Saltwater Grudge Chapter Six: Blood on the Promenade

            The lighthouse at Happisburgh stood like a red-and-white striped sentinel against the encroaching dark. It was a lonely place, miles from the nearest house, and exactly where Julian had told Siobhan to hide. He drove the Land Rover—now with new tires and a fresh dent in the bumper—up the narrow track, the headlights cutting through the swirling sea fret.

            He found Siobhan in the small keeper’s cottage, her face illuminated by the blue glow of three different monitors. The deckhand, whose name Julian had learned was Leo, was asleep on a cot in the corner, his breathing shallow and uneven.

            “Did you get it?” Julian asked, shedding his coat.

            “The coordinates lead to a specific trench,” Siobhan said, pointing to a 3D rendering of the seabed. “It’s deep, and the currents there are treacherous. But there’s a structure there. It doesn't look like a shipwreck. It looks like a vault.”

            “A vault?” Julian repeated. “On the seabed?”

            “Bartholomew was obsessed with security,” Siobhan explained. “He didn't trust banks. He built his own. The Northern Star didn't just sink; it was positioned there. It was a drop point for the smuggling runs. They’d sink the waterproof containers, and the divers would retrieve them later. But when the Great Surge hit, the ship shifted. It fell into the trench, and the vault was buried under tons of silt.”

            Julian looked at the screen. “And Thomas found it.”

            “He must have,” Siobhan nodded. “He was the only one who had the old diving logs. He probably went down there to see if there was anything left. And he found something so big that Arthur Vane couldn't let him live.”

            The sound of a window shattering in the next room cut through the conversation. Julian was on his feet in a second, his hand reaching for the heavy iron fire poker. He pushed Siobhan behind him just as a flash-bang grenade rolled across the floor.

            The world exploded into white light and deafening noise. Julian’s ears rang, and his vision was a blurred mess of shapes and shadows. He felt a heavy weight slam into his chest, throwing him back against the wall. He swung the poker blindly, feeling it connect with something solid—a shoulder, a ribs—but then a gloved hand gripped his throat.

            He was dragged out of the cottage and into the freezing night. The air was thick with the smell of salt and ozone. He saw Leo being hauled away by two men in tactical gear, the boy’s muffled screams lost in the wind. Julian tried to fight back, but a knee to his stomach folded him in half.

            “Where’s the watch, Julian?” a voice hissed in his ear. It was one of the men from the office, his face hidden by a balaclava.

            “At the bottom of the sea,” Julian gasped, coughing up blood.

            The man didn't hesitate. He slammed Julian’s head against the side of a van. The world went gray. He felt himself being lifted, his feet dragging through the wet grass. He was tossed into the back of a vehicle, the metal floor cold against his cheek.

            As the van sped away, Julian caught a glimpse of the lighthouse lantern rotating overhead. Its beam swept across the landscape, a rhythmic reminder of hope that felt a million miles away. He was heading for the one place he had spent his whole life trying to avoid—the heart of the Vane estate. He knew that if he didn't find a way out soon, the next time he saw the sea, it would be from the inside of a weighted sack.

            He closed his eyes, his mind drifting back to the silver watch. He thought about Elena’s face, and he thought about Thomas. He realized then that he wasn't just fighting for justice anymore. He was fighting for the soul of the town. And in Cromer, the soul was a fragile thing, easily lost to the tide.