by Jim Ody
“You a surfer?”
“I wish. You wanna know a secret?” Probably not, she thought, this can only be the opening to some cheesy line. She settled on a shrug.
“Non-commital, huh?” He grinned. “I can’t surf.”
“You don’t have a surfboard?”
“Oh, I have a surfboard. I have a skateboard, too, but I can’t skate.” He paused for a second and made a gesture of over-thought. “Well, I can skate, but I just can’t do any of those tricks.”
“So, you’re what? A fake?”
“That’s a bit strong, don’t you think? I have these things, but I’m not a surfer or a skater. I suspect that while you have a very pretty face, you are not a model, right?” And there it was: the line.
“Okay, nice to meet you!” She shut her door.
“What?” he said, looking genuinely hurt.
“You come up here to pretend you’re a surfer, then you pretend you’re just a sensitive guy. All to chat up women, right?”
“You’ve got it all wrong. I’m Dex.”
“Yep, and I speak Chinese. Laters, Dex!” She started the car, blasting out Pink, and drove off. In her mirror, the large, fit guy was left wounded. He now wore shorts, which was a shame.
She drove along the road for a while then pulled into a lay-by.
Her video camera had been running the whole time.
She looked at her phone and went into the pictures.
Not one of the pictures had come out.
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Chapter Twenty-Five
A lfred Prince was the elected mayor of the town council. He sat down at his large desk and blew gently into the gold-rimmed teacup. His mind was in turmoil. This was not what it was meant to be all about.
This was his tenth year in this position, having had a further six years as a paid councillor and then a couple of years as a volunteer. The job, as with the local industry, had changed almost unrecognisably in the last twenty years. Farming and fishing had declined due to cheaper and more available imports, and it was not surprising the younger generation no longer cared for the nostalgia of the family job. Instead, they looked towards the bright lights of the big city—whether this be in Plymouth, Bristol, Birmingham or London. While it was still true a regional and class ceiling still remained, more and more people had found a secret space that allowed them to sneak higher than had previously been expected or indeed intended.
Fewer and fewer businesses deliberately based themselves so far away from these large cities, therefore outside of tourism—which had always remained a steady business generator—it was then the more creative, and out-of-the-box industries chose to be here. IT solutions, designers, artists, and free-thinkers all chose to surround themselves in the beauty of Devon while video-conferencing with clients or commuting upon request.
He held up a strong right hand and smoothed his receding white hair. This was the same hand that had grasped the palm of Lord Coe a few years back when he had met him at the Tall Ships festival in Falmouth. It was also the hand he had held high in triumph when again winning his last election. The hand that had held his children safely as babies, and one gently caressed his wife still on an occasional basis. But now this hand held the receiver to the phone that was connected directly to his secretary, Eileen.
He pressed the “0”. “Send them in,” he said wearily.
One by one they filed in, a little hushed, unsure of exactly what the outcome of this meeting would be.
Alfred was a man of morals and principles. He liked to think he was the people’s man, and at one stage—well, up until recently—he was. Maybe he still was? The job of the mayor was to make final decisions, and sometimes those decisions were not always popular.
He had always tried to look upon the town’s issues via a triple-bottom-line approach, which is to say you take the three most important aspects of the community and try to apply logic and understanding to come up with a decision that fits best with the majority. All of these years down the line, and this had been one of the hardest things he’d had to do.
The Triple Bottom Line, or TBL principle splits the issues into three main categories and can be applied to situations and businesses alike. The three main areas are people, money, and environment. All three remain extremely emotive and directly or indirectly linked.
People—This is how a decision will affect people directly, how it makes them feel, both physically and mentally. Arguably it should be the biggest motivator in anything that we do, but interestingly, we allow the indirect impact of the other two to cloud our judgement.
Money—A massive motivator. We know that people will take risks for money. They will put themselves out, cutting back on comforts in order to save money, and therefore, some will dismiss the ill effects of something that should rank highly on the “people” side in order to become financially better off.
Environment—Cause and effect culture now means we are aware of how our actions are killing the planet. Arguably again, this may not be directly an issue to ourselves as people now, and it may be cheaper to carry on doing exactly what we are doing, but we are also conscious that we are leaving the planet for our children or grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Education, and a degree of marketing. has built up guilt for people to want to do the right thing.
Most of the council’s meetings surrounded money and people with a small hint of environment, which was mainly to tick a box or because it indirectly effected the people and budgets.
But this was different as it was a unique situation. Something was happening in their small town, and they had to figure out the best course of action.
It was hard to apply TBL principles to something that could cost lives. It had already achieved this.
The problem was the cause and effect were unknown. The financial gain or possible loss was unknown. The current effect to people was a handful dead, but could that be deemed as unforeseen? The long-term picture could well outweigh the few lives that had already suffered. The fact of the matter was these had been successfully covered up. They were all still learning, so if they applied everything they had learnt from the deaths then they would grow.
