booksnew/source/Bane/Bane02.txt

I W O
. . . The phone rang.
Loud and clear, like a stuttering firebell. I awoke with
alarm, suddenly sitting up in the single bed, with my heart
thumping like a trip-hammer inside my ribs.
A dream's aftershock washed through me like a black,
oily wave leaving a bitter, soiled taste in my head. I’d been
somewhere, in a cave, or a tunnel that was dark and dank
with rotting slime. I had been wading through water that
was cold and sluggish and slicked around my calves, and
from up ahead came the dreadful beating sound that shook
the walls and batted echoes all around me and the people I
was with (who were they?) and the hairs on the back of my
neck crawled, because there was something ahead of me in
that darkness, something that moved with dreadful pon-
derous intent towards us. And in the dark tunnel of my
dream I had seen the pale green glow ahead, the two pallid
circles that were a yard wide and a yard apart, the great
dead eyes of the thing that was bearing down on me like a
mad train. 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 ....
The phone rang again and the jangling sound shook me
out of the aftershock, and the insistent ringing hauled me,
shivering in the cold air of the night out of bed.
Down the stairs, into the living room. I almost fell
across the other chair in my haste to grab the receiver and
shouted: 'Hello!'
Nothing. Not a sound, unless you can call an echoing
silence a sound. Inside the phone was like a deep cave —
like the one 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.
“Hello. Hello!’
I waited for an answer. Somebody was playing a joke.
There was still a silence accentuated by the faintest whis-
pering hiss of electrons in the line. I was just about to slam
the receiver back down when I heard something just at the
lowest edge of my hearing. It was a muted thud that was so
low it was almost a feeling. It came again. A little louder, a
little deeper. And again, and again. A slow, pulsing beat
that expanded and grew in power, like the thumping of an
immense heart. And behind that beat came a low moan
that started to rise in pitch, rapidly edging up the scale
until, within seconds, the sound was blasting out of the
earpiece and was tearing at the inside of my head. It was
the sound I had heard in the dream.
It was just exactly the scream I had heard as I ran
towards those huge eyes. The fright this realisation gave
me was a jolt that made me slam the receiver down on its
cradle. It made a solitary tinkling sound.
I stood there in the dark living room, breathing heavily ,
and feeling the 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.
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.
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 creak. Cree-eak. Sud-
denly my heart was jackhammering again, higher up this
time, somewhere near my throat. I can’t say why, but
standing on that step hit me with a weird feeling of des-
pair. As if I’d gone and done it. As if I was going to get
caught going and doing it.

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. The
rain 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. 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. Peering
out, I could make out the shapes of the other houses, and
beyond them a belt of trees, then a dark mass of grey—black
cloud that seemed to swirl right down to water level, boil-
ing like the contents of a witch’s cauldron. The wind rose
higher, from a dull roar to a shriek that caught the tele-
phone wires and sent them swinging.
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. 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 huge
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
clear, 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 and smoked a couple of filter tips in the dark-
ness, the horn reached out again, this time much closer,
sending out a vibration that shook the glass.
Much closer? I remember that thought jumping into my
head. That big bellowing horn sounded awfully close, and I
suddenly had a crazy mental picture of a huge, sharp bow
bearing down relentlessly, crashing through that stand of
19

sycamores, crushing through the houses and slicing
through the wall of the bedroom.
The black marker buoys that edged off the shipping
lane were more than two miles out on the wide firth. And
that horn was nowhere near two miles away. It was too
4 close in. Too near Arden and its little sheltered harbour.
just as I thought it, an eerie orange flash blossomed out
there in the turbulent sky. Another flash of orange went up
just as the first one was dying slowly, floating below the
rooftops and out of sight.
It must have been the second flare that got me moving. I
had watched the first one like a spectator at a fireworks
display. \X/hen the second one burst I spun round and
downstairs to the phone. When I picked it up there was
none of the echoing silence of before, just the normal
burr. I dialed 999 and asked for the police because I didn°t
know if the emergency service could call out the lifeboat.
I rattled out what I`d seen and the officer at the other
end calmly started asking me for some details, and 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.
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. just before I went out, I noticed a couple of walking
sticks in the holder at the base of the bentvvood hatstand. I
hefted one out, and instantly recognised its natural
hawthom—root handle. I'd cut that stick myself for my
grandad the time he’d sprained his ankle the day he’d
slipped on the rocks trying to tie our dinghy to an anchor
ring. I'd gone up by Strowan’s Burn and cut him a walking
stick, and I’d worked the handle, following the lines of the
wood, into a smooth grip.
The old man had laughed when I’d presented it to him
20

