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."