Episode One

Previously on PIER...

By the time the fireworks began, the bruised pastel sky had darkened into a barely-lit canvas. Light speckled against the gathered clouds in explosive glory as the crowd below cheered from the shoreline. Out at sea, the faint boom echoed among the waves, a fleeting whip cracking from so very far away and disappearing into the void. 

The evening was going better than Havannah had expected, flourishing from hesitant expectation into raucous celebration. Happy Birthday! banners rippled in the breeze from their hanging place above the door to Foxy’s nightclub, while music and joviality dulled the sharp edge of winter air. Inside the club, alcohol continued to flow; beer bottles had been clinking and corks popping since before the first of the guests had arrived. As the promise of fireworks had approached, however, the gathered crowd carried their drinks outside, obediently pouring out of the club’s doors to gaze up at the sky in anticipation of wonder. 

Surrounded by so many well-wishers - both recognisable and new - Havannah could be seen flashing her bright white smile for the first time in longer than most could remember. She remembered though. She remembered how a similar crowd of similar faces had gathered at this very spot just six months earlier, united by the awe of watching the pier burn; she remembered how few of them had stayed in touch since. 

That stifling August night was when everything had changed for Havannah, and even the shared cheer six months later couldn’t lessen the stain left on her memory. At that thought, Havannah’s smile dimmed for a moment, her eyes wandering from a conversation to what remained of the pier and the pointed shadows left behind. Her faltering expression was barely missed, however, flashing back into life as cheers suddenly erupted from all around. The first of the fireworks had lit up the sky above them with an almighty clap, drawing the crowd’s attention away from the cold and up to the smattering of coloured patterns blooming overhead. In the presence of the explosive crescendo, even the blaring music seemed to shrink away to the periphery of their notice.

Despite the sparkle in her expression and the nods and claps of agreement and approval, Havannah was glad of the distraction. Every glance - every roaming survey and desperate scan of the crowd - sought to reassure her that she knew these people. Even those with whom she traded light-hearted lines about the spectacle above them were strangers to her. There were those Havannah did recognise - half-remembered school acquaintances and a few associates of her father, all of whom had been absent these past few months - but many more were unknown to her. Still, Havannah had made her guesses about them. Some, like the shifty men in crumpled suits invited by Damon, were likely there for opportunity - either among themselves or at the cost of her inheritance. Others were local faces with the most casual of connection - a barista, a nurse, a neighbour she never spoke to - and of them she imagined better things, like sympathy and a fear of missing out. They were harmless gatecrashers, drawn back to this spot for a second time. Havannah couldn’t begrudge them that.

As the flashing fireworks rolled on, Havannah quietly slipped away from the couple whose names she did not know, but whose birthday wishes she had accepted nonetheless. 

With great effort, Damon had ensured the closure of the street running parallel to the shore, allowing the crowd to spread from the railings, across the road, and onto the pavement. Havannah used the spacing afforded to her to squeeze between clusters of party-goers, exchanging passing greetings and pleasant thanks as she made her way to an opening. Here among the fringes were the passers-by who had been sucked into the celebration, as well as a couple walking their dog, and some young lads sharing cheap cans stolen from the back of one of their dads’ fridges. None of them recognised her or even questioned why there were fireworks, faintly grateful for the disruption to the usual monotony of winter in a seaside town.

Free of the crush of well-wishers, Havannah let her face relax, welcomed a deep inhale, and allowed it to leave of its own accord. She leaned against the wall, near where the lads were sitting, feeling the sandstone beneath her spreading fingers. Here, where the shore kept the sea at bay, Havannah felt herself grounded, secure, safe.

Another explosion blanketed the shoreline in flashes of red and green, blue and gold. Some fireworks crackled, adding temporary stars to the already-congested sky, while others were simply there and then they weren’t, a momentary flash memorialised only by the blotches of colour behind closed eyelids and a ringing in the depths of the ear.

From this distance, an observer could watch the fireworks unimpeded by the silhouettes of other people, an open view of the black backdrop against which the colours continued to splatter. And yet, Havannah’s focus was much closer to Earth. Where was Olivier? The Frenchman was tall enough to wade through crowds like shallow water, and yet she couldn’t see him looking for her or treading awkwardly through tides of people. She checked her phone. No messages. No missed calls. No sign of him. Reflecting on the faces she had spoken to so far that evening, Havannah realised there were others she couldn’t recall seeing either. 

Her finger - as it had so often found itself doing these last few months - lingered over Ronan’s number. The invitation was still nothing more than a draft, but it was too late to send now. Besides, she was certain that he would have politely declined, and his politeness would have made Havannah feel even sicker. 

When her finger slipped (or so she allowed herself to believe), Havannah’s stomach churned in time with the dial tone’s chirping. Despite the discomfort, she continued to listen for an answer, rather than cancel the call. The voicemail kicked in and she hung up.

Disappointed but not surprised, Havannah turned her attention back to the heavens, though she couldn’t keep her gaze fixed skyward for long, all too aware of the pier’s presence a little to her left. The burnt remains stood haphazardly against the shore, a collection of blackened shadows. With each illumination, the wreckage was twisted and distorted in new ways, from new angles. But it wasn’t those sharp peaks and the ghostly echoes of her father’s legacy that had drawn Havannah’s attention, even if the movement had not yet registered.

Beside her, the lads shouted and laughed in a pack, but the sound seemed to bleed into the cacophony overhead, itself pushed to the background. Eyes fixed on the pier, Havannah stepped away from the sandstone wall, ignored the lads’ insistence on cheering up as she passed them by, and made her way to the wrought iron gate that separated the past from the present.

In the days since the fire, Havannah had found comfort wrapped in memories of sun-washed days and chips on the pier, the electrifying sound of rides, and the cheerful chattering of visiting tourists. Most comforting of all, though, was the hope that if she only looked hard enough for him, her dad would be smiling back from the charred rubble. 

Only this time, he really was looking back. Wasn’t he? She squinted, honing in on the figure’s slow, pained movement as it stumbled and dragged itself closer to the shoreline.

“Excuse me,” she murmured distractedly, pushing herself between a group of friends who had paused on their journey from dinner to the bus stop. 

They barely acknowledged her - ignorant to who all this effort was for - so Havannah simply charged forward, bursting forth from the crowd and grabbing hold of the entrance’s railings. 

The ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign - worn from the sea air and dirty with neglect - shook as her palms connected with it. The breeze passing through the wrought iron curls made her eyes water, further distorting her understanding of who - or what - was making its way towards the party. If she could only get a little closer, the figure lurking among the pier’s shadows might be clearer. Fortunately, only a chain kept the two gates locked together, and at her pulling, a gap opened up between them big enough for Havannah to slip through. From here, she could get a better view.

Another firework, another flash. This burst of light was lower than the others, closer. Like a polaroid, it lit up the whole pier, washing away the lingering shadows and their frightening mythology. All that was left behind in the afterimage was the truth: not a ghost, but a man - barely alive - stumbling his way to the gate. If the man could alert her to his pain, he chose not to. Or - as was more likely the case - the injuries he’d sustained were preventing him from doing much more than clambering for help.

And then, another explosion, this time bathing the scene in red. As the firework crackled into nothing, it left behind shades of scarlet and crimson on the man’s skin and clothes. Havannah wanted to hold onto the thought that it was simply colour trapped behind her eyes, but she knew it wasn’t - she knew because the pier was lit up once again and still the man was stained with blood. They both froze for a moment, locking eyes. Her name left his lips, but she couldn’t say his aloud; her lungs could barely hold enough breath to speak.

One further step seemed to be too much, and the figure fell where he stood, body clattering against the charred floorboards with a thud. Havannah willed herself forward, stiffening her legs to stay steady against the uneven surface without losing haste.

The next crackling flash brought clarity to the scene, lighting up the blood and stopping Havannah a few steps from the crumpled body. In a rare moment of synchronicity, there was silence as fireworks paused and music changed. Within that pause - a silent gap that seemed so infinitesimal and yet capable of carrying so much incident - Havannah could hear her heart thumping; could hear the broken man’s rasping gurgles; could hear a scream as a somebody else finally took notice of the bloody scene unfolding only a dozen feet away.

Alerted to the horror, attention quickly turned towards the pier, breath held tightly in people’s chests, only murmurs escaping; Clayham-on-Sea’s ghosts were not usually so visible to the naked eye. Terrified, curious, distracted…the crowd clustered chaotically against the sandstone half-wall and the pier’s gates.

“Call an ambulance!” Olivier ordered from somewhere in the crowd, bringing Havannah some relief with his presence. “And stay back!”

She crouched, ignoring the discomfort of her knees meeting with where the wooden floorboards had splintered and burst in the heat. The man was still, and then he wasn’t, coughing and jittering into life again. His name caught in her throat once more. A firework, set off by attendants who hadn’t yet been told any differently, reflected in a gathering tear. In turn, the gold of her make-up sparkled under the moisture. This moment was being painted for her memory, and she would look upon it in years to come with both horror and relief. At last, she managed to say it, each syllable a shard of glass tearing at her throat as they rose to her lips.

“Damon?”

To hear a familiar voice say his name, greeting him at the edge of the world, was the greatest reassurance Damon could have asked for. Still, even the blanketing of his surroundings in bright bursts of colour couldn’t keep the growing dim at bay as it crept into the periphery of his vision. Each blink grew lazier than the last. Every breath was a labour on his lungs, one of which he was sure had been pierced in the attack.

“Damon, stay with me,” Havannah ordered, feeling for a pulse while lightly tapping his face with her spare hand. Somewhere behind her, Olivier’s footsteps thundered as he approached. Further behind the Frenchman, the music had been silenced. 

Havannah repeated her demand, but she was speaking to Damon through water - or maybe it was the blood pooling in his ears, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter; her next question was completely lost in the fading light and the sound of his own heart struggling to thump any harder.

In the distance, the party had come to a standstill. The sky was empty now. Damon was disappointed by this, to go without seeing the stars one last time. Funny, he thought, I’ve never been a romantic. 

As he let his eyelids rest, Damon could feel the gaze of dozens of witnesses from the shoreline. But no matter how hard he tried to think or imagine or nestle himself safely in the idea that someone might care, he couldn’t count a single friend among the crowd; even in Havannah’s arms, Damon would surely take his final breath alone.

Three Weeks Earlier

Winter had gripped Clayham-on-Sea with a cold, relentless cruelty. The bustling crowds of summer were long gone, merely the faintest memory of warmer, more hopeful days. In their place, a void remained - one the locals feared would persist once spring came. How, they wondered, would the collective loss of the pier affect them and their businesses in the months and years to come?

