The Soul Auction Page 6

“This'll be your room,” the lady says, shuffling to one of the doors and taking a moment to fumble with the key. “You've got a sea view!”

  “Thank you,” I reply, rubbing the sore spot on my head and taking extra care as I follow her into the room. “It's a lovely place you've got here.”

  “Oh, I'm just the housekeeping,” she replies with a smile, turning and handing me the key. “My name's Dorothy, and you must come to me if there's anything you want during your stay. Anything at all.”

  “I think I'll be okay,” I tell her, heading to the window and looking out. Sure enough, I've got a magnificent view of the pebbly beach, and of the coastline stretching all the way to the white cliffs in the distance.

  “On a clear day,” Dorothy adds, “you can see France.”

  “I'm sure you can.”

  “And you don't have any bags with you, dear?”

  “Not really,” I reply, setting my shoulder-bag on the chair. “Just this.”

  “No suitcase?”

  “It was kind of an unplanned trip.”

  “Well, as you were,” she mutters, turning and shuffling out of the room. “There's dinner in the main bar from six, if you fancy it.”

  “Do you know Dora Ohme?” I ask, before I've even had time to stop myself.

  She turns back to face me.

  “I'm sorry,” I continue, “but I was wondering if you know her very well.”

  “Dora Ohme?” She stares at me for a moment, as if she has no idea who I'm talking about. “Well, I haven't spoken to her in a while. Why do you ask? Is she family?”

  “No, I just... I was wondering, that's all.”

  “Old Dora doesn't get about much these days,” she explains. “You certainly won't bump into her in the pub, but you can always try knocking on her door. She lives in number five, just around the corner.”

  “So I've been told,” I reply. “Could you tell me what she's like?”

  “Are you a friend of hers?”

  “I'm not, no,” I admit, and I'm very aware now that I probably sound pretty weird. Still, if I'm not going to actually go and knock on Dora Ohme's door, I might at least get an idea of who she is. “I was just wondering whether she's...”

  My voice trails off as I realize that there's no normal way to end that sentence.

  “You know what?” I continue. “Never mind.”

  “As you wish, dear,” she says, shuffling back out into the hallway. “If you want wi-fi, I'm afraid you'll have to go down to the main bar to catch it. There's not very much up here, so I've been told. Not that I use it much myself, you understand.”

  “That's fine,” I tell her. “It's probably better for me if there aren't any distractions, anyway.”

  She pulls the door shut, and I hesitate for a moment as I think of all the ways I probably came across as a total creep. I honestly can't quite believe that I've ended up here in Curridge, having driven all the way down here to track down some woman who wrote a review of my book; even more bizarrely, I've now decided that there's no way I'm going to actually disturb the poor woman, so the entire trip has been one long, pointless adventure. Still, at least I got out of the apartment for a few days.

  I turn to go to my bag, but in the process I bash my head against another low beam.

  “Piece of shit!” I hiss, pulling away as I feel another sharp pain in my head, this time running down the other side.

  Rubbing the sore spot, I take out my laptop and set it on a table next to the window, and then I take a seat. If there's really no wi-fi up here in the room, then I might actually manage to get some distraction-free hours and actually write something. As I open the laptop and log in, I can't help thinking that this trip could turn out to be a blessing in disguise, and that Dora Ohme has helped me without even realizing what she was doing.

  I bring up my latest manuscript, and then I set my fingers on the keyboard.

  And nothing happens.

  “Come on,” I mutter, convinced that at any moment I'll find the words. After all, I've never had writer's block in my life. I don't even believe that writer's block exists.

  Taking a deep breath, I watch the blinking cursor.

  “Just write,” I whisper under my breath, although I'm starting to feel a little frustrated by myself. “You have no excuses, Alice,” I continue, trying to give myself a little pep talk. “You're a writer, so write. People in most jobs can't just stop for a day or two because they're not feeling right. You need to be more dedicated, and more professional. Forget the bad reviews and just write the story you want to write.”

  I wait.

  The cursor blinks.

  The waves crash against the beach outside.

  And still, no words come.

  “I need water,” I mutter, realizing that maybe a drink would help. “That's what's wrong. I'm thirsty.”

  I get to my feet, but in the process I slam my head against another beam. This time I let out an actual cry of pain as I pull away, and when I put a hand on the side of my head I can already feel a line of agony running down to my ear. I slip my fingers through my hair, checking that there's no blood, and then I make my way to the bathroom. This time, I'm extra careful to make sure that I don't bang my head on anything.

  In the bathroom, I double-check that there's no blood in my scalp, and then I wash my face.

  “You can do this,” I whisper as I look at my reflection in the mirror above the sink. “You can do this. You've written a good book before. You've written one good one and one bad one. It's time to get back on that horse.”

  Staring at myself in the mirror, I realize I can see a hint of doubt in my eyes. Determined to push past any problems I might be having, I take a deep breath and try to force all that doubt away. At the same time, in my reflection I see somebody who's totally lost, who had a chance to get some work done and who instead took an impromptu road trip to a coastal town, and who is now in a mess that's completely of her own making. I'm a writer, and anything I do that isn't writing – anything that doesn't involve sitting down and typing – is a complete waste of time.

