beats per minute

  DEDICATION

  for my mum

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One: The Island

  Chapter Two: Reflections

  Chapter Three: Meetings by Moonlight

  Chapter Four: Sixteen

  Chapter Five: Shards

  Chapter Six: In Time

  Chapter Seven: The Unit

  Chapter Eight: Body, Heart, Brain

  Chapter Nine: More than Kin, Less than Kind

  Chapter Ten: Pawn

  Chapter Eleven: Locked Out

  Chapter Twelve: Missing

  Chapter Thirteen: I Spy

  Chapter Fourteen: Betrayal

  Chapter Fifteen: The Tower

  Chapter Sixteen: Birthday

  Chapter Seventeen: Out on the Town

  Chapter Eighteen: Off Guard

  Chapter Nineteen: On the Case

  Chapter Twenty: Soon

  Chapter Twenty One: Fearful Symmetry

  Chapter Twenty Two: Fire for Fire

  Chapter Twenty Three: Twin Beats

  Chapter One: The Island

  The bright red lights gleamed in the darkness, illuminating the figure as it sprang bolt upright in bed.

  Letting out a deep, shuddering sigh as she fought to catch her breath, the disturbing images of the nightmare still dancing in front of her eyes, Raegan turned to look at the clock. The lurid neon informed her that it was 2:58, as she expected, and she rolled down onto her back with a sigh.

  Staring into the blackness with sleep-fogged eyes, she tried to quiet the still frantic beating of her heart. Every night since moving to Ramsey, she had woken at this exact time, in this way – but with little memory of what had caused her to jolt violently out of sleep. For the first time, tonight, as she inhabited the uncomfortable, unusual place between slumber and wakefulness, she tried to make sense of the fuzzy images that still littered her mind. If she found some connection, perhaps she would remember. For despite the forgetfulness she was uncannily certain that each night the dream was the same...

  A hooded figure and a white hand

  The white hand and

  An hourglass

  An hourglass turning

  An hourglass turning over

  It was no good.

  Weights were bearing down on her eyelids. She couldn’t hold on. Letting go, she fell silently down, down, down into black, velvety sleep.

  ***

  The sun was still low on the horizon when the alarm buzzed the next morning. Despite the chill of the early morning air, the sky over the farm was a clear, miraculous blue.

  The promise of a beautiful day didn’t rouse Raegan from her pit. It was the clattering and low murmuring vibrating up from the kitchen that eventually forced her up and out, pushing through the heavy oak door of her bedroom and trying not to creak the floorboards too much as she picked her way over the gaps in the threadbare carpet.

  The rusty shower squeaked uneasily into life. Trickles of warmth soothed her aching body, which was weirdly sore this morning; she could almost hear the creaking as, snail-like, she bent down to pick up the soap. Ordinarily, Raegan liked to hop in and out of the shower; performing all daily tasks at breakneck speed was a practice she had adopted over the past few months, and it was working pretty well, ta very much. The less time for pause the better.

  Today, however, her body just wouldn’t co-operate, and so she stood, eyes closed tightly, soap cradled in her hands, her waterlogged, tangled red hair streaming down her sore back.

  And then – in an unbidden, fierce flash behind her eyelids – there it was.

  The image of the pale, broken body.

  So very pale.

  Fingers outstretched; white starfish against the inky night.

  Not stars.

  Translucent skin on tarmac.

  Her eyes popped open and the steaming water nearly blinded her. She was grateful for the distraction.

  It had been three months but she was still surprised at the pain.

  Frantically, she rubbed her eyes, the soap falling from nerveless fingers to skid across the slippery floor. White fingers... there they were again, but they weren’t.... they weren’t. Not her mother’s hands, this time.

  As quickly as it had crept in, the image disappeared, leaving Raegan with the puzzled, nagging feeling which lived in the pit of her stomach most mornings. It was like she’d forgotten something, but she couldn’t imagine what, in her current existence, would warrant remembering.

  A loud knock startled her out of her reverie.

  ‘Raegan,’ came Bridey’s voice. ‘Chop chop! Breakfast!’

