The Message

The day was cold, windy, dry and dull. The beach was a mile long and deserted. The tide was halfway out. The sand revealed under the ocean’s withdrawing blanket was compact and wet. It rippled before him to the receding surf. Shallow pools of orphaned sea water reflected the pitiful light of day.

A chill wind howled inland, sweeping any loose sand towards the dark blotch on the pale, silver shore.

He knelt, shielded from the pins and needles of wind-slung sand by the high collar on his long over coat, and stared intently at the ocean. He rested his right elbow on his raised, right knee. His right hand contained a sheet of paper flapping in the wind with the tails of his coat.

The fingers and nails of his left hand squeezed and dug into a cork.

An opaque, long necked wine bottle lay embedded in the sand to his left. It was dark brown, alternately scratched by sand and smoothed by sea. The label was long gone, removed by the soaking waters. The rim of the open bottle neck was a perfect ring of hollow darkness.

The man looked down at sheet of paper he’d extracted from the bottle and read it once more.

He raised his gaze to the horizon and scanned. There was no island in sight. The sea was choppy. He knew this stretch of sea. He knew her currents and moods. He knew the lay of the land. He knew the scattering of islands along the coast.

From the note's contents he could reckon where this message had come from. If he put his mind to it. Anyone local could.

The man rolled the note up and placed it inside the bottle with care. He stopped the opening with the cork and tore the bottle from the sand.

He stood up and transferred the bottle to the right pocket of his long coat. This done he raised his gaze to stare at the sea again. His hand rested outside his pocket, shielding the bottle within.

For a long time he stood there with little movement. The elements whipped his clothes and hair around him. His eyes studied the horizon.

He nodded.

With two steps back he spun towards land and began retracing his wind scuffed tracks back up the grass-locked face of the dunes that lead down to the beach.

He walked with the ease of a young man though his hair was grey at the temples. He walked up the track splitting the dunes, lined with long grasses, bushes and the rustle of small animals.

He walked up past where the track gave way to a small path that was marked by slats of wood half buried in the sandy soil.

He followed the path as it climbed higher until it terminated at a fence.

He vaulted the fence and surged up a steep 3 meter incline through a row of old oak trees. He crossed the dark tarmac of a small road.

There was a lay-by on the other side of the road, one of many on this coastal route. He’d left his car here. He fished his keys out of his trouser pocket with his left hand. His right hand patted his right coat pocket while he opened the driver’s door.

He took off his coat, wrapped the fabric around the bottle within and tossed it lightly into the back seats. Wrapped around the bottle the coat clunked as it hit a large, irregular bundle covered by a rug on the back seat.

The impact of the bottle stirred the bundle's contents. The folds of the rug pulsated and stretched over the movements beneath. There was a groggy groaning sound.

He hopped into the driver’s seat. He shut the door and patted the folders that lived on the passenger seat.

He looked into the driver's mirror, at the now quiescent mound. He took stock.

Callum found a stretch of the coastline to walk along two, maybe three mornings each week. He liked to walk and think. He walked regardless of work or other commitments.

He pursed his lips as he considered the back seat. He chewed his lip.

This walk was one of his favourites. He’d walked along the beach two mornings ago past the spot where he’d seen the bottle with the note inside. There had been no bottle or note two days ago.

He put the key in the ignition and turned it. The car awoke, classical music started playing from the car’s stereo. He locked the steering wheel to the right, checked his mirror’s, indicated to let the empty road know his intentions and pulled out of the lay-by. The car looped out into the road 180 degrees. He drove back the way he’d came.

He needed to drive to the village. He needed to speak to Jim. The damn fool.

Jim had put the man on the island - as they’d planned. Seems he'd put him on the island but somehow left him with the means to send a message to the outside world.

Wine? Jim was losing his edge or wasn't being totally honest with Callum.

Luckily Callum had been the one to find the message first. His plans for the woman in the back seat would have to wait.

For the first time in his career Callum took a vehicle above the speed limit.