of your time.” Her bony fingers locked together, nervously squirming, as if she was wringing water from a heavy garment.

Jemma deduced that Martin’s mother was more nervous than she was, and decided to gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Of course,” she said. “Come in.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment just inside the lounge.

“Can I take your coat?” asked Jemma.

“I’m fine as I am, thank you,” said Mrs Chapman.

“I was just making tea,” said Jemma.

“I won’t be staying long,” said Mrs Chapman curtly, “but you must have yours.”

“That’s OK,” said Jemma.

“Please do,” ordered Mrs Chapman. Jemma immediately felt resentful of her bossy tone. Who was she to come round to her house uninvited when her son had caused so much distress? Stuck-up bitch. Jemma took a deep breath.

“Thank you. I won’t be a moment,” she said, with her best smile. Exaggerating her limp a little, Jemma went through to the kitchen and refilled the kettle. She glanced through the gap in the doorway as Mrs Chapman casually surveyed the room as if searching for clues. Jemma spent five minutes clattering in cupboards and wiping coffee grains and dribbles of milk from the draining board. She wasn’t being deliberately awkward (well, maybe a little). She was just putting off the conversation.

Still, at least Mrs Chapman might shed some light on Martin’s whereabouts. Especially if he’d gone AWOL before. She returned to the lounge with an apologetic smile. “Sorry that kettle takes for ever.”

Mrs Chapman was perched stiffly on the edge of Jemma’s chair. Jemma remained standing and leaned back against the wall, clasping her mug, feeling its comforting warmth through the sleeves of her cardigan, which she’d pulled down over her palms like mittens.

“So,” she said, and looked enquiringly at her visitor.

“I understand you were with Martin on the beach.”

Jemma nodded cautiously. She wondered how Martin’s mum had discovered her address. She guessed it wasn’t too hard. How many other scar-faced cripple trollops lived on the Parade? Besides Mrs Chapman undoubtedly knew her mum and Peter. She wondered if she knew that Martin had taken her to the Glenn View and had taken her out to dinner?

Mrs Chapman stared vacantly up at her. Was she also lost for words, or simply lost in thought, distracted by some sudden memory of her son? Jemma had no idea. Maybe it was a deliberate tactic to force her to fill the awkward void with an explanation. What did she hope to gain - enlightenment, closure, some kind of confession even?

Jemma surveyed the worn pattern of the carpet. The chalet suddenly seemed terribly shabby and tired.

“I’m sorry,” said Jemma. “I don’t know what to say? We were talking and he climbed up the rock. I couldn’t follow him.” She looked down at her leg to emphasise that it was physically impossible for her to have pushed him into the sea. “He just fell.” Mrs Chapman continued to stare at her. “I’m sorry you know all this. You don’t need to hear it again.”

“It’s OK,” said Mrs Chapman. “It’s helpful to hear it from you.”

“Well I’m not sure what else I can tell you really. I called out and he didn’t answer. I wish I could tell you something more concrete.” She felt slightly embarrassed by the use of that word. If Family Favourites asked 100 people to name something that didn’t float, it would be the top answer. “I mean I never actually saw him in the sea. He could easily have got out.”

Martin’s mum looked down at the carpet. Her hands were now limp in her lap - colour flowing back into the bony fingers, forming patches of grey and pink like the scales of some rare Koi carp.

“Has he ever gone missing before?” said Jemma casually, as if the thought had just struck her.

Mrs Chapman looked up sharply. She could tell that someone had told Jemma about Martin. There was a stalemate for a moment as each of the women pondered how much the other knew.

“He always calls,” she said finally. “Not straight away. But he always calls in the end.”

“But not this time,” said Jemma. It was a statement not a question.

“No,” murmured Martin’s mum softly. “Not this time.” Her mask slipped and she suddenly looked very old and tired and limp - that soggy paper feeling Jemma knew so well. Jemma crossed the room and wrapped her arms around her. But neither woman cried or collapsed. Instead, they tightened against each other like drum skins, ready to bounce off all the world had to throw at them, until the embrace felt artificial and they separated.

