Smuggler's Fall

“Be hole, be dust, be dream, be wind,
Be night, be dark, be wish, be mind,
Now slip, now slide, now move unseen,
Above, beneath, betwixt, between.”
Something huge touched him, brushed him from head to feet and he shivered. His hair prickled, and his skin was all gooseflesh.
Neil Gaiman, “The Witch’s Headstone,”

         Liz scrunched up her eyes and peered out into the sullen grey twilight. The landscape was a blur as fat globules of silver rain spattered and smeared across the windscreen. She flicked the wipers up a notch, the constant skreek-skrock jarring her already fragile nerves.
          The coastal road was narrow and winding and on her left the booming of the frenzied sea crashing against the snaggle-toothed rocks seventy feet below made her palms slick with apprehension. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, hoped that her hands would not slip on the worn leather. On her right, the cliff-face soared toward raggedy slate-grey clouds that raced across the sky.
         The old bus huffed and wheezed as it crawled along the road that zigzagged alarmingly up towards Smugglers Fall; so named for the old practice of throwing smugglers from the summit of the bluff. Stripped of clothes and all ornamentation, they would be led blindfold to the edge of the precipice. Here the blind would be removed to allow them to comprehend their gruesome fate. If lucky they would drown, but if the inhabitants were feeling a particular animosity, the unfortunate smuggler would be cast upon Satan’s Horn, a tall, needle-like formation of rock that jutted up from the beach below. The corpse could lay there for days, weeks; until a storm whipped up the waves and carried what remained out to sea. It was said that the reek of putrefaction could be conveyed several miles inland upon the breeze and was particularly foul during the warm season, leading cottage and village dwellers to stop-up their windows and doors with straw.
         During summer, visitors flocked to the viewing area to admire the horizon-to-horizon view. Blankets of varying hues, unrolled upon the grass, would vie with the pink and white Dog Rose and purple Saxifrage. Shrieking children and barking dogs played rough-and-tumble whilst anxious parents strived to rein in their unruly mob. However, it was only early spring, when untamed nature let loose her howling gales and squall fronts that flew in off the granite-grey sea.
          As Liz rounded the bend she could see the blurred outline of the old tree that stood in solitude at Smugglers Fall, its branches gnarled and drooping, reminiscent of an old man, crooked-boned, patiently awaiting his halcyon season, or death.
Car headlights, emerging from a bank of low fog that straddled the road up ahead, threw psychedelic, rainbow-painted daubs over the windscreen. Momentarily blinded, Liz rubbed her eyes and flinched as pain bloomed and spread across the orbital bone of her right eye. She pulled the bus into the side of the road and examined the damage in the mirror. The eye was swollen and brimstone-yellow bruising stained the delicate skin. At least the eye isn’t closed, she thought, as she dipped her hand in her pocket to pull out a stick of concealer.
         Cursing Nick, she recalled the rancid stench of beery breath, shouting, the large fist that crunched into her face, causing orange pulsar lights to explode behind her eyes, the glass fragments from her favourite vase scattered across the carpet.
He would be remorseful, he always was, until the next time - there was always a next time. Why did she keep going back for more? Tears filled her eyes, she choked them back. She would not cry. She wouldn’t!
         Liz gently wiped the salty dampness from her eyes and regarded the tree. She envied its ability to withstand the potent and mercurial passions of life. Swayed this way and that, it remained firmly rooted, capable of giving birth to new life, despite its tortured form. A bud of bitterness flowered within her and she wondered, at what point in time had she allowed her dreams to vanish like ephemeral spirits of the air? She had sacrificed her dreams to follow Nick’s. Did she still love him? She did not know.
         The white backlit numerals on the digital clock display blinked 17:55; she was due in at Moortop at six. As she pulled back onto the road she glimpsed an amorphous white form emerge from the driving sheets of rain in front of her. The figure appeared to glide, rather than walk, towards the verge where it came to a stop. She slowly approached the figure, put on the brakes, and pressed the large yellow button on the console. Whoosh! The doors opened on a burst of air and spindrifts of icy rain blew in on the wild wind, only to evaporate on contact with the warmth inside the bus.
