“I don’t know how you can put up with him all year round…”
“He keeps his distance.”
He lost Skerryvore sometime after the reception. The Scot had staggered up to him, suggested they go clubbing, flickering out a strobe of light in anticipation. But after the long trip up, Voth just wanted to head back to the hotel. He left Skerryvore to it, wandering off through unfamiliar strange city streets. After a wrong turning, he found himself somewhere near Gas Street Basin, his light dancing over the Victorian canals.
As he tried to orientate himself, he heard some voices. Peeking around the side of a red brick brewery building, recently converted to expensive flats, he saw three of them in conversation. One was the Bishop, the other two Wolf Rock and Longships, more of the Cornish contingent. The Bishop towered above both of them, his helipad like a mortar board. The other two had a similar, squatter structure, and appeared to be cocking their heads up to their taller colleague.
“In the July fog, we’ll do it,” said Bishop, his well-bred tones reverberating around the space.
“The tankers will be passing closest on the 7th, 12th and 18th,” said either Longships or Wolf Rock.
“Co-ordinated switch off,” said either Wolf Rock or Longships.
“The tide will take it straight over to the rocks near Tater Du. She’ll be blamed.”
Voth felt condensation creeping over his lens. They were planning an act of sabotage? But why? What had the lovely Tater Du done to them? Voth racked his brains, but couldn’t remember anything about the relative newcomer to the Cornish coast. He tried to still his breathing, his mirrors spinning faster in the dark.
They seemed to turn away after that, their voices lost behind the winter wind that had crept up, whistling up from the Black Country, thrumming around his ears. When he next poked his glass around the corner, they had gone. He wandered over to where they had been standing, hoping to catch a memory of their words on the wind, but the pattern of sound had dissipated.
He slept fitfully, waking when he remembered their plan fitted in perfectly with his planned Summer service, when he’d be out of action over the fortnight they’d mentioned. After a light breakfast, he wound his way back to the conference centre, trying to keep his shutters open as he attended the seminar on radio technologies. The morning wound into lunch, where he once again found Skerryvore propping up the bar, already on his second pint of the day.
“It’s only Deuchars, IPA. A session ale,” he muttered to Round Island’s admonishment. “And anyways, we’re on holiday!”
“Listen, Skerryvore. I was wondering if you knew anything about Tater Du …”
“The Cornish strumpet, you mean?”
“I suppose so …”
“Well, after she and Wolf broke it off–”
“She was with Wolf?” interrupted Voth.
“Aye. Back in the early eighties.”
“But she … she’s a lot younger than him.”
“He was cut up about it, I think. She left him for Mevagissey.”
“Hmm …”
“What’s the problem? You fancy her?”
“No … it’s just …,” he started, before outlining the conversation he’d heard the night before.
“And you can’t change the service dates?”
“I could try, but …”
“I don’t trust him, that Bishop. You remember when that French lighthouse was found, ten years ago, after the conference in Paris …”
Voth remembered this all too well. He reminded Skerryvore that he’d been the first to find the string of stones, the shattered lens. And the bulb which had apparently burnt its life out. There’d been an inquest, the verdict: suicide. Although, some suspicions had been raised, dragging out proceedings. Being the first on the scene, fingers had pointed at Voth. The rumour mill was set in motion, information misdirected, as if someone wanted to divert any blame – and it seemed that the lighthouse responsible for these rumours was the Bishop.
When they’d returned to real time, it was reported that an unusually strong wave had pulled the stricken French lighthouse into the depths of the ocean. But that hadn’t been the end of it - the moon had expressed her annoyance at the length of the hearing by curtailing the annual conference for the two following years. Voth returned to Round Island, his reputation tarnished, guilty purely by his association with events.
“You really thinking they are planning on sabotage?” asked Skerryvore, the next day. He’d just enjoyed a quick whisky chaser before reverting to the Deuchars.
“I don’t know. Maybe I misheard it? It was windy…”
“Sounds like they were up to something… Whatever it was, it was no good.”
“Another one?”
“And why not?”
With hangovers, they departed the conference the following morning, Skerryvore joining Stroma and the rest of the Stevenson flock for the trip back up north. As Voth plodded across the countryside towards Cornwall, he wondered about why the Bishop would choose to help out the Wolf in this way. He swung down to the south coast, passing where Tater Du had re-established herself, plunging her feet back into the comfort of the Earth.
A ruptured tanker would destroy the coastline. He imagined the thick, black slick swallowing all the sea-birds, engulfing the tourist beaches with oily gunk. And all for an act of petty revenge against a former lover? There had to be more to it that that… He scanned the horizon, searching for an answer. In response, the moon appeared, reflected in the sea below, her scowl reminding him that he had to get home. An hour or so later, he had returned to Round Island. The moon winked out and time began once again. His light powered on and began its cycle, scanning the horizon like a searchlight for clues to the mystery.
The months passed, Winter’s weathering storms moving quickly into spring. The puffins returned about the same time the rock moss began to flower, little blooms popping up all over Round Island, lending it a purple shade. And then suddenly it was July and as predicted, mist fell, enshrouding the islands with its pall. Foghorns bleated plaintively at each other through the blind light.
