Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You!

by E. R. Pomeransky

  Looking through his infra-red goggles, Guthrie was able to see the distant floodlights around the airfield. The trucks were heading that way.

  He watched as they drove onto the airfield. Men wearing combat gear began to unload the large wooden crates from the trucks. They were packed with RAF issue rifles and AK47’s, along with handguns and grenades.

  A Hercules C-130 was parked outside one of the hangars, partially hidden by a truck. Surely they weren’t going to fly it at this time of night, he thought to himself. It would wake the whole of Portreath.

  Once the trucks had been unloaded, the men reloaded the crates into the fuselage of the aircraft, confirming his fears.

  Suddenly, a figure ran across the tarmac towards the Hercules C-130, and climbed up into the pilot’s seat.

  The engine started. The plane moved along the runway gathering speed, and then took off.

  ‘Good job done,’ a voice said, near to where he lay in the grass.

  ‘Yes, she flies well. Right, we’re finished, let’s go home.’

  Guthrie remained hidden until the men had left the airfield, deliberating over what had been said. ‘She flies well.’ Of course, aeroplanes like boats and cars were known in the feminine, that must be all there was to it – or was it?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  That following day Guthrie decided it was time to leave Redruth.

  Riding his Harley over the bumps in Drump Road heading towards the A30, he wondered if he should trade in his bike for a car. The fact that he had never taken a driving test was of no consequence, perhaps he would get round to it someday. Apart from problems with the weather and bumps in the road, he loved his bike, loved to feel the throb between his legs. As if it was a woman sitting astride her, stroking her gently, his penis throbbing with the engine. A form of escapism, his brother had said, racing away from reality into oblivion. Of course, he was right, Guthrie conceded, as he weaved in and out of the traffic, changing lanes at whim. Danger was everywhere. But the worst danger lay in memories. The constant memories of Stella, her smile, her beautiful eyes, even her touch.

  There were even memories racing about in his head of the philosophers he had read at university. Were they really seekers of truth, or just rambling fools? One of Hume’s famed achievements was for awakening Kant from his dogmatic slumbers. Guthrie wished someone would do the same for him.

  Hume, what was it that he had said about cause and effect? ‘One event follows another; but we never can observe any tie between them. They seem conjoined but never connected.’ He had argued, that just because one might have only ever seen white swans, does not prove that there are no black swans in existence.

  Guthrie hoped that Hume was wrong. He had to find the tie, the necessary connection, or, at the very least, find the black swan amongst the herd of white ones.

  *****

  In the distance he could see blue and mauve fields rising up to the skyline, violets ready for picking. It must be prophetic, he thought, as the next item listed on his agenda were, ‘violets’.

  Fifteen minutes later he had reached Hayle estuary, a refuge to a multitude of birds. Looking down into shallow waters he could see herring gulls and a few green sandpipers wading through the debris of the outgoing tide. During the winter as many as 18,000 birds sheltered there. Guthrie hated birds, and thought it a waste of such a beautiful area. After all, Hayle had everything, the dunes, the three miles of white beach stretching from the river to Godrevy lighthouse, Lelant Saltings, Copperhouse Creek and Carnsew Basin. All it needed was better night life, perhaps a classy casino and a few upmarket clubs; and maybe a theme park like Piran had suggested.

  Instead of continuing on to Penzance, he turned off at Nut Lane and rode down into the village of Lelant. Careful not to skid on the blossoms that covered the road, he glanced across at the garden centre and then at the children’s fun park, Merlin’s Magic Land. It was at times like this when he wished he had children. It would be nice to take them to places like theme parks, be a normal man, a family man. Perhaps it was too late, after all, he was almost forty.

