Exposure

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Thinking back on it, Helene could never say for sure why she opened the kitchen window for him that evening, but she did.

  Silhouetted against the light of a waxing moon, the lanky figure poured himself silently through the window, jumping from the worktop like some giant, exotic cat.

  He closed the window behind him and pulled the curtains shut.

  Helene’s eyes were still adjusting to the dim light.

  It was him. No doubt. She could smell his aftershave.

  “What are you doing here?” she whispered, outraged. “How do you know where I live? This address isn’t on my business card!”

  He ignored her. “Did you get my message?”

  “What message?”

  “Have you got your grab bag?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “Then there’s no time to waste. Let’s go.”

  He put his hand on her arm but she twisted free, lurching backwards away from him. His touch had electrified her into action.

  “No. No! You tell me what the hell is going on! I come back here to find burglars in my house and my elderly neighbour traumatised. Now you’re here acting like the Milk Tray Man. I want answers.”

  “I can give you answers, but not here. We have to go.”

  “No. Tell me now.”

  “This isn’t a bloody game,” he said almost calmly. “Get your bag now or I can guarantee neither of us will be going anywhere for a very long time. Do you understand?”

  He paused.

  “I’m going right now, Helene. With or without you. Your choice.”

  “Wait,” she said.

  She fumbled in the darkness and felt her way to the understairs cupboard where she retrieved her old grab bag. Then she shoved in the backpack from her daytrip and stood up.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Leave your mobile,” he said, “or they’ll use it to trace us.”

  Silently she handed him her phone.

  “Leave it.”

  She turned it off and left it on the kitchen table.

  “I must leave a note for the Jenkins or they’ll worry,” she said.

  “Be quick. Tell them you’ve gone to stay with a friend.”

  She scrawled a note and left it in plain view.

  Sound travels long distances at night, and they both heard the noise of a powerful car engine at the same time.

  “Damn it! We’re too late,” he growled. “We’re trapped: they’ll see us if we leave by the front door.”

  “The kitchen window?” she ventured.

  “Too visible.”

  He looked around desperately.

  “The coffin hatch!” gasped Helene.

  “What?”

  “This way.”

  She ran up the stairs, her bag thumping clumsily against her leg.

  She tugged at the stud plasterboard that covered the large, square hole in her bedroom wall.

  “Help me!”

  A shower of old paint dusted their feet and debris was strewn across the expensive carpet. Beneath the layers of age, a curious doorway was revealed.

  Charlie forced open the unwilling door cautiously. Helene prayed its gentle squeaks wouldn’t give them away.

  He peered out. The coffin hatch faced out into the Jenkins’ garden. Leaving this way, they would be unseen by anyone watching the front door, the courtyard garden or the kitchen wall.

  Charlie slid his thin body through the opening and dropped gently to the ground.

  “Throw me your bag,” he hissed.

  Helene pushed the bag out and watched as he caught it easily.

  “Come on!” he whispered, trying to sound encouraging.

  Good God! she thought. I’m 52 years old. That’s at least 30 years too old to be jumping out of second-storey buildings.

  “I’ll catch you! Come on!”

  His voice was tense, urgent.

  Helene thought it would be a good time to start praying to St Christopher, or possibly even St Jude, the patron saint of lost causes. Instead she closed her eyes briefly, awkwardly fumbled her way through the peculiar door, then dropped to the ground like a sack. He caught her clumsily, or perhaps more truthfully, he broke her fall.

  Scooping up her bag, he grabbed her arm with his free hand. Then he hauled her behind him like an elderly sheep that was not willing to follow the leader.

  He flung her bag over the Jenkins’ chest high garden wall, then placed two large hands under the cheeks of her backside. Helene felt herself flying over the wall, her left hip complaining sharply.

  He cleared the wall easily and vastly more elegantly, then dragged her after him as they headed for the church.

  What are we supposed to do now? she wondered fleetingly. Seek sanctuary?

  Instead they ran past the church, through the churchyard, Helene tripping over some collapsed headstones as they tore towards the coast path. Her breathing was soon thundering so loudly she was sure that anyone could easily have heard her laboured breaths from some distance and followed them. But there were no sounds of pursuit. Evidently the watchers didn’t know about coffin holes. At least not the kind people had in old Cornish cottages. Thank God.

  Helene could smell the iodine of salt and seaweed; she realised that they’d arrived at the lonesome Boat Cove. The tide was well out and she stumbled over the pebbles and sand as Charlie continued to heave her behind him. A small RIB was bobbing on the slight, summer swell.

  He tossed her bag into the boat and Helene wondered if he was going to do the same with her. Instead he splashed through the water and leapt in. Helene followed with far less grace feeling the cool night water flow through her trainers, soaking her trousers up to the thigh. She flopped over the side of the dinghy like an indignant sea bass and tried to catch her breath.

  He gunned the engine and they slid into Mount’s Bay. From an ungainly position on her back, Helene could see the orange-yellow glow of Penzance street lights and the dramatic illumination of the Mount itself.

  She had no idea where they were going and she didn’t ask.

