"Well, that's not going to help much, is it?" I nodded at the untouched mug of coffee that he cradled in one hand. "You need a Scotch, or something."
The blue eyes lost a little of their dullness. "I've had two," he said. "This is meant to be the chaser."
"Oh."
"Would you like one?"
"Well, I wouldn't mind," I admitted. "I didn't get much sleep last night myself."
"Got to you, did it?"
"The ghost? Yes, it did." I waited while he ordered my coffee, then showed him a rueful smile. "I haven't been that frightened of the dark since I was a kid, and it was vampires then, not ghosts. Hammer Films,'' I explained, to his curious face.
"Ah. Well, I don't think that our Sentinel bears any great resemblance to Christopher Lee, so you've nothing to worry about."
"It isn't the ghost that frightens me," I rationalized, "so much as the idea."
"Aye, and I'm sure I'll be leaving the lights on as well, when I've had a chance to think about it." He sounded weary when he said that, reminding me that he'd had other things to frighten him, these past twelve hours.
My coffee came, and I sipped it, studying his face above the rim of my mug. "How is your mother doing, really?"
"She's over the worst of it; that's what they tell me. They'll be keeping her in for a while, yet, though. Not that they want to," he told me, with an unexpected grin. "She's not so bad when she's tranquillized, but my mother's aye crabbit in hospital."
"Aye crabbit?"
"Always in a bad temper," he translated. "Have you not got your dictionary with you the day?"
"No, I haven't..." Frowning suddenly, I looked down. "I haven't even brought my handbag, I'm afraid."
David assured me his means were sufficient to cover the cost of my coffee. But he arched a quizzical eyebrow, all the same. "What were you planning on doing in town without your handbag, may I ask?"
"Oh, I don't know." I attempted a nonchalant shrug that fell short of the mark. "Just out for a bit of a walk, that's all."
He watched me for a moment, thinking. "Adrian's not here."
"No, I know he's not. He spent the night at Rosehill."
"Oh, aye?" The eyebrow lowered, and I cursed myself.
"On the sitting room sofa," I said clearly. "Peter took his car, you see, and he didn't fancy walking back."
"AH that way." David's face relaxed into a smile that held a hint of mockery.
"Yes, well. Adrian's not the walking type."
"I had noticed."
I watched while he took a drink of coffee, curious in my turn. "You don't like Adrian much, do you?"
"He's all right," David conceded, with a small dismissive lift of his shoulders. "But he's sleekit. And you can look that up in your dictionary, when you've a mind to." After a moment's silence he set the coffee mug down again and swung his gaze back to mine. "So if Adrian's up at the house, and you've not brought your wallet with you, what the devil are you doing at the Ship?"
It was a blunt question, and a reasonable one, and it left me with no graceful way of escaping an honest answer. I shifted on my stool and cleared my throat. "Well, if you must know, I was rather worried about you. We all were."
The blue eyes softened. "Were you, now?"
"Yes. And I thought you might need somebody to ... well, to cheer you up."
He stroked a thoughtful hand along his unshaven jaw. "It's not a job for the faint-hearted, cheering me up."
"No?"
"No." He looked at me, hard, for another long moment, until I felt certain I'd never be able to breathe again. And then he smiled. "But get that down you," he said, pointing to my coffee, "and we'll see what we can do."
XXI
What we did, in the end, was go outside in search of fresher air.
On the quayside, in front of the Ship Hotel, David bent for a moment to tic a shoelace while I dug my hands in my pockets and looked around.
I'd never seen the harbor when the fishing fleet was out. It didn't look at all forlorn, as I'd expected. Instead it had the peaceful and serene demeanor of a housewife who, having finished her day's labors, had found an hour of freedom in the absence of her family, and had settled down happily to enjoy herself.
Not that the "family" was entirely absent. Three boats, at least, had stayed behind, and from the far end of the harbor came the strong persistent throbbing of an engine, competing with the shrill cries of the herring gulls that dipped and wheeled above our heads.
"Which boat is Brian's?" I asked David, and he raised his head from his crouching position, scanning along the narrow length of the harbor.
"That one," he identified it. "Second up along the middle pier."
The middle pier, I gathered from the direction of his nod, was the long bit running parallel to us, on the far side of the harbor, though why it should be called the middle pier escaped me, as it didn't appear to be in the middle of anything. Of the three boats moored there, Brian's was the biggest— a bright red monster of a fishing boat with Fleetwing freshly painted on its prow.
Still, it looked frightfully small when one thought of the sea that it had to battle, for all those days on end. I shrugged off an involuntary shudder, glad that I wasn't a fisherman.