and had immediately thrown the smooth walking stick
he’d been given at the little Hermitage Cottage Hospital
into a corner. [
‘Now there’s a cromach,’ he said. °A real walking stick.
A shillelagh no less,° and he’d laughed a ain and ruffled
my hair while I beamed up at him. He’<§ used that stick
while his ankle had healed, and then he`d gone on using it
when he went on his long walks up on the Cardross Moor
or down along the Havock Shore, swinging it up with
every stride like a natty boulevardier, and occasionally
lopping off the heads of thistles at the side of hedgerows.
And he never seemed to tire of boasting to his cronies
down at the boatyard how his grandson had gone and cut
him a realfine walking stick.
I got a buzz of warm pleasure even then and I lifted the
old shiny hawthorn breach with its knotted handle, and
yanked open the door and into one of the worse nights I
care to recall.
There wasnit much to see. Down at the harbour there
was a knot of people in yellow oilskins huddled together
and pointing out into the rollin grey.
When I joined them, a couple of them nodded to me
and tumed 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.
°Nicky Ryan, right?’
°Yes, that’s me,’ I replied, trying to smile through the
blasting rain driven in on at least a force niner.
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.
°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.
‘No, I just got back yesterday afternoon]
21

‘Good time for it. This one's blowing up to be a belter.
Looks like sixty·one all over again. That was a bad one.`
‘I saw a flare and called the police. They say they’ll get
the inshore lifeboat out.’
‘Dare say they will. Don’t fancy being out in that,
though. It looks pretty pissy out there.,
°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 and over the capstans and
into the quay.
°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.
‘Brian Baillcy heard it on his short-wave. Big sugar boat
I think, heading for Greenock. It`s way off course if it's on
this side of the water}
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.
Bill leaned over, pulling the sleeve of my coat to yell in
my ear.
‘It’s a bit heavy for the inshore, don’t you think?`
‘Yeah. Why don't they send for the big one from
Kirkland, or over at the Holy Loch?
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 the men had a big
FM tucked inside his coat. It crackled like the riggings of
the toy dinghies. He turned and shouted. We had to crowd
close to hear.
‘They’ve put out boats. The ship’s aground just off
Ardhmor, maybe a mile, maybe less.,
°If it’s not sunk, there’s not much good in putting out
when the water`s like that,’ another of the group said.
“No, by Christ. I’d stay on.'
On the quayside, a square of light flared as the inshore
22

c bay doors were flung open and the orange figures of the
lifeboatmen - their suits just the same colour as the flare —
dragged out their matching 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.
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
tum through the narrow storm gap and out into the night.
On foot the rest of us followed out on the wall where
the salt spray lashed us. The sea out there looked murderous.
The inflatable bobbed up then disappeared behind huge
waves, looked as if it had been swallowed, then mirac-
ulously 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
lash of the rain against our hoods.
°Not much we can do around here,’ somebody said.
'Y’right, my son,’ a big voice boomed out. It was big
john Hollinger, who ran the bar.
‘We might as well go up for a warmer. What d°y say?’
°Aye,’ came several replies at once, making the scene
sound like a comic pirate sketch.
‘All right, I’l1 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 ser-
geant 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.
°Mind? On a night like this I’d be more likely to throw
you in jail for refusing.,
He grinned, shoving the radio further into the shelter of
his ample armpit.
°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, letis go.,
23