The wreckage in question sat squat and awkwardly along the shoreline. In the pale morning light, its silhouette was clawing at the waking sky. As with any corpse abandoned to its own business, the rot had set in. Everybody knew the structure was unsafe and an eyesore, but they continued to ignore how it marred their view of the seafront with little care for change.

Some locals, in an attempt to get ahead of the disappointing summers surely on the horizon, had sold their houses and headed further inland. Others had been content to pull the shutters down on their businesses when autumn came, knowing they'd never be lifted again. They retired or sought out investors to take either the land or the lease from their hands; either way, it was no longer their problem.

For Havannah Shaw, however, the pier wasn't something that could be abandoned - even in its derelict state. It was her father's legacy. It was her father's grave. Sure, there was a headstone beside her mother in the local cemetery, but the box was half empty, a custodian for the charred bones and melted flesh they could find. She had wanted to cremate him, scattering the ashes into the sea. Her family had disagreed.

Where many saw a wreckage ready fit only for demolition, an unwelcome smudge against the seafront, Havannah desperately clung to the pier’s remains as the last physical connection to her history.

And then there were others, who saw opportunity woven into the splintered boards and loose ashes. Damon Fox was one such person - a man with a vision for a future painted in gold. 

His office above Foxy’s offered a clear view of the pier. In summers past, Damon had watched the revellers filter from the pier onto the street and into his club. He paid the most attention to those visitors whose beauty caught his eyes - young women in tight denim cut-offs and even tighter bikinis. The most comfort he had provided himself in the heat was a lone whirring fan - chrome and not particularly efficient - and a second loosened shirt button at the top. The two ice cubes in his glass were a consistent choice, year-round. 

But summer had died out with the flames, leaving only a haunting view that persisted, uglier and more violent as winter dragged on. If anybody asked, Damon would say that - and the general state of the seafront with only a sparse number of winter visitors - was why he no longer stood at his window. He wouldn’t admit it was because the fire had started at his hands. In a way, this world they now lived in was one that he had forged himself - and to Damon, there was something thrilling about that thought. 

The window was not without company, however. In his place stood Havannah, who gravitated towards its view every time they discussed business or she visited for a drink and a chat, or her mind wandered away from spreadsheets and the clinking of their glasses. He knew what she was looking for, because it was what his eyes roamed for whenever he found himself passing the window without thought. Somewhere, they both quietly imagined in their own way, Patrick's ghost was staring back from the pier, watching them. While the flames had cooled and the locals had moved on, for Havannah and Damon there was the mutual fear that, should they reach out to touch the pier, it would still be burning at their fingertips.

“Have you thought about my offer?” asked Damon from behind his desk. 

Notice that he was about to talk had been given by a sigh, and then the tap of his pen as it slipped from his fingers onto the surface of his desk. Havannah didn’t respond, slow to break her stare from the shoreline. Close to frustration, Damon tried again. 

“Hav?”

The use of her nickname had been gradual, considered; all necessary to build trust. By the response to his voice and the turning of her head at the familiarity, Damon was confident it was working.

“Hm?” Havannah replied, turning a little at first, arms still crossed. Then she came to and moved her body slowly from the window to the chair opposite Damon. “Sorry. I was miles away.”

She slumped, defeated, into her seat and reached for the cardboard coffee cup left waiting to cool on Damon’s desk. A butchering of her name was scrawled up the side of the cup. As it was rotated to face Havannah, the cup left behind a drop of spilt coffee, already drying into a sticky smudge on the glass surface. Damon spotted it immediately, winced, and decided not to say anything; he would have Shireen come and clean it up afterwards.

“I don’t know why I still go there,” Havannah sighed, inspecting the coffee in her hands. 

The second sip hadn’t been any more satisfying even after cooling. 

Damon continued to type and click and bite his lip - anything to avoid having to have the same conversation again. And yet, when he allowed himself a quick glance, it was obvious that she was waiting patiently for him to ask, lips pursed, legs crossed, eyes wide and hurt. 

A deep inhalation, the slightest swivel of his chair in her direction - an even deeper exhalation - and Damon was quite clearly offering his attention.

“Go on. Let’s hear it,” he said, taking a pen to click while he listened.

Havannah leaned forward, the coffee cup grasped in one hand while the other gesticulated in time with her furious retelling of the morning’s encounter with Debbie. The gestures told of exasperation, of disbelief, and of defensiveness. In all honesty, Damon couldn’t care less.

“You’d think that it was me who burnt the sodding pier down by the way Debbie looks at me. Honestly! She won’t say a thing, either; just scowls at me - even when it’s somebody else on the till. I think those days are the worst because then I can’t be sure she hasn’t spat in my coffee.”

“And who served you today..?” Damon asked, unable to hide his disgust as she drank. At his question, the coffee was returned to the desk. Exasperated, Damon pointed out the obvious. “I don’t know why you still go there if she’s going to be…”

“Such a pill?”

“A miserable bitch,” Damon clarified, straight-faced and entirely serious. 

His own espresso - made in his office with freshly ground beans and water heated to exactly eighty-nine degrees celsius, and served in a pristine white cup - called to him from nearby. Taking a sip, he made no effort to hide the difference, savouring the taste aloud.

“Damon!” Havannah scoffed in mock outrage, barely covering her actual hurt. “Debbie worked on the pier for, like, thirteen years. It can’t have been easy for her to lose her job like that.”

“Pardon me for bringing realism to this conversation, but this is a promotion for her. I mean, she spent all those years on the doughnut counter and now she’s in an up-market coffee shop. It’s an upgrade to her sad little life, no?”

Sensing Havannah’s discomfort in the shift of her body language - the arm crossing her stomach, the retrieval of the cup just to keep it curled close towards her - Damon sensed an opportunity. “She needs to adjust her attitude. After all, you lost a lot more in the fire than she did.”

Havannah flinched at his words, but rather than refute them, she let her gaze wander back to the window. It was early in their newfound business relationship that Damon had come to understand what was happening whenever Havannah did this; his office offered the clearest view of the wreckage squatting on the shoreline, so naturally it held a special fascination for her. At least now the conversation - one that they’d had at least three times a week since the coffee shop had first hired Debbie - could come to a definitive, quiet conclusion. Damon took a victorious sip of his bitter espresso and changed the subject.

“As I was saying before: have you given my offer any thought?”

“I don’t feel like celebrating my birthday this year,” Havannah replied flatly, still distracted. It wasn’t guilt that had Damon rising from his seat, but to the casual observer it might have seemed like genuine interest at the very least. He squatted beside her, one hand on the chair’s arm, the other reaching for Havannah’s.

“And my other proposal?”

Havannah seemed to tolerate the sensation of Damon’s fingers snaking between her own for a moment longer than an ordinary day.

“It was one time, Damon,” she sighed, softly. There was patience in the way she waited to withdraw her hand - not with haste, but with gentle rebuke. Damon’s hands remained where they were as Havannah turned to address him directly. “I wasn’t at my best.”

His words felt pathetic once Havannah had spoken; they hung limply in the air and he resisted immediately sprinting from the spot beside her if only to save face. An outstretched hand tightened into a fist as he stood up and returned to his desk, collapsing with a sigh into the black leather chair waiting for him. The espresso was drained in one final gulp as the silence grew louder. Havannah seemed to shrink in response.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Damon said, matter-of-factly. The words landed exactly as he had meant for them to, and he watched with delicious entertainment as a shiver ran through Havannah’s otherwise still body. She tilted her head to one side and shook it in small movements.

“Don’t, Damon.”

“What?” he asked, grinning now. The game was afoot, his prey bouncing between teeth and claws, playful and sharp. As if to demonstrate how easy this was for him, Damon let his hands cradle the back of his head as he leant back. Under the desk, his legs began to spread far apart. Despite being out of sight, he knew she would be recalling them. 

Although the details had never been spoken aloud, between them, they could piece together the memory of a cold December night spent drinking together. Seeking warmth not found in a bottle, Havannah had straddled Damon in that very chair until he’d lifted her onto the desk. Unlike the movies, there was no great sweeping away of paper and detritus: Damon was too fastidious for that. Instead, they had fucked right on top of the pier’s insurance paperwork, each sheet shuffled by the jerking movement of their bodies. The position had been uncomfortable, but they were both determined to see the encounter through to its climax. 

Afterwards, Damon had collapsed back into his seat, buttoning up his trousers and grinning the whole time. He had watched her get dressed, and she had watched him in return, stealing glances at where the shirt remained open to reveal Damon’s chest, rising and falling as he recovered his breath. Although he had reached for her, Havannah had dismissed herself; this had done nothing to quench Damon’s hunger, visible in his roaming eyes and the curling of his lips.

“Don’t do that,” Havannah insisted in the present, waving her hand in his direction. “I’m not some bar skank for you to chat up, and you’re not some horny teenage boy. This is a professional relationship and it was a one-time…well, whatever it was. A one-time that.” She gestured again for emphasis.

Given what Damon knew about Havannah, she would be expecting him to pivot - to accuse her of misunderstanding a very clear situation or to seek repentance through some grand proclamation of guilt. In order to surprise Havannah, he did neither of those things. Instead, he let his grin turn into something friendlier as he sat up, bringing his legs closer together and letting his hands rest on the desk. He blinked once, lids lingering shut, and then began again.

“You’re right. This is a professional relationship. I’m sorry. And as a show of my apology, let me give you some professional advice. Is that alright?”

Havannah nodded, coffee still clasped in one hand. It was unpleasantly cold now; she was ready to abandon it completely. Damon retrieved a document from the top drawer and handed it to her. “Give this buyer a chance.”

Havannah let the stapled pages rest on her crossed knee.

“I’m not selling the pier.” It was a stern proclamation, delivered with childish ire each time he made the suggestion.

“I recall. Which has resulted in more than a few embarrassing meeting cancellations with Sayid Qureshi of all people. Will you at least think about meeting this guy though? Read the paperwork. His offer’s outlined in there, as well as a bit of information about him. He’s French. Oliver something.”

“Olivier,” Havannah corrected, glancing down at the document.

Damon leaned forward, squinted at the name, and let out a short laugh.

“There you go, you’ve already made a start. Great! Well, despite the multiple times I’ve called him the wrong name, he’s still keen.”

Havannah rolled her eyes, but nevertheless shoved the document unceremoniously into the handbag sitting by her feet.