  The water was now tepid.

  ‘Raegan?’

  ‘Coming.’

  ***

  Some mornings, after breakfast, Raegan liked to walk up into the cliffs and stare out to the Irish sea. If she looked in a certain direction there was nothing for miles. Nothing but quiet and space and endless water. She had arrived in early January, to an angry sky and storm clouds; now colour was beginning to break through the gloom so characteristic of February. Like Dorothy moving into Technicolor, the grey sky and stark brown of the landscape were slowly bleeding into patches of yellow as the daffodils pushed through, accompanied by the occasional bluebell. Spring was on its way.

  Countless hours passed as she sat in her favourite spot, an overturned tree with its roots still half in the ground, twisted and bleached white by the sun, looking out with unseeing eyes. Time would simply slip away without a thought to trouble her.

  Today, however, her mind would not stop. For the first time Raegan was so keen for a distraction that she did not delay her appearance at the breakfast table. Another first was how quietly she managed to get down the old stairs, for once bypassing the ubiquitous creaks which always signalled her arrival.

  ‘A gift, perhaps. She might welcome it.’

  There was a long silence from inside the kitchen as Raegan paused at the foot of the stairs, wondering if she had heard correctly. They couldn’t be talking about her – it wasn’t her birthday for a few weeks, and her grandparents were not big spenders.

  ‘She’ll not wear it.’ The low rumble of her grandfather’s Irish brogue surprised her. He tended to communicate only through grunts and jerks of his head; or perhaps this was only in the company of his granddaughter and her ‘city’ ways, whom and which he seemed to regard with equal parts suspicion and dislike.

  ‘It’s worth a try. What else can we do? Unless... oh, Con, could we not tell her something-‘

  ‘Bridey.’

  ‘Not everything! In fact, I’m sure it would be enough to just mention how much it would have meant to her father-‘

  ‘Bridey. No.’ There was a scraping sound, as if her grandfather had got up suddenly. Raegan froze. ‘I will not talk about this again.’

  ‘Oh, Con, my love. You can’t protect her forever.’

  Just the word ‘father’ made Raegan’s heart leap into her throat - but it didn’t mean they were talking about her, she reminded herself. Her grandmother worried about everything and everybody. Add in a good measure of superstition - her grandparents had lived alone on this island for too long, in Raegan’s opinion – and suddenly a tense conversation in hushed voices didn’t seem all that surprising. It didn’t mean they were talking about their son. They never spoke about him…

  The floorboard gave an ominously loud squeak; unwittingly, she had shifted her weight, straining towards the door. There was an answering pause from inside the kitchen as she cowered, sure that her grandfather’s glowering form would soon appear in the doorway. Instead she was met with Bridey’s voice, a little higher than usual:

  ‘Raegan, is that you, dear?

  Her breath escaped in a shallow gasp. Tripping over her own feet as she pushed op
en the door, Raegan’s reply was a flustered squeak: ‘Morning, Gran.’

  The kitchen was panelled with heavy wood, with a ceiling low enough to oppress and wide enough to give the impression of distance while allowing for a quick getaway. True to the fact, her grandparents now occupied opposite ends. It was as if no conversation had ever taken place. With Bridey fascinated by the contents of her stove and Con obscured by the double spread map and weather chart he examined every day, Raegan soon found that eye contact was impossible – which was fine by her.

  She slid noiselessly into her seat at the big scrubbed table, aware of her grandfather’s large bulk like a stone at the end. The quiet of the kitchen was punctuated only by the slamming of the oven door and the rustling of Con’s paper as one of his huge hands appeared from behind it to cradle a veritable tankard of mud-like coffee. But Raegan could not help the loud clinking of her cutlery as she dug into the platter of hot oatcakes, crispy bacon and tomatoes Bridey placed on the table. Starving, she was initially too intent on shovelling food into her mouth to mind the shrieking of fork against plate – until she gradually became aware that Con had put the survey down. His eyes were now fixed on her.

