He tucked his cigarettes into his shirt pocket. “Do you have a warrant?”
“No,” I said. “Would that make a difference?”
“No,” he said. “I still wouldn’t let you in.”
“That’s what I figured,” I said. “I was just hoping to get out of the sun.”
He stared at me.
“Anyway,” I said, pulling a flyer out of the cargo pocket of my uniform pants, “I printed these up. They’ve got the station number on them, if you ever need to call me.”
He looked genuinely baffled. “Why would I ever need to call you?”
“Well, in case of an emergency, or a crime, or something.”
He snorted. “We don’t need some government man from the mainland sticking his nose in. We’ve looked after our own for two hundred years, without your help.”
“Well, the thing about that,” I said, still with my dumb smile on my face, “is that just because you haven’t needed help in the past, you might need it in the future. And that’s what my number is for.”
“I won’t,” he said, and pulled the canvas shut again.
I walked back to my bike.
Hey, a job posting for Dauntless Island. The photos look beautiful! I should throw in for it and see how I go. How amazing would it be to live somewhere like that?
Thanks, past me, you fucking idiot.
I followed the track west along the top of the bluff for a while, looking out for something that might be an anti-aircraft gun station. But unless anti-aircraft gun stations had been built of salt couch and pebbles, there was no sign of anything. Then again, if there had ever been a gun station here at Mayfair Bay, I was pretty sure Young Harry Barnes had already used it to build his ramshackle house.
The bike bounced over the track that linked Mayfair Bay to Seal Beach in the west. Seal Beach was less rocky than the beach at Mayfair Bay, and Eddie had told me it was a good swimming beach. I left the bike leaning on its kickstand and followed a sandy path partway down to the beach.
Yeah, it was a good swimming beach, all right. Six hundred seals couldn’t be wrong.
Okay, so six hundred was an exaggeration, but there were probably between twenty and thirty of the animals basking on the shoreline. And I didn’t want to swim with them. Were seals vicious? I was adding that question to the list of things I’d never thought I’d ask until I’d moved here.
Are seals vicious?
Is it illegal to refuse to sell milk to someone?
Are the Dauntless Islanders legitimately going to murder me just because I’m a copper?
And, most importantly: What the fuck is going on with Natty Harper?
“It’s fine,” I told myself as I looked at the seals. One or two of them got interested enough to open their eyes and look at me. “It’s not a big deal. Maybe he’s not even avoiding you. Maybe he’s busy doing... whatever the fuck there is to do on this island.”
The nearest seal barked, as though it was disagreeing with my assessment. Then again, it was probably just disagreeable in general. It gave off that vibe. It was at least twenty metres away from me, but I took the hint and retreated to my bike, dry sand squeaking under my boots.
I made my way back towards the village slowly, hoping the fresh air and incredible views would kill my bad mood. The island itself was gorgeous and pristine, and the salt air and sunlight were invigorating. But the people? Jesus, no.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Eddie was a good bloke, and so was Red Joe. And Amy always stopped to talk when she saw me. I was still getting milk on the sly from Robbie Finch, so if we weren’t friends exactly, we at least had an understanding. But I was a talkative guy, and I always had been—my mum said I could talk underwater with a mouthful of marbles—so the fact that I was reduced to chatting with Frank the cat at the end of every shift was hard. Frank was a great listener, and she even contributed to keep the conversation going with meows and rumbling little ‘breep’ sounds, so no shade on her, but I would have preferred a conversation with a species that could speak English.
It was late afternoon by the time I was back at the station—the sunlight was golden and the shadows were long. A few thin, wispy clouds close to the horizon were tinged orange and pink, the prelude to what was sure to be a breathtaking sunset. I put the bike in the rickety shed and let the cat in the back door. I made myself a sandwich, and gave the cat some food, and then went out the front and crossed the road to the harbour wall. I sat astride it, and ate my sandwich, and watched the water.
This I could get used to. Well, maybe not the seagulls who saw my sandwich as easy pickings and came to hassle me, but the view of the village, of the ocean, of the sky, and the taste of salt on my lips. I could see two fishing boats heading back in, drawing slowly closer as the end of the workday approached, but they were too far out for an outsider like me to identify.
The crunch of footsteps on the road alerted me to someone approaching a moment before Eddie shoved a mug of tea towards me. Baby Joe, strapped to his chest, burbled happily and kicked.
“Thanks.” I took the mug.
