THE STEPS DOWN TO THE BEACH from the ramparts are narrow and sea-smashed, giving way to raw rock in places. The lower ones are almost completely covered in seaweed, but we manage to get down in one piece.
“What are these?” says Violet, pointing to the towering black sheds.
“Fishermen’s huts,” I say. “Most of them haven’t been used for years, but some of the fishermen still keep their tackle here.”
Between two of the huts, each several storeys tall, an old rope fishing net has been hung, like a cobweb set to catch seagulls.
“That’s how they dry them,” I explain. “The nets, I mean. Hey, Violet…!”
I pick up the pace, because Violet has turned a corner, ducked beneath the net and vanished.
When I catch up to her, she’s trying one of the shed doors.
“You can’t just go in there,” I say. “These fishermen are hard men. Sea-hardened, you know? You don’t want them catching you messing with their stuff.”
“There’s no one here now, though, is there?” she replies, pulling the door open with a creak. “I’m just taking a look.”
I follow her inside – well, I have to, don’t I? It’s dark in the shed, but in the small light that creeps in, I see a ladder bolted to the inside of the wall. And I see Violet’s feet as she disappears up it.
“I thought you wanted to go to the beach,” I whisper-hiss up the ladder as I follow. “What are we doing in here?”
“I want to see the view,” comes the reply.
We reach the top storey, which is black and airless and smells like fish guts. The only light comes from the edges of a tall hatch in the wall. Violet fiddles with the catch and then shoves it open. The rush of fresh air that floods in is a relief.
The beach is laid out before us, with the pier and the far sea directly ahead.
“You’d get a better view from the sea wall,” I say.
“I know,” says Violet, leaning out of the hatchway and looking each way. “But on the sea wall, everyone can see me. Here is more private.”
“What is it you want to do?” I say.
“Isn’t it obvious?” says Violet. “Something is happening in this town. And whatever it is, it’s happening on the beach. I want to watch it for a while.”
She pulls out her book. “I can finish reading this at the same time.”
“I admit, it’s a good view,” I say, looking out of the hatchway at the gleaming expanse of sand. “You can even see the Leviathan from here.”
“The what?”
“Over on the horizon, where the waves are now. Do you see it?”
Violet leans out. “I can see something dark and jagged. And massive. What is it?”
“It’s all that’s left of the battleship Leviathan,” I tell her. “It was wrecked years ago. You can walk out to it when the tide is at its lowest, though it’s pretty dangerous. And some say…”
I trail off.
“What?” says Violet, but all I can do is point.
I hear Violet gasp. “Boathook Man!”
It’s true. And he’s not over by the pier or stalking across the horizon by the wreck. He’s right below us, shuffling zombie-like between two of the sheds, his head swinging from side to side as if he’s looking for something.
“Get in,” I whisper, pulling Violet back inside the shadow.
“What’s he doing here?” she whispers back. “Was he following us?”
I say a bad word. Not a really bad word, but bad enough. After everything that’s happened, we should have been more careful.
We creep foward again and crouch in the shadow of the hatchway to watch. Boathook Man stops, and cocks his head as if listening. We go completely still. He cocks his head the other way.
And then he looks down.
Down at the wet sand where two sets of footprints are clearly visible. Footprints that lead straight to the door of the shed we are hiding in.
Boathook Man looks up, and we dart back again.
“Oh, bladderwracks!” I say. “He saw us. He’s coming up!”
And sure enough, the ladder that is bolted to the inside of the shed – which rises up the entire four storeys – starts shaking violently.
“Which means we can’t go down,” says Violet. “So…”
She runs to the hatchway and grabs a rope that is attached to a small pulley outside. For a moment, I think Violet is going to abseil down, which would be nuts as the rope is nowhere near long enough. But I’m wrong. Instead, while I’m standing there like a lemon, clutching my cap, Violet swings out into mid-air!
The ancient building creaks and cracks under the strain.
Violet lets go of the rope at just the right moment and grabs the hanging net – the one spread between two of the sheds. The net sags under her weight and the building complains again, but Violet gains her balance and is now safely outside. The rope swings back towards me.
“Quick, Herbie. Jump!”
Now, you’ve probably worked out by now that I’m not a Quick, Herbie. Jump! kind of guy. I mean, it’s not as if there’s much need for jumping and exclamation marks in the daily life of a lost-property attendant. But Violet has changed all that. Also changing it is the dismal bearded face of Boathook Man as he rises up through the floor behind me, streaming with water. He slams his hook into a beam and pulls himself up into the room in one easy motion.
So I jump out of the hatchway and grab the rope. Well, what else can I do?
I swing out …
… but I’ve got the angle all wrong.
I miss the net – and swing straight back towards the hatchway!
“Herbie!” Violet shouts, making her way across the net towards me.
Boathook Man grabs the rope with his good hand, just above my head. And now I’m dangling, four storeys up, like a fish on a line. The boathook comes up and draws level with my eyes.
At this point I can either let go of the rope and probably break both my legs, or stay dangling where I am and be filleted like a small lemon-flavoured herring in a Lost-and-Founder’s cap.
And that’s when something blue-green flashes in front of my face. Something blue-green and angular, which strikes Boathook Man in the eye.
It’s Violet’s book.
Boathook Man staggers back, his mouth open in a wordless cry of shock, his good hand clutching at his eye.
And no longer holding the rope.
“Herbie!” Violet shouts again, but I don’t need to be told this time. I kick hard and push myself away from the shed, swinging out in the right direction. I throw myself forward and just about manage to get a hand on the net. Violet grabs my coat and pulls me up beside her.
The two rickety black sheds creak ominously as the net swings under our weight.
We begin to climb down, but it’s slower than you might imagine because the net is so loose. We’re only halfway down when everything shudders, causing us to lose our grip … and fall! We grab on again and look up to see that Boathook Man has jumped too – that was the shudder we felt – and is now in the net above, hanging by his hook, staring down at us with a face like a thundercloud, seawater showering from his swinging beard.
“Let go, Herbie!” Violet cries, and does so herself. We’re still quite high, and I hear her land heavily on the sand beneath me. I let go too and land beside her, the air escaping from my lungs with an oof!
Violet starts to run but cries out and falls down again.
“My ankle. I’ve hurt it.”
“Hold on to my arm,” I say, snatching up my cap and getting ready for us to run as fast as we can between us. I risk a glance back and I’m pleased to see that it’s not easy to climb down a loose fishing net when one of your hands is a boathook; Boathook Man looks hopelessly tangled.
But we don’t get to start that run.
“Well, well, well,” says a voice as the broad frame of a man appears between the black sheds ahead of us, barring our way to freedom. “This is no way to treat a book,” the man adds, picking up Vi’s green book and brushing the wet sand off it.
It’s Sebastian Eels.
