Alongside the calm and flourishing landscape of Mortehoe was an escape from the weight of corporation and the dread of the debtors reformatory. There was no hunger, no redundancy, and - most noticeably - no continual fear of dwindling finances. Everything the community needed was provided for. There were those who went to sea to fish, and those who hunted game in Lee Woods. There were those who sowed and harvested the land, others who made and repaired clothing. There were many proficient in producing food and maintaining health, renovating tired homes and damaged fixings, and those employed to educate and those placed to keep guard at night.
Everyone was set their own task, from Eryn Tupper, who managed the workings of the bar, to Samantha Waeshenbach who prepared and smoked the seafood.
They were given a house each after a week of accommodation at the Smuggler’s Rest. Selina’s was high up the steep road known as Channel View, and from her cracked living room window she watched the slate topped roofs of Mortehoe.
Priya’s house was opposite hers, and from her window Selina could see down into the desolate kitchen.
Troubled by nightmares of drowning and a growing fear of solitude in the dark, Selina vacillated between times of nervous tension and an inescapable gratitude to providence for saving her. In her lighter moments she was taken aback by the peaceful life she and Priya had stumbled upon. She thought less of her cousin who still waited her arrival and of her father, who would likely never learn of the Tangaroa’s sinking.
The receding mists of morning took with them the imagined ghosts that plagued her dreams, and when she looked across the sunlit rooftops she found it difficult to comprehend anything other than the seemingly perfect life of Mortehoe.
On her first evening alone she had hauled the residence's large green sofa to the window, avoiding the painful spring that stuck from the middle cushion, and had watched the stars. On more than one occasion she would lean out of the window and survey the villages ramshackle of buildings as the cool air pimpled her skin. She looked at Priya’s roof, at her neighbours opposite, and to the pub along the street.
The Smuggler’s Rest.
The centre of the community.
She grew to understand the building’s importance and became proud of it as one might a local palace. She pondered on it for many hours, trying to place answers to the questions she had cultivated during her conversations with Reighn and George. Was the library of policies contained within? Were important discussions taking place as she looked upon it? Where did the council convene? They were questions that she alone seemed to ponder, Priya having, it seemed, no other interest than wondering what was happening in the outside world and brooding on how one might escape across the border. These fantasies of Priya’s reared into outbursts when she became drunk, though as the days passed into weeks she fell into sync alongside the gentle pace of the village, hiding her feelings and yet growing increasingly angry.
She too had been impressed with the size of her accommodation and laughed at the recollection of the previous apartment buildings she had shared throughout her life. ‘There’s so much room here!’ she said, walking about the house in a trance, ‘Finally, I’ve got somewhere to put all my stuff!’ She exclaimed sarcastically.
The first time it rained, Priya discovered a leak too serious for instant repair. Jack Little reassured her that it could be fixed soon enough and he added the job to a small, battered notebook. Meanwhile, he suggested she should take her belongings somewhere else.
Grateful for the company, Selina gave her the room above hers - a spacious attic with a view of the village better than that of the living room. She had considered taking it as her own bedroom, though at night the darkness was too complete, and she felt the stirrings of panic in her breast as imaginings of the Tangaroa’s prostrate companions leered at her from the gloom.
‘I’ll be out of here as soon as I can,’ Priya assured her, unaware of the emerging effect the shipwreck was having on Selina.
‘Nonsense!’ Selina said, flustered. She rushed to the cellar and retrieved one of the many bottles of wine supplied by numerous well-wishers. ‘I’d prefer you were here,’ she shouted up the stairs, knocking a bottle over. ‘I’m not used to so much room to fill with my own company.’
The bottle rolled into a corner where the light of the hatch above failed to penetrate. She watched as shadow cloaked it, and saw the pale flesh of a crewman’s hand clasp it.
‘It’s nothing!’ She whispered to herself, stepping toward the darkness. Her anger erased the hallucination and she crouched to pick up the bottle with a swiftness that contradicted her bravado.
Her fingers touched paper instead of glass, and she plucked it from a crevice in the brickwork before patting the ground and snatching up the bottle.
She backed away from the corner, the crewman was in there somewhere, watching her, she was certain of it.
She shuddered and retreated from the cellar, unfolding the piece of tattered paper. It was a letter of sorts, though one that had been crossed out and re-attempted again and again. The contents were different each time, though each paragraph began the same.
FAO Dr. John Camberwell, Belfast University.
RE: .
John,
Since your departure there have been musings over the plans which you strictly chastised. I’ve refused to be any part of it, but I know that doesn’t mean a thing. They’ll find someone capable, someone willing to play their final game, and when they do you and I both know that no amount of regret or reform will undo what we’ve done.