Catch The Stinger, Before It Stings You!

by E. R. Pomeransky

  About to descend the cliffside, a massive wave exploded into the deep, black chasm below. Unable to reach the edge of the cliff after several attempts, he tried to lower himself down into a small alcove at the top of the chasm. But the treacherous waves reared up from the sea like demonic talons. The beam from the aircraft came nearer. The ledge was slippery from the water. His hands were sodden and numb, as he tried to avoid falling onto the hazardous rocks below. His arms now so tired. Raw bloody fingers slicing, slipping away. Guthrie fell down into the hungry seas below.

  The Sea King began firing into the water, scouring further along the terrain around Hor Point and Pen Enys, as the trawler searched the rocks below Zawn Quoits.

  Trembath had witnessed Guthrie falling into the ocean through his binoculars, and now there was no trace of him. He laughed out loud. Henry Guthrie was dead at last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The white globe floated lazily across a backdrop of deep blue sky. Hovering over St. Ives bay, it turned from white to gold, casting diamonds over the waves.

  Hotel guests had been breakfasted and children were already on the beach, spades in hands. Fathers were battling with their new dinghies and surfboards in the shallow waters, while their stressed out wives rubbed cream into the backs and faces of their children.

  Along Wharf Road the dustmen and street cleaners were busy washing the roads and pavements, and clearing up litter, making space for more litter. The shops were setting up for the day; sweet shops, gifts shops, restaurants, cafes and a pub. Front entrances washed, window displays re-stocked and radios switched on.

  In the harbour, below the Western Pier, tourist boats were in the process of being cleaned and re-fuelled, besieged by herring gulls doing their morning rounds painting the town white.

  A queue had started to form for a place on the Cornish lugger, Dolly Pentreath, named after the last person known to speak the Cornish language. It was still in the process of being hosed down after a fishing trip.

  The men in the boats glanced up, knowing they only had 15 minutes to get it ready.

  The commotion of the previous night had gone unnoticed, and everyone was enjoying the weather, everyone other than Abigail.

  ‘They went out late last night and haven’t returned,’ she wailed to Brian over the phone from Lobster Rock.

  ‘Why did you let them go out alone?’

  ‘You can’t blame me; you have no idea what it has been like trying to protect him. He refuses to let me do my job.’

  ‘Okay. Well, give them another hour or so,’ he sighed. ‘If you still haven’t heard by then, let me know. I mean, he’s probably fine, just gone somewhere for the night and forgotten to make contact.’

  ‘His bike is still here, Brian.’

  ‘He might have booked into a local b and b for some privacy,’ he suggested.

  ‘At that time of night?’

  ‘What about the campsite, have you checked with them?’

  ‘Camping, on a night like that? You must be joking.’

  After the call ended, she made herself a mug of tea and took it back upstairs to the lounge.

  The French windows were wide open, casting shadows across the room. She headed out onto the veranda. One of the striped deckchairs had Katie’s bikini draped over it.

  Looking out to sea, Abigail could not stop thinking about the helicopter she had heard that previous night. What if it had been going to Guthrie’s aid? Or perhaps Katie had drowned and he was in a state of shock? She would give the coastguard station a ring soon, they might have some news.

  *****

  Guthrie did not wake up until around 10 a.m. feeling the worse for wear. Covered in cuts and bruises, his body felt like it had been ripped apart. Dried blood was everywhere. Perhaps he was dead. Or maybe, this was the meadow, where Plato claimed the souls of the dead hung around. Waiting for some judge to decide who would go up and who would go down, and who would be unlucky enough to be reincarnated.

  Unable to move his numb shivering body, he slowly turned his head to ascertain his whereabouts.

  Squinting through his bloody, swollen eyes, he noticed a black head suddenly pop up out of the water. It resembled a dog, with beautiful black eyes, almost human. It even had a black snout-like nose and long white whiskers. Halfway between fish and mammal, wanting to run but could only swim, as if the peculiar shaped back flippers had not fully developed into limbs. Endothermic vertebrates that suckled their young. Cursed to slither snake-like over the rocks, or play ball at an open air theme park.