“I’m making no promises.”

Damon threw his hands up in mock defence.

“No pressure from me.”

“Good.”

Damon exposed the watch on his right wrist - silver, gaudy, and almost certainly a knock-off - and noted the time.

“You’d best hurry if you’re going to catch Howie, by the way. If you don’t sell the pier, we at least need to get him and his God awful arcade on our side.”

For the first time that morning, Damon spotted Havannah’s insecurity - the nervous tapping of fingernails against the coffee cup, a clearing of the throat, a change in how far forward she was sitting. She was still just a nineteen-year-old, and sometimes that fact was lost in how she spoke and presented herself. Until it came to truly stepping up… Then Havannah was a teenager all over again, helpless without him.

“I’ll leave in a second, don’t worry. I won’t be late.”

“You can leave when you feel comfortable. I don’t mind taking the meeting for you,” Damon offered. Havannah shook her head.

“No, no. I have to do this. First solo meeting. And I thought you were busy this morning anyway.”

Damon shrugged. It wasn’t as important as seeing what she’d do next. 

To his surprise (and quiet disgust), Havannah quickly drank the last of the coffee, grimaced at its taste, and handed the empty cup to Damon’s waiting hand. He tossed it into the bin and smiled at her with pursed lips, as if sympathetic for her anxiety. 

Damon waited for Havannah to reach the door before calling for her attention again. She paused and looked back at him with her rich chestnut eyes. The air had been perfumed with Havannah’s scent, and the throbbing in Damon’s trousers strained in frustration. Be careful, he was going to say, but spite weighed down his tongue.

“Yeah?” Havannah asked, hand poised to pull the door open. Damon turned his attention back to the paperwork in front of him, allowing himself to seem adrift, as if she had misheard him saying her name.

“Never mind, that’s everything. Have fun.”

***

Claire Hallett had often wondered what it would be like to live alone; to be spared from nagging, to live the way she wanted to live, to be - in a word - free. 

In the shadow of her older sister’s death, there was no longer a reason to wonder, and to do so would be to invite disappointment. The novelty of the situation had quickly worn thin against the bluntness of reality. There were bills to pay, meals to cook, a routine to establish. Without someone else to guide her, Claire had quickly found herself feeling unmoored, lost in a stream of days that seemed both endless and short. Bin collections were missed, bills were forwarded to her dad well past their due date, and the once spotless house had descended into pockets of chaos, clutter collecting on surfaces and in piles on the floor, things living wherever they lay.

She had nobody, saw nobody, and slept most nights downstairs. The sofa had become her bed, and the shopping channel was both her lullaby and the closest thing to company Claire could find. Even Envy - supposedly her best friend - wasn’t responding to her messages.

Worse than feeling unmoored, Claire felt becalmed - a word she had found during one of her more manic episodes, rifling through her mum’s old paper dictionary for something, anything, that might help her to define how she felt inside. Becalmed. Unable to move, as a ship without wind to fill its sails, caught in the stillness of a vast ocean. And like such a vessel, Claire too was haunted by the sea. When she thought about the night the pier was burning overhead and the way flame-licked waves lashed at her, Claire could hear the water, smell the salt burning her nostrils in the present. On those occasions, she would choke, imaginary oceans rising with her fear.

Most nights, she dreamt of drowning in the same way her sister had, coughing and spluttering and struggling against the waves; most mornings, she woke as if spat out by the sea, sprung to life and gasping for sweet air.

This morning was one of the better mornings, a gentle awakening as she peeled open sticky eyelids. As had become the norm, Claire found herself weighted to her place on the sofa, face squashed against a cushion, hair a wild bundle of dull blonde hay. She ran her tongue over dry lips and furry teeth, before reaching for the half-drunk bottle of off-brand cola she’d bought for sixty pence at the local corner shop. With a nervous scratching of blunted fingernails, Claire had mindlessly itched the label free of the bottle, leaving behind a hardened snail trail of glue between patterns of greasy fingerprints. The cola had long lost its fizz, and it was cold to drink only because the house itself was cold. She forced the overly-sweet, once-fizzy drink down, coating her dry throat rather than easing it. A cough and a splutter followed, then a belch, and the tightening of the screw top lid over the faint imprint of her lips, as if there were still bubbles left to preserve. Claire held the bottle up to her eye level. What little light could make it through the blinds illuminated its contents. She swirled the remnants around, and lamented reaching the end so soon. More would need to be added to the shopping list. 

The problem was that, as with most things in her mind these days, the list was never fixed; there was no guarantee Claire would even remember this moment upon entering the shop. Convinced of some delusion of adulthood that could be achieved by an organised shopping trip, Claire decided to leave the sofa to actually commit the words to a physical list. Rising from the sofa seemed to take more effort these days, heavy limbs unused to contorting themselves into shapes once considered to be ordinary. With creaking clumsiness, Claire clattered across the room to the breakfast bar. There, in the kitchen drawers, she scrambled for a pen, pawing at the odd battery, a miscellaneous cable, some loose change, bits of plastic she didn’t recognise. The last list had vanished among takeaway containers and tissues, so she started a new one. With a dried up biro, the word cola was scratched onto the back of a receipt torn from the plastic bag a Chinese takeaway had arrived in. This small feat brought with it a moment of triumph, fleeting and minor.

Free to ponder other thoughts, Claire became acutely aware of the grumbling in her stomach. Each morning, the traipse from the sofa to the kitchen kept her poised for disappointment, a hunter on the search for food in a barren land. At some point, the roiling hunger would subside, exhausted by itself - which usually bought a few hours of peace, at least. Until then, each glance inside the bare cupboards would worsen the sensation. Despite being braced for a miserable collection of odds and ends, Claire pulled on the cupboard handles, thought about how the hinges needed to be fixed, and reviewed her spoils as if they would be any different to the day before. They weren’t. Pity - held for herself and her own situation - seemed to worsen the gurgling neediness in the pit of her stomach.

After the first two weeks of being alone - that hellish fortnight when the police would come by and her dad’s new wife would call about funeral arrangements - all that remained from her sister’s final grocery run was an open bag of flour, a tin of chickpeas, a squeezed tube of tomato puree, and some lentils spilling from a split bag. 

Since then, Claire had survived on takeaways and frozen meals from the closest shop. Naturally, any money she'd accumulated ran out quickly. Donations given by the local community, totalling a little in the way of six thousand pounds, had been burnt through in much the same way. The student loan payments she had naively waited on never arrived, because - as the woman from Student Finance politely pointed out - Claire had never enrolled. In fact, she’d never even informed the university that she wouldn't be attending. It had fallen to her overdraft to keep Claire fed a little longer, but there was no replacing the patience and attention she’d received; that evaporated almost as quickly as the money.

Sometimes, as she lay on the sofa staring mindlessly at the television, Claire would consider getting a job. But where to start? Who would have her? What if someone came to the house while she was out? What if she came home? Her sister might wander in one day, glance around looking for Claire, and then traipse up to her old bedroom, waiting to be discovered wet and shivering beneath the duvet. It was far-fetched, but there was a chance, right? Even if the body had been identified by Claire's own eyes and voice, tearing and croaking at the sight of her sister lying on the slab. They'd cleaned up the gash on her forehead where iron railings had struck the bone. A sharp twinge had slid into Claire's own skull when she saw it. The night played out there and then, flashes standing in for Claire's participation. The police officer guided her breath through the panic, but she felt herself go limp, hoping he would catch her. Shock, they’d said. Nothing about guilt. Nobody suspected guilt.

In truth, Claire didn't remember much of that night. Or perhaps… maybe she didn’t want to remember, pulling a black curtain around the memory. Even so, the truth occasionally glinted threateningly through the veil, vicious stars that knew the truth. It had seemed easier to faint rather than be confronted with what she’d done in front of people whose sympathy momentarily maintained her.

Straying too close to these thoughts - to that night, to what she had done, to the sight of her sister’s pale corpse lying on a slab - felt like trying to wriggle free of a hundred knives, all pointed at Claire, all poised to plunge into her at the mere attempt of confronting the guilt reflected in their blades. When that happened - when she thought about holding her sister beneath the waves, felt the faint resistance, remembered the heat of her fury - Claire could feel the sharp edges pressing against her skin, felt the sea rising at her feet and suddenly in her throat. Breathing became a chore, and she would gag on saltwater that wasn't there. She can’t breathe, she can’t breathe. The voice would echo relentlessly, on and on and on and–

Her mind had wandered.

Claire shook herself free of the tangents, pushing away the imaginary blades with nervous, jerking movements. The waves that had risen to consume her retreated back into the sea, leaving Claire frozen in the silent kitchen, the fingers of one hand still wrapped around the cupboard handle. Three heavy, dozy blinks followed. In her tightened grip, the cupboard handle had impressed its shape into Claire’s palm and she anchored herself to the sensation. The sound of crashing waves fell into the distance, replaced by the rustling of plastic as she reached for the last packet of instant noodles. With that, the supplies from her most recent foraging trip would be depleted. Claire slammed the cupboard door shut, then swung it open to repeat the action a second time. And then a third time - extra hard - just to be sure. If the world was watching, then they needed to know that she was just as angry at herself as they would be, if the truth was known.

At the kitchen island, Claire rummaged around for a bowl clean enough to use - one, perhaps, that she had already cooked instant noodles in a few days earlier. Of course, the flavours might run into one another, but that was tolerable; at least she’d be able to eat. 

There was nothing clean from which she could, nor was there a bowl not submerged in dirty water. A plate wouldn’t suffice. It was a small irritation, needling under the skin until it became unbearable. A jolt of impatient fury twitched at her limbs, and Claire threw the noodles against the wall. For a moment, her breath was caught between a rage-filled scream and readying herself to burst into tears of regret. Woefully, she picked the packet up from the floor and felt the snapped noodles crumble and crunch beneath her fumbling fingers. Upon noticing the bag hadn’t split, relief drew back the tears forming, leaving them to pool rather than fall. She was almost tempted to throw the packet again, jumping up and down on what was left of the noodles until they became dust. Instead, the packet landed with a sad crumpling sound on the worktop, abandoned. 

Thirst was chosen over hunger - a need with far less effort. Rather than search in vain for a glass, Claire leaned over the sink, holding her unwashed hair back over the top of one shoulder, so that she might drink from the tap. As she lapped at the water like a feral cat, Claire was mindful to keep her chin turned upwards in an awkward stance. To do otherwise would be to risk her skin coming into contact with the mountain of dirty dishes that had accumulated in the sink.

