‘You okay, mate?’ The Guardian approaches with caution, seeing a male of uncertain age and origin on the ground a little way back from the edge, lying on his side with his hood up. ‘Everything all right there?’
Michael Bond, a big man with a cannonball belly and a black, piratical beard flecked with grey, stops for a moment to lean on his carbon graphite trekking poles, catch his breath and assess the situation. He knows exactly what the Guardian training manual tells you to do in a situation like this, because he wrote it: keep your distance but stand within earshot, stay calm, begin a conversation. ‘Frontline Alpha to Frontline Zulu,’ he says into his radio, contacting his colleague back in the lay-by, who is watching him through binoculars. ‘Male, hooded jumper, running shorts and trainers. Lying down. Not responding. Will attempt contact again, over.’
‘Roger, Frontline Alpha. I have you in sight. Advise if help required, over.’
‘Roger. Will do. We’re okay for now, maintain contact. Out.’
His eyes are on the man. His prayer is quiet. ‘Lord, guide me.’ This one could be drunk or high, he could be sick or desperate, he could get up suddenly and run. ‘Can you hear me, mate? Are you okay? We’re on patrol up here, really just trying to see if anyone needs help, if they are feeling down. Because, you know, this is a place of suicide . . .’ Call it what it is. That’s the word that makes people turn around, usually. Not this time, though. ‘Look, mate, I’m sorry,’ he says, keeping a good six or seven feet away, because you don’t want them to grab you, definitely not. You don’t want to be in a wrestling match. Talking is much better. ‘If you were sitting on a bench in a park, I’d leave you alone, but you’re not. I just felt a bit of rain and this is a fairly remote spot. Can you hear me? You are close to the edge of a cliff. This is not a normal situation. Do. You. Understand. What. I. Am. Saying?’ He can’t see the face but this man might be an illegal with no English. That will be tricky, there are no translators up here, they’ll need to get the police involved. Hope not then. ‘We have a duty of care to the people we see here. If there is something bothering you, can I help? Come on, son . . .’
The lighthouse keeper whose love has gone hears none of this. He is lost in the memory of her skin, the softness of her lips, until a shadow across his face calls him back. Somebody is watching, from behind a disguise. No, a beard. It’s a big man with a black beard and shades. A white shirt open at the chest, under a red fleece. Oh great, that’s all he needs to spoil his mood. The Guardians do a lot of good, there’s no arguing with that, but they will keep coming up and asking if he’s okay. He’s seen this guy before but they’ve never spoken and right now he really doesn’t want to have to explain his presence here yet again. But here we go anyway. This one has bushy black eyebrows and eyes that are expectant, so he pulls out his earphones to get this over with.
‘—for disturbing you. It is what we have to do. You understand that. Better to be safe than sorry.’
He doesn’t want to reply, or talk at all. Not to this guy. He wants her.
‘Mate, speak to me. Where are you from?’
‘Here,’ says the lighthouse keeper, despite himself.
‘No, really.’
‘Go away.’
‘I’m not going to do that.’
Fine, he thinks, rolling the rubber tips of the earphones between a finger and thumb of each hand, then pushing them back into his ears, feeling heavy bass notes drop.
‘Hey, would you mind turning that off so I can speak to you?’
The music stops and he nods but keeps the buds in. The Guardian breathes hard, nearer now and struggling to get down on the ground, belly shifting as he goes. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. It has been a hard day. Let’s try again. I’m a Guardian. We’re here to help.’
‘I know. I don’t need any.’
Hair whips into the lighthouse keeper’s eyes as he lowers his hood, then the Guardian’s face changes. ‘Hang on, I’ve seen you before. You’re a runner, aren’t you?’
Very observant. His legs are bare and threatening to cramp. But he might as well answer, this guy won’t go away otherwise. ‘I live in the lighthouse.’
‘You’re the one they call the Keeper. Magda says. From the pub.’
‘If you say so.’
‘Funny. They call me the Chief. Taking the mick, mostly, but I don’t mind. Used to be a chief constable in the Met, now I’m sort of the leader of the team up here. Player manager, if you like. Got a name though: Michael.’
