Terror's Cradle

by Duncan Kyle

  `He looked at me dourly, the weighing eye of the islander

  on the city slicker. But he told me. 'Noss,' he said. `The Holm? That bloody cradle !'

  `There isn't a cradle any more. I cut the rope last night. But it's on the Holm, all the same.'

  `Then how — ?'

  He spoke one word then, and I shuddered, because the word meant a lot of things; it also flashed pictures on the screen of my mind. I didn't like what I saw. The word was, `

  Climb.'

  I made myself speak quietly, and reasonably, and listened to the tremble in my voice., '

  You can't climb it.'

  `No.'

  Ànd I certainly can't.'

  He turned to look at me and nodded. 'You can do it.'

  I said, 'I wouldn't even try. I get vertigo on a long escalator. I've no climbing skill. For Christ's sake, man!'

  `Take the wheel.' He went into the cabin and came out again a moment later carrying a big canvas bag with a drawstring neck. He fiddled one-handed with it for a moment, then handed it to me. I pulled the neck wide and he tipped the contents out: a pile of metal objects that rattled into the stern seat. He shone his torch on the little pile and picked out a shiny piece of metal a few inches long. 'See that? '

  I nodded. 'What is it?'

  `jumar clip,' he said. 'Sooner use Heiblers myself, but the Jumar's safe and efficient and I'

  ve no Heiblers here. Now see,' he fumbled among the bits and pieces and selected three other items. The first was another identical clip. The other two were stirrups of some kind, with strong webbing through the eyelets.

  `Now do you see?'

  Ì bloody well don't see!' I thought of that dreadful cliff, all two hundred feet of it, sheer and impossible. And I thought about Alsa, too, and my stomach churned because I knew suddenly that I was going to try. I had to try! I'd fail; I knew that, too, with awful certainty, just as I'd failed all

  along the line. But with Alsa still a prisoner .. .

  I said soberly, through a dry, rasping throat, 'How does it work?'

  Anderson said, 'In the night, before I cut the cable, I crossed to the Holm and let down a rope. It's secure, don't worry. Now, what you do is this . . I listened appalled. It was safe, he said. I couldn't fall, he said. He got the climbing belt from the cabin and demonstrated how safe it was and why I couldn't fall. He told me the breaking strain of the nylon line was God knows how many thousand pounds. He didn't convince me for a second.

  We moved away from the eastern cliffs of Bressay, across open water towards the southern tip of Noss. When I could tear my eyes away from the sinister wedge silhouette of the island, I glanced across towards Bressay, wondering about Lincoln's boat. Was it wrecked, sunk, what? I should have felt guilty, but I didn't. Where I was going, sins were forgiven, though I doubted if Lincoln would forgive mine. The closer we came, the more impossible the whole crazy idea became. As distance narrowed, the cliffs reared higher. From above they'd seemed big, from below, as Anderson nosed the boat in beneath them, they looked stupendous, grim dark grey walls striped strangely across with dull white. Anderson looked up at them almost with affection. He could afford to; he didn't have to climb.

  He said, 'Be glad it's winter.'

  `Why?'

  `Big breeding grounds, these cliffs. Everything's up there at nesting time : all the gulls, gannets, razor bills, guillemots. Fulmars too. Just be thankful there are no fulmars.'

  `Why?'

  `They spit at you if you disturb them. Oil from their throats. It stinks, enough to knock you down. You can never get the smell off your clothes. Be thankful, man.'

  I dutifully tried to be thankful, but it was difficult. Lincoln's apt phrase, a hole into hell, kept coming back to me and the more my mind repeated it the truer it seemed. We came nosing into the black gap between the Holm and the island, engine slowed just a little, Anderson handling the boat with high skill where the water pounded between the huge walls.

  I buckled the belt, then crept forward, boathook in one hand, torch in the other, looking for the rope.

  `Just . . . a bit more . . .' Anderson was looking upward for the dangling rope. 'There!'

  I hooked it in and passed the soaking end through my belt loop, then fastened the Jumar clips in position, one above the other. From each clip a stirrup dangled on its web strap. I put my foot in one stirrup and tried my weight on it experimentally, but there was a quick movement beneath me and the boat was gone, carried away on a swift surge of water!