         A girl waited with head lowered, unaffected by the wind and rain. It was as if she stood within the calm eye of a hurricane. Tangled black and lustreless hair draped over thin shoulders. A knee-length coat, once white, but now dirty-grey with age and use was belted tightly at the waist accentuating her emaciated form. She wore scuffed black ankle-boots and one was missing a silver buckle. Her bare knees were badly grazed and bits of dirt were imbedded in the scabrous skin.
         Liz gasped, started to rise from her seat, but something stopped her - primordial intuition perhaps? She slowly sat back down. The girl, without lifting her head, stepped aboard. A miasma of dead fish and stagnant water assailed Liz’s nostrils. Nausea threatened and she recalled a fishing harbour she had visited when a child; how she had hated the sights and the smells, the men smeared with fetid blood and grease.
         Holding her breath she watched as her curious passenger, without uttering a word, slid past and up the aisle towards the back row of seats, footfalls of wet sand trailing behind her. A heavy blanket of foreboding enveloped Liz and a polar chill creeped insidiously into the marrow of her bones; she rubbed her arms, turned the heating up, but doubted it would help. Frowning, she put the bus into drive and resumed the journey.
         The road began to straighten between lonely moorland scraggy with gorse and bracken. The village was only a mile away and Liz would be glad to see its lights, if only for the short time it took to drive down Main Street. She fervently prayed that another passenger would come aboard, as the overwhelming sense of dread and desperation was heightening the further along the route she went. She stole furtive glances at the girl in the rear-view, but she had not moved, her head remaining bowed.
         Main Street was empty, silent; the only signs of life, warm amber rectangles of light glowing in the mullioned windows lining the street. The Plover lay in darkness, its sign screeching as it swung violently on rust-ridden hinges. Liz felt her stomach muscles clench in a vice-like grip. She would be alone with her strange passenger from now till they reached Pilbury. It was a thought that she did not relish at all. She wiped away the small beads of chill sweat that had formed on her upper lip. Dammit! I don’t like this at all.
         Heading out of the village past the little wooden school, the moorland briefly returned as the road snaked down the long hill into the wooded valley below. From her position Liz could see the lights of farmhouses and cottages twinkling in the now inky black night. The rain intensified, thrumming loudly on the roof, whilst the wind, a whirling dervish, rocked the bus from side to side. Liz hung on, frantically fighting the steering wheel which had taken on a life of its own. However, it wasn’t long before the bus entered the valley where the trees sheltered the road from the worst of the inclement weather. She sighed in relief. Only another five miles and they would be on the outskirts of town. She would then be rid of her passenger.
         Liz could feel her muscles relax, the tension in her neck loosen its grip. The rain had stopped and a quickening moon turned the dark road pearly white. A good sign, she reckoned, fears allayed by the sense of normality that seemed to be reasserting itself.
As she was turning these thoughts over in her mind the saloon lights began to pulsate. Slowly, slowly, then skyrocketing to a dizzying speed. Head swimming, she frantically searched for the bank of light switches, fingers skittering uselessly over the console in the fractured light.
         She panicked, and fearing an accident, rammed on the brakes. The tyres shrieked as they bit down hard into the tarmac, the bus swerved, creaking and groaning in protest as it bounced from side to side. Its nose was pointed alarmingly toward the trees at the side of the road; they were swiftly coming closer. Liz swung the wheel and, at the last moment, managed to straighten up. The bus kicked up the long grass, a bucking bronco, as it came to a bone-rattling stop. Liz sat gasping; the muscles in her arms quivering with the effort of trying to control the behemoth, legs deadlocked. Hell! She swung round in her seat to check on her passenger and wished to God she had not.
         The passenger had moved, was facing Liz, halfway up the aisle. A serpentine frisson of fear uncoiled and slithered along her spine.The girl’s head was raised revealing features that had once been lovely, but now were scarred and ashen; the face of a corpse newly wrapped in the cloth of the grave. Where have I seen you before? Liz wondered, as eyes, dark chasms of torment; cardinal fires smouldering within their depths, stared at her, as if reading her innermost thoughts. A secretive smile played across her cupid-bow mouth.
         The girl slowly raised her hands and placed them criss-cross over her breast whilst smoky black wisps of mist coiled and billowed outwards from her skeletal form. Liz’s throat constricted, her breath coming in short sharp gasps.
