Saltwater Grudge Chapter Three: Whispers In The Crab Shack

           The Crab Shack was a low-slung building near the slipway, its walls covered in decades of salt spray and peeling blue paint. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of boiled shellfish and the low hum of men who had spent their lives at the mercy of the North Sea. Julian walked in, his presence immediately causing a dip in the conversation. He was a local, but he wasn't one of them. He didn't have the calloused hands of a fisherman or the thousand-yard stare of someone who had seen a rogue wave swallow a friend.

            He moved to the bar and ordered a pint of bitter. The barman, a man named Silas with a white beard and a missing thumb, slid the glass over without a word. Julian took a long pull of the ale, letting the bitterness wash away the grit of the walk.

            “I’m looking for some information about a man named Bartholomew,” Julian said, keeping his voice low enough that it didn't carry across the room, but loud enough for Silas to hear.

            The barman stopped polishing a glass. The atmosphere in the room didn't just dip; it froze. Several men at the nearby tables suddenly found their drinks very interesting. Silas leaned in, his eyes darting toward the door.

            “That’s a name best left in the deep water, Julian,” Silas whispered. “Bartholomew hasn't been mentioned in this shack for a long time. Not since the night of the Great Surge in eighty-seven.”

            “He’s back, in a way,” Julian said, pulling out a photo of the pocket watch he’d taken on his phone. “Initials B.V. Bartholomew Vane. He was Thomas’s employer once, wasn't he?”

            Silas wiped his hands on a greasy apron. “He was the king of this coast once. Owned half the fleet, the cannery, and most of the council. But he vanished. Some say he went overboard, others say he just walked into the sea one night when the debts got too high. But Thomas... Thomas was his right hand. If Thomas is dead, then the last of the Vane secrets is buried with him.”

            “Maybe not all of them,” Julian replied. “Someone sent this watch to Thomas’s widow. Someone wants the past to come back to the surface.”

            A young deckhand at the end of the bar, a boy no older than twenty with a nervous twitch in his left eye, stood up abruptly. He knocked over his stool, the clatter echoing in the silent room. He hurried toward the door, but as he passed Julian, he stumbled. For a second, his hand brushed against Julian’s coat pocket. Julian felt a small weight drop inside.

            The boy vanished into the night before Julian could react. He waited a few minutes, finished his pint, and then stepped out into the alleyway behind the shack. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. It was a receipt from a local storage facility, dated only two days ago. On the back, a single word was scrawled in frantic, shaky handwriting: Pier.

            Julian looked toward the pier. The lights of the amusement arcade were flickering, casting gaudy reds and blues onto the dark water. The structures beneath the pier were a maze of iron girders and rotting timber, a place where the tide trapped all sorts of debris. It was also a place where a man could meet in secret, away from the prying eyes of the town.

            He made his way toward the beach, the sand crunching beneath his boots. The wind was picking up again, bringing with it the taste of salt and the sound of the sea groaning against the piles. He reached the underbelly of the pier, the massive iron legs towering above him like the ribs of a dead whale. It was dark here, the only light coming from the gaps in the planks above.

            “Is someone there?” Julian called out, his hand resting on the heavy Maglite in his pocket.

            There was no answer, only the sound of water dripping and the distant clang of a bell buoy. He moved deeper into the shadows, his boots splashing through shallow pools. He saw something white snagged on a rusted bolt. He reached out to touch it, realized it was a piece of fabric—the same charcoal wool as Elena’s coat.

            A sudden movement to his left caught his eye. A figure stepped out from behind a massive concrete pillar. It wasn't the boy from the bar. It was someone taller, broader, their face hidden by the hood of a waterproof jacket.

            “You should have stayed in your office, Julian,” the figure said. The voice was distorted, muffled by the wind and the mask.

            Julian didn't wait for a second warning. He lunged forward, but the figure was fast. A heavy blow caught Julian in the ribs, sending him reeling back against the cold iron. He gasped for air, his vision blurring. He tried to draw his light, but a second strike hit him across the temple. The world tilted, the lights of the pier spinning into a chaotic vortex.

            As he slumped into the wet sand, he heard the sound of footsteps retreating. He tried to move, but his limbs felt like lead. Through the haze of pain, he saw a flickering light out at sea—a signal, rhythmic and steady. Then, the darkness claimed him, cold and absolute as the North Sea.