Authors: Nigel Bird
It was the worst storm along the East coast in living memory.
On Saturday morning the cafes of the Portobello waterfront were busy mopping out flood water and shifting sandbags instead of serving customers.
In Dunbar, the corner of the harbour wall had collapsed taking out the windows of the nearby houses of the shore.
North Berwick suffered the most. The wind had done its worst, picking up an empty freight container and shifting it all of 200 metres until dropping it into the harbour. Then it was the sea’s turn to have fun. It threw the container around inside the harbour walls until there wasn’t a boat in there that hadn’t been trashed.
All along the coast, from Porty to Eyemouth, the beaches were strewn with trash. There were the hulls of boats, fishing nets, lobster pots, plastic junk in a thousand different shapes and the general garbage of the human race.
Nature seemed to have joined in the carnage too. Spaced randomly amidst the man-made junk on the beaches were half a dozen enormous boulders. Huge chunks of rock the size of camper vans and definitely not for shifting till everything else had been cleaned up.
Talk in the aisles of the supermarkets and on High Streets that Saturday was of the storm and nothing but. Some said it was God telling the world he wasn’t happy with the way things were going. Some pointed out the end of the world theory and talked with the confidence of those with ‘I told you so’ etched into their minds. A few of the old-timers talked of the return of Black Agnes, her ghost ready now to haunt and take revenge on the world. Global warming some thought. Earthquakes said others. Extreme weathers they all agreed.
“
I have no idea,” said Sam Surf when they pointed news cameras into his face where he lay in a hospital bed. “But it was awesome.”
Snow Patrol
The cold weather had invaded like the Vikings, taking no prisoners along the way. Pavements sparkled as if a gang of art-terrorists had been through town sprinkling glitter. The smells of wood-smoke, sea air and brewery-hops mingled like they had fallen in love and couldn’t bear to be parted.
Dougal Munro’s shoes slithered along the ground at each step while he was on patrol, the smooth leather of the soles no match for the glassy surface of the ice. It was hard work, there was no doubt about it, but he was reminded of his reasons for doing it for by the signs that had been taped to every lamp-post he passed along the way:
Lost – Patch. Sheepdog who needs regular medication. PLEASE CALL…
Missing – Black Lab, answers to the name of Lucy…
Help – Labradoodle pup missing. Reward if found….
Lucky – beloved family pet….
Irish Wolfhound, black coat. Thumper…
Made his heart thump a little harder in his chest. “Sheba,” he shouted. “Sheba. Come on girl.”
He put his fingers to his mouth and gave a long high-pitched whistle. Still she didn’t come.
His wife had told him. “Don’t go letting her off the lead,” she’d said. “I know you and your ways, but it’s not safe for dogs at the moment.” Now he wished he’d listened.
16 dogs in all had disappeared in the 10 days since the storm. Pedigree dogs most of them, as well as a couple of cross-breeds.
Last time anything like this had happened in Dunbar it was bikes. Turned out there were gangs driving up from Newcastle, filling their vans with any bike that wasn’t chained up.
Locals were thinking the same was happening now, gangs coming up and snatching dogs to sell on to unsuspecting families. The rumour was that some dogs might even have been taken to order.
Whatever it was, Dougal felt it was his duty to answer the call for concerned residents who might want to put a stop to it, whatever ‘it’ was.
Dougal always volunteered for these things. It was his ex-policeman’s instinct he supposed, the need to do something good for others. Neighbourhood Watch, Save The High Street, Cub-scouts, Swimming Club. There was no time for him to get bored.
He was almost at the end of his route now and there was still no sign of Sheba. He crossed the road at the tiny Our Lady Of The Waves church and stopped, wrapping the leather lead tightly around his fingers. He whistled again into the cold, night air. Instead of seeing the white tip of Sheba’s tail coming near, all he saw was the mist of his breath in the air.
He headed for the path down to the beach with a little more haste than usual hoping the Sheba had followed his normal walk and waited there to meet him.
The steps down to the shore were particularly slippery. He had to hold on to the grass and the brambles at the side to keep his balance. If he’d had any sense, he’d not have bothered, but he had to find his dog and, regardless of anything else, his wife would have checked with him to make sure he’d done his duty. “How was the doctor?” she’d
ask, and he’d need to be able to give an answer or he’d be sleeping in the kennel in their yard.
Dougal saw the familiar glow of the fire in the cave almost half way up the cliff in the rocks beneath the slanting roof of the swimming pool. The flames lit up the back wall with a gentle orange glow, drawing attention to the primitive looking eye picture that had been painted there so many years ago that no one could remember a time when it wasn’t there or who was responsible for putting it there. The Eye Cave they called it and it was a great place for Dunbar’s one and only homeless man to stay.
Not that Dr Brown was homeless in the strict sense of the word. His sons were paying good money for him to be looked after in the nursing home, it was just that they couldn’t manage to get him to sleep there. Tying him up or locking him in just wasn’t something they were prepared to do, so they’d allow him to wander off every night just as they welcomed him back for his fried breakfast every morning.
When Dougal got close to the cave, Dr Brown appeared at its mouth. He had the hunch of old age and hair so grey it was white, but after he’d waved he skipped down the rocks with all the agility of a mountain goat. 96 years old was Doc Brown, and still as nimble as a gymnast.
At the same time, Dougal heard a dog’s panting. He looked over towards the noise and saw the bouncing white tip of his border collie’s tail, then the white badger’s stripe down the middle of her face.