The velveteen silence was suddenly pierced by an ululating wail. Liz inhaled sharply as the discordant sound filled her body and soul; she could feel its lupine rhythm ebb and flow within her blood. A chanting voice; bestial, gruff, materialised within her mind. Free me, free me, free me…
         Liz spun around, clasped her hands to her ears, prayed for the noise to stop. She could not take much more, and although she did not want to look in the mirror, she could not resist the almost magnetic pull. Heart hammering, she lifted her eyes and watched in heart-quivering horror as the girl began to walk towards her, limbs jerky in the proboscopic light, mouth stretching in a rictus scream. The hideous face filled the mirror and Liz could feel the corpse-cold rancid breath of death on the back of her neck.
         The world shrunk to a tiny point of light and then winked out.
         Liz awoke to bird song and beams of mellow sunshine that filtered softly through the half-closed blinds. Her head was aching and her mouth felt like something nasty you would find on the bottom of your shoe.
         ‘Hi babe.’
         She turned her head towards the voice as Nick took hold of the hand that lay on top of the bedsheet. She pulled away and his mask of loving concern slipped and was replaced by a churlish frown.
         ‘Hey babe, don’t be like that.’
         Liz could smell the reek of whisky. She sighed.
         ‘Go away Nick, just please go away. I really need to be alone right now.’ She was exhausted and didn’t need the complications that Nick brought with him. She wanted to gather her thoughts. Try and remember what happened last night.
         ‘But -.’
         ‘No, I mean it, just go.’ Her voice sounded flat, hollow, cold.
         For once Nick did not argue and strode out the door, almost slamming it shut until he remembered where he was. Liz could hear muted voices from beyond the cheap plywood door. Where was she? She looked around the room and it hit her. Oh my god, it’s a hospital. This time she did not try to stop the tears. She felt so afraid, alone. Tears spent and exhausted she drifted back to sleep.
         She was re-awoken by a tall, silver-haired man, who walked briskly into the room. He was dressed in a long white coat and a stethoscope was slung around his neck. Intelligent cinnamon-brown eyes regarded her above John Lennon glasses that were perched on the end of a hawk nose.
         ‘How are you feeling?’ He lifted her wrist, felt her pulse. Leaned over her, stretched each eyelid open with nimble fingers, studied her pupils with a slender torch. She could smell his breath. Minty clean unlike Nick’s.
         ‘Not too bad, just confused really.’ Liz replied. ‘Can’t remember much about last night.’
         ‘That’s not surprising. By the way, I’m Doctor Harrison, and this is St Bernadette’s Hospital.’
         ‘What happened to me?’
         ‘Well, you were brought in unconscious last night following the accident. But –‘
         ‘What accident? Liz felt waves of nausea-inducing anxiety wash over her. ‘Was anyone else hurt?’
         ‘No, no one else was involved.’ Doctor Harrison motioned for Liz to stick out her tongue. ‘Say aaaaaahhhhhh.’
Liz complied with the request.
         ‘That’s a girl. Okay. Good.’
         ‘But there was a girl on the bus. She was sitting at the back.’
         ‘No, the police didn’t find anyone else.’ Doctor Harrison moved towards the window, pulled the blinds up and opened the window. ‘Anyway, we weren’t sure if you had lost consciousness due to banging your head or some type of shock.’ The x-rays are normal, no signs of concussion, and there is no bruising or damage. We think you passed out due to the shock of losing control of the bus.’
         Liz enjoyed the sensation of the fresh air waft over her. The small room was clammy. It made her headache worse. ‘When can I go home?’
         ‘As soon as the nurse has been to see you. Oh, here she comes now.’
         As Doctor Harrison left the room, a small woman with a large smile bustled past him. She held a plastic cup of water in one hand and opened her other hand in front of Liz to reveal two enormous white tablets.
          ‘You need to take these love, they’ll help with the headache.’ The nurse helped Liz sit up against the pillows and stood watching as she threw the tablets back and took a large gulp of water to help them down.
         ‘Good. Now, d’you think that you’re able to get out of bed? Come on, I’ll give you a hand love.’
