Episode Seven

The fog had rolled in overnight, passing over the waves as they crept towards the shore. When morning came, the sunrise was caught and choked in the dense haze, leaving only an eerie impression of dawn. Provided with little clarity, the horizon quickly became lost among the thick of the fog, sea and sky blending into a vast, unending nothingness.

With the sea fret came a silent stillness, the boundaries of the world ending a few feet ahead of whomever dared to venture outside so early in the morning.

Havannah was standing on the edge of the shore, waiting for something to take shape within the void. The only sound was the gentle lapping of waves, unseen and quietened by the wintery pall that draped itself across the coastline. 

Nearby, the pier’s presence was made all the more ominous, its cruel outline not entirely smothered. Where some of the charred frame had been swallowed, there remained only a sinister suggestion of dread lurking on the shore, enough to dissuade any others from venturing towards the sea; Havannah welcomed the resulting serenity.

In later hours, the fog would surely have rolled inland and vanished, a strange memory reserved for those awake at such an early time. The street that ran parallel to the sea would be cut off – not that much traffic came that way in the winter months – and people she barely knew or didn’t know at all, or didn’t even care about would gather to toast the birthday girl.

Until then, all that performance and awkwardness existed outside of Havannah’s small world within the fog. The sandstone steps back to the street were barely visible, and she liked to imagine that the rest of the town had similarly vanished for a time, leaving her alone with her thoughts. Or, rather, one thought in particular: that she missed her parents.

There had been no birthday breakfast fussed over by her dad, no gift lovingly wrapped in floral paper and tied with a blue ribbon by her mum, no sense of joy in marking the passing of another year. There was some comfort, perhaps, in the idea that it might get easier as time went on, but Havannah’s stomach curled and ached at the thought; every year that passed would be another year of distance between herself and those that had loved her unconditionally. Who would she be without them in ten years’ time? Twenty? Would she even remember them, their faces and voices and how much they’d cared?

At her feet, the tide made an attempt to reach Havannah, hoping to bring some comfort in its saltwater embrace. Not today, she thought, stepping backwards and away from its embrace. Like all mornings, she wanted to remember all the things that brought her pain; only this time, Havannah wanted to keep them for herself, rather than give them to the sea. They were each little gifts, gathered throughout a lifetime and now there waiting to be unwrapped and pored over in isolation.

Overhead, a stray seagull called out to nobody and nothing in particular. Down below, Havannah left the sea and its own cries behind, choosing to vanish into the abyss with her memories held close.

The weather did nothing to dissuade preparations for Havannah’s birthday party. Damon had found sanctuary wrapped up in its planning, able to put space between himself and his recent sins under the delusion that this was a selfless act. Ultimately, it was business, but that voice was quietened by a much louder, more desperate plea to keep himself together.

The wine delivery – a small crate of champagne for those he deemed worthy of exaltation, several boxes of prosecco for everybody else – came long before the fog lifted. He rolled his sleeves up and lent a hand to the delivery driver with a pained smile, adding the gesture to an imagined list of good deeds. Damon was, after all, ambitious enough to pursue redemption, even if he continued to wrestle over its necessity.

Leaving Shireen to chill the bottles, he retired to his office. From the windows overlooking the street and the shore, he could part the blinds with his fingers and peer out at the world in the hope of seeing his enemies coming.

Where he had once become paranoid over catching sight of Keller’s blue car, Damon now lived in relative fear that any one of the cars that lingered a little too long nearby were, in fact, the police. How convincing had his performance been? How airtight was the improvised preparation?

He let the parted slats of the blinds snap back into place with a sigh. The fog was too relentlessly thick to allow him any sightings of importance. Swallowed by it, Damon felt somewhat confined to this one single space. From here, it was easy to imagine life in a prison cell, quarters a third of the size of this office.

Whisky in hand, he collapsed into the chair, shaking off a shiver as the cold leather pressed against his cotton shirt.

There was, at least, a comfort in being alone. If there were other people in the room or on the street below, or if he looked Shireen and the delivery driver in the eye, then there was a chance that the truth of him would be visible; Claire’s murder would be written on his face in her blood, visible to everybody, or he could think too loudly about her final moments and somebody would hear. Alone in his office, surrounded by fog, there was little risk.

There were, however, the thoughts that filled the emptiness. Drink helped, the sting of neat whisky burning away some of the chill. Where it couldn’t banish the noise in his head, it could at least help to break it down, allowing Damon to blend memories and regret with justification and imagined defences, should he be given the chance to explain himself.

Over the last few days, however, the alcohol had grown less potent, calling for more to be consumed. His skin was becoming worn, the fashionably-trimmed stubble less neat, and his eyes more bloodshot.

Worse still was the silence brought by the weather. It was almost supernatural in its ability to muffle the usual busy thoughts in Damon’s mind, leaving him to focus on the memory of Claire’s choked gasps and his own small voice asking himself to explain what he had done. 

It had been five days. Five days since she died; five days of Damon pacing his office as he massaged the narrative, exploding into angry monologues to himself at the recollection of any slight that might give him reason to not feel guilty. Claire was a mess and a murderer, a manipulator and a menace. He was avenging Kristi and freeing everybody from her grip. Besides, he argued at his imagined trial, she probably wanted to go anyway – she wasn’t in a fit state, and what use is that to society?

Damon swirled the whisky around his glass, enjoying the rhythm with which it rose and fell around the edges, caught and pushed back by the confines the liquid found itself in. Ending its misery, he drained the glass, only to ease his stiff body out of the chair and over to his makeshift bar.

As he reached the bottles and glasses he now kept against the wall across from his desk, Damon misstepped, his foot kicking the bar at its base. Glasses twanged as they touched, and the shockwave rattled the various bottles of vodka, brandy, whisky, and gin. Although he felt nothing in his toes – numbed by the cold and shielded by shoes that were usually polished to perfection but which were now scuffed and dull – Damon still found cause to stop and shudder. The noise was all too familiar, only it reminded him of perfume bottles and the thump of a body against furniture.

The blows had been an accident; he hadn’t seen Claire’s head whip backwards and strike the sharp edge of the tall chest of drawers – hadn’t heard the cracking of bone and splitting of skin against the flat-packed unit. And, he argued, she shouldn’t have attacked me.

Then again, he had heard the gurgling of blood in Claire’s lungs and the wheezing of her breath as confusion and shock kicked in. Eventually, the carpet would have been soaked with her blood, and she might have suffered for the rest of her life. What had followed, in Damon’s mind, had been a mercy… for both of them. That was his justification for wrapping his hands tightly around her neck until she breathed her last, but was it a strong enough reasoning? After all, impulse and self-defence could explain the first instance of him slamming Claire against the drawers, but what about all the times that had followed? How had he missed the splashing of blood? Why didn’t he call for help and improvise from there?

Damon’s hand hovered over the bar as his mind bombarded him with these questions. Leaving the glass behind, he plucked a whole bottle of bourbon from the crowd of glass and took it back to his desk. There, he helped himself to great swigs of the smoky liquor in the hopes of finding a honeyed note that might sweeten the bitter taste in his mouth.

As he had so often found himself doing in the days since Claire’s death, Damon began running through the list in his mind. It was, in his opinion, the most important list he had ever made – even more so than the one that had seen him escape prosecution for his role in the pier burning down. Despite the difference in scale, the stakes somehow felt higher this time.

A blood-stained hand running through his hair had been the catalyst for Damon composing himself, angry that he had made such a careless error. Even wiping the blood on his coat had created additional risk, and so he had ceased all movement, letting his hands clench into fists. Then, in between deep breaths, he had created the list.

First, he needed somebody to blame. Initially, Damon was ready to believe some fictional, anonymous burglar had targeted Claire. That would involve clearing fingerprints, stealing valuables, and faking forced entry - achievable with a smashed patio door. But that idea was too simple; the police would see through it with ease, and a single mistake would leave him without a defence. Instead, he needed a narrative to rely on. This was something Claire had unknowingly provided. 

Secondly, the body had to be moved to muddy the waters and slow any investigation. With great care, Damon dragged Claire through to the landing. At the edge of the top step, he lifted her – face turned away – and let her go. Regardless of everything Damon had ever done in his life, he could find no way of allowing himself to watch as she fell, so closed his eyes tight. That didn’t stop the sound, however; the thump and clatter and thump and crack before she landed at the foot of the staircase.

The rest was simple, as if laid out before him: remove his DNA where possible, leave the front door ajar, retrieve the photo on Claire’s phone, simulate an escape through the garden, and – finally – call for pizza to be delivered to his house, where he would be waiting and freshly showered by the time it arrived. Thanks to Claire’s own deviousness, the story wrote itself. A jealous ex with a bad reputation lashed out after being blackmailed.

Damon took another slug of bourbon, barely able to disguise his distaste and desperation. Henson and Timmins visit signified a complication, though he remained committed to the misdirection. And yet… Damon’s confidence in his own improvised performance was waning with every day that passed without Victor’s arrest. Until that happened, the phantom of all the potential consequences would continue to cast a longer, deeper shadow over his mood. He wouldn’t be free until Victor wasn’t.

Damon screwed the top back on the bottle. He felt sick. Even the hope that came with knowing the evidence stacked against Victor did little to ease the nausea. Or perhaps it was the image of him holding Kristi’s body, bloodied waves rising up to caress her pale face, that was responsible. Claire had lied, of course; the photo wasn’t deleted at all – just in a different folder, tucked away out of sight. That, or she’d tried to do right by her ex-boyfriend, only to forget the copies sent her attempts to extort Victor, each one filed away in the messaging app’s storage. Either way, Damon couldn’t shake his disgust at the apparent lack of sense that made Claire’s actions seem less like cold calculation and more like petty, careless vindictiveness. Maybe she deserved everything she got after all, he thought.

Sucking air through his teeth, Damon felt his anger temper the nausea. His insides hardened and the warmth afforded to him by the bourbon finally settled in his gut.

Defiant and determined not to be kept within the walls of his office, Damon grabbed his coat – expertly scrubbed of any lingering bloodstains, his fondness for it keeping him from tossing it on a fire – and left with the bottle of bourbon. Not even his own restless conscience could contain him; what chance did the weather have?

***

A bell rang at the sound of a customer entering the coffee shop. It was a light chime, innocuous and friendly, and yet each time he heard the sound, Keller’s heart raced a little faster. He couldn’t help but stiffen in his seat, analysing each new arrival as they entered, gaze lingering until they had ambled silently up to the counter or greeted their waiting acquaintance with a smile. Every sudden shift in his attention came with a price. Set in bruised sockets, Keller’s eyes could only move so quickly before aching, and a jolt of the head would goad the migraines into making an unwelcome return. Even the simple fact of his heart racing, body primed to act, brought pain to his ribs and took the breath from his panicked lungs.

Exhausted by every panicked false alarm, Keller almost missed the chime that announced Havannah’s arrival. There was a minor sense of relief in seeing her face, as if it meant he was closer to being able to leave the coffee shop, though her presence equally invited further dangers. What if Damon sees us? What if I’m putting her at risk? What if he follows her? Caught between emotions, he only raised his head high enough to spot her, before letting his gaze drop back to the gingerbread latte in front of him. A miniature gingerbread man bathing in the foam mocked him cheerfully.

It was left to Havannah to seek Keller out. She scanned the coffee shop, her eyes roaming between tables and meandering from face to face, all the while avoiding the counter, on the off-chance Debbie was scowling in her direction. There was no sign of Keller by the windows, hazed by winter condensation, and she didn’t recognise his face sitting at any of the tables dotted more immediately by the entrance.

Venturing further towards the back, up a few steps to a raised area that was largely empty, Havannah found her private investigator. The sight of him, hunched and bruised, over a small table in the darkest corner of the coffee shop was unsettling. Attempting to swallow any guilt at the notion that she might be responsible, Havannah walked over. Whether or not Debbie was there, Havannah wasn’t sure. Still, she could sense the former pier worker glaring at her with every clack-clack of the younger woman’s high heels. There was little point in caring, though; Debbie’s pettiness seemed so small in the face of what was happening.

As her shadow fell over the table, darkening the gingerbread man’s expression into something more sinister, Keller gently lifted his head as slowly as possible. His greeting was meek and almost indirect, like quietly welcoming somebody he wasn’t sure was really there; if people heard him, would they think he was mad and talking to himself? Blaming the gingerbread man for such thoughts, Keller plucked it from the foam and bit the head clean off.

Havannah draped her tan-coloured midi coat over the back of the chair and took a seat. The red turtle neck invited the sense of warmth to this miserable corner of the coffee shop, and the scent of her sweet, floral perfume reminded Keller of being comforted by his wife in the hospital. If he let his mind wander beyond their table, however, Keller knew he would return to the feeling of cold dread that pervaded his every thought now.

A hand reached across the table, fingers delicately placing themselves on Keller’s knuckles. He looked up and saw the concern painting Havannah’s face, perfectly-groomed eyebrows arching in sympathy. 

In Keller’s eyes, his client had seemingly matured in only a week. Her braids were tied together in a loose fashion, with an occasional strand of gold woven through them. She also sported a fresh manicure, the sharp nails fading from black to gold, and – despite the expression and worrying of her lip – Havannah was glowing.

Upon catching Keller glimpsing at her nails, she awkwardly retracted the offer and mumbled something about a birthday party, and he was once again reminded that there was a gulf between him and Havannah; despite projecting confidence and a put-together outward appearance, she was barely out of her teens – and she had money. Any lingering guilt at the envelope stuffed with cash, passed to him at their last meeting – could she have known what would happen? – faded. He decided not to return it, the weight of the money in his inner pocket growing lighter.

Havannah spoke first, desperate to end the awkward silence, even if it meant asking a question she felt had an obvious answer.

“Are you OK?”

“It looks worse than it is,” Keller lied, trying to smile as he spared her a glance. It felt much worse than what was visible, but he wanted to offer some reassurance. 

It did little for Havannah’s guilt.

Instead, she stared, soaking in the extent of Keller’s injuries for herself. At the sides of his short caramel-coloured hair, a sprinkling of silver was starting to sprout, though it was now interrupted by a line of stitches. Yellow bruising had given way to deepening storm clouds that had spread across his stubbled jaw and around his eyes, while an uncertain red line divided his lower lip where it had burst open. It was only then that she noticed where a splint – sky blue with an inner edge of white bandaging – hinted at its own existence from the cuff of a sleeve; that arm rested gingerly on the table, there but not present.

