CHAPTER 1

You wouldn’t have thought it possible: Water….Water….And even more water….Water as far as the eye could see; a horizon in every direction: The total blankness broken only by the single, becalmed 32 foot fishing boat gently bobbing up and down in the mildly undulating Atlantic Ocean.

The solitary figure sitting on the deck, elbows resting on the port side of the bow rail, stared with eyes that weren’t really focusing over the vastness that surrounded her.

“How in Christ’s name did this happen?” Was the recurring sentence going through Georgina’s head almost like a digital loop. She couldn’t understand it: Even for someone with her penchant for getting into and causing trouble this was a new high. Georgina Mayfield – rich bitch, spoilt brat, A-list pain in the arse: There weren’t enough adjectives to do her persona justice. Georgina had heard them all and didn’t give a toss either way. She was rich they were poor. All they had were names to call her. She could live with that; after all her friends liked her. Well, in actual fact, her “friends” were sort of drawn to her like wasps to a honey pot. All they really wanted to see was what agg she’d cause next and whether or not she’d be able to buy her way out of it. To most of them it was the same syndrome that draws people to Formula 1 races. The majority just want to see a catastrophe whether they admit it or not. Georgina Mayfield was a catastrophe waiting to happen. That’s why her friends had renamed her Georgina Mayhem. She’d heard the name and liked it. “Maybe they’ll turn me into a cartoon?”

A larger than normal wave caused the boat to peak then trough which forced Georgina’s elbows to lift off the rail for a second before coming back down with a bump that pulled her out of her daydream. Her eyes focused once again on the nothingness around her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she unfolded her arms and cupped her face in both hands.

A few feet behind the pathetically sobbing figure an old man lay propped up against the opposite side of the wheelhouse. He was dozing fitfully, but even if he were awake there wouldn’t be much he could do; not with a broken leg, a broken arm and a makeshift patched up side where he had been skewered by a flying, razor-sharp, two foot splinter of wood. He’d heard of fish kebabs but a fisherman kebab? That had to be a new one.  

Cedric Murdoch, “Doxy” to his many friends, had more or less seen it all in his 72 years on the planet. He’d been a fisherman for 56 of those years; two years more than his father who had been killed by the sea at 69 (almost a child by seafaring standards). “The sea is a cruel mistress” his father would quote. “You can’t trust the scabby, old bitch!” The second quote was Murdoch senior’s own. Malcolm Murdoch had moved down to Cornwall from Bowness in the Solway Firth on the Scottish borders where his father and a family line going back 400 years had fished. As he already had one foot in England he had decided to try the warmer waters of the Gulf Stream and so uprooted his seven-month-pregnant wife Euna and two-year-old son Calum to carve a better life in the south. One of the first places they visited was St. Ives in Cornwall; both Malcolm and Euna fell in love with the tranquil simplicity of the honest fishing village and didn’t move again: Two months later Cedric was born. Rather than christen him with a traditional Scottish name Malcolm and Euna had chosen a more local one for their second son. It was their way of showing that they intended to fully integrate into their new homeland. This did not go unnoticed by the locals who showed a great respect for the Northern immigrants from then on.

The life was hard, but fishing was as much a part of the Murdoch makeup as the blood that coursed through their veins. As a result they had forged a good, fulfilling life in the most southerly English county. The family had made good friends and the deaths of Malcolm and his eldest son Calum in the same vicious storm at sea was a great loss: Calum was only 44. Doxy too would have died that same night if he had not been laid up at home with a broken arm. It wasn’t long after that tragedy that Doxy’s mother died. Loss of the will to live through a broken heart diagnosed as pneumonia was the cause.

The throbbing of his latest broken arm woke him up. His broken leg had stopped hurting which bothered him more than the pain as he listened to the sobbing of the 20-year-old girl who had put him where he was. Yep, in his 72 years on Earth Cedric “Doxy” Murdoch thought he had seen it all; but that was before he met Georgina Mayfield. He closed his eyes again as if shutting out his vision would make his problems disappear. He shifted slightly to improve his comfort, winced from the effort and went still again.

Georgina heard the slight movement behind her and turned. Peering around the wheelhouse she could just make out a right leg. Doxy clearly hadn’t moved. “At least he’s getting some sleep,” she thought. 

She turned back and continued staring at the enormous expanse of surrounding water. Her expression went blank again as she slipped into another daydream….

“Are you expecting Mr. Mayfield anytime soon, Mrs. Mayfield?” enquired Joan Hoover the family’s housekeeper.

It was 1 0’ Clock on a typical Sunday afternoon. Georgina, Jason Greenwood her boyfriend of 8 months (a world record for her) and her mother Celia were seated at the dining table in the lavish family lounge. Jason, realising what was coming next, stared down at the table and rubbed the fingers of his right hand back and forth across the polished, oak wood.

“I shouldn’t think so, Joan,” replied Celia Mayfield in a tone of well-rehearsed politeness. “As he’s not back by now he’ll probably be eating at the office.

“I don’t know why he doesn’t just move into that fucking office,” spat Georgina.

“That’s enough Georgina,” chided her mother. “And you’ll watch your language in this house.” She turned to look up at the housekeeper. “We’ll eat now. Thank you Joan.”

The housekeeper nodded curtly, gave a disgusted sideways glance to Georgina and left the room to return to the kitchen and fetch the heated food trolley. As the door closed behind her Celia continued.

“Your father works very hard,” she explained, “He has to be at the office, you know that.”

“Every damn minute of every damn day!” exploded Georgina. “Are you kidding me? Murderers on death row spend more time with their families than he does with us.” She turned to Jason. “Do you ever forget what your father looks like? ‘Cos I sure as hell do.”

“That’s enough Georgina,” said Celia in a no-nonsense tone. “He may be your father but he’s also my husband….”

“And he’s never here for either of us!” interrupted Georgina.

Jason shuffled uncomfortably on his chair. He’d heard it all before but it never got any less embarrassing. Celia didn’t reply: She knew there was little point. Georgina could argue for Britain whether she was right or wrong; and as it happened she wasn’t a million miles from the truth. Peter Mayfield was a workaholic; there was no doubting that. He was a self-made millionaire with the firm belief that the harder you worked the more successful you became. Celia had, on occasion, tried to argue with her husband as to how much success the family needed. Something must have been right though; after all they had been pretty happily married for 23 years. Peter was 25 when they wed and Celia 2 years younger. The first three years had been tough as he slowly established himself on the property market. Then Georgina was born and complications during birth meant that Celia couldn’t have any more children. At first that seemed fine, but on reflection she often wondered whether a second child would have taken the pressure of Georgina a little. Another sibling would certainly have been company for the growing Georgina who often appeared lonely through her formative years. But there was no way any of this could be blamed on Peter. He was basically a good man. He provided well, he didn’t cheat on her: What more could a woman want; except maybe his presence a little more often? She knew her daughter felt the same way and sometimes didn’t even blame her. Nevertheless Georgina appeared to be spiralling more and more out of control which worried Celia and sometimes even frightened her.

“Can you believe this crap?” said Georgina looking straight at her boyfriend who again shifted uncomfortably on his chair.

Celia saw the discomfort in Jason’s demeanour. “Georgina, Jason is your boyfriend not your psychiatrist. Don’t drag him into our petty squabbles.”

“Petty…? Petty!?” screamed Georgina as she jumped up sending her chair crashing backwards into a cabinet. “My whole life I’ve never really had a fucking father and you think that’s petty?” She stormed away from the table but stopped in the doorway and turned. “Maybe that’s why he stays away!”

She then turned and disappeared through the door. Celia and Jason looked at each other embarrassedly; Jason blushed deeply. Two pairs of eyes flicked in the direction of the door as both heard Georgina’s heavy, stamping footsteps going up the plushly carpeted stairs. A few seconds later came the obligatory crash as she slammed her bedroom door shut as hard as she could.   

Another larger than average wave rocked Georgina back into the present tense: It was old Georgina who woke up. Gone were the tears. The hard, uncaring glaze was now back in her beautiful dark brown eyes as what she saw as a momentary weakness was forced into the recesses of her psyche. She got up, walked around the wheelhouse towards the stern of the boat and saw that Doxy was still asleep. She stepped over his inert body and into the wheelhouse.

She walked over to the two-way radio on the wall by the old-fashioned wooden steering wheel; at least she thought it was a steering wheel. But what with all the Jolly Jack Tar lingo that had been thrust at her recently it may have been a tiller, a spinnaker a mast: Hell! It may have been a bloody main brace for all she cared – whatever! She turned the radio on but it was still as dead last week’s shoes. That had been some storm. She turned to the small wooden table on which sat a small transistor radio. She reached across and flipped the switch to “on”.

“The next track is definitely stellar,” announced the falsely cheerful voice in a transatlantic accent that sounded as out of place in this area as bacon at a bar mitzvah. “And it’s an oldie so it’s stellar from the cellar….Hit me Ray!”

“I’d like to hit you,” thought Georgina absently as The Kink’s All Day and All of the Night began playing. She shook her head and turned the radio off. She’d never liked DJs, she always thought of them in a sort of paraphrase of the old saying “Those who can do; those who can’t teach”: In this particular instance to Georgina it was a case of “Those who can perform D.O; Those who can’t D.J.” She began searching the wheelhouse looking for her handbag. After a few minutes of petulantly throwing various objects around the small room she located her bag behind a cushion in the corner. She put the bag on the table, sat down and took out her make-up. She applied a little blusher and put on fresh lipstick. As she looked into the small pocket mirror she always carried and smiled in a satisfied way at the image looking back at her she heard Doxy stirring. He moaned softly with the effort. She glanced in his direction with an impatient snort at the interruption and then tried to ignore him. Unaware, Doxy tried to shift his position again which brought a second moan to his lips. Georgina sighed audibly, banged the mirror onto the table and rose to her feet. She looked around, located the cushion in the corner of the room and picked it up. She went over to Doxy and stood beside him looking down: Neither spoke.

Eventually she held the cushion out to him. He tried to move his good arm to take hold of the cushion was more tired than he thought. He only managed to lift the arm half way before allowing it to fall back limply to his side.

“Oh here,” said Georgina impatiently holding the cushion lower for him. When he still couldn’t take it she bent over and placed it behind his head. He nodded slightly, grimaced and smiled.

“Thank you, miss,” he offered.

“Oh think nothing of it,” she sneered. “After all that money I gave you so you could drive us into a storm, nearly drown us, put us in the middle of nowhere and cast us adrift without a radio or anything. Hell, Captain Bligh, or should that be Blight? A cushion’s the least I can do.

Doxy sighed at the indignity and closed his eyes again. It was all he could do; as if hiding behind his eyelids made everything around him disappear. Shut out the light -- shut out the sight. Of course it didn’t affect his other senses there was nothing he could do about those. Taste told him he needed water; touch reminded him of the pain of his injuries; his hearing told him that Georgina had walked to the bow of the ship and sat back down. But at least his sense of smell helped to cheer him up. He took a deep breath through his nose and savoured his most favourite smell since he could remember – The Sea. He let out a deep sigh almost of contentment and then sniffed another lungful of the heady aroma that had been with him all of his life. This relaxed him immensely and he soon drifted once again into welcome unconsciousness.

If Georgina had been honest with herself she would have known that her latest predicament was actually nobody’s fault. “Flash storms” are so named for a reason. They don’t show up on weather forecasting radar they just show up. Nobody is ever ready. However she had “commandeered” the little fishing boat. She hadn’t cared that the fishermen aboard had just docked after a full night’s fishing. She hadn’t cared that the fishermen were worn out after 12 gruelling hours of work. She hadn’t cared that the captain’s only crew member had stuck a finger up at her and gone home to sleep. All she cared about was that she had to get away: To sea; to anywhere but here. The amount of cash she thrust at the tired captain however made him care. He hadn’t caught so much as a single Whitebait the entire previous night. The wedge of folding money he was now clutching in his weatherworn, liver spotted hand was more than he had made the whole of that month. He had to take the charter. How hard could it be? He’d drink a load of extra-strong coffee and sleep the following night. Piece of piss!

Georgina continued her lonely vigil of staring out at the endless, gently rippling water. She didn’t even know what she was looking for. Were they in a shipping lane? Were they still in The Atlantic? The storm had been so violent she had no idea where they could have been blown. What was more disturbing was that anybody searching for her wouldn’t know either: If indeed anybody was taking the trouble to search. After all she’d only been missing for the previous day and last night. Her mother would assume she’d put in yet another all-nighter. Her father probably wouldn’t even know yet not having come home from his fucking office. Jason? Good old steady Jason? If he’d actually have bothered to be there he would have assumed she’d gone off for the night with some bit of local rough. Why did he put up with all her shit? He loved her she supposed…. What a wanker!

She’d always had the knack of using blokes. She was 5’ 6” tall with a figure to die for; a drop-dead gorgeous face that was both incredibly pretty and classically beautiful at the same time (a real rarity); she had stunning, thick, dark brown hair that fell in soft waves to six inches past her shoulders. She was the real deal. Everybody assumed she kept her blokes’ attention by being the consummate shag but that wasn’t it. She was happy to let the arseholes think what they wanted: It only heightened her profile. The truth was that Georgina had only properly been with two boys. She lost her virginity to her first “real” boyfriend at the age of 16. They’d done it a few times till she tired of him and kicked him into touch. The next male to enter her most private place was Jason and that wasn’t until they’d been going out for four months. So let all the tossy hangers-on call her Martini girl (any time, any place, anywhere). It was an old joke and the best that loser bunch could come up with. It did bother her slightly that Jason seemed to agree with the consensus of opinion. Still he was only 21 which in real terms meant a mental age of 12 for a bloke: But he was better than most she’d known. Maybe that was why he’d lasted the course so far; from his point of view as well as hers. Maybe she’d break the habit of a lifetime and actually ask him when she got back…. If she got back.

Maybe there really was a God after all and this was his payback for all the shit she’d got through. If only she hadn’t had such a good time being bad? But it was good fun…. Her thoughts drifted back a few weeks to a Sunday evening. She was driving her brand new black SLK 350, too fast as usual. Jason, in trying to get her to slow down, distracted her. She slammed on the brakes but it was too late. Jason jumped out of the car and saw the little boy standing at the side of the road clutching an empty lead that dangled to the floor. He must have been about 8-years-old. Jason turned to look at the small dog but it was obviously dead. The little boy started to cry.

“Come on, we’re going to be late,” called Georgina in a cold tone.

“You can’t be serious?” said Jason. “We can’t just leave the lad.”

“The mutt shouldn’t have been off the lead,” observed Georgina. “That’s the law…. Last chance.”

“I can’t just leave him….”

“Suit yourself Sir Galahad,” she continued with a note of finality in her voice. “Or should that be Sir Gaylahad? You’re soft enough.”

Jason knelt down to comfort the youngster. Georgina revved the engine but he didn’t look up. A piece of paper drifted slowly down and landed at the kerbside. He picked it up: It was a cheque for £1,000 pounds made out to cash.

“Get your new pal a Great Dane,” she called. “They’re easier to see.”

With that she accelerated away, tires squealing. She didn’t see Jason for a whole week after that. But then he came round: For some inexplicable reason they always came round.

“Miss!” The voice from behind the wheelhouse interrupted her thoughts. She sighed, got up and walked towards the stern.

“Now what?” Georgina asked in an irritated tone.

“The radio,” asked Doxy. “Have you tried the radio?”

“You mean you weren’t jitterbugging or waltzing or whatever people from your century do to The Kinks,” she replied sarcastically.

He thought for a second till what she meant sank in. “No, I mean the two-way radio,” he explained. “It’s above the wheel.”

“I know where it is old boy,” she said flatly. “And it isn’t working.”

“Old boy,” he repeated then paused for a moment. “Oh my God! The boy! Where’s the boy!?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Boy? Crap! I’d forgotten about him,” admitted Georgina. “With you calling him a boy when he’s nearly as old as my parents….Now if you’d have said buoy, you know the B-U-O-Y kind I’d have figured it. They have about the same mentality.”

“Don’t be so cruel, you know what I mean. He’s a boy in his head,” snapped Doxy. “You must find him.”

“Keep your hair on,” she replied. “I’ll look…. You realise he could be halfway to Australia by now.” “Us too,” she added in an aside.

She went inside the wheelhouse and opened the twin doors leading to the twin berth cabin below. She went down but it was empty, even the tiny toilet cubicle. She left, shutting the doors behind her. Then she noticed the hatch to the miniscule engine compartment. She opened it and peered inside. It was empty except for the waterlogged engine so she shut the hatch and walked back onto the deck. She went to the stern of the boat and peered over. The boat’s dinghy was rocking gently from side to side about 12 feet behind, joined by an almost umbilical-like heavy rope.

“Nothing there except your dinghy,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this.”

She ignored Doxy’s further pleas and returned to the portside bow rail where she once again sat down on the deck, put her elbows back onto the top of the rail, sighed and continued to scan the horizon for anything that wasn’t water. How the hell had she come to this?

More or less every day started with some sort of problem for Georgina. If there wasn’t one waiting for her when she got up she’d make up one of her own. The morning of two days previously was no different. It was 8.45; Celia had left it as late as she possibly could, but they needed to be at the airport by 9.30. It was only a domestic flight but Peter liked to be there an hour early just to be on the safe side. This was an important business trip and nothing must go wrong. He had delegated the important, if somewhat tricky, job of waking her ladyship to his wife. Celia had, in turn, delegated the unwanted task to their housekeeper Joan: So she was it; the buck stopped with her.

Gently knocking on the bedroom door hadn’t had much effect so Joan tentatively turned the gold-plated handle and softly pushed the door open far enough to get her head in. On reflection she realised that she was being stupid by being so quiet when the object of the exercise was to wake Georgina up. She pushed the door a little further.

The smell of stale alcohol assaulted her nostrils. “So Morgana had been on the piss last night,” she thought. Joan’s favourite actor was Sam Neill. She thought he was a great actor and she certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed. She’d seen all his films and ever since “Merlin” which must have been the 2000^th film about the Arthurian legend she hadn’t been able to get over the similarity between Helena Bonham-Carter’s evil sorceress Morgan Le Fay and the then 11-year-old Georgina. It was as if the part had been written for the young Miss Mayfield. She even looked a bit like her. Ever since that night Georgina had been Morgana to Joan. In fact it had spoilt the film for her. It was a serious piece of cinematic drama; unfortunately every time the witch appeared in front of the camera Joan burst out laughing much to the chagrin of her then boyfriend. In fact it wasn’t long after that night he dumped her: Something else for which to blame Georgina.

“It’s quarter to nine Georgina,” she announced in a firm voice but the room remained in silence. She tried again a little louder. “8.45 love. They’re all waiting downstairs.”

“Piss off!” The voice, even though muffled by the duvet, was clear in tone and intent. Joan wasn’t fazed. 

“Look Georgina if you don’t get up now you’ll make your dad late. He’ll get seriously pissed off, shout at your mum then he’ll fly up here and scream at you.” She paused whilst her imaginary scenario sank in. “Then everybody’s pissed off. They’re pissed off with you for the whole journey and the rest of the day. And you still have to get up. Come on love, do the smart thing.”

“Is she up yet?” It was Peter’s voice calling from downstairs. He already sounded agitated.

“Told you,” said Joan. “It’s starting.” There was still silence in the darkened room.

“Fine!” snapped Georgina; still under the duvet. “Fine! Fine! Fucking Fine!” she specifically emphasised each “F”.

Joan heard the rustle as Georgina kicked her duvet and top sheet onto the floor: But at least she was getting up. “Incredible” thought the housekeeper. “And without any blood being shed: A miracle.”

It was still another 20 minutes before Georgina appeared at the top of the stairs looking like she’d just that second got out of bed.

“If we miss that plane!” growled Peter.

“You could have had a wash darling,” soothed Celia.

“I haven’t got time to pack,” stated Georgina in a last ditch effort of defiance.

“Joan packed for you last night,” explained Peter.

Georgina shot a withering glance at the housekeeper. “Thank you Joan,” she hissed with deep sarcasm in her voice. “What would we do without you?”