  St. Ives was a jewel in Cornwall’s crown. Officially a town but more like a large village, its centre point being the harbour. A place where pilchards were once fished in abundance, the mainstay of the populace. And, like the Scots and the Welsh, the locals had considered themselves an independent country, Cornish not English. Times had changed in St. Ives over the past decade, here the Cornish had almost stopped using the word emmets (ants) to refer to those they deemed to be foreigners, mainly the English. Not due to any deep sense of altruism, but merely because the emmets were threatening to become the majority. Now the fishing boats had been replaced by speedboats and surf boards. Long gone were the bearded old men singing sea shanties whilst mending their fishing nets on the wharf, or telling their tales of the ocean whilst smoking their pipes. Even the Great Unwashed, the pot smoking hippies, had vacated the harbour wall decades earlier. Now there were only tourists, seagulls and dogs. Yet, there was one thing that remained consistent, and that was the colony of artists. St. Ives was overwhelmed by artistic creativity. Potters, painters and candlestick makers paraded their craft in seafront studios, hoping to get enough sales to feed themselves throughout the winter.

  A No Parking sign greeted Guthrie on the slipway of Western Pier. Surrounded by billboards advertising boat trips to Seal Island, motor boat hire and shark fishing, it reminded him of his happy boyhood trips to Southend with his family. How he had loved the Essex coast, even with its dull, grey ocean and bingo pods. Here in Cornwall there were no Kiss Me Quick hats, no pie and mash stalls or jellied eels.

  Walking onto the wharf he stared down over the railings into the ebbing harbour waters. An aquatic palette of Mediterranean blue shadowed with turquoise green, he was blown away by its beauty.

  Two men suddenly appeared by the billboards, they were watching him. He could see the bulges in their jacket pockets. There was no way of getting past them as they blocked any escape route. At the other end of the pier was the ocean.

  As the men moved in his direction Guthrie ran towards a queue of tourists, and followed them down the slippery harbour steps into a waiting boat, which looked more like a large dingy.

  The other passengers seemed to be over-excited, he thought it a little odd, after all, it was only a boat ride.

  Wearing his sunglasses, he waved up to the men who were glaring down at him from the wharf. His other hand was firmly on his pistol.

  Just as they reached for their weapons the dingy pulled away from the steps and began to thrash about in the water.

  ‘Ouch!’ he jumped. The pain soared through his back. Reaching out to grab something before he was bounced out into the ocean, he found to his dismay, that there was nothing to hold onto.

  Like a speed boat programmed with a pogo stick, it crashed over the swell towards Porthminster beach. Crash, crash, crash, the vessel hit the water head on, as it proceded towards Gwithian lighthouse.

  Looking for an opportunity to disembark, Guthrie soon realised that it was impossible. Even when this nightmare ended, he had no doubt the two men would still be waiting for him.

  Although the scenery around him was magnificent, he failed to notice. His coccyx was breaking, his brain was rolling about in his head, and his knees were almost bouncing off his chin. Yet, to his dismay, the other passengers were shrieking with laughter, holding their arms up above their heads as if they were on a novelty ride at a theme park. Unable to share their enthusiasm, he grabbed hold of someone’s leg for dear life, as the dingy thrashed about the shoreline.

  ‘Right me ‘andsums, we’re now off to Seal Island. It’s also known as the Western Carracks,’ the skipper informed them. The others in the dingy all clapped, but Guthrie just wanted to go home, except for the fact that he no longer had a home.

  Screams of delight continued to echo in his ear, as, with each bounce of the dingy, they were soaked by the salty sea-spray. How their eyes gleamed with excitement,
despite the fact their hair and feet were drenched. Yet, all Guthrie could do was pray.

  Eventually, they arrived at Seal Island, a small rocky isle just over 3 miles from the shore giving refuge to a colony of grey, blubber-cushioned seals that lazed around all day under the Cornish sun.

  ‘No, this isn’t a dingy it’s called a rib, this is a rib-ride,’ a passenger explained to him.

  ‘A rib? A rib breaker more like. It feels like my ribs are broken. When did all this catch on, then? I thought we were just going for a nice cruise.’

  ‘Ha-ha, poor you.’

  ‘Yes, poor me,’ he groaned. ‘I know that three miles is only the same distance from Redruth to Camborne, but it’s like travelling there on a toy space hopper.’

  ‘I doubt if anyone has ever fallen overboard.’ The man then turned away to take photographs of a huge grey seal.