‘ 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 gumboots, damp and rasping the back of my
legs. Holly opened the back door of the bar and we skirted
around the stack of aluminium casks and into the warmth.
Holly went behind the bar, still in his oilskin, 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 had about four meas-
ures. He lofted the whisky and boomed: °Cheers.’
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.
‘Ah, Nicky, how are you my boy,’ he had a voice like
that foghom I°d heard earlier. °By God, you newspaper-
men are quick off the mark. How d`you get here so soon?’
A large slug of whisky bumed 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
banged me lustily between my shoulder blades and my eyes
watered. I wiped them with a knuckle.
‘I've been here since yesterday,’ I said weakly, still try-
ing to clear my throat.
°\X/ell, you must have a nose for news] he said, and
winked. °If I’d known you were coming I’d have poured
you a Guinness] ~
°Not tonight, Holly,° I said, picking up the wink he
flashed to Murdo Morrison. °This is going down just a
treat.`
°It is that,’ the policeman 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.
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
24

to have in a small place like Arden; big, bluff and not too
hot on the formalities.
just then there was a hiss of static from under Murdo’s
coat, and what sounded like a hacking cough from the
region of his armpit. The sergeant opened the flap of his
windbreaker and moved over to the corner of the room,
with his head tucked under his arm like some big yellow
bird. There were a few more coughs and splutters and
Murdo put a couple of quick-{ire questions into his police
transmitter. He turned back to the rest of us.
°The inshore boatis on its way back,’ he said. °They’ve
tumed out the lifeboat from Kirkland and they’ve picked
up one of the boats from the Cassandra.,
‘How many came off her?’ one of the men asked. I
think his name was Kenny Smith, but at that time I was
still trying to put names to faces.
°They think two. They’ve got the captain and about
fourteen of the crew. I’m not sure yet, but weid 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 to go up to the Hermitage.,
Murdo snapped over the wide collar on his waterproofs
and pulled the hood down to eye level.
‘Right, thanks for the dram Holly. You might as well
keep the place open a while yet. I’11 probably need another
one later on.°
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 in. just
beyond that, on the steep basalt rocks that formed a natural
harbour entrance, two red lights, set into the stone,
vvinked. I thought they wouldn’t be much use to the men
in the dinghy, for even from this close range they were just
25

{ . smudges of light. From any distance out there they would
be invisible. It was cold and miserable out there on the sea
wall, but a whole lot better than being out in that mucky
sea in a little boat.
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 at the back
flipped up the twin props and the boat scooted right out of
the water.
The crew quickly stowed the boat and then they all
made their way round to the east side of the harbour
where we still huddled, peering out uselessly into the dark
firth. The cox, an Englishman I’d never met, was a man
called Dave King, a tall, skinny fellow with a lined and
weatherbeaten face.
He and his men came over to us and the leader went
straight to Murdo Morrison.
`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. Ardhmor’s a lot closer than here.°
A11 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 was a pretty straight
gu¥I'd suggest you take a few men and go round there any-
way to see if anything can be done. I’l1 wait here for the
lifeboat if you like.,
Murdo nodded and called a few of the men over.
`There’s a chance one of the boats is going on to
Ardhmor. I need a few men to go round with me right
now.
A couple of men joined him from the group and then a
26

further four separated from the huddle and came across.
, Murdo asked them if they had torches and most of them
said they had. He cocked his head in my direction and
said: °You want to come along, Nick?’
Frankly I could have done without it. I was cold and a
bit tired and that belt of whisk 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.
‘I can et everybody in m jee , if ou like,° I said.
°Well §hat’s handy. I can? getpmorgl than four in my
Panda, 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.,
Down at Swanson’s farm I pulled the Subaru into the
yard where a beam of light shone from a downstairs win-
dow on to the hard—packed earth. Murdo was coming out
of the building with the farmer, Willie Swanson, a short,
iturdy Quan in agpaggy tweed jacket that had seen plenty of
etter ays. Un er his arm he carried a walkin stick `ust
like the one I`d thrown in the back of the jeep. %he farfner
went across to an outhouse and emerged moments later
with a great ankle-length waterproof coat heavily smeared
with what I assumed was cow shit. Uncharitably, I was
glad he wouldn`t have to be travellin in m car. We
joined Murdo and the farmer and headedgdown ghe narrow
path beside the hedgerow that would take us down to the
peninsula.
Ardhmor 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 dangles
out into the Clyde. There’s an old pathway from the farm
that goes over the 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. Ahead of us Ardhmor Rock hunched like
a giant beast of prey ready to pounce. It was covered in a
jungle-like coat of beech and birch. At its westerly side
27

