by David Haynes
The angry sound of the surf quickly died off behind him, but the distant, continuous grumble continued. He still felt nervous about being out in the open water after so long away and he kept his eyes focused to the front. He did this to maintain his line, but also to focus his mind on reaching the goal. He was aware from his peripheral vision that he had passed the rocky outcrop of Cape Cornwall and to his right there was now nothing but open water. To his left the distant peninsula of Land’s End would still be visible if he dared to take his eyes away from the objective.
Joe maintained eye contact with the islands; the island on the right gently curved upwards to form a dome shape with the smaller island on the left being more pointed. He could see, where the islands met the ocean, they both wore a white lacy skirt around the base. Steady rain bounced off the fibreglass bow of the kayak, sending droplets of rainwater upwards to mingle with the saltwater spray. He hoped with all his heart that it wouldn’t get any worse; it had been a very long time since he’d practiced a brace or an Eskimo roll. He needed to avoid a refresher course in the middle of the Atlantic in November at all costs.
In conjunction with the muscle burn which was well and truly settled now, he’d also developed the stinging sensation in the back of his throat. He knew this was a lack of fitness and he was likely to be exhausted before very much longer. He swallowed hard and cursed himself for not bringing a bottle of water.
After about an hour, he got close enough to the isles to be able to see the rock formations. He didn’t dare get too close; the white skirt he’d seen from afar had become an angry looking fight close up. From the prone position of the kayak, the rocky isles towered with menaces above him; rising chaotically out from the angry white foam about twenty-five metres upwards. Their brutal formation was intimidating.
He paddled carefully around the isles, surveying them for anything which looked of interest. As he reached the back, he was greeted by a massive expanse of empty water, stretching all the way to the horizon. He felt his heartbeat rise up in his throat in at the site. The shelter afforded by the islands was now gone and he was subject to the full power of two thousand miles of Atlantic Ocean pushing him towards the rocks.
He fought with the current, but the paddle out to the islands had used up most of his reserves of strength. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he was smashed into the rocks. He scanned the rock face and saw nothing except a small outcrop of jagged granite waiting to rip the kayak’s hull, its spiteful blade sitting just above the water line. Just in time, he was able to grind hard left on his paddle to avoid it but again the current pushed him back towards the rocks. The panic rose quickly from his stomach to his head as he scanned the face of the rock, looking for something, anything which could provide help. All decisions were suddenly taken away from him as the current pushed him sideways. He knew there was no point in looking where he was being pushed; he just had to wait and prepare for the impact. He closed his eyes and waited.
The shunt which juddered the kayak wasn’t severe enough to roll him, and at first Joe thought it was the precursor to something far worse. A second later he felt the jarring thud of the impact but it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. He opened his eyes and looked rapidly about. He was wedged between two enormous blocks which formed a funnel into a shallow cove. He used the paddle to free himself at the front and the kayak slid neatly down the funnel and into the protected shallows. He slumped forwards and rested the paddle and his arms across the bow.
After a minute of controlled breathing, he straightened his back and rotated his shoulders, which were already starting to seize up. He was glad of the wetsuit which had kept his body warm but even more pleased with himself for donning a pair of neoprene gloves. His hands were cold after being exposed to the icy ocean for so long, but it could’ve been a lot worse.
The huge blocks which protected him were obviously no accident. They had been placed there; when and by whom he didn’t know. Perhaps more importantly, he wondered, for what purpose were they there? He shook his head. The answers would come later, he was sure, but for now, he was just thankful they were there; they had probably saved his life.
He unfastened the spray deck and clambered out of the kayak. The water was sheltered but he had no intention of risking the kayak floating free leaving him stranded, so he pulled it onto the shore.
What was a solid cliff face on the other side of the isle was more accessible on this side. He still had no idea what he was looking for and even though he was safely on dry land he cursed himself for attempting the trip in the first place. More to the point, he’d done it without thinking any of it through. Lately, he realised, there had been lots of things he’d done without thinking.
He looked upwards towards the highest point of the isle and then down at his bare, cold, feet. Even though the rock wasn’t sheer, it was a shame that whoever had made the dock hadn’t bothered to put steps in too. With a last look at the kayak, he carefully started his ascent. The spiky, unfriendly rocks threatened to penetrate the soles of his feet with every step and his progress was deliberate. The only thought which kept him going was that someone had deliberately created the dock, and it could accommodate a much larger vessel than the kayak. Perhaps vessels like fishing boats carrying several men? He fought back a strong desire to consider the option that Coppinger’s men had created it; a kind of safe haven for their master.
He pulled himself up the last few metres using his hands. When they roared in agony, he used his elbows and fists to haul his body to the summit. Strong gusts of wind blew straight off the ocean seeking out his inner ear. The dull ache escorted the other stings tapping out an accompaniment with each beat of his heart.