Before the attack, Havannah had considered Keller to be handsome in a way that was simply a fact, rather than in a way that would turn heads; to look at Keller for long enough was to notice some feature or another that was attractive – the blend of colours in his hazel eyes, the sharp line of his now-broken nose, the simple softness that had started to take shape along his bruised jaw. But without searching the landscape of his face for traces of handsomeness – without the time and patience to analyse every inch of his cheeks, chin, forehead, lips – most people wouldn’t notice Keller at all. She had wondered if that was beneficial to his work as a private investigator, or if his unremarkable looks were the inspiration for his career.

Marked by violence, however, Keller had become noticeable, unable to blend his wounded features into the background of more attractive faces.

“Is there anything I can do?” Havannah asked, hopeful that he had a meaningful answer, if only to lessen the weight in her stomach.

Gently, taking all the care in the world, he shook his head.

“I’m so sorry, Keller.” Havannah surprised them both with tears. They were silent and slow, yet threatened a downpour. To stem such a threat, Havannah bent her manicured index fingers and let the knuckles collect the saltwater. She had grown too used to the sea wiping her tears away in the half-light each morning. 

“Hey, it’s OK. Hazard of the job,” Keller said, attempting to soothe. He reached for her hand and they met on the table. She sniffled and smiled, glad that her tears blurred the very visible consequences that Keller was now forced to wear because of her actions.

Keller let go, withdrawing once again. Tears – passed from Havannah’s hand to his own – lingered where his palm had met her fingers. A subtle turn under the dim coffee shop lights showed the faintest twinkling. It wouldn’t last, her sadness soaking into his skin, but it was momentarily beautiful. 

Keller’s voice lowered as he spoke. Now came the conversation that he had practised over and over again in his head. Even when his stomach turned and dropped, or his heartbeat shifted higher and the throbbing of his temples grew, Keller’s resolve had not faltered. Finally sitting across from Havannah, however, the words seemed so much more difficult to say.

“When I–,” he tried, but his voice cracked. 

Keller cleared his throat and made another attempt, keeping to his script. 

“Excuse me, sorry. When I started all of this, Lucy showed so much support. She worked extra shifts, helped me to get set up, took some calls. Heck, she didn’t even mind if I was out working late.”

“That’s sweet,” Havannah said, glad of a positive turn in the conversation. Tears sparkled where a smile drew her cheeks higher.

Keller almost stopped there, Havannah’s comment feeling like a suitable full stop to end on. Wouldn’t that be ideal? To end the story now, and live in a singular moment forever, where there’s the hope of spring and a heart-warming memory of his and Lucy’s late nights and laughter? But that wasn’t reality; there had been arguments and doubt, though that had equally made it all the sweeter once they had gotten back on the same page. And, if he was being honest with himself, Keller knew that they couldn’t reach a happy ending without first drawing the rest of the story to a close.

He continued. 

“But we also agreed on one rule, right from the start: don’t ever bring work home.” With great discomfort, Keller shifted to sit upright, trying to maintain professionalism even as his eyes watered at the searing pain needling between his ribs. “All that’s to say…this was too much for her, Havannah. And the baby. I’ve got to think about both of them now. So, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can continue working for you.”

It was Havannah’s turn to straighten, and he half-expected her to strike at him with venom and anger; it wouldn’t be the first time a client had soured upon not receiving the exact results they’d wanted. Keller always saw it as a symptom of something more insidious when a wife was disappointed to find out her husband wasn’t cheating, or when a father found nothing incriminating about his daughter’s new partner. Surely they should be hoping for the best, rather than wishing for the worst? In those instances, Keller had been glad to separate himself, giving a silent prayer that they might chance upon the real reason for their unhappiness, whether they were willing to accept it or not.

Although Havannah was younger and didn’t remind him of those awkward clients, he sensed in her a deep desire to find the truth of Damon that aligned with the worst she believed in him. Despite a lack of concrete evidence as to whether or not he burnt down the pier, Damon had lived up to Havannah’s damning expectations in other ways, but that vindication would do little to soothe the pain of not being able to put her father’s memory to rest.

To Keller’s surprise, however, no venom came – no impolite demands or insistences on buying his continued participation with a higher fee, no pleading or tears, no disappointment. Instead, the sigh that escaped her lips seemed more like relief, the young woman’s shoulders dropping with her breath.

“Thank you for your honesty, Keller. I appreciate it – and I appreciate everything you’ve done for me over the last few months.”

“I know it’s disappointing,” he said, still alert and observing her reaction for any sign of a surfacing frustration. She just smiled sweetly and rested her elbows on the table. “But maybe it’s for the best. Damon can tell there’s heat on him and he might start looking for who hired me.”

“You’re right. I know you’re right. Honestly? If I’m disappointed about anything, it’s that he just seems to…I don’t know, get away with things? There’s no justice for a man like Damon.”

The gold crucifix dangling around Keller’s neck felt a little heavier, compelling him to speak of a justice yet to come, waiting for everybody. But seeing Havannah’s crestfallen expression and her acceptance of his resignation kept him mindful of how little comfort such words might bring at this time. Even so, he wouldn’t stay completely silent – he couldn’t.

“If I can offer a little advice?”

Havannah encouraged him with a nod.

“If I were you, I’d get out of business with Damon. I might even leave town.” Keller raised his hands to buffer any potential objections. “But I’m not you, and I can tell this place means a lot to you. And you seem pretty resourceful to me – much more than I was at your age. So if you’re not going to run away, please just be smart instead. Damon strikes me as the sort of person who will lash out and throw the whole board at the wall if he thinks he’s losing the game.”

It was an image Havannah was all too familiar with, and one she recognised as aligned to her own estimation of Damon’s character. But it felt somehow petty and childish to so gleefully agree aloud. Worse, Keller was right: Clayham-on-Sea did mean a lot to her, and the idea of running away wasn’t a notion Havannah could entertain. Rather than agree or argue, however, she kept her response simple.

“I’ll take what you’ve said into consideration.”

“Please, do. And again – because I really can’t stress it often enough – be careful, Havannah.”

An uncomfortable knot writhed throughout Keller’s insides. If the suspicion he felt they both held – but neither spoke of – was true, and Damon really had murdered the young woman on Bishop Close, then how long was it before his wrath turned towards Havannah? He’d already seemingly made a connection between Keller and his tip-off to the police; he had the bruises as evidence.

Keller took a sip of his gingerbread latte. During their conversation, it had passed the point of being tepid but drinkable, becoming cold and unpleasant. Soggy crumbs littered the dispersing foam, buoying against his lips. Nausea rose at the thought of ingesting the remnants of the gingerbread man. Without anything for his hands to do, he sat there awkwardly, picking over the carcass of small talk that lay between him and Havannah. There was nothing left to say.

When only the faintest bones of conversation remained – after she’d asked about Lucy and her due date, and he’d commented on the fog, and they’d both discussed the horrors of sea swimming in winter – silence filled the growing gaps.

Keller noticed it first, but Havannah acted upon it, excusing herself by checking the time and rising to pull on her coat. He mirrored her, offering a handshake – which Havannah accepted, gratefully.

“Thank you again, Keller.”

“Happy to help,” he said, with a small smile – all he could afford without summoning an ache to the skull around his eyes. Their handshake lingered as one more question leapt to the front of Keller’s mind. Perhaps that was why they had delayed parting, the words to come infused with some importance. “Oh, and was that other information any use? The French chap?”

Havannah’s hand slipped smoothly from his grasp, her expression never changing, never giving away her truest reaction to the question.

“It was, thanks. Very helpful. I have some decisions to make.”

“Just make sure to enjoy being young while you can,” Keller said, half-lecture, half his own regret. “It all passes you by so quickly.”

“Funny you should say that, given my birthday party tonight. I’d invite you to drop by, but…”

Keller chuckled.

“Better not, eh? Have fun. And happy birthday, Havannah.”

“Thanks. Take care of yourself, Keller.”

With that, they parted company, Keller returning to his seat and Havannah crossing the coffee shop with an unwavering strut. He watched as his former client waved and said a joyful greeting to the stern-looking woman behind the counter, who could do nothing but wear her discomfort as she returned the familiar kindness with great hesitation. Keller sniggered to himself. 

The amusement quickly soured with the sharp jabbing of pain, worsened by a growing anxiety for Havannah. But there was little he could do to keep her safe now, no matter how much he might want to.

Grimacing as he did so, Keller took a swig of the sickly, cold coffee to wash down some painkillers, before leaving the cup for Debbie to collect after he was gone. It was a small, petty victory that Keller usually thought of himself as being above; it was also an opportunity to show solidarity with Havannah in at least one of her vendettas. That, he thought, is the least I can do now.

***

When Mary MacAvoy called up the stairs to her daughter, it was no longer with the usual bright, bubbly inflection. Under the shadow of Claire’s death, the house had grown quieter, the air more strained. As such, Mary found herself either resorting to single-word announcements – Lunch! Dinner! – or sending her husband creeping up the stairs to knock gently on Envy’s bedroom door.

The difference in the MacAvoy household was noticeable even to Henson and Timmins, despite their limited experience with the family. Unlike their first visit, Mrs MacAvoy didn’t escort her daughter down to the living room, nor did she offer either detective any refreshments. Instead, she barked up the stairs, Envy, it’s the police, before taking a seat opposite the officers. If her eyes remained trained upon them, maybe they could be prevented from breaking her daughter’s heart yet again.

Henson and Timmins were once again squeezed onto the two-seater sofa just as before. Inexplicably, it felt more comfortable this time, as if their previous presence had left an impression which they were able to pick up again with little bother. Then again, given how barren the atmosphere in the house felt, it was entirely plausible that nobody had sat there since. Henson scanned the room, wondering what it was that felt out of place. Timmins identified it first.

“Do you think we could get a light on?” he asked, drawing attention to the gloom overtaking the room.

Stiffly, Mary MacAvoy rose and pressed the switch, never letting either of them out of her sight. The resulting light was overwhelming, its warmth clashing with the dinginess that had been allowed to pervade every corner of the house. Henson watched as their host squinted, clearly used to living dimly now.

In the light, she could also make out Mary’s reddened eyes and nose, and the pale complexion that had made itself at home on her face; tiredness and grief had aged her in a short time.

When Envy appeared in the doorway, she looked even worse. Where her curls had been somewhat tamed before, they now fell wildly about her head, while without make-up, her eyes seemed smaller, lips paler, cheeks washed out. 

Henson stood to greet her, but the young woman only murmured a small hello, arms folded tightly across her black-and-white pyjama top as she shuffled towards the other armchair. To Timmins, they looked as if all four of them were reenacting their previous encounter, challenging anybody who might spy the scene to spot the differences between now and then. He almost felt guilty about being the better-rested of them all the second time around.

“How are you getting on, Envy?” Henson asked, retreating back to her own seat.

Sympathy dripped from her voice, teasing Envy with nausea. There was no desire within her to be sitting in that room with those people, but it had taken a great deal of energy simply to climb down the stairs. Not willing to surrender anything more, she just shrugged, avoiding eye contact. To speak the truth – that Claire’s death had torn up her insides; that she had spent the last few days excavating her own personal history just to gather up some fond memories to cling onto; that part of her was boiling with rage while another entirely other self wanted to never speak of it again – would be to demolish the thin wall Envy had erected to keep her emotions safely contained until she could get away..

“How can we help you, detectives?” Mrs MacAvoy interjected, sternly. 

Regardless of what Henson and Timmins might have assumed from her behaviour, Envy was keenly aware that her mother’s protective instincts had kicked in the moment the police had left their house a week earlier. Nobody would be allowed to upset her daughter in such a way and expect to be treated fairly the second time. 

In the intervening days, this drive to protect Envy had re-shaped their normal family life, extending to Mrs MacAvoy scolding reporters who happened to pass by, arguing with university officials over the traumatic impact of such news, and shielding her daughter from anything even potentially harmful. The detectives had only made it through the door on account of a sense of obligation.

Still, she sent unspoken warnings, sitting coldly and silently snarling at the detectives with pointed words and narrowed eyes. Mary MacAvoy meant to challenge them, to hold them accountable. Then they could leave and never darken her doorstep again. 

Only… Envy half hoped to go with them.

Henson cleared her throat. “We just wanted to check in, see how Envy’s doing.” She hesitated, urged on by a glance from Timmins. “And, I suppose, to give an update.”

Mary folded her arms, her frown tightening. In response, Envy let her own arms loosen; unlike her mother, there was little joy to be found in making the detectives feel awkward or intimidated.

“I’m going back to university tonight,” Envy said, her voice hoarse, throat raw from the constant crying. She had surely cried all of the tears out of her body by this point, and yet more twinkled along her lower eyelids.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Mrs MacAvoy asked, softening as she turned her head in Envy’s direction. This was clearly news to her.

Envy nodded, pulled the sleeves of her pyjama top down past her wrists so her fingers could hold on to the cuffs, and then continued, “What’s the update?”

Again, Henson and Timmins exchanged a look, and again they took some comfort in knowing what the other was thinking.

“Without going into too much detail, our investigation is progressing. At this juncture, that means we need a formal statement from you, Envy.”

A chill ran across Envy’s body, ice water seeping between skin and muscle. She shuddered, prompting Mary, thinking her daughter to be cold, to reach across and lovingly rub her arm.

Timmins leaned forward now, hands clasped together as he talked.

“We can take it here if that’d be more comfortable for you. It won’t take long – promise.”

“Now hold on a moment,” Mrs MacAvoy butted in, barring entry with an arm straight across Envy’s torso. Her gentle features hardened as she spat, “You can’t just spring this on her.”

“Mum,” Envy interrupted with a small voice that betrayed how close to tears she now was. “It’s OK. I want to.”

The thread that pulled from mother to daughter seemed to go slack. It was less the request for a statement that bothered Mary than the idea that, after giving the police what they wanted, Envy would get on a train and never come back home again. How could she? Even her own mother wouldn’t be able to anchor her to this place – not after everything that had happened.

Envy smiled lovingly at her mother, and the ferociousness seemed to fade as they both found themselves growing emotional. Mrs MacAvoy withdrew her arm and slumped into her armchair, deflated but unwilling to rob Envy of even an inch of the freedom she wanted for her darling daughter.