there’s a stand of old Scots pine that are gnarled and bent
away from the wind like a crowd of old men protecting
themselves from a storm. I knew the trees would be taking
a beating this night.
I’d slipped and fallen a couple of times on the rutted
track,and once when I went down I put my hand smack
into a large covvpat. I could feel the horrid stuff covering
my fingers and swore softly but sincerely under my breath.
Don’t go to Ardhmor. Itls a bad place. A BAD place.
Where did that come from? I didn’t know, but at that
moment when I looked ahead into the gloom and saw the
black mass of that tree-covered rock looming over me -
even darker than the storm-whipped sky — I knew it was
true. I felt a shiver go right through me, and all of a sud-
den the dripping green cowpat I had been trying to wipe
off my cold fingers was the least of my problems.
Have you ever been afraid? Really 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 can feel your car head
straight for a wall. That’s natural self-preservation fear. We
all get it.
But this was a different kind of fear. It was a numbing
terror that drilled its way right inside me. An unnatural
fear. The kind of fear a hard-drinking man will get when
he wakes up in a nest of giant ants because his brain is all
screwed up and running wild. That’s where I was right at
that moment, and what was worse, there wasn’t a damned
thing I could do about it. I didn’t know what it was, the
psychotic terror, but I just wanted to back away down that
muddy track, at a fast gallop.
But I didn’t. Behind me, in the dark, one of the men fol-
lowing barged into my back with a thump that shook the
wind from him in an explosive whoof
‘What the fuck . . . ?°
`Sorryf I said, as if to a passer-by in a busy street whose
path I'd blocked.
’M0ve on, move on,’ said the disembodied voice. And I
28

did. Because there were other men with me.
I swear that the biggest fear in the world is the fear of
people’s opinion. 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.
I’ve seen men mess their pants and still charge the barri-
cades, and I know that every one of them knew that he was
the only one with a disgusting secret. They may be scared I
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 not going, because of what their friends will
think.
That’s what moved me along. The jitters didn’t leave
me. They came right along on my back on that squelchy
track. But I put one foot in front of another and walked. It
felt like I was walking into the jaws of death. If what hap-
pened in Arden that year hadn°t happened, I reckon I
would have considered seeing a shrink about this irrational
fear, but I didn’t get around to that, because as it turned
out it was not irrational. 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 had antennae. I
was just in danger of making a mess in my jeans.
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, the fresh growth of
leaves being whipped about. They sounded just like the
waves that were being beaten on to the storm wall. Past
the trees we skirted the low basalt cliff on a track that was
scoured bare by the hooves of countless cattle, but the
going was rocky so there was less mud for me or anybody
else to fall about in. Here we were more exposed to the
gale that was screaming in straight from the west, and I
gripped the handle of that old walking stick as if my life
depended on it. The black rock loomed up thirty feet
above my left shoulder, and from the overhang, the rivu—
lets of rain water that were pouring down the age-worn
stone were being blown right back up again. I still had that
29

feeling of oppression, 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 on the smooth stone
until we were past the face and heading down towards the
shore.
If the scene at the harbour wall was bad, this was worse,
for even right at the seafront where the jetty was built in a
curve to take the force of the waves, there is still some
shelter from the main thrust. Here there was none. The
mighty waves that were 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 Ardhmor. A11 around was noise and water.
Murdo Morrison tumed 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.
°This is about where they were coming aground] he
said, jerking 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.
°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.’
We split into two roughly equal small 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 rat·
tling, susurrant 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.
The pull of the back-flow was incredible, and I was glad I
had that stick with me as an extra balance, otherwise there
30

