PART SEVEN

The last day of Kristi Hallett’s life started as uneventfully as it could. At least, it felt uneventful for her as she blinked sore eyes awake and reached for the painkillers waiting dutifully in their usual place by her bedside.

In the sobering dawn light, Kristi could trace her trail of destruction all the way back to the night her mum never came home. How long could she use that moment as an excuse? How much more blame could she heap on a tragedy that had struck not just herself and her family, but also Havannah's?

The regret, however, had come too late. She would drag herself from her bed for the last time, brush her teeth with no idea that the mundane task would not come again tomorrow, and busy herself preparing for a day that could not be prepared for.

All the while, right across Clayham-on-Sea, the victims who had strayed into the precarious tangles of Kristi’s web each woke to a dawn that signalled change for each of them.

Claire

Claire woke late, grateful to have slept the morning away without dreaming. She reached for her phone and hid under the covers, clammy from the warm air trapped she had trapped with her.

A finger lightly tapped the screen as it had done too many times the night before, and the video began once again, statues of people springing to life while she watched. Even with the volume turned down low, she knew what noises accompanied the video - the soundtrack of moans and grunts had ingrained itself in her ears. Without sound, they were like silent players in a production just for her, and she hated it.

Suddenly, Claire ripped the duvet away and felt hot sick gush from her stomach, through her mouth, and into the nearby bin. The video continued to play, the smallest mocking whispers emanating from the phone.

A sip of stale water from the glass by her bed hardly seemed to stem the spluttering, but still Claire rolled back into bed to subject herself to the sight of her boyfriend and her sister having sex together one last time. Maybe this time, she would feel more than the white hot rage piercing her insides.

Stalemates in the Hallett household were not uncommon; growing up, Kristi and Claire had found themselves all too easily at loggerheads, with nobody gaining the upper hand. In those situations, an eerie silence would descend across the household, their mum growing increasingly desperate for someone – either of them – to fire another shot so that they might argue it out of their system. Instead, they simply wouldn’t speak, until at last, the battle faded into the background and normality returned on its own schedule.

As the sisters grew older and Kristi less interested in the immature nature of their sibling warfare, their stalemates became an opportunity to deny that they were hurt or upset while, as if to do so further robbed victory from the other.

It was because of this unspoken tactical war game, whose rules changed more often than either of them could guess, that neither of them had mentioned receiving the video – although they also didn't know that the other had seen Victor’s recording.

Claire struggled the most with this act of self-control. In silent protest, she chomped her afternoon cereal and guzzled sweet milk from the bowl, fully aware that it was already curdling in her stomach. She knew she could throw up again at any moment; all it would take would be a single frame from the video flashing into her mind’s eye to trigger the reaction.

Still, despite the rising bile, she spared a passing good morning to Kristi, strained through gritted teeth. Kristi responded in kind, a better actor – as she always had been. In reality, the guilt and anxiety had both conspired to rot away her innards.

“Are you at work today?” Claire asked, steadily, measuring the tone in her voice, grip tightening around her spoon as she spoke. The feeling of metal pressing into her palm distracted her from the contents of the video for another second – how many more seconds were left until she could retreat to the bathroom, pull her hair back, and prepare to retch once again?

“Yeah, I’m heading out in a bit.”

Kristi lobbed the lie from her own side of No Man’s Land without hesitation, prolonging the stalemate. ­­She knew there was no going to the club – not with Damon there. But she also couldn’t stay where she was, Claire’s face constantly in view.

“Cool,” Claire replied, relinquishing her hold on the spoon. It clattered into the bowl, and she rose from her place and headed straight for the stairs, the churning in her stomach growing aggressive once again. She had drunk too much sickly milk.

“Is everything OK?” Kristi asked, just as Claire put her foot on the first step.

Claire paused for a moment, caught between the urge to escape the situation and the need to maintain some semblance of normality.

“Yeah. You?” she asked, looking back at her sister, leaning against the counter with her coffee.

“Yeah. I’m great,” Kristi replied, disgusted at herself.

Claire barely waited for the answer before climbing the stairs. Rather than head for the bathroom, she vanished back into her room instead, where the warm air, rank with the smell of her own vomit, greeted her. Better there than anywhere she could be reminded of her loneliness.

The smell of the vomit was remedied – temporarily – by several spritzes of cheap perfume from two Christmases earlier, plucked from the crowded surface of Claire’s dressing table and chosen for its overpowering artificial scent.

The morning’s bile had started to dry into the carpet, but she couldn’t bear to do anything about it until she was certain that Kristi had left for the day. Despite the sound of the front door slamming shut echoing about downstairs, however, Claire found herself weighted to the spot, the heat sitting thick on her skin.

Letting her feet dangle off the edge of the bed, Claire tried to condense the growing cloud of emotions into something more legible. If she didn’t, she was afraid the noise would drive her mad, and she would suffocate on her thoughts and the room’s stale air.

One by one, she identified the feelings, picking apart the blame and deciding where it should fall. It was never with her. After all, they were Claire’s efforts that had attempted to keep everybody together; she had only ever wanted her loved ones nearby, to cling on so that life might not loosen her from the shore and toss her about on the waves where she would surely drown if left all alone.

Claire peered around the room – the air stained pink from the curtains she’d barely opened all summer – hunting for something to smooth the ragged edges of her misery. The half-empty bottle of vodka she kept down the side of the dressing table called to her. She stood and reached for it. The bottle was sticky, and the vodka was warm; she couldn’t remember how long it had been sitting there for. Still, it would do.

With an enormous amount of confidence – romanticising the idea of being one of the tragic teens she’d idolised on television – Claire took a bold swig from the bottle. It burnt her throat and nostrils, the taste of cheap vodka transporting her back to tacky nights out and regretful hangovers, one sense at a time.

Although the sensation made her want to cough, Claire continued to swig. The heat seemed to settle her stomach, or at least distract her from the feeling. Suddenly, she wanted to dance.

Claire reached for her CD player, a Christmas present she had coveted but Kristi had received; her sister gave it to her, glad to quell Claire’s complaints in exchange for a quiet Christmas. A CD was already in there, ready and waiting for Claire to use it as a soundtrack for her madness. The volume dial spun round smoothly, and the speakers’ hollow sound filled the room.

Claire danced wildly, out of time and all jarring limbs, spontaneous bursts of movement. The vodka – mixed with a little drama – had gone straight to her head, and she found herself clumsily banging into furniture, singing into the bottle as if it was a microphone at her very own concert. Who would be there at this imaginary concert? Who would come to see her sing? Who would come to see if Claire was alright?

It was then, juggling these imaginary scenarios in her head, that the idea formed. It was perhaps the most audacious scheme she had yet concocted, but her confidence outweighed rationale.

Seizing the excitement of the idea, Claire steadied herself against the dressing up table, wiping half the surface clean with the wide swoop of her arm, shuffling clinking glass bottles together and letting make-up brushes and mascara fall off the edge and onto the floor. A small part of her not touched by the alcohol was annoyed at herself for the mess - she would have to be the one cleaning it up later, after all.

With a flourish mimicked from old soap operas her mum had watched, Claire drunkenly slammed a piece of paper onto the now cleared surface and began to scribble her suicide note. If they wouldn’t love her together, they would mourn her together instead.

Of course, she had no intention of dying that night, but like a scheming witch around a cauldron, Claire plucked the ingredients she would need to garner the love she craved: a scrawled note explaining – more or less accurately – how she felt, a sudden disappearance, and a call to be found. Combined with the relative chaos her room was in, it would be difficult for them to do anything but run to her aid, she thought.

Pleased with the note, smudged from her left-handed writing and barely legible to anybody – drunk or sober – Claire turned her attention to the room. It was messy, made worse by the discarded contents of the dresser’s surface, but it needed more to be taken seriously. Without thinking twice, Claire grabbed the chest of drawers at the corners, her knuckles turning white as she pulled the whole unit over. It landed with a crash, the teddy bears and vase and photo frames on top now scattered and broken. She tore clothes from the wardrobe and tossed her duvet on the floor, and then finally flung the bin – some of the vomit still rolling around its base – across the room. It hit the radiator with a loud clang and rolled on its side pitifully.

Satisfied and a little out of breath, Claire finished the vodka and smashed it on the corner of the dresser. The glass exploded, shattering into sharp debris that landed wherever it pleased, adding a dangerous edge to the whole chaotic mess.

Claire took the note, shook off some stray shards of glass, and folded it, leaving the small square of paper on her bed. She left the room, making sure to leave the bedroom door ajar behind her. Kristi would see and would come running – she was quite sure of that.

The rest of her plan was hazy. Recognising that she would need to lay low for the day, Claire strode into Kristi's room and rifled through her sister's favourite denim jacket. This wasn't the first time Claire had done this. The jacket hung on the back of the door for months at a time, forgotten in the summer; the cash in its pockets would similarly go unnoticed until the air had begun to chill and autumn arrived.

Sure enough, Claire found a twenty pound note, crumpled and folded in the jacket’s top pocket. She shoved it into her shorts and left the house behind.

The stolen money did indeed pay for a day of distraction. At first, Claire hid herself away in the small local cinema, whose viewing choices were limited to two of the three summer blockbusters or something in French, until the heavy summer air had lightened. By then, sick on popcorn and with only enough money for a single small bottle of vodka, Claire was bored - of the plan, of the quiet of her phone being switched off, of the limited options in Clayham-on-Sea. She couldn't even call Envy to hang out, the whole charade hinging on nobody knowing where to find her.

Depositing the last of the money into a coin converter, Claire wandered into one of the arcades along the seafront. She spent the coins on games and tickets, swapping her winnings for some lollipops and a novelty pencil topper.

Finally, with the sun dipping low and the last of the lollies unwrapped and in her mouth, Claire strolled lazily along the shoreline. The hours had felt empty without the feel of the phone buzzing in her pocket, and as she reached the pier, Claire considered turning the device on so that she might see how much people cared for her, quantified in missed calls and messages of concern.

Distracted by hopes of people's concern, Claire meandered thoughtlessly along the pier until she reached as far as she could go. Sighing, she took a spot on the last bench on the pier, and waited for Kristi to find her. Maybe she would give it another hour.

