Spindrift

by Jonathan Broughton

  ‘A SmugglersTube.’ Bob’s pulse quickened, but he adopted what he hoped was an appearance of calm disinterest. “I don’t know Charlie, an old brass tube with a stuck cap isn’t much use. What do you want for it?”

  “What’s it worth?” countered Charlie.

  Bob shrugged. “Quid.”

  “Two quid,” snapped Charlie.

  “Split the difference; one fifty,” said Bob.

  Charlie grinned. Bob had a pretty shrewd idea where the money would end up.

  Bob took the cylinder and slipped it into his coat pocket. He gave Charlie the promised money, waved goodbye to the drinkers and walked back to the tideline.

  Once out of sight, he took the brass cylinder out of his pocket and inspected it closely.

  He was in little doubt that he held a message cylinder. ‘SURVEYOR GENERAL HASTINGS’ was stamped in small letters along its length. Bob tried to twist the cap off, but it wouldn’t budge.

  He had seen a similar cylinder in the local museum. The 19th Century Revenue Officers had used them to leave messages for their contacts.

  Bob made his way towards the fishing boats hauled up on the shingle and found the old fisherman that he had been hoping to meet. “Hello William. How’s your arthritis today?”

  The old man peered up at Bob with a distant look in his eyes as his gnarled hands moved of their own accord on the net he mended. “Afternoon Bob. Too cold for my liking; gets into the joints.” He continued with his mending.

  Bob pulled out a hip flask and offered it to William. “Drop of something to keep out the cold?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Thanks.” William took a swig from the flask. “Ah, that’s better. Drop of good that.”

  Bob winked. “Duty paid and all!”

  “Dun’t know what you mean.”

  “Course you don’t.”

  “I want to pick your brains about smuggling, back in the seventeen and eighteen-hundreds.”

  “Dun’t remember that far. Weren’t even born then!”

  Bob proffered his flask again. “I know that you were not born then, but you are the most knowledgeable man regarding the smugglers hereabouts.”

  William took the flask and held it tight. “The seventeen-hundreds was good times for the flaskers; them what brought in the brandy flasks. The Revenuers were a bit thin on the ground and could be persuaded to be lookin’ in the other direction. Of course, it all changed in the eighteen-hundreds after the war with Napoleon. The Revenue got stronger and the Militia got involved. Anyways, what do you want to know for?”

  Bob smiled at William’s transparent ploy to keep hold of the flask. “I found an old reference to someone called the Surveyor General and wondered if you knew what he did?”

  William offered the flask back. “Oh heem was in charge of the Revenue Riding Officers. Damn nuisance they was to the flaskers, but not very effective ‘til they started using spies and paying people for information.”

  Bob waved the flask away. “I heard that the flaskers used to store contraband in the caves at West Hill.”

  “They used the caves everywhere. West Hill, East Hill, Fairlight Glen, all the way to Pett. Soft sandstone, see, easy to tunnel and cut caves in. Surprised that they didn’t find any after that rock fall during the storm last week.”

  Bob glanced towards the cliffs. “I suppose that if anything did fall in the sea during the storm it would have washed up towards Pett and Winchelsea Beach?”

  “Funny things, tides. Normally flotsam ends up further round the coast, but I’ve known things fall in at Hastings and end up at St Leonards. Rare, but it does happen after storms. Why, have you found something?” His dark blue eyes sharpened.

  “No,” Bob lied. “I thought that some fossils might have washed up and wanted to check where I should look for them.”

  Bob retrieved his now empty flask and slipped it back in his pocket. William lost interest, his eyes went back to their normal distant gaze and he picked up the net again.

  “I think I might have a root around along there tomorrow when the tide is out far enough. Bye William, nice talking to you.”

  “Bye Bob. You and your flask is welcome to drop by any time.”

  Bob picked up fish and chips for dinner on the way back to his flat. The tell-tale slip of paper that he habitually placed in the door jamb of the front door was missing. He carefully opened the door and saw it lying inside on the floor.

  Bob tensed as he entered the small flat, and armed himself with a baseball bat which he kept in the hall. The visitor might still be on the premises.