  Anderson shouted, 'Don't panic. Other foot!'

  Scared daft, I clung to the rope tightly while I felt with my foot for the other stirrup. It seemed for long moments that I'd never find it, but then my toe slid into the swinging metal loop and at least I could get myself into some sort of balance. I stood for a moment then and looked up at the silhouette sixty feet above me where a massive overhang bellied out against the sky. The sea hissed and swirled beneath me, almost drowning Anderson's shouted instruction to get going.

  I still didn't believe it would work. Two metal clips and a pair of stirrups to conquer this awesome combination of height and space? It was so patently absurd!

  `Get on man!' Anderson shouted again.

  I swallowed and took hold of the first Jumar and tried to slide it up the rope. It wouldn't budge. I pushed and sweated, beginning to panic, before the pressure of the stirrup under my instep told me what was wrong. I raised my foot and tried again. This time the Jumar clip slipped easily upward. But was it secure? Carefully I let my weight move from one stirrup to the other. The clip held, gripping tight as my weight forced its sprung jaws against the rope. All right, now the next,! I moved the second clip up until it touched the first, transferred my weight, and felt it grip. The two clips were one under the other; I couldn't move the second past the first. I moved the top clip again, pushed down hard on the stirrup, and went up another eighteen inches. Now again, left foot this time. Okay. At least it worked. As a system, it worked. I let out a deep breath of near relief that became a gasp as the rope pivoted suddenly. Vomit rose in my throat. I glanced down at the water. I'd climbed perhaps five feet; nothing against the task that remained. And I saw something else too. Anderson was leaving; already his boat was backing off at the entrance to the gorge. Why? I forced the question from my mind. He'd have a reason, even if I couldn't see it. I forced myself to climb. The strain on my legs was murderous and the pressure on my feet was just where it hurt most under the instep. It was probably correct technique to take the weight on the ball of the foot; I understood that, but couldn't make myself do it. The further my foot went through the stirrups, the safer I felt and to hell with the pain!

  Slide the Jumar up, step after it, slide again. I was beginning to get the hang of it. But it remained difficult, each step upward an effort in concentration. Each movement of hand and leg must be co-ordinated, and it was impossible to achieve any kind of rhythm. So every step was a new operation, begun and considered and executed with desperate care. I fought my way slowly upward, nearing the overhang that seemed increasingly to press its weight down towards me. He shall not pass! I looked up at it, grimly. I bloody well had to pass.

  , All the while the rope twirled slowly and I made myself concentrate on the rope itself, trying to ignore the cliffs as they swung past, first one way then the other. Up with Jumar and foot together. Check the clip. Transfer weight. Steady myself. Now the next clip, the next foot . . .

  Then I was at the overhang. I slipped the top Jumar clip up until it actually scraped on rock, then raised myself and tried to work out how to get past. I could see only one way. I'd have to push myself and the rope clear of the rock by sheer strength, hand flat against the rock-face, then slip

  the clip past. I brought up the under clip and secured it, balanced myself, and tried . . . A puff of wind ruined it. Just one puff that spun me out of control, trapped my fingers between rope and rock and cracked my head blindingly against the cliff face. For a moment I hung dazed, my weight on b
elt and stirrup, held upright only by my own trapped hand, now being ground agonizingly against the stone. I struggled frantically to release it, but only' succeeded in hurting myself more. With my teeth gritted against the pain I forced myself to think. But there was no other way. I'd have to repeat what I'd done before : push against the cliff to force the rope out a little, then pull my hand away. It meant I'd have no handgrip on the rope at all.

  But there wasn't time to look for subtleties, even if they existed. The pressure of the rope on my trapped hand was crushing. I gave a sudden angry push, snatched my hand clear and, clouted my head again. I hung there dizzily, turning slowly in the air sixty feet above the swirling water. It was impossible. There must be another way. Elbows? What if I pushed with my elbows, still holding the rope? The first try failed, but the second worked and I slid the Jumar triumphantly over the rock edge. Now she other. Got it! I waited for a moment, nursing my hand, till the pain faded a little, before forcing myself up again. The going was, desperately difficult now, the rope taut against a long vertical section of the rock face. I had to strain my body away from it with the toe of one boot just to make space for the' Jumars to slide. But the system still worked. I fought for height and height was slowly being won. I was more than halfway, aching from the strain, but confident now in the equipment. And at least, pinned as I was to the face, that awful vertigo-inducing pivoting had stopped.