***

The fog thinned by midday. Its faint veil was pulled away, revealing the intricacies of the town and the shoreline hidden beneath it, and sound filled the space where the fog had captured silence in its depths. The town seemed more alive, exposed.

From the graveyard overlooking the sea, Damon drew on a cigarette and watched life returning to the world below. The occasional car driving along the shoreline, teenagers laughing as they roamed the cold beach and splashed freezing seawater at one another, the birds chirping in the tree whose branches sheltered him - all were reminders of the Earth continuing to spin. Would it still do so with him on it?

He exhaled, the smoke and his warm breath doing little to emulate the thick fog that had swallowed them all whole that morning. In comparison, they were no more than wisps against the clear blue sky that had been left behind. Even the swelling clouds had moved on, ushered away by the clearing air.

Moving the cigarette from his lips, Damon noticed a tremor in his hand, faint and unfamiliar. Days earlier, he had found a spot of blood on the same hand. Whether it was Claire’s or Keller’s, he couldn’t be sure; either way, the skin was scrubbed until it turned raw and threatened to leave his own blood behind.

Damon watched the tremor with interest, the slight shake tilting the cigarette back and forth. Trace amounts of loose ashes scattered freely at his hand’s involuntary insistence. He chewed his bottom lip, dry and coarse. What exactly did it mean? There was no certainty.

In the interest of dominating this potentially worrying development, Damon lifted his other hand, the fingers still resting around the glass neck of a bottle. There was a tremor here too, though less pronounced, thanks to the firmness of his grip. Inside the bottle, the bourbon rippled and splashed – not dramatically, but enough to suggest a subtle movement disturbing its surface.

Rather than worry, he unscrewed the lid, the rough movement scattering more ash onto the back of his hand, and embraced the spicy tingle of bourbon against his lips.

Satisfied with a deep swig and another inhalation of tobacco, Damon sealed the bottle and surveyed the graveyard. This had become a place of comfort to him lately. Here, among the headstones, he didn’t need to be concerned about being interrupted in his musings - not by the living, at least. Should anybody venture to this place to question his disrespectful behaviour, then he would tell them some story or another, invoking sympathy as he seemingly spiralled at the loss of a loved one.

In truth, it was the dead that Damon feared the most.

An arm’s length away, Patrick Shaw’s gravestone caught the sunlight. A slither of blinding luminescence angled itself towards Damon. Under the light, the fine minerals – quartz, he assumed – glittered like stars hidden in the black granite. Beside Patrick, his wife; above them, the caring protection of the yew tree that had stood sentinel in this spot since a time before Clayham-on-Sea even had a name.

Damon shuffled closer to Patrick’s grave, his feet uneven and clumsy. With the cigarette still burning between his index and middle finger, he held onto the headstone for balance, before deciding it was a better idea to sit. First, though, he took another swig of bourbon; he needed the courage.

Slowly lowering himself down into a crouched position, Damon caught sight of himself reflected in the headstone’s shining surface. The man staring back at him through the constellation of shimmering quartz was barely recognisable, a ghost of a different kind. Maybe it was a warning.

He went to speak – to say anything at all to Patrick – but couldn’t manage even the simplest words. There was an apology rattling around inside of himself, he was sure. Sometimes it rose close to his throat, only to become trapped there, held tightly in the grip of Damon’s own convictions.

In lieu of finding something to say, Damon leaned towards the graveyard’s regimented path and stubbed out the cigarette on the nearest paving slab – or maybe it was a grave set into the ground; he couldn’t tell if there were purposeful etchings or the stone had simply worn away – before pouring a splash of bourbon at the foot of Patrick’s grave. The honey-coloured liquid soaked into the ground, gone before he could even be sure it had ever been there at all. A second splash followed, just in case.

“Sorry you’re gone, mate,” he managed to say, so quietly that the elm tree seemed to bend closer just to pick up the words.

Using the headstone as leverage, Damon pulled himself back up to standing. His head seemed to pulse and shift with unease, before pinpricks of static buzzed at the edges of his vision. He clamped his eyelids shut and clung to the granite until equilibrium was restored.

When his eyes opened again, the daylight was uncomfortably bright. Squinting, Damon batted away a stray clump of moss from Patrick’s headstone, likely dropped there by a clumsy bird. It was the least he could do.

Even if Patrick felt some gratitude for the gesture, there were other ghosts Damon could expect to be watching. Part-way down the paved path to his left, Kristi’s grave stared accusingly at him. To his own surprise, he stared back, before staggering over to address Kristi directly.

“God I’ve been stupid,” he slurred. “But I did it for you. I did so much for you.”

There was an expectant pause. Kristi didn’t respond. 

“Ungrateful bitch.”

Damon spat at the headstone, though his mouth was too dry from alcohol and a plague of emotions to produce much saliva. Regardless of the lack of volume, he still felt immediate regret, falling to his knees as he felt himself give way to the harrowing feelings that haunted him.

Apologies, punctuated by sobbing, came flowing from his mouth rapidly now, though they were blurred and the words ran into one another. With his free hand, he pulled his sleeve into his palm and began wiping the spit from the stone.

The bottle suddenly felt heavier, the glass thicker than before. If he were to strike the headstone, would the bottle shatter? Or would it chip the granite? He prepared himself to find out, raising the bottle overhead. His shoulders sank as he surrendered any notion of vandalism or violence.

Kristi Hallett was buried beside her mother, their graves parallel to the church and the passing pathway. But there was a very obvious, very difficult fact yet to be wrestled with: there was no more space either side of them. Where, Damon wondered, would Claire be buried?

For whatever reason – he couldn’t fathom why – this dredged up more sorrow for Damon. She would still be alone, even in death. That wasn’t his fault, though. Claire’s actions had filled the plot beside her mother; Kristi was never meant to be buried so soon, let alone in this place.

As the tears continued in a more controlled manner, Damon felt the eyes of his ghosts watching him, peering out from behind the trees and between the gravestones. Like the dead interred here – and like he now knew Kristi had been on her very last day – Damon felt himself trapped between the land and the sea; the edge of life, and of death itself.

He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, ashamed at the knowledge that the tears he was attempting to blink away were for himself. Patrick shouldn’t have been on the pier, Kristi should’ve accepted his love, and Claire shouldn’t have done any number of things – including murdering her own sister. Damon, on the other hand, had been pulled into their current, or had been helpless to prevent their stories intersecting with his own. That was what he believed, at least. So why was he suddenly so burdened? Does a man have a limit of sins that, once reached, becomes too much for his soul to bear?

Damon shook the philosophy from his mind, hoping the next mouthful of bourbon would kill those thoughts and he could bury them in this place, to where he’d promised himself he’d never return. 

Free of the unhelpful ruminations, Damon might finally be able to take control of the situation once again. That was, after all, where he felt most comfortable – in control, his hand moving all the pieces. As far as he was aware, he’d gotten away with everything to date. The rest, he reasoned, should be easy.

Drunk on bourbon and delusion, Damon had failed to notice that he was no longer alone in the graveyard, but it wasn’t the lingering dead watching with piercing eyes; it was Olivier, standing with his arms crossed, a stormy expression upon his face.

"Ah, I found you.”

"Oliver!" Damon cheered while blinking away tears. It was easy enough to lean into drunkenness for the physical aspects of his performance; being convincingly pleasant, however, required Damon to dig deeper than even he often dared to go.

"It's Olivier.”

"Sure, sure. Are you coming to Havannah's party later? We should get a drink," Damon suggested, slapping Olivier on the back.

"I can see you've already had enough."

The comment was punctuated by glaring eyes darting at the bottle, and the pointed tone with which it was delivered sent an uncomfortable tingle up Damon’s spine, spreading out onto his scalp. He could feel every hair stand on end in his defence.

"It's OK, I'll just watch you drink the bar dry. I'm told it's quite a show when you get going,” he quipped, struggling to hold onto the impish persona.

As he passed, Damon made sure to have his shoulder clip Olivier's arm, if only to prove he wasn't afraid of the much taller Frenchman. Before he could get clear, however, Olivier grabbed a hold of Damon's bicep and pulled him back. Drunk, he could do little to resist, though it didn't prevent Damon from letting his displeasure be known. He swung for Olivier, but the Frenchman simply stepped back and let the arc of Damon's fist miss him. On the second swing, Olivier started to find it funny; it had already grown tired by the third. On that last attempt, Damon's fist almost connected, brushing Olivier's coat and threatening to destabilise him as he leaned forward. In retaliation, the tall Frenchman stepped closer and shoved the drunk nightclub owner backwards. Damon momentarily regained momentum as a result, only to over-correct and fall backwards.

"You're pathetic," Olivier spat, watching as Damon attempted to scramble to his feet. This time, he couldn’t reach a headstone for leverage, and the dead weren’t interested in helping.

"Me? I’m pathetic?!" he slurred, rising to his knees. "You're the lovesick puppy."

Olivier's fist sent Damon back down onto the paving stones. The alcohol gurgled and churned in his stomach, and a headache started to explode behind his eyes. Too inebriated and dazed to fight back, Damon surrendered to the natural instinct of his body, curling into the foetal position as he braced for another attack. 

It wasn’t enough to keep him safe. Olivier breached the protective shape, grabbing Damon by the lapels of his coat. With a jerking motion, he pulled the drunken man up just enough to be able to bring their faces close together, but not enough that Damon could get any stability with his feet.

"Nobody wants you here, Damon. It's time, I think, for you to go. Leave town and don't come back."

As Damon laughed, dementedly, Olivier's nose wrinkled at the smoky-sour stench of bourbon on his breath. He almost let go just to spare himself the unpleasantness.

"Did Havannah put you up to this? Because I'm not going anywhere, sunshine," Damon snarled, the drunken fool replaced by something dangerous. He reached his head forward to close the distance between them both. "She doesn't need you, y'know. She doesn't need either of us. Not really."

To the surprise of both men, Damon's laughter faded upon hearing his own realisation, and whatever crazed smugness that had remained was shaken loose by Olivier. Destabilised once again, the dynamic was reset; there was little doubt that Olivier had the advantage, physically.

"You are not a clever man, Damon, but maybe you can be. Just leave and don't come back."

"And how are you going to make me?" Damon asked, words slurring again as nausea threatened to overwhelm him. "Daddy's money? It's all daddy's money, isn't it? Is he going to think she's a good investment?"

There was a version of this moment where, upon seeing Damon lick his dry bottom lip with a devilish smirk, Olivier brought his skull down on the bridge of Damon's nose, savouring the cracking of bone against bone; in another, he curved his arm and buried a fist in Damon's gut, the punch forcing all the wind from his arrogant body. But with a clear head, Olivier could see through Damon's attempts to goad him into violence. To surrender to it would be to prove Damon right.

Choosing to stand apart from what other versions of himself might do, this Olivier – the one standing beneath a clear sky in a graveyard far from home – let go, dropping Damon to his knees.

"You have twenty-four hours."

The warning was clear, even without further elaboration. Still, Damon attempted to coax further reaction, yelling slanders and slurs even as his opponent walked away. Olivier didn't look back, content to leave the broken man alone in the graveyard, surrounded by the dead – all of them missed more than Damon Fox ever would be. 

***

Envy met Rahim outside Claire’s house, him with a frown hidden beneath his red hoodie, her carrying a cardboard box. Overhead, the sky was beginning to darken into night. Neither of them looked at one another, the house serving as the only connection they still had in common.

She had no future in Clayham-on-Sea, a feeling that Envy had first come to explore some time ago – before Claire’s death and the fire, maybe even before they had applied to university at all. In the wake of this new world, the feeling had become fact, an absolute which Envy could no longer ignore. If, however, this was to be the last goodbye to her hometown, then there were loose ends to trim.

"I barely knew her, really,” Rahim replied when Envy thanked him for meeting with her. The words had tumbled from his mouth faster than he could wrangle them. Realising the brevity of their friendship – much of it a ruse – Rahim’s downcast mood deepened further. “You two were closer."

"Not so much in the end, but thanks for saying it anyway."

A pause followed, and then Rahim plucked one of the many questions hanging in the air between them, presenting it to Envy as if he hadn’t already worked out the answer.

"Does her dad know?"

Envy still didn’t look at him as she answered. "The police told him, but my mum phoned just in case. By all accounts, he's a bit of a twat, to be honest. I doubt he would’ve noticed."

"How did he take it?"

The contents of the box jostled as she shrugged. "Mum said he seemed upset at first, then started talking about selling the house and how it'll slow things down."

"I guess some people handle things differently. They look to the things they can control."

"Hmm." Envy let silence follow, taking her time to face Rahim. When at last she did, it was to offer him the cardboard box. "Here. I thought you should have this."

"What is it?" he asked, looking over the assorted items all piled inside: a white t-shirt, some cologne, photos stuffed inside a small book. None of it meant anything to him.

"Claire could never let go. If Victor left something, she held onto it. Inevitably, some stuff ended up at my house. I wanted to clear it out."

"It's Victor's, then?" he clarified, still perplexed as to why he was now holding a box filled with momentos from a life he wasn't a part of. "Shouldn't you give all this to him?"

"I get the feeling you two know each other well enough that you could do it." She spoke sharply, but there was little malice to be found in Envy's voice. It was all factual, if uncomfortable. "I don't know how or why you were dragged into all of this, but you should know that Victor isn't a good person."

"That's not true," Rahim hurriedly replied, though he couldn’t help but feel the doubt trailing after his words.

Again, Envy responded with a hmm.

"We'll have to agree to disagree on that one. Though I have a feeling you'll know what's what soon enough."

"What does that mean?"

Another shrug, and Envy turned back to face the house. For the longest time, this had been a home to her; Kristi was the big sister she never had, and Claire was the first girl she'd ever loved. Now they were both gone, leaving behind nothing but four empty walls. She had expected to feel something like loss or misery. Instead, there was nothing. Or maybe the emotions were too big; she couldn’t find their edges and so had no hope of defining them. In a way, she was grateful that being overwhelmed in such a way had left her feeling nothing at all, and it brought some comfort whenever Envy started to worry that she might be as empty as Number Thirty-Three, Bishop Close.

Desperate to not be engulfed by the shadows that plagued her thinking, Envy once again addressed Rahim, though her eyes stayed staring, unblinking, at the house.

"Thank you. For being there when I couldn't be."

