Footprints Read online

  footprints

  a novel

  robert m. rayner

  JESPERSON PUBLISHING

  AN IMPRINT OF BREAKWATER BOOKS LTD.

  P.O. Box 2188, 100 Water Street, St. John’s, NL, A1C 6E6

  www.jespersonpublishing.ca

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Rayner, Robert, 1946-

  Footprints : a novel / Robert Rayner.

  ISBN 978-1-894377-33-1

  I. Title.

  PS8585.A974F66 2008 C813'.6 C2008-901653-X

  © 2008 Robert Rayner

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  We acknowledge the financial support of The Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing activities.

  We acknowledge the support of the Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing activities.

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) for our publishing activities.

  Printed in Canada.

  also by robert rayner

  Walker’s Runners, 2002

  The Ragged Believers, 2003

  Miss Little’s Losers, 2003

  Just for Kicks, 2004

  Suspended, 2004

  Out of Sight, 2006

  Falling Star, 2007

  dedication

  For former students and colleagues at the old

  Glovertown Elementary School and Glovertown

  Regional High School, Newfoundland.

  acknowledgements

  Thanks to Marlyng Jones for translating the writings of Raul Battista de la Cruz.

  1

  She glides from the shelter of the trees, clutching the device carefully in one hand, and is across the road, pressed against the wall of the cottage grounds, before the boys have time to worry about someone seeing her. Keeping low, she peers around the stone gatepost. No sign of Anderson’s men. She eases herself up until she can reach the security panel, and presses in the code. She flattens herself back against the wall as the tall wrought-iron gates swing silently open. She has ten seconds before they close of their own accord. She peers around the gatepost again. Still no sign of life. With a glance back to where the boys wait in the woods, she sprints to the barn and slides into the space between it and the high garden wall. As she lowers the device towards the hole under the barn, the timer already set, she reflects: How did a walk on the beach lead to this?

  When the long black car with the tinted windows stops at the end of the Old Beach Road, Drumgold ignores it, Isora gives it the finger, and Harper pretends he hasn’t seen it. Already he has that cold, sweaty feeling, knowing something bad is going to happen. His friends walk on. He follows, sneaking a glance back at the car. The window slides down a crack. He knows it will be one of Anderson’s men watching them as he radios to the cottage: Kids on the beach.

  Drumgold drops to his knees to photograph a pattern of ridges left in the sand by the retreating tide, while Isora, beside him, gazes along Back River Beach, which sweeps before them in a long, gentle arc to the jutting rocks of Seal Point. Harper, after another nervous glance at the car, follows her gaze. For as long as he can remember he’s loved this sensational length of white sand on Passamaquoddy Bay, the wildness and the solitude of it, bound by the empty woods – empty, that is, until last summer, when a clearing suddenly appeared on the rocky bluff above the beach and the Anderson cottage was built.

  Today, skipping school on a spring afternoon, they’ve wandered the length of the beach, Drumgold photographing seaweed and wind-blown patterns in the sand, and textures of driftwood and rock, and trees stark against the sky at the top of the beach, while Isora has strolled dreamily, humming to herself, sometimes pirouetting in the sand, holding her arms wide, and Harper has followed.

  Harper urges, “Let’s get a move on, guys,” swivelling his eyes toward the car, from which a man in a dark suit is emerging, speaking into a radio.

  “It’s only Droopy,” says Isora.

  They’ve met Droopy several times. They call him Droopy because of his long face, with the pouches beneath the eyes and the baggy cheeks and the flabby lips, everything drooping, as if his face is melting. Their last encounter was a week before, when they’d left their camp for an after-dark walk on the beach. Droopy had shone a powerful flashlight on them from the cottage and shouted, “If you kids don’t clear off you’ll be in serious trouble.” They’d waved, and Isora had blown him a kiss. By the time he and his fellow security guard, the one they call Diamond Head, had come down from the cottage by the winding steps at the far end of the bluff, they were hidden in a fold of the sand, lying flat as the flashlight swept around and over them. They had to stifle their giggles when Droopy, standing close to them, said, “I’d like to get my hands on those kids.” Diamond Head – they call him that because of his pointed chin, wide cheekbones and narrow forehead – had said nothing.

