I KNOW YOU ARE NEAR

1

An abrupt squeaking of brakes split the heavy air. The gloom drew to the vibration of the No.71 bus from Melton. Swirling into a hasty gap. Coalescing around the beams of the headlights, two giant index fingers probing the cloudiness.

The mechanical folding access doors were open, and I strode off, placed on my rucksack full of clothes, sniffed at the air, wrinkling my nose at the smell of the sea.

"Brisk," I announced to the driver.

Without responding, the doors shut, and the coach drove off into the pea-souper.

For a minute, I stopped in the mist, where visibility fell to three feet. By the bus stop, a road marker pointed me toward Cape Ore. I ambled along until my foot missed the ground and kept going.

The earth should be in that space!

My limbs, now flailing, thrashed for momentum, descending until I spotted the raging ocean far below and saw the broken edge of the cliff.

A hand grabbed one of my arms, yanking me back with immediate forcefulness.

"Thanks," I gasped, turning to my saviour.

The man was compact, well-built, with an oval face, strong cheekbones, a snub nose, enormous eyes, a large forehead, and puffy lips.

Eastern European, I realised

A pair of powerful binoculars hung round the neck

A twitcher?

Surrounded by fog, he was gone.

The air remained muggy and frigid as the featureless mistiness dwindled. After a while, I crisscrossed an agreeable track worn by sheep, leading to a meandering trail across the moorland, and a broader path between two fields. In the distance, cows grazed, but no evidence of farm buildings. The land grew less rocky, and the route turned into a bricked pathway. The fog collected in again. I found myself on the coast.

The masts of many fishing crafts showed. I headed in their direction and encountered a harbour set up into an inlet. Boats in different dilapidated states bobbed in the swell. Countless torn nets lay near the Flint wall in a state of repair.

The endless stone road curved to the graveyard, past the exquisite, dark-spike poking up through the density and unveiled itself as the spire of the Church. The cobblestones led past the murky burial ground, and into the village. From a delicate rise on the outskirts, I experienced a superb view.

Ornate streetlights were at irregular intervals beside the cobblestoned roadside, glowing anaemic in the softened daylight. The location maintained a single route. Halfway on my path to the inn, where the notice swung in the breeze. At the distant point of the town, another monumental building. There is a field at the school.

A short distance in front of me opened a front-door to one of the tiny, terraced cottages. A slight, shrivelled elderly lady, wrapped up against the chilly air, remained in the door, breathing an uneven swath of steam, which mingled with the dim wispy veil.

Another door unlocked, followed by many others. People moved out of their dwellings and gathered along the street. Standing still, gazing along the road, attention beyond the tavern to the far-off school.

One stride backwards into a thoroughfare between two homes, I rested on the walkway. Everyone stood silent in their doorways. Dressed for the weather, their hefty, dark coats struck me as odd, and an entire minute elapsed before I realised what niggled me. Past the old gentlewoman, a younger couple in their thirties, next to them a man of fifty. A gathering from pub stood with drinks in their hands. A mixed group of men and women, young and old. They watched a house on the opposite side.

Another door opened, and I was trying to catch the house opposite the public house, a fair way along the street from where I stood. The remnants of the haze made life difficult to discern what developed. People came out of the house.

Dissimilar to the audience who emerged from the bar, this possessed order.

A formality.

A procession.

Distant figures arose, carrying an enormous box on their shoulders, two men on either side. The supporters strolled to the end of the small front garden of the house, turned into the slender street, starting towards me.

The gate of the memorial, a middle-aged, balding priest with a crinkling but friendly face, stood. His white surplice glowed in the fogginess, a complete contradiction to the dark clothes of the parade and the other locals, and in his clasped hands a Bible.

Mourners moved at a sedate pace, while the coffin rocked back and forth beneath the four men, advancing up the avenue, preceded by friends and family. A woman in a full-length black coat, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. An older man slipped an arm around, behind the grieving couple, two young men. One gazed at the ground, while the other glared at the solid wooden box, dressed in formal black. Along the roadway, heads turned to follow the progress.

As the casket approached, I turned my head, straightening as I stared past the bereaved. My attention fixed on a narrow passageway on the opposite of the road, further along from me.

A gloomy opening, residences on either side, the faint gleam of the nearby streetlight diffused through the mass, provided an otherworldly radiance to the scene. A tall, thin, silhouetted individual stood in the shadows. Black against the dark grey. Only when following the march past did I glimpse a face.

As the entourage departed, the figure disappeared.

The minister returned to the plot of remembrance. I took an instinctive, respectful step back as the column of people passed.

The second of the pallbearers stumbled. In slow motion, as a shoulder dipped, he lost traction on the damp sheen of the rounded cobbles. With the grip on the polished wood in peril before equilibrium returned, but the sudden movement, the change in weight distribution, caused another slip, more severe this time.

His feet slipped as he collapsed. Others tried to compensate, attempted to reinforce their failing grips. The man with the murderous stare ran ahead, seeing the inevitable unfold. The coffin continued to lilt as it slipped out of the clutches of others. Crashing onto the cobbled pavement. Bouncing on the firm surface. After the sound of splintering timber, the lid jarred open, and slid downwards.