  He was even more bemused by the 30 or so creatures that suddenly came into view, lazily spreading out over the rock. It was only then that he realised he was not dead at all, he was lying on the Western Carracks, a group of ragged islets known as Seal Island.

  Now he could see clearly, the white fluffy pups snuggled up to their mothers, crying for some breakfast. The cow seals, some with dark grey skin, others with patchy charcoal and brown skin, slithered across the jagged rocks like shiny giant snails. The males, larger and darker than the females, flopped into the sea as if bored, watched over by the noisy cormorants and gulls. All were enjoying the morning sunshine.

  Not so far from land, he thought, probably near Zennor. He could see the cliffs, almost touch them, but too weak to swim the short distance ashore.

  A large cow seal moved closer to him and flopped down, as if she somehow knew he must be kept warm. Mesmerised by its odd shaped hind legs. Yet even on this desert isle there was no peace to be had, what with the constant barks of the seals and squawks from the birds.

  And now the memories came flooding back. She was dead. The beautiful, quirky Katie was dead. Bursting into deep heartfelt sobs, the tears ran down his battle worn face. Her voice whispering into his brain like a sea nymph or banshee. Calling to him across the waves in an Irish lilt, carried by the morning breeze.

  ‘Lady Metamorphosis,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘Sweetest and most beautiful of butterflies.’

  His breathing was shallow; Guthrie knew he had to get to a hospital sooner rather than later.

  The waters were lapping near his head giving him the urge to pee. But he could not feel his body parts. Drowning in and out of consciousness, comforted only by the warmth of the sun and the wet blubbery bodies nearby.

  It was another 30 minutes of seal bonding before the Dolly Pentreath sailed towards him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Heron Inn was a long blue and white building that resembled a hotel rather than a pub. It overlooked the banks of the Malpas Estuary. In the distance, small boats could be seen gliding across the sun-spangled waters.

  Brian and Abigail led the way to a corner table by the panoramic window, followed by Guthrie and Gerry. Most of the other diners were outside on the terrace enjoying the sunshine.

  ‘You’ve lost weight, look like a film star.’ Brian said to Guthrie as they took their seats.

  ‘Yep, none of my clothes fit.’

  ‘A male model cum body builder more like,’ Abigail teased. ‘I think you must be related to Katie, what with those big green eyes and dimples, perhaps you had an Irish ancestor. By the way, you missed the post this morning when you were in the shower.’ She handed him a sealed envelope. ‘It was registered, I signed for it.’ She looked more feminine than usual, wearing a blue summer dress and a little make-up. The men also wore casual summer clothes due to the scorching weather.

  Guthrie gave a nod of thanks, placing the envelope unopened in his satchel.

  Gerry looked bemused. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Abigail, why are you still living at Lobster Rock?’

  ‘I’m not. I just went over to give Guthrie a lift here; he’s still not strong enough to ride the bike.’

  ‘I was in the shower when the post arrived,’ Guthrie added.

  ‘And I forgot to give it to him before we left...anymore questions?’

  ‘That’s all for now,’ Gerry teased.

  ‘And before you ask, yes, I’ve s
till got the ribs bandaged up,’ Guthrie laughed. ‘By the way, Brian, how is Mrs Beckerleg?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, she seemed quite comfortable when I last visited her.’

  They continued to make small talk, until their meal was served.

  ‘The papers are full of it, you know, about what happened with the RAF,’ Abigail sighed, as she played with her spaghetti. ‘Odd though, don’t you think, that an air force should involve itself in chemical warfare during peace time?’

  Guthrie shook his head. ‘It wasn’t peace time when Portreath first initiated the manufacture of chemical weapons. It basically started on May 11th 1941, when the airfield was used for raids on France.’

  Gerry nodded in agreement. ‘I read somewhere that it was a base for both British and American bombers.’

  ‘After the war the MOD had a huge stockpile of nerve agents they’d captured from the Germans,’ Brian joined in with the explanation. ‘So they decided to make Nancekuke the area for a sarin production plant.’ He paused to dissect his lobster.

  ‘What about the connection between the Emirates and this Sebastian fellow?’ Abigail asked.