  Drumgold stands slowly and slings his camera over his shoulder. Isora pats her knees to summon George, her neighbour’s dachshund, who is running in ecstatic circles around them. Drumgold moves on, Isora beside him, Harper close behind, glancing back again.

  Harper knows he’ll be the first target if Droopy catches up with them, because of how he looks. He’s tall and broad and heavy for a sixteen-year-old, and his size, along with his close-cropped tawny hair with the zigzag pattern at the sides and the jeans flapping open at the knees and the long black coat and the beaten-up old leather hat, seem to be enough to convince adults he’s trouble, without his having to do anything threatening.

  He takes a couple of quick steps to walk beside Drumgold.

  With his slight build and the liquid, dog eyes in his serious face and his shock of hair like meadow grass in winter, Drumgold looks like an emaciated angel. Adults – women, anyway – seem to want to take care of him. And not just take care of him. In the supermarket last week, when they were getting snacks, Harper had overheard a shopper murmur, nudging her companion and nodding toward Drumgold, “Heartbreaker.”

  Harper glances behind again. The car is moving slowly back down the Old Beach Road, while Droopy is setting off after them, following the winding trail through the spiky grass that separates the sands from the worn circle of dirt at the end of the road. That was where people coming to the beach used to park. Now the Old Beach Road is a private road, leading to and through the grounds of the Anderson cottage, which squats, low and sprawling, like a fat, predatory animal overlooking the beach.

  When the cottage was built in the spring, Anderson was quoted in the newspaper as saying, “I hope the people of Back River will continue to enjoy the beach,” but when the friends went there, someone always seemed to be watching them from the rocks in front of the house, as if challenging their presence. Then, in the fall, the signs started to appear: Private. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. Keep Out. Harper waited for some public outcry, but none came. The imposing gate across the Old Beach Road followed, and finally the six-foot wire-mesh fence strung through the woods, so that Back River Beach became a huge private compound. Now everyone seemed to accept the beach was off limits – everyone except Drumgold, Isora, and Harper.

  The cold, sweaty feeling grips Harper more fiercely as Diamond Head comes down the steps in front of them and Droopy calls from behind, “You kids better stop right there.”

  Isora calls, “George! Here!” but the dog ignores her and continues running in circles.
<
br />   Diamond Head, standing in their path, his feet apart and his hands twitching at his sides like a gunslinger in a western movie, says, “I’ll shoot that mutt if you don’t get it under control.”

  They’ve never heard him speak before. His voice is soft and he doesn’t seem to move his lips.

  Isora says, “Piss off.” She grabs George as he runs past and holds him squirming.

  Despite his growing apprehension, Harper grins. You never knew what Isora was going to come out with. He chides himself that there’s no reason why a tall, slender, fifteen-year-old girl with almond eyes and long chestnut hair – a girl like Isora Lee – shouldn’t say “piss off,” but still he can’t help finding it surprising.

  Drumgold shifts direction and walks diagonally along the beach, toward the sea. Isora and Harper turn with him. Diamond Head moves to intercept them. When they’re close, he says, “Are you kids having a nice time on Mr. Anderson’s beach?”

  Harper wishes he was alone. Then he could say something like, “Sure is pretty down here,” and Diamond Head would say, “What’s your name, son?” and Harper would reply, “Harper Meating,” and Diamond Head would say gently, “It’s a pleasure to talk to you, Harper, but I wish you wouldn’t walk here,” and Harper would simply leave, saying he was sorry and he wouldn’t do it again, and only later would the injustice hit him, too late for action. But he knows with Drumgold and Isora there, he can’t take the easy, mild way.