Ronan

Ronan hadn’t slept. When he finally gave up lying on the uncomfortable surface that passed for a bed in his police cell, he started to move slowly and consciously, stretching out the rigid cluster of muscles he had become. He was still wearing the same t-shirt as the day he was arrested, a sour smell forming in the armpits. The thin jacket, meanwhile, had been folded into an extra pillow, though it had done nothing to ease the ache in his neck.

The peace of the morning was suddenly disturbed by the rigid metallic clanging and clicking of locks and bolts and hinges. A modest patch of sunlight, creeping under the feet of the figure standing in the door, stretched out to meet Ronan. It couldn’t quite reach him, and he didn’t have the heart to offer out his own hand. He raised his head slowly, wearily, to trace the sunlight to its source - a small window high up in the corridor outside – and let his eyes rest on the custody sergeant standing between them.

“You’re free to go, son,” the custody sergeant told him, a sympathetic tone to his voice.

“What?”

The sergeant held the door open and nodded to his right, indicating for Ronan to get out, though he was too dazed from lack of sleep, adrenaline, and the room’s humidity to move straight away.

Carefully, so as not to be fooled into springing a trap, Ronan grabbed his rolled-up jacket, checked he hadn’t left anything behind – he had nothing to leave behind anyway – and followed the balding man past many more windows that resembled the one outside his cell.

The custody sergeant led Ronan into a different room than he had seen at the beginning of his visit. Once again, he held the door open for him, letting Ronan enter first. The room, unlike where he had been interviewed, had colour; the thick cushioning on the chairs was a deep lively blue, while the walls were a custard yellow that felt out of place in the here and now. A large noticeboard, replete with colourful posters and leaflets, occupied a large space on one wall. In between the noticeboard and the chairs was a low, pale coffee table, upon which flowers and tissues sat. On the sergeant’s instruction, Ronan took a seat and resisted the urge to get too comfortable.

“Tea? Coffee? We’ve contacted someone to come pick you up.”

The sergeant’s demeanour was a stark contrast to the red-haired woman who had met him at reception and taken his details upon his arrival. A gentle face, rosy-cheeked and lined from good humour, softened Ronan’s indignant anger at having been kept in the cell for longer than twenty-four hours. He relaxed a little in the chair, considering how he could leverage that to keep the police from bothering him and his family any further.

“Tea, please. Milk, no sugar.”

Ronan sat and waited as the sergeant left the room, his footsteps trailing from the corridor down to the vending machine. He counted each step and worked to align his thoughts while he was alone. When the tea was finally handed to him, it came in a paper cup – more eco-friendly, the kind sergeant had explained – and he sipped gratefully. The tea itself was disgusting – too much water, not enough tea, and far from comforting as he had hoped it would be. Still, Ronan drank it all as the sergeant watched like a nurse at his bedside.

“What changed?” Ronan asked, finally feeling shaken from his sleepless daze. Still, exhaustion lingered at the edge of his vision.

Seeing he was finished and ready to talk, the sergeant plucked the cup from his young charge’s fingers and discarded it in a small plastic bin in the corner of the room, before returning to his own seat to talk.

“First off, I’m supposed to issue an apology. You’ve been here for thirty-six hours.”

“Because you were still investigating? Or you found absolutely no evidence?”

“We – they were going to charge you with obstructing justice. You ran.”

Ronan started to deflate, sensing the trap closing in. He missed the warmth of the paper cup in his hands, a small comfort after all.

“But we contacted a community liaison, and we understand your, uh, situation. Why you might have done that.”

Ronan wasn’t sure if that was supposed to make him feel uncomfortable or not, but he refused to show one way or another, his eyes a fixed, grey stare.

“So why am I still here?” he asked, flatly.

“We mislaid your paperwork,” the sergeant said, delivering the news as if it was simultaneously a terrible indiscretion and also the simplest thing in the world. “We informed your family, however.”

“And?”

“Hmm?” The Sergeant had expected some acknowledgement of the apology before moving on, but he could see in the sternness of Ronan’s eyes that he was better off getting to the point.

“There was a new development. CCTV footage has cleared you of any wrongdoing. One of the neighbours didn’t like the cats hanging around the back of her garden. She came forward when we put out an appeal for information.”

Had he imagined at the start of the summer that he would find himself in this situation, being told of the bumbling error that had kept him locked up on suspicion of something he didn’t do, Ronan was sure that he would feel relief first. Then rage, illustrated in the way he would leap from his chair and raise his voice until it wavered and grew hoarse, spitting furious words at the sergeant, who would surely lower his head in shame.

Instead, in the reality of the moment, Ronan felt numb. The sergeant continued to talk – of the CCTV pointed at the alley and the woman’s late submission of the tape, and what it all meant for the falsely accused – but Ronan had tuned his voice out until it was just a garbled ringing noise on the other side of glass.

He threw kindling onto the smouldering indignation he had felt for the last thirty-six hours by way of reminding himself that he had done nothing wrong, and that Kristi had lied and framed him. Not even the injustice or the encouragement of his own anger could make the embers burn any brighter than they did. He just wanted to go back to the caravan – to his dad and Simon and Havannah – and put the whole debacle behind him.

“It’s OK to be angry, son.”

They were the first words Ronan heard, the first to penetrate the glass wall he had subconsciously erected.

“What happens next?” he asked, gaze fixed on the thin, worn carpet.

The sergeant shifted his weight and leaned a little closer, arms resting on his knees, hands clasped together.

“We’ll sign some paperwork, you’ll get picked up, and there’ll likely be an investigation into how long you were held for.”

“I meant with Kristi. The accuser. What happens now? Will you arrest her?”

“We’ll be speaking to her, yes.”

“That’s not enough,” Ronan responded, in a tone cold enough to extinguish the angry ember inside of himself, plunging it into new icy depths.

Before Ronan could push further, a short rap on the door punctuated the conversation. A small, young woman let herself in and declared – with a beaming smile out of place in the room – that someone was there to pick Ronan up.

“Good,” he said, aiming it at both of them while looking at nobody at all. He stood and paused only to say a low “Thank you” to the custody sergeant, though he hardly thought it was deserved.

The reception area was quiet, save for the tapping and coughing of impatient chaperones, waiting to take their bailed-out loved ones home. The reception was cramped, more a small corridor than a room, and Ronan suddenly realised just how tired he was – and how much he yearned for fresh air.

The young woman disappeared through a door, reappearing at her desk on the other side of a large clear plastic screen.

“Mr Costello?” Ronan found it suspicious that she had scurried to a safe place before calling Jim’s name.

When he saw Jim, his face red and furious, pacing the reception he could understand why she might have moved to safety – though his dad looked no angrier than anybody else’s parent would be at such a miscarriage of justice. Unlike the others waiting there, though, Jim hadn’t sat down to look at his phone or pick up one of the outdated magazines left out as something of a gesture. He wore his grievance on his face.

Jim turned to catch the receptionist’s summon and saw his son. Ignoring the woman behind the glass, he threw fatherly arms around Ronan, an uncommon sign of affection for the two of them.

“You alright, son?” he asked quietly, voice muffled by Ronan’s shoulder.

“I’m fine. Tired.”

“Aye,” Jim replied, letting his son go so that he could sign paperwork and retrieve his possessions – one mobile phone, one set of keys, one wallet, and the last two chewing gum pellets in a packet – from the waiting receptionist. He declined the gum and left without another word to the custody sergeant who had brought Ronan’s possessions out to him.

“Ready to go?”

Ronan nodded, eyelids so heavy they threatened to swing shut with the movement of his head. Jim slung an arm around his son as they left the cold fluorescent light of the police station’s reception, trading it for the warm and welcome embrace of a beautiful morning. Jim looked pleased, the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth as he got into the car. Ronan couldn’t imagine what sort of small victory his dad could claim from such a series of events.

They pulled out of the police station and within seconds, Ronan fell asleep to the gentle rhythmic movement of the car as the wheels rolled against tarmac. His head pressed against the glass, neck at a funny angle that still felt better than the police station bed. Jim turned the radio’s volume down while Ronan dreamt of the sea, of Havannah, and of Kristi getting what was coming to her.

Ronan couldn't sleep in the stifling heat of the caravan. He flung the windows open, turned the fan towards him, and tried desperately to sleep off the last few days. Every time he closed his eyes, however, he tricked himself into believing he was back in the small grey cell, all alone.

Surrendering to the daylight, he showered instead and headed for the bus stop and the journey into Clayham. If he couldn't sleep, he wanted at the very least to see Havannah, to explain himself and to reassure them both that the nightmare was over - even if he didn't believe that.

As Havannah stormed out of Foxy's, she almost missed Ronan entirely. It was only because he cleared his throat that she even stopped to turn back and look at the man leaning against the club, waiting for her.

“Simon said you’d be here,” he told her, stepping forward with a smile to greet her, as if nothing had happened at all.

The thunderous expression cleared from Havannah's face, replaced by wide-eyed surprise. Speechless, she threw her arms around Ronan and alternated between kissing his cheek and lips, and simply grasping onto his body as if it might slip away from her at any minute.

“Are you OK? I'm so glad you're out. That fucking bitch."

“Hey, hey it’s OK, they let me go,” he said, caressing her face. His hand stopped, lingering on Havannah's cheekbone. “Wait, did you know? About the CCTV footage?"

Havannah put some space between them and cleared her throat, searching for the words to explain all that had happened in Ronan's absence.

"No. It's...complicated."

Ronan searched Havannah’s face with his own puzzled look and saw something different in her – or someone different, a character from the past that she had kept in the dark for longer than she had perhaps intended. Against the hardness of her voice and the steely confidence of her words, Ronan felt like an unserious tide lapping at Havannah's world-weary exterior.

“Victor. Claire’s boyfriend. He caught Kristi confessing on camera after they had sex. Like I said, it's complicated,” she continued, raising a hand to prevent any further questions. “Neither of them will be a problem for much longer.”

“That sounds…ominous,” Ronan remarked, trying to keep his voice light by accompanying it with a smile.

In truth, he was uncertain of this side of Havannah, nervous as to where he stood in relation to her. His own quiet, cold fury had thawed during his attempts at sleep, and he now wished even harder for the hot anger to come to him, fuelled by the injustice and frustration of the situation.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, pulling their bodies closer and resting her head against his chest. She could feel his heart beating in time with the steady rise and fall of his breath, and realised she’d never felt this close to anybody before.

“You wouldn't do anything stupid, would you?” Ronan asked, absentmindedly, unable to pitch the right tone to convince either Havannah or himself that he was only half-joking.