“So were you and Martin good friends?” asked Mrs Chapman.

“Well, you know,” said Jemma vaguely. “We met on the beach one time, in a sandstorm.” She smiled. “He used to work with my stepfather, and he knows Wendy Jenkins at the post office. He went to art college with her mum.”

Mrs Chapman sniffed disdainfully. “That’s where it all started,” she said.

“All what?” asked Jemma.

Mrs Chapman paused. “He could have been anything he wanted,” she said. “We wouldn’t have minded. But Martin always had to try and branch out in some different direction. Never ever settled to one thing.” Bitterness crept into her voice. “Never.”

“Well, maybe he...” Jemma’s voice dissolved away. She didn’t really know what to say and was beginning to feel slightly dizzy, standing and talking, dealing with all this.

“Can I ask you a question?” asked Mrs Chapman, once again brittle backed and stoney faced.

“Of course,” said Jemma.

“How close were you and Martin?”

Jemma felt her cheeks burn. “Oh we were just friends,” she said. “It’s a small village. Everyone knows everyone.”

“So you weren’t...” Mrs Chapman looked up almost accusingly.

“You mean was I ever his girlfriend?”

Mrs Chapman nodded.

Jemma laughed and looked away. “Good God, no! We went out for dinner one day a few weeks ago, but...”

“Dinner?”

“At the Linden tree. Just as friends. He was - he is - a nice looking man. But we weren’t romantically involved in any way.”

“Good, good,” nodded Mrs Chapman.

Jemma laughed. “You sound relieved.”

“Oh I don’t mean...” She became slightly flustered. “It’s not because of your, your situation. You’re a nice girl, and I’m sure you were a good friend to Martin. It’s just...” She glanced down at the floor and tutted to herself. “I don’t know the point of telling you all this, but I don’t suppose it makes any difference now.” She flapped a bony hand in the air, as if fending off invisible flies. “Martin was never much good with relationships. He had girlfriends. We knew that. But he never brought them home. Then he met Christine, and suddenly we were all being invited to the wedding. I’ll be honest. I just thought it was another of his fads. They hardly seemed suited. But somehow it endured, through all his problems, all those years. I always presumed Christine was just resigned to him, dutifully going through the motions. They always seemed so distant, as if they were work colleagues rather than husband and wife. It wasn’t until everything blew up that it occurred to me she might actually still love him. Strange how I never saw it until then. I guess divorce must bring out a lot of stored up emotions.”

“I guess it does,” said Jemma, not quite certain what Mrs Chapman was driving at.

“It started after Martin got the job for the housing association. I don’t know why he left the planning department. He could cope with that. The routine suited him. But, he wanted a change I suppose. And so he became a facilities manager - a glorified maintenance man for the handicapped and homeless of Cymllynion.” She grimaced as if she’d just swigged neat vinegar. “I don’t know why on earth he chose to be surrounded by people like that. Some of them were in quite a shocking state. How those young girls work with them day after day, I don’t know. Still, that was Martin for you.”

Her father’s daughter, thought Jemma, with a wry grin to herself. She transformed it, with a nod, into a look of compassion.

“Martin was always friendly to everyone, of course. He meant well. But people could so easily misinterpret his manner to mean something it clearly didn’t.” She looked sharply at Jemma for confirmation that this was so.

“Oh yes,” said Jemma obligingly. “I can understand that. Yes, of course.”

