by Cole Moreton
Now he’s running back down the hill with her in his mind, in his eyes, in the music. ‘Move on up.’ One-two, one-two, one-two, run-ning, breathing, banging out the rhythm on his chest as his hands rise and fall, tripping and slipping over the grass, down towards the steps, down the steps, across the gravel of the car park, past the pub. Down more steps to the beach, the drum break echoing from ear to ear, the bass kicking in at the base of his neck, still in time as he hits the pebbles, losing it then, falling over, laughing. Getting up with a push, pulling out the earphones, losing the music and hearing it crackle as he wraps the phone in his T-shirt and leaves it on a flat white table of chalk and runs towards the water, still in his shorts and trainers. Still keeping up the rhythm of the song, bam-bam-bam, still banging his chest, running over the chalk bed, over the sand, into the sea, feet slowing, hands scooping up water for his face, feeling the salt-sting, going deeper and deeper then diving, straight and flat, into a tiny wave.
He stays under as long as he can, eyes open and hurting, then comes up gasping, into the light, flicking his head, seeing more stars and diamonds and dazzling beads of sun-caught water fly-ing around him. God, it’s cold, it’s freezing, his body in shock, his breath gone; but how wonderful, how wonderful, how wonderful to be here, falling backwards, arms out, lying like a starfish under a cobalt sky. Move on up. She’s singing to him, and he loves her, he
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loves her. He loves her. He loves this life. With her. He loves her. You’ll be okay. He hears her. Move on up. You can do it. Move on up!
Zinging from the swim, he lies on the hill with his hands behind his head, thrilled by the glory of this place, the profound energy that shines in the grass, the chalk and the sky, that skitters over the sea. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now, other than here under the passing sun, wrapped in the warm breeze, loved and loving in the landscape that is his home. He puts in his earphones, pulls up his hood and lays back to listen to a piano, the music of Erik Satie. The sound of calm. The pianist plays slowly, so slowly it is almost awkward, leaving the notes to fall into still-ness. Rí is beside him now, he can sense her in the warmth of the ground, the scent of the grass and the flowers, the kiss of the breeze. The flecks of jade in her eyes, the flashes of blonde at the tips of her lashes, the tiny, light brown mark on the skin of one cheek that nobody had ever seen before him. Tracing her cheek with his lips, down to her neck and throat and to the stars, the stars, falling and flying, far away.
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Fourteen
‘You okay, mate?’ The Guardian approaches with caution, seeing a male of uncertain age and origin on the ground a little way back from the edge, lying on his side with his hood up. ‘Everything all right there?’
Michael Bond, a big man with a cannonball belly and a black, piratical beard flecked with grey, stops for a moment to lean on his carbon graphite trekking poles, catch his breath and assess the situation. He knows exactly what the Guardian training manual tells you to do in a situation like this, because he wrote it: keep your distance but stand within earshot, stay calm, begin a conver-sation. ‘Frontline Alpha to Frontline Zulu,’ he says into his radio, contacting his colleague back in the lay-by, who is watching him through binoculars. ‘Male, hooded jumper, running shorts and trainers. Lying down. Not responding. Will attempt contact again, over.’
‘Roger, Frontline Zulu. I have you in sight. Advise if help required, over.’
‘Roger. Will do. We’re okay for now, maintain contact. Out.’ His eyes are on the man. His prayer is quiet. ‘Lord, guide me.’
This one could be drunk or high, he could be sick or desperate, he could get up suddenly and run. ‘Can you hear me, mate? Are you okay? We’re on patrol up here, really just trying to see if anyone needs help, if they are feeling down. Because, you know, this is a place of suicide . . .’ Call it what it is. That’s the word that makes people turn around, usually. Not this time though. ‘Look, mate, I’m sorry,’ he says, keeping a good six or seven feet away, because you don’t want them to grab you, definitely not. You don’t want to be in a wrestling match. Talking is much better. ‘If you were sitting on a bench in a park, I’d leave you alone, but you’re not. I just felt a bit of rain and this is a fairly remote spot. Can you hear me? You are close to the edge of a cliff. This is not a normal
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situation. Do. You. Understand. What. I. Am. Saying?’ He can’t see the face but this man might be an illegal with no English. That will be tricky, there are no translators up here, they’ll need to get the police involved. Hope not then. ‘We have a duty of care to the people we see here. If there is something bothering you, can I help? Come on, son . . .’
The lighthouse keeper whose love has gone hears none of this. He is lost in the memory of her skin, the softness of her lips, until a shadow across his face calls him back. Somebody is watching, from behind a disguise. No, a beard. It’s a big man with a black beard and shades. A white shirt open at the chest, under a red fleece. Oh great, that’s all he needs to spoil his mood. The Guardians do a lot of good, there’s no arguing with that, but they will keep coming up and asking if he’s okay. He’s seen this guy before but they’ve never spoken and right now he really doesn’t want to have to explain his presence here yet again. But here we go anyway. This one has bushy black eyebrows and eyes that are expectant, so he pulls out his earphones to get this over with.