He noticed then that they were swaying slightly, bodies pressed together, the scent of sun tan lotion and sweet body cream filling his nostrils. Sweat glistened on Havannah's shoulders and he was entranced.

“I might not be able to promise that," she replied, muffled by his chest.

"OK," he replied, lowering his hand to Havannah's hips. "Well...let's do something stupid together then."

Victor

Victor didn’t answer Kristi’s call, nor did he answer the one after that, or the eight that followed the first two. Instead, he sat at his desk, plotting the bus route that would get him to the nearest train station. He had a friend in London who would let him stay for a few nights while a more concrete plan was hammered out, and then Victor would be gone again, vanishing out of sight.

The rucksack he had crammed with the necessities was still slumped against the wall, bulging and full. It leant to one side, as if to beckon him on his adventure so that they might escape sooner rather than later. It had been the first thing his hazy eyes had seen when he woke that morning, and every so often, they kept making their way back to the bag, constantly checking that it hadn't left without him.

Once the plan was written down and he had memorised the route – walk to the bus stop down by the corner shop, catch the H15 to get to the train station, then platform 2 for trains to London – Victor was ready. Or so he thought, but his stomach gurgled and twisted at the thought of disappearing without a trace.

Partly because he didn’t want his gran to worry, and partly so that he might be remembered, Victor had scribbled his own note the night before. He lifted it from its place on top of the bag and read it over again. It would have to do – he wasn’t sure what else he could say. The words wouldn’t come to him. At least he could be reassured that the district nurse would arrive later that day, someone to look after his gran in his absence just as she had done for him, an angry young boy left on her doorstep.

Taking one last look around his room, Victor allowed himself the luxury of remembering the few good times – the night he and Claire stayed up eating ice cream and watching horror films in bed beneath the fairy lights she had brought over; all the afternoons when his gran would bring him a snack, saying nothing if she caught him singing along to his music badly with his headphones on. She never minded, and he didn’t mind her hearing him; his gran would never tell a soul. He even remembered fondly the brief time he spent with Kristi in his bed, feeling the momentary peace before climax, when all that mattered was clinging to each other’s sweaty bodies. Everything after that afternoon he would happily leave behind, along with all the difficult moments leading up to it - and resulting from the decision.

Pulling his rucksack over a waiting shoulder, Victor left his bedroom behind and headed down to his grandmother’s bedroom. In her raised bed, Diane Granger snoozed peacefully. He frequently mourned the time when she was healthy and could make it up the stairs to his bedroom to wish him goodnight. Now, she was frail and fading, though still his beloved, beautiful grandmother.

Victor kissed her softly on the cheek. It was both an apology and a goodbye that he could never say aloud. He left the note on the little wooden chair she kept by the door, an heirloom he had always been told he could have one day. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want any of it.

Outside, a curtain of heat greeted Victor, and he passed through it with difficulty. By the time he’d reached the street, the proximity of the rucksack to his body had already started to make him sweat, and he didn’t have the clothes spare to waste a t-shirt so early in the journey. He took the rucksack from his shoulder and held the handle instead, carrying it limply in his hand all the way to the bus stop.

A small crowd had gathered at the base of the shelter. Despite the smell of warm plastic warping in the sun, there was no room to sit inside the shelter. Instead, Victor leant against the outside shell, jealous of the passengers waiting out of the sun’s direct line of sight. The structure’s shell seared the skin on his arms, but the feeling reminded him of his favourite childhood playground, plummeting down the slide as the heat drew out a similar and instantly recognisable scent.

After a few minutes – before his bus arrived but long after he had grown uncomfortable in the sun – a shadow stretched across the pavement towards Victor’s feet. He looked up to see Kristi stalking towards him, a hunter trying not to scare off her prey. His back stiffened and he raised his body from the shelter’s frame.

“I’m just here to talk,” Kristi said, hands raised in defence.

“Look, Kristi…” he started, confronted with his mistakes so close to escaping.

“No, Victor. We can talk about how fucking pissed I am with you later. Right now, I’m more concerned about Claire.”

“What about Claire?”

As if fate’s guided hand had decided to intervene itself, the H15 bus pulled up to the stop, and a stream of chatty pensioners and restless teenagers filed onto the vehicle, flashing tickets and passes and the odd contactless card.

“This is my bus,” Victor said, somewhat regretfully, looking to the queue behind him. “I’m sorry, Kristi. I really am.”

“She left a note,” Kristi said, desperately. She patted her pockets for the paper, realising too late that it was likely back at the house.

Still, the words gave Victor cause to stop. The bus and Kristi’s pleading face competed for his decision.

“I don’t know where she is and she’s not picking up her phone… I think she might do something stupid.”

“Are you getting on, son?”

Victor noticed then that he was the last person in the queue, the bus driver beckoning him from behind the wheel. He glanced inside, hopefully, and then back to Kristi, whose eyes had started to glisten in the sunshine. The passengers scowled at him in overly warm frustration from their seats, frustrated at the delay.

“I’ve got to go…” he said again, his voice trailing off as he reached for the door.

“You owe me,” Kristi blurted out suddenly. The words struck Victor without notice and he felt the future slip from him. She was right, of course. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

Victor relinquished his grip and turned to the bus driver, shaking his head and apologising. The driver rolled his eyes and closed the doors with a hydraulic hiss. Exhaust fumes breathed into Kristi and Victor’s faces as the bus rumbled on, leaving them both on the pavement, avoiding the angry gazes of the passengers.

“Thank you,” Kristi said, desperately stepping forward in an awkward half-attempt to show her gratitude. He dodged the gesture, slung the bag back over his shoulder, and retreated back behind the stony exterior that Kristi had come to recognise as her sister's boyfriend. She was surprised to find herself disappointed.

“Come on, we better find her," Victor said, leading the way.

Damon

Damon had slept in his office, curled up on the faux leather sofa while holding onto a half-drunk bottle of scotch. Discarded papers - highlighted, and circled and scrawled upon -stared up at him from the floor.

He felt his body being dragged back to consciousness, the piercing pain striking right through the side of his head as the sunlight mocked his eyes. He smelled of sweat, booze, and shame – and yet nothing fun had precipitated such sensory horrors.

Wearily, Damon sat up to stretch, his spine yelping with a satisfying series of cracks, and spied the piece of paper on which he had scrawled his winning idea.

This was the lifeline he had been looking for, the solution to his and Patrick’s financial challenge; an old trick learnt during the misadventures of his youth, would allow their venture to continue unimpeded, further accounting indiscretions smoothed over before Patrick noticed them too.

Damon’s mind came into sharp focus, and he rocked forward to retrieve the note from the floor. He revisited the words, scrawled with a drunken hand, and took a swig from the scotch to let the alcohol burn away the last of his tiredness.

He recited the idea, mentally listing the items he needed – and the items he already had – and rose to his feet. Across the room, Damon placed one hand on his desk to hold him steady as he leaned down to retrieve the portable shredder he always kept close by. The note went in crumpled and covered in his scrawls, and came out in thin strips, indecipherable to anybody who might happen upon them.

By the time Havannah stormed into his office, Damon still felt no fresher, the day dragging on and on, him trailing behind it.

“What the hell are you playing at?” she demanded, slamming her hands onto his desk.

Despite hearing her enter, Damon hadn’t reacted, his reflexes still dulled by the crippling hangover gripping his body. He looked up at her slowly, sallow-skinned and grizzled. The light from the windows hurt his eyes.

“You reek of booze,” she complained, taking a step back and turning her nose up at the odour emanating from Damon. He hadn’t changed his clothes, and a scotch stain marked his white shirt where he had been sloppy with his sips.

“What do you want, Havannah?”

“I want to know what you’ve spent the money on.”

“What money?” Damon groaned, dropping his pen and massaging his temples.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Damon – I’m really not in the mood. You have my dad wrapped around your fingers, but I’m no fool.”

Havannah wore her best scowl, but it was hardly necessary as Damon still hadn’t looked up from his desk.

She continued, “I had a call this morning from the accountants, who haven’t been paid. Which is funny because we need the accountants to pay the staff – who still haven’t been paid. Now half of them haven't come in today in some sort of fucking protest.”

“Remind me: what does this have to do with me?” Damon asked, his patience already worn thin by an insistence on being magnanimous towards Havannah for the sake of his venture with Patrick. He was too hungover to care any longer.

Damon leaned back in his chair and loosened where his shirt was open at the collar, hoping it would cool him down and he could stop feeling like a seasick corpse.

“Dad gave you money from the business for whatever it is you’ve got going on with him. I've seen the paperwork – and the emails.”

Damon sat up-right now, a smile curling at the edges of his mouth. He looked at Havannah head-on, fingers tented.

“He hasn’t told you what we’ve got in the pipeline, has he? Your dad’s left you out of the loop? Oh Havannah, trust me, it’ll be well worth all of this temporary discomfort.”

She wasn’t sure if it was the sickly pale colour of his skin, the slight slur at the corner of his words, or the weary expression of Damon’s eyes that left her feeling unconvinced – or perhaps it was everything about him. Havannah just laughed. She pressed her hands back on the desk and lowered her head to stare Damon directly in his bloodshot eyes. Her dangling braids framed her furious face so that he couldn’t look away.

“None of this bullshit works on me, Damon. My dad’ll tell me what he needs to tell me when it’s time – I trust him, and he trusts me. And do you really think anything happens on that pier without me knowing? He keeps everything – invoices, contracts, plans, emails – if I wanted to know more than I do, I could stroll into that office and find out in a heartbeat. So don’t ever think you know more than me about my family’s business. And don’t ever think you’re smart enough to outfox a Shaw.”

Havannah’s words landed like well-rehearsed punches, and Damon saw in her – for the first time since she had snuck into Foxy’s with her other underage friends – the old Havannah; this was the one Kristi feared.

Although the hangover was still smearing his thoughts into a blurry watercolour, Damon still recognised an important part of what Havannah had said. His plan, he realised, would kill two birds with one stone.

“Look, Havannah, I respect you – and your dad. I know what I’m doing. And yes, Patrick did loan me some money from the business to get everything moving – and that money is going to be replaced very soon once some investment gets finalised. In the meantime,” Damon pulled open a drawer in his desk and retrieved the same file he had forced Kristi to look at – the memory making him momentarily wince – and handed it to Havannah, “Have a read of that. When you’re ready. Then come talk to me. I’ll always keep you in the loop, because one day I hope it’ll be you I’m doing business with.”

