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<h1>2</h1>

<p>. . . The phone rang.</p>


<p>Loud and sharp, like a stuttering firebell. I jerked awake sitting up, my heart thumping like a trip-hammer on my ribs.</p>

<p>A dream's aftershock washed through me leaving a bitter, soiled taste in my mind. I'd been in a cave, or a tunnel that was dark and dank with slime. I had been wading through cold water that slicked around my calves, and from up ahead came the ominous beating sound that shook the walls and batted echoes all around me and the people I was with, whoever
    <em>they</em> were. </p>

<p>The hairs on the back of my neck crawled, because there was something ahead in that dark, something that moved with ponderous intent towards us. And in the dark tunnel of my dream I had seen the pale green glow ahead, the two pallid circles a yard wide and a yard apart, the great dead eyes of the thing that was bearing down.</p>

<p>There was a scream that rose high until I felt my body vibrate, and I knew it was a scream of rage, and I was screaming too because I was running, splashing through the slimy water, running towards the thing with the eyes that wanted to eat me ....</p>


<p>The phone rang again and the jangling sound shook me out of the aftershock, and the insistent ringing hauled me, shivering, out of bed. Down the stairs, into the living room.</p>

<p>I almost fell across the other chair in my haste to grab the receiver and shouted: 'Hello!'</p>

<p>Nothing. Not a sound, unless you can call an echoing silence a sound, like in the cave I'd been running through in the dream - and there was an ambience that made no sound, but gave the impression of big, dark spaces.</p>

<p>"Hello. <em>Hello!</em>'</p>

<p>I waited for an answer. Somebody was playing a joke. The silence was accentuated by the faintest whispering hiss in the line. I was just about to slam the receiver back down when I heard something. It was a muted thud that was so low it was almost a feeling. It came again. A little louder, a little deeper. Then again, and again. A slow, pulsing beat. And behind it came a low moan that started to rise in pitch, rapidly edging up the scale until, within seconds, the sound was blasting at the inside of my head. It was the sound I had heard in the dream.</p>

<p>It was just exactly the scream I had heard as I ran towards those pale eyes. The fright gave me such a jolt I slammed the phone down on its cradle. It made a solitary tinkling sound.</p>

<p>I stood there in the dark living room, breathing heavily, and feeling sweat on my back like a cold trail. Gingerly I picked up the phone again, and slowly brought it to my ear, expecting that sluggish pulse, and that ear-splitting scream. But there was only the low burr of the dialling tone.</p>

<p>I put it back and watched it for a second or two, waiting for it to ring. It didn't. I shivered in the cold and decided to get back to bed. I headed up the stairs.</p>

<p>And for some reason, maybe because I was shaken, I broke the rule. The seventh step gave slightly under my foot and let out a sharp two-toned cree-<em>eak</em>.
</p>

<p>Suddenly my heart was thudding again, somewhere near my throat. I can't say why, but standing on that step hit me with a weird feeling. As if I'd gone and done it. As if I was going to get
    <em>caught</em>going and doing it. </p>

<p>I lumbered up the stairs, two at a time, and into my room. When I awoke again, it was still night, but this time it wasn't the phone. It was the rain, drumming hard and fast on the breast of a hard westerly wind right on to the window. It came down in solid rods against the glass. From some-where up in the roof I could hear the gurgle of water pouring from the slates into the gutter and down the drainpipe.</p>

<p>Peeling back the curtains, I looked out into the black night. Rivulets raced down the pane as the wind rose higher, blasting more hard water in from the west, up the mouth of the firth, and splatting it all on Arden. I could make out the shapes of the other houses, and beyond them a belt of trees, then a mass of grey-black cloud that seemed to swirl right down to water level, boiling like a witch's cauldron. The wind rose higher, from a dull roar to a shriek that caught the telephone wires and sent them singing. I wasn't tired any more, so I just sat for a while, after pulling on all my crumpled clothes again, watching the big storm boil up into a real Armageddon.</p>