  Everything appeared the same as he had left it, but tell-tales don’t lie. His visitor had been careful, but the sideboard drawer was slightly askew. Only a few millimetres out, but enough for Bob’s trained eye to notice.

  The flat was empty and Bob relaxed slightly.

  The thought of another person looking through his belongings disturbed him. It took away the anticipated enjoyment of the meal.

  As he removed the first layer of paper from the fish and chips he caught the hint of a familiar scent. Stale beer and urine; one of the ‘St Leonards Drinking Society’ had been here. But who and why?

  *

  Bob retrieved the cylinder from his pocket, wound a rubber band around the cap and gripped it firmly in a pair of pliers. Exerting pressure, he twisted the cap clockwise to counteract the left hand thread. Slowly, it unscrewed. Inside was a slim roll of paper.

  Bob took a deep breath and eased it out. It appeared to be yellow and fragile with age.

  He gently smoothed it out on the kitchen table. There was a pencilled message written in crude block capitals.

  ‘CARGO AT COVE. FRIDAY NIGHT. HIGH TIDE.’

  How old was it? Who was it meant for? Could the recent rock falls have dislodged it from a hiding place?

  He carefully re-rolled the message, returned it to the brass capsule, replaced the cap and dropped it into the pocket of his leather coat.

  Tomorrow he would search the shoreline along the rock fall.

  *

  The next morning, Bob arose early and felt the familiar tingle when action was imminent. He ate a quick breakfast and set several tell-tales around the flat using damp hairs. If anyone ‘visited’ today he would know where they had been.

  After the unexpected ‘visitor’ yesterday, he kept a sharp watch, repeatedly glancing in shop windows to check that he was not being followed.

  Slipping behind the Fish Market he backtracked and re-emerged from a narrow fish scented alley between the fishing huts.

  Two gulls squabbled over a discarded fish head. Nothing else in sight. So far, so good.

  The sun broke through the early morning cloud and the tide ebbed strongly. He climbed down onto the rocks. The sea sucked at the pebbles and shale at the foot of the cliff and washed over his leather field boots. It would be safe until about half past two, after that the incoming tide would cut him off.

  Just over five hours, plenty of time to have a good look and get back safely.

  The nearest rock fall was the spectacular one shown on television, the fresh scar stood out from the weathered look of the rest of the cliff and a large pile of debris jutted out into the sea.

  Bob spent over an hour picking his way over the rocks searching in each nook and cranny. He felt a sense of achievement when he discovered an egg-sized fossil, which he put in his satchel.

  He made his way towards Black Rock to search the smaller rock falls.

  As he reached a small cave which had recently been revealed by the recent storms, he had the feeling that he was being watched. He peered back along the shoreline, but could not see anyone.

  Bob trusted his sixth sense, it had saved him many times working for Her Majesty’s Government.

  He made his way through the narrow entrance to the cave. Taking a torch from his satchel, he played the powerful beam around. The pebble strewn floor sloped upwards towards the back of the cave which was partially obscured by an outcrop.


  Bob glanced at his watch. “Half past eleven. Blimey, where had those two hours gone? I’d better get a shift on.”

  He moved deeper into the cave and found a passage hidden from view behind the outcrop. It was narrow, but high enough to stand up in as the floor inclined steeply. Intrigued, Bob pressed on following its twists and turns.

  “This passage isn’t natural, it’s man made. It looks like an old smuggling tunnel,” he muttered to himself.

  Bob heard a sound behind him. A footfall or a rock falling from the roof? He flashed his torch back down the passage and listened hard, holding his breath. No one there.

  Ten yards further on the passage petered out. He shuffled right to the end and touched the wall. He turned about to retrace his steps when he saw an area of deep shadow to one side.

  Bob directed his torch beam into the shadows and saw another, smaller passage hidden by a spur at the last turn in the path.

  ‘Oh clever, very clever,’ Bob thought. You’re so intent following the path and seeing the end wall that you totally miss the change in direction.

  Bob ducked his head as he followed the new passage ever upwards. It turned sharply at right angles and ended in a large cave hewn out of the rock. He swept his torch around.