Hesitantly, Havannah took the file from Damon. She looked at its cover, then pointed the corner of the file at Damon's face.

“Make sure the money is back, Damon. Or I’ll make sure you never do business in this town again.”

When Havannah finally left his office, Damon exhaled. He leaned further back in the chair once again, trying to catch the requirements of his plan in the murky waters of his tired mind. He snatched at them one by one, compiling a list of what he still needed. The plan would have to move forward as well, of course; Havannah’s demands had accelerated the timeline.

To help, Damon lifted the phone from his desk to call up a member of staff from the bar to bring him a tonic water. He sighed and replaced the receiver upon remembering that there was barely anybody left – and that Kristi wasn’t returning his calls either.

Aching and nauseated, Damon dragged himself to his feet and made his way to the row of spirits on the bar behind his desk instead. He poured a glass of bourbon, neat, and threw it back down his throat in the hopes that this drink would be that one that put the hangover to rest.

As the sky began to darken, a rich glow calling out from the sea, Damon pulled himself from his chair and headed downstairs. A few stragglers - small groups of young locals gathered around tables and lonely older men barred from the pubs in the centre - were dotted about the place. It was many, but it was enough to make for a convincing alibi.

Satisfied that he had been seen behind the bar, helping the only member of staff working that night, he slipped out the back to where they kept the large recycling bins filled with glass bottles. The rucksack had been stashed behind one of the bins earlier in the day, as Damon had busied himself gathering supplies.

The staff had all claimed that the bins were too heavy to move alone, though Damon was able to shift it just enough to reach his hand behind and retrieve the rucksack. He checked the items inside were all there, untampered with: a packet of balloons, lighter fluid, a baseball cap, ziplock bags, and a matchbook. Satisfied, he zipped the bag shut and left with it over one shoulder, out the back gate and down the alleyway running behind Foxy's and off to a side street where he could blend with the thinned crowds passing the pier.

Against the backdrop of a sky swimming with warm colour, the pier’s silhouette loomed large ahead of Damon. The gates were open, as expected, and he asked himself one final time if he wanted to stop now. One chance to turn around and leave the part of his past this trick had emerged from shrouded in the dark. There was no dissenting voice to warn Damon off; every part of him was sure this was the right thing to do.

In the distance, the sun bulged in the sky as it melted onto the horizon. Its light glinted against the pier’s main building, where Damon soon found himself. There was a localised silence on this end of the pier, only broken by the receding tide below and the distant murmur of crowds dispersing from the seafront to head inland for more excitement.

Damon went to press his hands against the door, only to remember the black gloves he’d stuffed into his pockets. He pulled them on, fingerprints hidden beneath Italian leather, and returned his hands to the door – one on the glass, one on the frame – as he rattled the handle. It wasn’t locked. He'd had a back-up plan, of course, but Damon took this streak of good fortune as a sign that he was on the right track.

Inside, an unsettling quiet blanketed the arcade machines, all of them sitting still and dark like empty vessels without the usual ghosts that had them buzzing and beeping all day. Through the glass, Damon could see off the pier and into the sunset, which he could trace back into the building by the occasional patches of sunlight bringing bursts of colour to life on the carpet.

Still concerned about discretion, Damon kept his head down and took his time climbing the stairs. There were cameras dotted about the place, and although he had spent the last few months sweeping the building on every visit, he still couldn't memorise all of their locations. He would need to take the tape too.

On the mezzanine floor, the ‘STAFF ONLY’ door awaited Damon. Before drawing any closer, he took one quick look around out of curiosity. At any moment, he expected to see people fade back into view, walking about the place and laughing. Instead, there was just emptiness save for the dust dancing in the last of the sunspots – the only movement in view.

He drew closer to the door and let himself in with the key Patrick had so kindly provided in good faith. The corridor was lit up with pale fluorescent lights, even though the evening light was still able to cast shadows across the floor. At the bottom of the corridor, to the left of a large potted plant, was Patrick’s office. First though, Damon stepped into a room he had walked past on many occasions before, sometimes peering inside when he saw somebody stepping out.

The former room utility room had become a makeshift security office of sorts, with a table and two chairs to one side, and then a desk lined with monitors and CCTV recording equipment against the back wall.

Damon rushed over and, recognising the similarity to Foxy’s own outdated setup, started to tinker with the recordings. He started by ejected the tape that covered his arrival. There was too much at stake for anybody to find the footage – especially if things went awry – and there certainly wouldn’t be time to recover the tape once the plan was in motion. Then he checked for the familiar power button and watched as the monitors blinked into darkness. They wouldn’t record anything more.

If they had been recording though, the cameras would have picked up the grainy image of Damon emerging from the room and sneaking into the office. They might even have caught Damon in the process of filling the balloons with lighter fluid, being careful not to inhale any fumes as he inflated them. He tried, but by the third balloon a mild, chemical nausea had crept in. Still, he pressed on, just as he'd been taught all those years ago.

Satisfied with the balloons – and that he hadn’t let any of the fluid splash on himself or his shoes – Damon got to work on starting the fire in the metal wastepaper bin, carefully eking out the last drops of lighter fluid, letting them soak into the discarded paper. Once the last tin was empty, bagged, and stuffed in the rucksack, he stepped back to admire his work. Damon was struck once again by how much he hated the office and the clutter. Gleefully, he grabbed a stack of Patrick’s nearby papers and threw them in the air, watching them scatter like snow. The flames would catch more easily this way and so he did it again and again, ripping papers and throwing them about the place.

At the centre of the room, he discarded a stack of papers that had evaded his chaos and arranged them in a nest-like shape in the bin. He pulled a matchbook from his pocket. It bore the Foxy’s logo, emblazoned in silver on a black background, a failed attempt at promotion several summers ago. The thought of the pier's insurance money alleviated his concerns for what a waste of money they had been at the time.

He opened the back of the matchbook and counted the paper matches. In hindsight, the matchbooks had been a terrible idea for merchandising, but a serendipitous accomplice to his task. Taking the furthest match, he bent it over to bow towards him, then reached it across its companions, before folding the lid back over them all. Out of his back pocket, Damon retrieved his lighter and with careful, steady fingers he lit the small match head peeking out from the side of the branded book and buried the promising ember in the nest of papers.

Catching onto the fuel-soaked papers, the new-born flames started creeping out of the pile, grasping for more kindling. Damon looked up at the balloons hanging menacingly from the ceiling above, ready to burst when the flames grew high enough. Recognising that it was time to go, Damon headed for the door, stopping only to grab a picture of the pier from the wall – one where Patrick, his wife, and a young Havannah all stood proudly by the pier gates, beneath the words ‘SHAW’S PIER’ woven into wrought iron. He pulled it from the wall and smashed the frame against the door, shaking the frame to remove the glass. From the frame, he plucked the photo with two delicate fingers, folding and dropping it inside his rucksack.

Damon shut the door behind him and made a hasty exit. Only now, after the deed was done, did he start to feel nerves. He checked items off on the list in his mind – gloves, CCTV, balloons, fire – as he raced down the stairs and out of the building. Out in the open, he slowed down his pace to avoid suspicion from anybody who might spot him from the shoreline.

There was a moment – just a brief one – where Damon considered pulling the pier's gates closed. Perhaps it would deter anybody from venturing beyond them, leaving his conscience intact. He lingered there, thinking about it, until a middle aged woman eyed him with suspicion. Damon left them as they were. After all, if people saw the gates open, there would be more suspects – kids could have snuck onto the pier and started the fire, he thought. This - and the anonymity of a sprawling fire - would work in their favour when claiming on the damage.

Content with the decisions he’d made, Damon smiled at the woman and went on his way, sneaking back to the yard behind Foxy’s, where he stored his gloves inside the rucksack, which he stuck back behind the bin out of harm’s way. He checked his watch. He’d been gone twenty minutes; nobody would be any wiser.

Havannah

Even with the pristine sheets pulled back, Havannah and Ronan’s limbs were still sticky with sweat as they lay tangled together in bed. This was the place she had wanted to be, and even after a day in each other’s company barely moving from the spot, it was where she wanted to remain. This had been far from a stupid decision.

Havannah rested her head against Ronan’s chest, while he idly stroked her upper back, sometimes slipping his hand down the spine of the pastel pink lace camisole she had slipped on after their latest lovemaking. He loved the way the pink complemented her skin, and the feeling of her listening to his heartbeat. In another world – maybe a summer or two from now – Ronan might even say he loved Havannah for all the things she was, but he wouldn’t say that aloud, not yet. After all, they had known each other weeks, and he only had what she had shown him to form an idea of Havannah with. Outside of Foxy's, he had come to realise that there were depths still out of his reach.

“What’re you thinking about?” she asked, propping herself up on her elbows, head resting on one hand while the index finger of the other traced patterns across Ronan’s smooth chest.

“I’ll miss this when summer’s over,” he said, trying to keep some levity in his voice. Ronan wasn’t good at bottling up the concerns that worried him, and she had asked after all. He waited for Havannah to retract her touch or go quiet as he disturbed the peace of their moment together. She didn’t. Her finger continued to move a perfectly manicured nail across the pale skin where the sun hadn’t kissed Ronan, no matter his efforts.

“You could always stay. You said yourself that this isn’t what you want to do with your life. You could stay behind with me for a bit longer and figure it out.”

“Aren’t you destined for university?” he smiled, tucking his chin to watch where her chestnut eyes roamed across his body.

“Eventually. But then you could come with me – or you might have figured it out by the time I leave.”

“So, you’re definitely going then?”

“Yeah. No question.”

“What changed?”

It was only now that Havannah’s finger stopped in its tracks, in the rivet that divided Ronan’s abdominals into two rows of three. The nail had tickled, tightening his stomach, but now it relaxed as her whole palm instead rested there, and Havannah dropped back down onto the bed. Her chin rested against a horizontal arm, distorting her words.

“Something my dad said. I think there’s more worth for me out there. I need to go find it.”

Ronan leaned forward and kissed her gently, lips against forehead.

“You’ll find it. Look at everything you’ve done for the pier already – that’s got to count for something.”

“Oh shit, the pier!” Havannah exclaimed, pushing herself off the bed and scrambling for her phone on the bedside table.

