by David Haynes
The Swimmer
By David Haynes
Cover by Dark Dawn Creations
© 2012 David Haynes
2nd Edition
For Sarah and George
Table of Contents
The Swimmer
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
1
He watched the swimmer and the terrier hurry down the slipway towards the tumbling ocean; their eyes were fixed on the dark, dawn horizon beyond. The swimmer removed his clothes and slipped them into the shabby green rucksack before fighting his way into the glossy, black wetsuit. The little sandy coloured terrier watched patiently as he did, moving his head up and down as if counting each item into the bag.
Through his binoculars, the writer could see how angry and sinister the water looked, as the Atlantic Ocean should in November. The wind whipped the tops of the waves as they broke on the ancient slipway, sending spray high into the cold winter air. Even with triple glazing he could hear the constant rumble and crash of the waves as they raked the pebbly cove and scrubbed the stones clean. The swimmer didn’t break stride as his neoprene coated legs slipped smoothly into the ragged surf.
The writer looked at his wristwatch and took a sip of coffee. He grimaced at the bitter strength of the brew. Since giving up smoking the strong, bitter coffee provided a substitute, a lousy one but a substitute nonetheless. It was a little after seven a.m. and the sun had begun its futile battle against the grey, November sky. The swimmer’s ritual had been the same every day for the last week. The writer shook his head and put the binoculars back to his eyes.
The swimmer took a resolute stance as the waves crashed on his torso, but he stared straight out to the horizon; grim faced and determined. The writer quickly scanned the ocean for whatever the swimmer was staring at. There was nothing to be seen, not even a solitary fishing boat had ventured out yet. The swimmer looked to be in good shape; wiry and lean without any sign of excess weight. ‘Unlike me’ thought the writer. He patted his emerging potbelly. ‘A side effect of nicotine withdrawal.’
The swimmer’s body heaved as he filled his lungs with cool, dry air and slid silently under the breaking surf. The writer scanned the surface for a moment before seeing him reappear. He was swimming strongly and purposefully through the oncoming tide. His stroke was beautifully synchronised with the swell, as he threaded his way through the rocky cove, and out into the dangerous depths beyond.
The writer put the binoculars down and took another sip from his mug. The dregs of the brew were thick and tar-like; these were the best bits. Sometimes, if he’d made it right, it made him shake, like the first cigarette of the day. ‘One drug for another.’ He put the mug next to the binoculars and sat back down at the computer.
It would be another three hours until two local fishermen dragged the smashed bag of bones back up the slipway. No-one, at least no-one local, knew who the swimmer was. The small sandy terrier guarding the rucksack knew of course, but he kept secrets very well. Very well indeed.
2
“Well someone must know who is, or was. Everyone knows everyone these days; Facebook, Twitter and all that crap, nothing’s secret. You can’t go to the toilet without someone putting it all over the internet.” She muttered to herself.
May sat hunched at her desk in the reporter’s room. It was also the editor’s office, canteen, meeting room or whatever use it was being put to at the time. The computer screensaver rotated through various past editions of, ‘The Penwith Guardian – Delivering West Cornwall News since 1889.’ Not that there had been much news. Not in the five years in her time as editor, reporter and photographer for the paper anyway. May had reconciled herself to the fact that quite simply, not a lot happened in the area. Not what you would call real news anyway. Unless of course, church fetes, land disputes and the on-going speeding car issue were what passed for cutting edge journalism.
Even so, May enjoyed the job and there weren’t many thirty year old journalism graduates running their own paper. Even if it was only a fortnightly pamphlet filled with gossip.
The screen saver displayed an issue from 16th February 1990. The photo was of a miner; he was grim faced and filthy. Above the photograph was the headline, “GEEVOR TIN MINE – THE END!” She moved the mouse and cleared the image to reveal her next edition headline. “THE NAMELESS SWIMMER.”
Police continue to be baffled in trying to identify the body of a swimmer washed up on Priest’s Cove last week. Despite local and national appeals there have been no fresh developments to aid enquiries. There has been speculation about his identity, but local sources believe he was a tourist who got caught out by the strong currents around the cove. A police photofit of the swimmer will be released this week.
Chris Spencer and his brother Charlie found the body. “His body was wrecked, completely wrecked. When we put him down on the slipway, I reckon the wetsuit was all that was holding him together.”
The death is not being treated as suspicious at this time and is thought to be an unfortunate accident. The dog found at the scene, which police believe belongs to the swimmer, has been adopted by the Spencer brothers and named Tommy.