"It's fine,” Rahim sniffed. “I think I needed a friend as much as she did." A tear splattered onto one of the photos in the box, and Rahim looked to the sky to see if it was raining again. It was his own tear that had landed there, rolling down a memory of Havannah, Claire, and Envy all together. They looked so happy. 

Trying to hold himself together, Rahim readjusted the way he cradled the box and tried to focus his attention on their surroundings – a flickering streetlamp, the windows lit from within, a slackened shoelace on his left trainer. 

"What will you do now?"

Envy parted ways with the house, holding her last blink as if to hold the memory of every brick and window pane behind her eyelids forever. She only opened them once she had turned back to Rahim. At the sight of him trying to keep his misery at bay, a fresh guilt curled in Envy’s gut. She had been Claire’s best friend, not Rahim. But to look at them both, a stranger wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

"I'm heading back to university tonight,” Envy finally answered, her jaw tight and words rigid. The sooner she could leave, the better. “I just wanted to drop this off first, then I've got a birthday gift for Havannah."

"Is that the big party happening tonight? Down on the front?"

"Typical," Envy tutted, rolling her eyes. "What about you? Are you going?"

"Probably not, no. I don’t really know her. Besides, I think I need to stay at home for a bit."

"That's probably for the best," Envy advised. "Well, I'd better be off."

"Thanks for this, I guess." Rahim briefly raised the box to indicate what he was talking about. "See you around, maybe? When you're back? We could... I don't know, really. Talk?”

Envy thrust her hands into the black hoodie that threatened to swallow her whole body. She shook her head, then cleared her throat, if only to disguise the wobble in her voice.

"No, I don't think so. I won't be back, if I can help it."

"Oh," Rahim said, a little disappointed. Would he be the only person left to hold onto Claire’s memory? To mourn her properly? The idea gave way to bitterness, though he still sounded sincere even as he said, "Good luck, then."

"Thanks."

Against her own intentions, Envy took one last look at the house. If she tried, it'd surely be possible to total up all the individual times she's knocked on that door, and to recount every dinner, every sleepover, every glass of cheap vodka and cola Claire had somehow managed to spill at some time or another.

They had ventured out through that front door, had run around the garden giggling and screaming, and had traded secrets with one another under her favourite floral duvet. When Claire's mum died, Envy had stayed there for a week, cooking and cleaning and wiping away both sisters’ tears.

On that doorstep, she had left a bag of shopping unattended, and in that living room they had exchanged cross words. And from that spot on the street, looking at the darkened rooms and the FOR SALE sign already propped up on the front lawn, Envy was again wondering what if?

But rather than entertain any ghoulish notions about how history might have been avoided, Envy decided to turn her back on the house, leaving Bishop Close and all the ghosts here behind. She refused to take responsibility, to haunt herself like she had done with Kristi's death. There was only so much one person could burden themselves with the woes of others. Although Envy was determined that justice would be served on Claire's killer, she refused to be tempted to look back – not even once. To do so would surely destroy her.

***

By the time evening came and the sky was burning red and pink behind fractured clouds, Havannah was ready for her birthday to be over. 

Clusters of black and gold balloons adorned the inside of Foxy’s, and the first guests were already milling about beneath glittering birthday banners that stretched overhead. Those who actually recognised Havannah and could recall her name leapt forward to show their appreciation for the invite, presenting birthday wishes and gift bags of wine and champagne. She greeted each one courteously, adding their cards and presents to the pile mounting in one of the seating booths. Eventually, they would sprawl from the table onto the worn faux leather that curved around the booth’s interior, all of them untouched and unopened for the time being. There was no hurry to do more with them.

Olivier arrived earlier than expected, though his presence was – in all honesty – a surprise to Havannah. Their communications had grown scant in the days since their last conversation in the doorway of his hotel room, but she reasoned that he had never been disinvited. They shared a smile from afar and, following a small wave from Havannah, Olivier approached, a champagne flute in his hand.

“For you,” he said, offering Havannah the untouched drink.

“Oh, thanks. I have one already,” she replied, awkwardly glancing at the half-empty glass sitting among the gifts on the table behind her.

“That’s OK,” Olivier grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Because I also brought you this.”

From the inside pocket of his grey blazer, Olivier retrieved a rectangular black box, which he presented to Havannah with effortless charm, fingers casually clamped on one end. Havannah placed the second flute beside the first and gratefully took the gift.

“You didn’t have to,” she said, somewhat flattered. “Thank you.”

The box – trimmed with gold along its edges – snapped open to reveal a silver bracelet, draped lovingly on plush velvet lining. A starfish rested at the midway point, its pointed legs decorated with diamonds that sparkled under the nightclub’s lights.

“Wow, it’s…”

“Do you like it?” Olivier asked, face beaming with preemptive glory. The vision reminded Havannah of a puppy looking hopefully at its master, waiting to be told it had done a good job. How could she say anything but that?

“I do,” came the reply, the truth swallowed with a smile. “Thank you. Again.”

They shared a brief embrace, made all the more awkward by the sight of Olivier’s persistent grin as they parted.

“Oh, right.” Havannah recognised what he was after. She passed him the box and presented her wrist. “Could you?”

“Of course!” Olivier declared, excitedly. With the box clutched between his upper arm and ribcage, he gently wrapped the bracelet around Havannah’s waiting wrist. “Voila!”

Under the lights, the starfish gleamed as Havannah turned her hand this way and that, each diamond catching a different stray beam as they swept across the nightclub. It was enchanting in the same way that a rainbow could entertain the eye, and of course she was genuinely grateful. There was, however, an empty feeling that accompanied the way the silver sat upon her skin. It wasn’t what Havannah would have chosen for herself, but the thought mattered most.

Olivier seemed unfazed by Havannah’s low enthusiasm and her surface-level fascination with the diamonds and their sparkle. After handing the box back, he hastily excused himself for the bar, leaving Havannah to return to her duties as a greeter for yet another group of Damon’s business associates. This particular bunch made no indication of knowing who Havannah was, nor did they offer her a gift – just their coats, flung onto the table.

While there was some solace that there’d been no need to waste any energy on them, the real relief came with Envy’s sudden arrival. She emerged from the crowd like a secret, her curls tied back tightly, revealing a face that had cried far too often of late. Still, Havannah was reassured at the sight of somebody she could say truly knew her, even if there had been distance between them during their time knowing one another.

“Happy birthday,” Envy offered. The hug they shared was somehow more angular and uncomfortable than the one with Olivier, and they were both glad when it was over.

“How are you doing?” Havannah asked, gently. Envy merely shrugged, and that was all that had been expected.

"This is for you,” she said, nonchalantly changing the subject. There was no effort by Envy to speak louder and match the growing din; nobody could accuse her of wanting to be there. The presentation of a gift wrapped in striped paper followed, handed from one friend to another like a burden might be passed between strangers. The paper’s silver streaks shone almost as brightly as the diamonds, while the purple darkened in the shadow of the booth

"That's so sweet. Thanks, Envy.” They hugged again, and again it was stilted and stiff. Havannah placed the gift with the others. “I’ll open everything in a bit so I don’t lose it. Will you stay for a drink?"

"Thanks, but mum's waiting in the car. She's taking me to the station."

"Oh, you're going back so soon?” The surprise was genuine, though Havannah couldn’t quite put into words why it had made her sad. She could, however, suppose that, without Claire, they were down to two of them; their shared connection suddenly seemed more important in her absence. But even that didn’t provide a satisfying answer, and so she voiced her regret. “I was hoping we could catch up."

"I've been here for a week. There was time to catch up,” Envy replied, pointedly. There was a brief flicker across Havannah’s face as the blow landed. Had she lingered on it, Envy might have regretted wounding her old friend; to avoid such guilt, she instead made a performative sweep of the room with her eyes, pretending to take in the sight of the decorations and the chattering guests come to pay their respects. When her eyes wandered back to the conversation, they landed on Havannah’s wrist.

“Nice bracelet.”

“Oh, thanks,” Havannah responded, almost as if she’d forgotten the trinket. Her hand went defensively to cover the starfish.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear silver,” Envy added.

For the second time, Havannah felt the sting of her friend’s observations – though there was no denying the truth in them. With nothing left to say in response, Havannah afforded Envy the last word.

“Well, have fun.”

“I’ll call you. When you’re back at uni,” Havannah offered, out of kindness rather than regret – though there was no promise that Envy would know that by instinct alone. “Just…tell me when you’re free.”

Envy shrugged again, and mumbled, “Sure.”

Determined not to linger, she let that be the full stop in their conversation, training her eyes on the entrance instead. Havannah remained behind, watching as the same quiet girl she’d grown up with vanished out of sight.

Eventually, as the music shifted from the gentle backdrop of a subdued welcome towards something more raucous, Havannah found herself no longer the centre of attention – a fact for which she was quietly grateful. Olivier had vanished almost entirely from sight, save for the hint of his blonde locks and the occasional rim of his rounded spectacles bobbing into view from amidst a throng of people surrounding the bar. Meanwhile, Damon – the party’s organiser – was nowhere to be found; not even Shireen knew where he’d gone.

Taking advantage of her momentary anonymity, Havannah slipped away, ready to be embraced by the refreshing sea air.

Across the road, leaning against the sandstone wall where Havannah had intended to lurk for a time, was a familiar silhouette. She approached, still looking both ways first, despite the street being closed off for the night.

“Hey stranger.”

It was Victor’s turn to feel relief. He stood up tall, clutching at a bouquet. Although he would never admit to it, Havannah could tell he had been pacing the shoreline, uncertain in his right to be at the party; his cheeks were flushed red, and he stood rigid and uncomfortable in a t-shirt and denim jacket over a pair of dark caramel-coloured chinos.

“Well, look at you! So smart!” Havannah said, uncertain of what someone like Victor would make of the weight of her praise.

“Is it OK? I didn’t know what to wear…” Victor admitted, surveying his own outfit, bashfully. “Or if I was actually invited.”

“Of course you are. And you look great.”

“These are for you.” He thrust the bouquet in Havannah’s direction, before nervous lips let slip the only question he cared about. “Is Rahim inside?”

Havannah thanked him and cradled the flowers in her arms. Bright white lilies stared up at her, lovingly.

“I’m afraid he isn’t.”

“Oh.” Victor’s face became downcast. “He’s not answering my calls.”

“Sorry to hear that. He seems nice. I think he could be good for you.”

The words came with a comforting touch to Victor’s arm, withdrawn when a breeze threatened to shake the pollen loose from the biggest lily already in bloom.

“Yeah, maybe. Better than…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, caught unaware by the choke in his voice. “Sorry. I don’t think people expect me to miss her.”

“It’s OK. Really. I know how you feel. But for all Claire’s faults and everything she did… I don’t know. I think I’ll still miss her as well. Or at least I’ll miss the old days. Some part of me always hoped that we could be friends again.”

It was Victor’s turn to comfort Havannah, opening his arms with the offer of an embrace. She took it, holding the lilies to one side while wrapping her free arm around his waist. They stayed there for a moment, Victor’s chin resting on the top of Havannah’s head.

“This is still strange, isn’t it? I didn’t expect us to ever be friends,” Havannah admitted, cheek pressed comfortably against Victor’s body. She felt him squeeze her a little tighter – a silent response that said I’m glad we are – and Havannah closed her eyes to sink further into their proximity. When they separated, both felt a little less alone.

“Anyway, where’s Damon?” Victor asked, sniffling from the cold air.

Havannah shrugged.

“I’m not sure. Nobody’s seen him. I was going to take a look around but it’d mean going back into a room full of vapid sycophants.”

“Ouch,” Victor mocked. “I bet those sycophants got you some good presents though?”

“You wouldn’t believe how many bottles of champagne I’ve been handed tonight,” Havannah said, leaning in conspiratorially.

“Maybe we should grab one and go get pissed up in Damon’s office.”

It was offered only as a joke, but the suggestion fell on the right side of childishness for Havannah. The evening had become filled with stiff people wearing chic clothes, each of them circling the room for any opportunity to talk business. Joy was missing from the occasion, and until now, it had left an indescribable hole in Havannah’s chest. She needed some fun; she needed to feel young again.

“I love that idea. Come on.”

Before there could be any arguments, Havannah took Victor’s hand and started to guide them both back towards the nightclub’s doors. As they drew closer, however, Victor stopped dead.

“What is it?” Havannah asked, letting their grasp on one another go slack.

“I’ll be right inside. I’ve got to take this.” Victor gestured with his mobile phone, making sure Havannah couldn’t see the lack of an incoming call on its screen. “You go on ahead.”

“Oh, OK. Don’t be too long, though. Damon promised fireworks. We’ll need champagne for that.”

Victor stood with the phone by his ear, waiting until Havannah was out of sight before turning back to the pier. Sure enough, the phantom he’d spotted was still there at the far end of the world. Even from the shoreline, he could tell it was Damon, the recognisable shape of his coat a drop of black ink rippling and darkening everywhere it broached. 

“What the hell is he doing?” Victor murmured to nobody in particular.

Passing between smokers and pedestrians with single-minded determination, Victor kept his eyes fixed on Damon’s shape until at last reaching the wrought iron curls that marked the entrance to the pier. With little effort, he pushed the leftmost gate until the chain holding them both together became taut; there was just enough room to squeeze through.

That was the only time Victor allowed himself to look away from Damon in the distance, in need of an opportunity to manoeuvre his body through the gap, head first. He was tall and broad shouldered, but luckily also slender enough to pull himself through. Once safely on the other side, however, Damon had vanished.

Here, Victor was presented with a silent opportunity: turn back and enjoy the evening, watching fireworks with the other partygoers and drinking champagne with Havannah, or carry on in search of a man whose presence so few people would miss. 

It was, he told himself, for Havannah that Victor chose the latter option; clearly she wanted all her remaining friends there, even if this particular one was reprehensible. Was that the truth though? Likely not. If Victor was honest and knew how to express the anxiety playing out in the back of his mind, he might have drawn a connection between it and how others had described Damon. This was, according to them, a man who was best kept in sight at all times.

Ultimately, whatever reason truly compelled Victor to pursue the shadowy figure further down the pier – a friendly gesture, or some form of shared paranoia – it would quickly become irrelevant; it was already too late to turn back.

