‘I thought you’d left already.’
‘I’m waiting for the ferry. I decided to stay one more night. How did you know I was going home?’
She shrugged. ‘I assumed. Everyone left yesterday.’
‘The kayaking students are still around,’ he said.
‘Apart from them. Javid told me the rest of the site was empty and I don’t think there are any other tourists in any of the B&Bs or holiday cottages on the island at the moment.’
‘Do you and Javid monitor everyone’s comings and goings?’
‘Pretty much. Like I said, everyone knows everything on Gull. Sooner or later.’
How much later, he thought. How long would it take for the islanders to know his comings and goings – and secrets?
Maisie shrugged and rubbed the sand with her sneaker. Patrick had the feeling she was embarrassed about her comments when they’d been flirting again the previous day, and she’d certainly been eager to get rid of him after their banter was over. Unable to meet his eye, she scraped the shingle with the toe of her Converse, but if she were so keen to avoid him, why was she hanging around now?
He considered collecting his pack and leaving her alone but she suddenly peered at the shingle and picked up a stone. She crouched low at the water’s edge and, without a word, set the stone free with one deft flick of the wrist. It skipped over the water once, twice … seven times in all until it finally disappeared.
‘You should have been in The Dambusters,’ said Patrick.
She laughed out loud. ‘The Dambusters? That’s an old one. You’re surely too young to have seen that?’
‘Ditto,’ said Patrick.
‘Mum and I have been force fed that film by Dad, every bank holiday without fail. Now he has it on DVD so we’re made to watch it regularly as an example of our glory days.’ She shook her head and a smile, a heartfelt one, tilted the corners of her mouth. ‘How could we not watch it? My great-great-uncle Horace was a mechanic on those planes in the war,’ she said. ‘Horace knew Guy Gibson, the man who led them. My dad remembers Uncle Horace from when he was a boy.’
Patrick whistled. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Me too. Sort of. Can’t imagine being in a war, but Horace is still a terrible name … Why don’t you have another go with your stones?’
‘You only want to show me up when I fail spectacularly.’
‘Of course I do and I hope you’re not going to disappoint me.’
In two minds as to whether Maisie wanted him to disappoint her or not, Patrick tried his very best over the course of the next five minutes. He found stones every bit as good as Maisie’s yet she beat him each time by at least two bounces.
‘Damn it!’ he said in exasperation as another stone sank just feet from the shore.
Maisie stood by with her hands on her hips, watching him critically. ‘Your technique needs honing,’ she said.
While Patrick selected another pebble, round the headland, out of sight, a whistle tooted.
Maisie nodded in the direction of the jetty. ‘That’s your ride to St Mary’s,’ she said.
His ride out of there and his escape plan, thought Patrick. His last chance to do the right thing and leave Gull forever. His fingers curled tighter around the stone in his palm. Ignoring the whistle, he bent low and flung his stone.
Three skips.
Still crap.
He wandered down to the water and fished another promising-looking stone from the wavelets. The water ran down the cuff of his sweatshirt.
The ferry whistle tooted again, twice and more urgently.
‘If you don’t leave now, you’ll miss the ferry and that means you’ll miss the Islander ferry to Penzance and have to stay another night, unless you’re prepared to fork out for a plane ride.’ Maisie’s voice reached his ears from behind.
‘This is true,’ said Patrick, enjoying the weight of the stone in his hand and the cold water trickling down his arm. He’d soon found out that the ocean was as cold here as at home, where it pounded the coast, chilled by the Antarctic. People – tourists – thought it would be like a warm bath and were shocked and disappointed when it froze your nuts off, same as their own seas. Same here, he guessed … but he wasn’t disappointed by Gull Island yet. He might be, given time. He’d always been disappointed and always messed things up …
What about this time? Judy had asked him to give the place at least a chance. Greg and Judy had given him a chance before, many many chances … so maybe he owed it to them both to stay a bit longer now.
It would be no hardship to spend a little longer in Maisie Samson’s company, that was for sure.
He flung the stone away, not expecting anything. It glanced off the water, again and again. Five, six, seven times and maybe more until it slipped under the surface.
‘Wow.’
Patrick turned. Maisie was silhouetted against the morning sun, miming applause while her auburn hair blew across her face in the breeze. She reminded him of a girl in a Shakespeare play he’d been forced to study at school.
Though she be but little, she is fierce. He smiled at himself. If Maisie knew what he was thinking, she’d probably walk straight off.
Toot. Toot. Toooooot.
‘That’s your last chance. You’ll have to run,’ she said.
‘My pack’s too heavy to rush.’
Maisie grabbed the top of it. ‘I’ll help you if you want.’
She’s daring me to go, he thought. Or daring herself. Or am I kidding myself?
He stayed where he was. ‘One more stone first.’
She let go of his pack. Patrick doubted she’d have got far with it anyway. ‘OK but it’s your funeral.’
He thought about throwing another stone but something kept him rooted to the beach, looking at her looking at him.
Patrick thought back to the notice pinned on the corkboard in the laundry room and to his chat with Javid last night. Maisie wasn’t the only one who had her spies. He glanced at the fort on Petroc opposite and in the distance he heard the putter of a boat engine. The ferry nosed its way beyond the headland and headed back to St Mary’s.
The breeze freshened. Maisie pulled her hair off her face and held it out of her eyes as she joined him at the shoreline. Water lapped at her shoes but she didn’t seem to mind. ‘You’re too late. You missed your chance to escape from Gull,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to make other arrangements now.’
Maybe not, thought Patrick as madness seized him. He turned to her and the words came tumbling out. ‘I could be wrong, but I hear you’re looking for a barman.’
If Maisie had been sitting on her favourite rock when she heard the Blond’s announcement, she was sure she’d have fallen off it. All her smart replies flew out of her mind in favour of a strangled: ‘Sorry?’
‘Sorry? As in sorry, the vacancy’s been filled? Sorry, if it was a choice between Hitler and me, you’d hand the job to Adolf?’
Maisie spluttered. ‘Don’t be so daft. You’d be perfect. I mean, you’d make a perfect –