What Happens In Cornwall.... T Williams A

and he looked fit. He was walking with a strange uneven gait, a bit like a cowboy, or a sailor just back from a long voyage. She wondered, idly, who he was and what he was doing there. He was probably a few years older than her, maybe mid or late thirties. That made him a bit too old to be a normal student. Of course, he could be a postgrad like her and Becky, or a member of staff. The university was so enormous now that she had no idea who half the people she met were. She was no psychologist, but it didn’t take Sigmund Freud to see that he was troubled by something. She found herself wondering what it might be and hoping, for his sake, that it would pass. His appearance matched her mood and she felt sympathy for him. Clearly she wasn’t the only one in Devon with problems.

      ‘Who’s that guy, Sam?’ Becky had also been watching him, and she had been watching Samantha watching him.

      ‘No idea.’

      ‘Oh, I thought you knew him, the way you were checking him out. He’s your type, you know. Looks studious, serious and fit. And, underneath that frown I reckon he’s quite a good-looking guy.’

      ‘Becs, I’ve got enough trouble as it is with Neil. I have no interest in hooking up with some random man. Got that? I’m very happy as I am, thank you.’

      Becky wasn’t convinced. ‘You don’t look happy and you don’t sound happy.’

      Samantha looked at Becky and conceded she had a point. ‘Probably a bad choice of word. Let’s just say I’m not looking for another man. Anyway, Becs, if you think he’s handsome, why don’t you run after him and ask him out.’

      Becky treated that suggestion with the disdain it merited. ‘Not my type. He looked a bit too serious for me. I’m looking for a fun man with pots of money who can keep me in the manner to which I’d like to be accustomed. Oh yes, and he’s got to be devastatingly handsome with an awesome body, too.’

      ‘So, a pop idol maybe, or a film star? I know, how about a porn star?’ Samantha was cheering up a bit. Becky’s mass of dark hair was tied into an intricate plait today and she was wearing a new top. She looked good. Sam had often wondered why it was a pretty girl like her hadn’t been able to take her pick of the men on campus.

      ‘You’re on the right track. A pop star would be good.’ Becky paused for thought. ‘Didn’t I read that Chris Martin and Gwyneth Paltrow had split up a while back? That’s the sort of guy I’m looking for.’

      ‘Nobody could ever accuse you of setting your sights too low, Bec.’

       Chapter 8

      ‘Shit! I’ve done it again.’

      ‘For God’s sake, boy, the gear lever’s on the other side. Use your left hand. If you keep bashing your right hand against the door, you’ll damage it. And slow down, will you?’

      ‘Stupid damn country. Can’t even drive on the right side of the ro…’

      ‘Go left, go left! It’s a roundabout. Left!’ Beppe’s scream of terror was deafening. He dug his fingernails into the top of the dashboard as his whole life and an irate Ford Transit passed before his eyes. Miraculously, Giancarlo managed to swerve back into the right direction, and total annihilation was avoided. Beppe sat back, ran his fingers through his hair and reflected upon the fact that the final image to flash before him had not been of his wife or any of his children. It had been of Schnitzel, his old dachshund. Not for the first time he thanked his lucky stars that he did not have a psychoanalyst. What a shrink would have made of that did not bear thinking about.

      ‘Just stay on the left side of the fucking road, will you?’

      ‘If you think you can do it better, you’re welcome to drive.’ Giancarlo’s voice was tremulous. He had frightened himself that time. ‘It’s crazy. And they’re in the bloody EU as well. They should be forced to change over.’

      Beppe made no reply. He reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out one of the bottles he had bought at the airport. He tipped a large measure of grappa down his throat and felt life begin to return to normal. He replaced the bottle and took out a map.

      ‘Once we get onto the motorway, we head west. We go past Plymouth, over the bridge into Cornwall and then Tregossick should be signposted a few kilometres beyond.’

      ‘Tregossick? I thought we were going to an island.’

      ‘The island’s private property. That’s where our targets are. We’re staying on the mainland in a little town called Tregossick. It’s the nearest I could find to Rock Island.’ He glanced down at the printout of the hotel reservation. ‘Island View Guest House. Why can’t they call it a hotel? That’s the same in any language.’

      ‘Guest house?’ Giancarlo didn’t like the sound of that. ‘What does it say about the place? How many rooms has it got?’

      ‘How the hell do I know? It’s all written in English. It’s a hotel, isn’t it? It’ll be fine. You’ll see.’

      Island View Guest House was not a hotel. As they pulled into the narrow gravelled drive, Beppe and Giancarlo realised that at once. It was set halfway up the hill above the village and it was a bungalow. And it didn’t look like a very big one either.

      ‘What the hell have you brought us to?’ Giancarlo looked and sounded horrified. Beppe was equally perturbed, but managed to keep the concern out of his voice. He was just glad to have got here after getting lost more than once in the narrow lanes. Their main problem had been their inability to locate a town called Kernow that was signposted all over the place.

      ‘At least they weren’t wrong about the view.’ In the dying rays of the sun, Rock Island stood out clearly against the red horizon. It looked lovely, but imposing. ‘That isn’t going to be easy to get to.’ Beppe murmured to himself, but then he shelved that particular problem until the next day and concentrated on their current predicament. ‘Well, let’s go and see what sort of establishment we’re booked into.’

      ‘I can tell you now. It’s an armpit of a place.’ Giancarlo climbed out of the driving seat and stretched his legs. Beside him, the little car swayed as Beppe heaved himself out. Giancarlo was still grumbling. ‘I’m not taking my bag out of the boot until I see what this place is like. If it’s as bad as it looks, I’m not staying.’

      ‘And just where might you think of going?’ Beppe had been harbouring similar misgivings, but he was a realist. ‘Midsummer on the coast; do you think there are going to be lots of empty rooms in smart hotels just around the corner? Just keep a civil tongue in your head and try to be polite. Even if it’s awful, we may have to stay here for tonight and hunt around for something better tomorrow. OK? Polite, got it?’

      Still protesting, Giancarlo led the way across to the porch. Huge, vicious-looking cactus plants either side of the door would no doubt pose a serious challenge in the dark. The plastic front door showed signs of age and the damage caused by the salt-laden air. Once shiny white, the finish was now matt, with a greenish tinge at the edges. A wire container stood on the doorstep, half full of empty milk bottles. A wooden contraption, not dissimilar to a clock face, indicated that five pints would be required the next morning.

      Giancarlo located the doorbell and rang it. A sudden cacophony of barking from within told them that it worked. The barking became rapidly louder until there was a heavy thump against the inside of the door. The whole thing, frame and all, shook violently. Both men took a surreptitious step backwards.

      ‘What the fuck’s that?’

      Well, it’s not Schnitzel the dachshund, that’s for sure, Beppe thought to himself as he watched the door continue to vibrate ominously.

      A few seconds later they heard footsteps. There was a sharp command from within and the barking ceased. The door opened inwards a few inches and two faces peered out through the crack, one above and one below the security chain. The lower of the two was a hostile, hairy beast showing a lot of teeth.