<p>From somewhere further up on the roof I heard a piece of tin flashing rip off and jangle metallically. In the next day or two I was going to have to get one of the men from Milligs up on the slates to nail on a new piece. Out on the firth a foghorn sounded out, like a beast in its death throes. A minute later it went off again, bellowing out of the night. It wasn't foggy here, but the rain must have brought visibility down to twenty yards or less, and out there on the heaving water the clouds would be scraping decks. It wasn't a night to be out on a boat. At about four in the morning, after I'd sat there for an hour or so drank two cups of coffee in the dark, the horn sounded again, this time much closer, sending out a vibration that shook the glass.</p>

<p>
    <em>Much closer</em>? I remember that thought jumping into my head. That big horn sounded really close, and I suddenly had a crazy mental picture of a huge, sharp bow bearing down relentlessly, crashing through that stand of sycamores, crushing the houses and slicing through the bedroom wall.
</p>

<p>The black marker buoys that edged off the shipping lane were more than two miles out on the firth. And that horn was nowhere near two miles away. It was too close in. Too near Arden and its little sheltered harbour.</p>

<p>Just as I thought it, an orange flash blossomed high in the turbulent sky. Another flash went up just as the first one was dying slowly, floating below the rooftops and out of sight.</p>

<p>It must have been the second flare that got me moving. I had watched the first one like a spectator at a fireworks display. When the second one burst I spun round and ran downstairs to the phone. When I picked it up there was none of the echoing silence of before, just the normal burr. I dialled emergency and asked for the police because I didn't know if the service could call out the lifeboat.</p>

<p>I rattled out what I'd seen and the handler at the other end calmly started asking me for some details, my name and address and that kind of life-saving information that they always seem to need when you think there's not a second to lose. I hid my frustration as well as I could and gave him the whole picture and he said: 'Thank you sir, we'll get on to it right away,' and I hung up.</p>

<p>It took me several minutes to find my oiled cotton coat and a pair of boots and a big Shetland sweater I'd inherited from old seafaring grandad. I pulled the hood tight and popped the studs in under my chin and headed for the door. I yanked it open and stepped out into one of the worse nights I care to recall.</p>

<p>There wasn't much to see. Down at the harbour there was a knot of people in yellow oilskins huddled together and pointing out into the roiling grey.</p>

<p>When I joined them, a couple of them nodded to me and turned back to look out to the firth where nobody could see a damned thing except the whitened tops of waves and a dark tumble of cloud. One of the men turned round and I saw recognition in his face, but I couldn't put a name to him although his face was familiar.</p>

<p>'Nicky Ryan, right?'</p>

<p>'Yes, that's me,' I replied, trying to smile through the blasting rain driven in on at least a force niner.</p>

<p>'Thought it was you,' the man said. His name just came to me then - Bill Finlayson, who ran a little chandlery shop for the summer sailors who used the harbour during the holidays.</p>

<p>'Haven't seen you in a long time, except on the telly,' he said, and grinned or grimaced against the downpour, I couldn't tell.</p>

<p>'No, I just got back.'</p>

<p>'Good time for it. This one's blowing up to be a belter. Looks like eighty one all over again. That was a bad one.'</p>

<p>'I saw a flare and called the police. They say they'll get the inshore lifeboat out.'</p>

<p>'Dare say they will. Don't fancy being out in that, though. It looks pretty shitty out there.,</p>

<p>'Anybody know what's happening yet?' I had to shout over the high whistle of the wind and the crash of waves on the storm wall of the harbour. Great fountains of spume were being whipped up over the capstans and into the quay.</p>

<p>'Some ship's ran aground out about there.' He pointed out due south which was roughly where I'd seen the flares go up, and I nodded.</p>

<p>'Brian Bailley heard it on his short-wave. A big sugar boat I think, heading for Greenock. It's way off course if it's on this side of the water.'</p>

<p>Another flare lit up the clouds again, just where he'd pointed. It only seemed about a mile away. On the far side of the harbour a couple of cars had arrived and a handful of men were leaping out and into the inshore lifeboat shed.</p>

