Page 1 of Oyster

CHAPTER 1

Low tides threw up all kinds of unexpected and random treasures. A haul of driftwood, for instance, kept the greedy wood burner fed for a week. Wedding bands were not uncommon, bold flashes of gold and silver, each hiding a tale. Hurled from a yacht in a fit of scorned temper, perhaps? Slipped unnoticed from a knobbly old finger, shrivelled after a cold swim? One time, as a kid, I found a platinum watch with ruby gemstones set in the shape of a heart around the waterlogged face. My dad flogged it, and we spent the proceeds on a slap-up meal in La Rochelle.

Not all the ocean’s generous gifts were appreciated. Gelatinous blobs of dead jellyfish made me thankful for my thick rubber waders. Unidentifiable rotting carcasses were not for the squeamish, fainthearted, or, in an ideal world, before breakfast.

But a real live mermaid, wallowing in the shallows? That was a first, and I’d been at this job near enough every day of my whole goddamned life. My dad, lugging a couple of twenty-kilo oyster pouches from the trailer to the racks like two bags of sugar, scarcely lifted his head.

“She’s going to end up in hospital with hypothermia if she’s not careful.”

“More like fish food on the ocean floor.”

My brother, Max, gave a huff of laughter, a sound that didn’t flow too free and easy between any of us these days. “Look at her! Drunk as a donkey, she must be. She can’t even sit up straight.”

Tides didn’t roar in on our stretch of beach, but they didn’t hang around either. Already, icy tongues licked at the woman’s knees. Like the sea had coughed up a rare species of anemone, her floaty white dress billowed around her. Any deeper and it would become a waterlogged anchor.

Funnily enough, at five thirty in the morning, with a cool dawn still pulling itself together, the rest of the beach was deserted.

“She’ll have a splitting headache later.” My dad, no stranger himself to a spot of overindulgence, straightened, rubbing at his back. “She’s had a very good night by the way of things.”

A bit early in the season for wild tourist parties, but he was probably right. The rich folk with holiday homes on the island were a law unto themselves.

A wave, more ambitious than the rest, rolled up the beach. The woman’s slim frame wobbled to the side before, with a jolt, she righted herself, leaving one hand trailing in the water, the other curled around her bent knees. She flopped her head down again, as if exhausted.

“Putain, I’ll go,” I said. “I’ve finished this row of pouches anyhow. I’ll see you back at the shed later.”

“Good luck. ’Bout time you found yourself a girlfriend and settled down.”

“Fuck off, Max.”

He snorted. “Can’t let an opportunity like this pass you by. Beggars can’t be choosers, mate.”

Younger brothers, eh? Who needed them? “Talking about yourself again?”

I zipped my coat higher, turning up the collar to stop the wind whistling down my neck.

“Check you out, smartening yourself up,” scoffed my dad. Putain, whose side was he on? “A proper knight in shining armour.”

I laughed. Hardly. More like oilskins and thermals. And marinating in the unique and pungent aroma of diesel and honest sweat, blended with the salty tang of seaweed and rotten squid. (The last creature had attached itself to my jacket, and Max neglected to point it out until I was halfway down the beach.) The chances of this leading to a romantic encounter were slim to non-existent. And anyhow, I didn’t need a bloody girlfriend. Or a special someone. I was quite content living in the moment, thank you very much. On my tod.

The woman remained oblivious to my noisy waders splashing through the shallows until I was almost upon her.

“Bonne matin, Mademoiselle! Good morning!Party’s over! I think it’s home time, don’t you?”

When I repeated myself a little louder, she stirred with a groan, briefly lifting her face up to blink at the misty grey horizon. Then, as if deciding it wasn’t worth the bother, she sank down again, her forehead coming to rest on her forearms. Two thick curtains of shoulder-length dark hair shielded her face.

“Madame! Morning! Rise and shine!”

Through the damp fabric of her flimsy sundress, I gave her shoulder a gentle shake. As cold as marble. What the hell was she thinking? Maybe she’d taken something, drugs or whatever. Putain, she was lucky we were working this stretch of the oyster beds this morning, instead of joining the rest of our crew on the section around the headland in Ars.

“Hey. Madame. Time to get yourself home.”

Another shake, and I squatted next to her. The spoiled-apple stench of stale alcohol immediately assaulted my nostrils. Nosurprises there. “Come on, let’s get you up. We’re going to be doggy paddling to shore if we don’t get a shuffle on soon.”

“Cold,” she muttered through chattering teeth. “So… cold.”

“I know, sweetheart. Up we get.”

“Happy staying here.”

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