“Maybe one day you’ll all find out Morgana,” thought Joan as she smiled sweetly at the 20-year-old. Two minutes later both parents and daughter were sitting in the private taxi with Peter still moaning about barely having enough time to make the airport. She waved them off with the sweet smile still fixed on her face. As soon as she turned away from the disappearing taxi the smile vanished. She sighed, went into the house and shut the front door. As the lock clicked shut she began to smile again. This time it was a genuine smile. The smile broadened into a grin. Seven days without The Mayfields: No barnys, no snide remarks, no screaming: Peace!

The smile then turned to an expression of pensiveness as she realised what the seven days held in store for The Mayfields. It was a business trip for Peter Mayfield who was buying a large chunk of property in St. Ives in Cornwall. He had suggested that the family use the trip as an extra holiday. The weather was good; Cornwall was beautiful: Why not? Joan knew exactly what would happen. Mr. Mayfield would disappear for the week concluding his business; Mrs. Mayfield would fill her lonely time relaxing by having facials and buying all sorts of crap in the local shops; and Georgina would become even more damaged. The truth was that Joan actually adored Georgina. She was maybe the only person who had been allowed under the veneer of the superbitch. In actual fact Georgina could be a loving, caring and thoughtful person if given the opportunity. The problem was that only Joan herself had ever given the poor mixed-up and misunderstood child that opportunity. Joan was already terrified that the psychological damage to the 20-year-old was irreparable.

CHAPTER 2

Peter Mayfield’s moaning had been needless. The family still managed to get to the airport 50 minutes before the scheduled take-off at 10.15. Nevertheless he continued to carp at Georgina’s indifference to all but herself. He wouldn’t let it go. He was still questioning her attitude towards the family half way into the two hour flight from Manchester International to Newquay. He would probably have carried on had Celia not shut him up by reminding him that although he was travelling for business the trip was still supposed to be a family holiday. If Joan could have heard the conversation she’d have given a wry smile at her accurate reading of the situation.

The Bombardier Dash 8 touched down on the Newquay airport tarmac exactly on time at five past midday. Georgina hated internal flights. They never flew in proper planes. This one only had two propeller engines. To her it was a wonder the heap had managed to get into the air at all.

Fifteen minutes later the three Mayfields had collected their respective cases. Peter and Celia were happy to wheel their own luggage to the exit but Georgina had insisted on waylaying a stray porter who was now pushing a trolley with the three cases (all with built-in wheels) whilst keeping a respectful distance behind exiting party. A silver Mercedes S class saloon was waiting for them right outside the main entrance with a fully liveried chauffeur standing next to it. As the family exited he moved away from the car and introduced himself. He then opened the back door and held it whilst Celia and Georgina climbed in. He shut the door as Peter announced he would sit in the front. The chauffeur then opened the boot and stood aside to watch the porter struggle alone to get the three cases in. Peter waited until the porter had finished before giving him a five pound note. The man thanked him then pushed the empty trolley back inside the airport. Peter then waited by the front door until the chauffeur opened it for him. The expressionless chauffeur shut the door behind him then walked around the car and got in behind the driver’s wheel.

“I believe you are staying at the Portmain Hotel in St. Ives?” said the driver as he started the engine.

That’s right,” replied Peter as the car began to move off.

Those were the last words that were spoken for the entire 58 minute drive to cover the 35 miles from Newquay to St. Ives. The car had been laid on by Alfred Rex Limited a small local development company who had assisted Peter in the deal to purchase a plot of land he intended to develop into a luxury hotel/leisure complex. They were to get a small piece of his action and were bending over backwards to keep him happy. The dealings had reached the crucial 11^th hour and Peter, with his usual impeccable business timing was there to close this very important deal personally: This was the reason for the family trip to Cornwall. As the car pulled up at the luxurious and picturesque Portmain Hotel a porter appeared, took the cases out of the boot and put them on his trolley. Peter stood aside to allow Celia and Georgina to follow the porter into the hotel. He nodded to the chauffeur, turned and followed his family.

The porter pushed the trolley to the reception desk where the family were quickly signed in and shown to their rooms. Although a luxury hotel the Portmain only had 43 rooms which meant the service was personal and exceptional which is what Peter Mayfield demanded wherever he stayed.

The porter deposited Peter and Celia’s cases in their suite and promptly left clutching his five pound gratuity. As soon as the door closed Peter rang the Alfred Rex offices to speak to their managing director Simon Rex. He was the son of Alfred the man who had started the company 42 years previously after moving to Cornwall from Somerset. Peter thanked him for the car and they arranged to meet in the hotel for a meal that evening. While he was speaking Celia wandered onto the balcony to take in the stunning view of the ocean and the hotel’s private beach below.

Georgina’s single room was down the corridor from her parent’s suite. It was a reasonable size not that she cared one way or the other. The porter lifted the remaining case onto a stand against one of the walls then stepped back and paused.

“You’ve had your tip Manuel,” she said in a flat voice. “On your bike.”

The porter gave a sickly smile, nodded and backed out of the room closing the door behind himself. Once in the corridor his lip curled into a sneer and he raised a single middle finger at the closed door. Even if Georgina had seen the gesture she couldn’t have cared less. After all he was a hotel porter and she was….Georgina Mayfield. If the truth be known however; had she actually seen him flip her the bird she’d probably have had him sacked quicker than he could have said “Sorry M’lady”.

Georgina strolled casually onto her own balcony and stared at the sea. “I’ll bet that water’s bloody freezing?” she thought.

“Please make sure miss.” It was the old fisherman still pleading with her to look for Stevie.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” she said as she got to her feet yet again and walked around the wheelhouse to where Doxy was lying. “Look old man,” she said with fire in her eyes. “I told you he’s not here. How big d’you think this piece of shit is? I’ve played with bigger boats in the bath….” The pathetic, pleading expression on his face stopped her. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll look again.”

She began a sarcastic search. She picked up a piece of broken wood. “Not under there,” she announced then picked up a plastic bucket that had been lying on its side near the stern. She peered inside it. “Nope,” she said shaking her head, “not in there either. Ooh, maybe he’s hiding in one of the cups in the galley….” Before she could turn to go towards the galley something distracted her. She glanced back at the dinghy.

“What is it miss?” asked Doxy.

“Nothing, I already told you, it’s just the dinghy,” she replied. Then her brow furrowed as she stared a little harder. “Jesus Christ! The tarpaulin just moved. I think he’s in the fucking dinghy.” She raised her voice. “Hey!” She paused and turned back to Doxy. “What the hell’s his name?”

“Stevie,” replied Doxy.

She turned back towards the dinghy. “Stevie! Is that you?” The bulge under the white tarpaulin sheet moved slightly but nothing else. “Oh for Christ’s sake,” she hissed. “What are you pissing around at?” The bulge stopped moving; Georgina turned away and began to walk back to the opposite end of the boat.

“Please miss,” pleaded Doxy. “He is not right in the head, you know that. Be nice to him.”

“Nice?” said Georgina. “Me…?” She stopped and held out her right hand in gesture to shake hands. “Hi old man, I’m Georgina Mayfield, pleased to meet you.”

Doxy smiled. It was the first time he had smiled for some time. She was crass; she was overbearing; she was nasty; but she had a sense of humour.

“Please miss,” he pressed. “You can’t leave him in the dinghy. He’ll be terrified….”

Georgina walked back into her room. She went over to the bed, sat down and picked up the handset from the phone on the bedside table. She didn’t need to ask; most hotels were standard. Dialling a 9 first gave her the outside line she wanted; she continued punching numbers. A few seconds later the phone connected and rang. Jason answered at the other end.

“4695,” he announced, “hello?”

“This place is a morgue,” she stated. “I’m dying.”

“Then you’re in the right place,” replied Jason smiling to himself.

“Never mind the stand-up Groucho,” she hissed, “You’ve got to get down here.”

“But I’ve got work,” said Jason in an apologetic tone. “I can’t just leave.”

“For fuck’s sake: Are you going to abandon me too?” she continued. “All the moronic Mayfair Michaels I know who have pots and can’t even spell the word job and I get lumbered with you. Well shove it then!” She slammed the handset down onto the cradle with venom and returned to the balcony.

Far below on the beach Georgina watched the multitude of children playing in the sand and surf. More importantly she watched the accompanying parents. A memory popped into her head. She must have been about 10. “Wait a minute,” she thought. “Of course I was 10, it was my tenth birthday.” She remembered playing in the garden with her mother. It was a warm, sunny day; the grass was green and soft: Georgina was laughing. Even from all the way down the garden she heard the sound she had been waiting for all morning. It was the front door bell. “It’s Daddy!” she shouted and ran across the garden; through the open patio doors and into the dining room still at a gallop.

As fast as she ran Joan already had the front door open as Georgina skidded into the hallway. Georgina had wanted to open the door to greet her father personally but so what. It didn’t matter who opened the door as long as she got there in time…. And she had. But it wasn’t Peter standing in the doorway holding the huge, gift-wrapped box; it was an alien dressed in an all-in-one black spacesuit with a shiny black space helmet on top. The courier handed the box to Joan who immediately passed it down to Georgina.

“It’s from your father,” she said.

Georgina grasped the box and threw it against the wall before running upstairs to her room crying. There were tears in Joan’s eyes as she signed for the delivery.

The memory had put a stony look onto Georgina’s face as she turned away from the merriment below and walked back into her room. She only paused to pick up her handbag before walking straight out into the corridor.

Peter had wasted no time since the family’s arrival in Cornwall. He had left Celia to do whatever it was she did, he wasn’t sure what it was but he knew she enjoyed it, and taken a taxi directly to the offices of Alfred Rex Ltd. Simon Rex was in his office and quite surprised to be getting a visit from Peter Mayfield so soon.

They talked for a while over a hastily supplied coffee before Peter suggested they both visit the site of the proposed leisure complex. Simon didn’t understand why Peter wished to visit the site yet again. After all he’d been down to Cornwall several times to see it already. Simon just assumed Peter would want to settle into the hotel first; maybe take his family out? But he wasn’t going to argue. If Peter Mayfield wanted to be all business so be it: After all Simon was going to do very well from this deal; the rest was none of his business.

As they were leaving the phone rang. The receptionist buzzed through telling Simon that Mr. Truscott was on the phone. He motioned Peter to wait and took the call. Peter knew who was on the other end of the line. It was George Truscott who was the owner of the company that owned the site Peter intended to buy. He’d had initial dealings with Truscott but after realising how staunchly Cornish the man was, he’d even named his company Kernow Holdings -- Kernow is the Cornish word for Cornwall, he decided to allow a local company to mediate for political reasons.

Peter sat quietly listening to Simon’s end of the conversation. It soon became clear that all was not well.

“Mr. Mayfield is actually with me now,” said Simon into the receiver. “Would you like to speak to him?” He nodded without another word and handed the cable-free receiver to Peter.

“How are you Mr. Truscott?” asked Peter. He knew the man’s first name but wanted to keep things on a professional basis.

“Very well Mr. Mayfield,” replied Truscott. “There may be a problem though.”

“Oh yes,” enquired Peter. “And what kind of problem would that be?”

“Another party has come in with a bid of 18 million for the site,” he announced.

“But we agreed 15 million,” reminded Peter.

“In essence Mr. Mayfield,” replied Truscott. “But there have been additional costs and we haven’t exchanged contracts yet.”

“I see….” said Peter speaking deliberately then pausing.

“So you’ll reconsider your offer?” asked Truscott.

Peter paused for a while then spoke in a clipped manner. “No. Sorry Truscott, deal’s off.” He tossed the receiver to Simon as he got up and walked out of the office. He paused at the door and turned. “Sorry Simon,” he apologised. “I don’t do gazumping. We’re moving on to Devon. I’ve had my eye on a nice piece of real estate outside Sidmouth.” With that he shut the door and asked the receptionist to call a taxi for him. A few seconds later Simon came into the reception area.

“You’ve blown it,” he said with eyes wide. “I thought you were using a bargaining chip but Truscott said it was all off.”

“I’ll bet that’s not how he put it?” noted Peter.

“He told me to piss off,” Simon was almost crying.

“Sorry mate,” said Peter. “Welcome to the Premiership.” He paused before adding, “Send me a bill for your time.”

In the taxi going back to the hotel Peter was already making plans to visit Devon. His first thought had been to move the whole family on but on reflection he thought it probably best if he went over to Devon on his own for a couple of days. Celia and Georgina would have a great time: They didn’t need him.

Georgina had decided she certainly didn’t need that wimp Jason. If work was more important to him than saving her life – well, her social life at least – then screw him. She glided through the hotel foyer without a backward glance. Once outside she realised that she had a slight problem. The Portmain wasn’t in the centre of St. Ives so where the hell was she? A taxi had pulled up outside the hotel and an elderly couple got out together accompanied by a man in his early forties. Georgina walked back towards the cab. As she approached a hotel porter (her hotel porter: Did the place only have one?) appeared and took two large cases from the boot. From the way the couple spoke to the younger man it was clear there was something wrong with him. What was even odder was that both older people were fairly short; the man was around 5’ 4” and the woman was no taller than 5’ 1” whilst the younger man who was clearly their son was 6’ 6” but stooped severely.

“No Stevie,” said the woman. “Let the man get the cases. It’s what he likes to do.”

“You come with me son,” said the man taking hold of the younger man’s hand and leading him into the hotel. From behind it looked quite comical as he allowed his father to lead him in. The woman smiled benignly and followed after paying the taxi driver.

Georgina reached the cab.

“Can you take me into St. Ives?” she asked.

“You’re in St. Ives miss” replied the driver.

“If this is St. Ives we’re all in a lot of bother,” she stated with a snort.

“The town centre is just down there,” explained the driver patiently whilst pointing to Georgina’s left. “It’s only a few minutes walk.”

“Supposing I don’t want to walk for a few minutes?” she pointed out.

“There’s a bus stop just back there,” he pointed in the opposite direction then got into the taxi and drove away.

“Twat!” she yelled at the receding Ford Mondeo but nevertheless began walking in the first direction the cabbie had indicated.

“Probably didn’t want to take me in case I saw his hands,” she muttered to herself. “I’ll bet his fingers are webbed.” She said that bit out loud then lowered her voice to a whisper again. “Inbred fucking yokels: They’re all the bloody same.”

The driver had been correct. After only a few minutes Georgina reached the edge of the picture-postcard-perfect seaside town of St. Ives. Firstly though, she had to negotiate her way down from the top of the hill through the winding, narrow streets which led all the way down to the harbour. She casually glanced into various little independent shops as she went. There seemed to be everything available from millinery products to art. She was actually enjoying this little stroll.

Eventually she arrived at the bottom of the hill and strolled along the road that skirted the harbour area. This road also contained shops but more importantly she noticed pubs and bars. As she could clearly see the other end of the harbour and it didn’t look too far she thought she’d walk the length first before deciding which hostelry was going to be lucky enough to get her business.

After sauntering to the end and halfway back she walked into a pub called “The High Tide Inn”. The place was quite busy which, was usually a good sign so she went straight the bar and ordered a large vodka and blackcurrant. The barman who looked about the same age as Georgina poured the drink and deposited in front of her. She shook her head and held out her right hand out with the thumb and forefinger significantly as far apart as they could go. The barman instantly got the message and doubled the amount of vodka in her glass. When he placed the second offering in front of her she smiled and nodded.

“Are you here on holiday?” he enquired.

“Does this drink come with a volume control?” she asked completely ignoring his question.

The barman held both hands up in apology and went to the opposite end of the bar.

“How did he know I wasn’t a local?” she muttered to herself. “Oh yeh, no webbing.” She sipped the drink and turned to scan the room. A thin man of around 19, dressed like a surfer in long, bright, multi-coloured shorts, a khaki T-shirt and black slip-on sandals standing beside Georgina at the bar turned to her and brushed his long, sandy-coloured hair back off his face.

“That was cold,” he said.

“Shame the drink isn’t,” replied Georgina.

The surfer laughed and asked if he could buy her a drink. Georgina drank her drink in one gulp and banged the empty glass on the bar. The man caught the barman’s attention and picked the glass up to show he wanted another. The barman dutifully poured a second large vodka and blackcurrant and placed it in front of Georgina. She picked it up and held it out towards the surfer in a silent toast. She then downed the drink in one gulp and put the glass down on the bar. She then took a twenty pound note from a purse in her handbag and dropped it onto the bar beside the empty glass.

Georgina began to turn away from the bar. “Hey you! Ashton Kutcher wannabee!” she called to the barman. “That’s for both drinks, keep the change.” She loved carrying cash. It went against all modern, plastic thinking. But throwing a Visa card or whatever on the counter would hardly have had the same effect. As she began to walk away she turned to look at the surfer.

“See you around Little Mermaid,” she said as she headed towards the door. The surfer didn’t bother to follow. St. Ives was a tiny place; he knew he’d see her again. She owed him the chance to buy her a drink.

Georgina’s eyes took a few seconds to focus against the bright afternoon sunshine. The first thing she noticed was the undulating sea of bodies brushing passing her in both directions. St. Ives had got very busy all of a sudden; or maybe the two very large drinks had focused her attention. Either way it bothered her so she walked across the road and onto the harbour beach. The tide was out and the area wasn’t as crowded as it ought to have been so she wandered towards the shoreline passing various grounded fishing and pleasure boats as she walked. So far since leaving the hotel this was the most walking Georgina had done in her whole life. There was something about the mien of Cornwall that seemed to necessitate going back to basics. No way would Georgina ever have even entertained the idea of a stroll and yet here she was not only strolling but enjoying it. Or maybe it was the vodka that was enjoying it. Whatever the reason it was a simple pleasure normally alien to her.

She reached the water’s edge and decided to have a paddle. She took her shoes off and tentatively stepped into a miniscule wave as it broke in front of her. The water was cold to the touch and she jumped back. She subconsciously turned round, but there was nobody watching: There was nobody anywhere near her. She looked around suddenly feeling as empty as the area around her and tired: She suddenly felt very sleepy. “Must be the sun,” she thought. She turned and began to walk back towards the road still carrying her shoes. She passed a small fishing boat and decided to sit on the sand against the boat’s hull. Two minutes later she was fast asleep courtesy of the effects of the cheap brand of Russian potato juice wearing off.

She awoke only a few minutes later lying flat on the sand and immediately sat upright. A small boy of about 6 or 7 holding a coloured beach ball was standing staring at her. She smiled at him and he threw his ball to her. It rolled along the sand and came to rest at her feet. She got to her feet, picked the ball up and held it out to the child. He held his arms out to catch it but she tossed it casually over her shoulder into the fishing boat. She then picked up her black leather Prada shoulder bag, dusted off the sand and walked away. The child started crying because he was too small to climb into the boat. As Georgina walked away she passed a man in his twenties rushing towards the sound of crying; obviously the father.

“I think he lost his ball?” she said as they passed each other. She carried on walking without looking back. She had a smile on her face.

Peter Mayfield was still annoyed when he arrived back at the Portmain. He went straight to the room and knocked on the door. There was no answer from within so he used his own key card to open the door. He had thought that maybe Celia was having an afternoon nap but the suite was empty. He went to the phone by the bed and dialled her mobile. She answered and told him that she was sitting by the swimming pool drinking a cocktail and taking in the views. He said he’d join her, hung up and went straight out of the room.

The views from the hotel grounds really were spectacular as Peter realised when he stepped out of the hotel into the pool area. He located Celia immediately but ignored her for a moment whilst he took in the surroundings. The hotel stood in its own sub-tropical gardens which were beautiful; but it was the panoramic view that caught Peter’s attention. To the left was St. Ives centre and to the extreme right, across the hotel’s own beach was the famous Godrevy Lighthouse. The view actually served to calm him down. He took a deep breath and walked over to his wife who was sitting at a poolside table. There were half a dozen kids playing in the water but otherwise the area was surprisingly peaceful. As he approached Celia’s table he caught sight of a waiter hovering in a doorway. He called him over, asked Celia if she wanted another drink and when she nodded told the waiter to bring two. When the man left Peter seated himself next to Celia and smiled.

“It fell through,” he said matter-of-factly.

“The hotel balcony?” quipped Celia.

“Very funny,” said Peter. “That was an important deal. Now I’m going to have to go to Devon.”