  A few more feet and I gave myself a rest, equalizing the clips, letting my weight fall evenly on to the two stirrups. I counted slowly to sixty and started again. But by now it was grindingly hard going. My strength was diminishing; each upward thrust was a greater effort than the one

  before. For a while I know I even ceased to think with any clarity; at any rate, I have no memory of the next part of the climb after that brief rest. I was within ten feet of the top when something thrust itself into my consciousness and for a moment I failed to recognize what it was. I think I must have been reliving what had happened here the night before, confusing one day with another, because at first the light meant nothing.

  Suddenly, I was trembling awake again, staring in horror towards the entrance to the foaming channel beneath. A big fishing boat had appeared there. A boat with a searchlight. The nightmare was repeating itself! I was held in the bright beam like a fly on a wall!

  Terrified now, I forced myself upward. Only half a dozen steps more. Only five. A bullet whanged off the rock close to ine and fizzed off into the darkness. I flattened myself as close as I could to the rock and managed another upward thrust. Then another. There was a shallow cleft in the rock to my left and I forced myself into its sparse shelter as below me somebody opened up with an automatic weapon and bullets smacked in dozens against the rock and sang away. Another step. Cautious as hell, trying to stay within the crack. The firing had stopped. Empty magazine? Pause to reload? I took a chance and made another two feet. The cliff edge was close above me now, less than three feet or so from my hands. Still no firing. I got foot and hand in position and thrust quickly and suddenly and was cowering in the cleft as the next bullets cracked against the rock. One more. Just one. One more thrust and a quick wriggle and I'd be in cover. The searchlight was unwavering, my shelter desperately inadequate. I waited . . . and realized they were waiting, too. When I moved they'd fire.

  That was when the next act of the nightmare began. It was uncanny and for a moment I didn't believe it, but it was there, the sound was there: clear and unmistakable high above. A helicopter came clattering over the Noss cliffs!

  I watched it in bewilderment. Elliot and Willingham? What were they . .? And then I knew suddenly, and realized

  that the men on the fishing boat would be watching the helicopter, too. Briefly, perhaps but they'd watch it. With a last, long desperate thrust I reached the edge, gripped it, and hauled myself over. For a moment, breathless and exhausted, I lay flat on the top pf the Holm.

  But that moment was all I could afford. I couldn't, daren't stay there. I stared up at the helicopter as it veered across the sky towards me. It had followed the boat ! That was how it had got there. Now the helicopter was going to land up here. I crawled away from the cliff edge, then tried to stand up and found I couldn't. I took a moment or two to untangle the reason from my own confusion. But it was simple enough. The Jumars and the belt still held me to the rope.

  Desperately I fumbled with the belt buckle, released it and set off at a stumbling run across the surface. Above me the helicopter was slowing, beginning to hover in preparation for landing. What had Anderson said? Fifteen paces from his hide towards the point where he'd secured the rope. I got to the hide, turned back and started counting. Then a shot came from above, a single sharp crack amid the engine's roar. Christ, they were shooting at me, too ! Elliot and Willingham!

  From nowhere a mammoth voice boomed, 'Stand still, Sellers.' But I didn't stand still. The helicopter must have some loudspeaker equipment. It boomed again. Twelve paces, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. I dropped to my knees, searching, and found it. A plastic bottle, just as Anderson had said. Tucked in a little depression. I shook it and heard the water gurgle. The transparency was in the water.

  `Stand still or we fire!' the great voice boomed.

