Surface Tensions

  G R Jordan

  Surface Tensions

  Island Adventures #1

  First published by Carpetless Publishing in 2017

  Copyright © G R Jordan, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  G R Jordan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  G R Jordan has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Second edition

  ISBN: EPUB: 9781912153107 MOBI: 9781912153114

  Editing by Roma Grey

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Dedication

  Something's in the Water

  Nature Shoot

  Killer's Return

  Life Saver

  Unexpected Caller

  Murdo & Laura

  You can Lead a Horse...

  Down the Town

  A Ministerial Visit

  James

  Mermaid Hunting

  Aftermath

  Catching Your Man

  Handling the Livestock

  Private Pool

  Ignition

  Riot

  Crisis

  A New Place to Swim

  The Town Meeting

  Hunting Party

  A New Man on the Scene

  Narrowing of the Sights

  Captured

  Mrs McKinney's Rescue

  Reflection

  Please Leave a Review

  More from the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Author Bio

  Dedication

  To Ken, for your help and support with making my books

  1

  Something's in the Water

  The white trail of the wake was clearly visible in the moonlight, plotting the track back to the mainland port from where they had left. Tonight the water was barely moving, the odd little reflection of light highlighting the gentlest of oscillations. The familiar salty smell of the sea was caught up in the spray, and the breeze generated by the boat’s forward motion sent a light chill across his neck.

  Decked out in luminous fatigues and topped with an orange plastic hard hat, Donald figured this night would play out the same way as the other nights he had endured since taking his job as a deck hand on the ferries. Twenty-four hours, back and forward, the boat sailed, carrying the many islanders who needed to exert some influence on the mainland. In the summer it was packed with tourists seeking the peace and quiet of the rural locality and who, ironically, tended to break up that perceived nirvana.

  It was Donald’s habit on the night crossing to stand outside once the port duties had been done. Many colleagues went for a quick kip or sat with a coffee in the rest room. After knowing each other for so long, he had found the banter paled at the later hours and his time was better employed in a restful reflection of the sea or in quiet conversation with his maker. Tonight the waters were providing therapy.

  Donald found it funny how at night you would sometimes see things in the water. Devious creatures of the deep would raise their heads only to be revealed moments later to be nothing more than a gull sitting on the waves or a buoy calmly marking the creel locations. Occasionally, dolphins or porpoises would be leaping, and he would watch with awe how they sleekly slid through the churning waves or jumped out from the flat watery tableau.

  Tonight was quiet to the extreme for he had seen nothing at all. Iain, the new, young deckhand, had ventured out for a cigarette beside him. Apparently, the national side had lost the football which deserved a spit on the floor in disgust. Iain’s smoke stank, but he was good company otherwise. They shared a muttered conversation about the new rosters and annual leave and then stood in silence until the bright tip of Iain’s cigarette finally run out of fuel.

  If only he’d get one of those e-cigarettes, Donald had thought.

  Donald ventured inside to the rest room to pick up a coffee, loaded with two sugars and a bucket of milk. It was strong and thick regardless, a requirement on these cold nights on deck. For all his career on the boat, he had had trouble with the night shifts. Constantly that dragging desire to sleep would nag at him, and he would force it away with a walk, a little cool air, or a monumental blast of caffeine. He had tried going to his bed between dockings, but he always felt worse for the little sleep he got. No, he was better off having a proper sleep after his shift was over.

  Sunday…tomorrow, he thought.

  Mum would be leaving for the little church just before twelve, to go and sing her psalms. She’d been wearing that hat she had bought at the local shop, just a little ostentatious, and a black skirt and white shirt. Immaculate in all of her clothes, his Mum was always harassing him to come with her. Not that she had ever been that polite before his Dad had died.

  He remembered those days when he was a child, being hauled out of bed and thrown into the bath. On emerging spotless, he would put on his Sunday suit, black with a black tie. It would be worn for a funeral as well which was another formal occasion he grew up hating. Then he would have to sit around, either listening to his father droning on from that bible or remaining in silence.

  The bible was large, nowadays you would say just shy of A4, and in the King James. His Dad had always said it was the correct translation and the book had held a prominent place on the mantelpiece over the fire. Then Donald would be dragged along with his sister to the church. He remembered the wooden pews—cold and unforgiving—as the message was thundered out at him from the pulpit. Colourless, dispassionate, and without love he always thought. Twice they would go on Sundays, and by the evening, he knew he was lousy at this Godly life.

  But he had survived the wrath of his parents quite well, unlike his sister. Or “that disgrace of a sister of yours” as she was also known. Mairi had been born with a fantastic figure. All through school he had heard the other boys talk of his older sister and what she would do with them. Many dreams of passionate nights had been recounted before him, and he had found it hard to retain an accurate view of her.

