again.”
Outside Rose Lodge, the Major left the car running while he hurried inside to the scullery. He retrieved his gun box and slipped one of the guns into a canvas carrying slip. Taking a box of shells from the locked cabinet, he shook out a few and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. Then, for good measure, he unhooked a pair of binoculars and a water flask too. He put them in his leather game bag and added a small first aid kit in a tin and an unopened bar of mint cake to complete his preparations. Patting the bag, he hoped he was adequately armed and provisioned to face an insane woman. As he left, he met Roger in the passageway.
“Where are you going? I thought you were dancing it up at a wedding.”
“Got to try and find the groom first,” said the Major. “Abdul Wahid may be trying to walk off a cliff.” As he hurried down the path, Roger’s voice came faintly behind him.
“Pretty extreme way to call things off. Why doesn’t he just send her a text message?”
Chapter 24
The Major knew he was driving faster than was safe in the growing darkness of the lanes, but he felt no fear. There was only concentration and the trees, hedges, and walls tumbling by. The engine’s roar was fury enough. No need for either of them to speak. He could sense Jasmina shivering beside him but did not take his eyes from the road. He kept his mind only on the task at hand and as they surged from the carelessly flung outskirts of the town onto the bare grass road to the cliffs, he felt a soldier’s pride at an assignment well executed.
“What if we’re too late?” whispered Jasmina. The anguish in her voice threatened to tear his composure to shreds.
“We must refuse to imagine it and concentrate only on the next step and then the next,” he said, swinging the car into the empty car park. “We do what we can do, and the rest is God’s problem.”
The cliff on which they had strolled so happily with little George lay in gloom under gray clouds that streamed and feathered at the edges in the growing wind and hung down swollen underbellies black with rain. Out in the channel, curtains of rain already brushed the choppy sea. It was neither dark enough for the lighthouse lamp to make any impression nor still light enough to inspire hope. A gust splattered cold rain on the windshield as they got out.
“We need coats,” the Major said, and hurried to the back of the car.
“Ernest, there’s no time,” she said, but she hovered at the edge of the road waiting for him. He strapped his game bag across his chest, slung his gun slip over one shoulder, and picked up his shooting coat and hat. When he handed Jasmina the coat, he hoped the gun was unobtrusive over his shoulder. She seemed not to notice as she put the coat on. “It’s so empty now.” She scanned the endless grass for signs of Abdul Wahid. “How will we find them?”
“We’ll head up to that vantage point,” he said, putting on his hat and looking at the small knoll with its low stone wall and pay telescope. “Always see more from high ground.”
“Oi! Where d’you think you’re going?” A short man emerged from one of the small buildings adjacent to the darkened public house. “Too windy to be safe out there tonight.” He wore stout boots and jeans with a short work coat and a large reflective vest that made his ample torso resemble a pumpkin. Some sort of harness jingled its loosened buckles around the folds of his waist and he carried a clipboard and wore a two-way radio on a lanyard.
“I’m sure you’re right,” said the Major, “but we’re searching for a young man who may be despondent.”
“There’s no time.” Jasmina was pulling on his arm. “We have to go.”
“Jumper, is he?” said the man, consulting his clipboard. Jasmina moaned slightly at the word. “I’m with the Volunteer Suicide Emergency Corps so you come to the right place.” He made a note on the clipboard with his pen. “What’s his name?”
“His name’s Abdul Wahid. He’s twenty-three and we think his elderly great-aunt is with him.”
“Not many people jump with their auntie,” said the man. “How d’you spell Abdool?”
“Oh, for pity’s sake just help us look for him,” said Jasmina.
“We’ll start searching,” said the Major. “Can you round up some more volunteers?”
“I’ll put out the call,” said the man. “But you can’t go out there. It’s not safe for the general public.” He stepped in front of them and made a sort of herding motion with his arms as if they were sheep to be corralled.
“I’m not the general public, I’m British army, rank of major,” said the Major. “Retired, of course, but in the absence of any proof of your authority, I’ll have to demand you step aside.”
“I see someone down there, Ernest.” Jasmina dodged sideways and began to cross the road. The Major created a diversion by saluting the clipboard man and receiving an uncertain hand waggle in response, then followed her.
A man became visible, running toward them up the incline from an area of thick scrub. It was not Abdul Wahid. This man also wore a reflective vest and the Major prepared to avoid him but he was waving his cell phone in a way the Major understood as an urgent signal for help.
“Oh, no, not him again,” said the clipboard man, who was puffing along behind them. “You know you’re not allowed up here, Brian.”
“No bloody phone reception again,” said Brian. Although he was a compact, fit-looking man, he put both hands on his knees and bent over to catch his breath after the uphill climb. “Got a jumper south of Big Scrubber,” he went on, pointing with a thumb back over his shoulder. “Can’t get near to talk him in. Some old lady with a weapon and a foul mouth threatened to stick me in the gonads.”
“It’s Abdul Wahid,” said Jasmina. “He’s here.”
“You’re under caution not to do any more rescues, Brian,” said the clipboard man.
“So you’re not going to come and help me grab her?” asked Brian.
“We’re not to approach people with visible weapons or obvious psychiatric disorders,” said the man, with the pride of someone who has memorized a handbook. “We have to call for police backup.”
“It’s not like they send a bloody SWAT team, Jim,” said Brian. “You could save ten people in the time it takes you to call two constables in a Mini Cooper.”
“Is it a knitting needle?” asked the Major.
“Is it that clump of trees?” asked Jasmina simultaneously.
“Yeah, Big Scrubber—or maybe it’s an ice pick,” said Brian.
“Don’t tell them,” fumed Jim. “They’re the general public.”
“Are you going to radio for help or do I have to go to the phone booth and ask the Samaritans to relay the message?” asked Brian.
“Reception’s better at HQ,” said Jim. “But I can’t go unless you all come with me. No civilians allowed.” He sidled over and stood downhill of Jasmina as if preparing to grab her. “The days of vigilantes like Brian are over.”
“Please, I have to go to my nephew,” cried Jasmina.
“Brian, you seem to me to be a man of action,” said the Major, unsleeving his gun as casually as possible and breaking it gently over the crook of his elbow. “Why don’t you take Jim to get reinforcements and the lady and I will go down and quietly persuade the elder lady to behave.”
“Shit,” said Jim, staring mesmerized at the shotgun. Jasmina gasped and then used the opportunity to turn and run down the slope.
“Shit,” said the Major. “I have to go after her.”
“So go,” said Brian. “I’ll make sure clipboard Jim makes the right calls.”
“It’s not loaded, by the way,” called the Major as he began to hurry after Jasmina. He omitted to mention the cartridges in his pocket. “Only, the old lady already stabbed one person with that needle.”
“I didn’t see any shotgun,” said Brian, waving him away.
As the Major broke into a run, ignoring the danger of turning an ankle on the many rabbit holes, he heard
