The alarm was a violation. It tore Leo from a dream of sunlight and the sound of waves, plunging him back into the grey twilight of his room. The digital numbers glowed 3:00 p.m. He'd managed five hours of fractured sleep. The phantom feeling of Clara's hand in his lingered for a moment on his fingertips before dissolving into the chill air.
His body ached with the peculiar fatigue of the nocturnal—a deep-seated weariness that coffee could scratch but never truly alleviate. He dressed in his uniform of anonymity: faded jeans, a worn grey hoodie over a thermal shirt, and a heavy, waxed-cotton jacket that had seen better decades. It was his father's jacket, a relic from a time when men bought things to last a lifetime. The leather on the cuffs was smooth and pale from use.
He needed supplies. The ritual of the supermarket.
Stepping outside, Anchorhead greeted him with its usual damp embrace. The afternoon was leaching away, the light already flat and tired. His building was on a street the city council's regeneration brochures optimistically called the "Old Quarter." The locals called it the "Drains." It was a canyon of soot-blackened brickwork, pound shops, and betting offices, all huddled together for warmth.
His first stop was never the supermarket. It was a detour. A pilgrimage.
He walked two blocks east, to a small, fenced-off square of patchy grass and a single, listing oak tree. St. Jude's Green. In the center stood a worn stone plinth—a memorial to Anchorhead's sons lost in the World Wars. Names were carved into it, their edges softened by a century of rain and wind. It was a forgotten place, which is why Leo came here. He'd often find Mrs. Gable here on her days off, sitting on one of the benches, feeding the pigeons with a bag of crusts. She wasn't here today.
He approached the plinth. Tucked at its base, almost hidden by the long grass, was a smaller, simpler stone. It wasn't official. He'd paid for it himself and placed it here because he couldn't bear the thought of them in the crowded municipal cemetery, surrounded by strangers.
Clara & Maisie Evans
Loved, and are so missed.
"The tide recedes, but leaves behind bright seashells on the sand."
He didn't kneel. He didn't speak. He just stood there for a long minute, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, the weight of the jacket a comfort. The quote was from a poem Maisie had learned in school. She'd recited it to him, her small voice solemn and proud. He touched the cold stone once, a brief connection, then turned and walked away, the hollow in his chest a little sharper, a little more real.
The supermarket was a brightly lit, soulless cavern at the edge of the town center. It was here that the fabric of the town stretched thin, where the rhythms of the Drains intersected with those from the slightly more prosperous streets around the old Victorian park.
"Leo! My man!"
The voice was a booming, cheerful thing that cut through the Muzak. It belonged to Elijah Jones, who ran the 'Clip & Sip' barbershop three doors down from Leo's building. Elijah was a big man, built like the linebacker he'd once been in his youth. His smile was a brilliant, white event in a face the colour of rich mahogany. He was holding a basket containing a single loaf of bread, a carton of milk, and a family-sized steak pie.
"Elijah," Leo said, nodding, managing a small, genuine smile. Elijah was one of the few people whose presence didn't feel like an intrusion.
"Grabbin' the essentials before the five o'clock rush," Elijah said, falling into step beside Leo as they headed for the produce section. "You on tonight?"
"Always."
"Quiet life. I respect it." Elijah's eyes crinkled at the corners. He was a master of the easy laugh, the back-slapping joke, the perfect haircut. A rock of the community.
"How's business?" Leo asked, picking up a basket.
"Can't complain. Gave the Mayor a trim yesterday." Elijah lowered his voice to a conspiratorial rumble. "Tried to tell me about her new 'Economic Vitality Initiative.' I told her, 'Mayor, the only vitality this town needs is a winning lottery ticket and a new sewage system.' She didn't laugh." He chuckled. "Woman's got a focus like a laser beam. Her hair is always impeccable, though. Priorities."
Mayor Helen Sharpe. A woman in her late fifties, always dressed in a sharp, navy-blue power suit, her blonde hair in a perfect, helmet-like bob. She was a fixture, a symbol of stubborn civic pride in a town that often seemed to have little to be proud of.
"She paying her bill?" Leo asked, grabbing a bag of coffee.
"City Hall's good for it. Eventually." Elijah's smile was constant. "Seen Father Patrick lately?"