  She had gone to university much to their parent’s disgust, studying the arts, photography, and graphic media in particular. Mairi’s photos were fantastic, evocative, and life affirming—but the subject matter often offended her Mum and Dad. Nudity in any sense, or more accurately flesh, was offensive to a generation brought up on full-coverage clothing.

  Then Dad had died. Just dropped one day. Heart attack. To be fair, he was eighteen stone and had rarely exercised. The whole village had been out—and out to get Mairi, it seemed. She was the daughter who had brought the family shame, who had walked astray. Donald could relate to his sister’s ordeal, for their Mum had also given him a cold shoulder.

  Mairi continued at the university, but money was short. So she had turned to use her body for some pictures in a magazine. It was a lad’s magazine, and she wasn’t mentioned by name, just in the background, poolside, lounging on an inflatable bed attended by a minor celebrity. There was outrage from home. But Donald had known the whole story. Mairi had insisted s
he wouldn’t go topless, even when asked at the shoot and other girls had agreed. But that counted for nothing. As far as Mum was concerned, she was in the devil’s world and she could stay there.

  Donald was happy standing outside on such a clear, if cold night, with nothing to annoy him except the odd seagull’s cry. It was funny how they followed the boat, especially at night when there was usually only the odd smoker or himself on the ferry. It was doubtful that even if they managed to land next to those puffers that a drag would be forthcoming.

  A glimpse of something caught his eye. A tail had flicked out of the water and dived back down quickly. Now, this was something. Dolphins, or even the porpoises, were a joy to watch. A bit like penguins at the zoo, you could never tear yourself away while they were up to their antics. Walking to the handrail on the ship’s edge, he scoured the sea. The moonlight caught the tail of something rolling into the water.

  It was harder at night to see what was going on, but the water was presently calm, at least the disturbances in the surface were showing quite readily. There was another one…and another. Donald chastised himself. He was seeing them late, never catching the front, never a nose or top fin. They also seemed quite large too, certainly close to that of an average person.

  Now that was unusual. There was definitely a tinge of yellow with that one. No, not yellow, blonde. Bizarre. Something must have been caught around its nose. Certainly, Donald was not aware of any blonde markings on the dolphins. He wasn’t as sure about the porpoises, but the creatures were surely too big for porpoises.

  Then there was a red streak followed by the tail. This was just wrong, thought Donald. I must be knackered. It was only the second night of a two week stint but sometimes this was the time when you were most close to sleep, not having adjusted your pattern yet. There again—red! And that one, could that have been a dark brown hue he saw?

  Time for another cuppa, Donald decided.

  Inside the ship, Donald headed down to the crew-only corridor and into the canteen. James, the young lad only on his second trip, was there to serve the crew and seemed far too cheery for this time of night.

  “Evening, Donald. What can I get you this fine night?”

  “Coffee, James, thank you. Good and strong, mind. Feeling a wee bit bushed at the moment.”

  “Very good. You’re the only one up and about except for the upper decks. Rest of the deck crew have gone for their nap. I usually get some of my book read about this time.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. Don’t know how you read this time of night. It’d put me to sleep. Nothing on the telly at all?”

  “Another rerun of that tosser who gives advice to drop-outs who want to be on the telly with their issues. Or there’s some foreign crap about meditation and chanting. Crack-heads by the look of it.”

  “Live and let live, James. If it keeps them happy.” Installed at a fixed chair with table in front, Donald settled down to enjoy his coffee.

  There was something joyous about night shifts, something that touched Donald’s core. With the rest of the world asleep, you got to see it in a more peaceful state. Generally, night workers were more convivial and managers were absent from the daily routine.

  It seemed to Donald that managers got in the way in this life. When you had purpose or a job to do, then you got on with it. You didn’t need someone to oversee you and to keep track. Knowing what needed done, how to do it and when it was required, all lead to a tidy and useful job being completed. Managers got in the way with paperwork and reports. Waste of space, generally. Designated for people who couldn’t do the job in the first place.

  Fortunately enough, his captain wasn’t a manager. He was thorough, let his crew know the score, and then expected it completed. Yes, he wasn’t bad at all. As long as he didn’t know about the strange sightings of colours in the sea. Donald laughed. He’d be confined to his room in a heartbeat.

  Donald’s thoughts turned to fishing. After this tour on the ship, he’d take some days down at the rocks near the shoreline to cast a few. If the sun was out, nothing could beat hunting the mackerel with a feather line, hoping that he could escape the machinations of those pesky seals. Beautiful creatures in their own right but damn pests near the line.

  Coffee consumed, Donald acknowledged James and headed back out onto the rear deck. He breathed in the sea air and settled in his stance to watch the wake again, letting his mind wander through various ideas he had about purchasing a poly tunnel this summer. Then something caught his eye.

  At first he thought it was those flecks of colour on the dolphins he had struggled to attribute. But he couldn’t see any dolphins. There was, however, a blonde patch of what looked like hair. Probably a straw mat or something, cast aside by some non-ecotourist. However, as the water lapped by it, a face was obvious. Donald blinked hard but then it was gone.

