The ringing continues, over and over, terrifically loud. I meet Jude’s eye. “I need to see what’s happening.”
He doesn’t argue. Perhaps he realizes it would be pointless.
We hurry outside, and beyond the walls of the keeper’s cottage, the alarm sounds a clear warning. Keep away. Leave the area. Danger. I carry on despite it, approaching the cliff’s edge. By the beach, the harbor front is a blur of movement, but when I scour the water, there’s no flash of silvery-white skin, no shadows circling beneath the waves. I make a start for the pathway.
“Moira,” Jude says, “don’t. They know what they’re doing. The sirens…”
“They’ve gone,” I say shortly.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
He’s silent at that. Like so many islanders, Jude thinks all he need ever know is to keep charms of protection on his person and a safe distance if he could help it.
The alarm cuts off as suddenly as it began. I give Jude a wry grin. “Come on.”
We head down the crag’s winding path toward the harbor. It’s silent apart from the soft hush of waves, my breath fogging the air, Jude’s footsteps behind me. There’s a group of men huddled together, their expressions sharp and furious, but their voices are too low for me to catch any of the conversation. I frown at the sight of several rusted cans along one pier.
Grabbing one of the nearest dock workers, I ask, “What’s happened? Was someone attacked?”
The boy grins. He’s young, fifteen or sixteen, his waistcoat unbuttoned and frayed over a rumpled shirt. “Shouldn’t be down here, miss. Didn’t you hear the alarms?”
I glance again at the huddled crowd, before leveling the boy with my best glare. “Answer me.”
He leans over and spits onto the dock. “Nah, no attacks,” he says. “They didn’t get a chance, you see. With the stuff Russell poured into the water—I think he killed a couple.”
My fingers slacken on his shirt collar. “What?”
“Someone gave him cans of the old poison. When the sirens showed up, he tipped it right over the pier. Look…” He points to the group, and this time, when I really look at them, I see they’re not gathered together, but gathered around something. I let my hand fall from the boy’s collar, and Jude catches hold of my wrist.
“Moira.” His voice is tentative, almost a whisper. He doesn’t know which is the better option—to pull me back or to let me step into the dark. I wrench away from him.
My legs feel unsteady, pins-and-needles numb, and the crash of my heartbeat is louder than any alarm as I push through the mass of people. It’s a lie, I think wildly, because killing sirens is forbidden; there’s a ban in place. They’re meant to be protected.
I find them laid out on the dock.
Two of them, still and white, their limbs splayed over the wood. A greasy sheen stains the water lapping at the edge of the pier. All the pieces are there, but my mind can’t make sense of it. I’m shaking so badly; I wrap my arms around my waist, hoping to keep myself together. This isn’t right. This isn’t supposed to happen.
“Where’s Russell?” I ask. Then again, “Where’s Russell?”
He’s easy to spot in the end, because he’s the one being scolded. One of the older fishermen has a firm grip on his arm, but that doesn’t stop me from going over and slapping him.
“What have you done?” I snarl.
He bares his teeth. He isn’t much older than me—but he looks it now. There’s a red mark forming on his cheek where I hit him, and veins trace the whites of his eyes. Prison will age him further.
“You care about a couple of monsters, Miss Alexander?”
“You’ve just made yourself a criminal.” Rage burns in my chest, enough to make me want to smack him a second time. “Seems to me you’re the only monster here.”
“They killed Connor Sheahan,” says Russell. He shrugs one shoulder, careless, like this is a victory. “Would’ve taken one of us here probably. I was getting back our own.”
“Where did you get the cans?”
Siren poison is tricky to come by these days. Most of the cans were disposed of after the hunting ban was enacted, the remainder kept in police possession. Yet some, I know, are still tucked away in households. Just in case, they say. Just a precaution.
Russell’s smile is despicable. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Thoughts of Connor’s murderer bleed into the moment. If they wish to blame the sirens, this is just the way to do it. Even when the police took it upon themselves to reopen the case, to arrest Jude Osric—no one at the harbor believes Connor was killed by human hands.
My pulse jumps, and I ask, “Who gave them to you, Russell?”
Still smiling, he shakes his head. “None of your business.”
I’m cut off from questioning him further by the arrival of Detective Thackery and two officers. The officers handle Russell roughly, handcuffing him, while Thackery surveys the docks as if he’s taking a count of everyone present. His eyes meet mine, and I try to make my gaze as fierce as possible. The police should’ve been able to stop this. This is their job. Enforce the ban, protect the sirens—that’s what they’re meant to do.
Thackery and his men lead Russell from the harbor, and the fishermen begin discussing how they’ll clean the polluted water. I turn to see where Jude has disappeared to. He’s still standing by the dead sirens, his skin nearly as pale as theirs. As I head toward him, he stumbles a little, catching his heel on an upturned slant of wood. Then he kneels and retches over the side of the pier. Warren Knox leans down, asking if he’s all right.
A part of me wonders at it, the intensity of this reaction—the same part that knows of Jude’s dislike for the sirens. Russell is not the only person who considers them monsters. I wouldn’t have guessed Jude Osric would be sick upon seeing their corpses. Perhaps it’s more the violence of the situation that churns his stomach.
He rests his forehead on his knees. “I’m fine,” he says quietly.
Warren shakes his head. “It’s a terrible bit of business.” His voice is rough, his eyes fixed on the harbor steps where the police and Russell are making their way up. When he catches sight of me, he touches his cap, before starting back toward the other fishermen.
I feel numb even as cold wind blows in off the sea. I can’t think of anything other than Russell tipping poison into the water, alarm bells ringing, sirens choking, dying, their bodies dragged up from the waves. Jude straightens and lays a hand flat over his sweater.
“We need to visit the Sheahans,” I tell him.
If Russell killed those sirens on Connor’s behalf, it’s high time we pay them a visit.
So close to the beach, everything looks colorless and damp. The cliff rises above us, a wall of jutting rock and mossy outcrops. There are crevices as well, good for hiding, for watching the sirens unseen. Russell’s impetuosity reminds me how humans can be just as dangerous.
Sometimes I imagine Twillengyle as the ebb and flow of the sea. Kept in a pattern of bloodshed and carrying on despite it, cleaning its wounds with each coming tide. Not all the wounds are neatly mended, or ever heal completely, but the traditions carry on and the islanders carry on and Twillengyle survives.