Page 88 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure
The sun cast long shadows under a misty blue sky as the beach came to life, and a jogger made their way towards Atticus.
‘Buen día,’ the handsome young man called out, his footprints leaving light impressions in the damp sand as he passed.
Two fishermen appeared. They carried rods and tackle boxes and prepared to take advantage of the early hours when fish were most active. Atticus was reminded of the fishing gnomes that lined the drive at Arthur’s home in the summer. He thought of his friend and hoped that Arthur was surviving another cold winter, knowing that the chill wasn’t good for Arthur’s arthritis and caused him pain. If only Arthur could persuade Shirley to enjoy a warm winter break.
A paddle boarder was making their way toward the shore, silhouetted against the sparkling water, and as they got closer, Atticus began to laugh. The man was dressed in a Santa Claus outfit and raised his paddle in greeting.
‘Feliz Navidad!’ the paddle boarder called out.
‘Happy Christmas!’ Atticus replied and held up his hand to wave.
Atticus had almost reached the jetty that led to the marina in Guardamar. Glancing at his watch, he realised that he’d been walking for over an hour, and calling to Ness, they began their route back. Knowing that Britta would wonder where he’d got to, he reached for his phone and dialled her number. The phone rang out, and,puzzled, Atticus thought that she must have forgotten to turn up the volume.
Hastening his pace, he began to walk quickly.
At Casita del Mar, Britta sat with her back to the beach and stared at her painting of Atticus and Ness standing beside Winnie. It was almost finished. The room was dimly lit, the only light from an arc lamp over the easel. Absently, she drained the last of her coffee. The drink was cold, and she realised that it was some time since Atticus had placed it in her hand, before setting off on a morning walk. Britta was determined to finish the section she was working on before he returned and discussed their day ahead.
Taking a long-handled brush, she leaned in to delicately dab at the canvas. To capture the soft fur of Ness’s head, she used light brush strokes and dark shades, her mind absorbed by the task.
Highlighting the play of light and shadow, Britta was unaware of footsteps from the beach, nor did she hear a soft tread moving across the terrace. But as she sat upright, there was an unmistakable rustle from the curtain in the shadows of the doorway. She turned, a smile on her face, expecting to see Atticus.
But there was no one there. No handsome, smiling face nor Ness’s cold, wet nose as she plodded across the marble floor to greet Britta.
A chill ran down Britta’s spine. Her heart began to thud, and the familiar comfort of her surroundings felt suddenly overshadowed by an impending sense of dread.She reached for her phone and seeing a missed call, realised that it was on silent.
‘Who’s there?’ Britta called out.
Turning the brush in her hand, she ignored the trickle of dark paint that ran down her arm and dripped onto the fabric of her sarong. She stood motionless, her senses on high alert.
Then, after a moment, she dismissed the sound as a figment of her imagination and tutted as she stared at the stain on her sarong before returning to her easel. But suddenly, a chair scraped back on the terrace, and Britta turned again.
‘Who’s there? Atticus, is that you?’
A man stepped into the open doorway, and Britta gasped. With his back to the light, his ominous posture was tense, his shoulders slightly hunched, and his dark clothing blended with the shadows.
‘Hello, Britta,’ Daan said. ‘I have finally found you.’
Britta screamed and recoiled in fear. Stumbling back, her phone fell from her hand, and she fell onto the easel. Daan lunged forward as the canvas tore beneath her.
‘Stupid bitch,’ he hissed. ‘Did you really think that you’d get away from me?’ He reached out and, grabbing Britta’s arms, pulled her upright. ‘It didn’t take long for the folk back home to tell me they’d recognised you on your boyfriend’s Instagram account.’ Daan was inches from her face. ‘What a fool he is to post photos of the café where you work. One call and I found you!’
His breath smelt of stale alcohol – hot and rank – and Brittarecoiled.
‘WhereisThe Travelling Grandad?’ he mocked. ‘Has the old man kicked the bucket?’
‘Leave me alone!’ Britta screamed again.
She could feel Daan’s breath on her skin, and a primal terror gripped her heart. She knew that the man could hurt her, but the look in his hate-filled eyes suggested much worse. Britta kicked out with her bare feet, but Daan kicked back, bruising her shins and sending her spinning to the ground.
Britta curled into a foetal position and tried to make herself as small as possible as blows began to rain down. Every second felt like an eternity as Daan yelled and punched, his actions those of a madman, consumed by rage. Her mind was blurring, and unable to fight back, Britta knew her only defence was to scream and pray someone was in earshot. Summoning every ounce of her diminishing strength, Britta opened her mouth and screamed as loudly and as long as she could.
‘Shut up, you stupid bitch,’ Daan cursed and hit Britta again.
On the beach, the jogger who’d passed Atticus moments earlier thought he heard a cry. At first, it sounded like that of a gull, but as he got closer to a group of buildings, he realised that the sound was coming from inside one of the cottages. Taking a canister of alarm spray from the body belt at his waist, the jogger approached the steps of Casita del Mar and called out.
‘Ey!Qué está pasando! What’s going on!’
Tentatively, he held the can out, his thumb poised over the trigger. But before he could move any further, a tall man in dark clothing appeared on the cottage’s terrace.