  Chapter 5

  Lying on her back, Helene felt every jarring jolt through her throbbing hip as the boat leapt across the water. And she felt stunned with everything that had happened – and the speed at which it had happened.

  She stared glassy-eyed at his profile in the half moonlight, questions churning around in her head. Slowly her breathing returned to something like normal and she sat up, propping herself against the broad rubber side of the boat.

  Instantly she felt the sting of salty spray on her skin and the wind sliced through her thin jacket. Charlie ignored her.

  Adrenaline rush over, Helene’s scattered wits began to coalesce and she started to feel annoyed again.

  She waited for him to speak but his eyes were fixed ahead of him, a slight frown creasing his otherwise untroubled face.

  “What did you tell Suse?” she ventured at last. “I mean Susan.”

  There was a brief pause before he answered, a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth. He shrugged.

  “Nothing. I expect she’s updating the status on her Facebook page by now.”

  Helene didn’t know what to say. ‘Sorry’ seemed deeply inappropriate.

  “Is Charlie Paget really your name?”

  He glanced at her, eyebrows raised. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

  “Okay.”

  Helene was desperate to stop the tremor in her voice. She breathed deeply.

  “Well, are you going to tell me what all this is about, Charlie Paget? You promised me answers back at the cottage.”

  “I told you what you needed to know to get you out of there in one piece.”

  Helene looked at him sceptically. She waited for further information and the silence stretched uncomfortably. She tried again.

  “Are you saying those men were going to... what... question me, arrest me... ‘do me in’?”

  Her voice began to rise in disbelief.

  He turned on her angrily.
>
  “I’ve told you already, don’t you listen? This isn’t a bloody game. Who do you think you are, messing up people’s lives like this?”

  She blinked in astonishment.

  “You accuse me of messing up people’s lives? You’re the one who came to my home in the middle of the night like some cut-price James Bond. I’ve been thrown out of a two-storey building, then tossed over a disturbing number of Cornish hedges by some... by you! And you say I’m messing up your life! I’m nearly a bloody pensioner! Just let me off at the next harbour and we’ll pretend this little fantasy of yours never happened.”

  He looked at her calmly.

  “Are you really so monumentally stupid?” he said coolly. “Listen, Ms Journalist: when you start bandying about words like ‘Langley’ and ‘White House’ people will hear you, no matter where you are. And then you turn up in my girlfriend’s village and start asking questions about me. You think people are so dumb that they won’t put two and two together? You’ve put yourself in danger, you’ve put me in danger and you’ve put Susan in danger.”

  Helene was stung to reply.

  “You left her behind fast enough: you can’t be that bothered about her.”

  His shoulders gave an impatient twitch.

  “It was safer to leave her behind because she doesn’t know anything.”

  “Nor do I!” bellowed Helene.

  He looked at her steadily.

  “You’ve made a damn good job of making people think you do.”

  Helene was silenced.

  She turned to stare at the silky black water passing beneath them, trying to force her numbed brain to make some sense of what was happening.

  By the time he finally slowed the engine, Helene was shivering uncontrollably. She couldn’t imagine ever being warm again. Her summer walking wear offered little protection against the sea at night. Her hands were numb and her face frozen: at least it was cheaper than botox. She couldn’t have moved quickly if her life had depended on it.

  Charlie seemed unaffected. He steered the RIB towards a dark opening in the cliffs. The beach shelved gently and he rode the dinghy straight up onto the sand.

  He threw Helene’s grab bag onto the beach and jumped out. Then he held out his left hand towards her and she took it gratefully.

  They didn’t speak.

  He reached into his jacket and Helene took a step backwards, dropping his hand. She expected to see a gun but she was wrong. Instead a long-bladed knife glinted in the starlight. He walked towards her and Helene gasped.

  He could kill her here, gut her like a fish and no-one would ever know. Months from now her bloated, sea-worn body would be discovered and they’d call it an accidental drowning.

  Lurid images fled through her mind and she tried to force her body to move. She succeeded only in stumbling, catching her balance awkwardly with one hand on the wet sand. He loomed over her.

  But instead of slicing her open, he plunged the knife into the RIB. The escaping air hissed softly and ten thousand pounds worth of boat deflated like a tired party balloon.

  He caught her frightened gaze.

  “We won’t be needing it,” he said, a hint of humour softening his features.

  Then he pointed at the cliff face, leering some ninety feet above them.

  Helene shook her head dumbly. No way. Not even in daylight.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said casually. “I’ll pull you up. Have you ever abseiled?”

  “Once,” she said, her voice hoarse with tension.

  She couldn’t admit that it had been in the controlled environment of an indoor climbing school, the distance similar but considerably less terrifying.

  At the same time she guessed he’d summed up the terror in her eyes.

  “Okay. I’ll go first. I’ll tie your bag to the end. When you see the line drop down, loop it around your waist and put your arms through like this.”

  He demonstrated briefly.

  “Brace your feet against the rock as if you were abseiling. Yank three times – hard – and I’ll bring you up.”

  He didn’t wait to see if she’d understood his instructions.

