by Devon De'Ath
“No. The charity ran a comprehensive night shift of two male and two female carers. They perished along with their twenty charges. There wasn't much left to find, according to the article. A preliminary assessment by experts has suggested the Victorian manor that housed them, suffered from unseen structural defects. It folded like a house of cards during the blast. Nobody was going to walk away from that.” Vicky sipped her coffee. “I hope this wakes me up. We’ve been on the go all night. First driving, then hiking.”
Bill revelled in his own steaming dark sludge. “And all after a fight, shock and added emotional turmoil. I hear ya. I’m looking forward to crashing out somewhere. We’d better find out how to reach Lundy first. Any ideas?”
Vicky shook her head. “I’ve never been. There must be a boat or helicopter from North Devon. Once we’re done here, I’ll ask the staff if there’s a Tourist Information office nearby.”
Vicky leaned her head sideways against a swaying train carriage seat. Their preliminary investigation into Lundy yielded help from a council assistant. A stern faced woman who appeared perturbed the pair weren’t interested in Bristol’s attractions. She dug around to discover a joint ferry and island supply vessel operated sailings at this time of year. They ran on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, from either Bideford or Ilfracombe. At the news a popular campsite existed near the island’s only settlement, their ears pricked up. It offered a perfect cover while they awaited their quarry and sought to bring him to book. Paying to pitch his tent rankled Bill. But, on a landmass that small, options for a discrete freebie didn’t exist, even in one thousand acres of unspoilt nature. The place was too exposed, with little cover. Somebody would intervene if they erected a tent in a random spot. They could do without attracting that kind of attention. Two hours by boat to a tiny island with few inhabitants and no police. Vicky wasn’t sure who that favoured more: her and Bill, or the cult. Bill had thumbed his travel guide to learn the route from Bristol Temple Meads to Ilfracombe involved two trains and a bus. Each leg lasted forty-five minutes to an hour. These offered light relief to snatch some shuteye, which both took advantage of.
As before, Bill travelled first. They’d have to lie low for a couple of nights, so he scouted around. Time on the streets empowered him with an uncanny ability for locating quiet places to get his head down without discovery. Woodlands surrounding the hilltop Cairn Nature Reserve ticked all the right boxes: plenty of space, occupying high ground with advance warning of anyone coming up, and multiple avenues for escape. They could doss here overlooking the town and harbour for two nights, without difficulty. He mooched around for the best spots, offering lowest risk.
Tuesday morning they boarded the passenger ferry, MS Oldenburg. Over sixty years in age, she presented herself a graceful, stately German marine beauty stuffed with original wood and brass fittings. At forty-three meters, with a speed of twelve and a half knots and capacity for two hundred and sixty-seven, she wasn’t the most ostentatious craft. Yet Oldenburg remained the perfect choice as a supply and passenger vessel for Lundy.
Vicky and Bill pushed open a door from the heated saloon after a comforting breakfast. They found a quiet spot on deck, leaning from side to side with the rise and fall of waves in The Bristol Channel. An inquisitive pod of dolphins raced alongside, as if daring the ship to go faster.
Vicky pulled her parka collar higher, inhaling a fresh blast of salt spray mixed with rank engine oil. “Do you think he’s on board?”
Bill peered over the white painted railing alongside an orange lifebuoy ring bearing the black text: ‘M.S. Oldenburg - Bideford.’ “Who can say? It’s not like the guy will be in costume, any more than burglars wear striped jumpers, black masks, and carry bags labelled ‘SWAG.’ But if he is, you can bet he’s spotted us. This lovely old ship isn’t exactly an ocean liner. Few places to hide.”
They’d bowed out of breakfast in a hurry. In a curious parallel to their encounter with the tablet newsreader on the Thames, a male passenger put down his newspaper bearing the headline: ‘Fugitive Cop Killers implicated in Lincolnshire Murder.’ Bill and Vicky didn’t stick around, in case the paper’s interior, expanded article featured their images again.
Vicky stared ahead of the bow, willing the island to appear. “Anyone who knew Raven and I at uni, will never believe I had a hand in killing her.”
“Do you keep up with them?” Bill asked.