The stagnant water had become cold days ago, turning milky at the contact of grease from a frying pan. A week earlier, sausages had been fried with glee after the discovery of a tenner hidden in the left-most kitchen drawer. The sizzling of their skin and the bursting forth of juices in the pan had drowned out the misery for a little while, and she had treated herself until her stomach was swollen from hot meat, bursting with fat. The pan and a plate had since been left to rot in the sink, somewhere towards the top of the pile. Now, with her nose so close to the rank, greasy water, Claire licked her lips, all the while wishing that she’d made the sausages last longer.

Withdrawing from the tap, Claire discovered that, despite her best efforts, the tip of her hair had indeed greeted the surface of the scummy water. A different, more familiar sensation rose in her. She swore loudly first, inspecting the wetness as she searched for something to dry her hair with. Then the fury pulsed through her limbs and a scream accompanied the jolting of her arm as she sent the empty paper towel stand flying across the room. The metal stand clunked against the wall, chipping away a small chunk of plaster. Heat bloomed beneath Claire's cheeks, worsened by the feeling of her own fingers pulling at her hair. The fire started to recede when the tears formed, her own anger extinguished by agony.

Sobbing and desperate, Claire stomped over to the sofa, throwing cushions and blankets to the floor in the search for her phone. With fussy limbs and furious fingers, she snatched it from between the sofa cushions and pecked at the worn screen until Victor's messages appeared. 

Sometimes, his picture - a serious young man kept captive in a small circle at the top of the screen - gave her some comfort. No matter how alone she felt, there he was; Victor couldn’t ever leave her, no matter how far he went. After all, once upon a time, they had been a couple - not a successful pairing, but by then, Claire had grown into the habit of lying to herself. She would justify every infraction big or small with a reminder that they had been teenagers. After all, what more could have been expected at that age? 

Now, Claire could boast independence - she was living alone and responsible for herself; surely that proved some maturity? It was those fanciful lies that had laced her life with a disingenuous hope.

The message was first typed with great hesitation, then rewritten three more times: the initial draft was too pleading, the second too vague. The third version was logically sound, but lacked persuasion. And so she settled on the fourth version: 

SOS. Need money. You owe me. 

The response, pointed and swift, arrived mere seconds after she had sent her own:

Fuck off. 

This simply made Claire angrier at her own plight. She wanted to crush the phone with her bare grip, to reach into her torso and silence the grumbling stomach, to rage and scream at the universe for causing her such misery. The alternative was to direct her frustration at Victor instead.

The photo taken that night beneath the pier had become the most precious item in the world to Claire. With it in her possession, she could get the whole world's attention at her whim. If anything, she reckoned there was restraint and charity in how she instead leveraged the image to keep Victor in her orbit, trapped alone in her pull, the only one left.

Covering half the screen with her hand so as to block out her sister’s lifeless body in the water, Claire traced the image once again with her eyes. The flash had surprised Victor, whose skin had paled to an unrecognisable hue, the summer washed away from his pores. Even with her hand obscuring the lower half, Claire could recall the rest of the image, cold waves lapping against her palm. Without a doubt, people would see Victor holding a victim and declare him a villain without a trial. 

Her stomach fell silent, trading hunger for fear as a daring voice challenged herself to let a finger or two slip away, to let the sight of her murdered sister slip through the gap in a cruel act of self-torture.

She was drifting again. 

Blinking back to reality, she kept her hand where it was, carefully keeping her crime from view. The photo was sent to Victor, and Claire’s worries eased, knowing that her ex-boyfriend would have no other option but to obey. Then again… She knew that there was a limit to this pursuit, preferring to ration her reliance on the photo. But this was a desperate time and the cupboards were bare. In anticipation, Claire squeezed her eyes shut, silently wishing to get her own way.

The phone buzzed. A banking notification. Twenty pounds, received from Victor. It was a glimmer of hope, even at the realisation that the money would be immediately swallowed by the gaping maw of her overdraft. Still, it was a victory. She could eat.

Then, an accompanying message arrived on the second buzz:

That's all I can spare. Don't text again.

That would be the last time; she’d used up her leverage faster than expected. And yet, Claire felt confident that Victor would be generous again, if pushed.

Relieved and charmed by the gesture, Claire hugged her phone closely and shrugged off any hopelessness. Excitedly, she tore off a piece of a brown paper bag and set about scribbling a new shopping list onto it - all in sight of a forgotten receipt with cola scratched onto the back.

***

In the harsh winter light, Wonderland Arcade was anything but wondrous; without the dark against which to flash, the bulbs were cold and quiet, and without the sunshine to draw in punters, the air was empty of any laughter. The lingering scent of cold grease and piss further undermined the supposed magic of Wonderland. Worse still, the arcade’s doors remained locked tight upon Havannah’s arrival, leaving her to wallow in the arcade’s unwelcome approach. 

As she peered through the glass, only the strange, unlit shapes of gaming machines - gargoyles frozen by the intrusion of the sun - were visible. Without the usual blinking and pinging noises, the arcade was more akin to a graveyard. A great unease swelled in Havannah’s stomach and prickled at her neck; she was witness to something not for anybody’s eyes, a place best left unattended to. It was a school corridor at night, the empty seats of an auditorium hours before the show, an arcade too early in the morning to be flashing with life. 

A hand ventured from Havannah’s coat pocket and formed a bridge between her forehead and the coldness of the tinted glass. With a little more shadow, she could better survey the subdued playground. The only sign of Howie, Wonderland’s owner, was a weak glow of light at the far end of the arcade, signalling the location of the back door leading to his office. Havannah took her hand away and swapped, allowing one to shelter in the warmth of her coat while the other took up its duty. This time, her hand balled into a fist that rapped lightly against the glass door. Havannah shivered at the contact.

Get a fucking grip, Hav, she muttered to herself. The winter air betrayed her, turning self-addressed whispers into telling curls of steam. Any steeling the freezing sea had provided during her morning swim had started to diminish. 

Out of something between impatience and desperation to be back in the warmth, Havannah knocked once more, this time slamming both palms until the doors shook. After four or five bangs against the glass, she leaned in close again, squinting for any sign of Howie. 

In the distance, the glow oozed out into the dark as the office door swung open. A figure emerged, seemingly finishing with getting dressed - a forceful thrust of a white shirt into the waistband of jeans, a fumbling with their zipper, a quick sweeping of unkempt hair behind his ear. This was the Howie she remembered.

Havannah took a step back from the door, watching as the arcade owner attempted to disguise any previous actions by whistling and spinning his keyring around a prone finger. Despite his best performance, it was obvious he’d already spotted her, yet still he overplayed his surprise at seeing Havannah outside. Swallowing her disdain, she gave Howie her best business smile (not too friendly, but warm enough to charm him), and held onto her bag with both hands. Howie fiddled with the locks, mouthing something inaudible to her, and then the door clicked and opened. The morning light leapt insight and dust gathered to dance in a sunbeam, swirling and turning, a murmuration caught in the flow of humans moving about without any notion of consequence. Howie held the door aside with a cheesy grin, sweeping his arm to welcome Havannah with mock grace.

“Come in, come in!” he fussed, closing the door behind her and lowering a bolt at the foot. He shook the handle to test it was still locked. In turn, the dust had faded from view with the sunbeam’s exclusion, the arcade plunging back into its eerie hibernation. 

On this side of the door, Havannah felt like an intruder on a kingdom of sleepers. Unfortunately, she was stuck in conversation with their king, who seemed far more wide awake than was normal for the time of day.

“I was expecting Damon, but who am I to deny a pretty girl?” Howie said in a slimy half-chuckle, though Havannah wasn’t in on the joke.

“Yes, sorry. He sends his apologies. You have me instead.” She broadened the beam of her smile until it strained her cheeks uncomfortably.

Howie turned away. In the reflection of a nearby claw machine, Havannah caught sight of his pale tongue licking dry lips. She shivered; maybe it was better out in the cold.

The arcade owner led them both between the stacks of quiet machines. In her ear, Havannah could almost make out the ghostly chattering and chirping she was used to hearing when visiting as a child. Part of her wished it wasn’t so silent, that the ghostly clattering of coins wasn’t confined to her imagination. At least then it wouldn’t feel quite so lonely and sorrowful in the dingy arcade.

“Sorry again, by the way. About your dad. I knew Patrick for twenty years – great man,” Howie clarified, glancing over his shoulder at her. Much as they had done on past occasions when she was forced into his company, Howie’s roving eyes left a trail of disgust on Havannah’s skin as they worked their way up and down her body. Later, she would scrub and scrub to remove the feeling from her flesh.

Their eyes met. Howie winked. 

“I wonder how much of him you have about you.”

Eventually, they reached the end of the labyrinthian trail, arriving at a tired office door, barely on its hinges. Up close, the oozing glow Havannah had spotted from the entrance was instead a sickly fluorescent light that spilled onto the faded, once-colourful pattern of the arcade’s carpet.

Again, Howie held the door open for her, and Havannah eased by as best she could without brushing against him, not wishing to suggest more closeness than she was comfortable with. It suddenly occurred to Havannah that she was with a man she didn’t trust, alone in his cramped office, with its leaky tap and walls stained with the scent of cheap bleach and cigarettes. Perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea, and yet…it was business. And, more importantly, it was a chance to prove herself. She clung tighter to the handle of her handbag.

“So,” Howie began, leaning back in his office chair and planting both feet on the desk, hands clasped close to his paunch. The chair looked rickety and soiled, the material fraying at the edges, and it had squeaked as he leaned back. How Damon could take him seriously, Havannah was unsure. “Your dear old dad and I were looking at expanding the arcade’s presence on the pier. Did you know that?”

Howie left the words to hang in the stale air, his face still plastered with a grin that started to look so unnatural that Havannah had first thought he was chewing on something.

“Yes, well, unfortunately circumstances got in the way of that,” she replied, silently declining the offer of a seat. At least standing she could get to the door faster.

“Ha! Act of God bullshit might work on the insurance companies, but I’m no fool,” Howie said, sitting upright now.

The sudden change in demeanour gave Havannah pause. This wasn’t the conversation she’d expected to have.

“Well, as you no doubt know, I’ve picked up where my dad left off.”

“Aye, workin’ with that raggedy little scrote, Damon, I hear. Is that wise?”

“I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Havannah replied, desperate to keep the tremble from her voice. 