<p>Bill leaned over, pulling the sleeve of my coat to yell in my ear.</p>

<p>'It's a bit heavy for the inshore, don't you think?'</p>

<p>'Yeah. Why don't they send for the big one from Kirkland?</p>

<p>Just then one of the other men shouted something which was carried away on the wind. Bill pulled me over to the rest of the huddled group. One of them had a big old FM tucked inside his coat. It crackled like the dinghy riggings. He turned and shouted. We had to crowd close to hear.</p>

<p>' They've put out boats. The ship's aground just off Ardhmor, maybe a mile, maybe less.'</p>

<p>'If it's not sunk, there's not much good in putting out when the water's like that,' another of the group said.</p>

<p>" No, by Christ. I'd stay on.'</p>

<p>On the quayside, a square of light flared as the inshore bay doors were flung open and the orange figures of them lifeboat crew - their suits just the same colour as the flare - hauled out their inflatable. I've been on these little scudders before. They're fast and light and strong. But you can bet a month's pay you wouldn't have got me out in one that night. I could tell from the other guys faces that they were thinking along those lines too.</p>

<p>One of the team started up the big double Evinrudes as soon as the craft slapped into the water. The rest were in, and over the sound of the storm the boat roared into a tight turn through the narrow storm gap and out into the night.</p>

<p>The rest of us followed on foot along the sea wall where the salt spray lashed us hard. The surge out there looked murderous. The inflatable bobbed up then disappeared behind huge waves, looked as if it had been swallowed, then miraculously appeared on the crest again. After it had gone a hundred yards, the roar of the big outboards was lost, drowned out in the big roar from the water and the hard drum of rain against our hoods.</p>

<p>'Not much we can do around here,' somebody said.</p>

<p>
    'Y'right,' a voice boomed out. It was big John Hollinger, who ran the bar. 'We might as well go up for a warmer. What d'ye say?'</p>

<p>' Aye,' came several replies at once, making the scene sound like a comic pirate sketch.</p>

<p>'All right, I'll open up. I don't suppose you'd mind Murdo?' he said, turning to another big man in flapping yellows standing at his shoulder. Murdo Morrison, the sergeant of Arden's small police station (he was the one with the FM band radio), looked at Holly as if he'd lost a few marbles.</p>

<p>'Mind? On a night like this I'd be more likely to arrest you for refusing.'</p>

<p>He grinned, shoving the radio further into the shelter of his ample armpit.</p>

<p>' We'll come back down later and see what's doing. But I'm for a whisky to get the cold out of my bones. Come on then, let's go.,</p>

<p>'I joined the crowd, accepting a tacit invitation, and we trudged back along the cobbles with the wind at our necks. I could feel that patch of my jeans, below my coat and above my boots, damp and rasping the back of my legs. Holly opened the back door and we skirted around the stack of casks and into the warmth. Holly went behind the bar, still in his oilskins, and started lining up whisky glasses. He reached for a bottle of malt and started to pour deftly. Large ones. His huge hand dwarfed his drink, which must have held about four measures. He lofted the whisky and boomed: 'Cheers.'</p>

<p>The rest of us stamped over, still dripping rain on to the worn wooden floor, and the rest of the lined-up drinks were quickly hauled off the bar. I reached for mine when Holly noticed me.</p>

<p>' Ah, Nick, how are you my boy,' he had a voice like that foghorn I'd heard earlier. 'By God, you newspaper men are quick off the mark. How'd you get here so fast?'</p>

<p>A large slug of whisky burned down my throat and hit the bottom of my stomach just then. I started to cough and couldn't stop for an embarrassingly long time. Somebody clapped me between my shoulder blades and my eyes watered. I wiped them with a knuckle.</p>

<p>' I've been here since yesterday,' I said weakly, still trying to clear my throat.</p>

<p>'Well, you must have a nose for news,' he said, and winked. 'If I'd known you were here I'd have poured you a Guinness.'</p>

<p>'Not tonight, Holly,' I said, picking up the wink he flashed to Murdo Morrison. 'This is going down just a treat.'</p>