were a couple of occasions when I’d have been floundering
in the firth.
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 fair house, and under which
there were warrens of cave-like shelters. There was nothing.
Not a sign.
Murdo Morrison assured us that the men from the
stricken ship had to be around here.
‘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 l0ok.°
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 torchlights into every nook
and cranny, and despite that feeling of anxiety never less-
ening, 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
debris.
And we found nothing.
The first glimmer of dawn was lightening up the stage
behind the roiling clouds when the big police sergeant
called off the search. It must have been about seven thirty
in the morning when he gathered us together again, puz-
zlement evident on his wide face.
‘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.,
There wasn’t a sign. Not a hair, nor a scrap of cloth.
Not even a spar from their lifeboat. Nothing.
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 fiirther away from the firth we got,
31

the more the storm seemed to abate, but there was still a
good wind blowing through the tops of the trees behind
me.
When I realised that I was keeping up the rear, with no-
one else at my back, that intense feeling of fear came roar-
ing back inside me. In that instant I felt like the small boy
again who is tangled in the blankets in a dark and empty
room, who struggles to get free.
I almost slipped on my face when the panic jolted me
forward in an instinctive attempt to get myself closer to
other living beings, no matter who they were. 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 of
branches. It was then that one of the spiky brambles
snaked out lazily and wrapped itself around my arm. 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 small 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 flank-
ing side.
The thought of that scenario gave me a jolt of adrenalin
like a tight white line straight into a vein. Suddenly my
mind pictured me being overcome by writhing thorny
branches, being slowly dragged in from the path. It was
too much! I almost fainted from overload, but the adren-
alin directed otherwise. 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. My right hand
came up and lashed at the crowding brambles, the haw-
thorn stick like a sword, hacking and slashing at the leaves
and branches. It seemed they drew back at the onslaught,
32

just enough to let me race through the gap and 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. It was the kind of creepy laugh you
only hear in gothic horror films, but it was worse than that
because I was hearing it, and in that moment I knew it was
laughing at me.
I almost fell on my backside again when I reached the
men.
‘What’s the rush?’ Murdo asked.
°He just wants to get back for another whisky,’ some-
body said and there was a ripple of tired laughter.
I didn’t say anything. We all went back to the cars and
drove up the {arm lane towards Arden. I dropped off my
crew at the harbour where most of them planned to go
back to Hollyls bar for a drink to dispel the cold. I decided
to give it a miss. The pub that is. 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 should have been
thornproof But there were dozens of rips on the left-hand
side. And it hadn’t been a root that had ripped out of the
ground. On the instep of my boot, there was a great jagged
gash where a section of thick rubber looked as if it had
been chewed. 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. No orange. just straight.
In the morning after breakfast, I’d just about convinced
myself that it had 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 Ild dreamed the whole thing. I rationalised it
all away.
33

Extract of Report by WH. Mailley, Clyde Port Authority.
Statements were taken from Captain Elliertsen, First Mate
Cristos and several surviving crew members.
Only Captain Elliertsen and Mr Cristos were on the bridge
when the Cassandra went aground on a sandbank 1.3 miles due
west ofArdhmor peninsula, Arden, April 27 1983.
Both senior ships officers insist that they fbllowed 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 if the sh@ng lane according to the
markers and confirmed by radar.
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.
I/Vhat is clear is that the vessel (Liberian Registered, Greek
Owned) was some two miles if the shipping lane on a course
directl towards the peninsula when it struck a sandbank.
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 belij
The whereabouts of the twelve crew members in the first IM2-
boat have not yet been ascertained. Royal Navy diving teams have
failed to locate any wreckage.
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 ofice of
the Department ¢yrTrade who may be able to take the issue further.