Hurst - Robin Crumby (bookreader TXT) 📗

control, veering to the right down the bank and ending up in a watery ditch. He picked himself up, relieved to be uninjured, his left side coated with what felt like mud but smelled worse. The fetid water reeked of methane and sewage. He wheeled the bike back up the bank, and noticed the chain was hanging loose.

Alone in the darkness, he shouted obscenities into the night, startling a pair of birds nesting in the gorse and bushes below. He wasted a couple of minutes trying to get the chain back on, feeling the teeth of the gear wheels with his fingers. He tried to relocate the chain manually, but each time the tension was too loose. He tried one last time, kneeling down, spinning the back wheel before the chain could come loose again. With a sigh of relief, he straddled the frame, standing high on the pedals and pushed off once more.

The footpath meandered across the mudflats, jagging left away from Hurst before looping round across a small tidal lock with a gate at each end. He caught his first sight of the castle in the distance. He was still some way away, perhaps as far as five kilometres. It looked like a slumbering dragon, belching smoke into the night. Will picked up the pace again, making sure to stick to the middle of the path, his confidence growing now he had the measure of the bike, albeit one with flat tyres.

Where the footpath eventually rejoined a narrow single-lane road at Keyhaven, he recognised the small quay, low buildings of the sailing club and car park beyond. Keeping the water on his left-hand side, he cycled down the lane nearest the salt marshes that led out towards Hurst Spit and the tidal road that flooded in spring tides. The roadway was littered with seaweed and other detritus.

The bicycle would be useless on shingle so he dumped it in a bush near the footbridge just in case he needed it again. He started running, his feet slipping on the loose pebbles, reducing his progress to a fast walk. In the distance, he could see the castle. He was so close now. In no more than a mile he would see his old friends and be able to warn them, providing he was not already too late.

Chapter Forty-five

It was Tommy’s turn to patrol the perimeter. He took a leisurely stroll around the battlements by torchlight, stopping to look from the various vantage points. At the eastern end of the fortifications he paused, looking back towards Lymington and Cowes, scanning for any lights in the darkness. The channel buoys were mostly still lit. Others without solar panels had long since gone dark, though with the wind in the right direction the bells of some of the cardinal buoys could still be heard, clanging away.

It was now almost two years since the last ship had arrived here. A coastal steamer, seen creeping in under cover of darkness through the deep-water channel towards the deserted dockyards of Southampton. Tommy wondered what had happened to them. Being on a ship, like the Maersk Charlotte, sounded like the best place to wait out the virus, heavily laden, as she was, with stores and food. Perhaps enough to last a lifetime. The Charlotte had been anchored near the Brambles bank in Southampton Water for as long as anyone could remember, waiting to unload. He could just make out her dim anchor lights in the darkness.

The Solent had once been one of the busiest waterways of the world. A playground for the rich and famous. America’s Cup yachts, square-riggers, giant motor boats, gin palaces, sailing vessels of every description had graced the Solent. Ferries transporting day-trippers to the island, packed with foot passengers, bicycles and motorbikes, children’s faces daubed with ice cream, cars and lorries crammed in tight. It had been a bustling, happy sort of place. Today it was deserted and forlorn, forgotten by man, no longer master of the sea, but land-locked and decimated by sickness. And yet, each day, the tide continued its meticulous cycle, rising and falling, enslaved by the moon. Every few seconds the sea crashed against the rocks, its energy dissipated amongst the pebbles and edges, indifferent to man’s desperate plight.

At the far end of the complex Hurst Spit stretched out back towards the orderly shapes of houses and retirement accommodation that lined the cliff-tops of Milford in the distance. He peered in to the darkness, trying to pick out any shapes approaching in the distance. To his left, he could make out the Needles rocks, and waves crashing against their base, and lighthouse. The lighthouse no longer cast its beam over Christchurch Bay warning ships to stay clear. His eyes were playing tricks on him, seeing things that weren't there. He blamed the beer he'd been drinking, long past its sell-by date.

Walking back along the length of the southern wall, he headed over to the gateway to the central courtyard of the original Tudor fort and the imposing gun tower at its heart that looked out over the whole castle complex. This inner part of the castle was kept locked after hours. He took a minute to find the oversized key with ornate ironwork and engraving the length of its shaft. The lock was original and for a moment he imagined himself as a Tudor guard dressed rather differently in chainmail, holding a lantern, opening the same door, making the same midnight patrol in service of the king.

One half of the door swung open and he stepped inside, sliding the heavy bolt into place. Crossing the stone-paved inner courtyard he climbed the outside staircase that curved around the main building till he reached the first-floor entrance to the main living area. Inside the twelve-sided walls of the tower it was cramped and dark, packed with sleeping bodies and stores. The doorway had once been a first-floor Tudor window, but Scottie said the internal spiral staircase had been adapted during the reign of Queen Victoria to act as a conduit for light for the lower level.

As silently as possible Tommy lifted the latch back into place to avoid waking the pair nearest the entrance. Treading lightly around a row of camp beds and sleeping bags, he headed up the stairs to a flat roof. Pushing open the half-size hatchway, he crawled out on his hands and knees.

He loved it up here. The three-hundred-and-sixty-degree panoramic views of the Solent were unparalleled. Even in the darkness, the sense of space was intoxicating. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, savouring the salt and seaweed in the air. It was an overcast and virtually moonless night. The strong breeze ruffled his hair and made him shiver slightly. He could hear waves breaking against the groynes and rocks below, pebbles scraping and sliding in sync with the pull of each receding wave.

Was it his imagination or was there also something else? He thought he heard a voice and then a metallic sound that seemed out of place, coming from just outside the castle walls. He was convinced his mind was playing tricks on him. With so many sleeping under canvas in the castle grounds, it was likely someone sleep-talking or knocking something over. With a shake of his head, he continued on with his sweep.

Looking north towards Keyhaven, he could make out the line of moored yachts in the tidal estuary. Silhouetted shapes and masts swayed in the protected waters, their bows nodding gently towards him. All was quiet, as it should be.

He yawned and was just about to head back down when he heard a scrape of metal on stone. It sounded like an anchor dragged along the quayside. He couldn’t place its source, but he thought it came from the direction of the beach facing the Needles passage. There it was again, it was like someone cutting fish heads on a stone slab. Was someone out fishing tonight? Another shiver travelled down his spine, though he was no longer cold.

He hurried over to the parapet but saw nothing out of place. He realised there was a blind spot beneath him where he suspected the noise had come from. He shrugged his shoulders, blaming an overactive imagination. He should never have drunk that last beer. He needed to get a grip and head back to the gate, before he weirded himself out.

He thought he heard the sound again, convinced he could see movement. First, a pair of hands broke the straight line of the wall’s edge, followed by the head and shoulders of a figure clambering over the wall. For a moment, the figure lay prone, turning its head slowly while it got its bearings. As Tommy looked on, pinching himself in disbelief, another figure clambered over the lip of the wall and joined the first, lying flat, waiting.

Tommy froze, unsure what to do next. If he moved, they’d see him. In his rucksack slung across his back, he had a flare gun and a pistol with two loaded clips. Very slowly, he sunk down behind the parapet, hoping that they were too occupied to notice him. He rummaged through the bag and found what he was looking for. He cocked open the flare gun, checked there was a cartridge loaded, released the safety, pointed it high above his head and fired.