Stonemouth

Jeez, maybe it’s mine. I’m still not used to not having my iPhone ringtone and, now I think about it, I left the rubbish phone on default. It’s rung only once or twice since I’ve had it and even though the last time was about a quarter of an hour ago when Grier rang back, I can’t remember what the actual sound was; I was looking at the thing at the time and I might have answered as soon as the screen came alive. I pull the phone out, but of course the battery’s dead and I can still hear the rogue ringtone.

Everybody’s checking their phone now, but then the sound cuts out again.

Ellie’s. It could be Ellie’s. Her jacket is on top of one towel but beneath another. After a few seconds the old-fashioned telephone sound happens again. We can all hear it now, like we’re tuning in to it. I reach over, pull the towel up to expose El’s jacket and suddenly I can hear the sound clearly.

‘Ellie’s,’ Jel says.

‘Could be her dad,’ Ferg suggests. ‘Late for her tea probably.’

‘Maybe she’s got a waterproof phone out there with her,’ Phelpie says. ‘That’ll be her saying she’s on her way in, have a towel ready, eh?’

‘Yeah, it’ll be in one of those many pockets in her swimsuit,’ Ferg says.

Phelpie looks hurt. ‘I was just kiddin, like, Ferg.’

The ringtone cuts off.

We sit watching the waves for a few more seconds until it goes again. By now I guess we’re all thinking that — assuming it’s the same person calling each time — there might be some sort of emergency, because that’s usually the only time you ring and ring and ring rather than just leave a message.

‘Think we should answer it?’ Ryan asks.

‘At least see who it is,’ Jel suggests.

There’s a moment between Ryan MacAvett and me as we both look at the jacket with Ellie’s phone in it and then at each other. Finally I lift the jacket up, pull Ellie’s generations-old Nokia out and look at the screen. It says Grier.

‘It’s Grier,’ I tell the others. I don’t answer it.

‘And that’ll be me,’ Phelpie says, pulling his own phone out of his fleece as it starts warbling. ‘It’s your mum,’ he tells Jel. ‘Sue,’ he says into the phone. ‘What can I do you for?’

El’s phone stops ringing.

Phelpie’s frowning. ‘Right. Aw aye? Ahm…Probably okay, though, eh? Aye. Aye, well, aye. Aye, I’ll keep an eye out. Naw, just sittin waitin for Ellie Murston to come back from a swim. Aye. On the beach. Oh aye, keep you informed. Aye. Aye. Bye now.’

‘What?’ I ask Phelpie as he slips the phone away.

‘Nah, just Mrs MacAvett saying she got this call from Fraser. Fraser Murston,’ Phelpie says, looking round at us all. ‘Thought he sounded a bit drunk maybe or something. Few minutes ago. He was asking where people were; tried Ellie’s phone but no answer. Sue said we were on the beach.’ Phelpie frowns again, nods at me. ‘Asking where you were, Stu.’

‘Was he now?’ I say, trying to sound unconcerned.

I glance out at the waves again, but there’s still no sign of Ellie. She’s been out a while now. Well over ten minutes. Even at the end of summer when the water’s had months to warm up a little, even if you’re used to it and even if you’re as impervious to cold as Ellie claims to be, a quarter of an hour in the North Sea without a wetsuit is when you start to get really, really cold. I’ve tried it, swimming with Ellie, sort of daring each other to stay in longer, and after a while it hurts; it’s not just cold, it’s painful, so cold your nerves can’t tell whether they’re feeling heat or cold, just pain, just potential damage.

Her phone goes off in my hand, making me jump.

‘It’s Grier again,’ I tell the others.

‘I’d answer it,’ Jel says. She holds her hand out. ‘I will if you won’t.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ I tell her, lifting the phone to my ear and pressing the green phone symbol. ‘Grier, it’s Stewart. Ellie’s in the water. Can I help?’

‘Where are you?’ Grier sounds…un-Grier-like: tense and worried, maybe breathless.

‘We’re on the beach at the end of the Prom; north end.’

‘Listen, there’s been a situation up here,’ she says, words tumbling out of her so fast it’s hard to keep up. ‘Dad and Murdo got a bit lairy with each other, Murdo pulled — well, Powell’s gone, and—’

‘Powell’s gone? What do you mean—’

I’m suddenly aware of Phelpie looking very intently at me.

‘He’s left. Always said he would if — might come back; doesn’t matter. But, look, Fraser’s kind of gone off the deep end.’ I hear her stop, swallow, almost like she’s choking.

‘And Don and Murdo? They got—’

‘Knocking lumps out of each other. Stopped now I think. All gone quiet. Apart from Mum, still screaming herself hoarse. Lucky the rels were here or— But it’s Fraser.’

‘Fraser?’

‘Set off a couple of minutes ago. Roaring drunk, in his pick-up. Couldn’t stop him. Might be looking for you.’

‘Me?’

‘You, Stewart. Yes, you.’

‘Why—?’

‘Why do you fucking think?’ Grier yells, almost screaming. ‘You and Ellie. That’s what Don and Murdo came to blows over. That and stuff about Callum. Christ, you wouldn’t…Anyway, I guess he doesn’t know where you are, so—’