Sarah had escaped the Big Smoke to spend a couple of weeks in Wales, a village by the sea. Somewhere she could be a stranger; somewhere to recenter herself and possibly — possibly! — even get wind of a companion.
Sarah wandered the cliffs, the fields, getting to know this new territory. There was a delightful little harbor, with small boats swinging on their moorings. She took photos looking back from the headland, capturing the harbor’s entrance, the church’s steeple in the background rising from amongst the houses. A boat aground on the rocks outside the harbor made for dramatic images in black and white.
One of her first encounters with a local was unfortunate. As she was leaving the house, passing through the wooden gate onto the pavement, she paused to let a man walking his dog pass. The dog stopped, raised its leg and pissed on the gatepost. Marking its territory, she surmised. Without thinking, she kicked it away. It hunched down, bared its teeth, and barked at her.
“Control your dog!” Sarah snapped at its owner. He might have been going to say something, but she had got her retaliation in first.
She saw the dog’s owner again later, in the village pub. It was a traditional old pub, not yet converted into a restaurant. A mostly male clientele sat with drinks in front of them. As she entered, the hum of conversation halted, heads turned to watch her. And there was the dog’s owner at the bar. On recognizing Sarah, he leaned over and whispered something into the barman’s ear.
The bartender took his time sidling up the bar to serve her — slowly. She took the glass and settled into a corner seat, back against the wall, trying to appear engrossed, doodling on a notepad. Eventually, conversations resumed, and the patrons’ interest in her diminished. She was free to look around, maybe make actual notes.
One man sat silent. A leather hat lay on the table beside his drink, large hairy hand ready to lift the glass to thick red lips lost within a bushy beard. A waterfall of black hair fell over the collar of a heavy blue coat. Every so often, his head would twitch, and deep-set eyes under a slash of black brow would scan the bar as if seeking out some threat. She sniffed discreetly. Yes, there certainly was a smell wafting across. Both sitting alone, she had thought perhaps to engage him in conversation, but his manner prevented her. She recognized potential violence when she saw it.
During the day, she noticed him walking through the village with a long, loping stride. In the evening, he sat alone in the pub.
After a couple of days, she had only exchanged perfunctory greetings with any of the locals. A little irritated, choosing a time when the pub was quiet, she lay her notepad on the bar and asked Jack, the barman, about the village.
“What d’you wanna know?”
“Well, everything.” She paused. “How about what makes the place special?”
Jack was slow to answer, his eyes drifting across the few customers. Once more, the damn dog’s owner was in the bar.
Finally, Jack smiled as if at some private thought. “Well,” he said, “there’s the ghosts and things.”
“Okay. What d’you mean by ‘things’?” she asked.
“You know,” he said. “Bumps in the night. People that change.”
Sarah leaned forward. “Now that’s interesting. Tell me more.” She lay a pen on the notepad.
Jack glanced at the pen. “Hold on, I’ve gotta serve someone.” He didn’t return. Sarah spent a wasted half an hour seated in the familiar corner.
The next day, the man in the leather hat left the pub before her. Feeling she was owed some consideration, she asked Jack about him. He leaned across the polished wood and whispered, “That’s Bill. He’s waiting for a full moon.”
“Sorry?”
“He’s waiting for a full moon. There’ll be changes then. He’ll be gone.” A wink and a slow nod ensured that she understood. Indeed, she did.
She kept a watch on Bill.
On the day of the full moon — in early evening — she saw him leaving the village. She followed him. He took the path towards the headland. Well outside the village and the harbor walls, Bill stopped above the grounded boat. Planks had been laid from the shore to the deck. He clambered across to it. She assumed he was looking for privacy inside its small cabin.
Seeing a distant figure walking towards her, she retreated into a clump of trees.
The man — dressed in thick waterproofs — stopped nearby and called out towards the boat, “Bill! Hey, Bill! You ready?”
“Yeah,” came the reply.
“Okay. Charlie’s on his way out. It’s gotta get done by 6:20. D’you need a hand?”
“Sure. That’d be good. Thanks.”
The man made his way across to the boat.
Looking down, realization dawned on her. The boat was now surrounded by water. Water that was slowly rising. A full moon also meant spring tides, the highest!
Sarah rose, returning to the village, every so often looking back to see a powerboat, the seawater churning under its stern, pulling Bill and his boat back out into deep water.
Rage flooded through her. She had been taken for a fool! Her yearning for a mate and pups remained unsated. The barman would pay in pounds of flesh! Tonight, out under the full moon, she would change once more, and feed.
Gordon Pinckheard lives in County Kerry, Ireland. Retired from a working life spent writing computer programs and technical documents, he now spends his sunset years submitting short stories pounded out with one arthritic finger. His stories have been published by Every Day Fiction, Cabinet of Heed, Flash Fiction Magazine, Shooter, Stupefying Stories, Gemini and others.
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