“I forgot to tell dad the caretaker wasn’t coming in – nobody will have locked up. Fucking Damon.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” Ronan reassured her, stroking Havannah’s back as she sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for the call to connect. She smiled back at him over her shoulder, his touch somehow bearable in the heat.

“Besides,” he said, kissing where the thin strap of the camisole looped over her shoulder, “Maybe he’s still there, working late.”

With her mobile pressed between shoulder and ear, Havannah dressed herself. For some reason, it brought her more comfort - like she couldn’t be caught unawares if she sat on the edge of her bed in jeans and a t-shirt, trying her dad’s office phone for the third time. There had been no answer, and now there was no dial tone at all.

“Something’s wrong,” she said, “I can feel it.”

Ronan – dressed in solidarity – sat down beside Havannah and wrapped a comforting arm around her. He had expected her head to lean onto his shoulder, but instead it stayed rigidly focused on the phone.

“I have to go and check on him. It's weird he's not picking up and he's not at my auntie's."

“He’s not home already. I just checked,” Ronan reported, from his brief scan of their flat. “Don't worry. We could call a taxi and be on the pier in no… time… at all….”

He didn’t mean to let the sentence get away from him – he had only looked away for a second. But in that briefest and most terrifying of moments, Ronan's eyes had wandered to the window stretched along most of the wall behind Havannah’s bed. Through the glass, he had seen a speck of light unlike the others along the seafront, swelling and fading and swelling again. He got up and looked closer. The blaze’s glow dancing in the distance against the dark sea, and he immediately knew it was the pier.

“What is it?” Havannah asked, standing suddenly, her hands worrying the phone being passed between them. “Ronan?”

“You need to call 999,” he said. There were few words he could pick, and they were the first that came to mind, but he would – in quiet times after that night, when he would be alone and drinking and ruminating – wonder if he should have chosen better words that would have comforted Havannah beforehand. Or perhaps he could have simply not looked up at all, leaving his eyes to rest on the woman he was so close to saying he loved.

Havannah joined Ronan by the window, reluctantly, her hand lifting the phone to her ear. Together, they stood and watched as the smoke from the pier began to blot out both the sky. Ronan took the phone from her trembling hand to speak to the operator as Havannah counted the number of hopes slipping away from her – another dinner with her father, a chance to leave this town behind, a future with Ronan – all evaporating in one violent ball of heat.

Kristi

It had not occurred to Claire that she might be waiting alone on the pier until the sun was sliding below the horizon. A faint waft of smoke blew on the cooling evening air, and she felt herself deflate.

In an effort to torture herself, to remember why she was there in the first place, Claire retrieved her phone and let her thumb hover over the video once more. The silent players waited for her cue, ready to act out the same sordid act over and over again.

The thumping of feet against wood caught her by surprise. She turned slowly to identify the intruders, and found that she wasn't relieved to have been thought about at all. No, her eyes taking in the sight of Kristi and Victor - her sister and her supposed boyfriend - rushing down the pier towards her inflamed the white hot rage more than the video alone was capable of.

“Claire! Oh thank fuck, oh thank Christ,” Kristi panted, bending forward and steadying herself on her thighs to catch her breath as she reached her sister. Victor was close behind.

Claire said nothing in reply. She'd waited all day - her whole life - for this moment, and it wasn't as she had hoped. Where was Envy? Where was Havannah?

Silently, Claire let her thumb move from hovering above her phone to pressing ‘play’ on the screen. At first, Kristi couldn’t make out the sound among the rolling and swelling of waves beneath them and the seagulls screaming above them. As she stepped closer, however, she heard enough to know what was playing.

Kristi's eyes immediately flicked to Victor, whose face had reddened, though he was clearly trying to keep his calm. The aggressive Victor they’d always known took over.

“Turn it off, Claire," he demanded.

Kristi thumped Victor in the chest repeatedly, catching him off guard so that he stumbled backwards ever so slightly.

“You sent it to her too?!”

Victor stayed upright, staring at Claire while Kristi continued to slap him. He had dug deep inside himself and found stoicism stored away in his chest, lying beside the very feeling that had convinced him to pack a bag and plan a bus route. He was tired of all this - of all the games that nobody had explained to him and the secrets no one knew how to keep. He turned to go, though Kristi grabbed onto his arm.

“Don't you fucking dare – you’re staying here to help me explain this fucking mess!”

“Why don’t you explain?” Claire said suddenly, pausing the video. Her eyes burned into Kristi, the very last of the sunset catching her hair. It was glowing brighter than expected.

In response, Kristi dropped her head and let go of Victor’s arm.

“It was an accident.”

“You fucked my boyfriend by accident?” Claire felt a wicked sense of accomplishment that her sister could look so ashamed for hurting her like that. “None of you love me,” she added, lazily draping the words in the air as she turned away.

In other circumstances, Kristi would have rolled her eyes and Victor would have flared his nostrils. Claire didn’t check if either of them did anything. She reached for the railing and began to climb, clumsily.

“Claire, come down,” Kristi said, wearily. Had Claire already exhausted her sister’s good humour? “The tide’s out – if you fall the water’s too shallow and you’ll just hurt yourself. Come down and let’s talk about this like adults.”

“No,” Claire replied, forcefully. Whether it was the alcohol she had drunk earlier or the dimness of the night sky, or even just the fury that Kristi and Victor weren’t sticking to the script she had imagined aloud for hours while she waited on the pier, she wasn’t sure…but something snapped in Claire.

“You were supposed to stay with me.” The words came out small and quiet at first, until she repeated them.

She turned back to face Kristi and Victor again, stepping up to another railing without looking behind her.

“What?” Kristi asked, tinged with a little anger. The generosity of her patience was clearly waning, tired of the drama – both hers and Claire’s – and slowly starting to recognise that the note was nothing more than a calling card for attention.

“You were supposed to stay with me!” Claire lashed out, in time with the wind rolling across the sea and onto the shoreline. “You and Victor and Envy – and Havannah! We were all going to grow old together in this town where we have each other and that’s all we need. But now Envy’s not talking to me, Havannah stopped a long time ago, and you fucked my boyfriend.”

Kristi stepped closer to Claire nonchalantly, only pausing when her sister momentarily lost her footing. As she approached, she could smell the booze on Claire’s breath and rolled her eyes.

“You’re drunk. Oh my God, I should’ve fucking known,” Kristi spat, throwing her hands into the air and letting them land on her hips. “You know what, Claire, this is why people leave you. This is why nobody wants to be around you. You can’t cling onto people like you do – you just choke them until they can’t breathe and then, finally, they step away for some air and realise that you’re fucking deranged.”

Claire’s eyes opened wildly and a second of pregnant silence passed between them. Victor, who had been watching the scene unfold, stood waiting for the next move, his mask slipping to reveal second hand embarrassment at witnessing the sisters like this. He had seen them argue before, but he knew this was much more serious than discarded laundry and unwashed dishes and who had borrowed a top without asking. He was to blame just as much as Kristi was. He had done just as much wrong.

Claire broke the pause, launching herself at Kristi from the railing with a scream. The elder sister shielded herself, but was still knocked to the floor, where Claire proceeded to strike blow upon blow against Kristi’s arms.

“Get the fuck off!” Kristi shouted, finally pushing Claire away. They had, as children, fought playfully, but she had never seen Claire act like this – mouth foaming, fingers clawed as if to scratch Kristi’s eyes out.

“This is exactly what I fucking mean! No wonder he used to throw you about!” Kristi yelled, motioning towards Victor.

Finally, Victor was shaken to life, his own face twisting into confusion, and then anger as he looked between the two sisters.

“Wait, what? What does she mean, 'throw you about'?"

Claire could see the hurt in Victor's eyes, the same vulnerability that kept her so in love with him, even when the world saw his harsh exterior.

“Don’t listen to her, Victor," she pleaded.

“She used to say you hurt her. You’d grab her,” Kristi elaborated from the floor, resting on her elbows. She watched as Victor’s gaze moved from Claire to her and then back again.

“That's not...that's not fucking true though. Did you say that? Claire?”

“I said don’t listen to her. She just doesn’t understand our relationship, babe. How could she? Kristi doesn’t have anybody,” Claire turned to her sister at the last venomous remark. If she could not have her sister’s unconditional love, she would settle for any emotion, striking at the vein until Kristi had given her enough.

“I don’t have anybody because I was too busy looking after you,” Kristi snapped back, climbing to her feet.

“Kristi's right," Victor said suddenly, the hurt expression hardened into hate-filled impatience. "You’re infuriating, Claire. You’re a fucking child. You’re needy and spoiled and there’s something not quite right up there." He tapped his temple to exaggerate the point. "You dug your nails into me and wouldn’t let me go, and you used your mum’s death to keep me there. I don’t want to be here, Claire. I don’t want to be here with you.”

Victor watched as each of his words struck a blow against Claire, simultaneously relieving just a little of the weight from his chest as they did.

“No. No. You did this, just like you drove Havannah away,” Claire said, tearfully turning to Kristi and disregarding everything Victor had said, one finger pointed at her boyfriend as if she was accusing her sister of simply breaking a beloved belonging.

“Didn’t you hear me? This is your doing!” Victor snapped, stepping closer. Still, Claire kept looking at Kristi. She reached inside herself for the last stone she had to throw – the one she knew would do the most damage.

“It wasn’t her fault. I hope you know that. Havannah did what she had to do with what I gave her.”

Kristi looked perplexed, folding her arms in defence as Claire stepped closer. The wood thudded and creaked beneath each footstep. “I sent Havannah those posts. I wanted the world to see what a spiteful, nasty bitch you really are.”

The deafening ringing of a bomb falling onto her world stunned Kristi, wiping out what she had thought she’d known about the last year. All the timelines she had imagined, all the scenarios and slights against her, all came crashing down. She couldn’t speak, her voice shrinking into a tremble in the bottom of her lungs. Her face turned cold, and the once-folded arms fell loose by her side, weighted with fists.

Victor anticipated what would happen next and moved quickly from looking at Claire with disgust to holding Kristi back as she went to strike her sister. Claire smiled smugly, recognising the killing blow she’d dealt.

Inside the pier's main building, out of sight of the Hallett sisters and Victor, a phone chirped to life. It was an old, plastic thing, avocado green and aged with use. Patrick loved the simplicity of a landline in the office, and it had taken pride of place on the far right edge of his desk for as long as he could remember.

