Cherry Ghost

One

At six foot one, he cut a lonely figure walking along the cliff edge. Hunching against the elements, bright yellow sou'wester in danger of being torn away from his broad back, he carefully picked his way between the large rocks that lay strewn across the trail, evidence of countless storms that had battered this outpost of civilisation.

The occasional sound of nearby guillemots calling to each other from the abyss below and the forlorn bleating of the local blackface sheep were all that was audible above the relentless howl of the North Atlantic gale. Rain stung his face, big heavy drops full of salt, causing him to blink repeatedly in a vain attempt to clear his vision. The wind whistled in his ears and the waves crashing against the rocks below sent showers of spume high into the air. The kittiwakes and fulmars had their backs to the wind as they hunched down on any available ledge of the almost sheer cliffs, desperate to avoid being knocked off as the wind pounded the craggy outcrop. Breeding season should have been in full swing by now, but the persistent bad weather seemed to be holding everything at bay. Nothing ventured out to sea. The arctic terns were not wheeling and diving in their graceful aerial displays, nor had the puffin started to return to their nesting holes on the headland above the cliffs. Nature seemed to have shuddered to a standstill. Battered into submission. Waiting impatiently until the storm blew itself out and the winds swung to a more favourable direction.

Ten minutes later the path peeled away from the cliff edge and began a steady descent into a small ravine where he took advantage of the shelter offered by the small group of rowan and hazel on either side. Steep banks were clothed with brown bracken fronds amongst the lichen covered rocks, their vivid green shoots set to unfurl like giant prehistoric butterfly tongues. Here the wind was less ferocious and hints of spring's arrival could be spotted as sea pink and ox-eye daises competed for space with the bluebells that were scattered amongst the grasses. Each jostling for the best position, ready to take advantage of the sun's rays when they finally reappeared. A triumphant announcement that the long dark winter nights were finally beginning to loosen their grip.

Rounding a sharp bend in the track his step quickened as he made his way towards a stone building that now lay directly ahead. Hidden from sight from all other approaches, the former drover's bothy nestled beneath the boughs of a mighty Scots pine. Somehow it had survived the cruellest elements and now its branches rose majestically towards the leaden sky, a two fingered salute to the cause of endurance.

Stamping his sodden boots on the worn stone flag outside the front door, he stooped slightly to avoid knocking his head on the low lintel overhead as he pushed the weather beaten oak door open. A warm welcoming heat radiated from the fire in the hearth on the far wall. The crackling logs sent shadows dancing around the room. The glass in the small bookcase reflected the roaring flames as they danced from the draught caused by his entrance. Rubbing his hands together to try to stimulate some warmth into his fingers, he slowly removed his dripping waterproofs and walked through into the small kitchen to his left.

'Hey Woody, how you doin?' he said as he ruffled the large tabby roughly under his chin.

Woody barely moved from his spot in the corner next to the hot water pipe, but a deep purr began to rumble around the room like an approaching thunderstorm as he acknowledged his greeting. Stirring his head slightly he slowly opened one eye to survey his surroundings but having quickly decided that no food was being offered, he resumed his position and returned to a contented slumber. His whiskers twitching as he pursued some imaginary prey through the undergrowth at the bottom of the garden.

Walking back into the larger room, he pulled the battered leather chair closer to the fire and lowered himself slowly into it, its contours perfectly moulding around his six foot frame to offer maximum comfort, the chief reason why he hadn't replaced it for a newer model years ago. Removing his glasses he rubbed his jaded eyes with the tips of his fore and middle fingers in a slow and meticulous clockwise manner. The gentle crackling of the logs and the heat from the fire seeping into his aching body soon began to have the desired effect and laying his head back slowly against the worn brown leather he allowed his eyelids, heavy with anticipated relief, to close and he slept.

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They were sitting outside at the table in the far corner. The one with the big bamboo and dried grass umbrella that was used to shade customers from the midday glare; its drinks logo fading into oblivion like most of the unwitting disciples who succumbed to its powers. Weak minded people who thought to drink oneself into a stupor was an acceptable pastime. As if to lose the ability to control ones actions and bodily functions was a state to aspire to; a badge of honour to wear with pride. Non conformists to said creed need not apply to join their society. The ugly face of the youth in modern Britain. A face that more often than not was to be found each night vomiting in the filthy gutter or buried in some strangers' crotch.

He'd watched them carefully from the moment they'd arrived giggling at some private joke that all teenage girls seemed to share. An uncanny gift that enabled them to spontaneously burst into laughter without any visible means of communication between themselves. They had breezed into his line of sight as he sat quietly with his morning paper and large café mocha at the next table. His back to the warm stone wall, terracotta paint weather worn and cracked, in its last year of acceptability before some form of restoration would be necessary. He casually glanced to his right and watched as they positioned themselves around the small round table with a shiny galvanised top that got a little too hot in the heat of the day and a little too cold once the shadows from the delicatessen across the road encroached and stole away the sunlight. He watched as the older one, the one with long blonde hair and vivid blue eyes, pulled the table out a little so that her two friends could slide round the back. As she leant over, a gap between her low-rise figure hugging jeans and the base of her baby-blue skinny t-shirt appeared, revealing smooth sun tanned skin. He caught his breath and consciously slowed his breathing in an attempt to calm his heartbeat from racing as the top of her delicate white thong came into view, so delicious to this secret scrutineer. The contrast against her coloured skin was electrifying. He was close enough to see that her hair follicles had risen at this sudden unexpected exposure. So close he could have reached out and touched her. A slow soft trace of his fingertip across her olive skin. He could smell her delicate perfume on the breeze. He had done his homework well. As always. She straightened up quickly and her two friends squeezed behind the table and collapsed into their chosen seats in the obligatory fit of giggles.

To the casual observer he appeared to be deeply engrossed in the local newspaper. The lead story covering the apparent disappearance of a local politician's daughter. No sightings had been reported since she was seen on CCTV leaving a nightclub at 1.48a.m. last Saturday. No-one, it said, had laid eyes on her for three days now.

Of course they were wrong.