There was a proposal lying in her handbag, typed and printed by Damon and ready to hand over. If she could just pull attention towards that, maybe the discomfort of the scene could be lessened. And yet, Howie was on his feet now, prowling closer towards her.

“Be honest. Have you come looking for a better ally? ‘Cause I’d be happy to take care of you, sweetheart.”

The smell of ash and sour breath pressed against her skin as Howie closed the space between them. A fat, discoloured tongue rolled hungrily across his lips as a hand reached towards Havannah’s thigh.

“What… What are you doing?” Havannah froze.

Her mind drifted, lips hushed, and body stopped responding. Everything grew a little hazy, and Havannah imagined never being able to wipe his greasy touch from her body.

“I’m lookin’ after you, ain’t I? Let ol’ Howie play daddy,” he replied in a low growl, blowing hot breath so very close to her ear.

The twisted meaning of the word sickened Havannah even more so than Howie’s breath and clammy hands. But it also angered her - angered her enough to unlock limbs and snap mind and body back together. The scene solidified, and finally she could think and act. 

A hand swatted Howie’s fat, purpling fingers away faster than he could react. While he cradled the offending hand as a scolded child might, she took advantage and backed away. His expression momentarily became one of fear and surprise, but she knew that this was only a brief reprieve before anger and outrage exploded from the arcade owner. In that time, she would need to reach the door and make her way through the arcade’s darkened monuments without a guide. There was only one chance. 

Or…maybe there was another. 

Havannah’s doubts didn’t stand a chance at the mercy of the adrenaline surging through her body; all uncertainty left as the words stumbled past her lips.

“I’m calling Damon,” she yelled, losing control of the volume of her voice.

Acting on her words - but afraid to lose sight of the looming threat - Havannah began rifling through her handbag, gaze leaping between its contents and Howie. Even in the glimpses she snatched, the change in his face was obvious. Lecherous defiance had melted away into pale fear, eyes widening in desperation.

“No, don’t!”

Although the idea that Damon might be summoned so easily had rattled Howie, Havannah knew that her words lacked power without the means to carry out her threat. That’s when Howie took another step forward, still pleading, and Havannah stepped backwards once again. She reached the office door.

Just as the space between them was beginning to shrink, Havannah felt the cool black screen of her phone. She pulled it out, triumphantly, solidifying the warning. Howie froze, then he fell to his knees in a surprising turn.

“Please. I didn’t mean anything by it. It was a joke! Ha-ha! See?” he protested, hands clasped together where Havannah could see them.

“Then back the fuck off,” she commanded, scrolling through her contacts with a thumb, while both eyes remained fixed on the grovelling arcade owner. He shuffled backwards in response.

The last time somebody had been on their knees, begging her to spare them, it had been Victor. His knees had sunk into the wet sand, a broken young man beseeching her for a second chance. Then, she had felt powerful; now, she felt powerless, even with Howie’s resolve crumbling so quickly.

“Throw me the keys.”

Havannah kept her thumb hovering over Damon’s name, the phone turned towards Howie so that he would believe her. He obeyed, pitifully, fumbling for the keys before flinging them to her. As her hand snatched them in mid-air, Havannah could’ve sworn that she spotted a tiny bulge in Howie’s crotch. It disgusted her even more than his breath and his hands and the thought of where the stains on the chair had come from. 

“You’re disgusting,” she spat, before making her escape.

Outside the office, all composure fell away. Havannah fled, running for the icy light of the front doors. All the while, Howie called out appeasements and apologies from behind the door. As Havannah pulled on the bottom bolt and turned the key, Howie’s insistences became protestations and slurs - empty words left to echo between lonely arcade machines.

***

On the walk back to Foxy’s, Havannah drew her coat closer around her. No matter how tightly it was pulled, there was no comfort in the feeling; it was no replacement for what she really needed.

Feeling the last fragments of her composure about to shatter, she stopped along the shoreline and stared out at the waves, rolling slowly away from land. Without the laughter and chatter of the summer crowd, or the warming embrace of the sun and the knowledge that tourist season was still a week or two away, the tide’s silence seemed sinister. It hurried towards them and retreated quickly in a way that made Havannah feel uneasy; like it didn’t want to be caught.

Havannah wiped away water from her cheek. 

The encounter with Howie was beginning to settle in her mind, the pieces of that strange event coming together to form a full picture. She wanted to scream out into the sea, to let the waves take it all away from her, hiding it behind the horizon. Or she wanted to cry, to break down and hunch over, wrenching at her guts as she poured out the disgust and the fear and the anger - oh the anger was the strongest of them all.

Another drop appeared, this time on her bottom lip.

That was the problem: no matter how much Havannah wanted to display some sort of feeling, she couldn’t quite make it happen. Even before she looked up to inspect the cast iron sky, Havannah knew they weren’t tears being wiped from her face, but rain. It was starting to rain.

Turning away from the sea, she continued on to the nightclub, legs hollow and trembling.

“I need a drink,” Havannah declared, heading for Damon’s bar without permission.

He excused the boldness and the lack of a knock on his door purely because there were other, louder signs that he’d noticed: the quiver in her voice, the shake in her hand as she poured vodka from its decanter. Damon knew he was somewhat to blame.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough day.” 

Havannah raised the bottle of scotch in a silent offer of a drink, and Damon nodded at the invitation.

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Damon waited to interrogate until she was sitting opposite him, watching as she carefully carried the cut crystal glasses across the office. She sniffed as she spoke, though there were no signs of tears - no smudged eyeliner or reddened eyes.

“Bad meeting?” he asked, taking the glass offered to him. They briefly tapped the rims together, though Havannah’s gaze was downcast and it was more out of habit than respecting the traditions of their supposed friendship.

Havannah nodded and lowered her attention to the drink now cradled in both hands on her lap. A ripple teased the surface of the vodka, caused by the tremor in her fingertips. A flush of warmth greeted the back of her face, and she suddenly became aware of the fact that she might finally be about to cry. Not in front of Damon. The grip on her cut crystal glass tightened.

“What happened?” 

His asking was a courtesy rather than a curiosity; Howie’s reputation was known to him, and the guilty knot in Damon’s insides was doing well to remind him of that fact. Maybe he shouldn’t have sent her, after all. Or he should’ve spoken up. A surprising flash of rage sprung up deep within.

“Fucking Howie. He’s a fucking pig. No respect, Damon.” Each word was spoken with controlled measure, a pause each time her voice wobbled, and a gulp of air when a syllable threatened to snap in her throat.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you swear twice in a row,” Damon joked. It was all he could do to blanket the confusing concoction of emotions sitting uncomfortably inside of him. It was also the wrong thing to do - he knew that from her glare and the imagined sound of cracking ice in the air. He cleared his throat.

“What did he say, exactly?” he asked, hoping that would be the extent of it. Words he could handle; words he could convince her to brush off.

“It’s not what he said,” Havannah confessed, the memory of Howie’s pallid skin so close to hers leaving a slimy trail across rising goosebumps. She shuddered. Havannah wished she could shrink herself down into the glass, already feeling small and hunched in the chair. This girl - this young woman - was unrecognisable to herself, a stranger sitting in her seat.

“I don’t know what he was going to do.” The tears came now, though they were strained and silent, rather than the great outpouring that Havannah longed for. They trickled down her face, blurring the sight of Damon and occasionally landing in her glass or on her hand. “He fucking groped me, Damon. He put his filthy, sticky fucking hands on me and…and…”

If Damon felt one way or another, he made no show of it. His teasing smirk lingered a little longer, but so subtly vanished from his hardening face that it was difficult to tell if it had ever been there at all. He moved his glass in a clockwise motion, agitating the scotch so that it spun and climbed the edges. There was the faint sound of a foot tapping impatiently on the ground.

In a different world, Damon would’ve rushed around the desk and held Havannah, reassuring her that everything would be OK; and in another, he would be relishing this reaction, another individual taught not to humiliate him. But in this world, Damon couldn’t be smug, nor could he comfortably show her compassion. It made him want to be sick, or to be torn in two by opposing forces, ripped down the middle so that both possibilities might be realised.

Instead, he drained the scotch and offered Havannah a tissue and comfort of a different kind. Vengeance.

“I could break his kneecaps.” 

At first, Havannah wasn’t sure if she’d misheard him. When the words sunk in, she gave a little laugh while drying her tears. Then she started to wonder - to worry - if he meant it. Or, worse, was he simply trying to placate her as a parent would an upset child?

“That’s kind of you, but I’m probably being silly,” she sniffed, drawing the sadness back inside of herself, pulling it over the threshold of retreat.

“No, you’re not,” Damon reassured. He knew better than to confirm or deny his own threats.

There was a sudden chill in the air. 

Havannah got up and headed to the window, her eyes searching for the comfort of her father in a familiar place. Her gaze rested on the pier’s twisted form, the sight still discomforting to behold, like a lurching on the edge of the world. She hoped now more than ever that Patrick was indeed out there somehow, watching from across the road.

Havannah didn’t hear the chair being pushed back from behind the desk and Damon’s quiet approach until he was beside her, staring out at the same spot.

“I’m sorry, Havannah. I’m not great at stuff like this,” he said, the honesty leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. “But I’m also protective – Patrick was like a mentor to me. I feel responsible for you.”

“Well, you’re not,” Havannah replied without taking her eyes away, still searching the wreckage, still hoping for a sign from her dad. 

Damon’s hand squeezing her shoulder only tightened Havannah’s body, but before she could say anything in reaction, he spoke with a low, calming voice. His breath, unlike Howie’s, seemed pleasant, welcome, warming.

“It’s not helping. Looking out there. It’s upsetting you.”

Her skin prickled in response, as if his words had sunken into the back of her neck, massaging the muscle and soothing the nerves. Havannah stepped away and knotted her brow in glaring frustration. Damon’s hand fell back to his side, so he slipped it into his pocket. He didn’t like loose ends.

“I’m upset, Damon, because nobody takes me seriously – you included. I had a man touch me this morning. Do you think he would’ve done that to my dad? To you? Then, to make matters worse, I can feel you pressuring me to sell the pier.”

The slightest grimace rippled across Damon’s face at the accusation, though more out of annoyance at himself for a lack of subtlety than embarrassment at being caught. He obscured the reaction with a performance.

“You’re right. Shit, you’re right. I’m sorry. I should’ve spoken to you first and I was a coward about it.”

Leaning against the wall, he began squeezing his eyes with his thumb and index finger in much the same way he did while alone, locked in the office until the lights came on in the club below. Havannah almost felt sorry for him but remained rooted in place. Damon sighed and folded his arms now, looking down at Havannah with a softened expression as he turned his head a little to see out of the window.