“Anyway,” continued Martin’s mother. “There was a girl at one of the homes who obviously became completely besotted with him. She alleged that he’d tried to seduce her into having an affair. Supposedly he left her little gifts and notes and took her out for walks. Strictly speaking he’d done nothing wrong, just breached protocols. But of course they had to carry out an enquiry as these places do. Martin cooperated fully. Why wouldn’t he? He had nothing of any substance to hide. But I’m afraid the girl was a complete fantasist. She said he’d put something in her drink and tried to assault her. I don’t blame her. I can understand why she may have made up those things. Martin’s always been very emotional. He becomes very initmate with people. And in those situations people can become confused about their feelings.” She sighed and looked directly at Jemma. Her tone of voice lowered. “The girl, Amanda, she was a wheelchair user. Nothing much wrong with her mind. And quite a beautiful girl. But deranged. I mean the things she said. Wild claims. But it must be difficult to be like that. It must make you needy. It must make you seek out attention at every opportunity.” She looked at Jemma for some form of affirmation.

Jemma shrugged. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“If anything happened with Martin, anything untoward or odd, I’d rather know now, before you tell anyone else. I can’t face any more surprises.” Her face crumbled. Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

“Oh no,” said Jemma. “Martin?” She emitted a small laugh intended to convey incredulity. “Gosh. I mean there was never anything like that. He just used to walk with me. We were friends. That’s all.” She gave her best saleswoman smile (sincerity rating 98%). “He was a kind man, as you said, very sincere, sensitive.” She crossed the room.

Martin’s mother rose to her feet. “Thank you,” she said. They squeezed elbows.

“It was just a tragic accident,” said Jemma. “Just one of those terrible things that just happens.”

Mrs Chapman nodded. “Oh, Martin,” she said, and shook her head as if expressing disappointment to some clumsy child.

Jemma sat cross legged on the damp grass at edge of the cliff and took off her rucksack. She took out firelighters and matches and an old copy of the Sunday Mail, then delved deeper for the pressed rose bud and ribbon from that bouquet, before tipping out the tea towel. Slowly, breath held, she unwrapped the cotton parcel revealing the wooden hand, the heart, the flowers and her face for the last time.

The carvings still totally spooked and yet fascinated her like her dad’s crumpled paperbacks on unspeakable crimes. She wasn’t one of those crazy women who might propose marriage to a pen pal on Death Row. But, she was still drawn in by those manifestations of Martin’s mixed up heart and mind, still tangled up in his warped neural networks.

Despite all she had discovered about Martin, it was still impossible to imagine him working away with those coarse hands to produce objects of such intricate and bizarre beauty. “Oh Martin,” she sighed in mimicry of his mother. Oh well.

The fire took a while to get going. A couple of times Jemma had to gather more twigs and add more firelighters. In the end, the hand, the carved flowers and the face were reduced to black chunks. But the heart wouldn’t burn properly. It remained charred but intact among the last flickers of flame. Perhaps that was how Joan of Arc’s had looked when they pulled it from the ashes, thought Jemma. She gave up in the end and gazed out at the sea.

It was early morning. The sea was still - a mirror mottled by the rising sun. There was no shaft of sunshine falling poignantly from between ethereal clouds, just a dull yellow glow bleeding into the water like piss on lino from a child who hadn’t quite made it to the loo in time. There was no rainbow, no passing school of dolphins, not so much as a solitary cormorant, wings outstretched to dry in a sleek crucifix of oily feathers. The only sign of life were the sea gulls circling around the pale plume of smoke, hoping she was about to cook herrings on the hot charcoal.

Jemma couldn’t be bothered to relight the fire or wait for the embers to cool. She abandoned her plan to scatter the ashes dramatically into the sea, and simply kicked the pieces of burnt wood as near as she dared toward the edge of the cliff. She gave the charred heart an extra hard toe poke and was grateful to see it roll over the edge and disappear down to the water below.

She’d planned to mark the spot with the dried rose bud and a cross of twigs tied with the ribbon. But she just cast them over the edge of the cliff and smudged the remainder of the ashes into the flattened grass. Then, after one final look at the ocean, she put the tea towel and firelighters back into her rucksack and limped down the coast path to the village.

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