Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

This was an ancient place, remote and desolate. Peaceful, yet witness to centuries of warmongering, standing ready to do its duty. A never-ending vigil set to the rhythmic rise and fall of the ocean.

It was only a matter of time before all this would be swept away. The castle’s resolute defences were imperceptibly weakened by every breaking wave, sweeping in from the Channel, sent crashing against the groynes and stones.

A pale sun rose silently and unnoticed over Hurst Castle. Shadows stretching over the rippled tidal waters that all but surrounded it, bar a narrow finger of shingle linking the fortifications to the mainland.

Hurst’s seventy-four occupants were slumbering in their quarters. The more recent arrivals were camped out in the east wing. Tents pitched where grass and space allowed. In the dorm room in the main building, a shaft of sunlight pierced the makeshift curtains. Two grey blankets strung across the large stone window aperture prolonged the darkness. The shaft of light fell across the pillow of one of the iron-framed beds, bathing the unshaven face of a man in white light as he began to wake.

Zed stretched and yawned, looking around at his companions. Packed tightly together, a sleeping mass of washed-up humanity snored gently. There was a low snuffle of someone stirring in the corner, heavy breathing and the universal stench of unwashed bodies and morning breath. From outside came the low sound of waves breaking gently over the rocks and shingle spit, seagulls soaring above the castle that spoke of a new morning, bringing with it new hope. For many, the sounds reminded them of former lives, holidays by the seaside, long-forgotten memories.

A base need to breathe fresh air and enjoy the peace of the castle in the early dawn compelled Zed to take his morning constitutional walk. He was fond of rising before anyone else was up and having the place to himself.

Stepping outside, he squinted, shading his eyes, taking a moment to bathe his face in the sunshine, inhaling deeply the sea air. His hair was unkempt and unwashed, long sideburns grew down his cheeks and a tuft of hair stuck upright. He wore a grubby T-shirt with chest-high salt stains from unloading stores from a visiting fishing boat the previous day. He had the air of someone who looked after himself, a loner, a survivor with the scars to prove it. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the company of others; he did. But when push came to shove, he had no time for the weak. Survive or die. Get in his way and face the consequences.

Leaving the castle keep and its cold grey stone walls, he meandered sleepily, still yawning, through the Tudor archway. Beyond the gate was a narrow strip of grass that stretched for one hundred metres or so to the western walls of the fort, extended in Victorian times. A large marquee dominated the interior. Half a dozen smaller tents were pitched haphazardly around it. Passing the canteen he took the stairs two at a time. Up on to the raised walkway and ramparts, he looked south-west across the narrow channel towards the Isle of Wight and the Needles rocks. There was still a faint haze that shrouded the island in a light mist, slowly evaporating as the shadows shortened on the water.

Scanning the horizon across the salt marshes towards Keyhaven, a pair of swans glided gracefully against the incoming tide within the sheltered estuary that lay behind a narrow shingle spit. As he turned to look back along the raised roadway that ran on top of the shingle, the movement of a dark shape in the distance interrupted his gaze.

The figure was limping awkwardly. A long heavy coat several sizes too big was draped around its shoulders. On the castle walls Zed reached for the pair of binoculars that lived in a large blue plastic IKEA storage box under the bench seat. He took a couple of seconds to find and focus on the man in the distance. There was no question. What had first appeared as a limp was more severe in focus, the left leg dragging heavily on the shingle, scraping at each step. His progress was laboured, but he showed no sign of discomfort or pain as he approached.

Zed lowered the binoculars and squinted with his bare eyes. The hint of a smile appeared on Zed’s lips. He reached back into the blue container and brought up a hunting rifle. Loading a single bullet into the breach, he took careful aim at the man in the distance. Adjusting his position a couple of times, he relaxed into a wide stance, the rifle resting on the edge of the brick wall. The cross hairs of the telescopic sight danced around the head of the approaching figure. He was still perhaps two hundred metres away now, making steady progress. Zed regulated his breathing before exhaling deeply.

The rifle shot rang out across Christchurch Bay, echoing around the battlements, shattering the silence of the early morning.

A flock of birds rose startled from the salt marshes. In the fenced-off field next to the lighthouse, a herd of dairy cows flinched, wild-eyed and bumping into each other. The two horses bolted. One jumped over the low wire fence and charged away from the noise, its hooves clattering on the pebbles as it galloped along the beach.

From the castle entrances, startled figures emerged from their slumber, still rubbing their eyes, alarmed by the single shot. There had been no bell to warn the inhabitants of an imminent threat. Two men raced towards the stairs to the western ramparts, clutching their boots and clothes.

Zed ignored the commotion behind him, cursing his luck as the figure continued its slow methodical lurch towards the castle, unharmed and undeterred. Its pace seemed to quicken. The first shot had gone high and right, splintering a rock over the man’s shoulder. Zed hurriedly reloaded the rifle. He adjusted his aim slightly to the left to account for the light breeze coming across the bay from the island. Wrapping the rifle strap tightly around his left arm, he steadied the barrel against the raised concrete and fired again. This time the figure’s head rocked back violently, before collapsing onto the shingle, twitching.

Those who had ignored the first shot and passed it off as something else now sat bolt upright. Muffled cries of alarm could be heard throughout the castle. Raised voices joined together as people emerged from every door and tent to congregate in the courtyard pointing towards the suspected source. Zed’s back was turned, silhouetted on the ramparts, the rifle hitched on his hip like a triumphant hunter.