  Finally, determined to get to work, I turn and march back to my laptop. After just half a step, however, I slam headfirst into yet another low-hanging beam.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lizzie

  Thirty years ago

  “Have you got him yet?” Kate asks, for the hundredth time. “Mummy?”

  Leaning a little further into the crack between two large rocks, I crane my neck in an attempt to spot Mr. Puddles. I swear this is the gap he fell into, but there's no sign of him. Peering around, I tell myself that the scruffy little bear has to be around here somewhere. Finally, figuring that I've simply picked the wrong rock, I haul myself up and set the wire and hook down.

  “Mummy? Have you found him?”

  “Not quite,” I reply breathlessly.

  “I thought you said it wouldn't take long.”

  “I think I'm just on the wrong rock.”

  I hear footsteps, and then she appears next to me, peering up from the beach below.

  “You're not on the wrong rock,” she says, with a hint of annoyance in her voice. “He should be right down there, where you are now.”

  “Just give me a moment to get my bearings, okay?”

  “Is he gone?” she adds, and now she sounds as if she's close to tears.

  “No, honey, he's not gone, he's just...”

  How do I finish that sentence?

  He's lost?

  He's gone for a wander?

  “Is he not coming back tonight?” she asks plaintively.

  “Of course he is.”

  “Then why haven't you got him up by now?”

  “It's just taking a little longer than I expected,” I explain. “Don't worry, though, Mummy's going to find Mr. Puddles real soon.”

  Looking down into the gap, however, I can't help worrying that maybe a crab or some other creature might have stolen the bear. In which case, I have no idea how I'm ever going to get
him back. There'll be tears at bedtime, and at many bedtimes to come, if Kate's favorite toy is gone.

  Her father gave her that bear.

  “Have you found him yet?” she asks.

  “I'm strategizing,” I reply.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I means I'm trying to come up with a plan that might -”

  Suddenly I wince as I feel the pain in my head again. This time it seems to last a fraction of a second longer, and I put a hand on the side of my temple just as the worst of the pain recedes. Still, there's a faint echo of discomfort for a few more seconds before everything goes back to normal.

  I can't get sick.

  The universe isn't that cruel.

  If I get sick, what would happen to my girls?

  “Have you found him now?” Kate asks.

  “Um, no, not quite,” I reply, turning and looking back down into the gap. I really need to focus on the task at hand, rather than turning into some kind of hypochondriac. “I'll have it done soon, though. I promise.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Alice

  Today

  “Are you sure you don't wanna join in?” the landlord asks as he sets another lemonade on the bar. “I'm sure you've got a mighty fine singing voice!”

  “I'm fine, thanks!” I reply, although I'm not sure he can hear me.

  Not over the sound of the shanty group.

  It's almost 10pm, and I'd be up in my room if it weren't for the sea shanty choir that has taken over the pub for the evening. They seem to be a popular local group, and they've been entertaining the customers for a couple of hours now with renditions of What Shall We Do With the Drunken Sailor?, Chicken on a Raft and even Skip to My Lou. They're good, I'll give them that, and I feel somewhat curmudgeonly for wishing they'd finish a little before the advertised time of 11pm.

  I just want to go back up and do some work, but that's impossible right now. After all, my room is right above the bar.

  Or am I just making excuses again?

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  Feeling someone nudge my arm, I turn to find that Graham has brought his half-empty pint over to join me.

  “It's very new,” I reply. “I'm not sure I've heard a sea shanty group in person before.”

  “They've been doing this for years,” he explains, turning to watch the singers for a moment. “I remember them playing when I was a kid. You wouldn't believe some of them are in their nineties now, would you?”

  “Actually, I would,” I tell him, as I look over at the choir.

  “Hey,” Graham continues, nudging my arm again, “do you wanna see something creepy?”

  “Creepy?”

  “Follow me. Just outside for a moment.”

  Before I can answer, he heads to the door, leaving me with no real choice but to follow. Although Curridge is a small town, the pub is pretty full, and it takes a couple of minutes before I'm able to battle my way to the front door. Once I get outside into the cold night air, I let the door swing shut and now the sound of the shanty group is muffled. I can hear waves crashing against the beach nearby, and Graham's footsteps are crunching across the pebbles as he walks into the darkness.

  “This way!” he calls back to me.

  Setting out to follow him, with the lemonade glass in one hand, I can barely see where I'm going. Finally I'm just about able to make out Graham's silhouette up ahead, and when I stop next to him I find that we're looking out at the pitch-black sea. Not that I can really see anything, of course, but I can hear the waves still breaking against the pebbly shore.

  “That's the biggest graveyard you'll ever see,” Graham says after a moment.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “The sands out there,” he continues, “have claimed almost a thousand ships over the centuries. Many of them, at least in the old days, went down with all hands. There must be ten thousand bodies rotting in the sea off this coast.”

  “That's a sobering though,” I reply, staring out at a night that's so dark, I can't see where the sea ends and the sky begins.