“Now?” asked Celia, quite taken aback.

“Well, I’ll have my drink first,” said Peter.

“Seriously,” pressed Celia.

“I don’t know,“ replied Peter. “Probably tomorrow for two or three days.”

“Oh, bloody hell Peter,” said Celia.

“I’ll get back as soon as I can I promise,” he soothed. “And look on the bright side.”

“There’s a bright side?” asked Celia.

“Sure,” he replied. “You get to spend quality alone time with your favourite daughter.”

“I hope both those drinks you ordered are for me,” she said sternly.

The waiter brought their drinks and they remained sitting in silence each savouring their drink and enjoying the views and their own private thoughts. Eventually Peter spoke. He suggested they go back up to the room for a rest. They had been married long enough for Celia to read between the lines and after her couple of drinks on this gorgeous warm summer afternoon she was as ready as her husband.

Peter reached for Celia as soon as the room door snapped shut. She fell into his arms and they embraced for a long and increasingly passionate kiss, tongues probing urgently as if this were their very first time. Her hand slipped down between them and felt his readiness. He caught his breath as she gently took hold of him. His right hand went to her firm breast and gently cupped then caressed it. She moaned into his mouth and they broke away to undress each other before falling onto the bed. The sex was as passionate now as it had been when they had first met. Neither was self-conscious and over the years had learned how best to pleasure the other for ultimate mutual gratification. They had never tired of each other physically or mentally. At the moment the emphasis was very much on the physical.

They finally broke apart three quarters of an hour later; two spent forces, both smiling as they rolled to their respective sides of the bed. They lay quietly for some time before Celia got up stating that she was going to have a shower. Peter remained silent. He much preferred her to take the first shower as, like most women, she took about five times longer to get ready. This could also work in his favour especially if he fancied a couple of sneaky drinks alone in the hotel bar. He knew that if he showered and got ready first it gave him at least an hour to himself. Tonight, however, was about unison. He was going to be the dutiful husband and wait to accompany his wife down to the hotel restaurant. He thought it particularly prudent in the face of his trip to Sidmouth the following day.

Normally Peter and Celia were loath to eat in hotel restaurants. From years of experience in some of the world’s finest hotels their joint feeling had always been disappointment. For whatever the reason hotel restaurants just weren’t on par with top class independent establishments. Tonight was different. The Portmain restaurant was actually world renowned for one particular dish: Lobster. Most people assumed that a lobster was a lobster was a lobster. Not so: For whatever reason the Portmain’s lobsters were reputedly better than those from anywhere else; certainly in Europe if not the world. The second claim Peter strongly doubted but nevertheless he and Celia had planned this lobster dinner weeks before. Peter had even phoned to pre-order the brace of giant sea bugs stating exactly what weight he required.

Peter and Celia stepped out of the lift into the reception area 35 minutes later. They had planned to have a drink in the bar first before going to eat. As they crossed the reception area Georgina came striding up the entrance steps and through the main door. At that exact time the elderly couple and the other man she had seen arriving in the taxi earlier were leaving the hotel for a stroll into the town. Georgina ploughed through the three of them bumping into the younger man and almost knocking the woman over. The father shouted after her.

“Have you no manners?”

“Yeh, but I save them for important people,” she called back over her shoulder without turning or breaking stride. “And keep that spaz on a lead.”

“Georgina!” shouted Peter

“That was disgraceful,” added Celia. “Get back and apologise.”

“You must be jo….” Georgina began before Peter cut her off.

“Now!” he commanded. “You’ll get back and apologise….NOW!”

Georgina recognised the demeanour in Peter and Celia and instantly realised she had gone too far. She turned to the trio and gave a forced smile.

“I’m sorry,” she stated out loud and added more quietly as she turned away, “that you’re too slow to get out of the way and he’s a spaz.”

“Last warning Georgina,” said Peter beginning to go red.

“Fine,” said Georgina turning to face the three again. “Fine. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…. I’m sorry I’m young, I’m sorry you’re old. I’m sorry your son’s a spaz. But most of all I’m sorry I don’t have a drink in my hand. But I can soon remedy that bit.”

With that she turned away now smiling genuinely and strolled past her parents. The smile faded to be replaced by a glare as she passed them. She continued across the lobby and disappeared into the bar. Throughout the exchange the younger man had not taken his eyes off Georgina. He had a look of wonder in his expression as he watched her every move. He was still staring at her receding back as Peter and Celia simultaneously moved forward and apologised profusely for their daughter’s disgusting behaviour. The man and woman accepted the apology graciously but that wasn’t enough for Peter.

“I am mortified,” he said. “Please allow me to buy the three of you dinner tonight.”

“It really is OK,” said the man.

“Her behaviour was an abomination,” continued Peter. “Please, I insist. In fact I think I’ll make that little….”

“Teenager?” the man said, cutting Peter off before he said something worse. “

Peter smiled. “Please,” he said. “It won’t make things right by any means but I’ll feel a lot better.”

“Then we accept,” said the woman placing a hand on her husband’s arm to prevent further speech. “My name is June. June Pickford. This is my husband Bernard.” She put an arm around the younger man who was still staring after Georgina. “And this is our son Stevie.”

“Hi Stevie,” said Peter but the man just looked blankly at him.

“Stevie doesn’t speak,” explained Bernard. “Not a word.”

“From birth?” asked Celia.

“He spoke till the age of 10,” replied June. “One day he came home from school, we were advised to put him in a mainstream school....” She paused and tears welled in her eyes before she wiped them and continued. “He must have got fed up with all the other kids taking the mickey out of the way he spoke, you know how kids can be. He’s hasn’t spoken since. But we get by.”

“Nevertheless I’m sorry for my daughter’s terrible behaviour,” said Peter turning to Stevie. “OK Stevie?”

Stevie ignored the apology and continued staring at the entrance to the bar.

“Stevie doesn’t mind: Do you darling?” said June. “And please straighten up.” She turned to Peter. “He’s terribly conscious about his height.”

Peter began to feel uncomfortable and excused himself and Celia saying that were going to the bar to punish Georgina. Before they left Peter told the Pickfords that he would arrange for their evening meal to be “comped” to him. Bernard and June thanked him and Celia and the two groups parted company. Peter and Celia went straight into the bar as the Pickfords exited the hotel happy to be away from the rancid air created by that awful young woman. Even at 78-years-old they still hadn’t got used to the cruelty of some individuals.

As her parents entered Georgina was fully expecting a severe tongue lashing. She was quite surprised when her father walked straight past her to the bar. He ordered a large Hennessy Paradis cognac, downed it in one and asked for an immediate top up.

“Aren’t you supposed to sip that stuff?” Georgina asked her mother. “That’s about 25 quid a shot. He’s just tossed back 50 quid.”

“That was absolutely disgraceful behaviour out there,” said Celia. “What on Earth did you think you were doing?”

“Oh give me a break,” replied Georgina. “I was only messing about. It was just a joke.”

“I’ve never heard anything as hurtful in my life,” said Celia.

“Haven’t you?” said Georgina, tears welling into her eyes, but more of anger than hurt. “Look at me.” She twirled round. “Not bad eh?” Her mother just looked at her quizzically. “I’ve got a high I.Q. I’m gorgeous. Any father would be proud. But not Mister Work, work and more work over there. Jesus Mother, they adore their son and he’s a fucking spaz. Maybe if I had a lobotomy? And, oh yeh, while we’re on the subject: How many fucking lobsters did you order?” She burst into tears and ran out of the bar.

Celia sighed then looked over to Peter who was now sipping his second drink completely oblivious to Georgina’s exit. She shook her head and went to join him at the bar.

Suddenly Georgina was back in the centre of St. Ives. “How the hell did that happen?” The entire walk, which was more like a march, was a blur; such was her angst. So many thoughts flew in and dive-bombed her brain that it went into meltdown. All of a sudden the only thing in her head was fog; a thick, black fog that choked her mind. She had to clear it.

The tide was now coming in quickly so she couldn’t walk onto the beach. Instead she just sat on one of the benches overlooking the harbour, stared out to see and allowed her mind to go blank. Staring at the gently oncoming high tide actually worked. She sighed and actually relaxed. There were not many people about at this in between time which helped. A car beeped its horn; Georgina didn’t even notice it.

“Please miss,” pleaded Doxy once again. “try to coax him from the dinghy. He can’t stay there. Suppose another storm hits?”

“And how d’you propose I coax the half-wit?” she asked. “Dangle a carrot over the side? Hold up a biscuit and whistle?”

“He’s in great danger miss….” began Doxy before a high-pitched whistling noise interrupted them and made Georgina shudder and grimace.

“That was worse than nails on a blackboard,” she said. “What the hell was it?”

“It sounded like a dolphin miss,” explained Doxy.

“Oh great,” said Georgina. She pointed to Doxy. “I’ve got the old man of the sea.” She jerked her thumb at the stern. “The creature from the prat lagoon and now….” She walked towards the starboard side of the boat. “Flipper’s come a-calling….Oh my God!” She stopped in her tracks and stared wide-eyed.

“What’s the matter,” asked Doxy.

“There’s a dolphin caught in your damn net,” she said with wide-open eyes. “It’s stuck fast, half way out of the water.”

“Can you free it?” asked Doxy.

“Are you fucking insane?” she spat. “Have you seen the size of it? I’m not going near that monster.”

She almost ran to the sanctuary of the bow rail. She fell to her knees and clutched the cold metal tightly, closing her eyes as if to try and shut out the crazy world in which she found herself. She held it together for a few seconds then Georgina Mayfield cried like she had never cried before. She knew she was nasty, she knew what a cow she could be but nobody deserved this. She was totally overcome, but her sobbing, loud as it was, was completely overshadowed by the louder and far more plaintive cry of a dolphin in enormous distress.

Georgina remained seated on the bench watching the tide creep in without really noticing for a further half hour. It’s a fact that has defied mankind since the dawn of time but the therapeutic effect of watching water is incalculable. It certainly brought Georgina back from the brink of her latest mental catastrophe: And then suddenly she was back to her old self. She looked around and noticed she had subconsciously picked a bench right opposite the High Tide Inn where she had been that afternoon. She smiled to herself, got up and walked across the road.

The place was filling up ready for the evening trade as Georgina entered and once again pushed her way through to the bar. The same barman was working; he noticed Georgina and tried to ignore her. She gave a very loud, unladylike, double toot fingerless whistle. There was no way the barman could pretend he didn’t hear her. He gave her a sideways glance over his shoulder. Georgina crooked her right forefinger and used it to beckon him. He sighed resignedly and crossed the space to stand in front of her.

“Don’t you ever go home?” she asked and before he could answer added. “I’ll bet you’re glad to see me back, hey Ashton?”

“My name’s Ethan,” he replied.

“Ethan,” she repeated. “What, couldn’t your parents spell Jethro?”

The barman visibly controlled himself then calmly asked Georgina what she wanted to drink.

“A large vodka and blackcurrant,” the voice belonged to the surfer from earlier. “Hello again. My name’s Davy.”

“Jesus! You’re still here too!?” exclaimed Georgina, “Are all you yokels nailed to the spot?”

The surfer laughed. “Hey, babe,” he said in a somewhat oily voice, “When you’re chilling you’re chilling. No what I’m saying? Ain’t no movin’ fingers telling me where to be or when to be there. Dig?”

Georgina held up the middle finger of her right hand almost touching the surfer’s nose. “Well this finger is telling you to move. OK beachboy?”

Davy lost his patience and walked away muttering. “Stuck up bitch,” he whined looking back over his shoulder. “You ain’t all that!” He disappeared into the crowd.

“Talk to the hand,” she laughed. “I hate crappy Americanisms.”

Though the room got busier and busier it got quieter for Georgina. Word had got round about the “stuck up bitch” at the bar. None of the usual male suspects wanted to be shot down and publicly humiliated in front of their friends so they gave her a wide birth. A couple of late comers tried their luck but met the same instant fate as Davy and sidled away, deflated, through the crowd.

Georgina stayed where she was for a while. She was actually enjoying herself in a perverse way and taking great pleasure from the instant notoriety that meant all around her visibly avoided standing anywhere near her. Even though the pub had become quite crowded as early evening turned into night, there remained a comfort zone of empty space around her. The whole thing brought a smile to her face; but even that faded as she began to get bored and was soon ready to move on. She called the barman over and when he dutifully arrived in front of her she asked him the name of the best nightclub and where it was situated. He said the Blue Lagoon was the best club in the whole area and, as it was walking distance, gave her directions. She paid him for her drinks again leaving a very large tip. She smiled as he eyed the very generous gratuity.

“Sort of makes up for a bit of name calling, eh Jethro?” she said as she turned and walked away.

Georgina was approaching the outer door as the barman rang the money into the till. He then took out his share and held the notes in his hand. As she disappeared into the street his lip curled and he spat on the money; but then he shrugged to himself and put it straight into his trouser pocket.

It was getting dark as Georgina walked along the pavement in as straight a line as possible without actually knocking any oncoming pedestrians over. The pangs in her stomach told her that she hadn’t for some time so as she walked she started paying attention to the shops she passed. She didn’t feel like sitting in a restaurant so an al fresco quickie was on the cards. A little further along she saw a clean-looking take-out that offered everything from pasties to pizzas. When she reached it she glanced at the lit-up menu on the outside wall, read it very quickly then stepped inside and took her place in the small queue before her.

The five minutes she had to wait gave her ample time to make her choice of food. She ordered a large steak and mushroom pasty and a coke. She paid for her order a minute later and walked back into the street. Darkness was falling rapidly but the area was well lit. She crossed the road and once again sat on a convenient bench to eat her dinner. The pasty was really good but there wasn’t much to look at as she stared out through the darkness across the black water. Every so often the complete blackness was interrupted by the tiny lights of a fishing boat chugging slowly away from the land for a nights fishing. She idly wondered what sort of people these boats had on board. She didn’t wonder for long. She liked lobster but how it got to her dinner plate was of absolute indifference to her. Now if it had been served at the wrong temperature…?

She finished her coke and left the empty can next to the pasty’s wrapping paper on the bench. She could have put both in the public bin six feet away but then she’d be depriving some little council worker of his right to clean up after holiday makers. She got up and began to walk in the direction the barman had pointed her to get to the Blue Lagoon club. It was only then that she realised she hadn’t changed her clothes since lunchtime. Had she been at home she’d probably have had a panic attack but this was Cornwall. “What the hell,” she thought. “I’ll probably still be the hottest thing there.”

Celia decided to allow her husband one more drink before calling time. They hadn’t eaten yet and she was starving.

“The lobsters’ll be waiting darling,” she said trying to be diplomatic.

“They’re bugsss,” replied Peter slurring his words slightly. “They can’t tell time.” He laughed at what he thought was a funny joke. Celia just looked at him with a well used expression of tolerance. He wasn’t drunk: Peter Mayfield never got drunk. He had an almost pathological fear of losing control, even if only for a few minutes. But he’d drunk enough so he was feeling no pain. Not even the chronically worsening complaint of losing his daughter. Celia had had enough. She leaned over to Peter and kissed him on the cheek.

“Let’s go and eat,” she said.

Peter looked at her, smiled then quickly finished the last of his drink. He stepped away from the bar and offered Celia his arm old style. She returned his smile and linked him. As they walked away from the bar together it was hard to see who was leading who.

It would have been hard to miss the Blue Lagoon. Georgina imagined the enormous, gaudy, neon effigy of a bright yellow atoll surrounding a vivid circle of blue could be seen even by those little fishing boats she’d noticed miles out at sea. There was even brown and green neon shaped into a palm tree. “Very tasteful,” she thought as she approached the front entrance.

There were two large bouncers, one on either side of the door. They both remained where they were and just nodded to her as she walked past them. The club was in a basement so Georgina followed the two flights of carpeted stairs to the bottom. There was a cloakroom immediately at the base of the stairway with an overly made-up, but pretty blonde receptionist standing behind the counter. Another bouncer-type was standing in front of the counter in a practiced “ready to greet the customers” pose. He was much better dressed than the two upstairs and Georgina guessed he was the manager: Probably worked his way up from hand crusher to hand shaker.

“Good evening madam,” he said.

“Hi?” replied Georgina. “Can you tell me where the ladies is so I can freshen up.”

“You look pretty fresh to me,” said the man.

Georgina grimaced. “Save the oil for your next batch of chips Billy Joe,” she sneered. “Toilet please?” The manager gave her a flat look and silently pointed to a lit up sign simply displaying the quintessential symbol for women of a circle with a plus sign at the bottom. Georgina looked up at it, shuddered, but entered anyway.

When she came out only a few minutes later the transformation was almost miraculous. She had washed and reapplied fresh make-up (she thought it a rookie mistake to just shove on new slap over the old); undone her tight-fitting baby-pink and white blouse and re-tied it in a knot so her proudly unpierced belly-button now showed. She had always thought that sticking bits of metal through one’s body was insane except for the ears of course. Besides all the best earrings were for pierced ears so she didn’t have a choice: But a hole through your eyebrow, lip, tongue, belly-button or, heaven forbid, points south…? Total insanity. She then rolled each leg of her super-tight black Ksubi jeans to below her knees. Luckily she had chosen to wear a pair of pink ballet pumps which were suitable for day or night. She walked up to the manager.

“How much to get in?” she asked.

“Ladies get in free,” he replied. “Though I should be paying you.”

“So you’re not overly bothered by the ’75 Sex Discrimination Act then?” she said as she carried on past him into the club itself; he just shrugged in a non-committal fashion. As she went through the door she stopped and turned. “And there’s no way you could afford me Deke. And I’ll bet the dump’s full of hids.”

“Hids?” asked the manager completely flummoxed.

“Hids Einstein,” explained Georgina. “Hideous looking monstrosities: Like that bunch of ug ugs who came in just before me. Hids, dummy!” She shook her head, turned away and disappeared into the club.

The club itself was pretty much like every establishment of its ilk. It was dark and the music was loud. There were quite a few people in but the place was by no means packed. Georgina looked at her watch; it was 10.50. She mentally admonished herself for losing track of time and being so early. The “cool” people never arrived in a club before midnight. “Still,” she thought, “who was going to see her?” Just then in a perfect example of “Sod’s Law” she heard her name being called and turned round to be confronted by two women and a man. All three were around the same age as Georgina and well-known to her from home.

She put on her best fake smile, nodded to all three and asked them collectively what they were doing there. None of the three were particularly friendly with Georgina but she knew one of the women better than the others. Emma Redway was usually to be seen in the same places as Georgina back home. She was what the town set would call a “face”; it was she who replied.

“Can you believe it,” she began. “I’m down here with my folks; they have a little summer place down the coast. I thought I was marooned here for two months on my lonesome when I bumped into Dylan and Claire here. They’re brother and sister. They live near me back home. What a coincidence. What are doing here?”

The entire statement had come out as more or less one long word. Georgina almost missed the question at the end but realised and told them she had come with her parents on business. All three nodded simultaneously enthralled that Georgina was actually speaking to them. Deep down they all realised that back home she wouldn’t have. Holidays seem to have a strange effect on people. Men and women who may know each other by sight but never speak suddenly become the best of friends. It was a very common phenomenon but not with Georgina. She nodded at the trio then walked away. She knew they’d be talking about her but she didn’t care. Half the reason she did what she did was to get the notoriety. Better to be badmouthed than not spoken about at all.

Georgina moved slowly through the loitering clubbers before finding herself at the bar. She waited patiently for about five seconds before knocking on the bar top. Three barmaids all pointedly ignored her before she made eye-contact with the solitary barman. He came over and asked her what she wanted to drink. She told him two large vodka and blackcurrants with ice.

“I don’t suppose one of those is for me?” The voice came from slightly behind her to the right. She turned to see a man of about 24, slim but well built and around 6’ tall. He was very good-looking with short, spiky-cut dark brown hair.

“You don’t suppose right Adonis,” she said flatly. “The mirror’s over there.” She emphasised the direction with her head.

“I don’t like mirrors,” he continued, “I break them too easily.”

“Modest too,” she said, ignoring his obvious joke. She continued “I get it. You’re good looking but I’m not looking to yank a yokel so on your bike.”

The man gave a disgusted snort, shook his head pityingly and wandered away.