May sighed; it was a good story and she knew there was plenty of scope to explore the mystery further. She just had to try and keep it fresh for the readers. There had been an initial burst of interest from the national media but that had died down now. How could she do that though? There were no witnesses and no one had come forward to offer any clues about him. Perhaps if she went to the cove and had another look around it would provide some inspiration.
She checked her watch; it was approaching three in the afternoon. This meant she would have two hours of daylight left at the most. She saved the article and powered down the computer. From the one and only window in the office she looked at the sky above the war memorial; it wasn’t raining yet but the clouds looked threatening. She fought the desire to stay in the warmth of the office for a moment, but it was a brief tussle. Decent stories didn’t just magically appear. She grabbed her coat and scarf from the back of the chair.
“Going somewhere May?”
May turned to face the tall, solid figure of David Polglaze standing in the doorway.
“I didn’t hear you come in, David.” She looped the scarf around her neck and fastened the toggles on her crimson duffle coat.
“No danger of missing you in that is there?” He nodded towards the coat. “Finishing early today?” He walked into the office smiling.
David tried to sound casual and friendly but neither came naturally to him. She could sense the thought of her early departure didn’t particularly please him.
May was just over five feet tall and had to look up at most people when she spoke to them. David was no different and at six and a half feet tall he loomed over her.
“I’m off to Priest’s Cove. I haven’t been down there since his body was found and...” she paused, why was she going down there, and what was she looking for?
“I’d like to get a better feeling for where it happened. Never know, might pick us up a bona fide scoop! Put the Penwith Guardian on the map eh?”
David shook his head “Rather you than me. Have you seen it out there? There’s a South Westerly on the way and that’s the last place you want to be when it arrives.”
David Polglaze was handsome she couldn’t deny it. Yet, his classic good
looks were missing something, something which genetics hadn’t provided. The saying ‘beauty is only skin deep’ could have been made for him such was his wretched dullness. It was a shame she had to keep him on side; she valued her job too much.
She checked her watch. “If I get going now I’ll be there and back before it gets dark.” She paused and raised her eyebrows. ”Coming?” There was no way she wanted him tagging along, and dressed in his designer suit, she very much doubted he would want to. It was a good way of cutting the exchange short and she started towards the door.
“I don’t think so, May, not today. I’ve got things I need to do this afternoon.” He spread his arms and moved to the side, gesturing for May to pass him.
May caught the subtle smell of cigar smoke as she passed. “Are you coming out now or will you lock up? She asked.
“Well, the reason for being here is about to leave, so there’s no point in hanging about is there?” He followed May onto the gantry outside and pulled the door behind him.
She sat in her little Fiat and pretended to look for something in the glove box while David left. She felt a bit sorry for him; for all his wealth and bluster he was clearly a lonely man and probably had a little crush on her. She started the engine and reversed out of her parking space. The daylight was already fading and that little exchange with David had cost her a few valuable minutes.
The drive to Priest’s Cove was only three miles but the road was single track with occasional passing places. The hedgerow grew tall and dense on either side of the road, cutting what little daylight was left down to a minimum. During the height of summer, the drive was a frustrating squabble for right of way and took twice as long. Today the road was empty and she knew every twist and turn in it. Her mind wandered.
She had been flattered by the opportunity David Polglaze had given her five years ago. Three years of university and four years of work experience, followed by short-term contracts and freelance work had left her tired and confused. Ready to give up, she returned home; twenty-six years old, single, broke and back to Cornwall with her tail between her legs looking for something safe and easy.
“Well you’ve certainly found that.” May said to the empty car. “Look at you. Racing off to write some lousy story about a stupid dead tourist who can’t swim properly. You’re clutching at straws, May. Clutching at straws to keep you here when you know you should be long gone.” She sighed and turned her car into the steep, rocky car park. It was completely deserted and the deafening roar of the waves striking the rocks below indicated the tide was high. She drove slowly to the bottom of the car park and applied the handbrake, listening for the reassuring click of the ratchets. The last of the daylight was leaving the sky quickly. If she was lucky, she might get an hour, at the most. She pulled up her hood and stepped out of the car.
Almost immediately, a fierce gust of wind whipped the hood off her head, and blew chestnut hair across her eyes. She pulled it back into place and walked towards the path to the cove. She inhaled deeply; no matter how long she lived here, she would never tire of that beautiful metallic smell. It was both cleansing and dangerous. The rumble of the waves had now become a definite roar as the first spots of rain blew in on the cold wind and spotted her cheeks.