  I ignored it, stood up and, clutching the bottle, sprinted for the cliff edge.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  There was about twenty yards to go. Twenty-one would be a disaster and my physical state didn't make for fine judgment. Ten feet short of the edge I flung myself flat and began to kitten-crawl forward. At the edge I stopped, put the water bottle down, and turned to watch the helicopter. The thing was huge, with long rows of passenger windows along its sides; one of the oil company machines I'd seen on the tarmac at Sumburgh and which were used to carry men out to the deep sea drilling rigs. The roaring monster came down slowly and carefully, bringing its own fierce gale that seemed to be buffeting me towards the edge. Its coloured lights turned and flashed eerily in the now deafening darkness. It looked like some vast insect predator, come to ingest me. The wheels touched and the massive rotors continued spinning, but the pitch diminished, then a door in the side opened and Elliot stepped down and waited for Willingham to join him. They were both armed.

  As I watched them walk towards me, I rapidly unscrewed the stopper of the plastic bottle. They stopped no more than ten feet away and stood looking down at me. 'All right, Sellers. Give me that!' Willingham bawled against the helicopter's racket. I shook my head and shouted back. 'Get back into the bloody thing and fly off.'

  They came closer, both with pistols levelled. Elliot called. `We'll use these, Sellers. Don'

  t doubt it.'

  I held up the bottle. 'If you do, it goes over the edge. The stopper's off. It'll sink straight away.'

  Elliot yelled, 'How do I know it's in there?'

  Ìt's there,' I shouted. 'Now go. For Christ's sake, go!' Stalemate. Elliot and I stared at each other. I shouted, 'If you shoot me, it falls. If you come near me, it falls. Get into your bloody helicopter and go!' It was Elliot I was addressing, Elliot who was in charge, Elliot who stood looking at me doubtfully. I deliberately ignored Willingham—and I almost lost everything in doing so. I should have expected it; knowing him, but I certainly wouldn't have expected his speed. He hurtled at me from the edge of my vision, diving to try to pin me to the ground. At the last second I saw him coining and rolled over desperately, lashing upward with my foot. It was sheer instinct that made me kick, sheer blind luck that I made contact, sheer disaster that my foot caught him as it did : hard and clean in the face. The impact was doubled by his own onward rush. He thudded to the ground right beside me, with a harsh yelp of pain. I lashed out again, heard his sudden scream and didn't understand for a second what had happened. But the scream continued and died away and I suddenly knew and felt myself shiver. Willingham had gone over!

  I looked quickly at the bottle neck. As I'd rolled, had the bottle tipped? I shook it and listened to the water gurgle. No. It was still there
.

  What about Elliot? For God's sake, where was he? I looked up and saw he was still standing there, open-mouthed now, but the automatic still pointed at me. 'Go!' I yelled at him.

  He remained perfectly still for what seemed a long time, then shrugged, turned and walked slowly back to the helicopter. I watched him climb aboard, listened to the rising clamour of the rotor blades, and then the chopper's wheels lifted and it soared upward. Cautiously I crawled away from the cliff edge, then paused to restopper the bottle. The helicopter was a couple of hundred feet above me, beginning to circle slowly. Elliot had gone away all right, but not very far.

  What the hell could I do now? I'd won a pause, but no more than that. Before my crazy climb up the rope there had at least been a scheme of sorts. Anderson and I would inform the Russians we had the copy and use it to bargain

  for Alsa's release. But now the Russians would probably have guessed why we had returned to the Holm. By now, they'd perhaps even have caught Anderson and be certain. For me, and for Alsa, the alternatives were bleak and fatal. Frying pan or fire?

  Americans or Russians? Either way, Alsa would . . .

  I crouched alone in the darkness on top of that two hundred foot rock pillar and tried to find a way out. Above, Elliot's helicopter still waited. Below, there, was the Russian boat. There was nothing, nothing I could do!

  I stood shakily and looked helplessly around me. Then I saw a dark shadow on the grass near the middle of the surface. I frowned, remembering the Russian who'd captured me last night. I hadn't been sure then that he was dead. I walked slowly towards him. Now there was no question about it. He lay as I'd left him; those blows I'd chopped into his throat had killed him. Now Willingham was dead too! Two men dead. And Alsa would also die; they'd never release her now.

  Then I saw that something lay beside the Russian. I bent to look at it. Of course – the radio he'd used! I scooped it up, switched on my torch, and looked at it. A simple walkietalkie gadget. On-off switch, probably single wavelength. Could I make use of this in some way? I sat down and thought about it for a bit, then went quickly to the hide and found what I wanted.