His right hand was shaking a little bit. There was no other way of looking at it, directly or indirectly he had the blood of those people on his hands. Just how many more would there be?
He cleared his throat, and in his low and confidant voice began. “Gentlemen, we have some very important decisions to be made here today.”
They may well have been sat around a poker table in Vegas, as they were about to gamble on the lives, the history, and the future of the town. Maybe the rest of the country too…
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Chapter Twenty-Six
T here was a chill that whipped through the darkness. A dank and damp smell. And a gentle dripping sound from above. The underground tunnel penetrated deeper into the ground, but the deeper he went, the more dangerous it became. Some say the area was filled with smugglers and pirates almost two centuries ago, but his contact had told him these were the tunnels made from amateur miners digging for silver.
Last week, he’d found a large piece of silver embedded within a stone that also included other minerals like zinc. It was perhaps a fluke, but his contact, a former fisherman turned antiques dealer, suggested the further you went deeper into the mine, the more chance you would have of finding silver. He was currently trading at ten pounds an ounce, admitting to being able to sell it on for twelve or thirteen pounds per ounce.
He had been to the local library and had found nothing to suggest there were silver mines in or around Huntswood Cove. But then, this was not an official mine but rather tunnels that could’ve been made for many reasons. Perhaps silver had been stumbled upon when the tunnels were used for smuggling. The mine started at the top of the hill, which was not the norm as the idea was to have easy access to the sea, so contraband could easily be transported from boat to consumer as stealthily, efficient
ly, and speedily as possible.
His contact, Woody, said that he himself had been in the mines and there was a lot of silver there. There was more than in the mines of North Devon in Coombe Martin or even further down the coast here around the Tamar Downs. Of course, with all good stories came a tale of doom and an inevitable curse, and this was no different. But the stories of fishermen are often less than convincing, with many a tale born of rum, fever, solitude, and sleep deprivation. It had been whispered on many an occasion that the unofficial rumour had it that a fisherman’s testimony was inadmissible in a court of law. The details were of course sketchy at best. Some said the tunnels were not all man-made, and some people had got lost and confused, never to be seen again. Others said that having seen something, someone had gone mad upon returning back up to ground. There were also tales of skeletons, blindness, and terminal illness, but considering no one knew of these tunnels and mines, many deaths had been reported—though there were no names or any details that weren’t recycled from the lips of a drunken and weathered fisherman, sat belching them out between sips from a bottle at the Smugglers’ Rest.
He unrolled the leather-backed map and wondered once again just how genuine this item was. For all he knew, Woody was chuckling to himself and his buddies over the stupid gullible man, thinking he was some poor man’s Indiana Jones, or left monkeying around like Davey Jones…
He took the left fork and almost slipped as a slimy stream trickled underfoot. It was then the noise of static made him jump and shoot the light from his torch up into the ceiling a foot above his head.
“Phoenix? Come in Phoenix? Over,” the female voice whispered loudly.
“This is Phoenix. Over.”
“Phoenix, this is Kitty. I have company here. A girl that looks like she has a camera. What should I do? Over.”
“Can she see the entrance? Over.”
“Negative, Phoenix. The entrance is closed and hidden. Over.”
“Just act natural then. Like there’s nothing to see here. You copy? Over.”
“Copy that, Phoenix…” Suddenly the voice was lost.
“Kitty? Kitty, do you copy?” But there was silence.
And suddenly Robin felt completely alone.
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Chapter Twenty-Seven
T hey had both tried not to think about what they’d seen earlier. Really, it was nothing to do with them, and for all they knew there could be a very rational reason as to why the men were carrying something into a house. The scream could also have been innocent. Perhaps there was a woman in the house, and upon seeing men with a body-shaped mound appear, she had shrieked with fright! Paul was mulling over this very scenario, wondering if the four were all sat down having a nice cup of tea and munching their way through a packet of Hob-Nobs. Or perhaps, indulging in a game of Trivial Pursuit, giggling away at Trevor’s knowledge on the history of the British monarchy, while ribbing Stuart over his inability to know who Linford Christie was…
“Where are you?” Debbie asked, momentarily stopping her singing of a Police song—herself and Sting were both confessing to being an Englishman in New York.
“What are the chances of those people we saw playing Trivial Pursuit and enjoying tea and biscuits about now?”
“Rich Tea, Bourbons, or Hob-Nobs?”
“Hob-Nobs.”
“Unlikely.” She smiled, and he half smiled back.
They had only got a mile outside of Huntswood Cove when there was a frenzy of beeping from their mobile phones. Paul pulled into a lay-by where a tired-looking mobile café with a large Devon flag was flying high. It had seen better days as it rippled in the wind. There was perhaps a time when this place would’ve served trucks and tourists alike. However, with a recently improved road infrastructure and the quality of cafés having increased over recent years, you had to wonder whether their days were numbered.
“I told you we were in a black spot,” Paul said with a grin, but then the look on Debbie’s face told him these were not messages of congratulations that he was receiving. “What is it?” He asked.