‘—for disturbing you. It is what we have to do. You understand that. Better to be safe than sorry.’
He doesn’t want to reply, or talk at all. Not to this guy. He wants her.
‘Mate, speak to me. Where are you from?’
‘Here,’ says the lighthouse keeper, despite himself.
‘No, really.’
‘Go away.’
‘I’m not going to do that.’
Fine, he thinks, rolling the rubber tips of the earphones between a finger and thumb of each hand, then pushing them back into his ears, feeling heavy bass notes drop.
‘Hey, would you mind turning that off so I can speak to you?’ The music stops and he nods but keeps the buds in. The Guardian breathes hard, nearer now and struggling to get down on the ground, belly shifting as he goes. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. It has been a hard day. Let’s try again. I’m a Guardian. We’re here to help.’
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‘I know. I don’t need any.’
Hair whips into the lighthouse keeper’s eyes as he lowers his hood, then the Guardian’s face changes. ‘Hang on, I’ve seen you before. You’re a runner, aren’t you?’
Very observant. His legs are bare and threatening to cramp. But he might as well answer, this guy won’t go away otherwise. ‘I live in the lighthouse.’
‘You’re the one they call the Keeper. Magda says. From the pub.’ ‘If you say so.’
‘Funny. They call me the Chief. Taking the mick, mostly, but I don’t mind. Used to be a chief constable in the Met, now I’m sort of the leader of the team up here. Player manager, if you like. Got a name though: Michael.’
He offers a hand and the Keeper shakes it, but doesn’t give his own first name, or say anything else in response.
‘You’re doing it up then? Big job.’
‘Yep.’
They sit together in silence, except for the fussing of the wind and the gulls turning circles close overhead. A lobster boat is mak-ing its way through the bumpy sea far below. The Guardian takes off his sunglasses, squints and smiles. ‘Not suicidal then?’
‘I wasn’t.’ The Keeper pulls a zipper up to his throat and tucks his legs in under himself, rubbing the tops of his thighs. The wind is gathering, he should go.
‘Okay, fair enough. Sorry to disturb. We have to ask. I know you’re not one of the main ones we’re after today anyway, you don’t fit the descriptions from the police: Asian man, late fifties, in a parka; white lady in her twenties, white puffa jacket, pushing an empty buggy. Had to give the baby up. Let me know if you see them.’
&nb
sp; ‘How?’
‘Here’s my card. Hard to get a signal up here, sometimes text is better. Or just call the police, you know? We work with them. People don’t usually come up to this bit by the lighthouse, I grant you. They mostly go to Beachy Head itself, because they’ve heard of it and the bus stops there, by the pub. Early in the morning or
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in the evening, often. No crowds. Your place puts them off, like a watchtower.’
‘Should you be telling me all this?’
‘It’s okay. There’s a lot of sadness in this world, but I’ve seen hope too, believe me. We are hope. The Lord is hope . . .’
‘Are you allowed to try and convert people?’
‘No, sorry, never do that,’ says the Chief quickly. ‘I was just talking about why we do this . . . Never mind, what did you say your name was?’
No answer. Something has caught the lighthouse keeper’s eye, in the distance.
The Chief doesn’t notice as he wipes sweat from his face with a hankie. ‘Listen, please, don’t let me give you ideas. Not today, I couldn’t take it. Stupid of me to talk this way, but I’ve had enough. There’ve been more than usual lately. You must have seen the choppers and the cars. I don’t know why. Lads in the force are giving me grief, saying we should all keep our eyes open more, but I tell them, we have a good team, they are all well trained, we would know, we spot things. If we can just talk to people, let them know someone cares, it breaks the spell. They know that. They appreciate that. Everyone’s on edge right now. No pun intended. Listen, you haven’t seen anything unusual, have you? Anyone hanging about? Up here, on your own?’ A dark thought gathers in his mind like a cloud over the Channel. ‘Hang on, have they talked to you about this? Hey, mate, wait! Where are you going?’
The Keeper is up on his feet, slipping past the Guardian and away.
‘Come back! Oi! Get back here!’
The Chief’s hand goes to the radio in a holster at his hip. ‘Frontline Zulu, come in! Frontline Zulu! Alert our friends. Suspect running.’
‘Roger, Alpha, repeat please. Mike, did you say “suspect”?’ ‘Roger that. Blue lights go. White male, hoodie, shorts.’ ‘Suspect for what?’
‘What do you think? Why would he run? Quick! Am in pursuit!’
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But it’s not a fair race. By the time the Chief has hauled him-self to a standing position with his Elite Alpine walking poles, the man in the hoodie is yards away and moving fast. Running up the slope, pumping hard, past a young couple eating a picnic on a rug a safe distance from the edge. The man and the woman are waving their arms and pointing fingers at each other and having a great big row, although the words are taken on the wind and they have not noticed that the one thing they agree on – the one thing that is good about this bloody relationship, the one precious per-son who has made life bearable these last three years, even when he’s being a lazy bastard or she’s a moody cow – is no longer sit-ting in the buggy having a snooze. Their little daughter Poppy is going for a stroll. She’s tottering like a drunkard towards a rabbit, which is sitting in the sun, twitching its nose, nibbling the grass, looking up again, near the brim of the cliff. The toddler in her pink padded playsuit and pink woollen hat laughs and stretches out her hands to this bewitching creature, who stares back, blinks and bolts for it, leaving Poppy just a few baby steps from a very long fall.