  Drumgold keeps walking, his head down, Isora close beside him, clutching the wriggling George.

  Diamond Head, barring Harper’s way, says, “This is a private beach.”

  Harper stops. “We’re just out for a walk. We’re not doing any harm.”

  Drumgold and Isora saunter on.

  Droopy calls, “Ask the other one about taking pictures.”

  Diamond Head says, “You with the camera. I want to know what you think you’re doing photographing Mr. Anderson’s house.”

  Drumgold strolls on with Isora, his head still down.

  Diamond Head moves quickly in front of Drumgold, who stops and looks up slowly. Isora takes the camera from Drumgold with one hand and with the other lowers George, on his leash, to the ground.

  “Get out of my fucking way,” says Drumgold.

  Diamond Head snarls, “Don’t talk to me like that, you little shit.” He grabs Drumgold by the lapels of his jacket.

  Drumgold stabs him in the eye with his forefinger. Diamond Head gasps and puts his hands over his face. Drumgold steps back and kicks him between the legs. As the security guard doubles up, grunting and gasping, Drumgold knees him in the face. Diamond Head collapses in the sand.

  Harper hasn’t moved.

  Without speaking, Drumgold walks on. Isora and Harper follow. Hearing feet shuffling through the sand, Harper looks back. Droopy, who had started to trot as soon as Diamond Head grabbed Drumgold, is talking urgently into his radio as he pulls his colleague to his feet. Diamond Head’s eye is red and his nose is bleeding. He lurches forward, Droopy still supporting him. At the same time two more dark-suited figures descend the steps and stride down the beach.

  “Guess we’ll run,” says Drumgold.

  Harper looks around, at the newcomers in front, Diamond Head and Droopy behind, the sea on one side and the steep tumble of rocks leading up to the cottage on the other, and says, “Where?”

  He sees Drumgold’s eyes flicker briefly toward the rocks, and groans, “Not through the cottage, surely.”

  Drumgold mutters, “Ready, Is?”

  He suddenly wheels around and races up the beach, Isora beside him, George scampering behind. Harper, struggling to keep up, sees the newcomers head back toward the steps, while Droopy and Diamond Head start straight up the beach. Diamond Head seems to be recovering and they’re moving faster. Harper stumbles after his friends. Drumgold is already halfway to the foot of the rocks, and Isora, running like a deer, light and darting, is ahead of him. Harper knows his friends can easily outrun the security guards, but he isn’t sure he can. Drumgold seems to read his mind. Reaching the cliff, he stops and throws rocks at their pursuers. One hits Diamond Head on the chest and another just misses Droopy’s head. They swear and slow. Isora picks up George and holds him as she climbs the rocky bluff. As soon as Harper starts his ascent, Drumgold turns and leaps upward from rock to rock, like a mountain goat. He stops at the top, where Isora is waiting, and hurls more rocks, big ones this time, as Droopy starts up, Diamond Head close behind. One rock ricochets onto Droopy’s leg, which he grabs, cursing. Harper glances up and sees a high wall, topped with jutting shards of glass. It extends the length of the bluff, except for where an iron gate at the top of the steps gives access to the grounds. The other security guards are scrambling up the steps towards it. Drumgold hoists himself to the top of the wall and sits carefully astride it, holding his hand down to Isora. She takes it and, with George under one arm, seems to fly over the wall. Harper, gasping for breath, holds up his hand. Drumgold hoists him up and almost throws him over. He crashes through a dense cedar hedge and lands on his back beside Isora, who is huddled in the narrow space between the wall and the shrubbery. Drumgold flings his final rock – Harper hears one of the security guards grunt and swear – and jumps down.

  The gate clangs as it slams shut and footsteps approach at a run. At the same time Droopy calls from the other side of the wall, “Right here. They went over right here.”