  When it was time for the tour to end, Guthrie’s heart was in his mouth knowing there was no escape route, the men would be waiting for him back at the wharf. Yet, to his surprise, instead of the dingy sailing back into the harbour it headed towards a small group of rocks near Porthgwidden beach. Only then he realised that the tide had gone out. Breathing a sigh of relief, he knew that the men would be waiting for him - in the wrong place.

  After booking into a guest house he made his way towards The Digey, a narrow, cobbled lane that lead away from the harbour towards Porthmeor beach. Packed with tumble-down, granite cottages that had been built in times past when pilchards were the livelihood of the residents.

  Some were bordered by large stones at the front, others used seashells, reminding the passer-by of the verse from a nursery rhyme - With silver bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row.

  The cottages were painted in a variety of colours, although, a few still retained their original granite. All nestling in on one another, on either side of the cobbles.

  Feeling somewhat peckish, he bought a morning newspaper and entered a café. He ordered bacon and eggs fried sunny side up, fried bread, mushrooms, tomatoes and a pot of tea - he would start his diet tomorrow.

  Whilst chewing on a thick, sizzling piece of bacon, he glanced at the headlines:

  TIGER WOODS WINS MASTERS

  AT 21 YEARS OF AGE

  Noticing the proprietor looking at him, he lifted the paper towards her and pointed at the page, unable to stop grinning.

  ‘First black player to win a major golf championship!’

  But the woman pretended not to hear, obviously thinking him an over excitable nutcase.

  It was still only 11.30 by the time he left the café. Trying to look nonchalant, he glanced across at the semi-detached house at the end of The Digey. It was much larger than its neighbouring cottages, with a high stone wall enclosing a spacious garden. The bronze plate on the front gate read: Lyonesse Lodge.

  A tabby cat suddenly ran over and rubbed up against his legs, and then ran back to the house and jumped up onto the gate.

  Guthrie walked over to the cat and tickled it under the chin. Security alarms were not unusual, or barbed wire. Still, the ones around this garden were a little excessive.

  Peering over the wall, a blue and lilac haze greeted him. Violets covered about half of the garden, another quarter was saffron crocus and the other lavender.

  The occupant obviously grew the flowers for a living. Of course, Cornish violets and saffron were a big commodity in the South-West.

  Slyly taking photos with his pen-camera, he was suddenly interrupted by a husky East London voice.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  He turned round to see a woman standing there. She was in her forties, dyed yellow hair and wearing dirty dungarees. The cat moved towards her purring, she stroked it.

  ‘I just noticed your flowers. I want to buy my mother a gift from here and was thinking of violet perfume.’ Guthrie gave a huge smile.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t like strangers looking over my wall,’ she said brusquely. ‘If you wish to purchase any violet products you’ll need to go to the shop on the Island.’ The woman picked up the cat and returned to her house, failing to notice Guthrie’s nod of thanks. He had no doubt that she was the person he had been looking for.

  Heading up the road he noticed the postman had dropped some letters. Guthrie rushed forward to pick them up and handed them back to him, except for two.

  The Island was the diamond in St. Ives mystical crown. A small grassy hill overlooking Porthmeor beach, attached to the mainland by an isthmus that hosted a car park. Originally a fort, its correct name was Pendinas, fortified headland. On the summit stood a small granite chapel that had once been a haven for smugglers. A few benches were positioned outside the chapel for the fatigued climber.

  The Coastguards station was situated on the other side of the Island. Guthrie had read in a travel guide that during the Napoleonic Wars the Island gave refuge to a battery that accommodated several cannons. At night the chapel was illuminated by a golden glow, like a magical castle in the sky that could be seen for miles around.

  Just along from the car park were several gift shops. He was looking for one particular shop, The Beehive. Eventually he found it, situated between a surfing shop and gift shop. The Beehive was not very original as a name, he thought, recalling the Beehive pub in Ilford’s Beehive Lane. Whether the pub was named after the road or vice versa, he never knew.

  It was only a tiny shop, painted in lilac and pink with transfers of bees stuck on the walls.

  Soaps, bubble baths, gels and face creams filled the shelves. They were labelled, ST. IVES PURE HONEY & VIOLET SKINCARE.