  Con O’Roarke was scary. A huge bear of a man, his weathered skin was ruddy after years of toiling outdoors, alone, in punishing conditions. He prized two things above all else: his birds, which he tended on a fulltime basis as Warden of Ramsey Island; and his Bridey. He had known his granddaughter for a few short weeks and had shown little patience with her. Today, however, his blue eyes – which peered out from under heavy black brows and a grizzled mane of grey hair – were appraising rather than hostile.

  ‘I could use your help, Raegan,’ he said gruffly after a moment.

  Raegan gawped. After a moment where her tongue seemed to flap aimlessly around in her mouth, she choked out: ‘Yes. I mean- er. Sure. What with?’

  ‘We were just discussing it,’ he continued. Bridey smiled anxiously. ‘One of our island girls has a daughter who helps out here sometimes, too. Her birthday’s coming up.’ Over recent weeks an influx of temporary workers had appeared on the island in preparation for the tourist season. ‘I’m going into town anyway, and you’ll be about her age, sure.’

  ‘So- you want me to come? With you?’

  ‘And choose her present,’ Con said impatiently. ‘You’ll know better than Gran and me what she’d like.’

  With that, the discussion was closed. Con turned his attention back to his survey, leaving his granddaughter to ponder the terrifying prospect of spending more than a few minutes unchaperoned in his presence.

  ***

  It was dark by the time they returned, the twinkling lights of the tiny dock beckoning hazily through the fog. Con navigated the rough sea at a discomforting speed, the rickety boat veering haphazardly from side to side, but Raegan barely noticed. It had been a strange day; and even after everything that had happened, Con’s behaviour remained confusing as ever. Trying to work him out left her with an aching head and even more questions but she couldn’t stop. Why did he make her come with him, today? What had been the point of it all? The only thing she knew for sure was that he seemed to be even less keen on her now than when they set out. The gloomy silence on the boat was both a sad return to form and an echo of their grim outward journey from the island.

  The outing had not got off to a good start. Unprepared for the turbulence of the sea, Raegan had been green and clinging to the side of the boat within moments. Con did his best to pretend she was not there. When at last they came to rest, embarrassed by her wimpishness, Raegan scrambled to her feet with as much pep as humanly possible. She even managed a wobbly smile. ‘Great view.’

  ‘That it is,’ Con replied in a low voice, which became loaded with sarcasm as he turned to face her. ‘Not that I reckon you’ve been taking much notice, sure. Give us your hand.’

  Even standing down on the dock he seemed to tower above her. When Raegan hesitated, he sighed irritably. ‘So I can help you down! Have you never been on a boat before?’ Flushing, she complied, eyes widening as he lifted her out of the boat and set her down as if she weighed no more than the wispiest feather, before taking off walking at quite a pace.

  As they picked their way through the cobbled streets into the town of St Jude’s, picturesquely situated on the Pembrokeshire coast, Raegan was amazed by the number of people who stopped to say hello. Even more astonishing was the way that her grandfather reacted, almost shyly responding that they couldn’t stop, they were in a hurry. That struck Raegan as weird, though – they weren’t really in a hurry, as far as she knew. She couldn’t help but wonder if her grandfather’s haste was something to do with her: after all, an introduction would mean admitting they were related.

  He was half away up Crown Street, his long stride covering the distance in no time, and Raegan hurried to catch up. ‘Everyone seems so friendly,’ she commented, as two older ladies, one very glamorous with golden swept back hair and pearls, arm in arm with her companion, headscarfed in eyewatering cerise, waved at them from across the road.

  Watching her return the wave with a curious expression on his face, Con replied carefully, ‘It’s a small community, so it is. You live in each other’s pockets.’

  Still gazing around her, Raegan said nothing.

  ‘Lots of families,’ Con continued, as his eye fell on a woman with a large twin buggy coming towards them. Lingering for a moment, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly as the two babies inside waved fat little fists at him, and then he sidestepped off the kerb to let them pass. ‘Can see why. Good place for the little ones. Of course, we didn’t come here until long after-‘ Abruptly, he caught himself and stopped talking. Raegan’s heart began to beat faster, thudding in her ears. He was about to mention her father, she was sure of it. Suddenly Con halted and turned towards her. Her breath caught in her throat.