<p>'It is that,' the sergeant said, lifting his glass to the light and gazing lovingly at the amber. He took a large gulp, throwing it about a yard past his tonsils and let out a long sigh.</p>

<p>Murdo had been a constable in the Sheriff court when I worked in the Kirkland Times as a trainee reporter. Now he was sergeant for the town and he looked like the best kind to have in a small place like Arden; big, bluff and not too hot on the formalities.</p>

<p>Just then there was a hiss of static from under his coat, and what sounded like a hacking cough from the region of his armpit. The sergeant moved over to the corner of the room, with his head tucked under his arm like some big yellow bird.</p>

<p>He spoke quickly then turned back to the rest of us.</p>

<p>'The inshore team's on their way back,' he said. 'They've turned out the lifeboat from Kirkland and they've picked up one of the boats from the Cassandra.</p>

<p>'How many came off her?' one of the men asked.</p>

<p>' They think two. They've got the captain and about fourteen of the crew. I'm not sure yet, but we'd best get back down to the harbour because they've decided to put in here. It's quicker, and some of those poor buggers might need transport to hospital.'</p>

<p>Murdo snapped over the wide collar on his waterproofs and pulled the hood down to eye level.</p>

<p>' Right, thanks for the dram Holly. You might as well keep the place open a while yet. I'll probably need another one later on.'</p>

<p>We followed him into the night, leaving Holly behind the bar, and were instantly buffeted by a head-on wind that lashed the freezing rain straight at us. Down at the quayside there were a few more men all wrapped up in heavy weather gear, who hadn't been there before. Out at the breakwater, where the waves still lashed up the curve and over the top into the harbour somebody had switched on a big spotlight to guide the inshore inflatable home. Just beyond that, on into the basalt rocks that formed a natural harbour entrance, two lights, winked red. I thought they wouldn't be much use to the men in the dinghy, for even from this close range they were just smudges of light. From any distance out there they would be invisible. It was cold and miserable up on the sea wall, but a whole lot better than being out in that mucky sea in a little boat.</p>

<p>It took more than half an hour for the sturdy inflatable to make it back from the Cassandra. They followed it on the spotlight beam, and from where we were standing it looked as if they were having a tough time, even though the wind was at their backs. Once they were in the shelter of the harbour, they steered the boat to the far ramp. Just before they hit the concrete, the steersman flipped up the twin props and the boat scooted right out of the water.</p>

<p>The crew quickly stowed their gear and then they all made their way round to where we still huddled, peering out uselessly into the dark firth. The coxwain, an Englishman I'd never met, Dave King, was a tall, rangy guy with a lined and weatherbeaten face.</p>

<p>He and his men came over to us and the leader went straight to Murdo Morrison.</p>

<p>
    'They're coming over this way, but they'll have to make two runs, I reckon. The lifeboat picked up one of the ship's boats, but they've lost sight of the other. I gather it was getting driven off towards the peninsula, so they could even have made landfall. Ardmhor's a lot closer than here.'</p>

<p>All this came out in a clipped, educated voice, all in a rush, like a major making a field report. Right away I got the impression that the inshore cox knew his stuff.</p>

<p>' I'd suggest you take a few men and go round there any-way to see if anything can be done. I'll wait here for the lifeboat if you like.'</p>

<p>Murdo nodded and called a few of the men over. 'There's a chance one of the boats is drifting on to Ardmhor. I need a few men to go round with me right now.'</p>

<p>A couple joined him and then a further four separated from the huddle and came across. Murdo asked them if they had flashlights and most of them said they had. He cocked his head in my direction and said: 'You want to come along, Nick?'</p>

<p>Frankly I could have done without it. I was cold and a bit tired and that belt of whisky was drilling an auger hole in my gut, but it was my first day back home, so I thought I might as well show willing.</p>

<p>'I can get everybody in my jeep, if you like,' I said.</p>

<p>' Good. I can't get more than four in mine, so I'll lead the way and you can catch me up down at the Swanson place. That's as far as the road goes and we can walk it from there.'</p>