***

The shadows shifted and danced against the ragged remnants of what was once the pier-head pavilion. Where the glass-fronted building had once been the pier’s centrepiece, filled with the buzzing and pinging of slot machines, children's demands for candy floss, and the clinking of glasses over laughter, it was now a silent ruin occupied only by echoes and the occasional bird nesting between shrapnel in the eaves. The glass windows that had once stretched from the wooden floors to the heavens above had shattered, giving a more harrowing view of the sea – a void stretching ahead, framed by jagged edges - while metal had been reshaped where the fire had burned hottest. The surfaces that remained were blackened with ash and blistered by heat.

Glass shards and unidentifiable debris crunched underfoot as Damon ventured inside the haunted shell. He hadn’t been here since the night of the fire, though sometimes he dreamt about how the pavilion used to be, wondering how accurate the recollections were. Taking in the surroundings, Damon realised he’d never know the answer to that now; whatever memory he had was being erased and replaced with the reality all around him. 

Stumbling deeper into the darkness, Damon found himself at the foot of the staircase leading up to where Patrick’s office had been. That night, he had hurried away, clutching at his secrets and excitement while hoping to outrun the disaster he'd set in motion. Back then, the staircase had been lined with a glass balustrade that curved with the steps. Now, the stairs were bare, only the railing left to guide a path upwards.

Warning signs and tape alerted trespassers to invisible consequences and unsafe structures. Whereas Damon would have usually had no qualms about poking at his curiosity, he found himself momentarily stopping at the bottom step. In truth, the signs did little to dissuade him; it was the threat of hearing his own footsteps – or worse, Patrick’s – echoing forth from that fateful summer night that gave him cause to hesitate. 

Somewhere beyond where Damon’s feet would allow him to pass, where Patrick's office had sizzled and burned at the heart of the flames, the charred floorboards creaked in the wind. From overhead, a bird flapped and squawked and rose against the blackened sky, circling the pier, its wings outstretched. Damon watched, his head jolting upwards at the sound. Only when he recognised the white blotch as a seagull did he notice the breath held in his chest. Damon let it go with a ragged exhale. He was willing to consider that perhaps, instead of spectres, he was haunting himself.

The bourbon bottle had long surrendered its final swig to Damon's lips; it had been empty for some time, a dead weight he still clung to with lax fingers. And yet, it was reassuring to feel the heaviness of thick glass in his grip. It told him that something was still holding him to the surface of the world – whether it was the bottle itself, heavy like his footsteps, or what it represented, his only companion during the day’s journey into oblivion. Less reassuring was how the liquor had started to feel ferrous in his empty stomach, threatening to rust his insides and bring him tumbling to the floor when his limbs finally gave way.

Seeking to steady himself, Damon reached for the staircase railing closest to his free hand. Despite the dullness of the metal, it managed to shine in the dark, guiding him closer. A foot lifted onto the first step as the world threatened to tip backwards. Stars popped and burst behind his eyelids and the pavilion’s ruins started to rush and spin. When he at last managed to ground himself, Damon realised where his foot was – and what it meant. The first step had been taken, so why not a second? Or a third?

With great effort, he raised his other foot and gripped the railing even tighter, pulling heavy limbs up to another step, and then another. Eventually, he reached the top of the staircase, standing triumphantly atop the mezzanine that overlooked what had once been the bar and where a few arcade games – façades melted – now huddled together in the corner. Any sense of accomplishment faded quickly at the memory of what had been and what now was. Still, the journey to this point had invigorated Damon’s resolve. He felt the pull of the doorframe leading to Patrick’s office, despite the bright yellow caution tape flimsily barring entry, and a sign promising a threat to life that had been affixed to the wall beside it.

Regardless of the warnings, Damon knew he needed to see for himself what was left. When he closed his eyes, he could see the stacks of paper and the cluttered walls that had characterised Patrick’s office. To Damon, it had been suffocating. The flames had swallowed it all so easily, that even the minor sliver of guilt that sometimes rose to the surface of Damon’s mind was assuaged by a simple fact: the fire spread because conditions allowed for it. Wasn’t that simply nature?

On the threshold between the mezzanine and back offices, a gentle breeze trailed inwards from unknown directions. Caught in the depths of the pier’s carcass, the air took on an ashy scent, cold smoke and brimstone rolling between the floorboards and contorted surroundings. Some deeper part of Damon wanted to follow the scent until it became more potent, certain that the epicentre of disaster would surely reek of hell itself.

Before he could follow his instincts, a new creak sounded out, down below in the hollow pavilion. Dazed by the day’s alcohol and dulled from languishing in his own musings, Damon was slow to recognise he wasn’t alone. Even as his name was called out, he was convinced that the voice was an illusion of his own making and refused to acknowledge it.

“Damon? Is that you? It’s Victor.”

Slowly, logic took over. If he were hallucinating or dreaming or whatever, then why would his unconscious invite Victor to be included? It wouldn’t.

Somehow, the intrusion sobered Damon just enough to feel himself return fully to the present, feeling the torn-up carpet beneath his feet and his fingers still wrapped around the neck of the empty bourbon bottle. He approached the edge of the mezzanine, a dark grimace bleeding forth from the pitch.

“What do you want?” Damon spat, his viciousness somewhat tempered by slurring and hoarseness.

“Havannah’s looking for you,” Victor replied, a little uncertainty undermining his voice. “She’s wondering where you are.”

Damon squinted at the faint silhouette claiming to be Victor, but it was difficult to make out the young man’s features with so little light. Untrusting, Damon lobbed the empty bottle in the interloper’s general direction. It briefly spun in the air, before the uneven weight caused the bottle to abandon its arc and make contact with the floorboards near Victor’s feet. Damon had expected the thickness of the glass to preserve the bottle’s shape and listened out for a thick thud. Instead, it exploded, scattering fresh, shining shards across the bare floors. Victor let out an involuntary yelp as he turned to shield his face from the sharp shrapnel.

“What the fuck, Damon!” His yell was somewhat muffled by the inside of his jacket, but Damon’s eyes had adjusted to this new figure now, and the scowl spoke greater volumes.

“Sorry. I thought you were–”

“Jesus. You almost hit me!” Victor interrupted, unaware of the mumbled apology.

Entering from somewhere in the distance, a fresh breeze replaced the stench of ash, bringing the overly potent scent of seawater to Damon’s nostrils. His stubbled jaw tightened in response, and saliva began to swell in his mouth with the anticipation of vomiting. Keen not to be witnessed in such a vulnerable state, Damon turned his back to the edge of the mezzanine before abruptly spewing thin, watery bile onto what remained of a worn patch of carpet. Before he could even regain his breath, the acrid fetor tempted further evacuation – but Damon could only wretch and heave and cough, his throat burning from the acid.

“Are you OK?” came Victor’s voice, this time small and uncertain as it bounced between exposed the borders of the hollowed-out pavilion. “I’m coming up to you.”

“No. Don’t,” Damon commanded, though he was still bent double and his words struggled to find their way to the surface. The room was spinning again. Nothing about this scenario was ideal.

In the distance, Victor’s hesitant footsteps coincided with another bout of uncertain creaking from the sea-soaked wood. Far beneath the two men, the waves continued to crash fervently against the pier’s supports, while above them the lone seagull made a shrieking call into the night; aside from the thumping of blood in his ear, Victor’s slow approach was the only sound Damon could bring himself to focus on. Between each heart beat and every footstep, time slowed down, stretching itself out long enough for him to think. Under normal circumstances, Damon might have been prepared to fight or threaten or at least present himself in possession of some form of strength, but his legs were unsteady, his insides rotten; Victor would see him for what he really was – a thought that summoned irrational terror in Damon. Desperate to retain even a scrap of his dignity, Damon wiped his lips on the back of his coat sleeve and tried to straighten up, unfolding his body as he steadied himself against the wall. A slimy trail of bile stuck to the sleeve of the black coat, but he tried to ignore that for the time being, saving the annoyance for another day and his dry cleaner. 

The same crunching of glass underfoot that had previously welcomed Damon to the pavilion’s ruins now heralded Victor’s ascent to the mezzanine; he was almost at the top of the staircase, and Damon wasn’t ready. As if hurrying to welcome a guest, the nightclub owner cleared his hoarse throat, ran fingers through messy black hair, and tucked the errant hem of his white shirt – stained with stray splashes of bourbon – into the band of his trousers. Then he winced at the taste of bile-tinged saliva on his tongue, cleared his throat a second time, and made a slow start to meet Victor at the top of the stairs. Without proper balance, the well-intentioned start became more of a lurch forward, but he was careful enough not to be toppled, even when the floor beneath him groaned and seemed to bend underfoot. Damon reached the railing, relieved to see its familiar dulled metal as it curved around the mezzanine to form a barrier. He'd made it intact.

Victor, who had been both carefully watching his footing and imagining Damon’s sinister temperament, glanced up then and saw a scowling face looking down at him. Even in the troubling darkness, he could make out the paleness of Damon’s skin, and the pinkish hue where the whites of his eyes had turned bloodshot. If Victor had believed in spirits and poltergeists, he might have looked about their shambolic surroundings and pointed at Damon as the only ghost here. But he didn’t believe in such things, and saw only a man – a broken, lonely man.

It was with a small deal of shame that Victor finally considered that maybe he hadn't truly bought into Havannah's belief, though now it didn't seem so unusual. Maybe she had actually been right all along. The haunted look could so easily be guilt, and Damon’s presence out on the pier-head suggested a homecoming of sorts. To his surprise, however, Victor felt nothing when he followed the threads of his thinking. The drunken man before him had surely punished himself enough; misery was painted across his face, after all. And so it was with sympathy that Victor made an approach, hands out ready to support Damon should he be willing to accept the help.

Contrary to his expectations, Victor’s silent offer of assistance only drew Damon’s ire.

“Just leave me alone!” Damon raged, voice cracking. He tried to swat Victor away instead. Doing so threatened to unbalance him, forcing an abrupt end to the gesture so that he could hold the railing with both hands. A faint shaft of moonlight – or maybe it was simply the effect of the open sky meeting the pavilion’s insides through the hole in its ceiling – illuminated the lower half of Damon’s face and his neck, reaching his nose and eyes when he took the first sluggish step down the stairs.

“Why are you even here?”

“I told you,” Victor answered, a little more sternly now, his hands still outstretched like a parent minding their toddler as they attempted to climb the stairs. “Havannah’s looking for you.”

“And when did you two become such good pals?”

Victor considered the question with sincerity.

“I don’t know. I suppose we’ve both been through a lot. She’s been there for me.”

Damon sneered silently, disgust reshaping his face into something ugly and unkind. The moonlight vanished from his visage as he continued his descent, growing more confident with each step. He lifted one hand from the railing and placed it on his stomach, attempting to settle the roiling tides inside. Too much movement threatened to make him sick again.

“And now… What with Claire…” Victor continued, thinking aloud, unaware that the other man's interest had already started to wane. At Claire’s bane, however, there was a momentary pause from Damon, his foot hovering over the step right above where Victor was waiting. He watched as the younger man dropped his gaze beyond the staircase, looking out for witnesses. “I think we both need each other. For all her faults, Claire was still a part of our lives.”

“What do you think happened to her?” Damon asked, allowing his foot to connect with the stair. Suddenly, he clung onto Victor, accepting the offer of support far more aggressively than was expected. Fistfuls of Victor’s denim jacket were taken in his grip, and the movement brought the two men perilously close to tumbling backwards down the staircase together.

“Careful,” Victor warned, shifting his leg for balance as he guided Damon to his side. “And I don’t know. They said she fell down the stairs.”

Had Victor noticed Damon’s eyes trained on his lips, he might have considered his words differently – he might have tried to be clever and root out some deeper meaning to Damon’s question, or to evade the question altogether. Without seeing the calculating glint in his pupils, the words would have to be taken at face value, sincerity being all Victor could hope for.

“Do you believe that?” Damon pressed, with one arm now around Victor for support. He forced them both to stop, a third of the way down the staircase. A dark thought ambled across his mind. There was enough strength left in his turd, drunken body to tie up one more loose end. After all, Damon was still exploring what he was capable of; maybe the day’s moping had simply been a symptom of inertia, and momentum could be gained by silencing Victor; maybe the beast he had discovered within himself simply needed to be fed. After all, his death would fit the narrative already being spun without Victor’s notice. Prime Suspect in Double Murder Found Dead. The headlines wrote themselves.

“I’m choosing to. I know it’s selfish, but I have to believe it was an accident. Y’know? Rather than the alternative…” 

Damon tightened his grip, an attempt at disguising his readiness to slip free and shove Victor to his death. If Damon was lucky, the younger man would break his neck on the way down; if he was unlucky…? It didn’t much matter; he knew how to finish the job.

“What alternative?”

Victor sighed, catching Damon off guard. The resulting hesitation was enough to allow the moment to slip by, leaving behind only a tremble in his hands, potential energy with nowhere to go.

“If she…you know… If she killed herself…well, I can’t help but feel responsible. Surely I’m to blame for that, in some small way. I saw her that night. Maybe I said something.”

At Victor’s confession, Damon found himself loosening his grip, pulling his arm free from around the other man’s neck. He looked at Victor with bewilderment, suffused with an undercurrent of indignant rage. How, exactly, had Claire become a sanctified figure in the eyes of the man she had extorted with lies? More confusingly, why did it spark such primal disgust in Damon?

“How can you say that?” Damon scoffed with a newfound clarity. Or perhaps it wasn’t clarity, but the alcohol loosening his tongue enough to veer dangerously close to the truth. “You of all people… How can you, Victor whatever-your-name-is, specifically, say what you’ve just said? Knowing what you know?”

An icy chill took hold between the two men. The implications of the question became its loudest part. Victor felt himself withdrawing from Damon as he replied sheepishly, “What do you mean?”

Damon drew closer, his breath stale and spiced from the bourbon and bile, and spoke slowly without caring that his voice might sound hoarse. It rumbled instead, each crackle in his throat suggesting a growl.

“Claire killed Kristi.”

It was laid out as a fact with no room to argue. Hearing somebody else say it wasn't as comforting as Victor had imagined it might.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he lied, an involuntary twitch giving the momentary impression of a disbelieving smile.

"It's OK," Damon whispered. A hand reached from the gloom and squeezed Victor’s shoulder. "I know the truth. She told me everything."

A wink accompanied the revelation, twisting Damon's obscured face into something sinister. Sharp teeth glinted like fangs, a predator stalking its prey from the undergrowth. The desired result was achieved, Victor recoiling further until the railing was pressed against his spine.