3
Joe turned off the computer. He had been on such a roll he hadn’t even switched the desk lamp on. It wasn’t dark yet but the flickering light from the wood burner’s flames cast playful shadows above the now dark computer screen. He leant back and reached for the brass zippo lighter lying on the desk. He flicked the lid, sparked the flint and watched the flame rise reassuringly first time. ‘A cigarette would go very nicely with that flame,’ he thought. He tortured himself further. ‘After all, no one would know would they? How could they? One little cigarette, that’s all.’ He couldn’t though; he’d made a deal with himself two years ago that if he ever got that first book published he would stop and he did. In any case, he consoled himself, he didn’t have any and the nearest shop was three miles away.
The sudden dancing and flickering of the flame broke his nicotine reverie. Even with triple glazing and full winter proofing the old cottage still had its little secrets. Joe snapped the Zippo shut, put it back on the desk and switched the lamp on. He really should get rid of the lighter and use matches; there was less history in a splinter of wood than a battered old Zippo.
The wind gusted again and this time it was strong enough to whistle through the eaves. He was warm but Joe unconsciously shivered against the eerie sound; it was time to put another log into the wood burner. As he stood up from the writing desk and started across the room, he glanced up at the little window overlooking the cove. This was where he had watched the swimmer diving into the sea and later being pulled out by the two fishermen. It was something he would always remember; it was something everyone would always remember.
He picked up the binoculars which had been left untouched since the incident and wound the leather strap around his forefinger. Without thinking he put them to his eyes. The descending gloom made focusing difficult but as he scanned the horizon, the ‘Longships’ lighthouse was already sending a warning signal into the Atlantic.
He moved the binoculars downwards to Priest’s Cove below. The tide was in or, on its way in because only half of the slipway was visible above the crashing waves. He paused, recalling how the swimmer had not so much as flinched when the first of the icy water had touched his toes and submerged his ankles. The internet said he’d been inexperienced and was caught out by the strong currents. What horrendous turn of fate had allowed the ocean to smash him into the rocks like that? He shook his head and sighed; it was a question he suspected no one would be able to answer. He took the binoculars away from his face and rubbed his eyes. The approaching darkness was creeping closer, and mixed with a day staring at words on a computer screen, his eyes felt tired. He widened his eyes to relax the muscles and looked down at the cove again. “Is that a person down there?” He whispered to himself.
Immediately he raised the binoculars again and twisted the figure into focus. What light was left in the day only allowed him to see its head in silhouette. The hood that covered their head wobbled uncertainly in the gusts and threatened to reveal their face, but frustratingly stayed in place.
The figure walked slowly down the slipway and stopped just out of reach of the splashing waves. Joe was transfixed; why on earth would someone be down there on an afternoon like this? The figure scurried back from a rogue wave and something in that movement told him he was watching a female.
The crashing waves threw spray into the air which landed on May’s face with an invigorating freshness. Even so, she had no intention of getting her feet wet and scampered away from a large wave; she was cold enough already. She didn’t know what she was looking for exactly. The police had spent several hours here and closed the cove whilst the swimmer was being examined and subsequently taken away. What could she possibly hope to find on a cold November afternoon which hadn’t already been considered? She picked up a rock; it was smooth, cold and fit perfectly into the palm of her hand. She hurled it towards the twin peaked shadow of The Brisons a mile out at sea. Whatever sound it made was swallowed in an instant by the almost deafening sound of the waves on the surrounding cliffs
Maybe she had made a mistake in coming here and trying to find out something more, but at least it was a valid excuse for some investigative work. Besides, spending the rest of the afternoon with David in the office was liable to drive her to tears.
She tilted her head backwards, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. The cold air whipped her hair and face and the sea spray peppered her cheeks. She let out a sigh and opened her eyes; no shower had ever felt so good. It was getting dark now and high on the cliff top she could see an indistinct light coming from the cottage on the headland. ‘I wouldn’t want to be up there on a night like this,’ she thought.
May reached the car, huffing and puffing for the last few minutes of the climb. Bein
g a journalist wasn’t the most physically exerting job she could imagine and her fitness wasn’t what it should be. She had been thinking about the swimmer on the climb back up. Who had been the last person to see him alive and what did he say to them? Surely they would have tried to dissuade him from swimming there? They were the key to all this but without knowing who the swimmer was, how was she ever going to find out who saw him last? Besides no one had come forward following the media coverage. No one had even reported him missing.
The light had almost gone now and as she pulled off the car park she flicked on the headlights and took one last look in the rear view mirror. The Brisons had all but vanished under a blanket of darkness. There was nothing in the mirror except a never-ending blackness stretching towards America and a pinprick of light coming from the headland.
May narrowed her eyes to focus on the source of the light; it was the cottage on the headland. The elevated position it held would give a superb view of the surrounding coast, not to mention a bird’s eye view of Priest’s Cove. She stopped the car and slowly reversed back into her original space.