As he clambered over the precipice he collapsed onto his back. He didn’t care if the rocks were jagged or unwelcoming; anything had to be better than the constant pain from the climb up. As he lay on his back Joe looked up at the sky. The leaden colour was getting darker and although the rain had never truly gone away, the darkening skies weren’t a sign of dusk. They were a sign of something much more dangerous; a storm.
He winced with pain as he sat up. Every muscle and inch of skin was complaining loudly about what he’d just expected his body to do after so long of being sedentary. “Come on you bastard, give me just a little bit more,” he whispered into the wind.
He placed his hands beside his backside and gingerly, pushed himself upright. It was relatively flat and he walked to the precipice on the opposite side. It was a sheer drop into the ocean twenty five metres below, where an angry white foam smashed into the rocks. He moved quickly back from the edge and looked around. The other isle was more rounded and slightly lower. From where he stood, he could see the sloping summit disappear over the far side into the ocean. As if to reinforce the message to his brain and body, Joe whispered into the wind. “You’re not climbing that one today, Joseph.”
Joe turned and began walking back from where he’d just come. The first heavy raindrops began landing on his soaked head and the already slick rocks; they thumped onto the ground at his feet and hissed in the ocean below. It was a blessing that the wind hadn’t picked up yet, but he knew that could change in an instant.
He reached the point where he’d clambered up a few minutes ago and took one last look around. It was just a disappointing lump of rock in the middle of the sea; that was all. He dropped to his knees and lowered his feet over the precipice and that was when he noticed a strange pattern in the plateau’s rocky base ten metres in front of where he was floundering.
With a massive effort, he pulled himself back onto the flat ground. As he stood upright, the pattern disappeared and he instantly thought he’d imagined it. He crouched again and the pattern re-emerged. Joe tried to remain as low to the ground as he could and shuffled slowly towards it; he did his best to ignore the eye-watering pain of a stubbed toe as he collided with a loose rock.
Loose rocks littered the area and as he reached the place he’d been aiming for, he realise
d the patterned area was larger than he first thought. He crouched down and put his gloved hands on the surface of the pattern and immediately knew that his hands weren’t touching rock, at least no rock he’d felt before. It wouldn’t bear close scrutiny thought Joe, but what was the likelihood of close scrutiny on this god-forsaken rock?
He knelt and removed his gloves. Although they were designed to allow grip and some feeling, their strength wasn’t in their ability to determine texture. The rain had given everything the same dark colour and the same slick surface but under his cold fingers Joe knew he was touching the textured surface of metal. He banged his fists down simultaneously but the echo he expected didn’t materialise. Clearly, the metal cover was thick enough to withstand the weight of a man without giving away any of its secrets.
He began pushing rocks out of the way and revealed a seam. Without moving any more, he knew the perimeter of the cover was marked all the way round, in the same way, by rocks. It was more than a simple manhole cover, it was five metres square and it looked to have been intentionally concealed, or at least an attempt had been made.
There was no way he would be able to lift the cover, and he doubted whether it could be moved without some kind of lifting equipment and several men, not from the top side anyway. He jumped up and down again, partially in frustration and partly to test its strength; his tactic gave nothing away.
The rain had become steady by now but he was in no mood to leave yet. He wiped the rain away from his eyes. ‘What was the connection between the dead swimmer and the Brisons? Did he even know this cover was here?’ Joe’s vision drifted towards the dejected Levant wheelhouse in the murky distance. ‘And what’s the connection with Polglaze?’
His head swam with possibilities but he knew he couldn’t waste time mulling it over; not on a rock in the middle of the Atlantic, especially not with what looked to be a storm coming. He walked away frustrated. He knew he was leaving with more questions that he’d come with. Before lowering his legs, he looked down at the kayak. Its stern was bobbing agitatedly, even in the protected shallow; he had to get a move on.
Once he reached the kayak, Joe turned it round and lowered himself inside, before adjusting the spray deck again. His arms and chest had taken most of the strain so far and he felt the tightness as he picked up his paddle. He took a deep breath before pushing himself off and out of the protection of the man-made dock. Breaking free of the surf at the cove had been difficult with a full tank of stamina and fresh muscles, but he needed double the effort now. He was already planning for a night on the isles when the current seemed to pluck him free and toss him sideways towards the open water. He looked towards the heavens to give thanks and saw only fathomless blackness. This gave him the extra impetus he needed and he thrust his paddles deeper to force himself away. He knew that once he broke free of their ‘gravitational pull’ the current would drive him towards land.
A guttural rumble of thunder was swiftly accompanied by a cymbal crash as the growing waves smashed against the rocks behind him. The gentle swell had become white-topped peaks which seemed to smile with menace as he fought against them. He knew he shouldn’t look towards the shoreline; he knew what he might see and he didn’t want his ascending panic to take control. Even so, he also needed a focal point, something to work towards as the ocean pushed him down the coast away from safety.