“I’ll deal with Howie. Promise.” It was the least he could offer her.

“And by deal with it, you don’t mean we’ll read about a body in the news tomorrow?” Havannah asked, her turn to tease. “As much as I wouldn’t mind.”

Damon smirked in reply and nudged her gently with his elbow.

“I’ll deal with it.”

“Thank you.”

Havannah made her way back to the bar for a refill.

“And is there any way I can convince you to speak to Olivier? About buying the pier? Honestly, he’s a nice guy. I think you’d like him.”

The glass topper sunk back into the decanter with a faint chime, undermined by the scraping of worn glass against worn glass. Damon clenched his teeth.

“This is business, Damon – I don’t think being nice comes into it very often,” Havannah said, bringing him over a fresh scotch. He glanced at the desk. She’d used a clean glass; his was still exactly where he had left it. The clenching grew worse, his cheeks hollowing as he took the drink.

“You’re starting to sound like me,” Damon reflected, sipping the scotch in the hopes of loosening his jaw. When Havannah was gone, he would clean the glasses, reset the bar, and be at peace surrounded by the order he’d cultivated. Until then, there would be minor suffering for the greater good - his greater good.

“Hmmm. That’s a worrying thought,” Havannah remarked. 

She was staring far away, limbs wrapped around one another. One leg crossed another, keeping her steady as she swayed; an arm clutched her midsection while the other held the glass close to her collarbone. It was all in the name of contemplation, though Damon could only consider how uncomfortable it must be.

Then, the words drifted out, wandering from the depths of Havannah’s thoughts.

“Maybe I can set an example for you boys.” Her attention snapped back to Damon. “I’ll listen to what he says. But honestly? I don’t think I’m ready to sell.”

“You might change your mind once you get to know him,” Damon offered, relishing the searing sensation as the final gulp of scotch eased down his throat.

“I doubt it. There are too many good memories on that pier.” 

In the distance, a lone seagull cried out, and for a moment, summer didn’t feel quite so far away. Damon traced the line from Havannah’s eyes, returning to where they had once again settled. The blackened shell of the pier stared back with both love and menace. Damon chose his next words carefully.

“And how many of those memories can you enjoy when you have that,” he pointed at the pier, his finger tapping the window, “as a reminder?”

There was a pregnant pause, during which Damon restrained himself against saying anything else, lest he interrupt his words from doing their work.

“I suppose you’re right,” Havannah sighed, finally. She handed him the glass - the second vodka still untouched - and let gratitude write itself across her face. “Thanks Damon. For looking out for me.”

“Any time.” He hid his grimace well, buried beneath a veneer of care. But in truth, Damon could feel frustration building inside of him once more. Any guilt he’d felt over sending Havannah to Howie without warning was burnt away in the face of it, and now his restraint was beginning to fail.

Then, Havannah leaned closer and kissed him just below the cheek. It was a simple gesture, a light contact of lips to stubble, but it was enough to calm Damon’s ire - and to excite him in other ways.

No other words were said. Havannah left Damon standing by the window, two glasses in his hands - one empty, one holding a double measure of vodka. He knocked the clear spirit back, body too numb to gasp at the sting that rose through his nostrils.

Alone with only the echo of Havannah’s presence, Damon considered the possibility that maybe his frustration had pushed Kristi away all those months ago; maybe that was why she never truly accepted his care. That wouldn’t happen again. 

This time, Damon would prove how far he’d go.

***

The spoils from Claire’s latest shop run - courtesy of Victor’s donation - were barely unpacked when she heard the familiar knock at the front door. Using a specific rhythm to allow Claire to distinguish him from everybody else was just one of the small kindnesses that Rahim had shown her in the weeks they had known each other. There was gratitude, even if it was unspoken and unacknowledged on Claire’s part.

Leaving the ice cream recklessly on the worktop, Claire skipped over to the door excitedly. If she blinked, it was possible to glide between a library of snapshots, each one a repeat of this exact moment, spread across weeks and days. 

Their paths had crossed in autumn. Rahim stood on her doorstep, holding a homemade lasagne covered in wrinkled tin foil. My mum made it for you, he’d said, offering it to her with both hands. His timing had been impeccable; only a day or so earlier, Claire had failed to make a meal of the remaining lentils and tomato puree, and she had yet to pluck up the courage to plunge into her overdraft to afford a takeaway.

Aside from hunger, there was the feeling of curiosity. In all their time living in that house, neither Claire, nor her sister - nor even their own mother - had ever really thought to enquire as to their neighbours’ names, their jobs, their lives. The three women simply kept to themselves. And yet, here was Rahim, a beaming eighteen-year-old boy holding a dish all for her as a gesture of neighbourly charity from Mrs Qureshi. 

Greedily, she took the dish inside, leaving Rahim at the door. He was polite though, asking her if he could come in. A quick sweep of the living room woke Claire up to the reality that the house was no longer kept to the same standards as it had once been. Containers and wrappers, used paper towels and empty bottles…and that was all in sight before the kitchen came into view. Frantically, she had declined, regretting it some time after he’d left with his hands in his hoodie pockets - and even more so once the lasagne dish was empty.

But he came back. He always came back. They swapped dishes, her handing over the original, unwashed, which he exchanged for a fresh curry or a pasta bake. The food adjusted in response to Claire’s whims, mumbled complaints about spiciness or the inclusion of tofu. While she might have felt alone in the house and without anybody in the world, there was still a little hope in the moments she saw Rahim on her doorstep.

Eventually, she had let him in. He didn’t seem to mind the mess, and was respectful about the situation with her sister. He didn’t pry or ask much of her, and never judged Claire for her slovenly state. At a time when Envy wouldn’t take her best friend’s calls and her ex only interacted with her at the threat of extortion, Claire was soothed to have a true friend.

Even with Rahim’s regular visits, however, there was no comfort to be found in certainty; Claire never expected him to return. Why would she? Everybody else had left.

Before the self-pity could flourish any further, Rahim knocked again and the slideshow of doorstep moments came flickering to an end.

In the present, Rahim greeted Claire with the same, predictably warm smile. His perfect teeth dazzling in the winter gloom, and a chilling breeze ruffled the sweep of his fringe, but the parting stayed firm and he didn’t shiver - even as he waited patiently for Claire to grant entry.

Respectfully, Rahim shuffled his feet across the doormat to drag off any mud clinging to the soles of his trainers. It seemed futile given the filthy state inside, but the gesture mattered most of all. As always, he hid any reaction to his surroundings behind the scenery of his warmth.

“You OK?” Claire threw her arms around him, dancing a little on the spot. He giggled with restraint, allowing the hug while keeping hold of a round ceramic pie dish. “Careful. I’ve got a fish pie.” 

Noting that Claire had ignored him, Rahim could do nothing but acquiesce. When pressed against his own, her skin threatened to leech all the heat. The house was almost as cold as the outside, yet she was in nothing more than small shorts and a spaghetti-string top, bare flesh exposed to the winter air. Fighting his reflexes, Rahim didn’t jolt in surprise at the cold touch, nor did he inhale through his nostrils, knowing that he would be greeted by the sour scent of sweat and the putrid odor of unwashed dishes.

Despite the newness of their friendship, it was obvious to Rahim that Claire wasn’t looking after herself. Strands of her already unruly hair were still wet and greasy from coming into contact with the sink some hours earlier, and she’d noticeably lost weight again - despite the weekly deliveries of home-cooked meals.

Before he could let any pity reflect in his expression, Claire relinquished her grasp on Rahim and skipped back to the kitchen to tend to the ice cream.

“You’re in a good mood! Can I help with anything?” he asked, placing the fish pie on the counter.

“You just sit down and relax, I’m all good,” Claire exclaimed, plastic bags rustling as she dug her way through them. “I went shopping and thought I could make us something for dinner!”

The energy was unsettling. Or perhaps it was the contrast of her manic happiness against the dingy surroundings in which it was playing out. 

Rahim hovered for a moment, almost considering taking a seat. He scanned the open plan living room and kitchen, divided only by the angle of the breakfast bar. Although he had seen her clean - had even helped on occasion - the place seemed even filthier than before. There were no lights on, though the shopping channel continued to play quietly, two presenters explaining the product to nobody but themselves. And yet, despite the lack of heating and light and the growing presence of dust and mould, Claire seemed to sparkle with delight at the small pleasures she was unpacking from the plastic bag: some toilet roll, a few tins of meatballs in tomato sauce, some cheap cola with a bright red label, and other bits and pieces which he was struggling to imagine as cohesive ingredients in a dish fit for human consumption.

“Ah, sorry! My mum’s got some food on the go.” 

A bag of frozen peas dangled from Claire’s clutches as she paused, the other hand reaching into the freezer. Her expression dropped. She pressed the back of her hand against the ice forming above the drawer, applying more pressure when the disappointment started to bubble to the surface.

“Oh. That’s OK. I should’ve asked,” she mumbled, releasing her hand and shoving the peas between the mounting ice.

“But I can hang out for a bit,” Rahim added, brightly, in the hope that it would soften Claire’s temper. He pulled a USB stick from his pocket and held it up as proof that he’d thought of her. “I thought we could watch that new Christian Bale movie.”

“You always know just what to say.” Claire smiled at the gesture - another kindness that had endeared him to her - and pushed the freezer door shut, continuing to blush lightly as Rahim fiddled with the wall-mounted television.

Suddenly, another knock - unfamiliar, formal, and loud. The attention it demanded and the authority it wielded automatically plunged Claire’s stomach into the depths of panic. She watched as Rahim leaned to one side for a better view through the blinds. She knew what he was going to say even before he reported back.

“It’s the police.” 

The smile had faltered, but the voice remained gentle, sympathetic. It reassured Claire, even as her feet began to feel hollow. The rising waves made themselves heard again.

“Shit. Shit. Shit, shit,” she murmured, frantically.

Seeing Claire’s body fold over, hands desperately fumbling at her chest, Rahim hurried to be by her side. Soft, attentive hands were placed upon her bare arms for stability, before his head lowered to ensure their eyes met. 

“Hey, it’s OK. Take a deep breath for me.”

The instruction was calming, caring. Claire obeyed, falling into the well-rehearsed rhythm of inhalation and exhalation.

“Sorry, I just…I freak out. It reminds me of…it reminds me…of…the day…” 

Gasps of air fell trapped between words as Claire struggled to stay still. Taking his cue, Rahim let go. Out of mercy, he finished her thought. 

