the other Son

Chapter 3

Land's End was a rocky tongue shaped like a hook jutting out into the water which embraced the harbour and protected it from the waves coming in from the open sea on the East coast. Tourists liked to climb all over the rugged landscape and cut themselves open as if they'd stumbled into a knife drawer head first. One could earn a fucking fortune by setting up a stall selling band-aids at the trail's end where the tourists re-emerged looking like they had returned from war.

Local teenagers frequently dared each other to jump into the water – which, of course, was prohibited but their lack of self-preservation made them deaf and dumb – and broke a limb or two when they were smashed against the rocks by the incoming waves.

Eanverness' Doc was busy patching all those fucking idiots up and sending them to a clinic on the mainland by boat. In especially grave cases a helicopter was called although Tristan believed those stupid little cunts deserved the half-hour boat ride to think about their brainless choices.

This morning, the ferry brought detectives from Kingston, the nearest police station.

Tristan sat in front of the window and stared over the slate roofs out at the angry sea. Roan McParrish was surely at the harbour, and of course the Doc who had conducted the first examination of the body along with whoever had been unfortunate enough to find it in the first place.

He took a slow, thoughtful sip of his coffee. Who had been out there last night and for what reason? And, maybe even more important, who had been washed ashore?

He had to find out whether Becks or her pod were involved but that would have to wait until she popped up again. Seeking her out would make him appear way too interested in the case. His own head was on the line if anybody found out how much blood sullied his hands.

Calling Becks would've been a waste of time anyways since she was animatedly chatting with Brenda when Tristan showed up at the café in the afternoon.

He'd taken a slight detour via the harbour where some elderly men had sat at the quay and stared across the water at Land's End. One of them was Eddy who steered the ferry for more than twenty years by now. Since he'd been the first one to meet the Detectives he was a sought after interlocutor now.

There was nothing to see on Land's End therefore the police must have already reached the location of the body on the shore, facing away from the port. The sight had to be rather unpleasant he reckoned.

"Oh, hello Tristan," Becks drawled his name upon his arrival as if there was something he was supposed to know, a confession to make, a secret to share.

He inclined his head first at her, then at Brenda. "Becks. Brenda."

"Good afternoon, Tristan," Brenda greeted warmly as well and he gave her the nearest thing to a smile. She was Griffin's wife and he had to treat her right or else Griffin would have his fucking ass.

Obnoxious like a spoiled child, Becks slurped her drink and stared at Tristan, lips pulling up into a smirk around the straw.

Slowly, he unbuttoned his jacket and slid on a stool next to her at the bar, studying his pale fingers on the dark wood as he asked, voice casual, "How's the werewolf sex?"

"Fuck off."

He raised his head, lazily dragging his eyes over the array of bottles behind the bar. "I'd thought that's your goal."

Brenda watched their antics with raised brows and amusement shining in her dark eyes.

"Where's your husband?" Tristan inquired and she huffed.

"With McParrish to meet the Detectives." Another huff. "Since he's a witness or something."

Becks scooted forwards on her seat and propped her head up with her hands, rapt attention mirrored on her excited face. "That is so thrilling!"

Brenda scoffed and flung the dish towel she'd used to clean the drainage grid on the counter in clear frustration. Tristan could very much picture her as a mother with a herd of rambunctious children.

"I would've preferred him not messing around with a body."

An unspoken another hung in the air and she shared a pregnant look with Tristan who lowered his eyes to the counter in feigned disinterest. Things were left unspoken for a reason, buried six foot deep with the dead they came with.

Becks pursed her lips and reluctantly gave in, "Well, yes, of course, I guess. But it's still the most exciting thing that has happened in years."

She was damn right though. Between drawing contests and the usual island gossip there was not much to keep the residents entertained. Although McParrish clearly had tried to keep things low everyone probably knew by now that there was a body on their shores. Word travelled fast, especially word about tragedy. Sickening if one thought about it or maybe some relict from caveman times when warnings had to be passed along quickly.

"Give me dolphins in the sea or something instead of a dead man," Brenda muttered and began grimly scrubbing at the drainage grid again.

Becks finished her drink with one last, obnoxious slurp. "Well, those were cool, too."

Tristan snatched her empty glass before she got any ideas of sucking up the remaining molecules like a damn vacuum and deposited it in the sink on the other side of the counter, ignoring her heartbroken look.

"Can I have another one?" she asked sweetly.

"No."

"But-"

"No."

She rolled her doll-eyes and hopped off the stool. "I'm a paying customer, just so you know."

Tristan looked at her from underneath his lashes. "Then you better fucking pay your tab this time."

Becks pulled a crinkled note from her pants pocket and threw it on the counter, all the while holding eye contact with him. "Happy?"

"Yes."

Becks rolled her eyes and turned to Brenda. "He's an asshole."

She quickly held up her hands to deflect any complaints. "Tell that Griffin, he's the boss. I'm just here to bake cake and look pretty."

Becks left. Tristan stared at her retreating back. She hadn't looked guilty but then again a shark didn't look guilty for massacring and devouring a seal. One couldn't fight their nature, their instincts, their drive to survive no matter what.

The dead on their shores surely would've preferred survival as well.

Tristan, lost in thought, tapped a short rhythm on the countertop.

Did they, or was it a tragic case of suicide?