Peter May: Coffin Road

Finally, our lights pick out the shell-crusted steps cut so steeply into the side of the cliff, and the sea breaking ferociously around them as they vanish into the depths below. We see Billy’s boat, anchored in the bay, rising and falling dangerously on the swell. And his inflatable, dragged up the steps and on to the broken concrete quay, where he has secured it to the great rusted ring that is sunk into the rock. I get as close as I dare to his boat, then drop anchor. A glance at my companions reveals fear in their faces. They know as well as I do that this is the most dangerous moment. The transfer from boat to tender, and the attempt to reach and jump out on to the steps.

I cut the motor and clamber into the back of our boat to swing the inflatable out on its jib and lower it carefully into black waters that seem alive with rage and a determination to suck us under. As the tender comes up on the rise, I jump in and feel it fall away beneath me again as the sea drops, and I fall backwards into the bottom of it, grateful for the ropes around its smoothly inflated sides to grip and steady me as the boat rises again and water breaks over me, icy cold in the darkness.

Sally is next and, as she swings herself into the tender, I grab her arm to steady her. In that moment, I remember all the times we have made love. The feel of her skin beneath my hands and against mine. Her lips. Her breath in my face. Our eyes meet, but neither of us can hold the look, each for different reasons. And then Jon is there beside us, and the two of them sit, clinging to the ropes, as I pull the starter cord and the outboard comes to life, a roar we can barely hear above the sea and the wind. I cast off and, accelerating away from our boat, turn into the swell and steer us towards the cliffs.

As we approach the steps, I swing the inflatable around at the last moment to bring us alongside, nursing the engine and the throttle to try to keep us there and prevent the sea from throwing us against them. It is not an easy thing to do, for the sea is trying its hardest to smash us all to pieces as our tender lifts ten feet or more, riding the incoming waves. I accelerate hard against its drag until we drop again, suddenly. I hear Sally scream, but we are still in one piece. Jon turns his eyes towards mine and they are black with fear. I throw him the rope and shout at the top of my voice, ‘Next time we go up, jump, then hold us steady.’

But he misses the moment. I see him brace for the leap, but he doesn’t make it, fear breeding inertia.

‘Now!’ I scream at him as the sea tosses us high again. And this time he jumps. For a moment I lose sight of him and think he has gone into the water. But as the sea recedes and we drop once more, I see him standing on the steps, ashen, the rope in his hands. Sally looks at me, panicked at the thought that she is next. I nod, and she knows she has no choice.

In the event, she makes the jump easily, grabbing Jon’s outstretched arm to set herself, and they both pull hard on the rope. This is the worst moment for me. I know I must cut the motor before jumping, and trust that the Harrisons will keep tension on the rope. If not, I will be gone, and there will be no one to protect my little girl from these people.

I see the next wave driving in and brace myself, feeling the tender lift on the crest of it. I stall the engine before leaping into space. I seem to fall through darkness for an eternity before my feet strike solid concrete and I feel Sally’s steadying hand. It takes me only a moment to get my bearings, and then all three of us are dragging the inflatable on to the steps, and pulling it up above the reach of the water, to the old concrete landing stage. I can feel salt spray stinging my eyes and the cold of this September sea seeping into my bones.

We secure it to the same ring that Billy has used to secure his, and I stand for a moment, looking out at the incoming ocean caught in the sweep of light from above. The wind is almost strong enough to knock me off my feet, and I know that with the rising tide this will all soon be under water, and the chances are that neither inflatable will survive.

Without a word, I turn and start to run up the steps. The old rusted iron handrail is deformed beyond use, ravaged by countless storms, and for the briefest of moments I find myself in the company of the lighthouse men who lost their lives here. They had trodden these same steps many times, and perhaps their ghosts still do. But Jon and Sally are not ghosts. They are flesh and blood and a threat to me and mine, and they are right behind me.

At the elbow of the dog-leg, I stop to catch my breath. The wind is even stronger up here, the beam from the lighthouse sweeping through the night above us, twice every thirty seconds, reaching twenty miles and more out to sea. I see Sally’s face and Jon’s, caught ghostly white in its reflection. None of us knows what the next few minutes will hold, and all of us, I suspect, are afraid of them.

I push on up the steps, two at a time, feeling how every muscle in my legs aches and how the breath rips itself from my lungs with every step. From the landing platform, we follow the concrete path and the rusted lines left by the old tram tracks, until we reach what they once jokingly called Clapham Junction, where the tracks from the east and west landings converge to ascend that final stretch to the lighthouse itself.

There I stop again and look up at the shadow of the lighthouse standing stark against a stormy sky almost entirely devoid now of light. It flickers and fades like some phantom in the reflected light of its revolving beam. The wind hits us here like a physical blow, and it is not possible even to speak. The outside light at the entrance to the building is switched on, drawing us like moths to our fate.

The rain drives in horizontally as we run the last few yards to the comparative shelter of the outer wall of the complex, and I feel relief in escaping the relentless wrath of the storm. I crouch down in the lee of the wall, among the wet grass and the rubble, and the Harrisons do the same, three faces turned towards each other in the colourless light of the lamp above our heads. The time for pretending is over.

I say, ‘All I want is my daughter. Safe.’

‘So do we,’ Sally says, and the look I turn on her forces her to avert her eyes.

Jon is still gasping for breath. He says, ‘All we want is the data. That’s all we ever wanted.’

‘What makes you think it’s here?’

‘Because it’s not at the cottage. Do you think we haven’t been through that bloody house a hundred times? Every time you went up the coffin road to your bees. All those nights that Sally kept you safe in your bed, asleep after sex.’ I glance at her but still she won’t meet my gaze. ‘And Billy says you were manic about it, refusing to share with him or Sam. That you were the only one with all the data. Paranoid. And just crazy enough not to keep copies in case they fell into the wrong hands.’ He looks at me with cold, hard eyes. ‘We had your computer hacked.’ He shook his head. ‘Both of them. Nothing. No data on the hard drive. And you weren’t uploading to the cloud. So you had to have some kind of hard copy. It’s here somewhere, isn’t it? All those trips backwards and forwards to the islands. That was all about keeping your data safe.’

I nod.

‘And you knew all about us, didn’t you? You knew we were watching you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Until you lost your bloody memory.’ He glares at me. ‘At first I didn’t believe it, but Sally was convinced it was real. And then we were afraid that we wouldn’t get our hands on it, because you didn’t know where it was. And who knew when you might remember? If ever.’ He turns and looks towards the door of the lighthouse. ‘You’ve hidden it in there?’