“Saving yourself for me gorgeous,” said a second voice. “Smart move.”

Georgina turned again to see the surfer from earlier in the pub. “This shithole is definitely too small,” she said. She then picked both her drinks up and walked away from the bar. She paused for a second and turned to face him. “If you follow me one of these is going straight in you face. OK?” She continued away.

Just in case her deterrent hadn’t been as strong as she thought it Georgina decided that she had better play it safe. Her best solution was weight of numbers; so with that in mind she made her way round the central dance floor and eventually found Emma, Dylan and Claire. They were quite surprised when she approached.

“Sorry about that,” she began, “I was parched; had to get a drink quickly. I could only carry two. Who likes vodka and black?” she held one of the drinks out. She had intended both drinks for herself, but a little bribe sometimes went a long way. Dylan took the drink.

“I’m a lager man myself,” he said, “but I’m game.”

“I’ll bet you are,” replied Georgina barely keeping the sarcasm from her tone.

“Do you want to dance,” Dylan asked her.  

“Don’t tell me,” said Georgina pausing to think. “I’ll get it…. I know…. Cliff Richard and the Shadows sometime in the 1960s probably…. OK my turn…. Tears of a Clown.”

“I’m not playing guess the song,” said Dylan with frustration in his voice. “I was asking you to dance.”

“I know,” she replied. “And I was saying what was going to happen next when I said not if you were the only bloke in the universe.”

Dylan’s eyes blazed: He handed the drink to Claire and stormed off. Georgina was looking around the room oblivious to Dylan’s tantrum. Claire tapped her on the shoulder. Georgina turned, looked directly at her and smiled with eyebrows braised as if waiting for a question.

“Oh never mind!” said Claire huffily before handing the drink back to Georgina and turning to go after her brother. Emma just shook her head and followed Claire.

Georgina shrugged and continued her circuit of the room. She was hoping that the smarmy little surfer bloke would have got the message and moved on to annoying some other unfortunate female. “Maybe Emma?” she thought. “That’d teach her a lesson.” She laughed inwardly and carried on around the room. The club was beginning to fill up which made her movement more restricted so she headed for the bar. She was also fed up with every male in the place assuming that she was easy meat because she was on her own. Unfortunately once at the bar one became a stationary target. She decided to get some more drinks in and brace herself. She caught the eye of a barman and beckoned him over. He held a finger up to tell her he would be a minute and took a payment from his previous customer. She sighed and her eyes narrowed with impatience as she watched him put the money in the till and dropped his tip into a communal jar. He then approached Georgina. When he spoke he had that universal tone in his voice mixed with the usual mannerisms that identified him as a gay man.

“What’ll it be?” he asked with a smile.

“Two large vodka and blackcurrants with ice,” she said.

“How large would that be?” he enquired.

“Very, very large,” replied Georgina deliberately. “Think of your boyfriend’s willy.”

The barmen looked her up and down but just nodded silently and went to fix her drinks. A couple of minutes later he placed them in front of her.

“That’ll be 10 pounds please,” he said with practiced indifference.

“What is it about men?” she said as she reached into her bag for the money. “Every cretin with a penis seems to suffer from the wounded deer syndrome. If the poor deer is on it’s own it must be injured, weak, lonely, scared, hungry and therefore clearly dying for a shag.” She shook her head.

“Yes….” He said slowly. “I’m glad I’m not one of them.”

She snorted a short laugh and handed him £15.

“Keep the change,” she said. “Buy yourself a yacht.”

He said an amazed “Thank you” then put the five pound note straight into his pocket which made Georgina smile. She wasn’t trying to be particularly flash; it was just that she was a townie through and through and she knew how to play the game. Next time she wanted a drink all she’d have to do is show up and Ginger Roger would be falling over to serve her and every time after that. She never understood people who tip at the end of a holiday as many do. What’s the point, the workers have already done what they’ve done or not done. Tip at the beginning then you get the service.

The place was really busy now. And the smell of dried sweat mixed with cheap aftershave, perfume and stale alcohol was getting unbearable. Georgina didn’t smoke but nevertheless she yearned for the days when all you could smell in a pub or club was smoke. This was horrible. The straw finally shattered the camel’s spine when a greasy-looking young man asked her if she wanted to dance. His breath was so bad it could have peeled wallpaper. She told him she was waiting for her lover who would be out of the ladies soon. As he slinked away she finished her drink and headed for the door: Enough was enough.

About halfway round she bumped into Emma, Claire and Dylan. A second male had joined their party.

“Cool place huh?” said Emma.

“Fantastic,” replied Georgina. “I’m leaving.”

As she began to push past the group Emma spoke again.

“We could come with you if you want?” she offered.

Georgina looked at the openness in Emma’s face. This was a well-meaning, honest girl. She had never understood what it was that drew the dorks to her. Maybe that was the way God had always intended it: Hot leader of the pack and her faithful sheep followers. What the hell….

“Sure,” said Georgina magnanimously.

“Great,” replied Emma. “This is Kenwyn but we call him Kenny. He’s a local lad.”

“No kidding,” said Georgina smiling falsely and trying hard to keep the sarcasm from her voice. She also noticed that Claire never took her eyes off the young local. “No accounting for taste,” she thought.

“He says he knows a really good after-hours pub. Really authentic: Full of local atmosphere,” she explained enthusiastically.

Georgina smiled and moved her eyebrows up and down which Emma took as a sign of approval. Without another word Georgina headed for the door with her new entourage close at her heels. As she walked past Craig the manager she winked and blew him a kiss. The corner of his top lip curled into an almost imperceptible sneer which put a genuine smile on her face. When they got into the street Kenny pointed them all in the right direction and they set off together.

For the next 12 minutes they walked through some of the many very narrow side streets that criss-cross behind the harbour area before eventually arriving at a slightly run-down looking pub called the Harbour Tavern.  Georgina allowed Kenny to lead them all in. If it was true that the locals sometimes eat their own then she intended him to be first on the menu.

The Harbour Tavern was genuine old school. This was no snug and lounge airs and graces freshly wiped bar kind of establishment. It comprised one large room filled with solid rustic tables and chairs with a small bar at the far end. There were only three pumps on the bar; two local beers and a cider. On a shelf behind the bar stood the only other alcoholic beverages the place had to offer; a cheap Scotch whisky, a single-malt Scotch whisky, an Irish single-malt whiskey and a cheap brandy. The room was about half full with assorted locals, mostly fishermen.

The five made their way to the bar. Kenny said hello to the tending barmaid who he introduced as Caryn and ordered himself a pint of bitter. When it came he paid for it and drank some without a word. Georgina smiled and asked the rest of the party what they wanted to drink. Each spoke individually directly to the barmaid. Emma asked for half a pint of cider; Claire copied her and Dylan requested a pint of the same bitter Kenny had ordered. The barmaid looked at Georgina who in turn scanned the bar before shrugging and turning to the barmaid.

“I’ll have a glass of water please Caryn,” she said.

“We don’t have water here dear,” replied the barmaid.

Georgina stared purposefully at Caryn’s hands before replying “No, I didn’t think so.” Before the barmaid could speak she added extra sweetly. “I’ll have a half of cider please.” Caryn glared at her but turned to get the drink.”

When Georgina’s drink was banged down onto the bar Emma suggested they all sit at one of the table, which they did. Once seated, nobody spoke for some time.

“See that bloke over their,” said Kenny in a very conspiratorial tone. When everyone had had a surreptitious glance he continued. “That’s the local supply line.” When nobody appeared any the wiser he added. “You know…. drugs. He’s a dealer. They call him “The Russian”: His name’s Gregor.”

Georgina took a sip from her cider and grimaced. “Does he ever have vodka on him?” she asked. When the others just looked at her she got up and walked over to the heavy-set, shaven headed man who was sitting alone at a table in the corner. He was sporting a quintessential moustache and goatee beard and was dressed completely in black; shirt, trousers, shoes and a calf-length black leather overcoat. “A living cliché,“ she thought and noticed two similarly dressed but larger men at a table next to him. “The minders,” she thought. “Not that he looks like he needs any.”

She stopped in front of his table.

“Can I help you lady?” said Gregor in the thickest of Russian accents.

“You didn’t by any chance bring any vodka over with you?” asked Georgina.

“Don’t play games lady,” he said sharply. “What do you want?”

“What have you got?” she asked.

“Name it,” he said flatly and shrugged.

“Surprise me Igor,” she said.

“That’s Gregor lady,” he replied snapping his fingers. One of the bodyguards got up, surreptitiously handed him a small, wrapped package and returned to his seat. Gregor handed the package to Georgina. “That’ll be £50 lady,” he added flatly.

Georgina paid him with a single £50 note: That impressed the dealer who asked if she wanted to join him. She declined and looked for the toilet. To her surprise there was actually a ladies and a gents simply marked “Ladies” and “Gents”. Georgina had fully expected a communal lavatory. She entered the door marked “Ladies”. Once inside she went into a cubicle and locked herself in. She opened the wrapped paper, laid it flat on top of the cistern and divided the white powder into two lines. She then straddled the toilet with her back to the door and “snorted” first one line then the second. Georgina wasn’t generally a big user of drugs so the effects were an almost instantaneous “high”. She climbed off the toilet and returned to the main room smiling.

The smile didn’t even fade when she approached her party’s table to find Davy the surfer sitting with Emma and the others. The entire table, with the exception of Davy, was staring at Georgina with disbelief. As she approached Emma, after a long pause, introduced him.

“This is Davy,” she said.

“We’ve met,” replied Georgina. “Hello yet again. You know St. Ives isn’t that small.”

“Course not,” admitted Davy, “I’ve been stalking you.”

Everyone at the table laughed including Davy. Georgina decided not to pursue the matter and sat down on the only vacant chair which was next to the surfer. The group chatted for a while about various subjects. Throughout the conversation the group, Emma and Claire in particular, were becoming more and more aware of the fact that whatever the subject, Davy brought it round to sex and said something coarse. On several occasions Claire caught her brother’s eye and gave him a look but he ignored her: He and Kenny found Davy hilarious. Georgina was indifferent to what any of them had to say and found herself getting rapidly bored. The cocaine on top of all the alcohol she had consumed was making her feel like she needed to break free; from what she had no idea. When this happened she became her own worst enemy. She always knew exactly what she was doing but there was a deep-seated need in her basic make up that only wanted to shock those closest to her. On this particular night that meant Emma, Claire, Dylan and Kenny. She was saving Davy for something quite different.

Suddenly, without any warning, she leaned over and kissed Davy. He responded immediately both their mouths now open to allow their tongues to explore. The embrace was hard and passionate. The rest of the party were almost in shock.

“Let’s take this outside,” suggested Davy.

“Why not,” agreed Georgina. “I need some air….Among other things.”

“I know what you need,” laughed Davy.

“Georgina I don’t….” started Emma before Georgina cut her off.

“I know you don’t Mother Superior,” she said unkindly. “But I do.”

She then got up simultaneously with Davy and they walked out of the pub with Davy’s arm tightly around her waist. When they got outside he steered her around a corner and down a narrow alley. At the end of the alley was a right-angled turn. Before they rounded the corner Davy pushed Georgina against the wall and tried to kiss her again. She tried to pull away.

“Hold on stud,” she said. “There’s no one watching now.”

“You need an audience,” panted Davy trying to force his tongue into her mouth. “I like that. But we’ll have to do it without one, babe.”

“You’ve got the wrong idea mate,” she continued. “That was purely for the cheap seats. We’re not doing anything.” She tried to push him away but he was much too strong for her. She began to panic: There was very little light and nobody around to see even if the place had been floodlit/

He continued to press her against the wall. She struggled more violently and managed to get her right free and scratched the side of his face. This act incensed him. He grabbed her by the throat with a strong left hand and pinned her helplessly against the wall while his right hand undid the zip on his shorts. She heard the scratch of metal on metal as the zip opened.

“Now we’re gonna hang ten,” he snarled. “And I mean ten inches baby.”

She tried to scream but the chokehold he had on her almost closed her throat. To make sure she was completely silent he pressed his mouth hard on hers. She shut her eyes tight in a desperate attempt to blot out the world but it obviously didn’t work. It didn’t even stop the flow of tears that ran freely down both her cheeks. Davy tasted them.

“That ain’t gonna stop you getting it good,” he said cruelly.

She tried to scream again but he simply pressed his mouth back on hers. She felt his hand pawing at her jeans. She tried to kick out but had no leverage. She was beginning to feel faint. Again she tried to fight; she knew if she fainted, it would all be over. She felt his hand somewhere below her waist, fingers clawing roughly. “Oh Christ!” she thought. “Is this it? Oh God…. No!”

Suddenly all the pressure on her disappeared. At first she was too frightened to even open her eyes in case it was some sick trick from her attacker. Then she heard a thudding noise followed by a voice she didn’t recognise, also with a local accent. She opened her eyes in time to see a second man throwing Davy hard from side to side. Because the alley was so narrow every time he swung the would-be rapist he clattered him hard into one of the two walls. Davy’s head had smashed against the wall several times and he was starting to lose consciousness when the other man stopped; then with great deliberation threw a powerful right cross which connected directly with Davy’s jaw snapping his back and rendering him instantly unconscious. The power of the blow knocked him back against the wall which he slid quickly down to end up in an ungainly heap at the base. He was twitching slightly and making odd gurgling noises.

“Is he dying?” asked a wide-eyed Georgina.

“Nah,” replied the man. “Unfortunately…. He just landed funny.”

The man straightened the inert body out, turned him into the recovery position, which impressed Georgina no end and left him.

“How did you know?” Georgina asked.

“I’ve done basic CPR,” he replied.

“Not that,” she said curtly. “How did you know….How did you get here?” Her voice softened.

“I just happened to be passing when you left the pub with young Davy here or to give him his full name David Perrow. He’s also a thief by the way,” he said matter-of-factly. “He’s quite well known….But clearly not to you.”

“It may have escaped your notice,” replied Georgina regaining her composure. “But I’m not a local.” She held out her hands with all the fingers apart. “See….No webbing.”

The man snorted quietly but ignored the slur. “Do you want to call the police?” he asked her.

“Too much hassle,” she replied.

“He’s going to try it again on some other poor unsuspecting girl: You know that?” he stated.

Georgina walked over to the unconscious body and kicked him hard in the groin twice.

“Not for a while,” she said. “I need a drink. Come on I’ll buy you one.” The attack had severely dented her “buzz” and she needed something.

“I think I’ll call the police and wait here for them,” said Georgina’s rescuer. “But they’ll want to talk to you as well.”

“Forget it,” she said. “I’m not getting involved in that crap. That’s all I need.” She began to walk away.

“But they can’t prosecute if you don’t press charges,” he called after her.

“Don’t care,” she called already from some distance away.

The man sighed, shook his head and took out his mobile.

Georgina knew she’d been an idiot: She chastised herself mentally as she walked back towards the pub she’d just left. She couldn’t help it; she adored being the centre of attention. She was “leader of the pack” material that’s all there was to it. Someone had to do it. She couldn’t help being an organ grinder in a world full of monkeys.

By the time she reached the entrance of the Harbour Tavern she’d diluted the incident to almost non-existence. She walked in and was surprised that her party had left; even the Russian drug dealer’s table was empty. In fact there were only two patrons left sitting at a table to one side of the room. “That’s what happens when the queen bee leaves the hive,” she thought. “No direction.” She walked to the bar and waved her hand to summon the barmaid who tried, at first, to ignore her. Georgina knocked loudly on the table and kept knocking until the woman gave in and approached her.

“Hello again Carmen,” she said with a false smile.

“That’s Caryn,” corrected the barmaid.

“Whatever,” continued Georgina. “Is that crap all you sell?”

“It don’t matter dearie,” replied Caryn. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Surprising as it may seem, “began Georgina. “I don’t give a fuck what you think. This is a pub….” she glanced quickly around, “sort of. You serve alcohol after a fashion. I want a drink; so do what they pay you minimum wage for and get me one.”

“Like I said, bar’s closed,” stated Caryn then added. “To you at least.”

“How about I get this shithole closed down,” spat Georgina. “Do you know you’re a haven for rapists?”

“Smugglers as well dearie,” admitted the barmaid. “What’s your point?”

Georgina grabbed a heavy glass ashtray that was sitting on the bar and slid it with force off the end. It smashed on the floor.

“Smoking’s illegal as well,” she shouted. “Now get me a drink!”

The noise brought the landlord into the room from the back of the pub. He was around 6’ 3” with a full, untidy beard and a huge beer belly.

“What the devil’s going on Caryn?” he asked.

“This old sow won’t give me a drink,” interrupted Georgina.

“She’s had too much already Frank and she’s abusive,” said Caryn.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave miss,” announced the landlord.

“Listen Frank, I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had a drink,” snapped Georgina. She then sat at the nearest table and folded her arms defiantly.

The landlord approached her table and tried to reason with her but she refused. He then took hold of one of her arms and attempted to coax her off the chair. She pulled her arm away and began screaming abuse. Caryn asked if she should call the police but Frank said that he would deal with it. He grabbed Georgina around the waist and lifted her off the chair as if she were made of feathers. He then carried her towards the door. Georgina was apoplectic. She screamed and swore at the top of her voice but the huge man was far too strong. As they approached the front door she kicked her feet against the side wall in an effort to brace herself but Frank just tugged her sideways and carried on into the street where he deposited her gently, feet first onto the pavement. She spun round and moved as if to kick him.

“Now don’t be stupid dear,” he said quietly but with a firmness that left nothing to the imagination. “I don’t wants to hurt you….But I will.”

Something in his attitude got through Georgina’s blind fury. She suddenly realised the futility of her actions and became aware that she could also be in physical danger. She immediately calmed down, looked him straight in the eyes and spat at the pavement in front of the big man.

“You fucking redneck hillbilly,” she said then turned and walked away.

Frank shook his head pityingly then went back into his pub his cool exterior demeanour masking the fact that he was shaking like a leaf.

“Are you OK Frank?” asked Caryn as he appeared. It was obvious he was a little bit shaken by the incident.

“No problem,” he said with a thin, unconvincing smile that didn’t fool anybody and added. “Pour us a brandy Caryn….A large one.”

As he walked towards the bar he passed the table of the only other people in the room. Doxy Murdoch and his “mate” Billy Kinver.

“You always said you wanted the tourist trade Frank,” said the old fisherman.

“I want their money not them,” answered Frank. “Shame the emmetts can’t just send it and stay where they are.”

Doxy laughed. “Do we blame the booze, the drugs, or the parents?” he asked Frank.

“Probably all three,” replied the landlord. “Although if the last one did their jobs there’d be less need for the first two: Don’t you think Doxie?”

“Quite possibly,” replied the fisherman. “But I wouldn’t put money on it. Look at Billy here. Two wonderful parents but he drinks like a fish.” He paused. “Drinks a lot but doesn’t buy many.”

Billy took the hint and called out to Caryn for two more pints of bitter. Both barmaid and landlord laughed out loud.

“You’re late tonight Doxy?” added Frank as an afterthought. “How come you haven’t gone out yet?” 

“I’m going after this drink,” explained Doxy, “The fishing being what it is of late, I ain’t as keen as I once was to go out there and sit staring at empty nets all night.”

Frank shrugged knowingly and walked into his back room.

Georgina’s head was spinning as she wandered aimlessly through the dark, narrow backstreets. It wasn’t the drink or the drugs that were making her head spin. She didn’t know where she was: Not geographically. In a place roughly the size of her back garden she’d soon find her way….But inside her head? Now that was a whole different ball game. Why didn’t the world want to play her games anymore? What had changed? It was still the same planet; still full of the same idiots she had grown up among. What was different? It wasn’t her; so it had to be them. Dickheads!

Eventually Georgina found her way back to the harbour area. She hadn’t seen a single soul since she left the Harbour Tavern; but the popular promenade area still had people milling about. Some of the takeaways were still open. Holiday makers were enjoying late night kebabs, pizzas, burgers and ice creams. The wafting aromas made her realise that she was starving. Without even looking up at the sign she walked into the nearest open shop then looked at the menu. It was a pizza parlour and there was a gap at the counter.