“No. Raven was the only one from our old crowd I still spoke to. They’re all off living their lives. I hope they’re having better luck.”
“You mean, living their lives like you were before you promised Martha Tomlinson you’d check on her daughter’s activities?”
Vicky craned her head back at him. “I couldn’t ignore it when I heard about her tattoo, Bill.”
Bill looked away. “I know. Somehow I don’t believe passing the buck is in your nature, even without your devastating family history.”
Vicky faced ahead again.
A black shape rose on the horizon like a humpbacked whale. Soon its fuzzy outlines sharpened to reveal a crisp, tabular form and striking, one hundred meter high rugged cliffs. A blob of white caught the sunlight. Something reflected. Bill retrieved a small pair of binoculars from his holdall. “It’s a lighthouse. One of several on the island, according to that brochure we picked up with the tickets. That must be the southerly one near the landing stage. The campsite at Beacon Hill isn’t far. Nothing is ‘far’ on an island three miles long and half a mile or so wide.”
Buildings of granite, as tough as the natural sea walls on which they perched, appeared dotted at random points along the island. MS Oldenburg slowed to coast in and bob beside a plain, concrete jetty. Mooring lines were secured, and the gangplank lowered for a gathering buzz of eager tourists and day-trippers to disembark.
Vicky and Bill hiked up the narrow track on its winding ascent to Beacon Hill. They passed an impressive, stuccoed granite nineteenth century villa called ‘Millcombe House,’ with windows gazing through a high wooded valley out to sea. Bill estimated the surrounding crowd to be near two hundred souls. They passed ‘The Marisco Tavern’ and the general store, before chasing another track amidst gorse strewn with rocks along the cliff tops. Bill checked the sky for any change in weather. “Why don’t we explore? Get a feel for the place, before heading back to pitch the tent?”
“Okay.” Vicky picked her way past some curious goats. A Lundy pony trotted over to sniff at her hand. Vicky stroked the mare’s mane. “Hello, girl. I wish I had something for you.” A damp patch of peat squelched beneath their feet as they continued north.
Bill lost his footing and slipped down a short bank. He picked himself up, then wiped a damp mark staining his trousers.
Vicky crossed her arms, stifling a grin. “Are you all right?”
“Nothing a stiff breeze and some sun won’t dry off. No twisted ankles. That’s a mercy.” He struggled up the bank to rejoin her. Vicky extended her hand to steady him.
At an exposed point near the northernmost lighthouse, they came about in a gradual arc between a passing herd of fluffy, chestnut-coloured Soay sheep.
Bill shielded his eyes from the sun on their trek back south along the western side of the island. “Are they puffins?” He raised his binoculars. “Yeah. The brochure claims 'Lundy' hails from the Old Norse for ‘Puffin Island.’ And there they are.”
Vicky edged closer. “Raven said as much, if you recall. Can I see?”
Bill passed the binoculars across for her to scan the rocks below. He pulled out a map. “That intimidating rock face is ‘The Devil’s Slide.’ How appropriate. It feels like we’ve been on one of those for an age. Funny how the island has stone walls subdividing its width at the quarter, half and three-quarter points. It’s easy to work out how far you are from somewhere.”
Vicky passed the binoculars back. “Come on, Bill. I want to see the church.”
They walked on in silence until the square turret of St Helen’s appeared with its
lancet bell openings and slate louvres. A niche adorning the chamfered wooden-gated arch doorway at the porch featured a figure of St Helen. Red and black bands of polychrome brick covered the interior walls, adding visual interest, and an echoed sense of spiritual devotion from its builders. Vicky and Bill moved from transept to nave in search of evidence the pilgrim had paid a visit. The humble house of worship revealed no obvious signs of disturbance.
“Can I help you?” A short man of late middle age, with a slight stoop, appeared from the vestry. A dog collar and armful of candles left few guesses about his position.
“We’re looking round,” Bill said.
The minister set his candles down on a pew, removed a pair of thick-rimmed glasses and wiped the lenses on his cardigan. “I can see that. You appeared to be searching for something.”