"I don't know what she told you, but--"

Victor got no further. Damon's hand waved in his face, dismissing the worries before they could be spoken aloud.

“Shh now, it’s OK. She told me the truth and that’s all that matters. So why don’t you run along now? Fuck off back to Havannah and her little French lapdog, and leave me alone.” Short, sharp jabs punctuated the last syllables of Damon’s commands, each one becoming more aggressive as he spoke. “There's a good boy. Go on, leave me the fuck alone.” 

With the last demand, Damon’s voice became a snarl. Instinct took over, and the final jab became more forceful, shoving Victor harder than anticipated. Although the taller of the two, it was enough to throw Victor from his balance. 

For a brief moment, Damon watched with curiosity as the other man slipped from view, seemingly swallowed by the darkness.

His heart thumped louder, though it was the ringing in his ear that really bothered Damon; it meant he was alone with the silence once again.

Only, he wasn't.

“What the hell, Damon?!”

The nightclub owner squinted and tried to focus his eyes in an attempt at finding where the voice had come from. Was another ghost so quick to join Claire and Patrick, haunting him from just out of sight? 

Perhaps not.

A momentary loss of balance wasn’t enough to topple Victor; his height had saved him, and he had merely missed a few steps before grappling onto the railing, causing little more than an awkward stumble. With the pavilion now cloaked in a thick pitch and Damon’s vision unsteady from alcohol, the mishap had looked more drastic than it actually was.

Damon braced himself for consequences as Victor’s stormy expression sprung forth into view. It suddenly occurred to him that he wanted nothing more than to curl up and be comforted, to surrender and let all of this pass, to shrug off the night – the whole rotten day – and be done with any further interactions. Maybe if he closed his eyes tightly enough, the whole scene could be waved away as a dream might be.

The punch he was expecting never came. The blow never landed. In another place at another time, Victor would most certainly have bludgeoned Damon to within an inch of his life. But here and now..? As angry as he was, the younger man could only think of Yannis’ party and how Envy had looked at him with disgust as he gripped her arm. Anger had won then, and the shame still beat hot behind his face – a face he feared would resemble his father were he to have checked in the mirror after the fact.

“Fuck you, Damon. I don’t need this. I don’t need any of this,” Victor bellowed, his voice ringing from every surface in the pavilion.

There was no further confrontation. Damon was left to watch in stunned silence as Victor vanished from view a second time, and then listen to him stomping the rest of the way down the staircase by himself. The pavilion’s door swung shut with a clatter and a clang, and Damon was alone once again. The peace felt little like victory. Nothing did.

Surrounded by the evidence of his crimes and without Victor as a distraction, Damon became mildly aware of a new sensation – or at least a sensation which he had long ago put away in a box in his heart, untouched and unacknowledged. He felt exposed. In this place, where the walls that held him were blackened or had split apart, there was no escaping what he had done.

Overcome, Damon took a seat on the edge of the step. Silence enveloped him. No, not silence. Emptiness. There were plenty of sounds – the growing howl of the breeze through cracks and chasms, the impatient waves, the last squawks of a seagull overhead – but there was little else in that space with Damon. It was somehow more unsettling than all the times he’d imagined Patrick haunting the pier, staring across at the nightclub’s office window. 

His body entertained a shiver, but Damon wasn’t ready to leave just yet. How could he go now? How could he uproot himself from this spot, knowing that returning to the shore would mean submitting to a still uncertain fate? Olivier wanted him gone. The ultimatum had been clear, even if it was remembered in a booze-soaked haze. A distance was growing between himself and Havannah, though his own suspicions were widening the gulf. The private investigator had been silenced, but for how long? And now Victor would report back to the world what a mess he had become. If the police looked too closely at Damon, there was every chance he would crack, a thin shell trying to contain a multitude of sins. 

So, he thought, why not just stay in the pavilion? It was an unserious suggestion, of course, but at least here Damon could be comforted by the tangibility of his actions; it would be easy to reach out and touch the walls, feel the cold flames caught beneath the surface. That wasn't possible with Claire’s death. He could very well spend the rest of his life imagining her watching him or expecting people to find him out or losing himself in lie upon lie. The shell grew thinner, more fragile. Maybe cracking would be the best thing Damon could do.

Just as the idea was starting to nest comfortably in the more logical aspect of his mind, another creak of floorboards sounded from somewhere up above.

Damon turned to examine the mezzanine. The night had thickened too much to see anything up there with any clarity. Had something moved in the shadows, or was it imagined? Was the next creaking of a floorboard somebody’s footstep?

A rush of adrenaline overcame him. Damon felt himself grow unexpectedly protective of the ruins, now that they were a temple to his own guilt. He stood to confront a potential interloper, though the speed of his rise left him lightheaded, and stars sparked and popped across his vision, dancing their way over the darkness. Yet again, the railing was a steadying influence, though there was mercifully less need for its stability now.

“Is somebody there?”

No answer was spoken back, only another creak and the deeper yawning of the damaged structure. Common sense would usually have told Damon to leave the situation if there was no way to control it. Unfortunately, such instincts had been dulled by alcohol and a madness stirring in his brain. 

“Hello?” he called out on the slow climb back to the mezzanine level.

Another sound responded – this time a door slamming up ahead, through the doorway leading to what was once Patrick’s office and the epicentre of the blaze. Damon drew closer, fingers clenched against his palms, uncertain that such a response would even be the right one. For once, he had no idea what to do with his hands, but the familiarity of a fist was at least a comfort.

The world beyond the doorway had grown all the more menacing since he’d first arrived. New shadows had reshaped the splintered wood into jagged teeth and claws that threatened to gnash and lash at any who dared pass between them. Damon reached forward, peering into the pitch in an effort to make sense of the sounds. The breeze whistled chillingly nearby and the seagull flapped and fussed as it settled back into its nest, but neither were what Damon was listening out for. 

With the quietest possible voice, tempered by disbelief at entertaining such an idea, Damon asked a question to which he hoped there would be no response.

“Patrick..?”

As he leaned further towards the abyss, listening for an answer, the whole world seemed to hold its breath all at once; there was no sound – no waves, no gulls, no creaking or groaning or rattling or teasing rushes of sea air, and certainly no heartbeat drumming out across the water. 

And then…

Boom.

The pavilion was lit from above in a flash of vibrant green as the first of the fireworks erupted in the sky. Damon spun on the spot, certain his chest would explode with panic until the realisation settled in. He knew what they were and where they were coming from, and there was nothing to fear. In fact, for a moment, there was relief. 

And then the second firework detonated, lighting up every corner and crevice. Whether or not Damon truly saw another person watching him with accusing eyes or if it was merely a hallucination, he would never know for sure. With the bright red flash came the accompanying thunderous bang – a sound loud enough to disguise the pier’s exhausted exhalation. His first realisation that something was amiss came as he felt the floor give way beneath him, a stretch of the aching mezzanine finally surrendering to stress. The tumbling and crashing of rotten floorboards had been disguised even to Damon's ears. The collapse happened as quickly as the deep whip-crack of the firework, leaving Damon to feel only a stunned surprise as he fell with the debris. At first, as the echo of the explosion faded, his descent was seemingly silent, only registering the sound of shattering glass and the crunching of wood and plaster grinding together after he landed with a heavy thud onto the granite bar below. By then, Damon had a very different concern, the breath knocked from his lungs. He gasped and choked, dust and detritus scattering itself into his eyes and hurrying down his throat with every struggling inhalation.

The smell of ash was stronger now that the charred timber had been disturbed. It mingled with the salty air and the taste of blood – coppery at first, before becoming too sweet and sharp as more escaped from Damon’s body.

Time lingered, every second pulled to an unnatural length. All around Damon, the chaos seemed to be settling and slowing. It had taken forever to happen, and it had taken seconds.

The initial shock soon gave way to panic. Time lurched onwards, reclaiming the proper running of itself. When, Damon wondered, would the rest of the pier collapse on him? Would the sea swallow them both? 

As his lungs rattled and the blood filling his throat threatened to choke him, Damon willed himself to move, to roll over, to get off the bar and crawl to safety – to do anything that might spare him from finally getting everything he'd ever deserved. He would not allow this hollow place to be his tomb.

With every scrap of energy left in his body – and a growing reliance on the slowly depleting adrenaline in his veins – Damon pulled himself from the bar and scrambled, broken, from the pavilion. Dead ahead of him lay the pier, the destroyed husks of the various stalls scattered across its length like scabs on a wounded limb. The pier seemed to stretch on for eternity ahead of him, putting more and more distance between Damon and the shore. But if he could just make it to the wrought iron gates, there would be help; if the surge of panic could last long enough to carry his body all that way without collapsing, he might survive. 

With heavy feet and a growing awareness of where the breeze felt cold against his blood, Damon Fox began the longest walk of his life, determined not to die – not today, not like this. Please God, not like this.

***

From inland, it was just about possible to see the fireworks glittering in the sky, though the accompanying thunder-claps were more obvious, even when delayed as they hurried to catch up to the spectacle taking place over the shore.

Victor, however, hadn’t yet stopped to look up. By the time the first rocket had been launched into the night, he was already away, sneaking back through the gates and blending in with the crowd. He hadn’t slowed down for even a moment, shoulders hunched and arms thrust into the pockets of his denim jacket. More than once, he found his elbows clipping the other partygoers gathering on the shore, strangers standing between him and home. Their frustrated insults had only fuelled Victor’s ire, tightening the fists he was keeping safely out of sight – if only to avoid the temptation of striking somebody.

As he tore up the curved road that led to the town centre, curiosity threatened to get the most of him. The view available from that spot would have been spectacular and all-encompassing, the entire shoreline exposed and repainted in the coloured flashes and bright sparkling emanations. It would also have meant catching sight of the crowd gawking in the direction of the beach and the dark horizon beyond it, seemingly unaware of the history they were mirroring. Did they not see themselves repeating what had already been? And would it really be what Havannah wanted, to stand and watch explosions over the fire-gutted wreckage of the pier?

Havannah. Guilt pressed its icy-cool edge against Victor’s heated fury and he shivered. His anger had gotten the better of him, even if not in a way as dire as it had done previously; he had stormed off and abandoned Havannah's party without a word. Part-way up the hill, Victor paused momentarily and considered if it was too late to go back, or at least to call her. A new firework shrieking into the abyss, fading into an anticipatory silence, before a guttural bang finally followed. Fighting his curiosity, he decided not to relent – not to let his anger grow cold and limp and lose its meaning. This was a gesture; this was Victor allowing the once-destructive rage to instead propel him away from the situation and the game he wasn't qualified to play. Havannah would understand, he was sure. Or she would forget; he was such a small part in her life, was there really much right to worry about his place within it? Besides, maybe this would be enough to kill the burgeoning friendship taking root between them. He didn’t know Havannah well enough to be certain. The best Victor could do was hope to be wrong.

Trudging onwards, Victor lost himself so deeply in thought that he didn’t even register that the fireworks had come to an abrupt end. They had become part of the background, a noise as expected as the seagulls in summer, or the tempestuous waves in winter. And from that distance, it wasn't possible for him to hear the screams on the shore as Damon's shambling form reached the shore and Havannah's reassuring presence. All of that was far and away from Victor now.

Eventually, Victor reached home. There was some relief to be back here, occupying his old room in his grandmother’s flat. In other ways, though, he was already too exhausted to remain. All that running had still led him back to the same place, and there hadn't been a chance to rest, not properly.

Spiritless, Victor collapsed on the bottom rung of the black metal staircase that crept its way up to the second storey abode. Guilt also stopped him from climbing any further than that first step, despite the alluring call of the sanctuary his nan offered. 

Claire had told him the photo was gone, and a weight had been lifted. Then she had died, and Victor – though mournful – was still able to cradle a small sense of relief that sickened him. Time would have helped, of course. Without the threat hanging over his head, it wouldn’t have taken too long to put the fire and Kristi and all the unpleasantness behind him. With Damon knowing, however, there was an unavoidable sense that any peace Victor might have had was under threat. His stomach writhed in knots at the thought of Damon twisting the truth and taunting him for whatever sick reason. He couldn’t be trusted, and knowing what really happened wasn’t enough to absolve Damon of the facts of his reputation. Of course, maybe there would be no mention of it again, the secret carried between the two men. It would be unspoken, but not unknown, and Victor would be haunted by it nonetheless, reminded of that night not just in his dreams, but every time he saw Damon or heard his name – which had grown to be far too often for his liking. The nightclub owner was also entangled in Havannah's life, a thorny weed that threatened to choke the flourishing promise of a new friendship.

Victor couldn't stay. He would need a plan this time; he could call Havannah in the morning or just run away again, disappearing into the night. But both of those options lay on the other side of dawn; between him and then was the inevitable moment where his grandmother would look him in the eye and know something was wrong. And he couldn't very well simply vanish again, not after the heartbreak it had caused the only woman to have ever made him feel loved.

A knot twisted in Victor’s stomach, and his coccyx squirmed against the raised nodules patterning the hard step. Who was he kidding? Dawn didn’t look too hopeful either. There was nowhere Victor could escape to; the friends who had accommodated him before were unlikely to welcome his shadow on their doorstep so soon after leaving, and he wasn’t sure Rahim even trusted him. As for Victor’s parents… His nan was the only real family he had.

As if to confirm that fact, Victor peered up at the top of the stairs, where a faint glow swam through the glass of the front door, pooling on the metal. A light had been left on for him, calling Victor home.

The night of the fire had been, in Victor's mind, a watershed moment, changing the very landscape of his life and dividing it between ‘before’ and ‘after’. Rather than allow that realisation to cut his resolve in twain, Victor sought – and found – some comfort in the thought. Sitting at the edge of his own world, cold and alone, could be a choice rather than a fact. Whereas it might have been what was expected of him by his disapproving family and anybody who listened to Claire's venomous whispers, it wasn't what he wanted for himself – even if surrendering to expectations would be easier than resisting them. Proving his father right was the last thing Victor wanted to do.

Overhead, the clouds did what they could to swallow Clayham-on-Sea’s light pollution, tainting themselves with hues of orange and different shades of grey in the process. The view of the stars wasn't as clear as the seafront, but it was nonetheless a comfort to know that the night sky was still hanging above him, and that there were stars shining regardless of whether or not Victor could acknowledge them. The world would carry on turning, with or without him.