“Can I have two, no make that three slices of the pepperoni with ham please,” she said.

“Drink?” asked the young, male assistant.

“Way too much,” said Georgina jokingly but instantly realising that he wouldn’t have a clue as to what she meant added, “a carton of orange juice, large please.”

She paid for her order and, for the third time, went to eat it alone on one of the benches across the road. As she sat down she suddenly had a thought and turned sharply round. She sighed with relief when she saw that she was not, yet again, sitting in front of the High Tide Inn. She relaxed into the seat and ate the pizza. When she finished the three slices she pushed the straw into the foil-covered hole at the top of the carton and sucked down the fresh orange as if she hadn’t drank for a week. After finishing the drink she sat quietly gazing out at the familiar blackness lying before her. Just before she got up she saw the light of a solitary boat heading out to sea. She rose and began to walk in the direction that would take her back to the Portmain Hotel and bed. 

After a very memorable meal by any standards Peter and Celia had left the restaurant for a night cap in the bar. As they entered they saw Bernard and June Pickford sitting at a table minus Stevie. Both Peter and Celia were still feeling extremely guilty about their daughter’s disgusting behaviour towards the Pickford’s son. They walked over to the table and Peter asked if he could buy them a drink. At first they politely refused, but Peter persisted until they accepted. Celia asked if she could join them and seated herself at their table when they said agreed. Peter walked to the bar to get the drinks. He returned a few moments later and joined the party at the table. A waiter brought the round of drinks, which comprised two large cognacs for Peter and Bernard and two large Tia Marias for Celia and June, to the table on a tray.

The conversation soon got round to Georgina’s behaviour and then on to Stevie. June explained that her son suffered from a form of the dissociative disorder called Aspergers Syndrome which has similar symptoms to Autism. Unfortunately, unlike many adults who mature with the disorder Stevie’s particular form of Aspergers had rendered him permanently childlike. Although basically a happy individual he could not communicate successfully with adults on any reasonable level. Stevie was a 42-year-old man in a 10-year-old’s body.

At this stage Peter was severely regretting joining the Pickfords. It wasn’t that he was completely without feeling, but spending time listening to strangers talking about the mental abnormalities of their son was definitely not on his agenda: Especially as he had just enjoyed a fantastic meal which included the euphoric effect of a surfeit of alcohol. Basically he was feeling no pain and didn’t want these people, pleasant as they appeared to be, bringing him down. Apart from that he was beginning to feel extremely randy and wanted to do something about it at the earliest opportunity. His mobile rang and vibrated in his jacket pocket. He took it out and looked at the callers number displayed on the screen but did not recognise it. He excused himself and pressed the button.

“Hello?” he said in a querying tone. The disembodied voice introduced itself. “Oh hello Mr. Truscott and how are you?” he listened as Truscott explained his reason for calling. “Well I’m sorry Mr. Truscott….OK George….I’m sorry George but as far as I’m concerned the deal’s dead in the water.” He listened further, then tactfully excused himself, stood up and left the room. Once in the relatively empty hotel foyer he spoke. “Look George I don’t do business that way. Nothing personal it’s just the way I operate.” He listened some more. “It’s not my fault your other interested party backed out.” He was smiling at this stage but didn’t let it show in his voice. “I appreciate you just wanted the best possible offer.” He’d heard this a thousand times which was why he didn’t care whether the second offer was real or a business ploy on Truscott’s part to jack up the selling price. “I’m sorry George but I have to go. I’m on a night out with friends,” he lied before apologising one more time then hanging up. He was smiling as he re-entered the bar and sat back down in the chair he’d just left. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “A small business matter. I’m sorry but I’m feeling really tired. Would you mind terribly if I excused myself and went to bed?” The Pickfords both said that it was fine so Peter got up, told them goodnight and as an afterthought said he may bump into them sometime tomorrow. What he was really thinking was that he was going to have to keep an extra sharp eye out the following day so he could keep right out of their way.

Peter knew that as soon as he excused himself Celia would immediately follow. So it was together that they rode the lift up to their floor. Celia looked at her smiling husband as the lift slowly ascended. They’d been married long enough for her to recognise the signs in his body language: So it came as no surprise when his arms wrapped around her as their room door clicked shut. She turned willingly and they kissed passionately almost as if it was their first time. They eventually broke apart and walked side by side into the bedroom where they carefully undressed each other occasionally pausing for a further searching kiss before simultaneously falling together onto the waiting bed.

Peter Mayfield could be a very distant individual when he wanted to be. To Celia this was not one of his more endearing qualities. But in all their married years she had never needed to question his attentiveness and physical passion towards her. They eventually fell asleep, mutually spent.

 Peter and Celia Mayfield had been in a deep slumber for several hours before the door on their daughter’s room silently opened then closed.

CHAPTER 3

Considering the alcohol and drugs Georgina had consumed on her very busy previous night out she wouldn’t have expected to wake up until sometime well into the afternoon. She glanced at the bedside clock; it read 7.10. She hoped it was the next night but the light streaming through the closed curtains told her differently. She sighed and turned over, away from the brilliance of the penetrating golden rays.

Depending on the individual’s state of mind and body it is not uncommon to wake up early in the morning, go to the toilet; even peep through the curtains to check the weather then flop back into bed and fall straight back into sleep. This wasn’t one of those times for Georgina. Whatever the state of her mind or body one of them was refusing to let her drift back into welcome unconsciousness. She tossed and turned for a further 25 minutes before giving up and pulling herself out of bed. She’d had all the sleep she was going to get for that night of that she had no doubt.

She pulled the curtains apart and squinted through the window. Gradually her eyes became used to the light and she was able to focus through the brilliance to a bright, blue almost cloudless sky. She looked down and saw that there were actually three swimmers taking advantage of the early morning high tide and sunshine. “Pillocks!” she thought as she turned away.

She cleaned her teeth and had a long, hot shower. After that she felt much better so she towelled herself dry and decided to get dressed. Standing only in her LaSenza underwear she carefully studied her open wardrobe. Her choice for that day was based purely on comfort. She carefully laid a taupe, short-sleeved, Chloe pleated top on the bed; below that she placed a pair of ¾-length blue Marc Jacobs jeans. To finish the ensemble she went to the wardrobe and, from a selection that would have made Imelda Marcos jealous, took out a pair of Jimmy Choo leather sandals and put them on the floor under the overhanging denims. She then stepped back to study the effect of the overall outfit, nodded to herself and got dressed. On the way out of the room she picked up the multi-purpose Prada handbag she’d been carrying the previous day and slung the long shoulder strap over her head so the bag hung diagonally across her body on the left-hand side. Before she left, on a whim, she reached into the bag, pulled out her mobile phone and hid it in a draw inside some underwear. Now satisfied she left the room.

As she walked towards the lift she suddenly became aware that she felt very hungry. Once in the lift she pressed the button for the lower ground floor where she knew the restaurant was situated. Georgina wasn’t one of the modern breed of young females constantly worried about every mouthful of food that passed her lips. For one thing she was one of the lucky ones. She had an active metabolism that meant she could eat almost anything she wanted and rarely put on more than a couple of pounds which she always managed to sweat off during one of her regular games of tennis; a sport at which she excelled.

She was quite surprised when she entered the dining room. For some reason she had assumed that most holiday makers remained in bed until much later in the day. The room was already busy with people bustling backwards and forwards to and from the buffet table. She obediently stood by the lectern at the door until a hostess approached, signed her in and showed her to a vacant table for two. The woman left after explaining the breakfast routine.

Georgina walked over to the buffet table, picking up a tray and a large dinner plate on the way. Once in front of the line of large, swivel-fronted aluminium tureens she moved down the line filling her plate with several rashers of bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans, two pieces of fried bread and finally two fried eggs. She also added a side plate with two pieces of toast, butter and strawberry jam to the tray. On her way back to her table she noticed two large juice dispensers and helped herself to a large glass of fresh orange juice.

She was really thirsty and finished the orange juice before she even sat down. Once in the seat she began to devour everything on the plate in front of her. A waiter approached the table and asked if she would like tea or coffee. Although Georgina drank a lot of coffee she could only start the day with tea; so she ordered a pot of that.

Ten minutes later when she had cleaned her plate, finished the toast and drank two cups of tea she finally felt ready to face the world. She didn’t notice until she stood up to leave that the trio from the previous day were sitting at a table only ten feet away. She still felt no regret for her actions and had planned to walk straight past them pretending not to notice their presence. Unfortunately as she approached the couple’s son beamed at her and waved a hello. Georgina carried on walking past the table but Stevie had other ideas. He leapt from his seat, beaming from ear to ear and jumped in front of her still waving. Georgina stopped and turned to Bernard and June.

“Get this monkey under control!” she shouted.

“He doesn’t mean any harm,” replied Bernard. “He likes you.”

Georgina turned back to Stevie and looked him straight in the eyes; to do this she had to tilt her head considerably back.

“Get out of my way you ugly, brain-dead, total waste of space,” she said speaking slowly and deliberately, emphasising each word whilst never taking her eyes off his.

It took a few seconds for her scathing words to sink in. As he made sense of them Stevie’s beaming smile slowly faded. He looked down at the floor in embarrassment and then back to Georgina’s face. She paused for a second as a voice somewhere in the recesses of her head asked the simple question “Why?” Unfortunately before any answer materialised, her peripheral vision caught sight of a waiter hovering to one side and her expression, which had momentarily softened tremendously, suddenly hardened once again.  

“Move you spastic!” she erupted, again emphasising each word.

Tears welled into Stevie’s eyes. Suddenly he spun round and ran out of the dining room moving with an odd-looking loping gait. Both his parents called after him but he was already out of sight. June jumped up from her chair as Bernard hurried out of the room in pursuit of his son.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” she began to cry.

“I am,” answered Georgina. “I’ll say 10 Hail Marys….Nine for me and one for the spaz. OK...? Kudos though, I’ve never seen a giant mental-case before.”

Georgina didn’t wait for a retort. She glanced triumphantly at the waiter, turned away from June and strode straight out of the room without a backward glance. June sat back onto her chair and burst into tears. The waiter came over to consol her but she shook her head and waved him away.

By the time Georgina reached the front entrance of the hotel there was no sign of either Bernard or his son. She carried on walking out of the hotel and into the early morning sunshine. At first she squinted against the already powerful rays but then she reached into her bag and slipped on a pair of oversized, black Gucci sunglasses. Now able to see she walked out of the hotel grounds and headed for St. Ives.

About 200 yards down the road she noticed a solitary figure sitting hunched on a low wall: It was Stevie. As she walked past he smiled at her. Georgina didn’t break her stride but called out to him to go back to the hotel. His smile widened when she spoke to him and he waved at her again. She shook her head and whispered “Jesus Christ” to herself as she continued towards the town.

Stevie jumped off the wall and began to follow her, keeping about 50 yards behind. Georgina didn’t notice because she didn’t once look back. She soon reached the outskirts of the town and began to negotiate the narrow streets she now recognised. As she walked, thoughts she didn’t particularly care for kept popping into her head. Why did she do what she did? Nothing was ever gained. Oh, sure she’d built a rep second to none….Was that what it was all about? Showing the world that she didn’t need anybody? Well she’d certainly showed her parents she didn’t them. After all they’d always shown they didn’t need her.

After a few minutes she emerged onto the promenade and slowed down her pace slightly. It was too early for any shops to be open except possibly a newsagent but nevertheless there were a few holidaymakers enjoying an early morning stroll. Georgina had absolutely no idea what she intended to do but continued walking regardless. It occurred to her that she’d done more walking in the last couple of days than she’d done in the previous 10 years. She smiled to herself at the thought of what that information would do to her credibility if it ever leaked out. Meanwhile Stevie was still following at the same discreet distance; a fact of which Georgina still had no idea.

The tide was in and she watched the many pleasure boats and small fishing craft moored in the bay as they bobbed up and down in the gently undulating water; the sun occasionally catching a marine window causing a momentary flash of brilliant light. As she approached the far end of the bay she saw the long harbour wall and noticed a small fishing boat moored near the end. Without even thinking she walked onto the man-made jetty and continued along towards the end. The boat she had seen was the only one moored there. She saw a man of around 30 disembark the boat and climb up a wall ladder. As he reached the top of the jetty a second, much older, man clearly in his 70s but sprightly looking followed the younger man up the ladder and climbed onto the jetty behind him. Georgina reached them as the older man straightened up. She was reading the name “Euna” painted on the back of the boat as he turned to her with a smile on his face which didn’t waiver even when he recognised her from the previous night in the Harbour Tavern. He saw Stevie standing behind Georgina and smiled at him. Before any words could be spoken Georgina, following the fisherman’s eye-line and sensing the presence behind her, spun round to face Stevie.

“I’m warning you moron,” she said glaring at him. “Get lost!” She turned to the fishermen. “Who’s the captain of this boat?”

As she turned and spoke Stevie slinked to one side of the jetty and sat dejectedly on a capstan. Both fishermen watched him then the older one looked quizzically at Georgina: This was a troubled individual.

“This is my boat miss,” the old man replied. “I own it and I’m the captain.”

“Well Horatio it’s your lucky day,” Georgina continued. “I want to charter it.”

“My name is Cedric Murdoch,” Doxy said with a confused expression on his grey-bearded face; a face that had the well-worn craggy appearance of one shaped by many years of over-exposure to sun, wind and salt. “But most people call me Doxy. And I don’t understand?”

“Firstly Mister Murdoch my name is Georgina Mayfield and I’m not most people,” corrected Georgina. “Secondly and it’s not rocket science, I…want…to…charter…your…boat,” she over-emphasised the last six words. “Or do you take English as a second language?”

“No, I understood you,” said the unassuming Doxy. “I just don’t understand why you would want to charter this run-down old girl when there’s a marina full of new boats not very far from here? And forgive me but you hardly look like an angler anyway.”

“Do I look rich?” she asked.

“Why….er….yes, I suppose you do,” he shrugged.

“That’s all you need to know,” she said flatly. “I have no intention of catching any fish and as to marinas? The nearest one I know of in this land that time forgot is in Penzance. And if you think I’m going to schlep 40 miles when you are here right in front of me, think again.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a large rolled up wad of brand new £20 notes secured in a thick elastic band and held it out between her thumb and fingers so it was completely visible. “Like I said I want to charter your boat for the day.” She raised her eyebrows and waited expectantly.

The younger man interrupted. “I need some sleep Doxy,” he said. “And she’s clearly crazy. I’m going home to bed.”

“Who asked you cabin boy?” sneered Georgina. “I’m talking to the organ grinder not his sea monkey.”

The young man shook his head and without another word turned and walked purposefully away towards the town.

“Do you know,” said Doxy thoughtfully, “We didn’t catch one thing the whole of last night: Nothing. You’re money would come in very handy miss, but I cannot sail without a mate.

“I’ll be your mate….pal,” she offered trying to lighten the moment.

“I somehow doubt you’ve had very much experience at the type of work involved. I could show you easily enough but actually doing it…? I suspect it would take any pleasure you’d get from the trip completely.”

Georgina sighed. She had absolutely no idea why? But she’d set her heart on a boat trip in this boat and she intended to satisfy that whim. A thought suddenly popped into her head and she turned around to look at Stevie who was still sitting on the capstan moping.

“How would you like to come for a ride on this beautiful boat?” she asked.

“Miss?” began Doxy in a lowered voice. “He’s a big bloke, but he seems a little….er….slow.”

“How could you say that about him?” challenged Georgina. “I think he’s a lot slow. But he’ll do whatever you tell him,” she turned to Stevie. “You’ll be a good lad won’t you Stevie?” She turned back to Doxy. “Jesus, old man!” she waved the money once again. “All I want’s a little trip along the coast. How much work could that involve?”

Doxy stared at the wad of notes in Georgina’s perfectly manicured fingers. All sorts of thoughts flashed briefly in his head including her escapade from the night before: He thought for a little longer then made up his mind.

“The weather forecast is good, why not?” he said. He glanced over to Stevie. “He’s mute isn’t he?”

“Very good,” said Georgina sarcastically, “can you tell fortunes as well?”

“It’s the eyes,” said the fisherman almost to himself: “Such wonderfully expressive eyes.”

“Yeh, I know, windows to the soul blah, blah, blah,” she drawled.

Before Doxy could retort Georgina climbed down the ladder and stepped onto the boat. As he watched her, Doxy was already relieved that she appeared so sure-footed. He needed the money so he had agreed to the girl’s aberrational sojourn maybe too readily, but he certainly didn’t need any unnecessary aggravation: The fact that she looked like she had good sea legs put his mind at rest. The man accompanying her, on the other hand, gave him great cause for concern. Fortunately as long as he kept the boat close to the coast there shouldn’t be a problem. Under those circumstances there would be very little if anything to do. He could manage the boat himself….And it was a lot of money….

Doxy called over to Stevie to get on the boat. Stevie beamed from ear to ear, got off the capstan and hurried to the ladder. He was a little more tentative than Georgina when climbing down the ladder, which was no more than several staple-shaped iron bars fixed directly into the stone wall. At first he mistakenly tried to climb into the boat’s inflatable towed dinghy, but a sharp word from Georgina corrected that mistake. He then had a little trouble transferring from the last rung onto the actual fishing boat, but luckily the sea was very calm so the craft hardly moved at all. Eventually he stood on the deck next to Georgina who immediately made him stand away from her. He obeyed still smiling but not quite as broadly. Doxy stepped onto the deck in a smooth practiced manner honed over years of experience and, seeing Stevie’s discomfort, occupied him by giving him the simple job of untying the stern rope whilst he went to the front end and unhitched the bow rope. Normally he would have started the engine before casting off but he was trying to avoid giving Georgina anything to do. He wondered if she would be able to handle even the most menial of jobs like untying a rope; after all look at her perfectly manicured nails. He doubted it: He also doubted whether she’d even agree to do any simple tasks. He could see she was a lady; in her own head if nowhere else.

Doxy fought the fatigue that was trying it’s hardest to overcome him and went into his wheelhouse where he fired up the old, six-cylinder Ford engine, revved it carefully, then slowly accelerated away from the wall and out of the harbour. He pointed the boat southwards in the direction of Penzance assuming there’d be less traffic that way as opposed to heading in the direction of the very congested Newquay to the north.

As he followed the coastline south he watched Georgina’s back. She was standing at the bow with her head tilting backwards allowing her long hair to be gently tousled by the sea breeze. Looking at her body language it appeared to Doxy that she was trying clear her head of something. With a girl like this he was frightened to even imagine what that could be.

Peter Mayfield was half way through his muesli when his wife walked into the dining room. She looked around and spotted him almost immediately. As the hostess approached Celia simply gestured towards her husband’s table. The woman nodded and smiled. Celia then carried on towards Peter’s table as the hostess crossed the second name off her list.

Celia said good morning to her husband and kissed his cheek. She wasn’t upset that he had left her sleeping and gone to breakfast alone: They had been married long enough not to have to do every single thing together. In fact she would have relished a longer lie in but she had turned over in her sleep and realised that Peter was not there which, of course, woke her up. She tried unsuccessfully to go back to sleep before giving up and getting up.

She left Peter to go and organise her own breakfast. When she returned to the table holding a tray which contained a glass of orange juice and a plate full of bacon, eggs, sausages and everything that went with them Peter grimaced. She noticed the disapproving look on his face as she put the plate on the table: She merely shrugged and told him she was on holiday and would eat whatever she wanted. He too shrugged and continued to butter his croissant in silence.

Peter was the first to break the silence after he finished his second croissant.

“I don’t suppose you saw her ladyship on your way down?” he asked knowing the answer before Celia replied.

“You are kidding,” she laughed. “God knows what time she would have got in last night. I thought I’d leave her alone.”

“I know I’m here on business Celia,” said Peter. “But when I’m not working this is still a family holiday and I’d like to spend what time I can with my family…. All of it.”