Vicky swallowed hard. “We’re taking it all in. Our first time on the island. It’s nice you haven’t suffered vandalism, like we’ve found at churches on the mainland.”
The minister replaced his glasses, then swept a patch of fading hair across his brow. “That’s one benefit of such a small community. The locals wouldn’t dream of it. Those who take the boat out to visit us aren’t the kind to damage a church either.”
Bill joined in with Vicky, flashing an amused side glance at her subterfuge. “No vandalism at all?” he asked the minister.
“Not during my time here. Are you visiting for the day?”
“No. We thought we’d camp at Beacon Hill to soak up the atmosphere,” Bill replied.
The minister inserted one of his candles into a brass holder. “That’s a fine idea. Lundy will be quieter tomorrow. The next boats aren’t due until Thursday and Saturday. Days in-between offer greater tranquillity. The fact we don’t have any cars here enhances that experience. If you’re still about on Sunday, you’re welcome to join us for worship. I’m Reverend Michael Streeter.”
Bill ushered Vicky toward the door, before this simple conversation led to unnecessary questions from the island’s well-meaning man of the cloth.
“It was nice meeting you,” Vicky called, then shut the door behind them.
Reverend Streeter watched their rapid exit, shrugged and continued with his duties.
Vicky and Bill plodded towards the campsite at Beacon Hill.
Bill unhitched his pack. “As ours was the first boat since Sunday, it’s no surprise our guy hasn’t done his thing yet.”
Vicky dumped her own pack in a patch of grass. “If the pilgrim strikes tonight, he must either be a camper or renting one of the self-catering places on the island. Would he be that dumb?”
Bill scratched his head. “How do you mean?”
“Well, if he vandalises the church and the next boat doesn’t arrive until Thursday, everyone will know it was someone staying on the island. There’s nowhere to run.”
“Excellent point. But unless he’s caught red-handed - pardon the pun - would he care? There’re no police. Can you imagine officers coming all the way out from the Devon mainland to examine a spot of graffiti? I say we monitor the church. If we miss him, we’re scuppered.”
Vicky yawned. “We can’t stay up all night, every night, Bill. How long can we keep doing this? Anyway, if Raven’s right about the big ritual, I suspect we’re unlikely to miss it. Maybe the ritual is the last act. No more sigils.”
Bill sat on the grass with his legs crossed. “How will they keep that quiet? Okay, I know we’re twelve miles offshore with limited communications. But can they intend to rock up and murder twenty-eight residents? That’s blatant, even for well-connected scum used to covering their tracks.”
“Thirty residents if they catch us,” Vicky added.
Bill thumped the knuckles of one fist into the sod. “We’ll I’m not going down without a fight.”
Vicky grunted. “It’s resolution or bust for both of us. I’m tired of running, Bill. I won’t be holding back either.”
* * *
Next morning, Vicky rolled over in her sleeping bag. Bill’s chest rose and fell, his breath coming a poor second place to the breeze blowing outside. A hot dinner at ‘The Marisco Tavern’ had settled them both down with a welcome sense of comfort. After last orders, they found the church left unlocked at night. No evidence of any disturbance appeared inside. The pair played sentry in a rear pew until 2:00 a.m. to make sure. Bill’s repeated, poetic jokes about ‘keeping vigil for a sigil,’ convinced Vicky they should call it a night.
Vicky unzipped from the cosseted warmth of insulation, keeping her body heat close. A fresh wind off the Atlantic sent shivers through her torso, raising soft, faint hairs on chilly arms.
The campsite occupied a field beside a lengthy, low granite building which served as the village store. A shower block, with hot and cold running water for campers, offered an almost miraculous answer to Vicky’s prayers.
Steam rose as she lathered her athletic, naked torso in suds and washed her hair. The warmth and spraying sensation of the flow chased away a modicum of background stress. It had never left since the day this affair began. She knew it lingered from childhood, even though she’d buried it deep in an emotional hole and boarded up the entrance in her psyche.
Bill wandered bleary-eyed towards the shower block as Vicky walked out, refreshed and clothed. He picked crusts of sleep away from the sides of his nose for a better view. “You’re up bright and early. There’s not much else to see on the island.”
