hand out at the last moment and caught it, cradled the vial in his palm.
âHow do you contact Allin?â she asked.
âHe comes and he goes. I canât always command it. Like a signal, an interference in my mind. Sometimes his voice is flaky and I canât tell what heâs after. Sometimes itâs clear. Insistent. When people are in trouble of some kind or another...â He stretched out an arm, selected a white ternâs wing from the avian ossuary on the crate, fanned it in front of his face, scrutinized her through the wafting grey vapour. âDo you want me to see if I can contact him for you?â
She folded her legs up in the chair, feet on seat. âNo thanks. Iâm fine.â
She grabbed her mug of tea, slurped, swished the tepid liquid around her mouth, swallowed, conscious of the noises she was making.
âYouâve lost something,â he said. âI can sense it.â
She shook her head, alarmed at his clairvoyance.
âSeriously. Maybe I can help. What are you searching for?â
She squirmed around in the chair, tried not to watch the white wing fluttering, and then she thought, why not give it a go. Perhaps he could help.
âA person actually.â
âOh? Who?â
âLuke. My boyfriend. I was supposed to meet him down here this evening and he hasnât materialized.â
âLuke. The guy who organized the meetings?â
âYes.â
âHeâs your boyfriend?â
âYes.â
âYou were supposed to be meeting him this evening?â
âYes. We were going to drive down together but then something came up.â
âDrive? Did he drive down alone then?â
âYes.â His questions irritated her, she couldnât see the need for his tone of surprise. âHe drove down this morning. I was going to meet him on the beach at six, but he didnât turn up. Misunderstanding, I think.â
âMisunderstanding, yeah, must have been.â
He sounded wary now. Uncomfortable. He thought sheâd been stood up, she was sure. She wanted to correct him, let him know it was nothing like that. âWe missed each other. He must have had a different meeting place in mind.â She was annoyed with herself for blurting, her voice cracked with emotion.
âA different meeting place,â he repeated. âOf course. Let me see if Allin can help.â
He took a deep breath, flicked the white wing in front of his face in rhythmic sweeps, stared at her through the feathers, mumbled, âHeâs not on the beach. He is somewhere else.â
âSorry?â
âHeâs in another place.â He paused. Flicked the wing. âI can see a boat.â
Her stomach tightened, her eyes caught his; all pupil, no iris.
âA boat?â she demanded. âWhere?â
He fanned the wing again, stalled, looked embarrassed. She wondered whether Allin had let him down this time, failed to deliver any useful information.
âOn the flatland.â He whispered the words.
âThe flatland? The marsh?â A starburst flashed in her head, she shouted, âThe Lookersâ Hut.â
Obvious. Now she understood. The Lookersâ Hut on Romney Marsh, thatâs what Luke meant when he said they should meet at the usual place. Not the beach.
âI can taste saltwater,â he said.
She wasnât listening, eager to leave and drive to their secret camping spot, filled with a certainty Luke was waiting for her there. Alastair replaced the wing among his table-top mortuary, carefully avoided her eye.
âDid that help?â
âWell, you confirmed what I half knew anyway.â
He smiled, seemingly relieved by her answer.
âSure. Communicating with the spirits is almost a way of accessing the subconscious. Our sixth sense. Things we instinctively know to be true but canât trust ourselves to believe.â
She couldnât be bothered with any more dope-fuelled
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