Leo shook his head. "Not since… well." He didn't need to finish. Father Patrick had presided over the funeral. He'd been kind, in a distant, professional way.
"Man's a saint, that one," Elijah said, his tone shifting to one of genuine respect. "Runs himself ragged with the food bank, visiting the sick. I don't know where he finds the energy. Came in for a trim last week, looked tired. Told him he needs to take a holiday."
Father Patrick Mallory was indeed seen as a saint. He was the calm, steady heart of St. Jude's, a man who seemed to carry the worries of his congregation without ever letting his own smile falter.
"Probably just tired," Leo agreed.
"Aren't we all, brother. Aren't we all." Elijah clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture solid and warm. "Alright, I'm off. Gotta get the pie in the oven. Take it easy, Leo. Don't let the bedbugs bite. Actually, in our building, that's probably literal advice." He boomed another laugh and headed for the checkouts.
Leo finished his shopping—coffee, bread, ibuprofen, soup, a frozen pizza. The check-out girl, a teenager with purple hair and a nose ring, scanned his items with a practiced, weary boredom. "£18.47."
As he was handing her the money, a commotion erupted at the entrance. An older woman's voice, sharp with panic.
"My sister! I can't find her! Has anyone seen my sister?"
It was Agnes Pugh. She was in her late seventies, bird-like, with wispy white hair and glasses so thick they magnified her frightened eyes. She was one half of the Pugh sisters. Agnes and Mabel. Twins. They lived together in a perfectly kept little terraced house on Willow Street, a house filled with doilies and the smell of baking. Everyone knew them as the sweet, slightly eccentric old ladies who won prizes for their jam at the summer fete.
"Now, now, Agnes, calm down." The voice belonged to Sheriff Ed Miller, who had been picking up a six-pack of beer. He was a large man, his uniform always seeming a size too small, his face a familiar and, for most, reassuring sight. He put a heavy, paternal hand on her frail shoulder. "I'm sure Mabel's just popped round to the shops. You know how you two are always missing each other."
"No! No, she wouldn't! We were to have tea! She's always on time! Always!" Agnes wrung her hands, her distress palpable. "Something's happened. I know it."
Sheriff Miller sighed, a man dealing with a familiar occurrence. The Pugh sisters were devoted to each other, their lives so intertwined that the temporary absence of one was a genuine crisis for the other. "I'll drive you home, Agnes. I bet she's there waiting for you, wondering where you've got to. Probably got the kettle on."
As he led her away, Agnes's cries faded. "You don't understand… she wouldn't… she wouldn't…"
Sheriff Miller settled Agnes into his patrol car, his voice a low, reassuring murmur. He was a figure of authority, a man people instinctively turned to. A solid, if occasionally gruff, presence who had known everyone in town since they were children.
Leo paid for his groceries and stepped back out into the afternoon. The light was fading faster now. The air felt even heavier, damp and pressuring, like a storm was coming that hadn't yet been forecast. He could see the haze out over the water, a solid bank of white, much thicker than it had been this morning. It was impressive, even for Anchorhead.
He walked home, the plastic bag handles cutting into his fingers. He passed the 'Clip & Sip'. Through the window, he saw Elijah in his barber's chair, not cutting hair. He was just sitting there, looking at his own hands. The "Closed" sign was already turned on, though it was only 4 p.m. Leo looked away, not wanting to intrude. The man was entitled to a quiet moment.
He passed St. Jude's church. The light was on in the rectory window. Father Patrick was visible at his desk, staring intently at his computer screen. Working on a sermon, Leo assumed. The man was always working.
Back in his room, Leo put his groceries away. The silence welcomed him back. He filled the kettle and set it to boil. He looked at the photo of Clara and Maisie. The happiness in it was a language he could no longer speak, but could still remember.
He took his coffee and sat in his armchair. The evening stretched before him, a blank canvas of hours until his shift started. He picked up his book but didn't open it. He just stared out the window, at the streetlights coming on, at the people heading home.
Down on the waterfront, the mist continued to gather, piling up silently, a great white wall. It was patient. It knew it had all the time in the world. The people of Anchorhead were busy, wrapped in their own lives, their routines and their small, daily concerns. They were good people, flawed people, ordinary people. They had no idea what was coming for them.
But for now, life, in all its mundane, quiet complexity, went on.