  ‘Fancy an ice?’

  It took a moment for the words, so unrelated, to sink in. ‘An... what?’

  ‘From there!’ Con jerked his thumb toward the ice-blue shop behind him, which Raegan now noticed bore the jovial, curly-scripted words, ‘TOM’S PARLOUR: THE NICEST ICES’. ‘I’ll get you one, sure. I thought all kids loved ice cream.’

  Raegan found herself grinning. ‘Ace. I could murder a chocolate chip. And chocolate sauce, and a flake, if they have them. Basically, anything chocolate.’

  His eyes softened and to her amazement he let out a bark of laughter. ‘Ah. You and me both.’ Bending his massive bulk into the doorframe, he disappeared into the shop.

  Minutes passed; the ice cream parlour was packed, and Raegan wondered if she should have followed him in. Loitering awkwardly outside, she leaned against the wall, trying to look like she belonged. But before long she felt the unexpected weight of a pair of eyes on her; a pair of feet slowing down until they rested beside. Eventually she dragged her gaze up. An old man, his glasses reflecting the sun so that it was almost impossible to see his eyes, stood before her. There was something peculiar in his stare.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ he said in a surprisingly rich, plummy voice. ‘Is your grandfather inside?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she answered automatically, then caught herself. ‘I mean… well, Con is inside, if that’s who you-‘

  ‘It’s no surprise,’ the man smiled broadly. ‘He’s always had a sweet tooth. Made you think he was going in there just for you, I’d wager!’

  He winked and moved past her to the door.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Raegan began, confused. How did he know her name? She wasn’t featured in any of the photographs littering Bridey and Con’s shelves.

  The man stopped in his tracks, pressing a hand to his forehead dramatically. ‘Mea culpa! I do apologise – it’s old age, you see, Raegan. Makes one lose all sense of decorum.’ Enthusiastically, he clasped both her hand between both of his. His palms, though warm, felt almost papery to the touch, the skin was so thin and stretched with age. ‘Tristan Fettes. Cathedral org
anist and local busybody – and believe me, there’s nothing that goes on that escapes my notice.’

  Satisfied with his introduction, he made off purposefully; but on reaching the entrance to the parlour he changed his mind. Voice deliberately measured, he turned to twinkle at her from the doorway. ‘What a treat to see how you’ve grown, my dear. Of course your grandparents speak of little else… and of course you are the very spit of your father, at least as I remember him – after all, it has been a few years!’

  Beaming, he swept inside with such a flourish that Raegan half expected to see a cape billowing out behind him.

  The smile felt frozen on her face as she gazed at the closed door. The fact that her grandparents had talked about her was weird enough. But how could it be that she’d not heard a whisper of her father for ages and yet today he had already been mentioned twice? And what did Tristan mean when he said it had been a ‘few years’ since he had seen her father? Joseph O’Roarke died over a decade ago; in fact, it would be thirteen years – give or take a few days - on her sixteenth birthday, which was just around the corner.

  Instantly the nagging feeling which had been bugging her this morning returned; what Tristan Fettes had done to awaken it, and why his words had unsettled her so, she wasn’t quite sure.

  The vague notion that she might mention this to Con crumbled the moment he returned. His face was impenetrable, the thick, unruly brows drawn low over stormy eyes, and the fragile amicability which had sprung up between them vanished. This only made her more curious: what could Tristan have said to him? Raegan didn’t ask. Such was the force of his personality that she felt a chill, the sun suddenly eclipsed by a dense cloud – which was in direct contrast to the rapidly melting chocolate chip cone with a 99 flake thrust into her hand.

  ***

  Their next stop was the local jewellery shop. Licking chocolate ice cream off her hands, Raegan passed under the delicate gold signage spelling out ‘Vallence’ to follow Con through the rickety red door. It was a dark, musty room: the old-fashioned shutters were drawn and dust from the air drifted onto the walls. The counters, however, were gleaming; it was clear where the beating heart of the establishment resided, nestled upon velvet covers and sparkling seductively beneath the clear, beautifully polished glass.