The narrow strip of beach became darker as a heavy bank of clouds pushed in from the sea and the surf rose as the wind stiffened. Gentle waves gave way to swells that crashed onto the shoreline sending spray through the air in sheets that danced over the rocks and onto the beach. The caves on the cliff face moaned from the winds gusting across their mouths.
A twelve year old boy stood shivering below the towering crescent of cliffs. He looked through the dim light to the steep path that could take him off the beach, away from his misery, away from the lash of soaking wind. But he thought of the promise he’d made, and he turned his head away from the path, resolved to completing his search for a place to secure the tiny canister.
His feet were submerged in whirlpools of froth and his socks were caked with cold wet sand. The rest of his clothes were soaked through and clung to his body. He raised his right foot, supported it across his left knee, and pulled down the heel to drain out sea water.
Her words came back to him. You’re not afraid of the dark are you, Paul? Be brave for me, this will be a cracking adventure.
Determined to please her, he fought back tears and moved towards the menacing line of rocks. But the sense of bravado he’d felt at the start of his errand was entirely gone; it had been replaced by his fear and desire to leave. He wanted to be back in front of the big fireplace with a steaming mug of cocoa, sorting through his marbles and conkers; his toes tucked warmly beneath the belly of the Obneys’ dog, Jiggs. He wished Jiggs was with him now. In his young life he had never felt so exposed or so alone.
Tugging up his coat collar to ward off the icy pinpricks nipping at his face and neck, he worked slowly along the scattering of large rocks, and towards the waves crashing over them from the point.
In the darkness, the tangle of rocks loomed around him. His hands were numb and his fingers ached. He stopped for a moment to warm them in his pockets.
His fingers felt as if they would break off as he started running them over the surface of the rocks that faced the cliff. He quickly found a crevice between two rocks, and then glanced over his shoulder to see if the location was visible from the caves above; it was. He pulled the small metal tube out of his pocket. His hands shook as he worked at wedging it into a small cleft branching from the crevice.
The container dropped to the ground twice; both times he searched blindly and retrieved it before the sea water coursing around the rocks could sweep it away. After several attempts, and a wiping on the inside of his coat, the tube held fast. Satisfied that part of his job had been done, he dabbed his sleeve onto his eyes to reduce the sting of salt.
He stared through the darkness at the largest of the three caves, squinting into its black mouth for any sign of the man. Following his instructions, he moved a few feet away from his deposit and stood straight. He waved both arms above his head, and kept watching.
Where is my signal? She said that he would be here, and he would signal.
He knew that she expected him to wait.
The signal didn’t come.
Searching for cover, he moved towards a cluster of larger rocks a short distance down the beach. He would still be able to watch the caves.
He moved inside, framed his face with his hands and willed his eyes to see what might be lurking in the shadows. The rocks to his sides and back cut the full force of the wind, but along with the growing darkness, they expanded his fears.
The howl from the cave mouths grew louder.
There was a torch in his coat pocket. He gripped it, and was tempted to turn it on to put some of his fears to rest, but he didn’t, it had been made very clear to him that the torch must not be brought out until he had been signaled or was off the beach.
Is the man even here? Perhaps he is, and his torch hasn’t worked. But why hasn’t he called down from the cave? Something must have happened.
The winds shifted and inside the circle of rocks it became a little drier, a little quieter.
Another half an hour, if I haven’t been signaled by then, I’ll tell her that no one came. But I did what she asked; I did my best.
Leaning back against a rock, he rubbed his arms, and blew onto his hands. He put them deep into his trouser pockets and raised his head to take a deep breath. His lungs filled, and his neck and shoulders began to relax.
He heard a swish and a loud grunt.
A shadow slashed from the rocks and wrapped around him. He saw the outline of a hand an instant before it clamped down on his face and blocked his mouth and nose. The hand smelled of oil and animal dung. Its owner moved up against him and pushed savagely to get him away from the rocks.
Struggling to breathe through the power of the grip, he felt sick to his stomach.
He kicked his feet up from the ground to free himself. But, at half the size of his attacker, he was lifted easily into the momentum of the kick. He was suspended, then dropped to the ground and subdued.
A voice rasped into his ear. “Not a sound, boy. Just do as I say.”
The man pulled him up the path to a narrow ledge on the cliff face.
His shoes scuffed along the surface of the ledge as he was dragged. Pebbles scattered and rattled down the cliff and into the hungry surf.
He glanced down to the sharp rocks shimmering through the darkness. Don’t let go of me.
The path widened where the cliff face turned.
A few yards further along, he was taken deep inside the middle cave. The sound of the wind and the sea gave way to a deep hush. Fearing that the man might cut his throat, or snap his neck like a twig, he tried to stay still, but he shivered again, this time violently.
They were in utter darkness.
I want to go home. Warm tears flushed down his cheeks and dripped onto his trembling hands.
Somewhere close behind him, he sensed the man moving. He heard nothing except the thumping of his own heart and the chattering of his teeth.
A few hours later and eight miles to the west, the first traces of morning light filtered through the filthy windows of an old warehouse in the Penzance rail yards. Arthur Coulter, an officer from MI5 sat at a battered desk.
He drummed his fingers impatiently and thought through his plan to control the damage. The boy’s involvement had ruined the operation. Already, there had been an impact on his unit; their mission had been compromised, and their prime target had slipped away. Coulter had been ordered to relocate the entire team for debriefing and re-deployment.
Although a more detailed reckoning of the situation would come later, his initial response had to be prepared now, before tackling the operational changes.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
He tried to imagine the set of circumstances that had pulled the boy from his billet and deposited him smack into the middle of everything, right onto that beach.
Coulter read the name from a small note he’d pulled from his pocket. Paul Collins, London, NW9.
He took a box of matches from the desk drawer. “Details,” he muttered. “I need more than this, give me some bloody details.”
The telephone rang.
His voice was clipped and edgy. “Are you calling from a secure location?’’
“I am,” said Judith Challis. Her voice was confident and clear.
“How well do you know this boy?”
“Very.”
“His family?”
“I’ve talked to him a great deal. He’s told me the lot.”
Coulter flattened the note, placed it into a chipped ashtray and struck a match. He held the flame to the edges until it caught, and waited until the note was completely burned before he spoke. “There will be a huge squawk over this, Judith. Hopefully, I can contain most of it. But by the time you ring off, I’d better know what in Hell you were thinking, and why.”
“Where do you want me to start?” she asked.
He sat back in the chair. “First, tell me about this boy; tell me what you know about his family, and then tell me about his time in Cornwall. And for Christ’s sake, tell me why you sent him onto that damned beach.”