<p>Down at Swanson's farm I pulled the jeep into the yard where a beam of light shone from a downstairs window on to the hard-packed earth. Murdo was coming out of the building with the farmer, Willie Swanson, a short, sturdy man in a baggy tweed jacket that had seen plenty of better days.</p>

<p>The farmer went across to an outhouse and emerged moments later in an ankle-length waterproof coat heavily smeared with what I assumed was cow shit. Uncharitably, I was glad he wouldn't be travelling in my car. We joined them and headed down the path beside the hedgerow towards the peninsula.</p>

<p>Ardmhor is a great hunk of basalt rock that hangs down from the north shore of the firth. It's connected to the Arden shore by a narrow neck, below which its mass juts out into the Clyde. There's a pathway from the farm that goes over an old dyke that's built in a bracket shape around the neck of the peninsula, and that's the way we went, torches flashing at our feet as we stumbled over the ruts and occasionally into deep holes in the mud made by Swanson's cattle.</p>

<p>Ahead of us Ardmhor Rock hunched like a black beast ready to pounce. It was covered in a thick coat of beech and birch. At its westerly side there's a stand of old Scots pine that are gnarled and bent away from the wind like a crowd of old men cowering from a storm. I knew the trees would be taking a beating this night.</p>

<p>I'd slipped and fallen a couple of times on the rutted track, and once when I went down my hand went smack into a large wet cowpat and I cursed very sincerely into the rain.</p>

<p><em>Don't go to Ardmhor. It's a bad place. A BAD place!</em></p>


<p>Where did that come from? I didn't know, but at that moment when I looked ahead into the gloom and saw the mass of that rock looming over me - even darker than the storm-whipped sky - I felt a shiver go right through me. All of a sudden the stinking cowpat I had been trying to wipe off my cold fingers was the least of my problems.</p>

<p>Have you ever been afraid?
    <em>Really</em> afraid? Not just wary, or apprehensive like the kind of shakes you get when you know somebody is going to punch you in the eye, or when your brakes fail and you feel the wheels loose their grip. That's natural self-preservation fear. We all get that.
</p>

<p>But this was a different kind of fear. It was feeling that went down somewhere deep. The kind of fear a hard-drinking man will get when he wakes up in a nest of ants because his brain is scrambled.</p>

<p>For a moment, I just wanted to back away down that muddy track, at a fast gallop.</p>

<p>But I didn't. Behind me, in the dark, one of the men following barged into my back with a thump that knocked the wind out of him in an explosive
    <em>whoof.</em></p>

<p>'What the fuck . . . ?'</p>

<p>'Sorry.'</p>

<p>'Move on, move on!'</p>

<p>And I did just that. Because there were other men here, and the biggest fear in the world is the fear of people's contempt. I missed out on the big war, and the two in Asia, thank God, but I've seen many a skirmish on a border in not a few of the more heated spots on the globe.</p>

<p>
    I've seen men mess their pants and still charge the barricades, and I know that every one of them knew that he was the only one with a disgusting secret. They may be scared out of their minds to go a step further and face whatever instant death is flying at them, but they're even more terrified of
    <em>not</em> going, because of what their friends will think.</p>

<p>That's what moved me along. The jitters didn't leave me. They came right along on my back on that muddy track. But I put one foot in front of another and walked. It felt like I was walking towards something I wouldn't come back from.</p>

<p>And if what happened in Arden that year hadn't happened, I would have considered seeing a shrink, but I didn't get around to that, because as it turned out it was
    <em>not</em>an irrational fear.</p>

<p>My antennae were out on extended stalks and I was picking up messages from Christ knows where, only I didn't realise then that I
    <em>had</em> antennae.</p>

<p>The path took us through a stand of beech trees which groaned under the weight of the wind. Up above, their branches crashed against each other, and the leaves lashed about. They sounded just like the waves beating on the storm wall.</p>

<p>Past the trees we skirted the low basalt cliff on a track that was scoured bare, but the going was rocky so there was less mud for me or anybody else to fall about in.</p>