For a second time, he glanced up the metal staircase to the front door. He'd never really considered the peculiarities of where they lived; a two-storey flat over a sandwich shop seemed novel at first, and then became normal. Everybody else Victor had known at school and college had lived in a house on one of the estates, and he was out here, off a main road in the town proper, separate from them but never alone – not with his nan ready to welcome him home every day after school.

The temptation to heed the call and head up the stairs was becoming too difficult to resist for much longer. Even more so was the knowledge that his nan would be waiting up. She'd seemed stronger in the recent weeks since his return; maybe she would be watching television in her chair, dozing but aware of the world around her. He could go upstairs and, at the very least, pretend that everything was OK, push away all the terrible anxieties until tomorrow morning, like clearing rubble to make space for him to sit.

In his chest, Victor felt a yearning for the love waiting for him. This was his home - this strange flat, in this strange town, full of people who played their own strange games and never told him the rules - and he refused to be forcibly unmoored from it a second time. For tonight, at least, Victor could feel proud of his decision to simply not play their games at all; Damon had goaded and he hadn’t risen to it.

Wearily, Victor pulled himself to standing, his muscles aching from the uphill walk home. His feet clanked against the metal as he climbed the stairs, a deep and familiar noise that soothed him. It was the sound of coming home after school, of sneaking in after a night out, of returning to the one person who loved him without condition or consequence.

No sooner had Victor turned the key, he was greeted by the calling of his name.

"Is that you?" his nan asked, straining to be heard from the living room. A ragged cough followed.

"Yeah, it's me, nan," Victor replied, letting his voice speak from the hollow in his chest so that it carried through the kitchen and arrived gently at his grandmother's ear.

As he had hoped, Diane was sitting in the living room, just about visible in the armchair that cradled her frail frame. The glow of a floor lamp gave the impression of a welcoming fire, drawing Victor towards its embrace. By comparison, the kitchen was dark and cold, save for the lights beneath the cupboards – the beacon that had called to him from outside. They seemed less alluring now, outdone by the living room’s promise of sweet warmth and understanding company.

"Are you OK?" Victor asked, crossing the threshold with a sense of relief. Whatever inner part of him had yearned for this, it was satisfied now.

He didn’t wait for an answer, bending down to kiss his nan on the cheek. In return, she smiled at him, reaching a wizened hand to caress his face. When Victor looked too closely, he could recognise how old his grandmother had become – a fact he usually wished to deny. Knots seemingly ran beneath her skin, especially on the topside of her hands, which ended with thin fingers that struggled to straighten or grasp. A familiar beauty still stared back from the same loving eyes that had first greeted him, but now they were set in worn surroundings, hollowed cheeks and a countless number of wrinkles redefining the landscape. Diane was vanishing in front of him. Victor leaned into her touch, savouring it for posterity. When she lowered her trembling hand, Victor took it into his own, holding on gently as he kneeled beside his grandmother.

“You remind me so much of your dad when he was younger.” When Diane spoke her observation, it was with a soft tone full of reminiscence. She smiled wistfully, seeing Victor’s father staring back at her, still full of potential and hope. “You two are so alike. Did you know that?”

Victor shook his head slowly, hoping to steer them both away from any hurt.

“I'm going to put the kettle on, yeah?”

Victor interrupted, though his legs couldn't convince him to rise and he wasn't ready to part with the touch of her hand. His grandmother continued regardless, the conversation taking place with or without Victor, as if the words had been waiting to come out and would be delayed no further.

“He was always angry. And all that anger… Well, it doesn’t do anybody any good. It’s like poisoning a lake; eventually nothing can live in it.”

The temptation to pull his hands away – to let hers go so as not to be held close enough to be wounded by her words – grew, causing a twitch in Victor's digits. To be compared to his father was almost as painful as the biting betrayal of his own assumptions. If Diane Grainger noticed the tears forming in her grandson’s eyes, they did not hurry her to make a correction or change direction; she continued at her own, gradual pace, each impatient word a Labour nonetheless.

"But then I look at you. I can see all the best parts of you, Victor, and it makes me feel hopeful. Your dad, on the other hand... He drank that poisoned water and let it fester inside of him." She grimaced now, her gaze drifting to just behind Victor, where it lingered with regret. "I don't recognise the little boy I gave birth to anymore. But I'm grateful he gave me you."

Warmth bloomed behind Victor's face, the tears turning the floor lamp's glow into a haze of splintered lights. 

"Promise me, whatever happens in life, that you won't end up like your dad. I'm not asking you to forgive him. But you don't need to accept second-hand poison, either. It'll make you just as unwell. Do you understand?"

Victor nodded, though it wasn't yet true; it would take years for him to fully grasp her words. In the meantime, they would be something to cling to, just as this entire moment would be. Here, in the faintly-lit living room, it was only the two of them talking, a scene carved out of the rest of the world and placed in his palm to keep.

"Love you, Nan.”

“Love you more. Now, are you in for the rest of the night? We could watch the rest of this,” she suggested, pointing to the television with her remote. 

“Sounds great, Nan.”

“Lovely. And if you're making a hot drink, I'll have a chamomile tea please, sweetheart.”

Smiling, Victor eased himself up from a kneeling position and returned to the kitchen. Although the under cabinet lighting was enough to see by, Victor found himself preferring to be drenched in light; the shadows that clung to corners and stretched across surfaces reminded him too much of the pier-head pavilion and his conversation with Damon. 

He motioned to flick the light switch, though paused as his finger came into contact with the plastic. The dimness of the kitchen provided just enough contrast to make a pair of silhouettes visible through the front door’s window. 

A knock – expected, and yet unsettling in the way it gave the distorted phantoms outside some sense of being – sounded out, the PVC shuddering beneath rapping knuckles. Victor approached slowly. The shadows seemed to stretch and deepen with the growing apprehension.

“Who is it, sweetheart?” Diane called out from the blissful ignorance of her chair.

A thousand possibilities blazed in Victor’s head, but as he joined dots and drew lines to form some dread constellation in his mind’s eye, they all became nothing more than fleeting imaginings, save for one. He froze, fingers lightly curled around the door handle. He was suddenly back on the edge of his world, cold and alone. To open the door would be to further deepen the divide between ‘before’ and ‘after’.

Another knock followed, more impatient this time, and then a man's voice called his name. So much of Victor wanted to turn back and stay with his grandmother in the living room, safe and sound and separate from the ordeal awaiting him. But he knew that wasn't possible – and it wasn't necessary. Victor knew he didn't kill Kristi and surely that was why they had come for him. As far as he knew, the photo was gone, and perhaps Damon would now be the surprising ally that he needed.

Bolstered by his own conviction, Victor pulled down on the handle. The door swung open at his command, shedding a little illumination on the detectives’ faces. Two ID badges were flashed in quick succession. Beyond the detectives, down where the neighbours could access their garages, two police cars – one unmarked, one emblazoned with vibrant colours – were waiting.

“Good evening. I’m DCI Henson. This is my partner, DS Timmins. Am I right in thinking you're Victor Grainger?"

Confidence waning, Victor found himself struck dumb, and so only gave a nod to confirm. 

Henson leaned to one side, peering through the kitchen at the visible slither of Victor's grandmother. With restrained sympathy, she looked back to him and lowered her voice.

"Is that your grandmother?"

Again, he nodded.

"Victor, I think you know what happens next, but I want to minimise any unnecessary stress."

"Henson..." Timmins started to say, but his partner simply shook her head and put the badge away.

"I'll give you a moment, but that's all."

Victor glanced over his shoulder. He could just about make out the shape of his nan's face peering at them from her chair. Imagined flashes of Diane's disappointment tormented him; to turn back or say anything now would break her heart. Another lie would have to do. After all, how long would they be able to keep him for?

Without a word, Victor returned to the living room on shaky limbs. Repeating his routine in reverse, he bent down and clasped her hand, then kissed his grandmother on the cheek. All the while, attempting to steady his voice, he told her, "Sorry, nan, I need to go back out. Not sure when I'll be home, so don't wait up, OK?"

"Oh, OK," she said, turning to look at him with only a thinly-veiled disappointment glistening in her eyes. Victor looked away; such an image wasn’t a memory he wanted to add to his collection. In the background, the TV show they were supposed to be watching was coming to an end.

Shoulders hunched, he made his way back to the front door, weighed down by invisible chains worn around his body. In Victor’s mind, each link was placed there by somebody else; he had thought himself free, yet Claire continued to punish him for not loving her enough.

Even knowing what she thought she knew, Henson never hurried Victor, simply watching as his vessel carried him from the kitchen to the living room and back again on autopilot. As he lowered down to slip on his shoes, Diane leaned back in her chair once again, this time able to glimpse the strangers leading her grandson away. With a shrill voice, she asked after Victor, unable to rise from the chair fast enough, her arms too weak.

“Could you?” Henson asked her partner, gesturing towards Victor.

“Sure,” Timmins replied, leading the young man down the metal staircase and out of reach of his home, all the while guiding Victor with the light touch of a palm against his spine.

Hesitantly, Henson stepped inside the flat and left a card on the kitchen worktop. This had started to feel like the only way to soften the blows she had to deliver, leaving an offer of support which nobody ever took her up on. She imagined it was a lack of trust. Then, Henson headed through to Mrs Grainger, who was distressed but had managed to escape her chair and shuffle to the doorway. She had failed to react at the pace demanded of her, and the weight of this was writ large across Diane's face.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Grainger. Truly, I am. I know how hard this can be and I don't want to cause you any upset. I've left my card on the side if you need anything. A colleague will be in touch."

That was all the emotion she could spare, even as the old woman grasped desperately for the detective, hoping to have her stay long enough to explain. Both women were breathless now; Henson from the anxiety and guilt that came from staring at an innocent, and Diane from the exertion and terror she felt at not being able to protect her precious grandson.

“Where are you taking him? What do you think he’s done?”

The truth – as Henson understood it, at least – rolled onto her tongue, but she couldn't allow herself to speak. Instead, she chose to spare the elderly woman, whose grasp was quivering now. It was the kindest thing she could think to do.

“A colleague will be in touch.”

Outside, surrounded on two sides by the differently coloured garage doors, Victor surrendered his hands behind his back, anticipating the cold of metal enclosing his wrists. A nearby officer stepped forward from beside the second police car, while Timmins held onto Victor's shoulder. Henson rejoined them just as the handcuffs were being attached.

Still breathless – both from her canter down the metal staircase and the rushing anxiety of what was to follow – Henson began to speak as the officer tightened Victor's cuffs.

"Victor Grainger, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Claire Hallett and her sister, Kristi Hallett."

Somewhere in the background, the crackle of a police radio disturbed the air around them, distracting Victor from hearing what had been said. After a short delay, the words sank in, and his involuntary silence came to a jolting end.

“Wait, what?”

Humouring him, Timmins repeated his colleague's declaration, though everything after that was drowned out by the ringing noise in Victor's head. As the ringing grew louder, a cold wave rolled from his crown down to the soles of his feet. And then, as if suddenly thrown into the freezing water, the panic intensified.

“I didn’t do anything!” he started, quietly and with a crack in his voice. Like the tides, Victor's indignation grew louder and more furious. “I didn't do anything, I swear! You can’t do this. I’ll tell you everything that happened, but it wasn’t my fault! Get off me! It wasn't my fucking fault!”

As it became apparent that Victor’s cries were falling on deaf ears, he tried struggling instead. Despite being the shorter of them both, however, the officer was stronger and the struggle amounted to nothing more than the slipping and stamping of feet.

"I'm telling you I didn't do anything; it wasn't me!" he yelled again, his voice bouncing from the back wall of the sandwich shop, then between the painted garage doors, until finally being carried out towards nearby houses and the main road. Lights came on in windows as curious neighbours were drawn to the scene. With an audience, Victor hoped his pleas might finally be acknowledged. 

"I'm innocent! They're arresting an innocent man!” he pleaded to the gallery of witnesses watching the injustice take place.

But the faces at the windows remained anonymous or vanished into the dark when the lights shut off, afraid of being spotted. Nobody was interested in his plight; nobody was coming to save him.

On Henson's silent orders, another officer joined their colleague, wrestling Victor towards the car. Between them, they were able to force his head down under the curve of the roof and into the backseat. 

One last time, Victor screamed his innocence, invoking the name of the last person he had ever thought to call upon for help. “Ask Damon Fox! He knows the truth! He knows what happened!”

It was no use. The door slammed shut behind Victor, and his voice – hoarse and weary now – became smothered by the car’s interior.

By now, tears had started to pour down Victor's face. There was no room for dignity in the face of such desperation. Hands bound, it was impossible to wipe the blur free, to see clearly whether his beloved nan was witnessing this. All that was visible at the top of the stairs was the same welcoming glow that had drawn him home, smeared across his blurred vision.

Victor’s heart broke then; he could feel it fracturing deep within his chest. He had been torn from any dreams of comfort, caught in somebody else's web and pulled down by a series of events he had barely been a part of, the intricacies of which would not be truly understood until the detectives presented their evidence. While singular strands could be explained away, they formed a narrative not as neat and palatable as the one designed by Damon and unknowingly facilitated by Claire. Once again, Victor had lost at somebody else’s game, and now he would be paying the price for it. Who would ever believe him? Nobody, that's who. At that thought, the struggle left him.

There had been a 'before' and now there was an 'after', the seasons of his life carved by a chasm. There was no going back now, and seemingly no hope up ahead in the futures he imagined for himself. Dozens of possibilities spun out from this moment, though so many ended in prison and misery, maybe even death. Even if he somehow made it back here to this place some day, Victor knew he would be changed. It would be a stranger walking in his place, a visitor to the ruins of what had been his childhood, forced to grow up and harden the softest parts of himself.

Victor caught sight of his reflection in the police car window. The tears stopped and he turned away, fixing his eyes on the dashboard up ahead. There was a ‘before’ and an ‘after’... And after that night, nobody would be able to say that Victor Grainger was ever the same again.

***

In the darkness, time lost all meaning.

When he came to, Damon could hardly be sure if it had been hours or days since his eyes had last closed. The first blink brought little clarity to the situation, his vision blurred and eyelids scratchy. A tear had dried and crusted on his lashes, but he was too weak to raise a hand and wipe it away.

