Inside the boathouse, there’s one boat—a moldy kayak that must have been orange once but is now a peachy-white color. The kayak sits near the arched doors as though it can’t wait to get back in the water. The rest of the boathouse is empty, with wooden beams across the walls and ceiling where I suppose other kayaks used to hang.
It’s dark inside today, but the afternoon light pushes through the cracks in the front door, making pale triangles of yellow on the floor. It smells musty too, like old wood and moss, but over the last couple of months I’ve made it quite homey—with blankets on the floor and one to wrap around me when it’s cold like today. There’s a small cupboard that I found discarded on the beach one day and managed to drag inside. This is where I keep my stash—Coke, sweets, matches, cigarettes (if I have any), pens, paper, and playing cards. I play solitaire if I’m bored, but mostly I sit and listen to the wind and rain outside. Sometimes the fog makes its way inside.
My stock needs replenishing. I unwrap the last Mars bar and eat it as slowly as possible, trying to remember the details of the flashing images I saw at the Point, wondering if they contain any new information about what happened the day Eddie disappeared.
It’s not that I don’t know what happened—I remember the whole day—it’s just that there are a few black spots in my memory. I can’t remember what Eddie and I were talking about right before he disappeared—our last conversation together, his last conversation ever. And the moments after I realized he was gone are hazy. During the Laryngitis Year, I tried to work it all out—I even drew maps of the Point and tried to place everyone, but I ended up more confused. I don’t know why my brain wants to remember now, but I think it must be something to do with Eddie being around so much.
I make a list of the facts.
THINGS I KNOW ABOUT THAT DAY:
Dillon was swimming with the dolphins.
Eddie and I were wading close to shore.
One minute Eddie was there, and then he was gone.
Dad was on the beach, but I couldn’t see him.
Mum was at home baking. She arrived later after the police called her.
I collapsed and Dad came to get me.
All my memories are tinged with a blue haze.
I remember the morning. We opened our birthday presents after breakfast. Eddie got a remote control helicopter, which he crashed within a couple of minutes, and I got a new football, a real leather one. It was a bit drizzly and windy outside, so we dribbled it around the living room until Eddie smashed a glass on the coffee table and Mum got really cross. Eddie had a tantrum because he didn’t want to wear the blue T-shirt. Blue wasn’t his favorite color anymore, but his red T-shirt had a big rip in it. And then Mum told Dad to take us to Rosemarkie beach to get us all out of her hair.
Rosemarkie is the village next to Fortrose—it’s beautiful and old and has the best beach and the best ice cream on the Black Isle. But Eddie really wanted to go to Chanonry Point to see the dolphins. Dillon was on Eddie’s side because he liked swimming around the Point—the strong currents were good practice apparently, and he had a swimming competition coming up that he was determined to win. Dillon was already the Black Isle 1-km open-water champion—he wanted to be the Highlands champion too.
We were just leaving when the phone rang. Dad answered it, and it was my friend Emily’s mum saying Emily was too sick to come to our party later. I got in the car in a sulk and no longer cared about the ice cream. It was too cold anyway.
After a little while of sitting and remembering, I wonder if anyone at home has noticed that I’m not there. Sometimes I feel invisible, like a wisp of air that tickles the back of someone’s neck before they close the window to block the draft.
I’m about to head home when the panel door creaks open. I hold my breath and move back into the corner. It better not be my dad.
“Hello?” a voice calls from outside.
The voice is young.
“Someone in here?”
Then a face appears. A boy with floppy brown hair and a bit of stubble. He has a hand-rolled cigarette hanging from his mouth.
“Ah, I knew there was someone in here.” He climbs through the panel and walks toward me. My pulse races as I start to gather my things.
“Don’t leave on my account,” he says, and sits beside me, stretching his long legs out along the concrete floor. The bottoms of his black jeans are scuffed, and when I see the sunglasses in his hand, I realize he’s the boy in the hoodie from the boat.
“Who are you?” I ask, hoping the quiver in my voice isn’t too obvious.
He lights up, and it’s not just a cigarette. The space between us fills with a fog, and the fumes get in the back of my throat, sickly and sweet.