The Devil's Triangle by Mark Robson Read Free Book Online Page B

line to connect.
    ‘Come on! Come on!’ she urged, hugging her spare hand round her body and rubbing at her other arm. Her shivering was getting worse again and her teeth had begun chattering, but this time from genuine cold. The cool air from the nearby overhead air-conditioning unit played across her wet body.
    ‘We are sorry, but the person you are calling is not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone . . .’
    ‘NO!’
    Beeeep.
    ‘Dad! It’s Niamh. Ring me now! It’s urgent. Pleeease ring. I think something terrible’s happened.’
    She hung up and instantly dialled the number again. Hopping from one foot to the other as she waited again for the connection, she prayed that he would pick up this time. The ringing tone began. Again it rang and rang until the automated message began. There seemed little point in leaving a second message. She hung up and tottered across the living room and along the hallway to her bedroom. There was nothing more she could do until she was warm, dressed and thinking more clearly.
    Rather than dry off, Niamh elected to have a shower first to rid her body of the smell of the pool chemicals. Moments later, she was standing under the powerful spray of hot water and the stream of warmth cascading over her body ended her shivering. The heat felt almost therapeutic. She closed her eyes and tilted her face upwards to allow the water to beat against her forehead, eyes, cheeks and nose. Turning, she rinsed her hair, feeling her body relax as the heat washed over her.
    It was a good five minutes before she left the shower. Once out, she was quick to get dried and dressed. What to do next though? The overwhelming sense that something bad had happened to her brother had not gone away. She returned to the living room and tried ringing her father again. As before, there was no answer. She hung up.
    Who could she ring? Instinctively, her fingers began a text to her best friend Beth, but she had barely keyed in a line before she abandoned it. Beth was a good friend, but not renowned for level-headedness. Niamh needed to make rational decisions. Texts from Beth were likely to be a distraction.
    Her right index finger hovered over the number nine. Should she dial 911? Who would she ask for? The coastguard? The Sheriff’s Office? And what would she tell them? ‘Hi, I’m a fourteen-year-old girl visiting from England. My brother’s been an arse and nicked our dad’s boat. I’ve got this feeling that he’s in trouble. Please send out your men to find him.’ They’d probably think she was some sort of crackpot.
    No. Any official agencies would need something more concrete to go on than the intuition of a teenage girl.
    Suddenly, Niamh had an idea. Mr Mitchell had a boat. Maybe he would go out and look for the boys. He might even take her with him; though she was not sure she wanted to go. In the back of her mind, she was worried about what they might find. Niamh grabbed her mobile from the breakfast bar, took the house keys from the hook on the wall nearby and started locking up. Although she had not seen the Mitchells for a couple of years, they were good friends of her father and she had often spent time at their house when she was younger.
    It was only a two-minute walk to the Mitchells’ house, but despite still feeling shaky, her legs suddenly seemed to take on a life of their own and she broke into a run. As she raced around the corner and tore up the Mitchells’ driveway at a sprint, she caught a glimpse of someone moving inside. A warm rush of relief welled inside her. The Mitchells were lovely. They would help. She knew it.
    Moira Mitchell answered the door. ‘Niamh, honey! Look at you! You’re all grown up! We missed seeing you last year. Come inside. It’s great to see you. What’s the big hurry? You’re looking kinda flustered. You on yer own?’
    ‘Yes, Mrs Mitchell,’ she panted, interlocking her fingers in front of her body as she stepped through the door.