  2

  Harper lies where he’s landed, afraid his gasping breaths will reveal their hiding place. He sees a hand wave above them on the other side of the wall as Droopy shouts again, “Here! They went over here!” Drumgold and Isora are crouched, poised to move. Isora holds George in her arms, stroking him with one hand and muzzling him with the other. Harper rolls on to his stomach and peers under the dense, wide hedge. It stretches along the wall in both directions, with lawns and flower beds beyond it extending to and around the cottage, which lies to their left.

  Two pairs of feet appear, running towards them.

  Drumgold, one finger to his lips, points in the direction of the cottage, and they crawl through the foliage, keeping close to the wall. Behind them Harper hears Anderson’s men poking at the hedge. One of them swears and says, “They’ve taken off.” Droopy calls, “They’ve got to be in there somewhere,” and Diamond Head, also on the other side of the wall, says, “I’m going round.” A few seconds later the iron gate slams and Harper hears him threaten, “I’ll pound the shit out of them when I catch up with them.” They crawl on, Drumgold in the lead, Isora following, with George on a tight rein, his leash in her mouth. Harper, in the rear, hears the guards beating their way through the foliage where he’d hidden shortly before, while Droopy calls from behind the wall, “What’s going on? Have you got them?”

  When they are past the cottage, Drumgold turns away from the wall and worms through the dense tangle of branches and roots. Isora and Harper follow until the three of them lie side by side at the edge of their shelter. Harper peers nervously at the cottage. Its vertical grey clapboard is interspersed with big picture windows that give a view of the gardens – and of their hiding place. At the centre of the house a wide recessed area paved with coloured flagstones leads to French windows. The courtyard is filled with cushioned chaises longues and white wicker armchairs. Above, the gently sloping roof is dotted with dormer windows. Drumgold motions for them to run along the side of the house and then turn behind it. Harper looks at the span of lawn they have to cross before they’ll be hidden from Anderson’s men. He estimates they’ll be in full view for two or three seconds.

  With a glance at the security guards, who are moving away from the friends in their search of the hedge, Drumgold mouths, “Ready?”

  The friends crouch like runners at the start of a race.

  Drumgold whispers, “Now!”

  They spring forward and race across the lawn, their feet silent on the thick, spongy grass. They stop when they reach the shelter of the cottage. As
Drumgold peers back around the corner, Harper leans against the wall, his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

  Isora whispers, “Winded?”

  Harper shakes his head. “Scared.”

  Isora winks at him.

  Drumgold mutters, “They didn’t see us.”

  They move along the side of the building, ducking beneath the windows. When they reach the corner, they huddle against the wall and peer behind the cottage. They are looking into a paved yard. Opposite them, a wide driveway – the Old Beach Road, Harper realizes – sweeps in from the woods through tall, wrought-iron gates. On each side of the entrance, high brick walls topped with spiked railings enclose the garden before giving way to the wire-mesh fence that circles the grounds. Across the yard, a barn backs on to the wall. The long black car with the tinted windows is parked in front of it. The car’s licence plate reads AA2.

  No-one seems to be around.

  They run to the gates. Drumgold pulls and pushes at them but they don’t budge.

  “Can we climb over?” Isora suggests.

  “There’s nothing to get a grip on to haul ourselves up,” says Drumgold.

  Harper, pointing beside the gates, says, “We could climb the wall and...” He looks doubtfully at the spikes, which are like spears, and point upwards and sideways.

  Drumgold says, “Yeah...and puncture our stomachs.”

  Somewhere in the house a telephone starts to ring. It stops abruptly.

  “Someone’s inside,” says Drumgold.

  They retreat to the corner of the house as a woman’s voice broadcasts across the grounds. “Where are you guys? Mr. Anderson’s on his way. Says he’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  At the same time they hear,

  “They’re round the back!”

  They whirl around. They are in full view of the iron gate, where Droopy has entered and is pointing as he shouts to his colleagues. He sets off toward them at a run.