“It’s her…”
“What? She sent you a message?”
Debbie shook her head and ran a hand through her hair. “No, Jez. He says she knows roughly where we are, and that she is on her way down here now.”
“What? How does she know?”
Debbie sighed. She was suddenly drained of colour and energy. “I suppose anyone could’ve told her. It wasn’t exactly a secret, was it?”
“Shit!” Paul shouted, and then he calmed himself down. Debbie had never been a fan of his temper, and while it didn’t come out often, it scared her. She’d had a violent boyfriend when she was a young teenager, and it didn’t take much to take her back to that time.
“Are you going to phone Jez back?” Paul asked, now rubbing her leg with his hand softly.
“I don’t know,” she said, now looking out the window and unconsciously rubbing her tummy with her hand. It was all too raw.
Just what did she want? Had she not done enough?
“Give me a minute,” she said as she opened the door and got out. She walked towards a gate that led into a large field. She slowly climbed over the gate and aimlessly walked into the open area. Ahead, a large chestnut horse noticed her and began to walk slowly over. It should have been a beautiful moment. As she stroked the horse’s nose along the white streak, it dipped its head from sheer enjoyment.
She choked up and began to cry, at first in uncontrollable blubbering and then with a little less self-control. The horse was a little startled. It swooshed its tail, nodded its head, and turned to make a hasty retreat.
There was a part of her that she couldn’t help. The trust between her and Paul had been strong, but before him, she had been cheated on and treated badly. So in weak moments, her relationship felt in danger, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that perhaps Paul had been in contact with her. Her imagination took hold of her growing and concocting an elaborate twist of a tale. Maybe Paul wanted one last fling with her? Could that be it? She was an incredibly attractive woman, and any man or woman could see this. They had shared years of experiences; dreams they had shared together; secrets they may never tell another person; days and nights lying naked exploring each other, experimenting while being vulnerable but trusting at the same time.
Perhaps Paul had been drinking and a flash of nostalgia had got hold of him, pulling him magnetically towards an experience of the past that he felt—for just a short period—he needed to share with her again.
Debbie sat and leaned against the trunk of a tree, feeling the hardness of the bark pushing into her spine. While the sun shone and the slightly salty air played on her lips, all she could see was Paul pulling back long black hair and kissing the soft skin of her neck, while she arched her back in pleasure, her hand covering his as he played with a dark nipple, candles flickering and silky sheets bunched up around them.
It just wasn’t fair, she thought. Life was so fucking unfair.
“Debs?” Paul softly called out. “Are you okay?” He saw her shaking her head.
He was up and over the gate in a swift move. He jogged to her. He bent down and took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips.
“I love you, Debs,” he said in the gruff whispery voice he used when they were intimate.
She felt her heart melt away, the dark thoughts that had clouded her judgement began to diminish.
“Talk to me,” he said.
She grabbed the back of his head and pulled him closer for a full kiss. Pulling away just enough for her lips to move with words, she said, “Answer me a question, Paul. Just one question?”
He nodded.
“When was the last time that you were together? You know, had sex?”
Paul pulled her to her feet. “That is your question?” She nodded.
“The day before I met you.”
“So have you ever thought about having sex with her again?”<
br />
“The moment I saw you, I understood what love felt like. After we had sex, I knew that I would never have sex with anybody else.”
They kissed, but it was hard with the great big smile that was on Debbie’s face. She didn’t even realise he had dodged the question.
“We’re married? How awesome is that?” Paul said, and Debbie nodded.
“I’m sorry, Paul. You know me, sometimes things get to me.”
“She gets to you, and I fully understand that.”
They walked hand in hand, ignoring the owner of the café who was either desperate to understand what was going on or wanted to sell them piss-weak coffee and a grease-dripping bacon roll for the price of food-poisoning and an underwhelming taste sensation.
It was times like this that life was put into perspective.
THE PLACE THAT NEVER EXISTED
Chapter Twenty-Eight
T hey had been sat in a pub for ten minutes. Debbie had tried a number of times to ring Jez while Paul was busy ordering food. It was inconclusive, but the Goth teenage girl had slipped some money into the jukebox when they walked in, and as it was silent before, this appeared to be her music of choice. In the first song they had been asked to show Maria McKee heaven, although neither could find it on Google Maps. And now, as they fell into contemplative silence, the bespectacled Scottish twins with their jaunty acoustic number were boasting about their roaming capabilities to the tune of five hundred miles.
“That’s worth a sponsor,” Debbie agreed.
“Yes, better than shaving your head when you already have short hair, like Fez did.”
“I’m not sure they would do it though.”
“True, they only say they would, and they’re going to—”
“Some men are full of empty promises…” Debbie winked.
Paul slid his hand along her thigh and mouthed, “We’ll see.” But then, in true male fashion, ruined it by glancing over at an attractive Asian girl talking into a phone.
