The Angels' Share Read Free Page A

for a padlock or bolt or any reason why it wouldn’t open. When I was a child it was never locked, my father insisting that the local fishermen use the place freely. It was an island tradition. The Manx rarely bothered with security, partly from their desire for warm hospitality and partly because of a low crime rate. I tried the latch again, harder this time, and felt a little movement. Taking a deep breath, I lunged at the door with my shoulder and boot and on the third attempt it gave, causing me to crash inside with the stealth of an elephant.
    I stood perfectly still, waiting to see if I had disturbed anyone. Nothing. Sighing and finally realising that the cottage was mine, at least for the night, I fetched my pack and balanced my torch on the small table in the centre of the room, allowing me to find the candles. I smiled, both with a big grin and internally. I had done it. I had got to the Creg-ny-Varn estate and secured my initial domain. It was the first victory in my personal battle to grasp what was rightfully mine.
    With three candles lit and positioned strategically so that each area of the small room was illuminated, however dimly, I dropped into a dusty armchair – I remembered the faded floral coverings so well – and took a moment to survey the abandoned remains of the cottage. The internal walls were still whitewashed although smeared with grime and a trim of lacy cobwebs. The flagstone floor was covered with several threadbare rugs and the only furniture remaining (I’m sure there was more when I played there as a child) was a bleached pine table with a couple of ladder-back chairs pushed underneath and two armchairs surrounding a low table. Everything was arranged around the heart of the cottage, the black cast-iron cooking range, which looked as if it hadn’t been lit for years. Balls of soot and twigs and straw from birds’ nests littered the fire basket and I wondered whether trying it out would set the whole place ablaze.
    To one side of the fireplace was a tall cupboard. I vaguely recall my father secreting various objects in there when we came to the cottage for his beloved weekend fishing trips. I opened the creaking door and was faced with an array of belongings that I would take time to sift through over the next few days. It amazed me that all this stuff had remained undisturbed for so many years. I felt a single tear prickle my eye but quickly swiped it away. I hadn’t come to the island to cry over what was lost.
    Then I noticed a pair of binoculars.
    ‘Heavens above,’ I said out loud. I brushed off the dusty case and pulled out the glasses. ‘I adored staring out to sea with these.’ Pointlessly, in the dark, I aimed the binoculars out of the window. Aside from a runway of mottled moonlight dancing atop the breakers, there was nothing visible. I couldn’t wait until morning to gaze at passing ships. But just as I was turning away from the window, just as I was about to pack the binoculars away and unfurl my sleeping bag, I caught sight of a pinprick of light passing in front of my eyes. I swung the lenses back towards the cliff top, where I was sure I had seen a flash of amber light sweep past my view. Sure enough, once I had focused and adjusted my eyes to this close-up way of viewing the world, I had in my field of vision the most surprising, delightful scene anyone could ever hope to stumble across.
    Reluctantly, I pulled the binoculars away from my eyes, simply to catch my breath and take stock of what I had seen. It appeared that I had aimed the binoculars at the cottage high up on the cliff top where the taxi had dropped me earlier. I hadn’t realised that it would be visible from the beach but the angle of the beach cottage and the curve of the coastline afforded an excellent opportunity for getting advance intelligence on my nearest neighbours, who could possibly be a future threat to my mission. At this point in time though, the only threat the cottage inhabitants posed