Vicky clutched a small wash bag close to her chest. “Why don’t I pop over to the church for a check-in, while you shower?”
“Okay. Where do you want to take breakfast, ‘The Marisco Tavern’ or ‘The Marisco Tavern’? There might be something in the store.”
Vicky smiled. “Thank God the Marisco is such a grand establishment. I’m hungry again.”
“Ditto.” Bill waved an idle hand, then disappeared into the showers.
The pair enjoyed a cooked breakfast beneath the double-height beamed ceiling of the village’s only hostelry. An early mist melted away to offer unimpeded views of rippling blue ocean.
Gavin Rothbury, the landlord, arrived with a pot of coffee for his new patrons. Intelligent eyes filled with warmth sparkled like diamonds in the fifty-something’s weathered face. “How did you two sleep?”
Bill yawned and stretched. “Like logs. All that wonderful food last night, helped. Not to mention the sea air.”
Gavin folded a tea towel across his left forearm. “Slowing down too, I’ll wager. Even the folk who rent holiday cottages here say that. We switch the diesel generators off overnight. Computer and Internet addicts can't connect. Mobile phone coverage is patchy, when you can get a signal at all. The only landline is a payphone here in the pub. After their initial shock wears off, people re-connect with themselves and life’s natural rhythms.”
Vicky poured her and Bill a cup of coffee. “We’re looking forward to a quieter day, without a boatload of tourists. You must be too, extra business notwithstanding.”
Gavin squinted. “I’m sorry to say you're in for some disappointment.”
Vicky frowned. “Reverend Streeter told us the next boat doesn’t arrive until Thursday.”
“Ordinarily, that’s true,” Gavin replied. “But the Oldenburg will dock later this morning with a private party. That sometimes happens on a Wednesday during nicer weather. Companies, organisations and the like reserve the entire ship for a scheduled outing.”
Bill flicked Vicky a rapid glance. “Any idea who we can expect today?”
“I heard it’s a sizeable load of staff from some children’s care charity, off on a jolly. A few of their kids are coming along. Youngsters with disabilities, mental problems, etc. You get the picture. Lundy should work her magic and do the poor tikes a power of good. Children always love the animals here. Especially the island’s free ranging sheep, goats and horses.”
Vicky gave a nonchalant tilt of the head. “Let’s hope they have a marvellous time.” She shrugged at Bill, then tucked into
a plate of salmon and scrambled eggs.
Gavin retreated to the bar.
By the time Vicky and Bill paid for breakfast and emerged into the fresh air, warm sunshine had returned to Lundy. They ambled back towards their tent.
“Did you run into the vicar again, while you were at St Helen’s this morning?” Bill asked.
“No. I found the church as we left it, so I didn’t hang around.”
“Do you want to grab my binoculars and watch the ship come in? I reckon we could get a decent view up near the southern light.” Bill nodded towards the immaculate white lighthouse.
“Why not?”
Ten minutes later, Vicky and Bill sat with their backs propped against a tall, surrounding wall encompassing the lighthouse perimeter. Over one hundred metres below them, the island’s sloping jetty trailed away towards aquamarine water. MS Oldenburg materialised out of a low haze, chugging through a gentle swell to the landing point.
Bill raised his binoculars to watch passengers disembark. First off, after the crew, came a toned woman with luxuriant, silvery-white hair down her back. Several men and women of unremarkable appearance followed her. A mixed couple in their twenties escorted a group of children onto the pier. The woman was short of stature with a blonde bob; her partner, stocky of build with a straw-coloured buzz cut. He rested one firm hand on the shoulder of a boy around twelve. With the other, he raised something shiny to his lips.
Bill chuckled. “Some people start early. Talk about setting those kids a poor example.”
Vicky squinted at the walkway far below with the naked eye. “What?”
“Just a guy knocking back booze from a hip flask.” Bill’s grin faded in an instant. “What the fuck?”
Vicky spun. “Bill?”
Bill half rose, binoculars never leaving his eyes. “Christopher Warwick and Wendy Stokes are down there.”
Vicky’s eyes bulged. “You’re kidding.”
Bill passed her the binoculars. “See for yourself.”