          Soon Liz was sitting in the easy chair by the window. The little nurse had gathered her clothes together and laid them on the bed before leaving Liz to her own devices. God she felt so tired and groggy, as if she had a hangover. She hoped the tablets would help to clear her head.
         Fifteen minutes later she was downstairs in the hospital lounge waiting for the taxi to take her home. Where I’ll have to deal with Nick. She grimaced at the thought.
         The taxi drew up at her gate. She could see Nick standing at the front door waiting on her. He still wore a scowl and his foot was tapping impatiently on the top step. He held a glass of whiskey in his hand, and almost dropped it as Liz quickly brushed past him into the house. She was not about to give the neighbours a chance to gossip. He followed her into the hall.
         ‘You okay?’ he asked.
         ‘Yep, just a bit headachy. Nick, it’s only eleven in the morning, what’s with the whisky?’
         ‘Aw God, stop nagging Liz. I’ve been worried, that’s all, and needed a little pick-me-up.’
         ‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry but I’ve had enough. It’s over, done. I can’t live like this anymore.’
         ‘Jeez Liz, what’s come over you? Where will I go?’
         ‘Yeah, as usual, all your worried about is - you. Go to Jimmy’s. He’ll keep you well supplied in booze, and you can use each other as punch bags instead of me.’
         Nick’s face turned ugly with anger as he stormed along the hall and thumped up the stairs. She could hear the suitcase being dragged from the top of the wardrobe. The bedsprings twanged as he threw it down on top of the covers. It only took him a few minutes and he was out of the house and marching down the street.
         ‘Yeah, good riddance.’ Liz muttered. She was surprised at how good she felt now that he was gone. Even more surprised at how quick the decision had come to her to make the break.
         Later, following a warm lavender-scented bath that soothed her sore head, she sat and nursed a cup of cocoa, trying to remember the previous night’s events. However, the only thing she could remember was driving through the woods. It was as if, for a time, she had not existed at all. She would pop into work tomorrow and see her boss. Perhaps he could fill in the blank spaces.
         It was the early hours of the morning when Liz awoke lathered in sweat, her teeth clenched so tight her gums ached. A frightening visage was etched in technicolour on her retina, and the sound of voices still whispered in her mind.
         I have to get out of here. Liz flung off the duvet and ran downstairs to the kitchen. Hands shaking, she threw the switch on the kettle, sat down at the table, and lowered her feverish brow on to the cool surface. She felt as if she was going mad.
         Tick-tock-tick-tock. Liz raised her head. The familiar sound of the clock was soothing, therapeutic, and lulled her into a mildly catatonic state. Bit by bit, vague impressions came to her. A girl, Smuggler’s Fall, driving through the valley and then…oh god…and then, a face, a terrible face filling the rear-view mirror.
         Liz jumped, knocked over her cup, the clatter of the china smashing on the hard tiled floor bringing her out of her reverie. She had remembered. It was real, all of it. But what did it mean?
         At ten-o-clock in the morning she was sitting in Mr Benson’s office. His cheery disposition and understanding manner made Liz feel better.
         ‘No, there was no one else on the bus. Just you, spread over the steering wheel. The police called me out. But they don’t need to speak to you, reckon that the bus skidded on the wet road.’
         ‘But, Jack, I tell you, a girl got on at Smuggler’s Fall. She didn’t tell me where she was going, nor did she pay her fare. She was a queer one though, kept her head down all the way in the bus. Never once lifted her head.’
         ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Take a few days off to recover. Do yourself a favour and rest up.’ Jack stood, indicating that the conversation was over. His lopsided smile did not quite reach his eyes.
         Maybe he thinks I’ve lost my mind? Sue thought as she walked up the corridor towards the tearoom. It was empty. She was glad. She wasn’t in the mood for evading curious questions. She needed a new weekly workbook and after retrieving one from the cupboard she turned towards the door that led to the carpark. The girls face leapt out at her. Liz stifled a yelp and drew back. A missing person poster was stuck to the door:

Abigail Leggett, aged 16, was last seen on Friday, February 25th 2015 at 3:45pm at Pilbury Academy, Assizes Road, Pilbury. She was wearing a black skirt, white shirt, white coat, and black ankle-boots. Abigail is 5ft tall; slim, with long wavy black hair. Pilbury Police need to speak to Abigail to ensure she is safe. If you see her, please contact Pilbury Constabulary on ______.

