The Rocks Below (4 page)

     DARE TO run wild and spin around to see hunter
?  The anagram was solid and adding PR for ‘spin’ worked a treat. Maybe that would be good enough.
 

     Before he could type in the clue, he was interrupted by another growl. This one was more Earthy. It had a deep rumble to it that unnerved Martin. There was no way Pip could make a sound like that, not even if you gave him a keyboard programmed with Halloween noises. Which made him wonder. If it wasn’t Pip, what the hell was it?  And where the hell was Pip?  If anything happened to their pup, it would be Martin who’d end up in the doghouse.
 

     He stood and walked silently along the lawn.
 

     The growl came again, from the trees just over the fence. If it were that close, they might all be in danger and all the hard work he’d put in to make his the perfect family home might be destroyed in two seconds. He imagined claws, sharp teeth and bloodied sheets and felt his spine hunch backwards as if it were trying to distance itself from the pictures in his mind.
 

     He stood on his tiptoes and took a look in the direction of the noises.
 

It was dark enough to make anything difficult to see and there was nothing at first, but then there was movement. The enormous, dark silhouette of a beast on the prowl. Which, Martin thought, might explain all those missing dogs.

      “
Pip?”  Martin whispered. “Pip?  Time for walkies.”
 

     Pip didn’t show and the next growl came from a little closer.
 

     The temperature seemed to drop a couple of degrees and Martin rubbed his arms to get his blood circulating.
 

     He tiptoed back to the fire slowly, making sure he didn’t make any sudden movements.
 

     When he got there, he took out a thick branch that was burning brightly at one end. He’d use it for a torch and, if necessary, as a weapon.
 

     He carried the torch close to the ground, feeling the strain in his lower back. Getting old was definitely not going to be fun. He poked it under the caravan and into the shrubs looking for the low sausage shape of Pip’s body. Without his glasses, all he could make out were the twigs of plants that wouldn’t be waking up until spring and the dull, red berries of the holly bush in the corner.
 

     He straightened up and his head moved past the top of the fence. The light from the torch was reflected back to him by two green discs the size of £2 coins.
 

     His stomach cramped immediately, forcing a mix of red wine and marshmallows along his throat and into his mouth. As his tongue reeled at the taste, his arm lifted and threw the stick he was holding at the beast before him.
 

      “
Raaaarrgh,” he shouted as the torch headed in the direction of the eyes. “Get off with you.” 
 

     He could hardly believe his luck. Whatever it was, the black beast turned and ran back into the cover of the trees. That thing about animals hating fire was definitely true.
 

     The sleek, black coat of the animal disappeared. ‘Panther?’ Martin said, and then ‘Pip?  Pip?’
 

     This time Pip ran out to him, pulling at the bottom of his trousers with his mouth to get his attention.
 

     Martin picked him up. Let him offer a couple of licks and took him to the safety of the caravan.
 

     A new clue came to mind as he put on his glasses and took out his mobile to call the police.
 

     He would like to find himself inside a quarry? On the contrary! -
Cryptic definition, a predator would like to find his quarry (i.e. his prey) in himself.
 

     It changed his line of thought and he swapped the phone for his tablet.
 

     Though his mind had one thought his fingers seemed to have something different to say altogether.
 

     They typed at the speed of machine-gun fire.
 

     Clue (9 Down): Hunter cut tail off prey having died on top of a hill.
Editorial Explanation: PRE (prey with tail cut off) D (short for 'died' as in "b. 1970 d.2013" for dates born and died) and A TOR (a hill).
 

     He poured another glass of wine to celebrate and to steady his hand, returned to his phone and dialled.
 

The Beach

Chelsea Wilkinson lay asleep on Tyninghame beach next to a large driftwood fire, lost in a dream.

     It was a dream she’d had many times.
 

     She was standing at the top of the stairs wearing the Minnie Mouse dressing gown she’d had as a child.
 

     Close behind her came a creature she’d never seen. It made noises like a hungry lion as it approached from the shadows. There was no doubt it was coming for her, ready for the kill.
 

     Chelsea needed to get down the stairs and fast.
 

     Instead of running she jumped. As the feet in her dream took off from the ground, her real body twitched and her stomach turned like a tumble-drier.  
 

     It was the part of the dream she hated, the nightmare part.
 

     And then, without warning, it became something magical. Instead of falling, she was flying, gently flapping her wings and floating up and down at will. In her dreams, she was always able to fly - it was just that sometimes she forgot that she could.
 

     As she headed for the door and prepared to rise into the sky her eyes opened and the dream was over.
 

     There was a wet, black nose in her face and a rough, pink tongue licking at her lips.
 

      “
Churchill!”  It had seemed the perfect name for a bulldog when they got him as a pup, but now Chelsea wasn’t so sure. Churchill had grown so large and muscled that his legs bowed and it could barely waddle these days. Worse still, he sounded like a vacuum cleaner all of the time and something like a coffee grinder when he snored.
 

     She still loved him though, even if his breath did smell of tuna fish.
 

      “
What is it boy?” 
 

     Churchill broke off from licking and just stood, tongue lolling out of his mouth and eyes looking straight ahead.
 

     Everything around the fire looked as it had been when Chelsea took her doze. Skewers covered in sticky, pink marshmallow. A green, tartan rug with stones on the corners to keep it down in the wind.  Her husband, newspaper spread out on his chest, sleeping soundly with his head resting on their rucksack. Two buckets full of water and shells, two spades one red one blue, a hamper full of picnic rubbish, a large bone, an empty dog’s bowl and a large mound of sand with decorated castles covering the top.
 

     The logs in the fire still burned peacefully, keeping the cold away.
 