“It reminds you of the day they came to tell you abou-”

“Please, Rahim,” she interrupted, panicked by the chance of hearing the one name she had avoided saying all this time.

The sound of the ocean was louder in her ears now, drowning out even the thumping pulse and the second round of knocks. 

“Will you answer for me? Please?” The pleading became breathless. 

What else could he do? Rahim nodded and smiled, as he had become accustomed to doing. Looking at the young woman pacing in front of him, two or three years older than he was, Rahim felt an overwhelming sense of pity. The base of her cuticles were torn and raw from where she had picked and nibbled at the skin with her teeth, her skin was pale and oily, and the presence of so much grease had dulled the blonde tones in her hair. She was helpless.

Consumed by his own sympathy, Rahim headed for the door.

From her vantage point, hidden in the kitchen, Claire could only glimpse part of a police officer’s vibrant vest. Everything else was blocked out by Rahim’s slender frame and the door, which he had pulled close to himself as yet another show of kindness. She appreciated the gesture, thought about how kind he was, how handsome, and then remembered the awkwardness that time she had put a hand on his knee while watching a film. I’m gay, he’d said, and Claire had to pretend that she didn’t feel the stab of loneliness worsening in her chest. Instead, she had smiled and nestled her head onto his shoulder, pretending not to feel the aching desire to cross an invisible boundary and make him fall in love with her. Until that happened, she would need to simply be grateful for Rahim’s company and everything he did for her.

“She’s not available at the moment,” she heard him say. There were further muffled words spoken, and then the crinkling of a plastic bag being handed from one party to the other. “Thanks, officers,” Rahim said, before shutting the door behind him.

“What is it? What did they want?” Claire asked, frantically, throat dry and eyes wild. She approached him and, in her wake, faint impressions of each step were left on the laminate. If there were any questions as to her reaction on Rahim’s part, they had surely evaporated in the same way as the vanishing footprints.

“Everything’s fine! It’s all OK. They’ve gone. They were just dropping this off.”

Rahim presented an evidence bag, whose contents were sparse enough that the bag itself could be neatly folded in half and half again. Claire’s eyes dismissed the barcode and the printed lines where details had been scrawled in a fading blue biro, fixated instead on the shining black rectangle with a crack across its face. He tried to offer it to her again, but Claire simply stared at it, and then leaned in closer, an animal sniffing out an untrustworthy morsel. Rahim’s arm started to ache, and so he dropped it to his side as he continued, “They apologised - said it got stuck in processing or something?” 

There was no reaction. Enraptured by its contents, Claire’s eyes had fixed themselves upon the evidence bag, and she now watched it hang at Rahim’s side, unblinking and cold.

“It’s…it’s your sister’s phone,” he tried, on the off-chance that the reaction was confusion, or that Claire simply needed the facts to bring her back to reality.

This time, when Rahim raised the bag to try handing it to Claire, she snatched it from him feverishly, pulling and wrenching the sealing strip open so that her hand could dive in and retrieve the last possession her sister had touched. It rested in both hands, held as a holy relic for Claire’s worship.

“It’ll probably need a charge,” Rahim pointed out, feeling increasingly separated from the situation. Claire wasn’t listening, just inspecting the cracked phone instead, and whatever was happening beneath the surface of her pale, unwashed skin, she was keeping to herself. A single greasy finger traced across the phone’s scar, while the crashing of waves grew ever greater in Claire’s mind. Had it always been like this? Or was this a mark left by their altercation on the pier? She almost cried simply at not being able to remember such details, only to begin frantically wiping the screen with the hem of her stained top at realising she had left a trail of fingerprints smeared across the glass. 

Rahim, meanwhile, had stepped away to give Claire some space. Instead of interrogating or comforting her, he peered down the side of the sofa for the charger he knew lived partially between cushions, and partially draped onto the floor beside the coffee table. He followed its trail, unplugged it, and returned to Claire.

“May I?” he asked gently, offering to take the phone. Nervously, Claire eyed the palm, refusing to part with the fragment of her sister. Rahim smiled though, and she felt herself waning. “It’ll be alright, I promise. It’ll need some charge though.”

Tentatively, Claire placed the mobile phone in his hand and watched closely as he connected the cable and then inserted the plug in the kitchen, slowly showcasing each action to her as he did, a parent demonstrating safety to a child.

After a moment, the screen lit up, presenting a little battery icon slowly filling up with green liquid. Claire wondered what kind of liquid could ever be that green, though the deafening tide swept the musing away almost as quickly as it had arrived. 

Knowing there was no chance she would wait until the battery was at a hundred percent, Rahim made a suggestion. “We can try turning it on now, if you like?”

Claire stared at the phone and returned her torn cuticles back to her front teeth, biting and pulling at the loosened skin. Rahim didn’t do anything until he saw her nodding in silent agreement. Upon gaining her assent, he leaned over the worktop and pressed the power button. Even at one percent, there was enough power to wake the phone - almost as if it was desperate to tell its owner something. How would she ever explain to it that said owner - that her sister - was gone now?

Rahim waited for the loading screen to finish before stepping to one side and raising the phone up in an invitation for Claire to input the pin code. She knew it, of course: the sisters used one another’s date of birth - the eldest because it was a number she remembered, the youngest because it was a number she otherwise forgot. Still, she made a show of tapping the numbers on the screen with a trembling finger, finally putting it in correctly on the third attempt. Sure enough, as suspected, a notification leapt up on the screen:

You have two voicemails. Listen now? 

Rahim looked at Claire, searched her face and her widening eyes for any sign of her intentions.

“Well? What do you want to do?” he asked, softly.

***

Daylight gave way to the dark with so little resistance in winter, that it was easy to mistake the late afternoon gloom for the tailend of the evening. 

Wonderland arcade was busier than Damon had expected it to be in the depths of January. Like moths gathering around a light, passers-by had been lured through the door, crowding around the machines closest to the street, as if to pass any further inside would mean entrapment in the blinking lights.

All year round, the patrons varied so greatly, but in winter the locals moved in recognisable packs: passing families encouraged by a dad playing down his own secret enthusiasm; clusters of daytime drunks looking for a way to delay their return home; even the occasional group of teens huddling around one friend who had the best skill and most spare change. Damon realised he wouldn’t know what to do with such a strange mix of people visiting his own business, yearning instead for the variety of summer - of strangers and tourists visiting their town to spend fresh, outsider money.

Overhead, hundreds of lightbulbs buzzed, bleaching the entrance with a light that seemed both blazing and pale at the same time. Usually, nobody would look up towards the blinding lights, too entranced by the pinging and whizzing and excited ding-ding-ding from inside. If they did, they would see that some bulbs were dead, others fading. Damon found himself searching out the dead ones as he finished his cigarette. Each of the cold bulbs gave some comfort from the glare of the others, a cooling relief from the otherwise eye-watering illuminations. 

Nearby, one of the drunk lads won, and his entire group roared in accomplishment against the sound of coins pouring into the curved tray. Damon rolled his eyes at what he knew must have been a small victory; the machine they were playing on pushed two-pence pieces off the edge of a moving platform – it was hardly the lottery. As they cheered for their friend, Damon suspected it would be the most exciting moment of their day before they stumbled home, climbed into bed with their boring girlfriends, and woke up to another instalment in their dull lives the next morning. Pathetic, Damon thought as he went to flick his cigarette stub onto the pavement. A passing couple seemed to watch him with ready judgment, and he reminded himself that he was close to Havannah now – eyes were on him and his first lady. He smiled at the couple and gave them an ‘Evening!’ and a nod as he stubbed the cigarette out on the top of a nearby public bin. They smiled back awkwardly and carried on. Out of sight, Damon’s face dropped to its neutral setting. He looked back at the drunks, scrambling to collect their winnings in an outstretched t-shirt: two fistfuls of copper coins, a keyring, and a lollipop. Unlike them, his fun was just beginning.

Damon passed through the arcade like a shadow, his black coat and stern expression draining the colour from his surroundings. He was not distracted, he was not tempted to stop, even as he passed winners collecting their tickets and coins, only to trade them in for inane prizes or more attempts.

At the back of the arcade, beyond the last coin exchange booth and the neon-lit bar, was the door to Howie’s office. Unlike Foxy’s, there was no staircase and no extra door keeping the arcade’s owner from his kingdom – which made it all the easier for Damon to simply ignore the ‘STAFF ONLY’ sign and walk inside.

In a polite, yet somehow threatening gesture, Damon closed the door behind him, making sure to let it click quietly into place. He waited patiently for Howie to look up from his computer, smiling as the arcade owner jolted in his chair at the sight of the interloper.

“Damon!” he exclaimed with forced happiness, pulling his glasses off and rising from his chair to greet him. Howie offered a handshake, which Damon met with his own firm grip

“Very fancy!” Howie teased, darting his eyes at the expensive coat. Damon smiled back and batted the compliment away.

“Thank you. A gift. I hope I wasn’t interrupting?” he asked.

“No, not at all. To be honest I needed the interruption – this is my fifty-third game of solitaire tonight,” Howie laughed, turning to the rickety table stacked with drinks in the corner. It was a far-cry from Damon’s small bar stocked with expensive spirits and clean glasses; by comparison, Howie’s was just an old side table repurposed to hold a crowded mass of half-empty bottles of corner shop swill.

“Drink?” Howie offered, looking back at Damon with a hopeful grin. He was trying to impress, Damon could tell. The imitation was barely flattering.

“No, thank you,” he replied with a raised hand, suppressing his disgust as he imagined dusty, finger-stained glasses and watered-down bourbon.

“Suit yourself,” Howie shrugged, pottering at the table. He poured from different bottles and stirred the concoction with a crooked finger, which he then sucked on. Then, as he sat back down behind the desk, Howie took a sip of the drink and released a self-congratulatory sigh of contentment.

“So, what can I do for you?”

Damon stepped towards the desk, basking in Howie’s failed attempts to impress him.

“It’s about Havannah.”

“The cigars?”

Damon smiled wryly, closing his eyes and shaking his head as if winning a bet he’d placed against himself. I should’ve known better, the gesture said – or perhaps it could be interpreted as his patience wearing incredibly thin. Either meaning was bad for Howie.

“Oh! Patrick’s girl?” Howie exclaimed with theatrical ignorance, as if the large sip of alcohol he’d just taken had fired up his synapses. “She’s a bit of alright. Are you and her…?”