  On the floor lay a number of mattresses, Calor Gas bottles and cooking equipment. Slowly, it became clear to him. This was not just an old smuggling route, but also a current one.

  Not contraband, human cargo. People trafficking! Had he been wrong? Was the message in the tube new and left deliberately at a dead letter drop?

  Charlie stumbled upon it and had then obviously been seen selling it to him. Hence the visitation yesterday.

  He heard a shoe scuff the floor and jumped to one side. A cosh missed his head by a whisker, but caught him a painful blow on his upper arm. Bob dropped the torch which bounced on the floor.

  Its light, reflecting off the sandstone, illuminated the face of his assailant. Jimmy from the ‘Drinking Society.’ No longer a semi-comatose drunk in dirty clothes, but very much alert, dressed in clean jeans, a dark windcheater over a sweatshirt and wielding the cosh.

  Bob stepped to one side, narrowly avoiding the blow as Jimmy swung again.

  He calculated the odds, not good. They were both the same height and build. Jimmy was no amateur and had a weapon. If he did not do something soon it would only end in one way.

  Remembering the fossil, he thrust his hand into his satchel and seized it. Jimmy stepped in and swung the cosh. Bob blocked the blow and a fierce pain shot down his already damaged arm. Bob smashed the fossil against Jimmy’s elbow, causing him gasp.

  The fight continued for some time, each trying to get the upper hand as they circled one another.

  The arm swung again. This time full contact was made. A senseless body slid to the floor.

  The unconscious man was a dead weight and hard to drag back through the passageways to the sea cave. Coats and shoes were encumbrances and left behind until needed later.

  Re-dressed, the body was placed face down in the sea and floated out through the crevice on the receding ebb tide.

  The sea battered cadaver washed ashore near Pett Level.

  Bob was identified by Charlie from his leather coat, beanie hat and field boots. The Coroner returned a verdict of ‘Death by Misadventure.’

  *

  Robert Davies’ report on ‘Border Security in Southern England’ to the Joint Intelligence Committee had been well received.

  Returning to his desk, he strode down the corridor of Thames House in his carefully tailored suit and well shined shoes of soft black leather. His cover blown, others would now keep watch and take the necessary action.

  He would miss the leather trench coat and walking the Sussex shoreline with the shingle crunching under his field boots.

  A Fantasy

  by Pat Cochrane

  I love that our unconscious, though dreaming, dramatizes our internal conflicts.

  I struggle into consciousness as my nightmare of a storm that tears the heavens apart mutates into a loud knocking from downstairs. I follow the sound to the French windows, clutch the curtains, hesitate and then reluctantly draw them a hands width apart.

  My stomach leaps upwards as a dreadful face stares into mine. I freeze, before realizing it is Celandine, my neighbour, her face horribly distorted as she presses it against the glass. Opening the door, I usher her inside.

  She paces, wailing. “He looks dreadful and I’m responsible. Maybe it was the pebbles, or the chanting. Oh, what have I done?”

  “Celandine what’s happened? Who looks awful? You aren’t making any sense. Calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “One of the spirits I called is inside my Celtic pattern. He may be dying!”

  Celandine fantasizes that she communes with the dead. A spirit? Dying? I open my mouth, but now is not the time to challenge her logic. “Come on, let’s see what’s happened.” I grab my coat and torch from the cupboard under the stairs.

  We slip through a gap between our fences. Behind Celandine’s shed, a man is lying on the muddy earth. I pass Celandine the torch. My medical training takes over as I check his vitals. No smell of alcohol - drugs perhaps? How did he get into the garden? He must have climbed over at least six fences. “It’s okay.” The man stirs.

  Celandine breathes, ghost-like into my ear. “Be careful.”

  “He’s not dead,” I reply. “He’s coming round.”

  The nearly naked man has clearly been to some kind of fancy dress evening, judging by his short pleated skirt and the white sheet draped over his shoulders. Hastings and St Leonards are teeming with creative types and this sort of outfit is not remarkable.

  As he opens his eyes, I catch a flash of something, perhaps fear or panic, but their clear bright blue is surprising in the torch light.

  I stand back. “Are you okay? Do you know where you are?”