The rising heat from the growing fire had already started to smear the phone with ash, and it wouldn’t be long before the plastic warped and eventually melted. Still, despite the newer flames spluttering into being where lighter fluid had trailed out of the bin, the phone continued to chirp cheerily, calling for its owner.

Patrick heard it only when he left the bathroom, the echo of its little song playfully dancing down the corridor. He hoisted his trousers up a little more – his belt had gotten a little laxer lately; he was finally losing the weight he’d told Havannah he was going to lose every summer since she was fourteen.

As Patrick swung the door to his office open, air gushed inwards and the flames lashed out suddenly and with unexpected ferocity. Patrick had time to do little more than cover his face and yell in painful surprise as the first balloon – stretched and exhausted from the growing heat – ignited, unleashing a roaring shower of flames.

Torn skin from the balloon stuck to the desk and the sofa, globules of fire melting and burning the material beneath. The fire seemed to drip and be flung all at once, reaching the different corners of the office with haste. There was no time to save anything.

The wind had already been knocked from Patrick’s chest by the fright of the backdraft, but he found that he hadn’t inhaled since, his chest twisting and tightening as a pain seared from his jaw to the fingers on his left hand. He grabbed at his heart, as if his hands could dig into the ribcage and pump the organ manually, his own life in his own hands. To see Havannah again, away from the overwhelming heat and with a beaming smile on her face, he would do exactly that, his grasp responsible for every heartbeat from now until the end.

Unfortunately, such a feat was not possible for Patrick. Instead, he found himself staggering backwards, stars in his vision – or were they flames made blurry by his worsening sight? – until he struck the wall opposite the office door. His body slid to the ground and Patrick fell sideways, head resting on the musty carpet as his heart gave way. He watched, trapped in a moment that felt like eternity, as the remaining balloons followed the first’s example, raining fireballs down from the ceiling. Papers lit up in amber fury, ornaments crackled and popped, and the phone – contorted and burnt – stopped chirping.

Patrick’s last thoughts were of Havannah and the capable woman he would never see her become; of the loneliness of dying without help, the smoke alarms detecting nothing from the burning lighter fluid; and of the carpet and how it needed to be cleaned. As he closed his eyes to rest, he promised himself that he’d ask Marie the cleaner tomorrow to give the carpet a good shampoo and hoover. That would sort it out. That would sort it all out.

The fireball erupting from Patrick’s office, although muffled by glass and steel, was noticeable to the squabbling siblings on the pier. Victor had given up trying to hold Kristi back, and had instead taken a central stance, attempting to keep the sisters apart by his presence between them. He had failed, and hands had furiously reached out to slap and scratch and grab, catching him and tearing at his skin in the process.

They were momentarily shocked loose from one another when the second explosion shattered glass. Victor’s gaze was drawn to the sight of a flame reaching for the sky from the broken window.

“There’s a fire…” he said, his throat catching his words as it tightened in panic.

The sisters didn’t hear him. Warfare almost resumed, until they noticed the lights flickering off one by one. A third bang followed. Kristi, exasperated and aching from injuries old and new, saw her chance. She began to walk away from the scene, only for Claire to notice the attempted escape.

“Get back here!” Claire screeched.

Victor remained entranced by the flames growing from inside the building and clamoured for his phone, hidden in one pocket or another.

Kristi felt the rush of cool air against her face as she broke into a run. Darkness had encroached upon the pier, however, and she didn’t see the fallen wet floor signs, or the bulging floorboard they had once encircled. It caught on her foot, throwing Kristi to the ground. Her knee collided with the wood and she let out a painful grunt.

Claire’s racing footsteps told her she didn’t have much time, but her knee and the bruising still present on the side of her torso made it difficult for Kristi to lift herself up. She reached for a railing to gain balance, but Claire was already on top of her, forcing her sister back down against the wood. She clawed madly at Kristi’s face with her stunted nails, trying to slam her sister’s head against the solid planks. Kristi’s neck resisted and she was able to get enough of a purchase on the grand to push herself up and dislodge Claire from her back.

The younger Hallett sister was faster, however. Almost as soon as she had been tossed backwards, she was back clutching at Kristi’s hair. With one swift, strong movement, she pushed Kristi’s head towards the railing, where it cracked against the hard metal.

The flames released Victor from their enchantment long enough for him to see Claire stepping backwards while Kristi pulled herself up, dazed and weak.

“Hey! We have to go!” he shouted, running over to them.

The flames had spread far beyond their original confines now, and they waved threateningly from the building’s windows until they shattered. They bathed the end of the pier in an apocalyptic slew of reds and oranges that jolted manically; the trio's shadows danced in the unpredictable light.

Kristi reached her fingers up to the gash on her head as she steadied herself against the railings. Their exploration returned ruby red blood, darkened by the explosive light show. It had already start to trickle warmly down her face, running across her lips until she tasted something both copper and organic. It was then that Kristi recognised how dizzy she felt, the shadows dancing more menacingly than before, the pier threatening to tilt in the wrong direction and toss them all into the sea at any moment. Victor was shouting from behind a blurry wall and Claire’s face had become distorted, unrecognisable, frightening.

She pulled herself closer to the railings, an urgent pull in her stomach alerting her to danger. Vomit churned in her stomach, but she choked it down. Kristi didn’t know what Claire was saying amidst the crashing sounds all around her; but she knew to stay away. The metal railings pressed against her and she grabbed for them in desperation, blood-slicked hands holding her steady as she tried to climb out of Claire’s reach. Beneath them all, the swirling waters seemed so much safer.

The pain in her head split her open and she flinched. Claire took the opportunity to approach, Victor moving fast to hold her back. He tried to reason with Kristi, but she couldn’t make sense of his words, their shape foreign and intangible. Her eardrums were filling with blood. He seemed so far away. She too had enjoyed their afternoon together. Would she ever be able to tell him?

Again, Claire attempted to get close, even as Victor held her back and offered an outstretched hand to Kristi.

“There’s something wrong with you, Claire,” Kristi said – or she thought she had said it. There was no way to be sure, as the world flipped upside down and the night sky – smeared with specks of light against a never-ending darkness – passed Kristi by forever.

Then she hit the water.

Death had secretly plagued Kristi’s imagination since long before her mother’s untimely accident. The first time Kristi found death to be something tangible, something to truly fear, she was just seven years old, visiting her grandmother in the hospital for the last time.

Years later, she would still remember the stench of disinfectant, the beeping of machines, the murmuring of concerned nurses, and the stifled wails of patients on the nearby dementia ward. Kristi didn’t understand how her parents could be so calm in a place filled with such invisible horrors; she couldn’t see the other patients, nor could she pinpoint where the ghostly beeps were coming from, but the feeling of terror surrounded her completely.

In the doorway, Kristi froze. Her mum had entered the room unconcerned with anything other than her own mother’s final moments. Her dad, however, paused with his daughter. Their eyes met – Kristi always remembering her dad much taller than he was in that moment – and her dad smiled.

“Don’t worry. I feel the same,” he said, offering out a hand. Kristi took it, mildly comforted by the anchoring feeling of her dad’s palm cupping her own. Still, she looked about her one last time, expecting some ghastly spectre to float past, confirming that this was a place where misery had soaked and seeped into its bones, and every flickering light, and every polystyrene ceiling tile.

Her dad led them both into the room. As they approached, Kristi could only see still limbs on the bed, her mother’s pregnant frame blocking the rest of the view. They took their place next to the bed, her dad lifting Kristi onto a small ledge on its metal frame for her to see better.

In the short time that she’d known her, Kristi had never seen her grandmother look so fragile. Lying in the bed was an unrecognisable woman, wrinkled and small, depleted. A tube ran into her mouth, another under her nose, and one more into her hand. With her eyes, Kristi traced where each tube led, ending with the bag of clear fluid hanging from a stand next to the bed. From there, it was only a flick of a glance to see her own mother’s face, wet with tears and desperation. Kristi’s dad wrapped his arm around his wife, and Kristi expected her to collapse into his shoulder as she’d seen her mother do frequently over the last few months. Instead, her gaze remained fixed on the old woman lying in the bed, reaching the very edge of the world.

And then, just like that, she was gone, tipping into the void behind closed eyes.

Suddenly, as she was ushered out by her father and her mum’s sobs echoed in competition with the machine’s steady scream, Kristi knew what death was. She was not prepared for it at seven, and she wasn’t prepared for it at twenty-six.

That memory came to mind as Kristi fell from the pier, and a small voice in the darkness asked her if this was what her grandmother had seen as she plummeted into the void, out of her vessel and into the beyond. The impact of the water rocked her, and although she felt herself choke, her thoughts wouldn’t align themselves in the right order to issue the command that would force her to the surface. There was no fight left in her. Or, if there was, it was muddled and buried beneath layers of confusion. It was so much easier to simply let go.

As Kristi hung in the in-between place lying on the border of life and death, she thought again of her grandmother, and of her mother. They were just beyond the dark, waiting for her. Or they weren’t, and there was nothing waiting, and nothing would be far more restful if she just…let…go.

On the pier, only seconds had passed.

“What the fuck have you done?!” Victor roared, grabbing Claire by the shoulders and shaking her violently. He relinquished his grip, the cold realisation that she had insinuated he had acted this very way before. There was no emotion to her face, and Victor suddenly didn’t understand the person in front of him – the person he thought he knew, who had stayed in his bed and stolen the covers or took forever to get ready for a night out, or who was always too greedy with her friends.

He left her behind on the pier as he searched the edge of the structure for the ladder he knew stretched down to a small platform beneath the promenade. From there he could reach the sea safely, pulling Kristi to the shore and getting help. The ladders sang to him, the reflection of flames twinkling in the shiny black paint. He climbed over the railing and started his descent.

Claire watched in disbelief, tracing Victor’s movements over and over again. He was choosing Kristi. Nobody was choosing her – nobody ever chose her. Rationale dissolved into the sea. Whatever break in the storm might have come from the shock of her bloodied sister falling backwards was forsaken for a renewed fury. Claire stomped across the pier to the same spot and began to climb down too.

“What the fuck, Claire?!” Victor shouted up to her as he reached the platform.

The sound of fire licking at the sky with lashing tongues carried down beneath the pier. Victor paused, poised to descend the next ladder, and strained his eyes scanning the dark water for any sign of Kristi. The waves crashed louder and louder against the pier's iron supports, and the panic began to rise higher and higher in him. Then, he spotted her, face down, adrift at the mercy of rolling waves.