  There were two display stands, one hosting an assortment of honey in locally made clay pots, the other small bags of dried lavender.

  Guthrie placed a couple of soaps and honey pots into a basket, followed by two bags of lavender tied with a blue ribbon. He would post them as gifts to his mother and aunt.

  ‘Where does the honey come from?’ he asked the girl at the till.

  ‘A bee farm, I think.’

  ‘Cornish honey, then,’ he smiled.

  ‘Yes. The lavender is also grown locally, and the violets.’

  ‘I just saw a garden full of violets round the corner.’

  ‘Oh, that’s Mrs Kaleel’s house, she owns this shop,’ she replied, adding up the bill. ‘The total comes to twenty-five pounds and 40 pence, please. Do you want them gift wrapped?’

  ‘May as well,’ Guthrie replied, opening up his wallet.

  The girl began to wrap the items individually in pretty floral paper.

  ‘Kaleel, not a Cornish name.’

  ‘No, her husband’s called Mustopher, although he was born here. My aunty knows him from school.’

  *****

  Below the Island lay Porthmeor’s magnificent surfing beach, where white-kissed, barrelling waves, rolled towards the shore. No mermaids here, although seals could be seen and the occasional shark or whale.

  Removing his shoes and socks, Guthrie headed across Porthmeor’s soft white beach towards the sea. The sun was shining down, catching the waves, turning the sea from turquoise to gold before his eyes.

  Dipping his toes into the water, he found that it was much colder than it looked.

  Not far from where he paddled, a group of teenagers wearing black wetsuits and carrying fibreglass boards, raced down to the water’s edge. Guthrie watched as they ran fearless into the ocean, eager to ride the highest wave.

  Further along the beach were a row of blue beach huts, reminding him of childhood holidays in Butlins.

  Overlooking the beach huts stood St. Ives’ pride and joy, The Tate Modern. The local artists claimed that it was the natural white light, unique to St. Ives, that drew them there. The townsfolk still boasted of the late Bernard Leach and Barbara Hepworth, their work exhibited in the enormous white building near Barnoon Cemetery. That was where he would like to be buried. He reasoned, that if his tortured soul never found rest, at least he would have a wonderful view of the oc
ean.

  Deciding that a swim could wait for another day, he sat down on the warm sand and lit a cigarette.

  After a few drags he retrieved the stolen letters from his satchel.

  The first envelope contained an electoral roll renewal form. The next letter was addressed to V. & M. Kaleel at Lyonesse Lodge. It was postmarked Blankenberge, Belgium.

  Taking another long drag on his cigarette, he wondered if there was any post for him back in Redruth. Suddenly, he remembered the letter that Solly had handed to him when they had met up in London. He had forgotten all about it, it was still in his satchel.

  ‘My dear Guthrie,’ the letter began. ‘Just a few notes I’ve put together for you. You mentioned Somalia to me, so I photocopied this for you:

  ‘UNITED NATIONS

  Reference: C.N.299.2013.TREATIES-XXVI.3 (Depositary Notification)

  CONVENTION ON THE PROHIBITION OF THE DEVELOPMENT,

  PRODUCTION, STOCKPILING AND USE OF CHEMICAL WEAPONS AND ON

  THEIR DESTRUCTION GENEVA, 3 SEPTEMBER 1992

  SOMALIA: ACCESSION ’

  Guthrie studied the photocopy, and then, returned to the letter.

  ‘But the rule against stockpiling won’t come into play for years, son. Anyway, here is a little information I found for you. As you know, the Federal Republic of Somalia resides in the horn of Africa. Bordered to the north by the Gulf of Aden, Kenya to the south-west, and Ethiopia to the west. Along its eastern border lies the Indian Ocean. In 1991 it became a country of great tragedy when the controversial Marxist leader, Mohamed Siad Barre, was replaced by the opposition, and the country was taken over by warlords and clans.’

  Guthrie had not anticipated a lesson in history or geography.

  ‘At the end of 1991 there were fierce battles in Mogadishu during a bad drought. So, by the following year, over half the population were facing starvation and at the very least 300,000 men, women and children died.’

  Well, he already knew all this, it had been in every tabloid at the time.