  Paralysed, she watched him tie the rope through the handles of her grab bag and begin to scale the cliff. He climbed effortlessly, his hands and feet finding invisible holds, muscles working easily. He was soon out of sight, merging into the rocks. All she could hear was the sudden cascade of grit as his fingers dislodged pebbles.

  She felt utterly alone.

  Helene’s senses, frozen with cold, gradually began to unthaw and she looked around her. She knew they’d headed west because she’d seen the flare of lights from Penzance on her right. In the distance she could see a lighthouse blinking. She guessed it was the Longships Lighthouse which meant they must be near Land’s End. In which case this was probably one of several smugglers’ coves on this stretch of coast: easy to access from the sea, with a sandy, softly shelving beach and any number of caves in which loot could be stored. The only access from land was by rope. And now the RIB was history, her only escape was above.

  At length she heard the nylon line snaking softly down the cliff and felt hugely relieved despite her fear of the climb ahead. With trembling, uncooperative fingers, she passed the knots around her waist as he’d shown her and tugged hard three times. Leaning backwards she tried to breathe deeply, quelling the terror that welled up.

  She felt the rope tighten suddenly and slowly she began to rise up the cliff, her dead weight hanging in his hands. The rock was greasy with spume and moss beneath her feet and her wet trainers slipped repeatedly. A sharp piece of granite jabbed her shoulder and she grazed her hands trying to steady herself. She tasted blood as she bit the inside of her lip.

  He continued to pull steadily. The rope bit through the thin cotton of her jacket, rubbing raw a patch of skin behind each arm. Soon it was agony and perspiration began to run down her face. She didn’t dare take a hand off the rope again, so the sweat stung her eyes.

  When she saw the lip of the cliff silhouetted against the lighter night sky, she hooked a leg up as high as she could and clawed her way onto a smooth, grassy bank. She lay gasping like a landed fish. Seconds passed before she could squeeze open an eye: he was looking down at her, smiling slightly.

  Every muscle ached: her hip and back were protesting at the rough usage and Helene felt every one of her fifty-plus years – more, if the truth be told. She knew from bitter experience that she’d be stiff as a post by morning.

  She didn’t allow for the fact that most people, when faced with a midnight race, sea race and cliff climb, would be equally if not more fatigued. Helene had never been able to help but whip herself with a caustic sense of her own inferiority.

  “Are you okay to move?”

  What a stupid question. She doubted she’d ever be able to move again.

  “Time to go.”

  He loped off with her grab bag and she had no choice but to force herself to her knees and crawl after him.

  Dear God, she thought, as she clawed her way across the tussocky grass; if I ever get through this alive I shall never bitch about my Pilates class ever again.

  She raised herself painfully to a standing position and stumbled clumsily, trying to avoid any rabbit holes. If she broke an ankle now he’d probably toss her back over the cliff anyway.

  He stopped abruptly and she nearly walked into him.

  “We’re here.”

  She looked up, cuffing the hair from her eyes.

  A small, fixed-wing aeroplane was parked on the cliff top.

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  She couldn’t help speaking the words out loud. He seemed entertained, as if he’d known she’d react like this.

  “Have you ever done a parachute jump?” he said calmly.

  The blood drained from her face.

  He smiled, his teeth very white in the moonlight.

  “Hopefully you won’t have to.”

  He didn’t offer her a
parachute.

  The plane had four, tiny seats. He crammed her bag into the back and pointed at the front, right hand cockpit seat.

  He didn’t seem to have any intention of helping her in, so Helene dragged herself up and collapsed gratefully into the bucket-like seat. He pulled free the chocks and slid in next to her.

  The engine started with a roar, horribly loud in the night air. He indicated that she should wear some earphones hanging behind her. She put them on, wishing irrelevantly that she could reach the baby wipes in her grab bag for hygiene’s sake. She’d travelled by too many grotty airlines to want to chance an unpleasant ear infection, but this time she had no choice. They looked fairly clean in the dark.

  His voice, electronically amplified, crackled in her ear.

  “Buckle up.”

  But before she’d clipped herself in, he’d begun to taxi across the uneven grass. When he reached the end of the field, he turned the plane in a half circle and opened the throttle. Pointing towards the cliff edge, the plane began to speed up.

  With mounting horror Helene realised that he was going to launch them hang-glider like from the cliff. But the field was very small and the grassy runway too short, far too short!

  The plane seemed to freefall off the cliff edge and Helene’s stomach was sucked upwards. A strangled squawk forced its way out of her throat as she squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands gripped her seat, waiting for a crash to splinter them onto the water.

  Except it didn’t.

  The plane’s engines struggled throatily and Charlie managed to pull the nose up so they appeared to skim across the surface of the water.

  “You can open your eyes now.” His voice sounded amused.

  “You... you bastard! Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that?”

  He raised an eyebrow and gave the same irritating half smile.

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  Yes, it bloody well would, thought Helene. I’d have climbed back down that bloody cliff and swum home.

  “Where are we going?” she managed to ask in a stilted voice.

  “North.”

  “Could you be a little more specific?”

  Her sarcasm didn’t seem to have any effect on him.

  He hesitated briefly.