At this, Howie bounced his eyebrows up and down and let too much of his swollen tongue show. The disgust Damon felt rose sharply, but he never let his smile falter.

“Nothing like that,” he said, approaching the desk. As he moved around it, Howie reached across to the fat, oversized monitor in an attempt to turn the screen away from Damon’s view. He wasn’t fast enough; Damon’s hand slapped the top of the monitor and grabbed the ancient casing. The plastic surface was stained with age and the machine itself was wheezing from beneath the desk, a tall computer that could barely stand under the weight of itself.

Damon bent closer so that his face was almost next to Howie’s as they both looked at the screen. He could see the arcade owner’s sweaty little face redden in the reflection of the manufacturer’s embossed metal badge.

“Solitaire, huh?” Damon asked, his eyes fixed on the two naked women frozen in a wrestling grip on the screen. “You were certainly playing a game for one, huh Howie?” 

“You know how it is…,” Howie joked, a little ashamed and a little nervous by Damon’s proximity. “It’s been a slow night.”

What little strained bonhomie there had been between them suddenly shattered when Damon’s hand moved quickly from the top of the monitor to Howie’s chest, where his fingers bunched the shirt - once white, now greyed by lack of care - together in a gripped knot.

“No, Howie. I don’t know how it is,” Damon said, quietly, every measured word underpinned with a surge of frustration. “Why don’t you tell me.”

Howie reached forward and pushed the monitor’s off button. Damon swatted the hand away, before grabbing the extended finger. He started to bend it backwards and Howie writhed in pain. Damon’s voice lowered to a threatening hum.

“If you ever touch Havannah again – if you ever look at her – I’ll hurt you, Howie. Real bad. You know that, don’t you?”

Teary-eyed and exasperated by the searing sharpness in his digit, Howie nodded frantically. The sweat beading on his forehead was shaken loose by the sudden motion.

“Say it,” Damon demanded, his mouth an inch from the bushy outcrop of Howie’s ear hair.

“I know, Damon. I know. I won’t do it again. Sorry,” the arcade owner muttered, pleadingly.

Damon relinquished his grasp on Howie’s finger and shirt, smoothing the material in a soothing manner as he straightened himself up. The offending finger was nursed by Howie’s opposite hand, before he reached for the glass with a tremble.

“She wasn’t complaining. She wanted it,” he murmured, bringing the glass to his lips.

“What was that, Howie?” Damon asked, stopping to look back down at the pathetic man cowering in his shadow, squeezed into a chair that his flesh strained against.

“I bet she didn’t tell you that, did she? She was asking for it – begging for it,” Howie rambled, his slurring tongue lashing out despite the nervous twitch of his upper lip. The shock of the encounter had been numbed by alcohol and a childish petulance. Damon gave a restrained grin and leaned in closer once again, hands gripping the handles of Howie’s chair as he rotated the arcade owner to face him. They were so close now, that Damon could count the blackheads and the broken blood vessels spreading along either side of Howie’s nostrils.

“Nobody wants you, Howie. You’re a fucking creep.” 

The chair creaked as Damon tightened his grip and pushed down, allowing him to further close the gap between himself and Howie. The other man wouldn’t look at him; he just raised the glass to his lips with a trembling hand and sipped the mixture, stained pale brown by the addition of rum to vodka and peach schnapps.

Damon let go, the chair wobbling in retaliation. He paused at his full height, watching as Howie held his aching finger closely to his chest as if it had been broken. A red flush had risen to the surface of his cheeks, and Damon couldn’t tell if it was the booze, embarrassment, or indignation. Regardless, he would take glee in needling Howie further.

The pregnant pause between them came to a crashing end. Howie shook in his chair as the monitor hit the floor, bursting open and spilling its guts amongst shards of shattered plastic casing. The buzzing stopped, silenced by the relief of being put out of its misery.

“You watch too much porn,” Damon said, drinking in the sight of the stunned and enraged Howie.

He slipped out of the office to the tune of Howie’s emotional cries and shouted slanders, smirking as he passed unnoticed between the machines once again.

Outside the arcade, back under the glow of the lightbulbs and in earshot of the waves, the sparse collections of people had dispersed; the drunks had taken their meagre winnings to the pub, interest had waned among the families, and the teens had skulked off home to the dinner waiting for them. 

Damon paused, letting the fresh air cleanse his nostrils of Howie’s stench.

Although the street was now almost empty, the only noise coming from the tide ahead of him and the arcade behind, there was the distinct feeling that somebody was watching. But scanning the odd passer-by and the occasional car did nothing to give away where the stare was coming from, his eyes failing to catch anybody watching. Out of suspicion and the half-expectation that Howie would be heading towards him, harassed and incensed, Damon looked back into the depths of the arcade. 

Nothing. There was no one heading in his direction from behind and nobody living was paying him any attention.

He turned to scout out the cars parked along the road. The headlights of a blue car lit up, suddenly. Over the top of the glare, Damon could see the driver - a man about his age - concentrating on steadying his vehicle to leave. He seemed more bothered by the proximity of the red and silver cars parked alongside him than he was by Damon’s presence, and so he was discounted.

As Damon lit a cigarette and disregarded the departing blue car, his stomach lurched, fight or flight darting from possibility to possibility.

Sometimes, in the darkest moments of the night, when he was totally alone and there were no witnesses to his thoughts, Damon feared the ghosts surely treading the burnt-out boards of the pier. With more hesitation than he would ever admit to anybody, he turned his head to look towards the left, along the seafront and ahead to the twisted mass sitting and groaning at him. The wind danced between the struts and the gaps where floorboards had fallen into the sea, and in response, the pier sang a melancholic howl on the windiest of nights. He looked around. Nobody else was hearing the song. Nobody else was bothered by the wretched ruins watching over them all. Nobody else was burdened by what he knew of his own actions.

Damon had promised himself that he wouldn’t let the ghosts – perceived or otherwise – bother him any longer, yet he still found his gaze glued to the ground as he walked back to Foxy’s, cigarette between his fingertips. He wasn’t in any mood to be working tonight. Not with the pier staring at him through the office window.

***

Alone, again. 

Claire was used to this feeling now, but it didn’t leave her ringing any less hollow. The sun had long set, plunging the late afternoon into a sinister gloam. The mobile phone was sitting on the wooden coffee table, waiting to be picked up. She had dismissed any concern over the voicemails, even at Rahim’s insistence that there might be something important on there. As she ushered him out of the house, waving pleasant goodbyes with a false beam that exposed her unbrushed teeth, his eyes had stayed fixed upon the scratched screen staring back at them both from the coffee table.

No matter how high she turned up the volume on the shopping channel, the curiosity persisted, unwavering and loud. 

There was every chance that the voicemails would be nothing but spam, sent by careless telemarketers in the time since her sister had died. Even so, there was something about the notification lingering there across the top of the screen that made Claire itch. She reached for the controller and turned the volume up higher, even at the risk of Mrs Donahue next door pounding on the walls. The old bitch’s sympathy had worn thin days after her sister’s death, and Claire didn’t care if it upset her. Everybody else on the street would surely take her side. Her sister and her mum are dead - she’s on her own, Claire imagined them saying. 

The volume edged up another notch. Still, the phone’s curious secrets echoed even louder. She pressed the volume key once more to hit the maximum. The hosts’ banter was almost inhuman, their laughs ghastly and too big for their mouths. Each syllable drove a spike into her eardrums, and her brain struggled to decode their scrambled words.

Claire thumbed the volume button over and over until it was quiet again, and then continued until there was no sound at all. The presenters continued to talk animatedly, their lips making shapes whose sounds would never reach her through the silence.

In the quiet, Claire swore she could hear the ocean again. The tide was coming in - coming for her - encouraged by each deepening thump of her heart. 

Before there could be any chance of backing out, she grabbed the phone. It lit up at her touch, eager to be acknowledged - to be unburdened of what it knew. The passcode went in, and the notifications chimed once again from the top of the screen:

You have two voicemails. Listen now?

She tapped the call button, and put the phone up to her ear. With every second the robotic voice spoke, Claire grew ever more anxious. 

Finally, the first message started. It was frantic and muffled, set against a backdrop of a gathered crowd’s murmuring and shock. Even under such conditions, the voice was familiar. It was Envy, desperately trying to reach her best friend’s sister. 

“I know things are weird at the moment, I just…I want to know you’re OK. I don’t know if you’ve seen what’s going on at the pier. You might just be asleep. Sorry. Call me.”

At the robotic offer, Claire opted to repeat the message, perhaps to delay listening to what might follow, perhaps to hear her best friend’s voice again, speaking words she’d never heard. Or…maybe Claire listened for a third time and then a fourth just so that she could process the background noise with the proper context. She could hear it now, the bleeding together of other people’s voices with the distant roar of the flames engulfing the pier. The shock and awe, the disaster and terror.

The ocean rose to meet her, a salty drop of water pooling in Claire’s eye. Her breath became shallow, her hand trembling. A thunderous, whirling maelstrom of anxiety threatened to sweep Claire away, or to choke her from the inside. Movement wasn’t an option. Unprompted by another demand to repeat or delete, the next voicemail played automatically.

The second message was calmer. There were no flames or people in the background, no panic or fear behind the words. It took a moment for the voice to become apparent, deeper and smokier than Envy’s. But she knew it. Where did she know it? 

As recognition dawned upon her, Claire found the ocean freezing over. A chill ran through her body and whatever fear she had felt was suddenly suspended by fury and the memory of flames. Her hand could move again. She tapped the screen at the behest of the electronic woman, and the message repeated from the beginning. 

It was unmistakable the second time. 

The last memory Claire had of the voice was one of anger and threats, but if she rewound to earlier times, she could recognise the man from nights out and visits to her sister at work. There was a giddiness in the voice that she found unsettlingly out of character, but it was nevertheless pinned down by his usual seriousness. But why was Damon of all people leaving a voicemail for her sister?

Claire played the voicemail again, this time laying the phone back down on the table and switching to loudspeaker. Damon’s voice grew from a contained, private conversation to something filling the space with suspicion. The words bounded around the room over and over, Claire holding onto this new information, keeping it tightly to her chest if only out of relief for finding something that suggested she wasn’t responsible after all - kindling for the lie she kept lit inside of herself even now.

It wasn’t her fault. She could believe it now. It was his fault. The fire was his fault. 

Another tap of the screen and the voicemail sounded out one more time, repeating the words that would haunt Damon:

“I’ve done something stupid…but I did it for you. Swing by and see me tomorrow and I’ll explain everything.”