The Angels' Share Read Free

bushes and squinted through the darkness ahead. In the two cones of taxi headlights, I’d noticed a small sign indicating the narrow lane to Niarbyl. If I remembered correctly, there would be a bumpy private track a few yards further on leading down to the rocky beach – the very last leg of my journey home. I hoisted my pack further up my back, gripped the straps in my gloved hands and set off towards the rocky beach, praying that the cottage was derelict.
    *   *   *
    The pebbles ground together like oversized gravel announcing my arrival. For the last few hundred yards of my walk, I had been searching for lights reflecting on the shore – a certain indication that someone was living in my planned hideout. So far, there was only darkness but I dug my fingers into my woolly palms and gritted my teeth anyway, plodding on with the weight of my life on my back.
    I had brought with me the most useful items I could muster in Spain. A torch, which I had turned off as I descended the difficult path to where the tide licked the black, mussel-encrusted rocks; three boxes of matches and a dozen candles wrapped in a plastic bag; half a litre of Miguel Torres brandy, drinkable only in the most dire and desperate of circumstances (none of my hardships so far had come close to warranting consumption); some warm clothing, which had been difficult to procure from a wardrobe that consisted mostly of cotton and silk; and an assortment of gadgets and useful implements such as a tin opener and a penknife. And of course my journal.
    The ground rose and fell invisibly beneath my walking boots. I balanced as best I could, occasionally lurching forward to grab at a sharp rock for support. Thankfully, there was no light at all on the tiny half-moon beach coming from where I remembered the cottage was located. All I could see was the frilly edge of the now much calmer sea as it dragged up over the natural defence of the rocks jutting out into the water. The moon, half obscured by cloud, provided an annoying dimness by which I picked my way closer to the cottage. I could hear my heart pounding – or was it the rhythm of the waves? – as I placed my hand on the low stone wall that marked the front boundary of the tiny property. If that was still standing after all these years, then surely the house was too. I traced the line of the wall around to where I recalled the opening that led to the low front door, but stumbled and fell, catching my knee on a rock.
    ‘Ouch!’ I tried to stand up but, with my pack weighing me down, I couldn’t get my balance. I unhitched the straps and wriggled free, nursing my aching knee. ‘I don’t care if there’s anyone in there,’ I spat in a terse whisper. I clicked my torch back on and muzzled it with my gloved hand, allowing just enough light to pick my way to the front of the cottage. I stepped to the side of the door and furtively angled my face so that just my eyes were peeping over the window sill. There was nothing to be seen except blackness and the sugar-frosting of years of salt and cobwebs. I did the same with the other front window and then tentatively walked to the side of the cottage to peer into the tiny bedroom. There were no back windows or rear garden. The cottage was built jutting out from the cliff with its behind sunk firmly into the gritty slate and a well-eroded thatch perched on bowed rafters as if the whole structure was wearing a yellowed toupee with a raggedy fringe.
    ‘I think you’re empty, aren’t you?’ I reached up and brushed my hand fondly through the low straw roof. I was talking to a house. If anyone was inside, then I had my excuses planned. I was a lost walker searching for a non-existent bed and breakfast, a foreign tourist with an out-of-date guidebook. Applying a heavy accent, I would barely speak a word of English.
    I reached for the latch on the door and pressed down. It wouldn’t budge. I pulled off my glove and ran my hand over the weathered wood, searching