Celia, like her daughter, had realised long ago that Peter’s work always came first. It came before his pleasure; before his friends and unfortunately before his family. Celia had always disliked that particular side of her husband’s nature but he had provided extremely well for his family: Better than most. She and Georgina had a great life, they wanted for nothing and Celia knew that a sometimes distant husband and father was the price they had to pay. She didn’t like it, but it was a big part of who Peter was and she had decided from the outset not to even attempt to change things. Would she have preferred a more attentive but poorer husband? She had no idea. It was far too late to answer a question like that. Did she like all the goodies? Of course she did. Would she have traded them for more time with Peter? Of course she would have….But that question was now as moot as “What came first, the chicken or the egg?” She’d made her bed and was lying on it. Of course the sheets were made from the finest Egyptian cotton and probably cost more than an average person’s bed. Celia had grudgingly over the years made her peace with the status quo: The problem was that Georgina had not yet had those years of experience to fall back on. Celia felt for her, which was probably why she cut her so much slack. Children need both parents all the time and if the truth be known even Celia realised she had been AWOL more than she should have been.

“When we finish breakfast,” she suddenly said, “Let’s get Georgina up and go out for the day.”

“Good idea,” he agreed, “help me relax before going across to Sidmouth tomorrow.”

“Sidmouth!” exclaimed Celia. “Isn’t that in Devon?”

Peter explained what had happened during his meeting with Simon Rex and the subsequent change of tack that had been forced on him. He told Celia that he assumed she would be alright with just her and Georgina for a couple of days until he returned.

“Never assume anything Peter,” interrupted Celia. “You yourself said we needed more quality family time. And your next breath tells me you’re disappearing for a couple of days…. Again!”

Peter’s brow furrowed slightly. “You’ve never bothered before Celia?” he said in a questioning tone.”

This was supposed to be a family holiday….” She paused, then continued, “I appreciate you were here on business as well Peter…. I just assumed….”

“Never assume anything,” he interrupted with a smile which made her laugh then he continued, “Look I really need to wrap up some sort of deal down here and the quicker the better. The bank’ll be expecting good news: You know what it’s like?”

Celia knew exactly what it was like. She also knew that she had better grasp the rest of the day with both hands and hold on to as much of it as she possibly could: A family day; as rare as dodo droppings. Peter’s mobile rang. He’d placed it on the table when he sat down so he wouldn’t need to fumble for it: He answered.

“Good morning George,” he said before pausing to listen. “I’m fine and you?” He listened. “Like I said last night I’m sorry about the other buyer but I’ve already made alternative arrangements I was just finalising the travel details when you phoned,” he lied and shrugged to his wife whilst he listened. “Renegotiate…? I don’t think so George. The wheels are in motion. I’ve set my heart on Sidmouth now. People have been notified….” He allowed Truscott to interrupt him and listened patiently before cutting him off with a tone of finality. “Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Give me a day to think about it. Problem is the Sidmouth site. It’s the same size as yours, a lot less than 15 mill and just as promising.” He paused for effect. “I’ll have to go George; speak to you soon.” He rang off before Truscott could speak.

“I love the sound of fear in the morning,” he paraphrased with a laugh.

Celia sighed and shook her head then rose from the table.

“Come on Mr. Businessman,” she said sarcastically. “We’d better go before you try to do a deal on the tablecloth.”

Peter got up still smiling and they walked out of the dining room together.

Doxy was intently steering the boat so as to keep the coastline firmly on his port side. He was also still keenly watching Georgina. She had not moved from her position at the very bow end since they had set off. There was a sort of smile on her face. As he watched her with her head still tilting back in the salt breeze she appeared to him like a person standing in a shower. He nodded to himself: She really was trying to somehow cleanse herself; of what, he still had no idea.

As a result of his concentration Doxy didn’t notice the presence of Stevie until he had sidled right up alongside him. He turned to face him, but Stevie was staring straight ahead.

“You like her, don’t you lad?” he asked.

Stevie blushed and shook his head like a young child when asked something embarrassing: But he never took his eyes off Georgina. Doxy didn’t push; he was now well aware of Stevie’s childlike quality and had no wish to embarrass him. Instead he turned to stare out through the window.

After a few minutes Doxy turned to Stevie.

“How’d you like to drive the boat lad?” he asked.

Stevie’s eyes opened wide in amazed expectation and he nodded violently. Doxy laughed.

“OK,” he said. “You come and stand here and take hold of the wheel. No violent moves mind, she’s a sensitive old girl.”

Stevie nodded again and moved in front of the traditional wooden steering wheel which was interlaced with rods that were called spokes. Each of these pierced the wheel through to the outside. He took hold of a wooden spoke in each hand as Doxy stepped sideways.

“Now Stevie lad,” he explained. “You see this spoke in the centre?” He pointed to the peg end of the spoke in the middle at the top of the wheel. “This here’s the king spoke. While this is at the top it means the rudder is straight. Do you know what the rudder is lad?” Stevie smiled but looked at him blankly. “The rudder is the thing that helps the boat turn left and right. But when it’s in the middle like now the boat goes straight which is what we want. Get it lad?” Stevie’s smile broadened and he nodded. Doxy stood aside and allowed Stevie to steer the boat. Georgina continued to stare obliviously ahead.

Doxy had realised almost immediately that Stevie was somewhat slow mentally. What he didn’t know was Stevie’s extremely low threshold of concentration. This he learned the hard way; but not as hard as Georgina.

Stevie began to get bored holding the steering wheel still after about a minute and a half. Without warning he suddenly began turning it violently from side to side. The boat responded immediately with a rocking motion.

Doxy shuddered to one side before correcting himself. “No,” he shouted to Stevie before taking the wheel back from him and safely centralising the king spoke once more. “You have to keep the wheel straight…. Never jerk it from side to side.”

Stevie started laughing. It was his idea of a joke. Georgina, however, hadn’t found anything humorous in his actions. The rocking motion, even though not very severe, had caught her completely unawares and knocked her off balance. She was forced to grab the bow rail with both hands to prevent being thrown overboard. When the boat straightened again she turned to the wheelhouse.

“How long did you say you’d been a sailor you old fart?” she shouted. “Ten minutes? Fucking moron you nearly had me overboard!

It was all Doxy could do not to laugh. True the girl had almost been thrown into the water. But she hadn’t been…. And it was funny. He turned to look at Stevie but he had run out of the wheelhouse and was sitting on the deck at the stern end sulking. Georgina’s tirade had been aimed at Doxy as she assumed it was his driving, but Stevie had taken the comments personally and, like all children, was now moping after being chastised. Doxy shook his head, turned back to face the front and steadied the boat: King spoke in the middle. This was going to be a long day and he wasn’t standing for it: So he pulled his chair (which was actually a backed bar stool that he’d nicked from Frank) over with his foot and parked himself gratefully onto it and then continued to steer his present course.

The boat continued on through the semi-calm Atlantic waters; although, through his years of seafaring experience, Doxy was now aware of a very subtle change in the actual feel of the boat in it’s relation to the water. It was just a small change; probably the wind direction he told himself but turned the radio on nevertheless. It was tuned permanently to the shipping forecasts. A woman’s voice was speaking; the usual stuff about what was going on where and what was due. Nothing extraordinary so he turned it off. He glanced up at the sky; it looked kind enough. A lovely shade of rich blue and sporadically interlaced with white, fluffy, and relatively non-threatening looking cumulus clouds. His experience also told him that cumulus clouds were far less stable than, say, stratus clouds so it was usually prudent to keep one eye skyward.

Doxy Murdoch never thought of himself as being 72-years-old. Inside his head he felt the same now as he did when he was in his twenties. He had always kept himself fit; he rarely caught colds; hadn’t yet succumbed to arthritis and only got up three or four times to wee in the night; better than the others at his age. He generally felt great: But he was 72. At 27 he could have missed a night’s sleep with his eyes closed, probably even longer, but at 72 it wasn’t so easy. He caught himself nodding off a couple of times and shook himself awake. Unfortunately sleep has a habit of creeping up and taking over even when you’re young, fit and you see it coming. Doxy nodded off.

Georgina didn’t pay any attention to the fact that the boat was veering away from the coast. She was actually enjoying herself and trusted the old sailor to know what he was doing. Stevie, still sitting at the stern end sulking, wouldn’t have had a clue one way or the other. More importantly neither of them would have paid the slightest bit of attention to the ever-thickening cumulus clouds overhead as they ominously began to turn into the far more potent cumulonimbus cloud formations. Had they thought about it they would have maybe noticed the blue sky slowly disappearing and the fluffy white picture-book cotton wool clouds taking on a more sinister grey colour. Even if they had noticed, the worst they’d have thought was a little rain was on the way. But after all they were in Cornwall: It always rained in Cornwall. The county saw more rain than Hawaii. They also hadn’t noticed the stiffening wind which at higher altitudes could change cloud formations almost in the blink of eye.

On a good day the “Euna” could just about struggle up to 18 knots with a good tailwind: But even her less than powerboat-like performance soon put them over the horizon. The clouds got heavier and much darker. The change was now quite noticeable as larger and larger waves began to rock the boat. People think that sudden storms are just that: But they are anything but sudden if a little trouble is taken to read the signs. It was like some unseen hand had suddenly switched on a giant fan. A howling, swirling wind appeared from nowhere at the same time as the heavens opened with a deluge of biblical proportions. It was just then that Doxy awoke. He’d been asleep less than 15 minutes, not that he’d have thought that. It looked like midnight. The first thing he did was to look at his ship’s clock. It told him the time, quarter to eleven, but not when he went to sleep. The second thing he did was to look out of the window. He could see nothing but water all around. He also saw Georgina approaching.

“I think maybe we ought to be getting back,” she said with unhidden sarcasm. “What do you think?”

He didn’t believe for a second that they could have strayed too far from the coast: He just needed his bearings. He stood up to check his compass and happened to glance out of the window again. His eyes widened and his entire face contorted into a look of such obvious terror that even Georgina reacted.

“What’s the matter?” she urged.

Doxy ignored her and spoke to himself. “I must turn us around,” he said frantically revving the engine and spinning the wheel.

“What’s the matter?” pleaded Georgina with fear in her voice.

“Must face into it,” continued Doxy to himself. His head suddenly whipped sideways to look at Georgina. “Get Stevie in!”

As the boat came around Georgina saw for the first time the reason for Doxy’s panic. Less than quarter of a mile directly in front of them and heading straight in their direction was an enormous waterspout – a seaborne tornado. They could already feel the powerful winds. Luckily waterspouts move fairly slowly so Doxy had time to manoeuvre the boat into the best position he could. He knew that as slow moving as waterspouts are, the Euna would still be no match if he tried to outrun the twister. They were going to have to ride it out.

“Get Stevie in here!” Doxy shouted again.

Georgina called to Stevie but he ignored her and gripped tightly onto one of the stern rails. She began to leave the wheelhouse but had immediate second thoughts and backed, terrified into the corner farthest from the door. She slid slowly down the wooden wall to end up on the floor, curled up with her head over her knees staring at the decking in a kind of upright foetal position. She began to shake uncontrollably.

The waterspout hit the small boat head on.

Things that had been lying loose on the deck began to fly about. Ropes, cans, barrels all seemed to have minds of their own. Stevie cowered in one corner at the stern end gripping the rail with white-knuckled hands whilst trying to hide by tucking his head under his armpit. He was crying fearfully but nobody could have heard him from the centre of the swirling maelstrom of water.

The table in the wheelhouse slid slowly across the floor. Georgina grabbed it and pulled it into the corner where she was crouching so that it covered her as extra protection.

Doxy knew he had to stay at the wheel. He kept the straining engine at full revs and continued to try to steer the boat though he knew it was futile.

The waves surrounding the small craft were growing bigger and bigger and effortlessly moving it at their will: The engine making not the blindest bit of difference to the impending outcome.

Suddenly a can of bait came smashing through the window striking Doxy on the side of his head. He staggered two feet to his left as the wheelhouse door was smashed off its hinges and splintered hurling a three foot razor sharp piece of wood at the staggering old man. The splinter went straight into the fleshy part of the left side of his waist. He screamed in pain as the force of the impact sent him crashing into the open door frame. He fell to the deck half in and half out of the wheelhouse and lay unconscious as the spout continued its havoc-ridden twisting.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Peter. “Quick Celia come and look at this.”

He was standing on the balcony of their suite staring out to sea and became enthralled when he noticed the top of the waterspout from somewhere just beyond the horizon. Celia joined him and she too marvelled at the power of nature they were witnessing. They stood side by side watching as the spout moved slowly across the dark panorama.

“Unbelievable,” she said.

“Absolutely incredible,” agreed Peter.

They watched for a few minutes longer then decided to go and wake Georgina for their family day out. They left their room and walked down the corridor together.

“I think it’s more than late enough for her ladyship,” said Peter as they approached the door to Georgina’s room.

After fruitlessly knocking loudly on her door for several minutes Peter noticed a chamber maid and called her over. He explained who they were and asked if the young woman would mind using her pass key to admit them. She smiled, nodded and opened the door without a word before standing to one side to allow Peter and Celia to enter. Celia went in first and Peter gave the cleaner a £5 note of thanks. She accepted it with thanks and melted back into the corridor.

“She’s not here,” said Celia. “I’ll bet she never came back last night?”

“You don’t know that?” replied Peter calmingly. “Maybe she went out early?”

“Early doesn’t exist in Queen Georgina’s vocabulary Peter: You know that,” explained Celia.

Peter shrugged: There was nothing either of them could do. He instinctively reached for the phone by the bed and picked up the receiver.

“What’s her number?” he asked his wife.

“I don’t know,” answered Celia suddenly realising that she should know her daughter’s mobile number off by heart. “I’ll phone her on my mobile the number’s in there.”

Celia took her own phone from her bag and rang Georgina’s phone. They were both surprised when they heard music and a man swearing suddenly coming from one of the drawers.

“That’s Georgina’s ring tone,” said Celia. “She’s left her phone here.”

Peter opened the drawer, found the phone and turned it off.

“Why would she leave her phone here?” asked Celia. “Why would she do that?”

“Probably because she knew it would piss us off,” replied Peter through clenched teeth. “You should know your daughter by now.”

Neither of the Mayfields would have recognised the girl who was now crouching next to Doxy dabbing a damp towel on his pain-contorted face.

When the fierce, howling winds finally died down Georgina ventured from under the tenuous sanctuary of the galley table. Rain was still hammering relentlessly on the wheelhouse roof, but that didn’t terrify her like the nightmare through which she had just lived. It wasn’t until she stood up straight that she saw Doxy lying motionless half in and half out of the doorway. He was awake but unable to move. His first thought on waking had been to drop the anchor, but as he had absolutely no idea where they were he didn’t know how deep the water was. They were going to have to drift for now.

His anorak was unzipped and lying open. So as she stepped over to him the huge splinter of wood protruding through his blood-soaked jumper was plainly visible; she gagged as soon as she realised what it was.

“You must remove this wood,” he said in a thin voice.

“You’re having a laugh,” replied Georgina. “Do I look like Florence Nightingale? And anyway aren’t you supposed to leave things like that in, in case it’s punctured something….Whatever? Anyway, forget it.”

She backed fearfully away shaking her head and waving both hands negatively in front of herself. Eventually she bumped into the table, felt her way around it and finally seated herself on the back wall’s integral bench seat. She lay down with her knees pulled up to her chest and her back to the door. She heard and ignored Doxy’s deep sigh as he gave up and fell unconscious. After a few minutes shock took hold of her and she too fell asleep.

It was late afternoon when she finally awoke and looked at her watch. The waterproof Tag Heuer told her disbelieving eyes that it was 4.30. She turned and sat up. The fisherman was in exactly the same place she had left him. She rose to her feet and went over to him. His eyes were open.

“Please miss,” he said in a weak voice. “It has to be done.”

Doxy explained that the splinter, although large, had only pierced the fleshy part of his waist on the left side and that it would be safe to remove it. Georgina wasn’t convinced: She backed away and ended up sitting back on the seat on which she had slept at the far side of the room. Doxy tried to coax her back over to him but she just shook her head like a petulant child and averted her gaze.

The elderly fisherman gathered all the patience he could and spoke softly and deliberately. “My left arm is broken….My right leg as well I think. I cannot tend to myself. You must help me.” Georgina closed her eyes as if not seeing would mean the problem was no longer there. Summoning all the patience he could, Doxy called out to her.

“If this wood is left as it is,” he explained, “the wound will become infected. It could be very serious.”

Georgina continued to make sure she made absolutely no eye-contact with the man lying in the broken doorway.

“Miss….Please,” pleaded Doxy.

Still Georgina kept her eye line away from the door and every so often she gave an almost involuntary shake of her head as if trying to convince herself that she had made the correct decision. Eventually Doxy’s patience ran out. He summoned what little strength he could muster and fixed a steely expression on his face.

“Georgina, get over here!” he snapped in an authoritative voice.

Whether it was the use of her first name or the commanding tone, something got through to Georgina. She turned and met his gaze; saw the look in his eyes; stood up and without uttering a word walked over to the stricken fisherman.

Doxy told her to fetch the bottle of whisky he always kept in a cubby hole above the wheel. She did as he asked in an almost robotic manner. When she returned she offered the bottle to him. He said the whisky wasn’t for drinking and sent her to find some towels that were stored below decks. She disappeared for a minute or two before returning with three small hand towels. Doxy smiled and told her to douse two of the towels in whisky and use them to clean the wound back and front after she had removed the splinter. At that stage she began to shake her head again and started to back away.

“Do it Georgina,” said Doxy in flat but firm voice.

“It’s a shame I can’t pick you up,” she said. Doxy smiled at what he thought was genuine compassion, but the smile soon faded when she finished the sentence. “I could toss you overboard and give the sharks a free meal.”

“There are no sharks in these waters,” he countered defiantly.

Georgina stopped fidgeting and sighed, finally making her mind up. She then pulled the cork from the whisky bottle and held one of the towels to the open top, but before she could pour the golden liquid Doxy stopped her.

“Wait miss,” he asked. “Maybe a little on the inside would help as well?”

She bent her knees to kneel beside him and carefully put the bottle to his mouth. She tilted the bottle upwards to allow him to take a large mouthful before pulling the bottle away. He swallowed the liquid in two goes and raised his eyebrows in a plea for more.

“You’ll be as anaesthetised as a newt if you’re not careful,” she said in a shaky voice. “Besides you’re not the only one who needs Scotch courage.”

Without another word she took a large mouthful to calm her own nerves then doused both towels with the whisky. She laid the towels carefully down and took hold of the broader end of the splinter which was protruding out the front in her right hand whilst pressing her left hand gently against Doxy’s rib cage for leverage. He closed both his eyes tightly and grimaced. She eased the pressure and leaned back.

“I can’t do this,” she cried.

“Please,” said Doxy. “Please miss, you must.”

Georgina sighed again and resumed the pressure on Doxy’s chest.

“I’ll count to three,” she advised.

Whilst he was still nodding and without counting she began to pull the splinter slowly but firmly out. Doxy screamed in pain and Georgina screamed along with him even louder, although hers was in sheer panic. After a few agonising seconds she managed to pull the entire piece of wood from Doxy’s side. After the pain-racked tautness his body had adopted he suddenly went limp as the muscles relaxed. Georgina threw the splinter out of the door.

“You didn’t count,” said Doxy before falling into unconsciousness.

Georgina didn’t waste any time and gently dabbed at the wound front and back with the towels. Thankfully there wasn’t as much blood as she had expected. When she finished she went below and found a pillow. She removed the pillowcase and tore it to open it out. She went back to Doxy and used the pillowcase as a makeshift bandage pulling his anorak tight to hold it in place. When she had done that she went out of the wheelhouse looking for more pieces of wood to use as makeshift splints. She didn’t have far to search as the wheelhouse door was lying scattered in pieces on the deck. She picked up four large shards that looked like they would fit the bill and dropped them next to Doxy’s inert body. She then went below again and emerged with a shredded bed sheet. She had never done anything like this before, but she had watched enough TV to have got the basic idea.

After a fiddly ten minutes Doxy was now sporting two very rough and ready splints; one on his leg and the other supporting his arm. They looked extremely amateurish but were tied tight enough to do the job. She then moistened the third hand towel and began dabbing it to Doxy’s face. By the time he awoke Georgina had seated herself on the deck by the portside bow rail. She was staring out to sea whilst clutching the rail tightly with both hands. Because she was at the front end he couldn’t see her, but he immediately realised what she had done and smiled to himself, but a painful twinge in his side soon stopped that. He moaned and called out “Miss!”  