  Guthrie failed to answer, focusing on the lobster and the long legs of a waitress heading towards the kitchens.

  ‘Let him eat in peace,’ Brian said.

  They continued to eat their food, almost in silence, until they had finished their main course.

  ‘It’s okay, mate,’ Guthrie said belatedly to Brian. Then he turned to face the policewoman. ‘Sebastian Dubois’s interest in the country of Somalia began some years ago. Dubai had an inadequate sewage system. It was inundated with human waste, and still is from all accounts.’

  Abigail turned up her nose. ‘Well, I shan’t be going there for my hols.’

  ‘Sebastian Dubois took a large fee for taking tons of the sewage away. After that contract he was contracted by RAF Portreath, and that was when the Trembaths’ joined forces with him.’

  Guthrie paused for a few moments to pour a glass of water from the jug. A slice of lemon fell into the glass, but he did not have the energy to fish it out.

  ‘What was the contract?’

  ‘He was contracted to assist the RAF in transporting chemical waste from Nancekuke and dropping it on Somalia.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ Abigail said, putting down her glass of wine. ‘The base in Portreath started off as an RAF joint, then became Nancekuke, a chemical weapons plant, and then went back to being an RAF post?’

  ‘Yes. But even when it went back to the RAF they still continued to produce the sarin.’

  ‘I thought the United Nations, or some other overseeing body, had banned it,’ Brian said.

  ‘In 1993 the United Nations Chemical Weapons Convention was signed by 162 member countries,’ Guthrie grinned to the detective. ‘They banned the production and the stockpiling of certain chemical weapons, one was sarin.’

  ‘When did it go into effect?’

  ‘Ha, good question. Not until last year, 29th April 1997,’ he laughed. ‘Which means that the RAF continued the production of chemical weapons after Nancekuke gave the base back to them. Although, the UN had called for the complete destruction of the stockpiles of chemical weapons, that was supposed to go into effect by 1997,’ he emphasised. ‘But the end date for the complete destruction of all the stockpiles isn’t until April 2007. That’s 9 years away. And I would imagine that it will continue long after that.’

  ‘Best not go for a swim in Portreath then,’ Gerry sniggered.

  ‘Before I go into deeper territory I just need to explain, that after Sebastian Dubois’s death a few years ago, Trembath must have been in a dilemma as what to do with the remaining chemical waste that Dubois had been contracted to dispose of.

  ‘Couldn’t he sell it or just dump it?’ Gerry quizzed. ‘And why would the MOD want to produce more if they still had the stockpiles?’

  ‘Firstly, Sarin degrades after a couple of weeks, or, at a stretch a couple of months. The stockpiles most likely were, at least in part, some of the old batch they had confiscated from the Germans during the Second World War. It was the same gas that they had used to exterminate Jews.’

  ‘No!’ Abagail gasped. ‘And they kept it here, right by the seaside where children play?’

  ‘Maybe it was past its sell-by date. But to be honest I have no idea why they needed to produce so much more, unless they had numerous buyers,’ Guthrie admitted. ‘But don’t get the old stockpiles confused with their on-going new production of sarin.’

  ‘Hope you’ve put all this in your report,’ Brian said.

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see.’

  ‘So, is this what you hinted at over the phone about Camelford?’ Brian lit a cigarette, and then placed the rest of the packet in the centre of the table for the others to help themselves.

  ‘To be honest I’m fucking knackered, Brian,’ Guthrie sighed.

  ‘I know, sorry mate, but needs must.’

  ‘Well, let’s have a fag first.’ He helped himself to one of Brian’s cigarettes and took a few drags.

  Glancing through the window onto the terrace, he watched as some diners fought off an offending gull that had invaded their table. Perhaps they should have left this to a cooler day, or maybe met on the beach so he could have gone for a dip. What more could he tell them, what more did any of them need to know?

  ‘Okay,’ he sighed. ‘I’ll tell you this little tale. On the 6th July 1988, a relief tanker went to Lowermoor Water Treatment Works – it’s in Camelford on the edge of Bodmin Moor. The driver discovered it was unmanned.’ Raising his brows towards the others, it was obvious where he was going with this. ‘The driver accidentally poured 20 tonnes of aluminium sulphate into the wrong tank. This contaminated the drinking water for around 30,000 people. When the water was tested, they not only found the aluminium sulphate but other noxious substances.’