      “
You want a walk, is that it?”  It seemed a shame to keep the dog on the lead like this, but everyone was being careful these days. Who knew when the gang from Newcastle were going to strike?  “Dave. Dave.”  Her husband twitched and half-opened his eyes.
 

      “
Yes Darling.”
 

      “
Churchill needs a walk.”
 

      “
What?”
 

      “
Churchill needs a walk. I thought maybe you could take him and find out what the children are up to.”
 

      “
They not back yet?”  Dave sat up and the newspaper slipped into his lap. His bushy eye-brows rose and the frown lines above them meant his forehead took on the look of a ploughed field. He looked at his watch. “Christ, Chels. It’s 3 o’clock. They should have been back ages ago.”
 

     He was right. They’d wandered off just after lunch which meant they’d been gone for almost 2 hours.
 

      “
All the more reason for you to go and find them, Honey. And don’t go being all nicey-nicey when you find them. An hour I said and that’s all they needed to know.”
 

     Dave was on his feet. He brushed the sand from his coat and ran into the dunes behind them to take a pee, making patterns on the odd, concrete cubes that had been left there in the war in case there was ever a tank invasion of Scotland.
 

     He zipped his fly quickly and ran down ready to go.
 

      “
Come on boy,” he said to Churchill, and unclipped his lead.
 

     Churchill ran for as long as he could manage, a kind of wobbly bounce, then stopped to wait for his master to catch up.
 

     At the edge of the cliff, Dave was able to get a good look around the beach.
 

     All was still. The tide was on its way in, the white edges lapping the sand like cotton smocks on a washing line. Bass Rock looked magnificent against the clear blue sky. There was a container ship heading to Edinburgh, the metal containers piled as high as looked possible without them falling overboard. The scenery was stunning with its
greens and reds and air of tranquillity. What was missing from the scene was people.
 

     Not a soul to be seen.
 

     Dave swallowed hard as if trying to get rid of his anxiety. As if his anxiety were indigestible, it came back as a belch of anger.
 

      “
I’ll kill them if they’ve gone into the woods, Church. I’ll kill them.”  He blinked his eyes tight to try and alter his thoughts and it seemed to work.
 

     Churchill didn’t seem that bothered about life. He sniffed away at the footprints in front of them and headed off in their direction.
 

      “
A trail. Good lad, Church,” and Dave followed his bulldog in pursuit of his missing children.
 

     Problem was that Dave could see where they were going. Two sets of prints leading directly to the water. The only thing he could see was the boulder that had arrived up on shore with the storms. The waves were lapping around it now and Dave decided his kids must have made a den on the other side of the rock.
 

      “
Rod?  Ella?  Your mother said an hour. Have you forgotten how to tell the time?”
 

     Churchill stopped when he got to a couple of metres from the water’s edge. He wasn’t one for getting wet if he didn’t have to. He stood there looking around like he’d lost something.
 

      “
Christ guys,” Dave said. “It’s not funny. Come on.”
 

     Nothing changed.
 

     The two sets of prints went in to the water and as far as Dave could see, none came out.
 

      “
Ella?  Rod?”  Dave’s eyes watered and he felt a heavy pressure in his chest as if someone had blown up a balloon right next to his heart. He ran around to the other side of the boulder and found…nothing.  “Ella?  Rod?”  It was as if the balloon in his chest had suddenly been popped and the air had raced out of his mouth as a groan. Tears ran down his cheeks, dripped onto his coat and returned home to the sea. “Ella?  Rod?  Where on Earth have you got to?
 

     He looked about him. Circled the rock a few times just in case. Checked for more prints in the sand but could see nothing. Sat down in the middle of the sea and held his knees to his chest, barely noticing the cold seeping in through his trousers and up his legs.
 

     Churchill hated to see his master in distress. He waddled over to where Dave sat and licked the tears from Dave’s face.
 

The coastguard did everything he could. They had the lifeboats out, ably assisted by a flotilla of fishing boats.  There were helicopters circling the area and local residents making tours of the woodland. Divers swam around the bay looking for clues. The police were out in force questioning anyone who’d been in the area and asking Chelsea and Dave the same questions over and over to try and find some information that would have been of some use.

     They searched until the blanket of darkness and a barrage of high winds combined to force things to a close.
 

     It would all begin again as soon as the sun rose in the morning, this time with the help of the hundreds of volunteers who would respond to the call put out by the radios, televisions and computers of the land.
 

     Nobody was going to give this one up lightly. They’d be at it for as long as it took to find them.
 

Both Barrels

Only twelve volunteers appeared the next morning to scour the woods for signs of the big cat.

     Dougal could normally have counted on getting at least 50, as well as a handful from the police, but most of the usuals had gone over to Tyninghame to search for the missing children. Two eight-year-olds disappearing like that was a terrible thing. Dougal shook his head as he thought of them and of all those who’d lost their lives over the years on that stretch.
 

     The volunteers looking for the big cat were split up into groups of three so that they could cover more ground.
 

     One group had gone to the deer-park, one to the area around the cement works, a third to the John Muir Way and Dougal’s group were taking Lochend, near to where the sighting had taken place.
 

     Sam Surf was in the Lochend group, glad to be able to be out and about after his surfing ordeal. Being on crutches didn’t make the terrain easy for him, but he enjoyed the exercise his arms were getting.
 

     Martin was there, too, dressed for the job in hiking boots, beany hat, walking stick and trousers tucked into his thick, woolly socks.  Hanging from his neck was a pair of binoculars and from the top of one of his coat pockets poked a note-book and pencil with a rubber on the top. “In case I need to take notes,” he’d said when Dougal looked down at them and furrowed his brow.