  “Do you see one over there?” he asks, pointing out into the darkness. “A mast. Wait 'til your eyes are used to it.”

  “I really don't see anything,” I tell him.

  “Give it a moment.”

  Staring into the darkness, I wait for my eyes to adjust, but all I see is the pitch-black void.

  “Do you see it yet?” he asks.

  “Uh, no.”

  “You will, I'm sure.” He pauses. “Sorry, maybe you find it boring. I just thought maybe it'd give you some inspiration.”

  “Inspiration?”

  “Yeah, for your books.”

  I turn to him.

  “You know who I am?” I ask cautiously.

  “Sorry,” he replies. “I thought I recognized you the first time I clapped eyes on you, but I wasn't sure. Then I did some checking, and I realized you're the Alice Ashcroft who wrote that book about the haunted house. I recognized you from the photo on the flap.”

  “The Ghost of Anderley Mansion,” I reply. “Sure. That's me.”

  “Yeah, that was a cracker.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You've got a new one out now, haven't you?” he continues. “Something about an asylum?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I reply uncertainly, “but... I don't know if it's worth reading that one.”

  “Something wrong with it?”

  “I don't know if it's my best work,” I continue. “It was a little rushed, and the reviews haven't been that great. But I'm working on my third book, and that's going to put me right back on track. Well, at least that's the plan.”

  “Are you ashamed of your new one?”

  “I can see its faults.”

  “Yeah, well, I'll get started on it tomorrow.”

  “You really don't need to.”

  “I want to! Even if it's only half as good as the one about the haunted house, I bet it'll be a belter.”

  “I'm really not sure about that,” I mutter, staring out toward the horizon as the sounds of the sea shanties drift toward us from the pub, and as the sound of the crashing waves drifts from the other direction. I can see the horizon now, but only barely, and there's still no sign of any bits of old shipwrecks poking up.

  Maybe this Graham guy is trying a little too hard to create a certain mood.

  “My boyfriend keeps telling me that my new book is good,” I say after a moment. “My sister says the same thing. To be honest, though, I'm really starting to think that I screwed this one up. Thirty-odd reviewers can't all be wrong.”

  “Is that why you came down here? To get a break from it all?”

  “No, I came to -”

  Catching myself just in time, I realize that I still don't want to admit the truth.

  “It's a long story,” I tell him.

  “That's what you keep saying.”

  “Because it's true.”

  “Yeah, well, I suppose it's your business. There's no need for me to keep prying.” He pauses again. “So are you sure you don't wanna write a book about a haunted beach? Don't all those shipwrecks give you an idea or two? I was kinda hoping they would, so that maybe I'd get mentioned in the acknowledgments of your next novel.”

  I can't help smiling.

  “I'll put you in there anyway,” I tell him. “I'm sorry to say, however, that I really don't see a mast out there. Maybe in the morning.”

  “It's only visible at night.”

  “At low tide?”

  “That's not quite how the tides work,” he points out. “I don't know the explanation, but most nights you can just about make out a mast. There must be hundreds just below the surface, of course, but one of 'em sticks out. I think I can see it right now.”

  “I don't know whether -”

  “Just give it a moment or two longer.”

  Sighing, I realize that he's certainly very persistent. A cold breeze is blowing along the beach, so I take a moment to zip my jacket shut, and the
n I look out at the sea again.

  And that's when I see it.

  In the distance, where the pitch-black sea meets the void of the sky, there's a very faint cross shape poking out from the water. I don't say anything, not at first, since I'm not even sure that it's really there. I wait a few seconds, however, and the shape persists.

  “I think I see it,” I say finally, unable to keep a hint of wonder from my voice.

  “Told you.”

  “And that's really part of an old shipwreck?”

  “It sure is. I'm not sure which one, though. I've got a map that shows all the ones that've been identified so far, but everyone knows there's plenty that aren't on there. You've got fishing boats, trawlers, old galleons... You name it, there's pretty much one of every type of boat out there, stretching back centuries and centuries.”

  “It's fascinating,” I reply, turning to him as I realize that maybe I do have a few ideas forming. “Tell me, is -”

  Before I can finish, I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket. Slipping it out, I find that Brad is calling.

  “My boyfriend,” I explain. “Sorry, I'd better answer, but I'd like to hear more about the shipwrecks some other time.”

  “Maybe I'll see you around,” Graham replies.

  “I'm sure you will.” With that, I look out at the mast for a moment longer, before turning and trudging back toward the pub as I answer my phone. “Hey,” I say, “how are you doing?”

  “I just got to Edinburgh,” Brad replies, “and... Wait a minute, do I hear sea shanties in the background?”

  “Actually, you do,” I tell him, stopping next to the pub's front door and then turning to look out at the sea again. “You're not going to believe the day I've had.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lizzie

  Thirty years ago

  “But I want Mr. Puddles!” Kate whimpers as I tuck her into bed. “Mummy, you promised you'd get him back for me!”

  “And I'm going to,” I reply, sitting next to her, “but it was a little harder than I expected.”

  “He's out there all alone in the cold!”

  “But he has a fur coat, so he'll be nice and warm.”

  “He'll be scared in the dark!”