The Smuggler’s Daughter. Kerry Barrett
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Sobbing, I pressed myself up against the window, watching the blood trickle from my father’s stomach. Morgan pulled his knife from the wound, wiped it on his britches and turned to where Petroc had just emerged from the stables without Tully.
‘What have you done?’ he said, his mouth open in shock. ‘What have you done to Amos?’
Morgan shrugged. ‘Made things easier for myself.’
Almost without thinking I found a new sheet of paper and started drawing the faces down below. I drew my father’s dull eyes, blood pooling around him, Morgan’s white streak in his hair and his calm expression, and Petroc’s horrified wide eyes. As I drew, tears ran down my cheeks and splattered on to the paper.
‘But …’ Petroc began.
Morgan prodded my father with his foot. ‘We’ll throw him down one of the mineshafts over Barnmouth way,’ he said. ‘No one will find him there.’
‘No we will not,’ said Petroc. ‘We need to get help for Amos.’
He went to crouch down to my father, just as he’d crouched next to Tully, but Morgan grabbed him by his collar and threw him against the wall. There was another flash of metal and I saw the knife at Petroc’s throat.
‘We will throw him down one of the mineshafts,’ said Morgan. ‘Or you’ll be joining him.’
I was frozen with shock and fear. I wanted to scream and bang on the window, but I was scared of what the big man would do to me if he knew I was watching.
Shoulders slumped, Petroc tramped across the courtyard to where my father lay. As he approached, my father’s eyes flickered open and he looked up at me. Still crying, I pushed my hand against the window in a sad goodbye and my father, slowly, painfully, put his finger to his lips. Stay quiet, he was telling me. Stay silent.
Tears ran down my cheeks as the men hoisted my father up on to their shoulders and carried him out of the inn’s courtyard. Morgan picked up a rain bucket we left for the horses and emptied it over the cobbles, where the blood was staining the stone. He watched as the water washed away any evidence of what he’d done, then he paused for a minute looking at the inn.
Suddenly, I leapt into action. I had to stop them. Da was still alive; I had to tell my mother. I had to save him.
I jumped off the windowsill and raced into my parents’ bedroom. Mam was lying face down on the bed, fully clothed.
I shook her roughly by the shoulders, hoping she would open her eyes. Her lids flickered but I couldn’t rouse her. She’d had too much to drink and she was out cold.
Crying so hard I could barely catch my breath, I left her lying there, and ran downstairs through the courtyard and out into the night. But the men were nowhere to be seen. It was quiet and still. All I could hear were the waves breaking on the beach far below. They’d gone. But – I thought, with icy cold fear trickling down my spine – what if they came back? Morgan had mentioned my mother, and me. What if he came for us too?
Trembling with fright, I crept to the stables and untied Tully. He licked my face, drawn to the salty tears on my cheeks, and I rubbed his head. ‘Come on, boy,’ I whispered. Obediently, he followed me back into the inn. I drew the bolt across the door, checking and double-checking it was firmly closed, and then, with Tully at my heels, I climbed the stairs to my parents’ room. Tully jumped up on to the bed, and I lay down too, clinging to my mother’s back. I’d stay here all night, I thought, in case they came back, and then in the morning, I’d raise the alarm. Tell everyone what I’d seen.
But it didn’t happen that way, despite my intentions. Instead, when my mother woke, ill-tempered and sweating from all the drink, she glared at me.
‘Why are you here?’ she said, heaving herself off the bed. ‘Where’s your da? He stormed off in a state last night. Is he back?’
I was not much of a talker. Never had been. I couldn’t talk to strangers, never passed the time of day with the drinkers in the inn. And even with Mam, I’d only ever said what was needed. I was better with Da, and my friend Arthur. They never rushed me, never tutted when I couldn’t find the right word, or finished my sentence for me, too impatient to wait. When I was nervous or upset, or even sometimes if I was excited or happy, it was worse. It was like my throat clenched and my voice just wouldn’t work.
Now, I sat up in bed, ready to tell her what had happened, how I’d seen Da’s blood spill on the cobbles and watch Morgan drag him away.
‘Mam,’ I began. ‘Mam …’
And then. Nothing. The words wouldn’t come. Mam stared at me for a moment and then, frustrated, she rolled her eyes. ‘He’ll be back when he wants food,’ she said.
At the mention of food, Tully got to his feet, shaking his fur out and giving a soft bark in my mother’s direction. She looked at the dog. ‘He left you behind, did he?’ she said. ‘Then he’ll be back even sooner.’
She turned to me. ‘Floors need sweeping.’ And off she went, downstairs, unaware of what had happened to my da, because I’d not been able to tell her.
Three days went by. Three awful days. The inn was quiet. Mam was silent. Tully sat by the window, his front paws on the sill, watching for Da. And try as I might – and believe me, I tried – I couldn’t get the words out to tell Mam what had happened. I tried to mime it, clutching my stomach and falling to the floor. Pointing at the spot in the courtyard where the blood had splattered. I tried to show her the drawings of Petroc and Morgan, but she pushed me away. I wanted to scream in frustration and fear and grief. But I couldn’t do that, either.
On the morning of the fourth day, I was awakened by my mother’s wails. I was on my feet and downstairs before I’d even properly realised what I was doing, so scared was I that Morgan had returned. But Mam was in the inn, sitting at a table with the parish constable, Mr Trewin. His three-cornered hat was on the table, making me shudder as I remembered Morgan wearing a similar one. I flew to my mother’s side and she gathered me into her arms – an unfamiliar state of affairs as usually I shunned physical contact. Her face was blotchy with tears. Had they found Da? I wondered. Was this it?
‘Emily,’ Mam said softly. ‘Your father is gone.’
Mr Trewin nodded. ‘Your mother is afraid he has fallen from the cliff.’
I shook my head. That wasn’t what had happened. Again, I opened my mouth to speak, to tell them about the man with the white streak in his hair, and the blood on the cobbles, but again I couldn’t make a sound.
‘Emily,’ Mr Trewin said. He was using the tone people often used when they spoke to me. Many of the people from Kirrinporth believed me to be simple because I didn’t talk much and because I was much happier observing from the edge of life than being in it. ‘Emily,’ he said again. ‘Your mother says your father has been gone these last three nights. But the tide has turned so if he had fallen he would have washed up at Barnmouth.’
Desperately, Mam reached across the table and clutched the front of Mr Trewin’s coat.
‘We argued,’ she said. ‘We argued and he went off in anger. He wasn’t thinking straight. He could have fallen.’
Mr Trewin gave a small shake of his head. ‘But there is no sign of him,’ he said. ‘And if you argued, then perhaps he has just gone for some peace.’
Mam pulled Mr Trewin closer to her. He pulled back but her grip was strong. ‘You want to speak to Cal Morgan,’ she hissed. I stiffened at the mention of the name. ‘Because it was him we argued about.’
Mr Trewin stood up, forcing Mam to release his coat. ‘I’d be very careful what you say, Janey Moon,’ he said. ‘Spreading rumours like that.’
I stood in between Mam and Mr Trewin, looking at the man and trying my hardest to speak. But the only sound that came from my treacherous mouth was a kind of desperate croak.
Mr Trewin