Georgina heard him and grudgingly came to see what he wanted. They chatted for a while until Doxy suddenly remembered something.

“Oh my God! The boy!” he called with alarm in his voice. “Where’s the boy!?”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Boy? Crap! I’d forgotten about him,” admitted Georgina. “With you calling him a boy when he’s nearly as old as my parents….Now if you’d have said buoy, you know the B-U-O-Y kind I’d have figured it. They have about the same mentality.”

“Don’t be so cruel, you know what I mean. He’s a boy in his head,” snapped Doxy. “You must find him.”

“Keep your hair on,” she replied. “I’ll look…. You realise he could be halfway to Australia by now.” “Us too,” she added in an aside.

She went inside the wheelhouse and opened the twin doors leading to the twin berth cabin below. She went down but it was empty, even the tiny toilet cubicle. She left, shutting the doors behind her. Then she noticed the hatch to the miniscule engine compartment. She opened it and peered inside. It was empty except for the waterlogged engine so she shut the hatch and walked back onto the deck. She went to the stern of the boat and peered over. The boat’s dinghy was rocking gently from side to side about 12 feet behind, joined by an almost umbilical-like heavy rope.

“Nothing there except your dinghy,” she said. “I’ve had enough of this.”

She ignored Doxy’s further pleas and returned to the portside bow rail where she once again sat down on the deck, put her elbows back onto the top of the rail, sighed and continued to scan the horizon for anything that wasn’t water. How the hell had she come to this?

“Please make sure miss.” Doxy called out pleadingly.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Georgina said as she got to her feet yet again and walked around the wheelhouse to where Doxy was lying. “Look old man,” she said with fire in her eyes. “I told you he’s not here. How big d’you think this piece of shit is? I’ve played with bigger boats in the bath….” The pathetic, pleading expression on his face stopped her. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll look again.”

She began a sarcastic search. She picked up a piece of broken wood. “Not under there,” she announced then picked up a plastic bucket that had been lying on its side near the stern. She peered inside it. “Nope,” she said shaking her head, “not in there either. Ooh, maybe he’s hiding in one of the cups in the galley….” Before she could turn to go towards the galley something distracted her. She glanced back at the dinghy.

“What is it Miss?” asked Doxy.

“Nothing, I already told you, it’s just the dinghy,” she replied. Then her brow furrowed as she stared a little harder. “Jesus Christ! The tarpaulin just moved. I think he’s in the fucking dinghy.” She raised her voice. “Hey!” She paused and turned back to Doxy. “What the hell’s his name?”

“Stevie,” replied Doxy.

She turned back towards the dinghy. “Stevie! Is that you?” The bulge under the white tarpaulin sheet moved slightly but nothing else. “Oh for Christ’s sake,” she hissed. “What are you pissing around at?” The bulge stopped moving; Georgina turned away and began to walk back to the opposite end of the boat.

“Please miss,” pleaded Doxy. “He is not right in the head, you know that. Be nice to him.”

“Nice?” said Georgina. “Me…?” She stopped and held out her right hand in gesture to shake hands. “Hi old man, I’m Georgina Mayfield, pleased to meet you.”

Doxy smiled. It was the first time he had smiled for some time. She was crass; she was overbearing; she was nasty; but she had a sense of humour.

“Please miss,” he pressed. “You can’t leave him in the dinghy. He’ll be terrified….”

“Give me a fucking break will you?” replied Georgina.

“Please miss,” pleaded Doxy once again. “Try to coax him from the dinghy. He can’t stay there. Suppose another storm hits?”

“And how d’you propose I coax the half-wit?” she asked. “Dangle a carrot over the side? Hold up a biscuit and whistle?”

“He’s in great danger miss….” began Doxy before a high-pitched whistling noise interrupted them and made Georgina shudder and grimace.

“That was worse than nails on a blackboard,” she said. “What the hell was it?”

“It sounded like a dolphin miss,” explained Doxy.

“Oh great,” said Georgina to herself as she pointed to Doxy. “I’ve got the old man of the sea.” She jerked her thumb at the stern. “The creature from the prat lagoon and now….” She walked towards the starboard side of the boat. “Flipper’s come a-calling….Oh my God!” She stopped in her tracks and stared wide-eyed.

“What’s the matter,” asked Doxy.

“There’s a dolphin caught in your damn net,” she said with wide-open eyes. “It’s stuck fast to the side of the boat, half way out of the water.”

“Can you free it?” asked Doxy.

“Are you fucking insane?” she spat. “Have you seen the size of it? I’m not going near that monster.”

Doxy sadly watched as she ran back to take up her position at the bow rail all the time mindful of the pathetic screaming of the distressed dolphin. Even at 72 he usually felt as strong as he did in his forties, but this wasn’t usually. He felt totally useless which wasn’t far from the truth although it was no fault of his. And then the realisation dawned: Of course it was his fault. He’d said yes to the girl’s offer in the first place when every instinct except his greed had told him otherwise and then he’d fallen asleep at the wheel. Why had this happened? “Because you’re not 42 you silly old bugger!” he chastised himself silently. “You’re 72: You’re an old man and a useless old man at that.” He sighed: The one thing about being old was that one became resigned to almost anything. When the ignorance of youth is replaced by the wisdom of age the futility of non-win situations usually results in early compliance. Still if this was to be his end what better place than on the boat he named after his beloved mother Euna. Had Doxy been married he’d probably have named the boat after his wife but that was not to be. The untimely deaths of his father Malcolm, brother Calum and subsequently his mother set Doxy’s future firmly in stone. No wife and children of his were going to go through that kind of torture. He was now, had always been and probably always would be a fisherman first, a bachelor second and a lonely man always. He suddenly pulled himself together. 

“Early compliance? No chance!” he thought as he called out to Georgina.

“Miss!” he said. “You must see to Stevie…. and the dolphin.”

“You see to them if you’re so bothered.” Georgina’s reply sounded like it came from miles away. This worried Doxy a little as it probably meant that the wind had changed direction. He couldn’t really tell from where he was. If it was northerly they could be in big trouble. Apart from the fact the winds would be stronger, colder and wetter. They would also blow the small boat further into the threatening Atlantic Ocean. He didn’t want to think about that but he knew he had to.

“Miss!” he repeated. “Please…. Stevie…. and the dolphin. They need your help. You can’t just ignore them.”

“Leave me alone!” Georgina’s reply was almost a shriek. Doxy had no idea what to do next.

Everything around Georgina went quiet as she stared vacantly out over the mobile water. Even the shrill cries of the dolphin faded far into the background. Her thoughts drifted back across time. The last thing Doxy said had triggered a memory.

It was her eighteenth birthday and she was more exited than she had ever remembered being. Her father had booked a table for her and seven of her best friends at the very plush “The French” restaurant in the Midland Hotel in the centre of Manchester. They were to enjoy an unforgettable meal followed by a champagne party in a reserved section of the best club in town. What made the forthcoming evening even more special for Georgina was the knowledge that her parents were going to “drop in” to the restaurant unannounced with a surprise eighteenth gift. Her father was flying back from his business trip specially: The whole thing was apparently his idea and he was bringing the special gift with him. Her mother had tipped her off to make sure she waited at the restaurant in case they were late.

Georgina waited. She barely tasted the fantastic food she and her friends had. Right through the starters, on to the main course, through the sweets and even after the coffee she waited. Finally she sent her friends on to the club saying she would catch up with them later. Still she waited. Her mother finally arrived just before midnight with nothing more than a red-faced apology: Her father had apparently been delayed in a meeting and missed his plane. Whilst her mother was explaining her mobile rang. Georgina listened whilst her mother pleaded with her father to wish his daughter a happy birthday. The last words Georgina heard before running out of the restaurant in tears was her mother saying “Just wish her Happy Birthday,” she pleaded. “That’s all she wants. You’ll see her tomorrow….You can’t just ignore her.”

Looking out across the vast waterway Georgina remembered the night vividly but now with a different spin. She realised her father wasn’t ignoring her he was just too embarrassed to speak to her. Of course when he turned up the next day the embarrassment had gone, replaced by a solid gold and diamond Rolex watch which he magnanimously presented in a beautifully gift-wrapped package which, incidentally he’d bought locally. He apologised profusely and Georgina had smiled and accepted the ridiculously expensive substitute for his presence graciously. For once there was no shouting; no swearing; no storming dramatically out of the house. She had simply smiled, kissed her father lightly on the cheek, thanked him and said she was going to her bedroom to try it on.

For the first time, as she gazed across the water, Georgina realised what a defining moment her eighteenth birthday had been. That was the day she lost her father….

She never said a word. Later that day she drove into town and exchanged the watch for the Tag Heuer she still wore. The watch company didn’t really want to refund the £14,000 difference. Georgina could have forced their hand if she had wanted; the law was on her side, but instead she accepted a credit note for the difference. Now, some two years later, she wondered if the credit note was still somewhere in the flowerbed where she’d crumpled it up and thrown it. Her parents never even noticed the different watch.

“Miss….” The old fisherman’s relentless voice finally wore Georgina down.

“Fine!” she said sharply. “I’ll see to Stevie then tend to the fish…. And if you tell me it’s a mammal not a fish you’re going swimming!”

Doxy decided on prudent silence but couldn’t resist a smile. There were depths to this annoying, spoilt brat. If only she’d allow them to the surface. His mind drifted back over 30 years. He was remembering a woman; not quite as beautiful as Georgina but certainly with the same fire. Her name was Angela and Doxy liked to play on that calling her his angel. Obviously she hadn’t been his first girlfriend, after all he was 42; but she was the first woman he had truly loved.

Angela Sumner had arrived in St. Ives at the beginning of the summer of 1977. She was a marine biologist connected to King’s College University in London. Doxy had met her in exactly the same place as Georgina. She had been standing on the jetty one morning when Doxy returned from an overnight fishing trip. The difference then was that his nets were bulging with a very valuable night’s work: Things were good in those days. The other difference was Angela’s attitude. In their first conversation Doxy immediately saw her compassionate, caring nature. Over the months he would get to know her he also saw the firey, more passionate side of her nature; but it was more controlled and far less nasty than that of Georgina. Having said that Angela was 34 when they met: A grown-up, mature woman.   

Her first question had been about the location and numbers of available fish in the area. Her second question had been to invite Doxy for breakfast to further pick his brains. He had been instantly bowled over by her forthright manner. They spent long periods of time together; Angela accompanied him on several fishing trips to take notes and study the sea for herself. Over the summer they grew very close and eventually began a physical relationship. Doxy couldn’t believe that such a beautiful, educated woman could possibly be interested in a hardened, rough-and-ready fisherman like him. But she had seen his depth of character right from the beginning. Doxy wasn’t an ordinary man, Angela realised this, he was a complex, thinking individual who wouldn’t have been out of place lecturing at her university. When she told him this he was flattered but put the notion down to over-exaggeration from her feelings towards him. In fact by this time they were both deeply in love with each other.

When the time came for her to return to London with her research and findings she had told him that she was going to move permanently to St. Ives. He had mulled on the information for two days before breaking off the relationship. Angela was devastated; even when Doxy explained why. At first she had refused to accept it. She told him that there were two people involved in their relationship and that one of them was not going to give up that easily. At the time she meant it but before too long she realised she was flogging a dead horse. She had been back in London for three weeks when she got Doxy’s letter. Even though he had already explained his reasons there was something about the way he laid his innermost thoughts out on paper that finally convinced her to let go. Doxy never heard from her again.

After all this time he still did not know whether he had been brave and selfless or just plain stupid. Tears ran down his cheek as he remembered the last summer he had ever felt a true, all-conquering love.

CHAPTER 4

Celia Mayfield was getting worried, but no more than her husband. They had first searched the hotel and the beach looking for Georgina, both to no avail. After that they had gone into St. Ives and all but turned the place upside down. At one stage they bumped into Emma Redway shopping with her parents. Celia recognised her face vaguely although she would never have been able to put a name to it. All Emma could tell them when questioned was that she had been with Georgina the previous night until she left with some local lad. The Mayfields both nodded and thanked her. Neither they nor Emma’s parents saw the almost evil smile on her face as they parted company. Finally Emma had some seriously juicy dirt to dish.

When the thorough search of the little town proved fruitless the Mayfields made their way back to the hotel. As they entered they bumped into a distraught-looking Mr. and Mrs. Pickford. June was the first one with a question. She told them that Stevie had wandered off first thing that morning and had the Mayfields see him? Peter and Celia both shook their heads.

“Sorry, no,” he said. “Actually we’ve been searching all over for our daughter…. I don’t suppose you’ve seen her?”

Hard expressions came over the faces of both Bernard and June at the mention of Georgina. The Mayfields picked up on it.

“Has the little cow…?” began Peter before a squeeze of his arm from Celia stopped him.

“Has Georgina been a problem again?” asked Celia.

June Pickford related the events in the dining room earlier that morning. As she was explaining Peter’s mobile rang. He glanced at the caller’s I.D. and pulled a face.

“Shit!” he said just before answering. “Look George this really isn’t a good time….” He stopped speaking and listened. “14 million you say?” He turned to Celia. “Sweatheart I’ve….”

“Got to take this call,” she finished for him. “Peter there’s always some call you’ve got to take.”

“I’ll be one second, promise,” he stated and walked to a quiet corner of the lobby.

Celia told them that she and her husband had spent the entire day searching the hotel and St. Ives town. She told them that they hadn’t found Georgina or caught so much as a glimpse of Stevie.

“You don’t think they could be together, do you?” asked Bernard.

Even June wasn’t going there. “I should think that would be highly unlikely Bernard,” she said in an almost castigating tone. She knew he was worried sick, but she also remembered Georgina’s treatment of their son: “Highly unlikely.”

Peter returned and apologised telling Celia that he had turned down the offer and told Truscott not to call him again. This was water off a duck’s back to Celia: She’d heard it all so many times before. In her heart she knew that Peter was as deeply concerned for the whereabouts of his child as Bernard Pickford was for his. Unfortunately Peter had an even more deeply ingrained urge; the uncontrollable need to close a deal. It often took over his life. Celia knew this; she also knew it was who Peter was. She could ignore him, scream at him or leave him. But she knew she was never going to change him. Knowing he loved his daughter deep down she chose to ignore him.

Peter and Celia told the Pickfords they were going to carry on looking for their daughter and would definitely keep an eye out for Stevie. The Pickfords thanked them and said they would do the same thing with Georgina. They parted company and the Mayfields went to their suite.

Peter and Celia took turns to have a shower. Peter as usual went first and was enjoying his first drink whilst Celia was still washing her hair. They had a long night of looking for Georgina ahead of them so Peter knew he had to take it easy and only ordered a light beer which he sipped slowly. He was only just starting his second one when Celia entered. She walked up to the bar, nodded approvingly at his choice of drink and ordered a pineapple juice. They finished their drinks without much conversation and went straight to the dining room for a quick meal. Neither had eaten since breakfast and they both needed the sustenance. They didn’t order a starter or a sweet and so were ready to leave after only 15 minutes. Peter signed the bill and they left.

It was still quite light when they emerged from the hotel. They again decided to leave the car and walk the short distance into the town. Parking in St. Ives was a nightmare. If you could actually find a space near the harbour you invariable got blocked in by the hoards of sauntering holidaymakers. The alternative was one of the designated car parks on top of the hill that overlooked the little hamlet. These normally had sufficient parking spaces but then you had to walk about a mile down the one in one hill to get to the harbour front. That wasn’t too bad; it was usually the walk back up that caused most heart attacks. There was a regular bus service to and from the car parks, but the queues were usually longer than the walk.

The Mayfields arrived on the promenade about 10 minutes after leaving the hotel. Their plan was simple: They intended to start at one end of the town and go to the opposite end stopping in every pub and bar on the way. If that proved fruitless they would then do the same thing with all the night clubs. Someone somewhere had to have noticed something…. They hoped.

Neither Peter nor Celia had ever really been frequenters of public houses. Even as an adolescent Peter tended to steer clear of boozers preferring instead to go out later and either have a few bevies in a wine bar or go straight out to a club. Celia as a young woman had a social life similar to Peter’s even though she didn’t meet him until much later. From her teens through her early 20s she enjoyed wine bars, clubs and occasionally casinos. Celia had a soft spot for blackjack, a card game at which she excelled. Although when on a table with players who were less than well-versed in the subtleties it didn’t matter how good a player was, the outcome was always in the lap of the gods. It was for this reason she had given up: Too many nights losing too much money due to too many idiots at the table.

Despite their joint dislike of pubs Peter and Celia did the St. Ives “crawl” as thoroughly as if they were actually out on a binge. They talked, together and separately, to as many barflies of both sexes as they could but all to no avail. Several people actually remembered seeing Georgina at some stage of the night but no one had any idea what had happened to her. By the time they reached the opposite end of the harbour they were no wiser. Celia began to get more and more worried. Peter calmed her down as best he could by pointing out that they hadn’t tried any nightclubs yet. If Georgina could usually be found anywhere it would be in a night club; her known favourite haunts.

They fruitlessly searched a couple of small clubs before trying the Blue Lagoon. Manager Craig remembered her well – even without seeing the photograph.

“Lippy cow,” he enlightened. “Had a lot to say for herself.” He nodded, “Yeh I remember her alright…. She left fairly early with a bunch of youngsters. In fact two of them are in tonight.”

“Can you point them out to us?” asked Peter.

Craig hesitated. “They’re here to have a good time,” he said slowly. “It could be an invasion of their privacy.”

Peter knew what the game was straight away. He reached into his right-hand back trouser pocket and pulled out a wad of notes. He peeled two £20 notes off the top and handed them to Craig who accepted and pocketed them in one slick movement. He then called to one of the two bouncers standing by the front door.

“Les!” he called. “Watch the desk I’m going upstairs for a couple of minutes.”

He beckoned the Mayfields to follow him and walked up the stairs into the club. The place hadn’t got too busy yet so Peter and Celia were able to spot at least one of their £40 quarries even before Craig pointed them out.

“Hello again Emma,” said Peter as Craig exited. 

“Mr. Mayfield? Mrs. Mayfield?” said Emma with an amazed expression on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“Still looking for Georgina,” replied Peter.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Emma. “She really is missing.”

“Who’s your friend?” continued Peter.

Emma introduced both Mayfields to Dylan and explained again how they were all together for a while the previous night before Georgina went off with a local boy. Now realising the seriousness of the situation she emphasised that she hadn’t seen Georgina again that night or since. Peter turned his attention to Dylan who told him that he had heard a rumour that a young woman was attacked in a back street the previous night but there were no details other than she hadn’t been a local girl. When pressed further he admitted that he’d heard the name of the attacker but stressed that the whole thing was just a rumour. Peter smiled, reached into his pocket once again and pulled out his money. This time he only removed one £20 note from the bundle. He held it in front of Dylan’s face.

“Name and whereabouts?” was all Peter asked.

Dylan took the note and told him the name of the alleged attacker was Davy Perrow; but he didn’t know the name of the victim or any details. Peter asked him where he could find this Davy Perrow.

“He’s actually in here tonight,” admitted Dylan. “His face is all banged up. Maybe the rumour was true.”

“Point him out to me,” urged Peter.

Dylan scanned the room for a few seconds then pointed to the far end.

“There he is,” he said, “by the pillar across the dance floor.”

“I can’t see which one he is from here,” said Peter. “Show me.”

“I can’t….” Before he could continue Peter grabbed his arm and walked him in the direction he had pointed. Before he left he told Celia to remain where she was until he got back. He then walked with the reticent Dylan around the dance floor. When they reached the far side Peter asked again.

“Which one?”

Dylan nervously pointed to the back of a young man. As he did this Peter released his grip and Dylan hurried back around the dance floor. Peter tapped the young man on his shoulder. He turned.

“Davy Perrow?” he asked smiling.

“Who wants to know?” asked Davy in a suspicious tone.

“I do,” replied Peter still smiling. “It was me who just asked. Didn’t you see that?”

“My mum told me not to talk to strange men,” said Davy.

“Did she tell you not to attack young women as well?” he said moving closer in an intimidating manner. At 6’ 2” he dwarfed the diminutive Cornishman.