“Kristi! Wake the fuck up!” he shouted, unsure of the precise moment he started to care. All Victor knew was that he had to get down into the water as quickly as possible. Above him, Claire had also spotted her sister.

The ladder stopped a few feet above the water. Victor braced himself and dropped into the sea, saltwater splashing into his nose and eyes. The sound of Claire dropping in followed.

Heart pumping louder and louder in her chest, she pushed her way past Victor, her demented rage no more dampened by the cold water than the flames.

Victor started to swim over to Kristi in pursuit of her sister, but a rising wave derailed him momentarily, leaving him spluttering and cursing as he wiped the water from his face.

Claire had already reached her sister. Her hands pressed against the back of Kristi’s head, stray hairs from her loosening ponytail floating around Claire’s fingers under the surface. Kristi began to jerk and shake, but the involuntary reaction was nothing compared to Claire’s determination. Her strength, she found, was rooted in everything she’d lost. Kristi had robbed her of Havannah; she had taken Victor; she had stolen from her the precious chance to mourn her mother properly, in her own way, once she’d figured out how she really felt. Years upon years of anger pushed against Kristi, holding her down even as she thrashed against the sensation. Kristi was drowned by her sister, and by the weight of the past as it crushed her.

“You bitch! You fucking bitch! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” Claire screamed, the waves rushing against her and pulling away seemingly all at once.

No, it wasn’t the waves. It was Victor, wrenching Claire away from Kristi’s now lifeless form. She had stopped struggling before the screams began.

Neither Victor nor Claire could get traction on the sand beneath them, making it all the harder for Victor to simply pick Claire up and away. Instead, he wrapped an arm around her neck and jerked backwards, turning and releasing her as she gasped for air.

Desperately, he slipped an arm under Kristi’s body and pulled her close. The water around them pulsed and faded with blood, deepening each time more poured from her head into the water, only to be diluted as the tide took it away to the horizon, where it would birth a grand spectacle of a sunrise.

He looked for a pulse, listened for a breath, waited for a response. There was nothing. Kristi was dead. A light in Victor went out, a bare bulb locked in a nondescript room, in the depths of his being. He had never seen someone die before.

Claire watched as her ex-boyfriend cradled her dead sister and the fury curdled into sadness, and then something far more bitter: survival. She pulled her phone – damp but functioning – from her pocket and with hands shaking from the cold water, she opened the camera and took a picture. The flash lit up the sea, the spilled rubies floating about Kristi's head, and Victor’s frame, cradling her body.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed in the dark, the seafront’s lights not reaching far enough out to touch them.

“I-I needed proof. They'll all see this was your fault!” Claire stammered, her voice cracking, threatening to tip into hysteria.

The waves continued to rock her gently, longingly, their rhythm only disrupted by the pier buckling from the fire, flaming shards of wood joining them in the sea.

“Give me the phone,” Victor spat, relinquishing Kristi’s body to the water, reaching his hands out to Claire as he tried to get closer. “Give me the fucking phone, now!” he screamed, wading towards her, his arms cutting through the water as if his rage might part all the oceans in the world for him.

Claire turned to escape, though the sand beneath her feet and the water clinging to her body made every moment slow, deliberate, and almost inconsequential. Sometimes the sand beneath her would give way and the sea would kiss her with salty waves. Still, she swam and spluttered and struggled, keeping the phone above the surface as she made her way to the shore, falling debris widening the distance between her and Victor.

On the shore, Envy joined the crowd in watching the disaster unfolding before them. Her arm hung limply at her side, phone clutched in her fingers. Claire wasn’t picking up. Neither was Kristi, nor Havannah. Envy folded her arms tightly against her chest instead, hoping the vibration of an incoming call would be more noticeable pressed against her heart.

The blue lights came shortly after. The crowd moved back, and the whole event seemed to be reaching its conclusion, dispersing the crackles of excitement.

“We’ve got a body!” a firefighter called from the beach, distracted from her observations of the fracturing structure by the shadow washed ashore. Envy would remember the scramble for the rest of her life, the quiet of the liminal moment between what had always been and what the world would be once she saw the body.

Paramedics made their way to the beach and instinctively Envy stepped forward, mindlessly pushing her way through the crowd until she reached the stone wall separating the pavement from the steps down to the beach. She could just about make out the silhouettes of the emergency workers as they lifted the body so that they might carry it closer to the stretcher that had become stuck in the sand. They should’ve lifted the stretcher, one part of her brain remarked, trying to ground itself in the logic of the situation.

As the body was brought closer and the crowd’s murmurs grew louder, Envy questioned her own eyes. There was too much light coming from the fire – even as the crews attempted to tame it – to argue that she had been mistaken. It was definitely Kristi. Envy screamed at the top of her lungs, a primal scream that she had no idea even resided within her – a guttural scream from the very bottom of her soul.

The crowd seemed to collectively recoil, clearing a path to the top of the stone steps. She clung to the wall as she raced to the paramedics, launching herself down towards the shoreline. The shifting beach tripped her up, but she ignored the sting of sand against her bare knees and clumsily made her way towards the stretcher that now lay waiting for the body.

“Please, stay back miss,” one paramedic said, but he caught a glimpse of another shaking her head. He dropped the hand he held out to keep Envy at bay, and let the girl continue tentatively towards the body, now being placed gently onto the stretcher.

Kristi’s face was pale, the only colour coming from the combination of the burning pier and the flashing blue that surrounded them both.

“Do you know her, miss?”

The other paramedic jabbed her colleague in the arm, as if to silently hiss “Of course she fucking knows her, Carl. Come on.”

They raised the stretcher and the second paramedic turned to Envy this time, asking with a soft voice if she’d like to come with her. Envy nodded, emphatically, holding onto Kristi’s cold hand with both of her own, hoping her warmth might somehow revive the young woman. It didn’t. It couldn’t. Kristi was already dead, and Envy’s world tipped forward into a new kind of future where the story of the burning pier in her hometown was no longer just a dull anecdote to tell new friends at house parties in Fresher’s Week. Now, it was a personal tragedy. Envy swallowed down the vomit, choosing to keep her hands wrapped around Kristi’s for as long as she could.

By the time Victor and Claire had made it to dry land, they were both exhausted, their arms and legs leaden. They emerged from the sea further down the shoreline on a small stretch of sand separated from the rest of the beach by boulders too well-crafted to be natural.

A temporary truce fell as they both struggled to get their breath back. Victor recovered the fastest and immediately rounded on his former love.

“Claire,” he demanded, the shake in his voice coming not from his drenching in the sea, but from a place of rage, fear, and injustice. “Delete that. We can pretend this never happened. I won’t tell anybody, I promise.”

Claire froze in place. His words, the way he spoke them, the desperation in his voice; this is what Claire had always wanted from Victor. He needed her now, in the same way that she had needed him in her darkest moment – the way she had needed him to be kind when those dark moments involved him. Now they were connected, tethered to one another forever more.

“You’re pathetic,” she said, shivering only from the cold that crept from her skin into her heart. It was done. “It’s already uploaded somewhere safe. If you take another step, I’ll scream and everybody can see it.”

Victor clasped his head with both hands, took a few paces in a small circle, and then let out a furious, primal sound in frustration, fists bunched, mouth contorted. A dog barked in response in the distance. Claire was unmoved.

“No one will believe you,” he snarled, stomping toward her and prodding his finger close to her face. “They’ll ask why you didn’t share it straight away, you stupid, hateful little bitch.”

Claire stepped back, filled her lungs, and watched the startled expression spring onto Victor’s face as she let out a scream loud enough to echo. A light turned on in a nearby house and shadows moved against the glow. Victor looked about in panic before breaking into a sprint in the opposite direction, as Claire watched her last remaining anchor disappear into the dark.

From his office, Damon looked out upon the carnage. He removed his shirt, sprayed some deodorant, got dressed, and took a seat at his desk. The lights were off, but the fire’s warmth rolled into the darkened office nonetheless.

He bit the skin on his thumb as he considered his options. This was what he wanted, and yet even he knew it was too far. Quietly – as if the crowd were instead looking up at his office window, watching his response – he placed the discarded shirt in the metal bin by his feet, cushioned by various bits of paperwork, and set it ablaze. The flames curled towards the window, as if in tribute to the fading fire outside.

He didn’t yet know that his actions had been responsible for at least one death that evening, and a small smile of triumph crept across his face. In time, Damon would come to learn that he would need to burn much more to scrub clean any trace of his hand in events. For a time, though, he would be able to feel some small relief as his own fire died down, leaving behind only ashes to be scraped out of the bottom of a bin.

Damon poured himself a drink and sat with his feet resting on the desk, taking in the show playing out so close to his own business. There was only one person he wanted to share this moment with – one person he would continue to pursue until they were both out of road to run down.

He picked up his phone, thrilled at the risk and the excitement, and dialled Kristi. There was no reply, only the offer of a voicemail. Damon took a large swig of his drink. The combination of scotch and subterfuge was a heady mix, and he felt himself aroused and arrogant, revelling in what he’d done. The beeps sounded, and he left his message.

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

The flames brightened the scotch as he held the glass high and toasted the night, aflame. Change was coming, and it would be baptised with fire.

Two Weeks Later

The weather had started to take a fitting change, clouds blooming above Havannah in various shades of grey, while the air took on an unseasonable chill.

The turnout wasn’t as Havannah had hoped. The church had been only half full, and many of the older guests – and those that only turned up as a courtesy for a local businessman they had once read about – filtered out before the pallbearers had reached the neighbouring graveside, quietly slipping away without Havannah noticing. But she noticed. She saw them leave in the corner of her eye and felt the sharp stab of disappointment. All those years of being told her dad owned half the town…a tiny fraction of it had turned up.

She followed the pallbearers at a steady pace, her braids tapping rhythmically against the small of her back, worn loose just as Patrick had liked them. They carried the casket with a respectful rhythm, passing the rows of graves Havannah had grown so used to seeing on her visits. They walked the fragmented and ancient stone path, beneath the yew tree, and finally arrived at the hole waiting for Patrick’s coffin.

Havannah wished they’d hurry up so that the day could be finished. She looked out at the view from the graveyard. Her father’s plot – located next to her mother’s – was on the edge, closest to the low fence. From this spot, he could see the water and the pier, watching over the town until the cliffs gave way and sea reclaimed them all. Patrick had always joked that he wanted to be buried with a view and a shade, and the latter was provided by the wizened yew tree that twisted and stretched its branches across both plots.