He offers a hand and the Keeper shakes it, but doesn’t give his own first name, or say anything else in response.
‘You’re doing it up then? Big job.’
‘Yep.’
They sit together in silence, except for the fussing of the wind and the gulls turning circles close overhead. A lobster boat is making its way through the bumpy sea far below. The Guardian takes off his sunglasses, squints and smiles. ‘Not suicidal then?’
‘I wasn’t.’ The Keeper pulls a zipper up to his throat and tucks his legs in under himself, rubbing the tops of his thighs. The wind is gathering, he should go.
‘Okay, fair enough. Sorry to disturb. We have to ask. I know you’re not one of the main ones we’re after today anyway, you don’t fit the descriptions from the police: Asian man, late fifties, in a parka; white lady in her twenties, white puffa jacket, pushing an empty buggy. Had to give the baby up. Let me know if you see them.’
‘How?’
‘Here’s my card. Hard to get a signal up here, sometimes text is better. Or just call the police, you know? We work with them. People don’t usually come up to this bit by the lighthouse, I grant you. They mostly go to Beachy Head itself, because they’ve heard of it and the bus stops there, by the pub. Early in the morning or in the evening, often. No crowds. Your place puts them off, like a watchtower.’
‘Should you be telling me all this?’
‘It’s okay. There’s a lot of sadness in this world, but I’ve seen hope too, believe me. We are hope. The Lord is hope . . .’
‘Are you allowed to try and convert people?’
‘No, sorry, never do that,’ says the Chief quickly. ‘I was just talking about why we do this . . . Never mind, what did you say your name was?’
No answer. Something has caught the lighthouse keeper’s eye, in the distance.
The Chief doesn’t notice as he wipes sweat from his face with a hankie. ‘Listen, please, don’t let me give you ideas. Not today, I couldn’t take it. Stupid of me to talk this way, but I’ve had enough. There’ve been more than usual lately. You must have seen the choppers and the cars. I don’t know why. Lads in the force are giving me grief, saying we should all keep our eyes open more, but I tell them, we have a good team, they are all well trained, we would know, we spot things. If we can just talk to people, let them know someone cares, it breaks the spell. They know that. They appreciate that. Everyone’s on edge right now. No pun intended. Listen, you haven’t seen anything unusual, have you? Anyone hanging about? Up here, on your own?’ A dark thought gathers in his mind like a cloud over the Channel. ‘Hang on, have they talked to you about this? Hey, mate, wait! Where are you going?’
The Keeper is up on his feet, slipping past the Guardian and away.
‘Come back! Oi! Get back here!’
The Chief’s hand goes to the radio in a holster at his hip. ‘Frontline Zulu, come in! Frontline Zulu! Alert our friends. Suspect running.’
‘Roger, Alpha, repeat please. Mike, did you say “suspect”?’
‘Roger that. Blue lights go. White male, hoodie, shorts.’
‘Suspect for what?’
‘What do you think? Why would he run? Quick! Am in pursuit!’
But it’s not a fair race. By the time the Chief has hauled himself to a standing position with his Elite Alpine walking poles, the man in the hoodie is yards away and moving fast. Running up the slope, pumping hard, past a young couple eating a picnic on a rug a safe distance from the edge. The man and the woman are waving their arms and pointing fingers at each other and having a great big row, although the words are taken on the wind and they have not noticed that the one thing they agree on – the one thing that is good about this bloody relationship, the one precious person who has made life bearable these last three years, even when he’s being a lazy bastard or she’s a moody cow – is no longer sitting in the buggy having a snooze. Their little daughter Poppy is going for a stroll. She’s tottering like a drunkard towards a rabbit, which is sitting in the sun, twitching its nose, nibbling the grass, looking up again, near the brim of the cliff. The toddler in her pink padded playsuit and pink woollen hat laughs and stretches out her hands to this bewitching creature, who stares back, blinks and bolts for it, leaving Poppy just a few baby steps from a very long fall.
‘Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!’ shrieks her father, rooted to the spot, flapping his arms while his wife is already on her way. But she will never get there, she is too late. ‘Poppy!’ Alarmed by the speed of the rabbit, confused by the sudden sight of the drop, the little girl stumbles and falls.