“I didn’t attack nobody!” said Davy, his voice rising in pitch.

“How did you get that face?” asked Peter.

“I were born with it,” retorted Davy with a little defiance creeping back into his voice.

“Were you with my daughter last night?” asked Peter. “Her name is Georgina.”

The argument had been getting more noticeable so it came as no surprise to Peter when he saw both the club’s bouncers making their way towards him and Davy from behind the young man. He had realised immediately what sort of person Davy was and knew he had to force a quick result. He’d also noticed that throughout the conversation Davy’s right hand had been in his pocket. As the bouncers reached them Peter made a snap decision.

“I’m going to kick your Cornish pastie teeth in you little bum!” he said.

That was enough: Davy stepped back a pace and pulled out a closed lock-blade knife. He snapped the four inch blade open. Peter’s timing had been perfect. The bouncers had reached Davy as he pulled out the knife; they reacted immediately grabbing him in unison. One held him roughly around the neck whilst the other twisted his arm until his grip on the knife loosened and the bouncer was able to remove it from his grip. He quickly folded the weapon, put it in his pocket then resumed his hold of Davy. They then marched him towards the door, his feet barely touching the floor.

Peter hurried back to Celia and beckoned her to join him in following the bouncers and their bouncee. As they turned to leave Dylan spoke.

“She probably asked for it,” he said sullenly. “Nasty cow.”

Peter spun around and Dylan automatically cringed, but then he just sighed and shook his head pityingly at the boy before turning and walking away. Something in the back of Peter’s mind understood reactions such as Dylan’s. One could almost call it “The Georgina Effect”.

Peter and Celia caught up to the bouncers at the bottom of the stairs. He asked them to wait and explained the situation to Craig who then told them to take Davy into his office whilst he called the police. All the time this was happening Davy was pleading his innocence. At one stage the bouncer who had taken the knife took it out of his pocket and with the blade still closed hit Davy over the side of the head with it.

“Innocent, you little shit?” said the bouncer.

Craig intervened and told both bouncers not to hurt Davy any further. He then invited Peter and Celia to join them all in his office whilst they all waited for the police to arrive.

Half an hour later Davy was led away in handcuffs by two uniformed police officers. Unfortunately The Mayfields were no closer to learning the whereabouts of their daughter. Davy had already confessed to the attack although he called it “Having a bit of a laugh”. He told them that Georgina had encouraged him and as far as he was concerned she was openly inviting him to have sex with her. Emma and Dylan were called into the office and they corroborated Davy’s story with regard to the kiss in the Harbour Tavern. Davy then went on to explain how he was attacked by a mystery man and Georgina; and how he was beaten and kicked by both of them. If he hadn’t been so well known to the police it would have been hard not to believe that he had been the victim.

When the police had gone Peter and Celia thanked Craig and the bouncers for their cooperation and left. The only place they could think of trying now was the Harbour Tavern. After getting directions and a warning of how rough it could be from Craig they headed towards the last place in which Georgina had been seen. 

Like Georgina, Peter and Celia navigated the narrow backstreets of St. Ives fairly easily and soon arrived outside The Harbour Tavern.

“The land that time forgot,” quipped Peter in an aside to his wife as they entered. She gave him a “be quiet” sideways glance as they crossed the room to the bar. The place was about half full, all the clientele clearly being locals. All eyes were on the “outsiders” as they approached the bar. Landlord Frank was standing behind the wooden counter directly in the centre wiping glasses and stacking them on a shelf at the back. Most ended up more marked than before they were washed.

“What can I get you?” asked Frank.

Peter immediately noticed the lack of variety. “A small Scotch please,” said Peter. “Neat.”

Frank gave a single, curt nod and, still looking at Peter, added, “And the lady?”

“That’s no lady,” replied Peter, “that’s someone else’s wife.”

Frank completely missed the joke. His brow furrowed in complete non-comprehension so Peter quickly added, “And what would you like darling?”

“I’ll just have a pineapple juice,” said Celia shaking her head.

“We don’t got pineapple juice,” observed Frank.

“Orange juice?” asked Celia helpfully.

“We don’t do juices here love,” said Frank. “No call for ‘em. I got some cordial somewhere if that’ll do?”

“I’ll have a gin and tonic please,” said Celia. “Ice but no lemon.”

“We don’t have lemon,” said Frank.

“How fortuitous,” added Celia.

Caryn entered the bar from the back room and after totally ignoring the Mayfield’s presence told Frank that she was ready to take over the bar. He nodded and began to walk towards the back room.

“Before you go,” said Peter. “Can you tell me if there was a young, non-local girl in here last night? She could have been with friends.”

 For some reason Peter had formulated an imaginary conspiracy scenario where all the locals ganged together with the specific intention of not providing any useful information regarding the possible whereabouts of his daughter. He’d also imagined several blockbuster-movie-type outcomes to the problem.

“Yes there was a girl here last night,” Frank answered without any hesitation. “Pretty girl, about 18, 20, long dark hair. Matter of fact she was with some friends....” He paused. “Trouble maker she were.”

“Listen,” continued Peter. “We’re looking for our daughter and it sounds like that was her in here last night.” Peter reached into his pocket. “I’ll be glad to pay for any trouble she may have caused....Damages....or whatever?”

“She does this a lot does she?” enquired Frank. “Do you always follow her about paying for her bad behaviour?”

Peter’s eyes flashed. “Now listen....”

Celia stopped him with a squeeze of his arm. “Georgina, our daughter, can be somewhat of a handful,” she explained. “But she is 20. We can’t be with her constantly.”

“No,” agreed Frank, “I sees that. Maybe if you’d been with her more when she were a youngster?”

“Listen,” snapped Peter. “We didn’t come here for parenting lessons. Our daughter is missing and you’re saying she was here last night. When did she leave?”

“First or second time?” interrupted Caryn.

“She was here twice?” asked Celia.

“That she was,” continued Caryn. “First time with a group....Oh yeh, she spent a bit of time with Gregor over there. “ She gestured towards where Gregor was sitting in his usual place. “Before leaving with a local lad. She came back alone about 10 minutes later but her friends had left. I refused to serve her; she got very abusive and Frank here had to throw her out.”

“I didn’t hurt her,” Frank added quickly. “She were throwing a tantrum something awful so I had to throw her out. But I didn’t hurt her.”

“Where did she go?” pressed Peter trying to stay calm.”

“I came straight back,” said Frank apologetically. “I’ve no idea which way she went. It proper shook me up I’ll tell you.”

“How much did it shake her up I wonder?” mused Peter aloud. “She spoke to that bloke sitting on his own over there you say?”

Frank nodded so Peter told Celia to wait at the bar and he walked over to Gregor.

“I believe you spent some time with my daughter last night?” asked Peter trying to keep his voice as matter-of-fact as he could. He had taken note of Gregor’s twin minders on the next table.

“I spend time with lots of people,” replied Gregor.

Peter described Georgina and Gregor smiled in recognition. He told Peter that she had sat with him for a while before returning to her friends and eventually leaving with a local boy. He judiciously omitted the part where he sold drugs to her and finished by telling Peter that he left soon after her but did not see her again. Everybody’s story seemed to tally so there was no reason for Peter to doubt anyone. He thanked Gregor and offered to buy him a drink. Gregor smiled and asked for a large vodka and orange. Peter pointed out that the pub didn’t serve juices. The Russian corrected him saying that the orange was specially stocked for him only. Peter nodded impressed and returned to the bar where Gregor’s drink had already been mixed. Caryn took it over to the table: The drug dealer held it up in a thank you salute to Peter and took a sip before putting the glass onto the table. Peter nodded to him then turned to Celia and suggested they leave.

As they turned to go, Frank stopped them. “There is one thing that’s a little odd,” he said.

“And what’s that?” asked Peter.

“A local fisherman, Doxy’s his name, a regular in here,” explained Frank. “He’s not been in today. First day he’s missed since....First day he’s ever missed as far as I can remember. Bit of a coincidence that, heh? Your girl and my mate both going on the missing list the same day. Bit strange heh?”

“And you think they’re together?” asked Peter with a puzzled look on his face.

“All I’m saying is it’s a bit strange,” Frank qualified. “Coincidence like.”

Peter realised there was nothing further they could do hanging around in the Harbour Inn so he thanked Frank and Caryn, nodded to Gregor and shepherded Celia out the front door and into the street. It had been a very long day and even though they didn’t want to both Peter and Celia decided they needed to return to the hotel for a decent night’s sleep before continuing the search in the morning. During the walk back Celia tried to cheer them both up by pointing out that if Georgina was true to form she’d be back in her hotel room when they got up tomorrow morning. Suddenly Celia burst into tears. She knew, as did her husband, that this time it was different. Nevertheless they still needed to get back to the hotel. As they walked down the street they passed Billy Kinver walking in the opposite direction towards the pub.

The first thing they did on their arrival back at The Portmain was to contact the police. They were told an officer would be round to take a statement within the hour so Peter said they would wait in the hotel lobby. They ordered a round of drinks and some sandwiches and sat down in two comfortable armchairs at a small table to one side of the large room. The muffled strains of Abba’s “Money, Money, Money” could be heard; it was Peter’s phone ringing in his pocket. He seemed to be the only person who enjoyed the irony of the song. He quickly pulled it out then sighed and shook his head as he looked at the caller’s identity. He was about to turn the phone off but had second thoughts. He answered the call and spoke without waiting for the caller to speak.

“Listen once and for all George,” he said firmly. “We’re in the middle of a family crisis here. I don’t need this....” He paused whilst George Truscott interrupted and spoke. “No there’s nothing you can do except stop calling me. I’ll speak to you when I can....” He paused to listen again. “13 and a half million you say....Yes that is a serious discount....” He paused and glanced at Celia who was looking at him with tears welling in her eyes. “Like I said George I’ll talk to you when I can....” He listened again. “When I can George that’s the best I can do. OK?” He rang off before any answer could be delivered and turned his phone off; but immediately turned it back on again after realising Georgina could try to phone him.

“Nothing gets in the way of this I promise,” he said. “We’ll find her.” Celia held the tears back and smiled. She knew everything there was to know about her husband and trusted him.

They had not been seated long when the Pickfords entered through the main door. Bernard looked to be reasonably alright but June was in a serious state. Her skin was pale, her greying hair was lank and uncombed and her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Bernard was more or less holding her up as he guided her through the lobby towards the lift. When they noticed The Mayfields they immediately veered off their headed course and made a beeline for the small table.

“Has your daughter turned up yet?” asked June.

“No,” replied Peter shaking his head. “Am I right in thinking it’s the same for you?”

Both Pickfords nodded forlornly and June burst out crying. Peter stood up and offered his chair for June who accepted gratefully. He went to a nearby table and commandeered another two armchairs which he carried over one at a time. When he’d done that he called for a bellboy and said he wanted to extend the food and drink order. Bernard put a hand up to stop him.

“Please,” said Peter. “My treat: I’ve already ordered for us.”

Bernard smiled and thanked him. He wasn’t bothered about what sandwiches were on offer but asked if he and his wife could have a brandy each. Peter nodded, ordered a second round of sandwiches and two large Hennessy cognacs. He knew their nerves must be shot.

When all four were comfortably ensconced in the overstuffed armchairs and as relaxed as much as they were ever going to be Peter made an observation.

“I don’t know if I’m way off here,” he said. “But St. Ives is an incredibly small place and yet three people have gone missing within the last 24 hours.”

“Three?” asked June.

“Georgina, your Stevie,” continued Peter, “and a local fisherman called....” He paused to recall the name. “Doxy, who according to the landlord has very unusually not turned up at his local watering hole.”

“What, do you think they’re all together?” asked Bernard.

“But why!?” queried June in an over exited manner.

Celia had learned to trust her husband’s judgement over the years. He had good solid instincts about certain things and wasn’t often wrong so she remained quiet to allow his mental process to run its course.

“It’s just a hell of a coincidence don’t you think?” he pressed.

“The fisherman’s probably out fishing sober for once,” qualified June. “Your daughter is....Well she could be anywhere.” Peter and Celia both let the applied slur go without comment so June continued. “But Stevie doesn’t do things like that. He’s a good boy. I just can’t....” she burst into tears and Bernard leaned over to comfort her. Tears of sympathy appeared in Celia’s eyes.

The sandwiches and drinks arrived and all four ate and drank in silence. Two uniformed police officers, one male and one female, entered the lobby and went over to the reception desk. The concierge pointed the Mayfields out to them and they approached the table. The male officer brought two ordinary chairs over and he and the female officer joined the four people at the table.

Before the officers began Peter introduced them to the Pickfords and explained what had been going on as regards the disappearance of Stevie as well as Georgina. He also mentioned his very loose theory regarding the fisherman but that was shot down almost immediately as pure coincidence. Both police officers however agreed that there was a possibility that Georgina and Stevie could be together. The male officer took out his police notebook and asked for a description of Georgina and Stevie including how old they were and how they were both likely to be dressed.

“Do you think they could have run away together?” asked the female officer.

“That’s highly unlikely,” said Peter.

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” continued the policewoman. “Older man, younger girl, we see it a lot.”

At that point Bernard interrupted and explained that Stevie suffered from a form of mental disability.

“You mean he’s retarded?” asked the male officer for clarification in his notebook.

“How about a little sensitivity?” chided Peter.

“No that’s OK,” said Bernard. “All the medical and science journals call it mental retardation. It doesn’t actually have a posh name like some. We’re OK with it.”

The officers stayed for a further 15 minutes. The policeman did most of the questioning and noted everything that was said in his pocketbook. The female officer interrupted every so often with questions of her own. When they finished they had a fairly comprehensive picture but no ideas. They told all four parents to remain in the hotel and they would be contacted in due course. When they left Peter told the other three that he had absolutely no intentions of sitting around waiting for the police. He told them he was going to bed and was going to resume the search first thing in the morning. Bernard suggested that he and June accompany them: Peter glanced at Celia who flashed him a quick expression, unseen by the Pickfords, which left no doubt in his mind that they were on the same page.

“I think it may be better if two of us stay in the hotel,” he suggested diplomatically. “Just in case the police turn up again.”

Both Bernard and June nodded in unison and before any further suggestions could be put forward Peter added that he and Celia would just have to undertake the search alone. Peter took Bernard’s mobile number and promised to keep regularly in touch throughout the following day. He then grudgingly gave his number to Bernard and signed the bill on the table. After that he and Celia wished the Pickfords a good night and they parted company.

Before going to their room the Mayfields walked to the rear of the hotel and out onto the large patio area. They stood for some time in total silence holding hands and staring out to sea, each sorting through their own thoughts. Eventually Celia broke the silence.

“How calm it looks out there,” she said. “Like dark velvet. God it looks so inviting. You could almost strip off and run in.”

“You strip off and run in,” replied Peter. “But remember there are two coppers hanging around. I think bed’s a better option.”

“I couldn’t sleep tonight,” said Celia. “Not with Georgina.... God knows where.”

Peter put his arm around his wife and without another word guided her back into the hotel and towards the lift. He knew that neither of them would get very much sleep that night but they needed some rest nevertheless.

As they walked into the room Celia suddenly had a revelation.

“What if that little minx went home?” she offered. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier?”

“No way,” said Peter dismissively. “Do you honestly think that she....” He paused in thought for a moment. “You know that’s just the sort of thing that self-indulgent little cow would do. Leave us here without a word knowing that....”

“I’m phoning Joan,” interrupted Celia lunging for the bedside phone and dialling. “Hello Joan...?” She paused whilst Joan spoke. Peter tried to listen in. “Yes everything’s fine....Well actually no it isn’t. I don’t suppose Georgina came home by any chance, did she?” She paused again. This time Peter could hear Joan whose voice was now severely raised in anguish. Celia tried to calm her down. “Look it’s only been a day. You know what she’s like; she’s probably staying with a friend to teach us a lesson.” She paused again. “No, there’s no point in you coming down here. Everything’s in hand....Don’t worry I’ll keep you posted. Listen I’ve got to go in case someone,” she paused, “or Georgina,” she added quickly, “is trying to contact me. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Bye.” She rang off before Joan could speak. “I’m sorry I did that,” she said to Peter.

“She cares for Georgina,” explained Peter. “In fact sometimes I think....” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“Sometimes you think what, Peter?” probed Celia.

“Come on,” said Peter, “time for a bit of shuteye.”

 “I know what you were going to say,” continued Celia.

“I know you do,” admitted Peter. “Let’s go to bed.”

The couple got ready for bed in their own way without saying another word until wishing each other a goodnight after which Peter turned the light off and the room went silent: But neither Peter nor Celia were asleep.

The sea was as calm as Celia had imagined but that didn’t make much difference to Georgina. The darkness was all-encompassing: It was eerie to the point of being quite disturbing. No matter in which direction she looked she could see absolutely nothing. Not even the light from a far off fishing boat. It was extremely creepy but at the same time strangely comforting. She knew they were in grave danger and yet it was as if the surrounding water was like a dark, welcoming duvet ready to snuggle up in.

When the moon appeared at intervals from behind a cloud the water became alive with dancing yellow-tipped ripples. This at least gave some perspective but didn’t help Georgina’s foreboding much.

She had finally relented and done what Doxy asked. There was something about his quiet serenity and for some unknown reason his total trust in her that got through Georgina’s steel-like veneer. She didn’t enjoy feeling vulnerable and definitely hated other people seeing even the slightest chink in her armour. Nevertheless she had pulled herself together. After careful consideration she had gone for the lesser of the two evils and decided to tackle the dolphin first. She sidled very slowly, closer and closer to the guard rail under which and just out of sight she knew the creature lay trapped.

She peeped over the edge and jumped immediately back. Seeing dolphins on the TV was one thing; even possibly in one of those tedious aquatic pantomimes that every coastal town seemed to have as a way of fleecing gullible tourists desperately looking for anything to do to relieve the boredom of constant sunbathing, swimming and shopping. But up close and personal dolphins were massive and intimidating; let’s be honest they were a type of miniature whale and not that miniature when one was less than two feet away.

Georgina gathered herself again, breathed deeply a couple of times to set herself then once again peered over the edge of the boat. This time her perspective had changed completely: Now she saw a very sad sight. The fear had gone as she gazed at the long, sleek grey shape pinned fast to the side of the boat. She actually thought she detected an expression of sadness on its face. She shook her head. “Don’t be so wet,” she thought and smiled at the pun. But its skin did look dry, even in the very dim glow coming off the water. She went to the stern end and found a bucket and some string. She tied the string round the handle and lowered the bucket into the water then hauled it back to the deck. This was the only option; she had already checked and there wasn’t a knife left on the whole boat that would be able to cut through the tough nylon netting. So water relief it was.

The dolphin made a thin, almost yodelling sound as Georgina slowly and carefully poured the cool salt water over it from front to back.

“Oh, you like that do you Flipper?” she said as she poured. “Well don’t get used to it.” Half a smile danced briefly across her face as she said it.

Georgina didn’t smile very often; even when she had something to smile about. But for some inexplicable reason the simple act of pouring water over the stricken animal gave her a feeling of mild contentment. “Careful,” she thought. “If anyone saw this they might think you’re human.”

She noticed its blowhole which closed automatically as the water washed over it. When she’d emptied the bucket she dropped it back into the water and repeated the process. She did the whole thing again for a third time before leaving the empty bucket on the deck and returning to the stern.

“OK! Enough now Stevie,” she shouted at the bump in the tarpaulin covering the small inflatable. “It was alright before when it was light but it’s dark now. Stevie, you need to get back on board this boat. You’ll be safer.”

She watched and waited but all she saw was an almost imperceptible movement in the centre of bump. Eventually she ran out of patience.

“Fine you little idiot,” she spat. “Stay out there in that little boat, in the dark, on your own....With the sharks.”

It was the last thing she said that had the desired effect. The tarpaulin moved and then Stevie’s head appeared; he looked terrified. He gave Georgina an imploring look before nervously scanning the sea all around.

“There are no sharks,” said Georgina soothingly. “I needed to get your attention.” Stevie continued to jerk his head searchingly from side to side he wasn’t convinced. Georgina continued, “Look Stev