<p>Here we were more exposed to the gale that was screaming in straight from the west. The black rock loomed up thirty feet above my left shoulder, and from the overhang, rivulets of rain water pouring down the stone were being blown right back up again.</p>

<p>I still had that scary sense of apprehension, as if I had no right to be in this place, at this time. A few yards ahead in the murk I could hear a couple of voices yelling at each other over the roar of the storm. Somebody was pointing directions and we kept going, slipping and stumbling until we were past the face and heading down towards the shore.</p>

<p>If the scene at the harbour wall was bad, this was worse, for even right at the seafront where the jetty took the force of the waves, there is still some shelter from the surge. Here there was none. The mighty waves being stoked up miles out there in the firth had been building up, backed by the huge force of the blow, and were running in on a frontal attack on the rocks at Ardmhor. All around was noise and water.</p>

<p>Murdo Morrison turned and motioned us all into a huddle. When we were all in a circle around him, he still had to shout to make himself heard.</p>

<p>'This is about where they were coming aground.' He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the water pounding on the shingles. There was so much whip-spray that visibility was only twenty yards or so, even with the torches.</p>

<p>'The lifeboat couldn't come any closer, but the ship's crew said they were blown out of the lee and straight for here. The water's a bit rough, but they should have been able to beach here. We might as well look at both ends. I don't imagine they'll be too far away.'</p>

<p>We split into two roughly equal groups and went along the slippery shore line. The rocks were rounded and water-polished. As I walked, I could hear that polishing action going on as it had done for thousands of years. The rumble and crash of a big wave, then the rattling, hissing sound of pebbles running back in the undertow. Every now and again, an even bigger wave would come lashing up the beach, tugging at our boots.</p>

<p>We walked that beach for more than an hour, searching up past the jagged rocks, and back from the water where the huge stones that had calved from the volcanic basalt lay in tumbles, each the size of a house, and under which there were warrens of cave-like shelters.</p>

<p>But we found nothing.</p>

<p>Not a sign.</p>

<p>Murdo Morrison assured us that the men from the stricken ship had to be around here.</p>

<p>' There's nowhere else they can be,' he said, when we were huddled around him again. 'The boat must have come ashore here. Let's have another look.'</p>

<p>We did. The rain didn't stop, and the storm kept up its pressure. We searched high and low on the west shore of the peninsula. We shone our flashlights into every nook and cranny, and despite that feeling of anxiety never lessening, I looked in every rock cave, almost congratulating myself that I actually had the nerve to go into the dark places. We searched the trees and the water's edge for wreckage.</p>

<p>And we still found nothing.</p>

<p>The first glimmer of dawn was lightening up behind the roiling clouds when the big police sergeant called off the search. It must have been about six thirty in the morning when he gathered us together again, puzzlement evident on his face.</p>

<p>' I can't understand it, lads,' he said, still yelling to beat the wind. 'Unless the boat crew made a mistake. There's just not a sign of them.'</p>

<p>There wasn't a sign. Not a hair, nor a scrap of cloth. Not even a spar from their lifeboat. Nothing.</p>

<p>When Murdo called off the search and we headed back along the track, past the overhang, through the beeches and alongside the hedge that bordered the muddy cow track, I found that I was last in the line. The dark was just beginning to lift and the further away from the shore we got, the more the storm seemed to abate, but there was still a good wind blowing through the tops of the trees behind me.</p>

<p>When I realised that I was keeping up the rear, with no-one else at my back, that dark feeling of apprehension came shivering inside me. In that instant I felt like a small boy again, tangled in the blankets in a dark and empty room, struggling for breath.</p>

<p>Around me, the briars and brambles bordering the track seemed much closer in. They tugged at my coat and scratched at my wrist as I wrestled them away. Then at a bend in the track, when the others ahead of me were out of sight, the thicket really closed in, forcing me to brush past the tangle.</p>

<p>And one of the spiky brambles snaked out lazily and wrapped itself around my arm.</p>