  ‘Ha-ha, so now you’re going to tell us that after Trembath discovered what had happened in Camelford around 9 years earlier, he went and dumped some waste there too,’ Brian laughed.

  ‘Not sarin, it’s 500 times more toxic than cyanide. But I’d guess a little of the other waste was put into the tank, and I bet some of it was also dumped into the drinking water tank.’

  Abigail looked horrified. ‘So are you saying that some of the other noxious substances in the Camelford water was chemical waste?’

  ‘Only a fraction of it, Abigail.’

  ‘If this is true,’ Gerry began suspiciously, ‘then why weren’t the RAF boys up at the base contaminated from the waste and the sarin?’

  ‘Who said they weren’t? From what I’ve discovered some did become very ill. Actually, some died,’ he replied. ’So far, the total number of deaths is 41, and they are only the ones we know of.’

  Abigail looked bemused. ‘So how wasn’t this Sebastian Dubois arrested for his transportation of sarin?’

  ‘Dubois made money legally, Abigail, it was legal to drop waste on Somalia,’ Guthrie emphasised the point. ‘All the governments of Europe were at it.’

  ‘Oh, my God. So this was with the full knowledge of the British Government?’

  ‘MOD sanctioned, Abigail. They were also fully aware of Trembath’s involvement.’

  ‘The poor Somalis, how badly we’ve treated them because they’re black. No offence, Guthrie.’

  ‘Abigail, did you know that the company that shipped the waste from some European countries over to Somalia, was owned by the Somali Government?’

  ‘Oh, my God, that’s dreadful.’

  Brian re-filled all the glasses with wine. They paused for a moment to drink and reflect.

  ‘This has to be my last glass, I’m driving,’ Abigail sighed.

  ‘We could sit out on the terrace if you want, there’s an empty table,’ Gerry suggested, looking through the window.

  ‘Good idea,’ Brian conceded. ‘We can have our dessert out there. Just let Guthrie finish the story about the sarin
.’

  ‘Okay,’ Guthrie took the hint. ‘It was after the MOD was exposed for what they were doing to the Somalis, and these drops over Somalia were no longer viable, when Dubois extended his own business.’

  ‘What, manufacturing sarin?’ Abigail asked.

  ‘No. By taking RAF Portreath’s unwanted chemical waste and initially making the drops himself over Somalia, as an independent courier service so to speak.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘And then he progressed to selling it. But don’t ask me who were his buyers as I’ve no idea.’

  Abigail continued to look perplexed. ‘Can you just go back over a couple of points, please?’

  Guthrie nodded.

  ‘The chemical waste that RAF Portreath confiscated from the Germans, was separate from the chemical weapons produced by Nancekuke, when they took over the RAF base?’

  ‘Exactly. Nancekuke was a Chemical Defence Establishment in its own right, producing sarin and a small amount of VX.’

  ‘Wonder the people who live in Portreath didn’t get ill.’

  ‘Some did. Locals complained of numerous ailments and even deaths, and pointed their finger at the base.’ Guthrie recalled what the shopkeeper in Portreath had told him. ‘As I mentioned earlier, Nancekuke claimed to have stopped the production of chemical weapons. But of course they weren’t telling the truth.’ He turned to Brian. ‘But you probably know all this anyhow, it was fairly well publicised by the media at the time.’

  Brian nodded.

  ‘Eventually they made a half-hearted admission,’ Guthrie continued. ‘And it was accepted that they had stopped production in the 1980s, that’s when Nancekuke officially handed the area back to RAF Portreath.’

  ‘But, didn’t you say before that...’

  ‘You must never presume that a government or security force will tell the truth,’ Guthrie interrupted. If they did, it would put the country in grave danger.’

  ‘So they developed weapons of mass destruction to protect their own, whilst poisoning their own.’

  ‘Yes. But you already know we work on a sort of backhanded utilitarian philosophy, that it’s okay to sacrifice the few for the greater good of the majority.’