Jackson was back at the bookcase, refilling his glass.
‘What do you think?’ Tim asked him.
‘Well, it’s… er… up to you, of course, whether to accept or not. But don’t forget the impact it could have. It’d bring Gulliver into the real world, with you as the link. Not even the main news has Gulliver’s audience figures, and certainly no ordinary documentary. Just think of that impact.’
‘So you approve?’
‘Yes.’
Tim looked from one to the other, uncertain how to react. It just didn’t feel right. ‘People have been killed by these things,’ he reminded them seriously. ‘Including children. And you want to turn it into showbiz.’
‘No, you’re wrong,’ Alan objected. ‘It’ll be a properly researched documentary, good journalism, done responsibly.’
‘Then why not a journalist to present it?’
‘To be blunt, your name will pull in more viewers. If these jellyfish are a danger, the more people who become aware of it the better. Surely?’
‘It’s not just a publicity stunt for Gulliver?’
‘Not from my point of view,’ Alan promised him.
Tim turned back to Jackson. ‘And the schedules? I thought they were all-important.’
‘Alan reckons three days’ location work at the most.’ Jackson spelled it all out so confidently, they’d obviously had the whole thing cut and dried between them before bothering to ask him. ‘Just the links. It’ll mean weekend filming, but to save time we’re lending Jacqui to direct those sequences. She came from that department, so they know her work. I had a word with your agent, by the way. He’s agreeable if you are.’
‘I don’t know,’ Tim hesitated. ‘If there are more deaths…’
‘The more necessary the programme becomes,’ Alan declared emphatically. ‘This’ll be no bromide, you can be sure of that.’
‘Who has the final say over the content of the programme? I mean, if my name’s on it…’
‘We’ll view it together before it goes out, you have my word on that.’
‘I don’t want to be associated with… well, cheap sensationalism… and…’
‘Nor do I.’ Alan stopped him firmly. ‘We’re agreed on that.’
Tim still felt reluctant, but could think of no more arguments.
‘OK,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll do it. If you think so.’
12
‘You’re not scared, are you?’ Barbara demanded scornfully.
‘Me? Scared? I only asked what happens if the tide comes in.’
‘It won’t come in.’ What an idiot, she thought. Why were boys always such babies? ‘The tide’s only just going out, silly! Are you coming or aren’t you?’
‘’Course I am. And… silly yourself!’
‘Huh!’ She tossed back her long brown hair.
Paul was her cousin, two years younger than herself… just ten, in fact — and staying with them for a few days, which meant she had to look after him. As her cousins went, he wasn’t too bad really, only a bit wet sometimes. He was big for his age too, and that helped. If there was anything Barbara hated, it was baby-sitting; unless it was being stuck with girls all day, which was something else she couldn’t stand.
‘’Course, if you’re scared,’ she taunted him once more, and had the pleasure of seeing him flush all over his freckles, ‘you’d better not come. It’s only an old smugglers’ cave anyway.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ he repeated stubbornly. ‘What d’you know about smugglers? You’re only a girl! Bet it isn’t really a smugglers’ cave.’
‘Well it is,’ she retorted, ‘so there!’
She led the way along the wet sand which was mirror-smooth and just right for producing sharp, clear footprints. She trod very deliberately, letting each foot take her full weight in turn, then watching as gradually the water seeped through to blur the outline of her toes.
‘Don’t walk where I walk, stupid!’ she scolded her cousin impatiently. ‘You’ll spoil the tracks. You should make your own.’
‘How far is it?’ he wanted to know.
‘Oh, it takes ages to get there. See where those houses finish? Much farther than that.’
Barbara had known about the cave for as long as she could remember, only her parents had put it strictly out of bounds. It was way beyond the headland where the sandy beach ended and the jagged rocks began. Every so often during the summer months some holidaymaker picnicking there would find himself cut off by the tide which always rushed in unexpectedly on that part of the coast. The lucky ones were rescued, either by helicopter or by ropes lowered down the cliff-face; the unlucky were drowned. So Barbara understood perfectly why her parents forbade her to go there; what they didn’t realise was that she was now old enough to look after herself.
It was a long walk around the bay to the headland, but Paul was telling her some story he’d seen on TV about smugglers and he got everything mixed up and she told him so, which started a quarrel; by the time they’d finished quarrelling they’d almost reached the rocks.
‘Where’s the cave then?’ He stared around contemptuously, but his scowl gave way to a grin. ‘Bet there isn’t one! Not a real one!’
Barbara didn’t deign to answer. Instead, she began to scramble over the rocks towards the point where the cliff-face appeared to split as though part of it were peeling away. The sea was far out now, hardly more than a silver line curving around the bay, but it had left little pools of clear water in which floated strands of dark, podded seaweed. She paused at the mouth of the fissure, putting her finger to her lips.
‘Quiet!’ she whispered, pointing. ‘In there!’
‘Call that a cave…!’ Paul began.
‘Ssssh!’
She knew what he meant, but he was wrong. From the outside they could see only what appeared to be dark slit in the cliff, leading nowhere. It was not until you were right inside that the opening into the cave passage became visible. She produced the torch from the pocket of her jeans and led the way. The rock seemed to press close on either side. Paul, behind her, was clutching at her jumper as she moved cautiously forward.
The passage itself was no more than a short boomerang-shaped vestibule leading into the main cave which stretched deep into the cliffside. She heard Paul gasp as he saw it.
‘It’s the smugglers’ cave,’ she breathed at him as quietly as she could. ‘They mustn’t find out we’re here.’
‘There aren’t any smugglers!’ he hissed back. ‘You’re making it up.’
She shook her head and had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen with apprehension. ‘They may be here now.’
High above their heads was an opening into the cliffside, allowing same daylight through, although on her previous visit Barbara had been impressed by how gloomy and mysterious the cave seemed; perhaps it had been a dull day, for it now seemed lighter. It was quieter, too. Last time she’d been alarmed by the squealing and rustling of bats, and by the forlorn crying of a seagull at finding itself trapped inside. But now everything was quiet — well, not quite everything, for in the darkest recesses of the cave she sensed some movement… the faintest whispering sound, hardly more than a breath on the air… just a suggestion, no more…
With every step she felt more uncertain. The uneven rock walls dripped unceasingly and the strong sea-stench carried other smells with it, even more repugnant. If only, she thought, she hadn’t boasted about seeing the smugglers’ booty. If only she’d kept her mouth shut. Yet she had seen it: a large, waterproof-wrapped packet tucked away on a ledge well above the high water line, far out of her reach. Someone had hidden it there, she was convinced; who else could it be but smugglers?