Page 44 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure

Chapter Thirty-Four

F irst light appeared just before eight o’clock, and Britta was at her easel in the lounge at Casita del Mar, brush in hand, contemplating a canvas when Atticus announced that he would take Ness for a walk.

Kissing her cheek, he handed Britta a coffee, then went out to the terrace and stared at the deserted beach, where the sky had begun to lighten with soft pastel hues and a hint of gold peeped above the horizon.

Skipping down the steps, Atticus went barefoot onto the cool sand.

Untouched by the heat to come, the only footprints were those of early-morning seabirds, whose delicate tracks led to the water.

Ness, nose to the ground, bounded ahead in pursuit.

A gentle breeze stirred, and as Atticus inhaled deeply, he marvelled at the start of a new day and the picture-perfect world before him.

Atticus felt as though he’d won the lottery. Life with Britta was as good as it got.

Dipping his toes in the water, he smiled as he thought about their trip to Benidorm and how they’d all fallen into a taxi after the evening at the Starlight Show Bar and returned to Winnie.

Tired from the day’s exertions, Cheryl and Ruby had climbed onto the inflatable bed, and Ness, keen to welcome everyone home, jumped on too.

Suddenly, the bed had deflated, and the couple doubled over with laughter and fell to the floor.

‘We need to get your claws cut, old girl,’ Atticus said as he stood beside Ness and stared out to sea. ‘And find a puncture repair kit,’ he added, reminding himself that the perforated bed, lent by Erik, needed to be mended and returned.

As Ness ran ahead, rhythmic waves lapped at his feet, and occasionally, Atticus paused to study the treasures left by the tide.

A seashell or unusual driftwood, a piece of sea glass; something that might please Britta.

He thought of his children and hoped that Mary overcame her difficulties.

He’d never imagined that her marriage would crumble and that Conor would behave as he had, but Atticus knew that nothing in life was certain.

He wondered how Mungo was coping with Christmas at the farm and hoped that business was good.

A decent bank balance to cover the lean months of the new year might ease Mungo’s financial anxieties and put his son in a better frame of mind.

Not wishing to discuss the purchase of Casita del Mar with Mungo, Atticus had informed him in an email, burying the information amongst light conversation about the weather and the places he’d recently visited.

He’d ended by wishing the family well and letting Mungo know that he’d deposited money into Mungo’s personal account for family gifts at Christmas.

The sun cast long shadows under a misty blue sky as the beach came to life, and a jogger made their way towards Atticus.

‘Buen día,’ the handsome young man called out, his footprints leaving light impressions in the damp sand as he passed.

Two fishermen appeared. They carried rods and tackle boxes and prepared to take advantage of the early hours when fish were most active.

Atticus was reminded of the fishing gnomes that lined the drive at Arthur’s home in the summer.

He thought of his friend and hoped that Arthur was surviving another cold winter, knowing that the chill wasn’t good for Arthur’s arthritis and caused him pain.

If only Arthur could persuade Shirley to enjoy a warm winter break.

A paddle boarder was making their way toward the shore, silhouetted against the sparkling water, and as they got closer, Atticus began to laugh. The man was dressed in a Santa Claus outfit and raised his paddle in greeting.

‘Feliz Navidad!’ the paddle boarder called out.

‘Happy Christmas!’ Atticus replied and held up his hand to wave.

Atticus had almost reached the jetty that led to the marina in Guardamar.

Glancing at his watch, he realised that he’d been walking for over an hour, and calling to Ness, they began their route back.

Knowing that Britta would wonder where he’d got to, he reached for his phone and dialled her number.

The phone rang out, and, puzzled, Atticus thought that she must have forgotten to turn up the volume.

Hastening his pace, he began to walk quickly.

At Casita del Mar, Britta sat with her back to the beach and stared at her painting of Atticus and Ness standing beside Winnie.

It was almost finished. The room was dimly lit, the only light from an arc lamp over the easel.

Absently, she drained the last of her coffee.

The drink was cold, and she realised that it was some time since Atticus had placed it in her hand, before setting off on a morning walk.

