The Adam Project

By Richard Harrison

Alex Rappaport is a very special young man. Alex can do some very special things - and see things that no one else can.
Now Alex has seen something he shouldn't have, something that makes him fear for his life.
Alone and on the run, Alex is determined to stay ahead of the killers on his trail. A chance meeting with Madeleine, a beautiful young widow convinces Alex that he has to right the wrongs he has been party to. Doing so is fraught with danger - for both of them, but they have no choice for only Alex and Madeleine can uncover the conspiracy, stop the killing and put an end to THE ADAM PROJECT.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481769747

Richard Harrison

Richard Harrison is an Australian author and speaker. He resides on Victoria's Mornington Peninsula, having lived (for ten years) in England, where he launched and established the iconic Australian garden maintenance franchise - Jim's Mowing throughout the UK. His hilarious gardening misadventures became the subject of his first book -The Export Gardener, before he wrote the novel - First Tuesday, a murder mystery set against the backdrop of the Melbourne Cup. Richard’s latest book - Stumped: One Cricket Umpire, Two Countries, is a very funny and truly unique memoir of his fifteen year umpiring career, in both England and Australia. He is currently writing a book entitled Quando, Quondo, Quando: Learning Italian late in life. An entertaining speaker, Richard is available to attend corporate, social and fundraising events throughout Australia.

Book preview

ONE

Before . . .

Jocelyn had been out of her mind now for quite a while. Out of her mind and out of her body. It was probably just as well. She couldn’t tolerate pain. Really. She knew people said that all the time, but in her case it was true. The mere thought of pain was enough to make her break out in a sweat, so she was grateful when she just drifted off. It didn’t happen all at once, of course, at first she just drifted in and out. She’d panicked when the first contractions came, gripping her like a vice, and she almost wet herself. She would have bent double had she been able, the pain was so intense, but she couldn’t, her belly had been in the way, the baby had been in the way. Once the pain dissipated, she moved awkwardly to the living room and sat heavily on the sofa. She was doing fine for twenty minutes, until the next contraction. This one felt like she’d been punched in the stomach with an iron glove, the air whooshed out of her lungs and tears sprang into her eyes. She moaned lowly to herself. Only to herself, of course, there was no one else was there? Peter was off some place, she didn’t know where, he could have been off having an affair for all she knew. He wasn’t, the rational part of her was aware; he loved her so much she knew he never even looked at another woman. He was a wonderful man and she loved him back every bit as much as he loved her, more if it were possible. But right now he was a bastard. Right now, she wanted to hurt him, punish him. He should be here, with her, instead of wherever it was. It wasn’t fair. HE SHOULD BE HERE.

The next contraction came and she blanked out for a while, all there was was pain, she did not remember anything else. She wiped her hand across her forehead, it came away slick with perspiration, sweat beaded her upper lip and she grimaced in pain.

There was a knock on the front door and the bell was pushed rapidly, three times, four. Jocelyn started at the sound. The rap rap rap of knuckles on wood seemed to thunder throughout the house and the normally pleasant chime of the doorbell grated on her nerves. She looked out the window from where she stood. Stood! She’d been sitting down, she was sure she had, when had she struggled to her feet? Struggled was the right word these days, the sofa was low and soft and comfortable. She used to have trouble getting up out of it before, but since she’d begun to get big rising from the sofa had become a major production. She loved that sofa though, even if it was the cause of all her pain right now. She remembered the night that she and Peter had spent… . Rap rap rap.

Mrs. Rappaport?

Jocelyn saw the large white van outside the house. When had she rung the ambulance? She had no recollection. The chiming came again and a horrible shiver ran down her spine, she imagined a piece of broken glass jabbing into the flesh of her back as the bell faded away. She felt nauseous.

Mrs. Rappaport? The paramedic suddenly appeared in front of her, hand cupped to his eyes as he pressed his face against the outside of the window and peered into the living room. She cried out, startled.

Mrs. Rappaport, are you alright? She couldn’t see his features properly, the day was bright and sunlight lit him from behind, his hands shaded his face, but his voice was friendly, reassuring.

My water broke, she told him and wondered when the hell that had happened.

Uh-huh, he smiled at her, do you want to open the door?

Jocelyn nodded blankly at him.