<p>My heart tried to leap into my throat.</p>

<p>I wrenched away, trying to pull free, my mind refusing to believe what my eyes had seen, and as I was tugging at the bramble runner, I felt something coil itself around my boot. A grunt of pure panic escaped me as I heaved myself to the right, pulling hand and foot away, and almost crashing headlong into a thick jungle of briar on the flanking side.</p>

<p>The thought of that scenario gave me a jolt of adrenalin like a tight white line straight into a vein. Thorns ripped into the skin of my wrists as I wrenched back from the clutching tendril and I heard a jagged rip as I kicked my foot back. Something gave, I thought probably a root, but my boot was free and my hand, though stinging, was not caught. I stamped hard down on the bramble runners. It seemed they drew back at the onslaught, just enough to let me race past along the track. I came through the gap in the old dyke like a rat out of a trap and sprinted up towards the group ahead who were heading for the farm. But just as I was going through the gap I heard the rustling of a million leaves and branches behind me, whipped up in the fury of the storm (at least I took it then to be the storm's anger) and over that roar I heard, as clear as anything, a low, rumbling chuckle of laughter.</p>

<p>It was the kind of creepy laugh you only hear in gothic horror films, but it was worse than that because
    <em>I</em> was hearing it.</p>

<p>I almost fell on my backside again when I reached the men.</p>

<p>' What's the rush?' Murdo asked.</p>

<p>'He just wants to get back for another whisky,' somebody said and there was a ripple of tired laughter.</p>

<p>I didn't say anything. We all went back to the cars and drove up the farm lane towards Arden. I dropped off my crew at the harbour where most of them planned to go back to Holly's bar for warmer. I decided to give it a miss. When I got back to the house I stoked up the fire and took off my coat. It was an expensive oiled cotton thornproof or it
    <em>should</em> have been thornproof But there were dozens of rips on the left side. And it couldn't have been a root that had ripped out of the ground. On the instep of my boot, there was a jagged gash where a section of thick rubber looked as if it had been chewed.
</p>

<p>If it had not been for that, I would have thought I'd imagined the whole thing. I got the bottle of vodka from the box in the kitchen and poured myself about a half pint.</p>

<p>In the morning after breakfast, I'd just about convinced myself that it
    <em>had</em>been imagination. After all, if you go wading through brambles, you're bound to get a scratch or two. By lunchtime, my head had stopped pounding and I was certain I'd dreamed the whole thing. I rationalised it all away.
</p>

<hr/>


<p><em>Extract of Report by WH. Mailley, Clyde Port Authority.</em></p>


<p>
    <em>Statements were taken from Captain Elliertsen, First Mate Cristos and several surviving crew members.</em></p>

<p>
    <em>Only Captain Elliertsen and Mr Cristos were on the bridge when the Cassandra went aground on a sandbank 1.3 miles due west of Ardmhor peninsula, Arden, April 27 1991.</em>
</p>

<p>
    <em>Both senior ships officers insist that they followed Clyde navigation and marine navigation regulations to the letter. Both have made sworn affidavits through the Company lawyer that the Cassandra was in the port side of the shipping lane according to the markers and confirmed by radar.</em>
</p>

<p>
    <em>Lloyd's insurance investigators have made technical checks on the marker buoy lights and the radar and sonar equipment of the Cassandra. They have so far ascertained no fault.</em>
</p>

<p>
    <em>What is clear is that the vessel (Liberian Registered, Greek Owned) was some two miles of the shipping lane on a course directly towards the peninsula when it struck a sandbank.</em>
</p>

<p>
    <em>While the Captain and the First Mate insist that they believed themselves to be in the deep channel, I can find no reason for them to hold such a belief</em>
</p>

<p>
    <em>The whereabouts of the twelve crew members in the first lifeboat have not yet been ascertained. Royal Navy diving teams have failed to locate any wreckage.</em>
</p>

<p>
    <em>Based on discussions with Captain and crew, I can only assume that there must have been some system failure, whether human or mechanical. I intend to submit this report to the Glasgow office of the Department for Trade who may be able to take the issue further.</em>
</p>

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