Page 11 of Deep Waters

“To Niko.”

“To Niko,” Harry replied, and they clinked glasses.

The whisky was smooth, expensive and deliciously warm as it went down.

Christian sank back into his chair, his long legs stretched in front of him and crossed at the ankles. The glow from the fire stressed the strong angles of his face. Harry was taken by how remarkably handsome he was, as if seeing him for the first time.

“Shit day, eh?” Christian’s voice was completely deadpan.

Harry let out a short laugh despite himself. “That’s a definite understatement. I’d say it’s been a complete bastard.”

Christian swirled the whisky around his glass before taking a sip. He savoured it before swallowing. Harry did the same. The second mouthful tasted even better than the first.

“I keep seeing the boy’s face,” Christian said. “How young he looked. It’s tragic.”

“He’ll have been around nineteen, possibly twenty. No older.”

“Fuck.”

“The blabbermouths are already speculating about what happened,” Harry said. “While I waited for you, I heard all kinds of crap theories—serial killers, gangsters, drugs debts, racism. For fuck’s sake, this is a small coastal town, not a big, bad city. Still, that last suggestion isn’t too far out. There are plenty of bigots around here, though most of them are just keyboard warriors. They’ve got plenty to say on social media, but I’m not so sure they have the nerve to take it further. Certainly not to dothat.”

“Where is Niko from? Originally.”

“The family is from Poland, but they’ve been here for years. Twelve, at least. Though in small communities like this, anyone not born here will always be considered an outsider. My ex is Polish, too. He runs a photography and art gallery with his brother on the south bank. They’ve been here a long time, but they still receive a good amount of abuse. They’ve had their windows broken more than once.”

It occurred to him that some of those missed calls and messages might have come from Antoni. The Polish community was small in Nyemouth, and Antoni would likely be close to the Jasinski family. He would give him a call when he was done here. Right now, he didn’t have the energy to go through the events of the day one more time.

“I know a little of what that’s like,” Christian said. Seeing the curious look Harry gave him, he continued. “My mother is Norwegian. I was raised in Manchester, but she was never allowed to forget she was a foreigner. It was the same for me and my brother and sister. Though our dad is English, we were always reminded that our mother was different and, therefore, so were we. We were treated like we didn’t belong. Nothing as bad as you’re talking about, though. It was a casual kind of racism, the non-violent sort, but the kind of thing that stays with you for life.”

“I’m sorry.”

Christian shrugged. “There are ignorant people all around. They walk among us.”

“They certainly do. God, I really hope that’s not what happened to Niko.”

“Probably not. As you say, most racist types are all mouth. It’s rare for them to act on their prejudices. To stab another human, like Niko, I would guess there was a bigger reason—jealousy, hatred, rivalry, crime.” He laughed gently. “Now I sound like one of your town gossips.” He put down his empty whisky glass and picked up his ale.

Harry watched the flickering glow of the fire as it skittered across Christian’s face. “I suppose it gives you something for your book.”

Christian sipped the beer and licked the foam from his top lip. “Not really. I want to write a novel, not a true crime account.”

“I thought you were a journalist.”

“That’s my day job. I’m very much on holiday and in novelist mode. I’m not looking to capitalise on a tragedy like this.”

Harry hid his surprise. He’d expected any writer would want to rake over the gory details, a bit like the ghouls outside the lifeboat station. Then again, Christian was friends with Dominic Melton, also a writer and one of the nicest men he knew. Maybe Harry had judged him too harshly.

When they finished their drinks, he collected the empty glasses. “Same again?”

“Just the whisky this time,” Christian answered. “It worked better than the ale.”

“I know what you mean.”

Harry went to the bar. He didn’t know the bartender, so didn’t have to face another barrage of questions about Niko’s death. “Two of whatever these were,” he said, holding up the empty tumblers. “Make them doubles.”

He glanced over his shoulder as he waited. Christian gazed into the fire, looking lost in his thoughts. What was it about him? Just this morning Harry had dismissed him as being far too old, but the more time he spent with him and talked to him, Christian’s appeal grew stronger.He can’t be that old, anyway, he reasoned. Ten, maybe eleven years older than he was. It wasn’t like fancying someone his dad’s age.

Of course, Harry knew what really drove this new attraction to Christian.

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