Then we can get you to the hospital, the paramedic prompted.

Sorry, she apologised and turned towards the front hall. Another contraction squeezed a cry from her before she got the door open. A second paramedic was waiting at the front step.

How do you feel?

She glowered at him.

Silly question, sorry.

The first paramedic joined them. Do you have a bag?

Jocelyn was light headed, sure she was going to black out again. On the kitchen table, she managed. Paramedic Two took her arm and led her towards the ambulance. Paramedic One disappeared inside the house to fetch her bag. That was how she thought of them, One and Two. She liked One, he had a nice smile, he was dark and handsome, like Peter only his complexion was darker, almost Mediterranean. She wondered if he was Spanish, he didn’t sound Spanish, but you never knew. Maybe his name was Juan. She laughed at this. Yes, it seemed to fit, she would call him Juan.

She was in the ambulance, lying down. Funny, only a second ago she was on the path in the front garden with Two. Never mind, she was here now, with Juan and his dark skin and bright smile. He had a needle in his hand, some clear fluid in it. She didn’t like needles, needles hurt.

Just a little something to relax you, help the pain, Juan said as he swabbed her arm.

But I don’t like needles, she wanted to tell him and then it pricked her skin and it was too late and then… it wasn’t too bad after all.

She was in the operating room, no, she was outside looking down into the operating room. No, that wasn’t it. She was both. She was looking down and seeing herself and she was calm. She saw the green clad figures as they moved calmly and easily around her. Masks covered the lower half of their faces and she saw them nod, saw their heads move and knew they were talking but she couldn’t hear what they were saying and she thought that strange. She looked at herself and saw that she was relaxed and calm also. I don’t know what was in that syringe, Juan, but it sure worked, she thought, I mean, look at me. She took her own advice and really looked at herself. Her hair was damp, her dark blonde locks stained by sweat to a much deeper hue. Sweat coated her face and she could see damp circles at the arms of her gown. Stress and strain had contorted her face but that must have been earlier, she had no memory of them and all that remained were ghost lines of her efforts across her usually smooth brow. Her eyes were closed.

Lower down, she was exposed for all the world to see. Her swollen, distended belly rose from up from the table like a large white moon, the flesh stretched tight like a drum.

Hers was to be a breech birth of course, nothing simple for her. She wondered how long she had been in the room, hours or merely minutes. More to the point, she wondered how long she had been out of her body and how long it would be before she returned. The thought that she might not return did not occur to her, she was just happy to be away from all the commotion, and all the pain. It was amazing to her that she had ever allowed herself to become pregnant, just hearing other women talk of the pain involved in bringing another person into the world was enough to terrify Jocelyn. But then she had met Peter and knew that she would do anything for him, suffer any pain, and now, here she was, and there she was and everything was alright, because there was no pain.

A glint of light caught her attention, the doctor had picked up a scalpel. The shimmer of light from the large overhead lamps reflected brilliantly off the sharp blade for an instant before the doctor shifted position and lowered the blade to her. A moment of panic caused Jocelyn pause in her thoughts and then, calm again. The baby was a breech, the doctor was going to perform a caesarean, that was all, there was nothing to worry about, there was no pain. She watched as the medical team performed what was to them just another routine procedure.

Her baby. There he was. She felt her heart well up inside of her at the sight of him. He was gorgeous. Her baby! She could barely believe it. But… Something was wrong. She couldn’t tell from up here, couldn’t hear what was going on, but something was wrong and she had to know. She had to be with her baby. Now. There was a great rushing sensation, as if she were suddenly moving at great velocity, but the scene below her was unchanged, she was still suspended up here above the operating room, out of reach of her newborn son. The rushing continued and she felt the sickening sensation of vertigo, mixed with the desperate need to hold her son. Please, she willed, let me hold my son.

Chaos.