As they approached, Havannah caught sight of Ronan in the distance, running into the graveyard before stopping to tie the shoelaces on his trainers and adjust his tie. He had warned Havannah that he didn’t have much in the way of appropriate footwear for a funeral, but she didn’t mind; she only wanted him there. He had arrived, leaving Simon to man the game with their uncle for one of the last times that summer, and that was enough. He slowed his pace and joined them all at the graveside. She unclenched her hand and he slipped his fingers between hers on cue.

“Thanks for coming,” she said plainly, staring forward as they lowered the casket into the ground.

“Sorry I’m late.”

Havannah didn’t reply. There was nothing to say, and every word spoken that day carried the risk of tears. All around her, she saw wolves who would leap at her if there was even the smallest tremble of a lip. Dotted about the place were cousins who she barely saw, aunties who had only spoken to her dad when they wanted something, and strangers. Her only real family were her parents, and now – she regretted to realise – Havannah was staring at both their graves.

She let go of Ronan’s hand and folded her arms across the black dress she had bought for the occasion. It was Havannah’s hope that she would never have to wear this dress again – that it could be tucked away in a drawer for the rest of her life, unworn and forgotten – rather than taint anything she already owned with the sadness of this moment.

One by one, a number of Patrick’s mourners approached the open grave, took some of the dirt handed to them, and tossed it onto his coffin. Sometimes, the soil clumped in their hands, landing with a thud on the casket, and Havannah would wince, tears building behind her eyes as if they were hammering on his tomb, hounding him in death.

“It’s your turn,” Ronan whispered, his hand on the small of her back. “If you want to.”

Havannah nodded, inhaled through her nose and stepped forward across the soil. She could feel the eyes on her, watching intently for any hint of emotion. Poor girl, brave girl, sad girl, she could hear them think. Her resolve tightened, her teeth clenching in determination. Facing the priest, she took a handful of dirt from the box he presented to her – complete with a pitying look – and whispered into her hand love you, before letting the soil run out of her palm and into the grave.

A bespectacled aunty nearby – wearing a gauche blue dress with a black jacket and overzealous hat - heard Havannah’s words and clutched a hand to her own chest as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. The aunty next to her rested a sympathetic hand on the first’s shoulder, a pretence to ask what she’d heard. Havannah disregarded them both and their graveside gossip, returning to Ronan. She couldn’t bear to turn back around.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said. Ronan nodded and followed.

Their apartment was too small for a wake, though Damon had insisted on the use of Foxy’s. Havannah, deeming it inappropriate, politely declined and instead settled upon a small pub that her dad enjoyed frequenting in his youth. There, in a small room at the back, the owners put on a modest spread and watched as the mourners filtered through the pub to the room.

Havannah slipped away shortly after arriving. It was all too much for a nineteen year old to have organised and then hosted her own father’s funeral. She needed a break.

Ronan found her in the car park, tears streaming down her face, though her mouth was turned into a painful, silent grimace. The crunching of gravel underfoot alerted Havannah to somebody’s presence, and she hastily wiped the tears away with the back of her hands and her wrists.

“Here,” he said, offering her a napkin. Havannah took it and hesitated. “It’s clean. I brought it out here just in case.”

Gratefully, Havannah began to dab her eyes, the bare makeup she’d applied clinging onto her pores for dear life against the odds.

“It’s OK, you know? To cry?”

“Not here. Not in front of them,” she replied quickly, instinctively. “They were always after dad’s money,” Havannah said sharply through sniffles. She balled the drenched napkin up in her hand, “And it won’t be any different now.”

“I think he’d be glad they were here though, right? So you’re not alone today?” Ronan asked.

She recognised in his face the same sympathetic expression she’d seen so many times since the fire. People had made a habit of telling Havannah what her dad would’ve wanted, or what he would’ve thought, or liked, or hated. They didn’t know him – not like she did. And they didn’t know her in the way he had either.

“I am alone, Ronan. That’s just a fact now. It’s like the last person who knew me – really knew me the way I was – is gone.”

“I know you,” Ronan tried, reaching for her hand. Havannah’s didn’t meet his.

“You know a facet of me – a version of Havannah. The man we just buried... he raised me. When my friends turned on me and my mum died, it was just us… You know, I was really considering never leaving him – never leaving here – so that he didn’t ever have to be alone, but now…now he’s left me, and I have to be the one alone and it hurts Ronan. It really fucking hurts.” Havannah prodded her chest, finger pushing into bone. “Right fucking here. I can feel my heart splintering. I don’t even feel like I exist – not without proof. And I saw that proof every single day in the way my dad looked at me – the way he acknowledged me as a person; as a young woman; as a daughter; one day maybe even as an equal.”

Ronan bowed his head. He never wanted Havannah to see how much her words had struck him – not in her time of need. A gentle hand surprised him, caressing the side of his face. His instinct had become to lean towards it. But not today.

“You’re sweet. You’re so fucking sweet. But you don’t know me in the same way, and we can’t pretend that’s not the reality.”

“I was going to stay with you,” Ronan blurted out, wincing as he heard the desperation in his own voice. Havannah sighed and retreated her hand.

“You can still stay, but I’ve got dad’s businesses to take care of. You’re used to just coming and going, Ronan, but I have to stay and that’s just how it is. And it’s not fair to ask you to give everything up while you wait for me.”

“But you even said yourself you don’t trust anybody in there.”

“I don’t - of course I don’t. I don’t trust anybody in this fucking town. But I’m going to face them down.”

The determination in her eyes had hardened the warmth Ronan had once enjoyed seeing looking up at him. The woman in front of him was not who he knew, and she was drifting away from him with every breath.

“Why, Havannah? Why waste your energy?” Ronan half-pleaded, resting his hand on her shoulder in an attempt to keep her focused on him, listening to reason.

“Because if I don’t…if I don’t fight and rage and battle, then I think I’ll break.”

Ronan drew Havannah close to him, holding her tightly. There was no reciprocation; her arms remained fixed at her sides. He released her from his hold and stepped back.

“Things have changed, haven’t they?” he asked, the sharp cold between them now obvious as it pressed into his skin and drew blood.

“I’m sorry, Ronan.”

They stood there, together and apart, under the last of the August sun. Unseasonal storms would follow, and autumn would be upon them sooner than either knew, though Havannah could already feel the cold creeping in. Her warmth had extinguished with the flaming timber falling into the sea.

Neither of them knew what to do or say next, unwilling to be the one who said goodbye first, or to ask if this meant what they feared it meant. With relief, it was Ronan who walked away first, shoulders raised, fists tight. She wanted to call out to him as he crossed the car park towards the gate, but her throat was dry and the words had become lodged in her throat. Still, Ronan would imagine her saying his name as he walked along the main road, a broken heart playing out in the tears on his face. There was no call though, and neither of them could know that they both wished there had been.

Wiping another stream of tears away, Havannah turned back to the pub, only to stop at the sight of Damon approaching.

“Are you OK? I know it’s a stupid thing to ask, but I saw your young Lothario storm off.”

Havannah nodded, losing control once again. Without thinking she pressed herself against Damon’s chest and sobbed, guttural and heartbroken as he wrapped his arms around her, turning her so that the gossiping aunties watching from the pub's windows couldn’t spy their hostess displaying any weakness. He understood her fears.

Lowering his voice, Damon offered comfort, rocking her side to side, one hand stroking the back of her head.

“Let it all out, kiddo. It’s OK. I’ve got you.... I’ll take care of you.”

Epilogue

The banging on the door caught Claire off-guard.

Her eyes snapped open, catching only blurry glimpses of the late-night shopping channel playing on the television. Someone called her name – half-shout, half-hiss – from the front door, which stirred her further awake. Her limbs, however, were still heavy and cramped from the awkward position in which she’d fallen asleep on the sofa.

Just to be sure she wasn’t dreaming, Claire reached for the remote and muted the television, listening out for an encore. The voice called out again, angrier this time, followed by another round of banging.

She peered out of the living room window and spied Victor glancing up and down the street for neighbours who might be watching.

“What do you want?” Claire hissed back.

Recognising the sound of Victor sitting down on the step leading to the front door, Claire mirrored him by taking the same position indoors.

“Please, Claire. Please delete the photo,” Victor begged, his voice a low whimper through the letter box.

"I can't..."

Victor sighed.

"Then I'm leaving."

"Where will you go?"

"Like I'd tell you," he scoffed.

“They think it's an accident. You don't have to go."

"I think I do."

They sat there for a moment longer in silence, two former lovers who had discovered in one another strangers made up of unmeasurable differences. Claire wished things could be different, that she could be mature enough to focus instead on mourning, rather than grasping at the hope of lost love returning.

“Did you ever love me?” she asked, musing on the possibility that it hadn’t all been for nought.

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you think you ever could?”

Victor sighed again.

“No, Claire. Not after this.”

Another silence fell as Claire played with a hangnail on her index finger. This time, she couldn't tell that Victor was still on the other side of the PVC door separating them.

“Are you still there?” she asked once the silence had become too much.

“Yeah.”

Claire knew it wouldn't last and that she shouldn't take comfort in it. she stood momentarily to grab her phone from the sofa, opening its gallery. The photo – shockingly bright and not particularly sharp – still sat there among pictures of cats and flowers she liked the look of. Her finger hovered over the ‘delete’ button. She could fix something if she just deleted the photo, but the cost could be her freedom. Still, Victor needed this…

“One day, Claire, you’ll have to accept responsibility for this. One day, you’ll need to grow up.”

The sound of Victor shuffling to his feet left Claire's finger trembling over the device. She couldn't do it. Turning the phone's screen off, Claire realised she was in too deep to surrender such a valuable asset.

“Goodbye, Claire,” Victor said, his blurry silhouette looking back over his shoulder at her on the floor inside the house.

And then, he was gone, and Claire was left alone, huddled in the corner of an empty house that had only grown emptier and emptier. She looked up at the muted figures on the screen, mouthing accusations and revelations at her from a TV studio somewhere in London.

A single tear reflected their ghostly faces – the only company she now had, the last thing to hold onto.

--------

Thanks for joining me on this journey! If you've enjoyed PIER Series One, I'd really appreciate you leaving a comment below 👇

Oh, and remember...