Anderson The Actaeon Tide

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-910409-56-5
Verlag: Parthian Books
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 250 Seiten

Noah, a debt collector and investigator in his late twenties, is slowly putting away enough money to get out of the murky world of solicitors, bankers, bent coppers and cheating wives for good. All he's ever wanted is to make a wedge so he can emigrate some place where the surf is good and the weather warm, but then comes the job that changes everything. A mysterious woman thinks her huge house in the Vale is hiding the darkest of secrets. Drawn to the money and aided by the advice of occult-specialist Alys, Noah lifts the lid on a bizarre world in which depravity and deceit are in charge, where night time covers the inexplicable and where the dream of escaping to ride a few waves is soon growing further out of reach. The Actaeon Tide is a tale of ancient myth meeting new money, set at the shoreline of an all conquering sea.

Tom Anderson was born in Watford and grew up in Porthcawl. He worked as a private investigator for a range of clients after studying at the University of Glamorgan, before developing a travel writing career using journeys taken as a surfer. The Actaeon Tide is his fiction debut.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Anderson, Tom

Leseproben

2

The source, and what isn’t inside the house

So there’s me, Minor Threat playing on my car stereo, and, when fate affords, bringing my world up those golden driveways to the doors of the rich and powerful. Most of my days are filled with winding-up petitions and bankruptcy notices, discreet asset enquiries or recovery reports. And can you see why it’s perfect for me? If money and influence are your things then what use is it trying to find empathy from a punk-pumped, late twentysomething whose only care in the world is hanging out in a nothing town and making the time to do sod-all once in a while?

It all suits me, the man at the centre, fine. I’m not even joking when I boast that there’s only one external force that Noah allows to alter his plans – and that’s the sea. No amount of cash or petty personal power can stand up to that master.

It doesn’t work for some – my mum just thinks it leaves you never sticking to anything. Change your mood with the sea, and like all the other surfers in this town you’ll be about as constant as the swells you wait on. Except the sea is older than any of us, and will last longer.

There I go again. I’m changing my mind even as I talk.

Any season though, whatever the temperature, when tide and time are right, this is the ritual that sorts me out.

Park up in the streets behind the beach, board waxed and then quickly whip jeans and shoes off. Wet neoprene wrapped around my ankles, then a grimace and it’s pulled up to the waist. I’ve got the act down – top half on with minimum skin exposure to the biting northerlies. This time of year, frost crunches under my booted feet as I round the bracken to see lines of unbroken ocean pulse wrapping in from the Atlantic.

Yeah, I’m in love with the whole thing. Even the way your head shrinks around your skull as you push underwater for the first time. Brain-freeze; the ‘ice cream headache’. You know you’re earning something from this kind of pain. But then, once I get out behind the breaking waves, it’s all release. Shore is just a model now – a different realm, left behind. Things make meaning and take shape as I stroke into a lined-up little peeler that stands up to me, its folding crest holding my eyes. Body weight isn’t mine anymore, as I rise to the top of a strip of thin, wind-groomed water, edge tilted to the outside rail and drop back in. The sea’s pulse moves through me. Confession, absolution. I’m shaking off a burden, rinsing away things that I don’t need. Nobody can stop anyone doing this.

Two more waves, forgiveness in the bag, and I’m into the replenishment. Storms thousands of miles away charge me up. Good for anything once a few more of these frequencies have tapped through my life-force. Anything.

When decisions lie on the horizon, this has always been where Noah gets his counselling. Cut off too long from the sea, not riding waves, things lose their shape. And when I’m tuned in, it all works out.

?

‘Wait for dark, Noah, matey, and tonight… you and me are in that fuckin house.’

‘You what?’ The waves sink straight to the back of my thoughts as my boss announces the rest of today’s schedule.

‘I’ve thought on it… a lot.’ Starsky stands up and steps to the window. ‘You know I ain’t a good sleeper, and my best ideas are always the late ones, so I know this is the right thing to do. We’re going in for a look. Let me get the feel of the place – see if it fits. That’s how to be sure we don’t get dragged along with a rich bird losing her marbles. Thirty seconds inside that place and I’ll tell ya if she’s with it or not. You’ll be able to see if that’s the house of some nutcase – there’ll be something about it. Trust me. We get to know for sure this way.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘I wish it was, mate. But that is what we’re doing. Unless you wanna drop out of a job that could earn ya a coupla grand for half a day’s work?’