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’ shrieks her father, rooted to the spot, flapping his arms while his wife is already on her way. But she will never get there, she is too late. ‘Poppy!’ Alarmed by the speed of the rabbit, confused by the sudden sight of the drop, the little girl stumbles and falls.
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Fifteen
Sometimes, death is ordinary. Sometimes death comes in the middle of the day, without warning and just like that, between the boiled eggs and Müller rice pots of a picnic on a rug in a beauty spot. Sometimes you take your eye off what matters most to you and indulge in yet another argument – because everything else in the world is okay in an ordinary sort of way and you’ve got to fight to keep interested – and while you’re naming names and telling lies and making claims, the person you really love just drops out of the world. Gone. Without a whimper or a cry, that you could hear anyway. Vanished.
But sometimes life wins. Sometimes, a man you have never met – and whose name you will never know – comes running out of nowhere with all his strength, flies past you like an Olympian and gets there – he gets there – just in time. He is just in time. He scoops her up as she is falling over her feet – your daughter, your precious little girl – and with one arm he scoops her up and holds her close and stumbles on the uneven ground but regains his bal-ance and still has her as he slows, and stops. He has her, safe.
Poppy screams, red and furious and magnificently alive, letting the world know that she is not done yet and she will be heard. Who is this man and what is he doing? Where did the rabbit go? I liked the rabbit! Mummy! The Keeper kisses the child on her woollen hat, ignoring the screams, catching her scent. For him, this is suddenly a good day. A great day. He feels like Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman all at once. Nothing can stop him now. Nothing.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Put her down!’ The father, flushed by panic, lashes out. ‘What’s your game? Stop! What’s your name? Stay there. Don’t you move.’
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The Keeper does set Poppy down gently, close to her mother, who grabs her hood immediately and pulls her close. Dad glances at a mobile phone, which has no signal even for an emergency call. Top of the range, of course, but useless here. He’s a Bodenista, one of the tribe of affluent Londoners who descend at weekends to cottages in the picture-book villages of Alfriston and Jevington, places that have been in the family for generations, since Virginia Woolf was renting, or else have been bought lately for extra ordinary amounts of money. They come in their Range Rovers and their Hunter boots, their red trousers, their green Barbour jackets, like this man with his weekend beard, his tweed cap and his swagger, barking an order: ‘Don’t you run!’
The mother’s shouting too, inventing a threat like him to hide their shame at having lost sight of their daughter for one ter-rible moment. ‘I saw you!’ She’s holding Poppy tight, the girl’s face buried in her chest. At least they’re working together on this, their differences forgotten. ‘You’re in a lot of trouble, buddy,’ says the father, lunging for the alleged child snatcher. But he’s out of shape, out of breath and dizzy with anxiety and embarrassment, and misses completely, stumbling dangerously towards the edge.
‘Okay! That’s enough! Both of you.’ The Chief has caught up at last. ‘I saw everything that happened, sir. This man was trying to help. Your daughter was in danger.’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m in charge here. Look.’
The red sweater, the badge that says Guardian-in-Chief, the impressive radio and the commanding voice are persuasive: this man represents authority. The father deflates, with one last gasp: ‘He tried to snatch her!’
‘Then why did he give her back?’ The Chief turns and winks secretly at the accused, who suppresses a laugh – adrenaline still sweet in his blood – and starts to walk away, until the big voice sounds again. ‘Come with me. I need to talk to you.’
The Chief catches up and walks with him. ‘You can’t do that. You can’t just go around interfering up here like some kind of self-appointed policeman.’
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‘That’s a bit rich.’
‘All right, listen, I can’t have you acting like this. People might get hurt, you might get arrested. Leave it to the professionals!’
‘For God’s sake. You’re amateurs.’
‘I’m paid to do this. Respected for it, I might add. We work with the police. The others are highly trained. I lead them. You get my point?’
‘Not really.’ The adrenaline has given way to a sadness. The lighthouse keeper just wants to be back in hi
s tower. ‘If you’re not going to leave me alone, can we sit down?’
He plonks himself on the grass.
The Chief does the same, more slowly. ‘It is, by the way,’ he says. ‘For God’s sake. Otherwise I wouldn’t be up here, let me tell you. Scares the living daylights out of me sometimes. You’ve got to have faith. Guts, too. Determination. Patrolling this place in all weathers, day and night. I’m full-time but the others are all volun-teers. Thirty or so we’ve got. A teacher, solicitor, brickie, retired, whatever, they come up here for a shift – once a week, usually – in pairs, on foot or in one of the Land Rovers. We’ve got the lot: heat-seeking cameras and really powerful lamps that cut right though the dark – they’re amazing.’
