Rufus makes no further attempt to communicate with me, either before I’m released from hospital or when I arrive back at Dr. Pendle’s house. I’m tired, and weak, and fall asleep every couple of hours, but in all those hours of unconsciousness Rufus stays away.

“Devil’s advocate,” Ondine says on my second day back at the house, as she hands me a cup of tea. “How do you know it was really Rufus you were talking to?”

I blink at her, aware that Robbo and Dr. Pendle are staring at us, too. “What do you mean?” I ask finally.

“Robbo told me about sea magic, how it can twist and contort what we see – or what we think we see – to distort our reality. What if it wasn’t really Rufus you were talking to when you passed out?”

“It was Rufus, trust me.”

“But how can you be sure?”

I’m frustrated with Ondine for asking me to justify what I know to be true, especially when Dr. Pendle and Robbo seem so keen on hearing the answer. “He used Rufus’s phraseology.”

Ondine nods once, slowly, and bites her lip. “But wouldn’t whoever is wielding the magic know how to trick you by using Rufus’s words?”

I look at Robbo, silently pleading with him to contradict her. Thankfully, that’s just what he does. “Doubtful,” he says. “I mean it’s magic, so anything’s possible. But in my experience, visual enchantment is used. I’ve never heard it get down to the nitty gritty of the tricksters mimicking people’s speech patterns.”

“Good to hear,” I say, wanting to draw a line under the conversation. I add quickly, “Robbo, in your experience is it more likely that Rufus will come back to speak to me again when I’m closer to him? Physically, I mean – like, right next to The Wash.”

“I think it is more likely,” he says.

“You should see your face when you talk about your hometown – it’s like someone stuffed a lemon in your mouth,” Ondine says to me.

“We haven’t booked flights yet – it’s not too late to change your minds,” I say, hoping no one will. “I’m telling you, it really is the pit of hell.”

“I’m up for an adventure,” Dr. Pendle says, smiling at me kindly.

“I like a challenge,” Robbo adds.

“With this kind of build-up, I can only think that the real thing is going to be a let-down,” Ondine says.

“It’s worse than you can imagine,” I say, wondering what their reactions will be when they first see the lake in the middle of my hometown. And then I ask Dr. Pendle, “Has your sabbatical been approved Sir?”

“Well, yes and no. The Dean is on summer holidays and isn’t checking email so she can’t officially approve it, but I can get around it by taking some of my annual leave. I’m not about to miss this, Thom.”

“When do we leave?” Robbo asks.

“As soon as we can get flights,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

“Don’t you want to take some more time to recover?” Ondine asks. “Maybe another week or so?”

I remember my conversation with Rufus, how he was going to reveal something important to me. “No – let’s get over there as soon as we can.”

*

Thirty-six hours later I’m looking down at the expanse of green fields as the plane ascends over the Scottish countryside. I can’t believe it was five years ago that I arrived in Scotland, taking in this same view with excitement and nervousness, steered by an unseen hand for reasons I didn’t understand then.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Rufus. I’m going back for Rufus. Whatever he needs to tell me, whatever the reasons for the sad fact that I couldn’t save him the night he was dragged into The Wash, I need to be closer to him. I think about his parents, how their hostility towards me after he went missing was one of the main reasons I fled Juniperville, and my stomach twists. I need to face them, and all of the people who said it was all my fault that Rufus went missing. I have no idea if my going back will make things worse for my dad and my sister, but it’s too late to change my mind.

“Are you thinking of asking the pilot to do a U-turn before we get too far over the Atlantic?” I startle and look up to see Ondine hovering over me. She chose a seat in the back row of the plane, because she says she feels less claustrophobic there.

“What gives you that idea?”

“I was just thinking if I had to go back to my hometown a.k.a. the devil’s arsehole I’d be having second thoughts right about now.”

Before I can answer, the flight attendant pushes the drinks trolley into Ondine’s lower leg, and either doesn’t realize what she’s done or doesn’t see the need to apologize.

“I can take a hint,” Ondine says, jutting her hip out to obstruct the aisle. “You know where I am if you want a chat. I’m the only one in the back row for some reason.”

Because it’s right next to the toilets, I’m about to say, but she’s gone before the words are out.

I ask for a miniature bottle of rye whiskey and the flight attendant passes me a plastic cup with ice cubes, but I down the rye straight from the bottle in two gulps.

“That’ll whet your whistle,” the white-haired woman sitting in the seat next to me says, and then orders the same. She’s more genteel than me, though, and drinks her rye with ginger ale on ice.

After a few sips she asks, “Are you going on holiday or going home?”

“Going home.”

“Ah, me too. As nice as it is being away, it’s always good to get back home, isn’t it?”

I don’t want to contradict her but I also can’t agree, so I stay quiet. Undeterred by my silence, she tells me about her son and grandson, who will be waiting for her at the airport. With a pang I think about my father, who had sounded so excited when I told him I was coming back, then tried to insist on coming to pick us all up. He’d fought me until I said there was no way that four people and our luggage would fit into his car and that I’d booked an airport shuttle bus. How I’d love, though, to walk into the arrivals hall and see him standing there waiting for us.

“And where is home for you?”

I clear my throat and contemplate telling her an untruth. I don’t want to talk about Juniperville with a stranger – but she’s too sweet and kind to lie to. When I say the name of my hometown, her eyes narrow like she’s concentrating on something.

“Now wait a minute – why do I know that name?”

“It’s kind of well-known for the downtown area, which they’ve made to look like it’s straight out of the 1950s.”

“Really? How strange. But no, that’s not it. Hold on a second,” she says, pulling a tablet out of a quilted case. After a quick search she says, “Ha – found it! Oh dear, it’s quite tragic though.”

I lean across, trying to read the screen, heart racing. “What is it?”

“A poor boy went missing,” she says sadly. “It made the national news.”

“Can I read the story?” I ask, and she passes the tablet to me.

Juniperville teen disappears during post-game party

Harry Turnbull, 17, star pitcher with the Juniperville High Marlins, went missing during a party held after the team’s decisive win against their rivals St. Martin’s Seals. The party, attended by players from both teams, was held on the shores of the lake in the centre of town. Local sources maintain that since Juniperville was settled almost two centuries ago the lake has claimed numerous victims, all of whom mysteriously disappeared into its depths without a trace. Local and provincial dive teams have so far been unable to find any trace of Harry Turnbull, although rescue efforts are continuing.

Local law enforcement officers emphasize that they are pursuing all avenues of inquiry, including the possibility that Turnbull was abducted or left the town voluntarily.

The news story is accompanied by a photograph of Harry Turnbull, whose bright, mischievous face reminds me of Rufus. My blood runs cold as I picture Saphrine’s face, looking at me with undisguised contempt and hatred. I know she stole Rufus away – there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind about it – but I wonder how many other young men she’s taken. Is it possible that Rufus wanted to talk to me about Saphrine’s role in abducting others, and perhaps even ask for my help in stopping her from stealing any more of Juniperville’s young men?

I stare at Harry’s face and my eyes fill with tears. I couldn’t save my best friend, and now another person has been lost to The Wash. I say silent words of apology to Harry, unable to stop the feeling that somehow I am responsible for his disappearance too. If only I’d gone back home sooner, figured out the mystery that has been hovering over me for the past five years, Harry Turnbull might have been spared this fate.