Damon blinked again, refreshing his sight and clarifying his surroundings: a private hospital room that still managed to smell of cheap plastic and antiseptic. A pressure on his chest that was momentarily mistaken for Havannah's lingering handprint turned out to be his own, frozen in place by the cannula, whose length had been slipped deep beneath the skin. Tracing the trail of tubes from his hand to the clear bag suspended overhead, Damon started to understand that the liquid being fed into his veins was responsible for the warm numbness. For that, he was thankful.

The exhaustion was more debilitating than any mere tiredness he'd ever felt in his life, further exacerbated even by the lolling of his gaze in the direction of the only shape in the room he'd so far failed to make out. An attempt to sit up and get a better look elicited a groan, which caused the shape to shift, startled by the unexpected company. It was then that Damon began to recognise the stranger, dressed for a party but draped in somebody else's coat.

"Damon? Are you awake?" Havannah asked, throat dry and tired.

He couldn't answer, save for a small murmur, but it was enough to understand. Havannah rose from her chair, leaving the coat behind as she approached where Damon was lying.

"What happened?" he asked, oxygen mask clouding in response to his words. Hearing his own familiar voice was a comfort distorted through the throbbing in his ears and the beeping of a machine beside him. Under the bright lights of the hospital room, the gold woven into Havannah's braids twinkled, and Damon found himself hypnotised by the way her hair swayed as she looked down at him.

The drink had obliterated much of the day, leaving behind only fragments, now jumbled in his mind by the timelessness he'd experienced in the void. It still clung to his memories, pawing at his recollections, toying with the order of his life. Had Olivier attacked him in the graveyard, or was it Victor in the pavilion? It could've been an accident; had he fallen from drinking? Had the world tried to swallow him whole?

"Shh, it's OK. Save your energy. There was an accident on the pier. You were hurt. What were you even doing there?"

"Sorry," he managed, before the drowsiness threatened to pull him back to sleep.

It wasn't a word Damon had ever expected to say – not with any meaning, at least. But he did mean it, the single apology a spoken confession of his misdeeds, signed by the fresh tears rolling down a face littered with stinging cuts and grazes. He only wished that Havannah knew what it meant – what he was truly apologising for – so that she might grant him forgiveness there and then. She gave no indication of understanding the deeper meaning, however.

“Dont worry about that now. The doctor says it looks worse than it is,” she smiled.

“It hurts worse than it looks,” he half-joked with a tired smirk.

This time, Damon made a more determined effort to sit up. Given no choice, Havannah aided him in doing so.

“How was the party?”

“It was… It was wonderful. Thank you – for asking and for organising it. I'm just sorry you got hurt.”

Damon went to lift the hand without a cannula, only to realise the whole arm had been bandaged and felt too heavy to move. Gingerly so as not to feel the cannula pressing against his bone, he guided the other hand closer to Havannah instead.

“Is it still your birthday?”

Havannah nodded, her smile dislodging a tear. “Happy birthday. Did you open my present?”

She shook her head and her braids tapped gently against one another.

“I didn't see it anywhere.”

“It's on my desk. You should head on home and then pick it up. I'll be alright here.”

“You sure? Olivier said he'd come by later. I sent him home.”

Damon tensed at the thought, though it was easily mistaken for a twinge of pain.

“Yeah. Don't worry about me. I'm tough.”

In the silence that swelled to fill the space between them, there was an unspoken yearning for some simplicity. A friend – a mentor, even – was lying in a hospital bed, broken; for most people, that would be a clear enough situation to warrant some form of mourning. Their relationship, however, was far more complicated than all that.

“I’ll find a nurse on my way out,” Havannah smiled, giving Damon’s fingers a gentle squeeze. “You'll be out of here in no time. And then…” She paused, almost surprised at herself for letting the sentence begin. “Maybe we could have a conversation about the pier. As friends. I need some closure, and maybe an honest conversation is the answer. It feels like the adult thing to do.”

A black hole opened in Damon’s stomach. The painkillers had been useful in blanketing him within a haze through which none of his guilt could penetrate. Now he could feel them being undermined, his body's dulled aches becoming sharp again, and flashes of his crimes occupying his thoughts in increasing detail. The mixture of alcohol and painkillers had dazed him, but that too was wearing off, and the soft colours of the hospital room began to pale back to reality.

“Sure,” he replied, reassured only by the idea that he wouldn't be here when she came back. Olivier had made his threats, and this town had grown too hostile and haunted for him to stay. It was time to move on.

“Thanks, Damon. I appreciate it.”

Feigning further drowsiness, Damon gave a light nod and a thumbs-up before letting his eyelids close, heavily.

Havannah left quietly and without another word, gently lifting Olivier’s jacket from the back of the chair. Only when the click-clack of her high heels became distant echoes did Damon open his eyes. Outside, early morning had arrived in a bouquet of soft pinks and faint blues. A bird chirped, a tree branch tapped against the window, and somewhere far from where he was lying, Damon could swear he could hear the waves rolling onto the shore.

He would rest a little longer while it was safe to do so, and then he would leave Clayham-on-Sea behind – leave it to Havannah and the ghosts and the memory of a lonelier version of himself. And once he was out of reach – once all of this was out of reach – maybe Damon could exhale again. Maybe he could even be fashioned into a better man, reshaped by the fear of his own actions catching up to him.

For the first time in a long while, Damon Fox smiled with genuine relief. Where most people would see uncertainty and anxiety, he saw opportunity. Now he could control his own destiny, and there was no feeling more heady than that.

***

Daybreak flourished into morning, and the world continued onwards. Far out to sea, a wound had been carved into the clouds, through which sunlight poured forth; below, the waves busied themselves like static. Alone, and with the expanse of the horizon ahead of her, Havannah leaned back against the sandstone wall running the length of Clayham-on-Sea’s beach. In one hand was Damon’s gift, unwrapped and receiving all of her attention; in the other, the small envelope she had found attached to the back of the picture frame, begging to be opened.

The frame itself was nothing remarkable, a simple rectangle with wooden edges. At one time, the picture it surrounded would also have been considered nothing special. But that was before Havannah had lost her father. Afterwards, it had grown in significance.

From the photo, Patrick smiled back at his daughter, a message of pride and happiness sent through time. Beside him, a younger Havannah – seventeen, if she remembered correctly – took her father's arm to steady herself as she beamed at the camera. Damon was standing on Patrick's left, still serious, though his expression gave a gentler edge and made him look less tired than Havannah had noticed him becoming over the last few months. An ease seemed to weave the trio together. That too had become unrecognisable over time, though Havannah was embarrassed to admit she hadn’t noticed the change taking place right in front of her.

Even in the cold shadow of the sandstone wall, the sea breeze reached Havannah. Its only intention was to tease the small envelope held between her fingers until it could no longer be ignored.

With a perfectly manicured nail, Havannah loosened the envelope flat and retrieved the card from inside. On the front of the card was a generic illustration of flowers, the sort that might have come with a bouquet. She noticed then that the envelope was also the right size for such a purpose, tucked away among roses and daisies. Were there supposed to be flowers with the gift? She shrugged to herself. It didn’t matter either way; the framed photo was enough.

Inside the card was a message, written the previous morning in Damon’s strict yet flowing handwriting, the neatness not yet marred by alcohol.

Happy birthday, Havannah.

In case there was any doubt, you are your father's legacy.

D x

The accompanying swell of emotion came as a surprise – one which she was alerted to only by a tear landing on the light blue card, staining it dark.

The words etched onto the card changed something within Havannah, shifted her insides and the world laid out before her. Maybe Damon was right, and maybe Olivier was also right; maybe it was time to move on, and to release back to the sea all the things she could never truly know. And then Keller came to mind. If the private investigator were to learn of Damon’s current condition, would he feel it was adequate justice for the misery inflicted upon him? Would it be enough to allay his fears?

“There you are,” came a voice from somewhere overhead. Havannah craned her head back against the sandstone and saw Olivier leaning forward. He looked refreshed and not at all as tired as she did; where was the fairness in that?

Olivier disappeared again, but she could hear his footsteps as he made his way down towards the beach. Feeling strangely vulnerable – exposed, even – Havannah hurriedly wiped away a tear and sniffled, as if drawing all the emotion back into her body. Then she shoved the card back into its envelope and out of sight, before straightening up and pulling her dress tight.

“Hi,” she smiled, as if the flash of a warm welcome would disguise her reddened eyes and the picture frame hanging limply at her side.

“Are you OK?”

At first, Havannah nodded, then she blinked and found herself shaking her head as the tears began to flow. Within a heartbeat, Olivier had his arms wrapped tightly around her, buffeting them both against a rising wind.

“Sorry,” she sniffed, taking a step back. “It’s been a long night.”

“Damon will be OK,” Olivier tried to reassure, though his jaw tightened with sick regret at having to say the words.

“It’s not that…” Havannah started, but the sentence stopped being so simple after those words. How could she possibly explain to him everything she was feeling? Her feelings about Damon were complicated, and the pier – the same one that had trapped Patrick and had now tried to take Damon – was weighing heavier and heavier on her mind. Claire was dead and Envy was gone, and any dreams Havannah had once entertained had been dashed. At least before the fire, she had some control over the future, even if the choice of university or the family business had driven her to distraction. In all honesty, Havannah missed the simplicity of it all, and wanted nothing more than for her father to return and make the tangled knots that threatened to choke Havannah simply disappear. And, of course, how could she ever explain that on some selfish level, Havannah wanted to be standing on this beach with Ronan – not Olivier, a practical stranger with a litany of flaws – or that the dawning reality was slowly breaking her heart. How would she ever be able to…

“Never mind,” Havannah replied, if only to quieten the rising volume in her head. A smile accompanied the response, decoration to make it more convincing. If the various threads couldn’t be tied together in a satisfying way, then she would cut them dead and leave everything in the past – no matter the pain it would later cause.

Olivier didn’t add anything or probe any further. He pointed to the frame in Havannah’s hand with childlike curiosity.

“This is a lovely picture.”

Although she would never admit it, a small part of Havannah felt itself curl up with disappointment. She turned the picture frame towards herself and looked back at it fondly.

“Damon gave it to me. It was taken at a party not long after mum died. I think it was the first time we’d both smiled since her funeral.”

Olivier seemed to shift uncomfortably, calculating his next leap in conversation.

“You look very beautiful today.”

Havannah felt her eyes narrow involuntarily. Having spent the night in the hospital with Damon, she was still in the same sparkling black dress with the same make-up, Olivier’s jacket hanging over her shoulders. Again, there was so much to say about his observation, but Havannah chose not to utter a word about it. Instead, she passed the jacket back to Olivier, followed by the frame and the envelope. He held them without question. Then her shoes came off, the small handbag holding her phone gently placed on top of them. Next, she craned her arm behind her back and unzipped the dress, stepping out of it to reveal a strapless black bra and matching underwear. Silently, Havannah exchanged the briefest of glances with Olivier before marching towards the water’s edge, leaving him to rifle through his English vocabulary to figure out exactly what to say – either in protest or questioning.

As it had done all throughout winter, the sea greeted Havannah with an ice-cold familiarity, attempting to coax her into its midst. It took little persuasion this time. With only the pier and the waves as witnesses, Havannah shivered and gasped as the water robbed her of breath, stabbing at once-warm skin. On all sides, giddy waves rose and disappeared, gleefully welcoming the lone swimmer. Havannah attempted to ignore them as she began to propel herself forward, but occasionally, the sea would caress the nape of her neck, reaching beneath the braids tied neatly together, a reminder that she was far from alone out here. 

When she was at last far enough from the shore to stop swimming, Havannah allowed herself simply to float, caught between home and the horizon. The sea held her, almost as if it knew what Havannah did not: that Victor was sitting alone in a cell, waiting to be interviewed for crimes he didn’t commit; that Damon – guilty of everything she had suspected and so much more – would be long gone by the time she went to visit him again; and that, moments earlier, Olivier had left the beach behind, his confidence at competing with the memory of Ronan momentarily shaken.

Worst of all, the water knew that justice would come to be a hollow word. It had, after all, been a witness to fire and tragedy; it had even played a part in the latter. Havannah was ignorant to all this, however; the world was so far away now, it felt almost like a dream. 

The shaft of light escaping from the clouds had widened, casting a new aura over the pier. Its sinister outline seemed much less malicious with the promise of spring. As she regarded this new view of the pier’s remains, Havannah reminded herself of the words in Damon’s card. You are your father’s legacy. Not wood and iron and saltwater, but flesh and blood and all the lessons Patrick had taught her. Somewhere close by, the pier creaked both in agreement and in pain. It was time, at last, to make a decision about the rotting corpse haunting the seafront. They both deserved some mercy – and some peace.

Winter had gripped Clayham-on-Sea with a cold, relentless cruelty. But, as it always did, that would soon end. The bustling crowds of summer would eventually be back, and winter would become a faint memory, thawed by brighter, more hopeful days. Until then, Havannah was content to both embrace the last of the cold, and to find warmth wherever she could.

The clouds had parted a little more by now. The twinkling of sunlight on the waves and the numbness of the icy water gave the illusion of warmth in Havannah’s limbs. She turned her attention away from the shore and the pier, towards the horizon instead. For a moment at least, there was some serenity to be found in this moment, caught between land and sea. Havannah smiled, a private gesture between herself and the calming waves, her constant companions. Upon returning to the land, time would start again and the flow of events that rippled out from that winter – Damon’s disappearance from the hospital and Clayham-on-Sea, Olivier’s role in chasing him away, Victor’s arrest for crimes he didn’t commit – would threaten to sweep her away. But for now, there seemed to be nothing more than a bright future unfolding ahead.

Meanwhile, on the shore, Havannah’s phone lit up and began to buzz excitedly. It was both a lighthouse and a siren, hoping to tempt its owner back to the shore while warning of the dangers that lay ahead.

The phone went unheard and unanswered, quietening after a few desperate moments. The screen, however, refused to stay dim. First, it silently announced the bad news – one missed call: Ronan Costello - delivered with condolences. Then came the long-awaited message as consolation:

Happy birthday, Hav. Sorry I’m late. Call me? R x

But that could wait. After all, even if Havannah had known and even if she could have rushed from the sea to the shore to satiate her hunger for his voice, it wouldn’t have mattered. Among the waves and the growing sunlight, Havannah Shaw came to a new understanding about herself. She had waited long enough for other people’s honesty and would no longer be hurried to meet them where they were. 

This time, Ronan and Damon and Olivier – and the whole damn world, in fact – could all wait for Havannah.

PIER will return.