To See The Light Return. Sophie Galleymore Bird
somewhere to hide before dawn, preferably under cover, preferably the schoolteacher’s cottage. She started walking again, grateful no one had come across her during her moonstruck moment. With the collar of her coat up she was confident she was now all but hidden in the dark, though her bandaged legs glowed pale below the hem.
The village was laid out like an asymmetric ladder. The road she was on would fork about a hundred yards down, with narrow alleys connecting the two tines. The school and Mrs Prendaghast’s cottage were located on the second of these, in the heart of the small settlement. Forcing down nerves, Primrose walked as slowly as she could stand, choosing the left-hand lane that would take her down past the pub and the church. At this time of night, she thought this would be safer than going past people’s homes, where someone might be wakeful and happen to look out of a window.
A clattering broke the silence and she froze. Eyes glinted at her from shadows by a fallen-down cottage. Before she could summon the wit to flee, something growled at her and slunk further into the dark. A dog. There were several feral packs that kept to the outskirts of villages and foraged at night. Thankfully it had been alone, or it might have taken her on.
Aside from the dog there was no one around, and no lights in any of the windows she passed. The pub was closed up tight, and the church next door loomed over the churchyard and village green. Heart in her mouth, wheezing and shaking now with exhaustion, Primrose crept down the lane that led to the school. Tucked round to the side of that was the cottage Mrs Prendaghast was permitted to live in. It, too, was dark. She didn’t want to knock in case a neighbour heard, so she pushed at the door and tried the old-fashioned latch. The door was unbolted. Bless Mrs Prendaghast and her trusting heart.
Primrose pushed the door wide and slipped in. It was colder inside than out, but at least the wind was no longer whipping at her. Shutting the door quietly, she stood with her back to it while her eyes adjusted. She was in the small kitchen, with a table in front of her, an unlit range against the far wall and two closed doors across the other side of the room, one of which she knew would lead up to the bedroom and bathroom, though she had never been up there on her few visits as a child.
Over to her left was an old armchair and she headed for that, sinking down gratefully, before jumping up with a stifled yelp as she sat on a bag of crochet hooks, knitting needles and wool. Moving the bag onto the floor, she settled herself into the lumpy seat, pulling a throw slung over the back across her knees and slipping off the uncomfortable shoes so she could draw her feet up under her. She would wait here a minute while she warmed up and her breathing steadied, then go upstairs to wake the teacher.
Closing her eyes, the fear and tension of the last few days slowly ebbed. A poppy-induced warmth suffused her limbs, making them relaxed and heavy. Five minutes after leaning back against the cushions, despite the throbbing of her feet, she was fast asleep.
*
The sudden flare of light on the Plymouth dockside did not bode well for their mission. Mrs Mason and the Major twisted round and watched the glow brightening the horizon and throwing the shadow of the breakwater lighthouse across choppy waves.
‘Shit, what now?’ The cargo ship was half a mile away and closing fast. The Major grabbed the radio. ‘Papa Bear to Porridge, what the hell’s happening over there? Over.’
Nothing but static.
‘Papa Bear to Porridge, you OK? Over?’ The explosion, when it came, could be felt even two miles away. The flash of light showed them the rest of their flotilla, spread out across the mouth of the breakwater, before it faded to leave them blinded by negative afterimages, and the shockwave of the rolling BRROOOOM knocked them flat in the bottom of the boat. The Major’s hand banged against the gunwale of the boat and his pipe fell free from his hand, splashing soundlessly into the water.
‘Shit, Will, what the hell is going on back there?’ The Major was blinking furiously, trying to restore his night vision.
‘We can’t worry about that now, there’s nothing we can do for him from here, and we’re about to go live.’ Mrs Mason’s voice was firm and the Major was grateful she and her common sense were there with him. ‘Now, reassure the team, I expect they’re freaked out too.’
Right. He took a breath. ‘Papa Bear to Baby Bears, Papa Bear to Baby Bears, it’s time. Get your flares ready, start your engines, we’ll sort out Porridge when we’ve secured the Bowl. Over and out.’
A chorus of ‘Rogers’ came back. The Major retrieved the flare gun from his duffel bag. Mrs Mason got ready with the loudhailer, before starting the ancient Mercury outboard engine and putting it in reverse so they could keep pace with the ship. Their guns sat between them on the bench.
Adrenaline was making his hands shake. He was fumbling with the flare. If he wasn’t careful he’d light it, drop it and set fire to the boat. And if he took too long, the ship wouldn’t have time to slow down or change course, and they risked being mown down and drowned, or minced. Mrs Mason seemed to know how he was feeling. He felt her hand grasp his sleeve and give his arm a reassuring squeeze.
‘Come on Major, you’ve got this.’
‘Yes, right.’ He shook himself, looked at the freighter’s position and calculated. He pushed the button on the radio. ‘It’s time,’ he shouted, ‘over.’ Bracing himself to keep steady in the boat, he popped off the cap, took a breath and pulled the string. A pause, a few sparks, then a bright gash of red light erupted, forcing him to turn his head away. Instinct screamed at him to drop the flare, but he held on tight, raised his hand and waved it slowly above his head. To left and right, other flares blazed into life and the heaving seas reflected them back in glittering and shimmering fractals of light.
‘AHOY! YOU MUST TURN BACK!’ Mrs Mason bellowed beside him, her voice amplified by a battery-powered megaphone, deafening him. ‘THERE'S BEEN AN INCIDENT AT THE DOCK, IT ISN'T SAFE FOR YOU TO STAY HERE.’ Nice improvising.
The vessel was now looming above them, with no obvious signs of life on the illuminated bridge, or of it slowing down. Maybe they’d left it too late, maybe they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the ship’s speed and were about to be hit and the boat smashed. They were all wearing life jackets, but that wouldn’t help them much against hypothermia or whirling propellers.
‘AHOY,’ Mrs Mason shouted, ‘ACKNOWLEDGE AND CHANGE COURSE.’
‘What’s going on? Why's the dock on fire?’ The twang of an American accent as a deep male voice boomed down from the ship’s Tannoy.
‘THERE’S BEEN A LEAK OF HAZARDOUS MATERIAL AT DEVONPORT DOCKYARD. WE’RE EXPECTING MORE FIRES AND WE’RE EVACUATING ALL RESIDENTS AND WORKERS. IT’S TOO DANGEROUS FOR YOU TO COME FURTHER INSHORE. WE CAN’T RISK IT, OR YOUR CARGO.’ You go, girl. Everyone knew about the shonky state of the old nuclear facility. It was miles away from Millbay, but even if the skipper had enough local knowledge to be aware that, who would want to take the risk?
‘We just crossed the fucken Atlantic, where you suggest we go?’
‘NOT MY PROBLEM, SIR.’
‘What you doin' out here 'stead of raising us on the radio?’
‘ALL COMMUNICATIONS ARE DOWN, SIR, BECAUSE OF THE FIRE. NOW PLEASE, CHANGE COURSE.’
A long pause, then, ‘Acknowledged, we’ll anchor up outside Dartmouth. Tell your boss we’ll be in touch 'bout his cargo.’
‘ROGER THAT, SIR.’
The flares were beginning to sputter and diminish. They were also getting incredibly hot. The one in the Major’s hand was starting to burn through his glove and he could hear curses of pain coming from the other boats. Changing hands just spread the pain. ‘Shit!’ He had to put it out before it did him some serious harm, or he dropped it in the dinghy and put a hole in it. Plunging his hand in the sea he doused the flare, dumped it beside him in the boat and sat back, panting as if he’d been running hard. To left and right, his troops were following