Salty Smoke

The salty air filled John’s lungs as he sat on the wooden bench of the pier, holding the daily newspaper up in front of him. He didn’t really feel like reading, but he had been told to bring one so that he could be identified as the one who had spoken over the phone to the owner of a hoarse voice only about an hour ago. John stared blankly at the small black print of the newspaper, only barely taking in an article of a fifteen year old boy who had gone missing from a husband and his wife four days ago. He felt a catch in his throat, which he tried to do away with by swallowing hard.

Off in the distance, John could hear the creaking wooden floorboards of the pier as heavy footsteps fell upon them, one foot after the other, slowly getting louder as the owner drew closer. John’s ears pricked up to the sound, listening intently to the slow, monotonous footsteps, one after the other... Though he felt sure that this was the person he had been waiting for, John didn’t dare turn around, instead forcing himself to stare straight ahead at the small print of the paper, which he was still holding in front of him, his knuckles beginning to go white.

Finally, the footsteps reached John as their owner finally stopped. He could almost feel the stares of the unknown person bearing down on him as he stared at the back of his head, considering him. Still John refused to turn and face the person. Then, after several moments of silence, the unknown person began to slowly walk around the bench and walked out in front of him, heading towards a spot of the wooden pier railing nearby. John caught a glimpse of the person over the top of his newspaper at a tall man in a brown trench-coat with a matching fedora pulled low over his face. He watched as the stranger reached the railing and stopped, before slowly reaching inside his trench-coat.

John breathed in sharply, his wide eyes watching the strangers hand disappear into the coat, fearing what he might be about to face. The stranger however, simply pulled out a box of cigarettes and opened them, before taking one out, putting it between his lips and putting the box back in his coat as John breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

The stranger then pulled a matchbook out of his pocket, tearing away a match, before lighting it, putting the flame to the end of the cigarette and putting the matchbook back as well. The stranger took a long draught from the lit cigarette and blowing a large puff of smoke out into the air, the salty sea air now becoming mixed with the nauseating smell of cheap cigarettes.

“You’re John Victor right?” the stranger said in the familiar voice John recognised from over the phone. “The daddy without a son?”

“Yes, that’s me.” John replied to the stranger, not looking up from his newspaper. “What do you know about my son?”

The stranger took another puff from his cigarette.

“Over here.” The stranger told him, blowing smoke out of his nostrils, before walking off towards the far end of the pier, out towards the ocean.

Waiting a few moments, John folded up his newspaper and got up from his seat, before following the stranger, who had just stopped about three feet from the edge of the pier. He walked up beside the stranger and looked out over the water. The sun was beginning to sink behind the greeny-blue waters and the sky was darkening.

“Can you help me get my son back?” he asked the stranger finally, still not looking at him.

“Probably.” The stranger replied, taking another long draught from his cigarette. “Tell me about him first.”

John stared silently out over the calm ocean waters for a moment, the bright face of his son at the front of his mind.

“His name’s Michael…” he started slowly. “He’s fifteen…”