How long had he sat there? He had no idea. Half an hour? An hour? Maybe even longer. When he finally uncurled his back and stood, he felt better, lighter. The sea, its expanse and clocklike rhythm, had calmed him. His mind had some clarity now his heart rate had slowed and the fog of alcohol had faded. As he turned away from the water, he recalled the impact of his fist against the pasty cheek of Nathan Cardew and winced.
What was wrong with him?
It was as if he were walking a tightrope. Teetering on the edge with every step. People wouldn’t describe him as a violent man. The opposite. Most people gave him credit for being steady and cool-headed. His moments of lost control in the last few days made him uneasy. Especially when it came to Nathan Cardew. Rational thought told him Hannah – the Hannah he knew and loved – could never love a man like Cardew. Cam had seen the look she’d given him in the pub. It bordered on repulsion. But still Cam had let him wheedle his way into his head. The guy was an idiot. Cam could have leant into his face and said ‘boo’ and the prick would have collapsed. He had no interest in hurting Nathan Cardew. So why had he? Was it his breathtaking sense of entitlement and superiority? Or the demeaning way he’d talked about Hannah as if he owned her? Maybe it was all down to the stress of the fishing trip and knowing they all could have died out there. Whatever the reasons, he’d been an idiot and he needed to say sorry to Hannah. Nathan was wrong. Cam was worthy of her. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her. He loved her and that was all that mattered.
He headed back down the road to Newlyn. His watch told him it was nearing one. The Packhorse would do a lock-in tonight. He prayed she’d still be there as he pushed forward down the hill. The wind blew in frozen gusts off the sea and he drew his coat tighter around himself and kept his head low as he picked up pace and began to jog. At the harbour car park, he came to a halt and paused for a few moments to catch his breath and, as he did, he heard a faint noise. A mewling cry from the direction of the pier. He held his breath and listened again.
Nothing.
Must have been the wind.
He started to cross the road, but then heard it again. A woman’s voice. A small sob. Talking. One voice or two? He turned and followed the direction of the noise. He stopped and listened again. Then another noise. It was coming from the water, from the boats moored at the bottom of the jetty.
‘Hello?’ he called.
The noise stopped.
‘Who’s there?’ he said as he stepped on to the jetty. ‘Hello?’
‘Cam?’ The voice was faint but unmistakably Hannah’s.
He hurried down the slippery jetty and went to his boat. He could see the outline of her visible in the muted light from the distant streetlamps, huddled in a corner of the small deck.
‘Hannah? What are you doing here?’ He began to climb into the boat.
‘You need to leave.’ Her voice was cracked and broken.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You need to go. Just go!’
‘What’s happened? Is everything—’ He stopped speaking when he caught sight of the dark shape lying in the shadows at the side of the deck.
He jumped down and realised the deck was wet, a pool of liquid surrounding the shadowy figure, which glinted in the snatches of moonlight.