A mist covered the shoreline along Priest’s Cove; not of cloud but of ocean spray. As the waves hit the rocks they exploded into the air like wispy clouds. Joe dug his paddle in to force the bow back towards to the cove and as he did a wave broke over the side of the kayak and threatened to tip it over. He fought with the wave briefly before its energy was spent and it abandoned him. Quickly he righted himself and pointed the kayak back to the shore again. With what little reserves he had left he quickened his rate and kept his eyes focused on the cove. The lower part of the slipway had all but disappeared but he fixated on the upper reaches which he hoped would guide him in. He didn’t want to think about how he was going to land the kayak, not yet anyway; he had enough to think about.
The rain had stopped just as he managed to escape The Brisons, but this had only been a brief respite. As the thunder became savage in its raucous intensity, the heavens well and truly opened up on him. Joe thought back to the mornings when the swimmer had gone into the water; the waves had whipped and lashed at him, yet he’d just stood there and challenged them to knock him down. Then, when they had given him their worst, he’d swum amongst them; it was as if he’d been given respect. There was no way someone who could swim against those conditions would have just surrendered meekly and let himself be taken.
He felt the strength of another wave pick him up and toss him towards the cove. The sensation was uneasy but it was also welcome. He’d made some distance without paddling and he realised that by steadying himself as the waves broke on and around him he could surf in on them. He was starting to feel pleased with himself until he realised the waves he was coasting in on were breaking on the rocks at the mouth of the cove. The same rocks he had fought to be free from on his outward trip.
He realised with dismay, that however much he dug his paddle in to turn the bow, if the waves decided to thrash him against the rocks, they would do it. There didn’t seem to be an awful lot he could do about it. He looked up, frantically searching the cove for signs of life, for someone to signal to. ‘Don’t be so stupid, why would anyone be out here in these conditions?’
A wave lifted him upwards and he felt the white foam licking at the nape of his neck. ‘We’ve got you now’ it whispered into his ear and hurled him towards a mass of granite covered in riotous water. His control of the little kayak was gone but Joe thrust the paddles into the water in a wildly alternating dance as he tried to keep himself upright. The rock face loomed, jagged and dangerous and with a strange sense of clarity Joe found himself thinking it looked like a giant crocodile.
The jarring sensation as the kayak struck the granite, bounced his head against the rock and then wrenched it back the other way. The impact rolled the kayak and Joe upside down. He felt the coldness surround him instantly, invading his wetsuit and scraping at his flesh. He knew he had to get out. To roll the kayak back on itself, but he was so tired and so cold…
19
Writing about David and Levant had been an exercise in formulaic writing for her, but May realised it had also enabled her to take a step back from what was happening with Joe. The story had all but written itself and the question and answer session which David had written was as dull and uninspiring as expected. She uploaded the digital photographs and patiently scrutinised each one for suitability. Several images showed David looking confused; they caught her eye but she knew after his ultimatum, she had to play this one straight down the middle. She picked one showing David standing side on, with the iconic wheelhouse in the background. The publishing software was easy to use and it quickly placed everything in perfect symmetry over what would become the centre pages.
She saved the document and emailed it to David. He never showed any interest in the paper, unless it mentioned him or involved him in some way, especially if it promoted him and his businesses in a good light.
She leant back, clasped her hands behind her head and stared at the ceiling for a minute. She didn’t exactly know what time it was and she hadn’t put her desk lamp on, preferring to let the screen illuminate the keyboard. But now, staring at the orange glow of the streetlights on the office ceiling, she knew it was probably close to five. She sighed; it had been a long time since she’d been this excited about seeing a man again. A smile spread across her entire face and she made no attempt to stifle it.
She had already decided to stop off at the shop to get some supper for after their little disinterment exercise. There was no chance of anything decent being in Joe’s fridge. Tomato bruschetta with Parma ham and goats cheese might just do the trick. Partnered with another ice cold glass of Chablis; her stomach rumbled in anticipation.
‘I closed my eyes, drew back the curtain. To see for certain what I thought I knew…’
May cringed. She knew without looking the call would be from David; probably checking up on her, making sure she hadn’t gone home early. The screen flashed in time with the music, casting a weak silvery light against the inside of her clenched hand. Finally the song finished. Never before had she been so glad to hear it stop and she decided the ring tone would have to go.
Slowly she uncurled her fingers and lightly brushed her fingers over the touch screen to activate it. ‘One missed call.’ then underneath, ‘one new voicemail message.’ She accessed the call log, expecting David’s number to be the last call. The number read ‘Chris Spencer.’ May frowned briefly in confusion then she felt the strength drain from her legs, something was wrong.
She jumped into her crumpled little car; the answer phone message had been short and ambiguous. May, it’s Chris Spencer, Charlie found your friend Joe earlier. He’s bashed up. We’re in my boat shed.’