         ‘Oh god that’s her. That’s the girl on the bus.’ Liz done a quick calculation, realised that she had been missing for just over a week. She ran out to her small red Corsa and headed for Smuggler’s Fall.
         Parked on the crest of the bluff she hurried down the rickety wooden stairs that led to the beach. What was she looking for? She did not know, not yet anyway. But this is where she had picked Abigail up last night so there must be a connection. Perhaps she was hiding out in the cave next to the rocks. Liz ran over, uncaring as she splashed through the rock pools. Gasping for breath she stopped at the opening of the cave.
         ‘Hello!’ Her voice bounced back and forth between the rock walls. No answer. What did she expect? Realisation hit her so forcibly she felt winded. Jesus, the girl’s not alive, she’s dead. Liz did not believe in ghosts but of this she was certain - she had seen the missing girl after she had died. What had Abigail been trying to tell her?
         Liz retraced her steps past the rocks and just below Smuggler’s Fall a silver object glinted in the cold sun. She stooped and picked it up. A small silver boot buckle. She put it in the pocket of her anorak and made her way back up to the car.
         She passed through Moortop and down into the valley. Weak sunlight filtered through the branches of the overhanging trees, dappling the road with achromatic light, and Liz almost missed the skid marks. She stopped where the long grass had been torn up by the tyres. As she looked out of the passenger window she realised that she was parked outside Martyr’s Cemetery. Her gaze followed the pathway that began below the stone archway to where it bent to the right and disappeared from view and here she caught sight of a figure in white before it vanished from sight.
         Locking the car, she walked under the archway and up the narrow dirt path that wound among the trees. Clouds had rolled in from the west casting shadows on the ground. But there was a particular shadow that was making Liz extremely nervous. It had been following her since she passed under the arch. She would glimpse it on her left, then on her right. She would stop and whirl round hoping to catch whoever was behind her, but no one was ever there.
         As she neared the cemetery she caught another flash of white dart between the trees. She walked faster. Was someone playing games? When she had reached the cemetery she turned around in a circle and her eyes came to rest on an old gravestone that was beginning to tilt. Not quite knowing why, she made her way across and read the read the faint inscription:

Here lies Edith Leggett, beloved wife of William Leggett (deceased), mother of Thomas and Susan, grandmother to Abigail and Joanne. 1936-.

         Liz sat down, her back leaning against the cold stone. She liked to think that she was a reasonable and logical person, but here, now, she was struggling with that concept. The supernatural was alien to her; it meant little, apart from the nonsense she had seen on T.V. And yet, how could she explain the last forty-eight hours. It was simple. She could not.
         She thought about the missing girl and wondered why she had chosen someone like herself? Perhaps it did not really matter, and she had just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Another, more worrying question arose in Liz’s mind. Why had the girl shown herself in such a terrifying way? Had she been so desperate to get her message across that she had used theatrics to make her point? It seemed to Liz like the kind of thing a teenage girl would do. Hell! And it had worked.
         The sun came out from behind a cloud, and Liz felt it’s warmth for the first time this year, and the weight of fear and hopelessness lifted from her. I think I understand Abigail. She hoped she still had time to help her.

Pilbury Express
The remains of tragic local schoolgirl Abigail Leggett were found washed ashore two miles along the coast from Smuggler’s Fall. A local man is being held in connection with Abigail’s disappearance. It is believed that she took her own life by jumping from the bluff. She will be buried tomorrow in Martyr’s Cemetery. Her family respectfully request family flowers only.

         Liz followed the path to Abigail’s grave. White and yellow roses, scented pink freesia, and bright red orchids carpeted the ground around the final resting place. Above her head, various brightly-coloured prayer ribbons, tied to the branches of the cherry tree, hung over the grave, waving merrily in the fresh breeze of early spring.
         After laying down the daffodils, Liz untied the yellow ribbon from around her wrist and retied it around the branch of the tree. A bright golden Gatekeeper butterfly landed on top of the gravestone.
         Sue smiled and said. ‘Yellow, Abigail, for eternal happiness, and new life.’