  He sits and then climbs to his feet. “I’m fine, thank you and no I don’t.” He is tall, slim and muscular.

  “What are you doing here? How did you get in the garden? Who are you?”

  Celandine interrupts. “Don’t ask so many questions, Jane. He must be cold and wet. Let’s get him inside and give him a hot drink.”

  In Celandine’s kitchen, the wood burner gives a comforting glow and her cat jumps onto my lap and curls up purring. It all feels quite dreamlike. Celandine hands out hot chocolate and the young man talks in a voice of eloquent authority.

  “I frightened you both and I apologise.”

  “No, I’m the one who must apologise.” Celandine catches up her loose dark curls and pins them on top of her head. “I called you up. The rain has been ceaseless and I’d hoped you’d be able to help.”

  “I shall do my best, but it may take some time.”

  “You must stay with me until the time is right for you,” she replies.

  “Celandine,” I protest, coming out of the adenosine-induced trance. “This man is a stranger and you’re inviting him to stay in your house!”

  “Forgive me!” He stands up. “My name is Phaethon.”

  I hesitate then shake his proffered hand as he continues. “I feel much better now. At first, I thought I’d been hit by a thunderbolt.”

  His smile is, I suppose, disarming. “Do you have proof of identity?”

  “Jane!” Celandine is shocked. “He’s a spirit. Of course he doesn’t have I.D.”

  “Everyone except illegal immigrants has I.D,” I insist.

  She places her mug firmly on the table. “He’s staying with me. Forgive me for waking you, Jane. I know you have to go to work later.”

  Humiliated and dismissed, I leave.

  Once home, I fall deeply asleep. However, next morning the memories of the night come flooding back and concern replaces anger.

  I quickly shower, dress and go to check on my neighbour. Although complete opposites in our thinking - I’m the rationalist with a scientific background, while Celandine entertain
s all manner of irrational mystical beliefs - we are friends who enjoy competing to prove our different positions. I relish the satisfaction of producing respected bodies of evidence in support of my arguments. Nevertheless, she is a good healer. In response to my knock, she opens her door. She looks rested and happy.

  “Hello Jane, good to see you. Did you sleep well? Cup of tea?”

  “I did, and I’d love one.” Relieved that she’s fine, I follow her into the kitchen and watch as she fills the kettle with water. “Where’s your mystery guest then - still sleeping?”

  She returns the kettle to its base and switches on the power. “No, another early riser, he’s gone to the beach. Sorry about last night, Jane. I hope tiredness doesn’t make your day difficult.”

  I shake my head. “Fortunately the acetylcholine in my blood was quickly overpowered by melatonin, so I slept well. However, I’ve been worried about you and only relaxed when you opened the door.”

  “Jane, you know I wouldn’t take any risks.”

  I pull out a chair and sit at the table. “But you have, Phaethon is a stranger.”

  She warms the teapot, adds leaves, then pours in the boiling water. “He’s not a stranger, he’s a spirit and the son of Helix, the Sun God.”

  Exasperated, I sigh. “Celandine, this is rubbish. Science has dismissed claims of spirits.”

  She pours tea into two cups. “You’re too confident of science, Jane. Consider that before we had the tools to identify and harness electricity, science would have dismissed the idea of instant light at the flick of a switch as the ravings of a deluded mind.”

  I take the cup she hands me. “Wherever these spirits live must be very overcrowded.”

  She laughs. “Come on Jane, that’s a bit weak, you’re the scientist - space is infinite and spirits aren’t matter.”

  “Aha, so Phaethon isn’t really here!”

  “Of course he’s here, you’ve seen him. When spirits return to this world they assume the form they had when they were living.”

  This is like swimming in treacle. “Celandine, this bloke is a vagrant and he could be from anywhere. You know the financial mess the country’s in and we have strict rules about aliens. You must report him to the police.”

  “If something doesn’t fit your belief system Jane, your instant reaction is that that ‘thing’ is wrong and must be removed. Open your mind to the amazing world around you. Not everything in the universe can be measured and proven. Phaethon is safe. I called him and he has a lovely aura, we shall be fine.”