tumbler, I suddenly realized. That's what it reminded me of. Another Bexon joke? It had been constructed on a slight prominence, giving it for all the world the appearance of an iron pulpit projecting out over the seal pen. There was no way in except through the top, where the metal staves were curved towards their common centre. You could get in but you'd have a terrible time getting out.
I could see across into it. Some rubble. Double iron doors in the cage, one shut with a grille at eye level, the other ajar. Maybe it was a further wartime addition, which suggested there was another way in from the landward side, probably with steps cut down into a tunnel. That's how they made entrances to dug-outs in the trenches.
Soldiers don't change much.
At one time there had been a catwalk across. I could hardly bear to look. Not that I'm scared of heights, but there's a limit. It had deteriorated over the years to a crumbling bar of weathered concrete, spanning the sixty or so feet across the gorge. Most of the iron struts and handrail were gone. The entire thing was rust-stained, giving it a horrid toothiness I found distinctly unnerving. The inlet must be like one great mouth if you looked from the sea.
The noise again behind me. The sheep hadn't gone.
'Can you see anywhere else it could be?' I asked. It said nothing. You get no help.
Getting round to the other side would be bad enough, let alone climbing down to the iron pulpit.
'Shift,' I said. The sheep stepped away from the fence.
Intrepid ramblers obviously came along this way, along the overgrown railway track. It was only about as wide as a small path anyway. The only safe way round the inlet was to climb up the steep hillside into the sheepfold, walk over and descend from the hillside on to the cliff-top again. I did it, clinging to the barbed wire for all I was worth and not looking down.
I was quite calm and pleased until I glanced back at the old gun platform. Had I just stood on that? And looked down'}
The platform was as thin as a match, a little white scar marking a rising mass of jagged rocks. Below, sea waves, pretty docile until they swept casually round the headland, rose into white claws and scrabbled viciously at the volcanic rock. It made my feet tingle. And Bexon's gang had somehow built a seal pen in this savage place. More annoying still, he'd come back to see it years later.
I found the entrance to the tunnel cut through to the pulpit, and the steps I predicted.
The hillside had slid gently into it, simply folding the passageway in the rock. There was no way through. Worse, clearing it would take a million years. Two million, on my own.
My rope had some iron things on that the man in the ship chandler's yesterday had said would hold on to anything. A likely tale. I latched them mistrustfully to the tunnel upright, a beautiful thick post reinforced with a metal bar for a hinge. It was set solidly into concrete top and bottom, a lovely great piece. 'Stay there,' I told it, 'and don't budge. Please.' For extras I made a couple of knots (well, eight, actually) around the opposite post in case. I'd previously examined every inch of rope a few hundred times, peering for flaws and hidden gaps. Now I did it again, rubbing it through my hands and feeling for any old razor blades or chewing insects I'd overlooked. It seemed all right but suddenly very thin. Had I put on weight? Thoughtlessly, I'd had a glass of milk, which now made me mad. I'd have been just as strong without, at least for a few hours, and I was bound to be heavier. How stupid to eat like a horse. My school science came rushing frantically to my aid. A pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter. But it had only taken one bloody light-weight straw to break that biblical camel clean in two, and everybody knows how tough camels are. I tried spitting out to make myself lighter but my mouth was dry. I drew deep breaths to get rid of some water vapour from my soggy fluid-crammed lungs but only made myself so giddy I had to stop. I tried peeing, politely turning towards the vacant sea away from the sheep, but couldn't wring out a drop. I'd dried up. Maybe I was so dehydrated with fright I'd faint and fall, turning over and over, towards the…
'Now, Lovejoy,' I said. 'Be reasonable.'
How reasonable is it, I heard myself begin to answer back sharply, to dangle…? I moved quickly to the edge and found the double bush of heather I'd picked out as a marker. With luck I'd be directly over the iron pulpit. I slithered untidily down, clinging to the rope and babbling incoherently with fear. Not that I was really frightened, not too much. It's daft to let yourself get too scared. I shrieked with terror when the rock surface momentarily vanished underneath me. I hung in space staring upwards. The crest was only a few feet away. I seemed to have been going down for hours.
You mustn't look down. That's what they say. Then how the hell can you see where you're going? I had to. I forced my gaze along to my elbow, then made it leap the gap to the wall of rock. It travelled down on its own from there. Down. Down. My belly seemed to leave me and vanish, falling. My legs prickled. The sea was green, so deep and green. Mad white rims poked and swirled. The concrete gums and iron teeth seemed actually to be moving, gnawing erratically at the sea's body and running white blood back into the ocean. But the most fearsome thing of all was the iron pulpit. It was only twenty or so feet from where I swung but its very oddness and its nearness set me moaning. The hole at the top was smaller than I'd imagined. The rest of the cage was disproportionately larger. Funny, that.
A lunatic wind whistled round the rocks from seaward, making me dangle a few degrees from the vertical. I should have looked to see how much rope I'd got. I tried to but couldn't. How long I hung there I don't know. What finally started me moving down again was a sudden spasm of fear. My hands were sweating. They might slip and set me falling, turning over and over, towards the… I edged down under my own weight inch by inch, thinking suddenly, Dear God, does sweat dissolve nylon? I might land down there in the iron pulpit, find the stuff and finish up trapped with half a ton of melted rope.
My moaning was interrupted by a scream. It was me. I looked down. The top curled iron staves of the cage had touched my foot. I found I'd curled up on the rope, my body balled as tight as possible in a spasm of reflex clutching. Stupid sod. I forced my reluctant leg out and crooked my foot around one bar. It seemed staunch enough. I pulled myself nearer. There was enough rope to reach. I could trail the end into the cage with me. Even if it came undone from inside the cage sooner or later it would flail within reach under this huthery wind. Hanging for dear life on to the line with my left hand, I grabbed at the pulpit with my right hand and held on to the lovely strong iron.
It's extraordinary how you want to keep curling up. I tried to bring the rope and my left hand nearer but only succeeded in clinging like a sloth to the cage's ironwork. Sweat poured down my face yet I was grinning with delight at all this success. Even the rope was miraculously behaving, having somehow looped itself over my shoulder. I needn't look any more. The worst part was straightening both legs and dropping into the cage.
I found I'd kept hold of the line, probably not trusting the concrete floor of the cage. It may sound daft but at least it's careful.
I examined the interior, avoiding the ghastly spectacle of the seal pen barriers directly below and trying not to hear the sea sounds sucking and gasping. Everything looked fairly solid. The metal was rusted but mostly intact and hard. I couldn't bend it or shift any of the palings. Cast iron, the old Bessemer process. The concrete only reinforced