“
Atta girl. Come on lass.”
Sheba bounded over and jumped up into the arms of her master who picked her up and squeezed her hard, not minding the salt water that dripped from her coat or the saliva that she spread all over his face with her tongue.
“
You daft thing.” He put her down and clipped her lead to her collar straight away. She wasn’t finished though, and jumped up for a few more cuddles before she was able to settle.
Dougal remembered his manners and turned his attention to his old friend when he reached the bottom of the cliff.
“
Evening Doc.”
“
Evening Dougal.”
“
Nice night for it.”
“
Aye.”
Dougal opened the fastenings of his shoulder bag and pulled out a flask. “Fancy some soup?”
“
I wouldn’t want to trouble you.” It was the same routine every night, like a dance they’d perfected over the years.
“
It’s hot.” The steam swirled in the air when Dougal removed the lid.
“
You drink it yourself, now.” Dr Brown dug his hands into his overcoat pockets and turned towards the waves as if he weren’t interested.
“
Oxtail.” It was always Oxtail that his wife packed, knowing full well it was the only soup that the old man enjoyed.
“
Well maybe I’ll have a wee mug if it’s no bother.”
Dougal pulled out a mug from his bag and passed it over. “Sure. Have this one,” and he poured in the hot broth. The smell of beef that filled the air was spicy and delicious.
He poured some for himself and then emptied the flask into a bowl which he put down on the floor for Sheba. She sat obediently and waited for the command. “Carry on,” Dougal told her and she lapped up her supper.
The two men stood shoulder-to-shoulder gazing out towards Fife watching the blinking green light on the far shore.
“
You got any leads on these missing dogs?” the old man asked.
“
We’d put them on them if we could find them.”
“
Aye, well, those Newcastle gangs know what they’re doing. Don’t go getting your hopes up.”
It was too late for that. Dougal’s hopes were always up, whether he was training the next generation of rugby stars or buying his lottery tickets on a Saturday night. “Seen anything unusual?”
“
Seen? No.” The doctor clutched on to his mug to warm his fingers that poked out of the frayed ends of his fingerless gloves. “I’ve heard some strange things, mind.”
“
Go on.”
“
You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“
Everyone thinks you’re crazy.”
“
Aye. Well they’re not here in the middle of the night. It’s like a breathing it is. Like my Nora used to sound when she was snoring. Kind of like sandpaper on stone is all I can tell you.”
“
Maybe it’s phantom carpenters,” Dougal joked.
“
Or Black Agnes back from the dead.” Both men laughed, spraying soup from their mouths and onto the pebbles around them.
Their arms lifted and the sleeves of their coats became their serviettes as they wiped
their faces and cleaned themselves up.
Dougal put the mug to his lips and gulped down what was left of the Oxtail. “Well I’ll need to be reporting in at The Rocks. Find out what the rest of the team have been up to.”
“
Very nice. It’s gone up in the world since I used to drink there.”
“
They lay on a nice spread for the volunteers. Smoked salmon and the like.”
“
Aye, that’ll be right.” The doctor gulped down the rest of his soup and then passed the mug back.
Dougal took the cups and the bowl, passed the lead over to his friend, stepped forward to the water’s edge and bent down to rinse everything clean. As he rubbed at them, he heard something the likes of which he’d never heard before. A low, rasping hum coming from the middle of the beach. Sent a tickle around the inside of his belly, the kind of feeling he’d had on the force when he knew that something wasn’t right. His mouth opened and he looked up at the doctor with his eyes screwed together like someone had asked him to answer a really hard question.
“
See, there it is,” the doctor said. “Now I guess it’s the both of us they’ll be saying is mad.”
Dougal emptied the water from the mugs, put them in his bag and took the lead back. Sheba gave the doc’s hand a lick, shook and bade him farewell.
“
See you tomorrow,” Dougal said.
“
If Agnes hasn’t got me first.”
Dougal turned to walk to The Rocks. Sheba stuck close by, her head rested against his calf like she did on bonfire night. Her ears were pricked and her belly low to the ground and she moved like she was stalking sheep. Seeing her like that gave Dougal the creeps. He clenched his fist inside his pocket ready for any attackers who might be lurking in the shadows.
It turned out there was nobody there.
Dougal couldn’t recall anything quite like it in all his years on the force or during his retirement.
As the pair headed along to the pub, Dougal tried to get a bearing on where the hum was coming from. Where it was coming from seemed to be everywhere.
Kings
Dr Jenny Wilson cursed under her breath. Cursed about the weather, the Scots, her ex-husband and her car – the weather because it was freezing, the Scots because she barely understood a word they said, her husband for leaving her for a woman of twenty-seven - exactly half her age – and the clapped-out Ford Mondeo for practically deafening her as she’d driven from the King’s Buildings along the A1 out to Dunbar.
Cursed most of all about herself. Her stupid wellington boots. Her old-lady’s coat and her fear of open spaces.
In spite of the chilling breeze coming off the sea, she felt beads of sweat forming on her face and on her palms. Her heart began to race and she wasn’t sure whether she should run back up the steps to her car so she could feel the comfort of the doors that would keep the strangers out or to roll into a ball and try and blend in with her surroundings.
If only she could have spoken to Dr Chalmers about it. Explained the situation. Told him that she couldn’t do fieldwork anymore. Not now. Not ever. He might have listened. Confined her to the office. Let the students do all the hard, practical work.