May, After the Storm
In the old days, women would stand here by the sea wall as their men set off. They steeled themselves against savage winds and biting cold as their sons and husbands and fathers and uncles launched their fishing boats into the treacherous waters.
Worry is always etched onto the faces of those left behind. Those with brine in their veins know that the denizens of the deep demand sacrifices. Prayers are to be given up and offerings made to keep loved ones safe. If a virgin can be found to sacrifice, all the better.
Bobby shivers in the night air.
Three days and three nights. When will they stop searching? When will the police drift away? So many questions, so many rumours, but precious few answers.
He’s heard all the theories: a lover’s tiff, a suicide, a drunken accident, a murder. She might have got a canoe and made her escape, or run 166 off with a French sailor, but after more than seventy-two hours, most people think she’s in the sea.
‘Goodbye and good riddance,’ slurred one of the teenagers in the pub last night, desperate to appear edgy, desperate for attention. When Alison told the girl to leave, shouting at her to show some respect, she laughed. ‘Too soon?’
The gig crew might lose sponsorship. Bobby can’t imagine Ophelia Gin will want to be associated with an island where women drown.
Missing, presumed drowned.
He wonders how long the fishermen’s wives stood here and waited, peering into the darkness, hearts clenched by fear, waiting for men who never returned. How long can hope survive before it too goes under?