Britta was determined to finish the section she was working on before he returned and discussed their day ahead.

Taking a long-handled brush, she leaned in to delicately dab at the canvas. To capture the soft fur of Ness’s head, she used light brush strokes and dark shades, her mind absorbed by the task.

Highlighting the play of light and shadow, Britta was unaware of footsteps from the beach, nor did she hear a soft tread moving across the terrace.

But as she sat upright, there was an unmistakable rustle from the curtain in the shadows of the doorway.

She turned, a smile on her face, expecting to see Atticus.

But there was no one there. No handsome, smiling face nor Ness’s cold, wet nose as she plodded across the marble floor to greet Britta.

A chill ran down Britta’s spine. Her heart began to thud, and the familiar comfort of her surroundings felt suddenly overshadowed by an impending sense of dread. She reached for her phone and seeing a missed call, realised that it was on silent.

‘Who’s there?’ Britta called out.

Turning the brush in her hand, she ignored the trickle of dark paint that ran down her arm and dripped onto the fabric of her sarong. She stood motionless, her senses on high alert.

Then, after a moment, she dismissed the sound as a figment of her imagination and tutted as she stared at the stain on her sarong before returning to her easel. But suddenly, a chair scraped back on the terrace, and Britta turned again.

‘Who’s there? Atticus, is that you?’

A man stepped into the open doorway, and Britta gasped. With his back to the light, his ominous posture was tense, his shoulders slightly hunched, and his dark clothing blended with the shadows.

‘Hello, Britta,’ Daan said. ‘I have finally found you.’

Britta screamed and recoiled in fear. Stumbling back, her phone fell from her hand, and she fell onto the easel. Daan lunged forward as the canvas tore beneath her.

‘Stupid bitch,’ he hissed. ‘Did you really think that you’d get away from me?

’ He reached out and, grabbing Britta’s arms, pulled her upright.

‘It didn’t take long for the folk back home to tell me they’d recognised you on your boyfriend’s Instagram account.

’ Daan was inches from her face. ‘What a fool he is to post photos of the café where you work. One call and I found you!’

His breath smelt of stale alcohol – hot and rank – and Britta recoiled.

‘Where is The Travelling Grandad?’ he mocked. ‘Has the old man kicked the bucket?’

‘Leave me alone!’ Britta screamed again.

She could feel Daan’s breath on her skin, and a primal terror gripped her heart. She knew that the man could hurt her, but the look in his hate-filled eyes suggested much worse. Britta kicked out with her bare feet, but Daan kicked back, bruising her shins and sending her spinning to the ground.

Britta curled into a foetal position and tried to make herself as small as possible as blows began to rain down.

Every second felt like an eternity as Daan yelled and punched, his actions those of a madman, consumed by rage.

Her mind was blurring, and unable to fight back, Britta knew her only defence was to scream and pray someone was in earshot.

Summoning every ounce of her diminishing strength, Britta opened her mouth and screamed as loudly and as long as she could.

‘Shut up, you stupid bitch,’ Daan cursed and hit Britta again.

On the beach, the jogger who’d passed Atticus moments earlier thought he heard a cry.

At first, it sounded like that of a gull, but as he got closer to a group of buildings, he realised that the sound was coming from inside one of the cottages.

Taking a canister of alarm spray from the body belt at his waist, the jogger approached the steps of Casita del Mar and called out.

‘Ey! Qué está pasando ! What’s going on! ’

Tentatively, he held the can out, his thumb poised over the trigger. But before he could move any further, a tall man in dark clothing appeared on the cottage’s terrace.

‘What’s happening in there?’ the jogger called out again. ‘I hear screams.’

The man had a wild glare in his eyes. Seeing the canister in the jogger’s hand, he took one last look over his shoulder at the room behind him before thrusting forward and running down the steps.

Pushing the jogger aside, he was unable to stop the alarm spray, which had already been activated.

A spray of red paint, as though ejected from a gun, showered his face and clothing as he scrambled onto the beach and began running away.

Momentarily stunned, the jogger dropped the ringing alarm. Reaching to pick it up and holding it before him, he slowly ventured into the cottage.