  I told James a strong coffee, he thought.

  Then there was a red mat. Bizarre that there should be two soo close, unless some ship lost a box of wigs or something. That would be it. Just some silly jetsam causing mischief in the night. This would have been an adequate explanation, except he saw another face under the red wig. Dolls or mannequins, that’s it.

  Hang on, Donald chastised himself. That one’s waving!

  Sure enough, an arm had come out of the water and was waving towards him. Dumbfounded, all Donald could do was wave back. Suddenly the wig disappeared, and he swore he had seen a large fish tail whip up behind the wig and disappear into the waves.

  Half in disbelief and half in wonder, Donald continued to stare at the now empty piece of water where the face had been. All thoughts of fishing or the poly tunnel were gone as he debated whether or not he was losing his mind. Confused, he strode over to the railing on the deck-side.

  There was nothing on this side at all, just the lap of the sea and the wake eternally marking the ship’s path. Good, thought Donald, just a bad night, I’m just tired. A decent bit of kip and I’ll be right as rain.

  Without warning, no more than fifty meters away, a black-haired head popped out of the sea. Donald drew his breath in sharply as he saw a face stare up at him. It was extremely pale but very human in aspect. There were two sleek, black eyebrows, dark, deep-set eyes, drawn cheek bones and pale lips. Unlike the roundness of all the other heads he knew, this one had more of a keel’s look to it. The nose was prominent and the culminating point of the face, giving a slipperiness through the water, Donald surmised.

  His hand held onto the rail preventing him from buckling, but his heart was pounding. He’d heard old sailor’s tales of mermaids, but no one these days ever took it seriously. Still, right in front of him was a woman in the sea who had the ability to swim alongside this ship, easily matching its speed. It had to be a mermaid. No human could do this.

  The creature started to sing. She, if indeed it was a she, had the depth of panpipes but the tone of a lark. Like all birdsong, it was clear in its call, and Donald wondered if this was some sort of mating call, not that it ever occurred to him that he may be the victim. He wallowed in the song, transfixed by the voice and the excitement of this discovery.

  A red and a blonde haired pair joined her and they sang together, like the most harmonious organ the world has ever heard. Side by side and then interchanging, they trailed the ship with their show, occasionally dipping back beneath the waves. And then with no warning, they dived to the deep, leaving a happily bemused but pondering Donald to his own devices.

  2

  Nature Shoot

  Kiera enjoyed these sorts of days, the kind which, although cold and crisp, allowed you to be out and about with Mother Nature. There was nothing to beat walking over the dunes with only a light wind giving a small chill to your face. As the day wore on, you'd be able to embrace the heat from the sun, albeit pitiful compared to one on a summer's day.

  The other reason these days were her favourite was the light. Grey days with the drizzle and murk made getting a decent shot so very difficult, and alt
hough her cameras were of a decent quality, they were hardly truly professional. All the filters, batteries, cards and attachments cost money, something that this artistic photographer looking to progress beyond amateur status did not possess.

  She did have the canvas though. The island was a source of inspiration, beauty and chaos. The changeable weather constantly altered the scenery and the variety of animal life pushed her talents to their limits. But without a doubt, the best contrast came with the people. Ranging from the grey pallor of fixated religious types through to eccentric foreigners, exploring their freedom in the wilds, all life seemed to migrate to this last stop before the ocean.

  Not that all was sweetness and light. Kiera had gotten into trouble recently for daring to take pictures of a funeral. She had been fascinated by the large turnout in the village, the division between those who saw fit to wait outside the church and those inside, and then by the bleak and monochrome procession to the windswept graveyard. There was an unwritten structure broken by some men smoking fags outside the church, cursory nods to the coffin and loose connections. A Dubliner by birth, Kiera was keenly aware she was not part of the funeral despite having known the deceased and having asked permission to shoot the funeral days before her friend’s medically predicted demise.

  Little was said, no obvious words telling her to desist, but the overall ambience was one of not being wanted. She didn't care, though, as Christine, her departed friend, would have loved the exposures. Many times Chrissy had laughed at her own culture, sharing with Kiera its little foibles, as Kiera told of the sillier side of Dublin. She wondered sometimes how many of those at the funeral really knew her friend's thoughts.

  Such thoughts were not going to stop her enjoyment of the day, and she continued her dandering towards the rocky outcrop that would now be exposed, what with it being low tide. Hopefully, the rock pools would yield a few trapped sea creatures for her to photograph, allowing her to try out the new macro-lens purchased from the internet a mere week ago. The smallest of creatures fascinated her, along with the micro worlds where they lived. Even as a child visiting the beach back home in Ireland, she had investigated these trapped communities with her grandfather. He would kneel on the corner of the pools, occasionally disturbing the water with a single finger, hoping to prod something into life. Nowadays she thought of herself prodding with her photographs, hoping to provoke a reaction from the locals.