The Ravenglass Eye by Tom Fletcher

Author:Tom Fletcher [Fletcher, Tom]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2013-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

There are no tourists dressed in bright waterproofs riding bikes toward the railway bridge today, no bored children being dragged to antique fairs, no busy guesthouses. The sulfuric smell of the La’al Ratty is heavy in the air, despite the breeze. What sky that can be seen through the ragged sheet of gray cloud is cold blue.

I’m walking from The Tup toward the chandlery and the beach. The houses I pass all have their curtains drawn. The blue benches on the grassy embankment are empty. There are no families looking out over the estuary; there is no ice-cream van. There’s nobody sitting at picnic tables with pints from the pub looking up at the huge sky.

I head up some concrete steps to stand on the embankment. The blue metal handrail is decorated with a Viking ship design and there are vessels out on the water: catamarans and fishing boats and small yachts. Orange buoys float listlessly. I can smell the sea. Over the estuary, in the distance beyond the rise of the far shore, I can see a tower at Sellafield rising from the haze. To the right is the railway bridge; beneath the bridge is only darkness. Water flows into and out of this darkness, depending on the tide. You can stand on the bridge—there’s a narrow footbridge that hangs off it—and watch the water flowing around the vast support columns, watch the weeds pulled this way and that. I touch my swollen lip, my black eye. Phillip hit me hard.

I walk further down the road, past the Post Office with its window so covered in small notices that you can’t see in or out. I peer in through the door, but it doesn’t look like there’s anybody there.

I haven’t seen anyone since I left the pub, no movement through windows, nothing.

Seabirds call out above me.

The houses that line this road are low, narrow things, adorned with ceramic ornaments and extravagant name and number signs. Wind-chimes tinkle and hanging baskets creak in the breeze. Long fronds of various creeping plants trail down walls.

There are houses on either side of the road, then the road turns into a ramp down onto the sand. The chandlery, on the left of the ramp, is almost buried beneath a mountain of lobster pots draped in seaweed. The big blue double doors are open. I look inside, but Edward—the chandler—doesn’t seem to be around. There’s a big dinghy occupying most of the space, and a filthy quad bike taking up the rest. If you didn’t know it was a shop you wouldn’t be able to tell. Various boating tools hang from the walls.

Shining out of that back-of-the-room gloom is a row of long, sharp knives. I’m looking at them before I know what they are.

I blink and back away.

To the right of the ramp is a high, gray, pebble-dashed wall, which curves around the back of the houses and protects them from the beach. On it is a big white sign, with red writing on it.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.