Atticus was no further than five hundred yards from Casita del Mar when he heard a loud ringing noise.

Instinctively, he knew something was wrong.

His pace shifted into a run, with Ness bounding beside him.

As the cottage came into sight, he saw a man stumbling down the steps, covered in a red substance, before running in the opposite direction.

‘Oh, no!’ Atticus wailed. ‘Please, God, NO!’

Terror gripped his heart like icy fingers, and fear pulsed through his veins, fuelling his every stride as he raced toward the unknown.

Had an assailant harmed his precious Britta?

Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his muscles screamed with exertion, but overwhelmed by the need to protect her, he was unaware of any pain.

He reached the cottage, panic clawing at his throat. Taking the steps two at a time, Atticus flung himself into the room, where a man in jogging clothes crouched beside Britta, a phone held to his ear.

‘Britta!’ Atticus cried out.

The man held up his hand, and Atticus recognised him as the jogger who’d passed him on the beach.

‘ La mujer ha sido atacada, necesitamos una ambulancia y la policía .’ The jogger spoke rapidly into the phone, then turned to Atticus who crouched beside Britta. ‘She okay,’ he said. ‘I find her. I call ambulance and la policía.’

The jogger’s English was broken, but Atticus instantly understood. He touched the man’s shoulder and nodded his thanks. ‘She’s my girl,’ Atticus said.

‘It’s okay, help come.’

Atticus took Britta’s hand and gently stroked her face as she struggled to sit up. Her fingers shook uncontrollably, and her skin was unnaturally pale. ‘It’s alright, my darling,’ Atticus whispered. ‘I’m here. You’re safe.’

The jogger moved away as Atticus gently lifted Britta into his arms and held her trembling body with great tenderness as Ness whimpered and lay down beside them.

A dark stain marked Britta’s sarong, and Atticus felt a wave of relief when he realised the stain was paint, not blood.

But tears blurred his vision as he cradled her, his whole world narrowing to the fragile figure in his embrace. ‘Who did this to you?’ he asked.

Britta’s body shuddered, and her fingers gripped Atticus’s hand tighter. ‘Daan,’ she whispered. ‘It was Daan… he… wants to… k-kill me…’

As Atticus waited for help, he whispered apologies and stroked her hair, urging her to feel his love and strength.

A siren wailed in the distance, growing louder, and moments later, paramedics hurried into the cottage. Britta was able to talk to the medical team, who told Atticus to move away while they examined her.

Atticus asked the jogger his name and learnt that the man was named Luis and lived in La Marina. He was returning from his morning jog when he heard a cry and saw a man running from the cottage.

‘You’ve saved her life,’ Atticus said as they stood on the terrace, and he took Luis’s hand. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

‘It’s okay, she safe. Intruder is red now, la policía find him.’ Luis grinned and showed Atticus his alarm.

Atticus was surprised as he took the small canister and studied it. Not only did the alarm give off an ear-splitting sound when activated, but it also released a burst of red paint that adhered to skin and clothing, marking the assailant and remaining impossible to remove for several days.

‘Yes, I hope the police can find him,’ Atticus said, thanking Luis again.

Atticus sat down. His heart was hammering, and he realised that he’d begun to feel shaky. It must be the shock, he thought. Ness was by his feet, and as she placed her head on his knee, he stroked her silky ears .

‘I get water,’ Luis said and disappeared into the kitchen.

Atticus reached for his phone and dialled Cheryl’s number.

‘Hello, cowboy,’ Cheryl said brightly. ‘Are you and Britta joining us for breakfast?’

Atticus explained what had happened and asked Cheryl if she would mind taking care of Ness for a while, as he would be going to the hospital with Britta.

Cheryl assessed the situation immediately, and with a reassuring voice, calmly told him that she and Ruby were on their way.

The police arrived just as Luis handed Atticus a glass of water, and suddenly, the situation was under control.

As Britta was lifted into the ambulance, Atticus climbed in beside her.

‘I’m okay,’ she said, smiling weakly.

‘You will be okay,’ Atticus told her. ‘And I promise that what has happened will never happen to you again.’