‘Bullshit. How’re we going to get inside there, then? Without the whole thing going…’

‘Easy. We’ll walk in.’

Now I’m sure this is a wind-up, but Starsky keeps insisting:

‘Go on then. Don’t believe me. I can do it myself if you ain’t up for it.’

‘That’s not what I’m saying.’

‘Course not. Here we go, matey. Remembering that cash eh?’ He grins at me, rubbing fingers together. ‘Yeah, that wedge ya keep tellin me you’re gonna save up. Well it ain’t gonna come from serving papers or chasing credit card overspenders. If you’re really serious you want to piss off out of here and become some surf bum with whatever you’re lucky enough to have left on the clocking-in card once the Whiteout years are through…’

‘No. I know…’

‘Yeah, well you’ll have to grow a pair then, won’t ya? This is what the bigger jobs are about. Come on Noah, coupla grand minimum in it for you here, matey.’

And he wants to get into Mrs Lovell’s place, tonight. ‘Just one minute with a torch in my hand and I’ll know if her story is for real or not,’ he says, as if to reassure himself. Or me. Or anyone else who’s got sense to know it has to be harder than that.

And as for how to actually do this, his big plan is… not to have one.

‘You what?’ I say again.

‘Sometimes you have to just walk on through, Noah,’ he tells me. ‘Glance sideways or hesitate and you’re done. No indecision. Can’t prep for everything.’

‘Yeah, but…’

He cuts off any dissent. ‘But nothing, matey. We walk through the unknown all the time. Happens every now and then. You’ll only know what to do when you’re there. Ready in half hour. We’ll get close to the place, then wait for dusk from nearby.’

?

Leafless trees flick strobe-flashes through the windows of his car. We’re flying through the lanes, forty, fifty miles an hour. Once is enough for Starsky to know any road. It’s bright, and dry, and he’s taking his determination out on the accelerator. A low winter sun slouches behind rows of barren branches that mask the fields and hills beyond. It’s gently heating my face through the glass. Winter at its most admirable. There’s colour in the landscape – almost – and yet a greyness, a freshness, a gloom, is everywhere.

‘See, Noah, I’ve told ya this before. Best way to do something sketchy is to just do it. Don’t look about yourself, don’t look back. Don’t look like you think you’re doing anything wrong. People spot the ones who look around all nervous.’

He’s actually serious. This really is how we’re going to execute our plan that isn’t. Walk straight in the front entrance just after dark, look around for a minute, and walk back out.

‘What if it’s locked?’

‘Won’t be, mate. She won’t have it locked till bedtime.’

‘You seem pretty sure?’

‘I am. I’ll promise that door is open. How’s that sound?’

Starsky’s a man who needs to be in control. That’s how he drifts around so expertly in this seedy world of greed and dishonesty. It’s how he solved child murders and built files on terror cells in his past life. He’s an organised person. Starsky would recce just about any job before taking it on. I’ve been up to council estates with him dressed in tracksuits, to walk around the block just so we know how many exits some benefit fraudster has from their bedsit the next morning.

When he goes balls to the wall though, he goes balls to the wall.

I’ve been watching the sun’s daily arc descend. I do every year, as autumn loses out. It’s still got to be close, now, to as low as it gets – solstice less than a month behind us. Shadows are long, the pavements back in the Crawl don’t see direct light any more. If I look low out the window here then it’s slush-mud and water that’s been frozen over and over. A brook drops in and out of view through a bush, clear water jumping around on smooth stones, moving just enough to survive.

Hedgerows start to look cared for, then the track turns to gravel. You can feel it underneath, and hear it grinding too, as the tyres of the car bump on to the rough surface. Less trees around now, and the lane is dry enough to throw up dust.

I was here twenty-four hours ago, nearly to the minute. We’re too early. Starsky wants to let dusk finish filling in.

This means we wait. I get out and sit on the bonnet. The land has flattened out completely. You wouldn’t ever think there was this much empty space hidden away in the Vale, but here we are. A row of clouds miles to the west, deep-grey and blue – probably where the sea starts – sits just low enough over the horizon to stop there being a sunset. But enough light’s been left in the atmosphere for day to last another fifteen minutes at least. Behind us, where the arc will start again tomorrow morning, the land rises a bit, and I can see two lights. One is a house on a hill, the other a single, constant dot in the sky above it. Has to be a planet. Venus or Jupiter – low and watchful.

Once we’re in the...