A streetlight above projected a sallow glow onto the body, illuminating the pasty white face. A man, the white shirt, merging with the pallid skin. His face contorted in astonishment. The lips rolled back from gritted teeth. His forehead lined, and the eyes bulging forwards, straining to escape from the skull. The pupils dilated, and dark against pale irises.

With the top replaced, I looked at the young man. Scowling at me, eyes a frenzied contrast to the empty view of the corpse. The staring lasted as the coffin lifted again, before continuing on their melancholy way.

Only when the last one entered the cemetery did the remaining villagers withdraw into their houses.

The man followed the cortege.

2

I moved in despite the faded sign directing me to the Crown and Castle. Half full of people. Not in high spirits, of course. A buzz of conversation as I opened the door, which stopped as soon as I crossed the threshold.

Silence.

Lights fixed on the walls of the lounge, but unlit. The only illumination came from the milky sunlight struggling through the smeary windows, making silhouettes of the figures sitting on stools.

Indifferent faces turned towards me as I made my way to the bar. Somewhere a chair scraped over the stone floor.

Utter silence.

I felt uneasy.

Behind the counter stood an imposing, red-faced man with hair the colour of steel, pausing in mid-polish, a moist cloth wiping the inside of a glass. The man bent forward as the cloth began working again. An intimidating gesture, but I settled unmoved.

"Ah! An excellent choice of local brews."

I ran my finger along the damp top of each of the three beer engines.

"London Honour?"

"A celebratory ale created by the architect brewers of Greene King for the nation's capital city."

His voice, deep and accented.

"A pint, please."

No movement or comment came from anyone else in the room as the barman busied himself, pouring my beverage.

"Sorry for the intrusion."

"Don't fret."

The server lifted the foaming drink on the surface in front of me, the brew cloudy with the bottom clearing. A misty haze ran out of the glass and pooled on the wood.

After taking a mouthful of froth, I traced a white moustache across my upper lip.

"I wondered whether any rooms were available for a few nights?"

The back of my hand touched my lips.

"Of course. Shyla?"

"Yes, Dad?"

The answer came from the kitchen.

A moment later, a young woman appeared in the doorway.

In her early twenties, with red hair falling to the shoulders and a mass of freckles on the bridge of her nose.

Her eyes, a startling emerald green.

"Prepare the room with the en-suite, please?"

Her father grunted.

"Today, girl."

Not a harsh rebuke. I sensed an undercurrent of gentle humour.

Her eyes widened still further and blinked.

"Of course, sorry."

She disappeared out the door again.

“Okay if I pay cash?”

“Cash?” he raised an eyebrow. “Of course, no problem. Curious time of year for a holiday?”

I put my sleeve in the pool where the glass once stood.

"Here to do the bird-watching."

The host was unsure.

"Not the right conditions? This mist and thin sea cloud."

He cleaned around where I rested, cleaning away the filmy remnants of the foam.

"Welcome to Cape Ore."

"Thanks."

"Suffer any problems travelling in the fog?"

"I caught a train to Melton and the number 71."

"Fortunate."

A voice said behind me. I turned. A tall, slender woman with fair hair smiled at me. In her mid-thirties. She wore sombre clothes and walked in with several people behind her. The mourners from the funeral.

"Hard roads approaching this village."

Her voice was concise, not speaking with the local twang.

"Not a native?"

We shook hands

"Doctor Alexis Fawx. The neighbourhood physician, for my sins, and I come from London."

Someone tapped me on the shoulder. "Garth Stylez, now please be courteous enough to move away and let me serve these customers?"

I apologised, moved aside, and made my way past severable tables to find an unoccupied chair near the dartboard in the corner. The table wobbled when I placed my glass on it, and the liquid splashed against the sides. The seat rocked when I sat. I peered at the stone-flagged floor on how to adjust the table's position when someone joined me.

Alexis Fawx.

"May I?"

"No, of course."

She exhaled an audible sigh of relief.

"This place stays a close-knit society. I lived here for a few months and still considered an outsider.”

She paused.

“Secrets and deceptions everywhere.”

"Nothing goes on hidden forever."

Her eyes narrowed, and she tilted forward.

"Late, aren't we?"

"The climate delayed me."

"Something peculiar going on here."

Alexis paused as Shyla Stylez placed a glass of red wine before departing.

"This for an example."

Alexis slid a photo towards me, avoiding the puddle of alcohol.

I studied with care, scrutinising the detail of a periscope appearing from the swells.

"Location?"

"At the harbour viewing region, taken by a visitor five days ago, managed to catch this before the submarine dived and glided under the waves again.”

“Where is this?”

“Two miles offshore.” She replied.

“The scope continued rotating backwards and forwards, surveying the coastline."

“Does the local constabulary know?”

“This is Cape Ore,” she said. “Everyone knows everyone.”

"Are you the only MI5 agent in the village?"

She nodded and sipped her drink.

“I stay at the caravan parks near the seafront until I find somewhere else to rent.”

“How is your Russian?”

"Rubbish, why?"

"This is a Russian Perm submarine from the Yassen class.” I said. “It carries a scramjet powered manoeuvring anti-ship hypersonic cruise missile. Each weapon carries one warhead. I bumped into a birdwatcher on the cliffs. He only spoke Russian.”