Intense pain. Jocelyn bolted upright from the bed. Jesus, didn’t they use drugs! The sensation of being above the room dissolved immediately, together with any sense of calm she had been feeling. A blinding, white hot pain speared her abdomen and she saw herself more vividly than she could ever have imagined from up there, wherever there had been. Colours, harsh and acute, swam before her eyes. The white of the tiled walls was blinding. The green gowns worn by the medical team brighter and more brilliant than any green she had ever known. And blood. So deep and rich and above all, red, so very, very red. Her blood. And it was leaking out of her. Leaking, pouring, gushing out of her. Her eyes bugged out and she opened her mouth to scream. Her voice mingled with the wailing cries of her son, echoed and rebounded off the walls of the operating room, adding to the chaos all around her. Her mind turned to mush, she was unable to comprehend the cries and shouts of the doctor and his nurses. She thrashed about on the table, arms flailing in wild abandon. One of the nurses, reacting quickly to the doctor’s screamed orders approached her with a hypodermic. Jocelyn did not see her, all she could see was the red as it sprayed out of the open wound from whence had come her child. Her fist struck the nurse in the face and the woman slipped, her arm skidded and the needle plunged into her own arm. She cried out and staggered back from the table, arm held out in front of her, staring, eyes wide at the broken needle of the syringe sticking out of her forearm.

Hold her down, for Christ’s sake! The doctor shouted. The mewling child was clutched to his breast, slippery with blood, umbilical cord still linking mother to son. Another nurse, large, with big, powerful shoulders, stepped within the circle of Jocelyn’s pin-wheeling arms, grabbed her, held her and then pushed her back down, pinning her shoulders to the operating table.

Jocelyn was weakening rapidly. She had lost an awful lot of blood and her responses were slowing down. She offered little resistance when a third nurse approached, cautiously, with another syringe, barely felt the sting of the needle as it was plunged into a vein and everything went black.

The nursery was in darkness, only a faint glow from dimmed lights shining through the observation window. Eight newborn babies occupied cribs in the warm, sterile room. Jocelyn’s son was in the crib to the left at the end of the second row. His was a sleep disturbed by vivid dreams, scattered images flickering past his closed lids and he moaned quietly. His moans became cries and his cries spread like Chinese whispers around the room, picked up by the child in the next crib, passed onto the next, becoming a plaintive wail uttered by the fourth baby. The other children took up the cry, a chorus of despair. Their cries became screams that bounced off the walls of the nursery, their misery multiplicating, growing, almost a physical thing.

In the middle of the cacophony, Jocelyn’s son suddenly stopped his howling, breath hitching in his throat, tiny chest rising and falling rapidly. His skin, mottled red, almost purple from his bout of hysterics, began to soften, return to its natural hue. Lying in his crib, the boy began to relax, sleep capturing him again while the other babies continued to wail. His arms moved, tiny fists rising up towards his head as if to cover his ears and shut out the noise. A small plastic tag was tied around his wrist, exposed now as his arms stretched up. Too small for the nurse to write his full name, the label read Alex Rap. His lips brushed the circlet of plastic and stayed his rising arm. He fell asleep, dreamless and undisturbed, pacified by the ring of plastic and comforted by the cries of babies.

TWO

Escape

Run!! His body screamed. Muscles tightened, nagged at his already racing brain. They’ll be coming soon! He plunged onwards, feet slippery on the springy, wet grass of the golf course. His feet slapped the cropped lawn of the green. Which one was it? The twelfth? He didn’t know, at that precise moment he didn’t care. All that mattered was that it was away from them, not far enough away, not yet. That wouldn’t happen until he was off the island. He tried to fool himself that then he would be safe, but inside he knew better. Inside he knew he may never be safe. The thought tried to surface, jumped to the fore in his mind, like a child in class who knows the answer to the question the teacher has asked. Please, sir! Me, sir, please! I know! He turned his mind away, the teacher turning his back on his class, facing the blackboard. The only answer that mattered was escape.

Through the green, skirting the wide bunker on the far side. His feet skidded as he ploughed through the thick rough that marked the end of the hole and the beginning of the woods. He fell to one knee, scrambled back up onto both feet, not noticing the dampness that soaked through his jeans. He was already wet, the rain beat down mercilessly and he was soaked through, his sweatshirt clung to him like hands, reaching out, grasping, trying to pull him back. The cold seeped damply through, mixing with the ice cold sweat that coated his body, sinking into his flesh, numbing his muscles. He didn’t notice. His eyes fixed on the line of trees emerging out of the darkness before him, the sheeting rain revealing their bulk to him. He glanced behind him, an instinctive reaction. There was no one there. And then, the woods. He crossed the threshold into their welcoming embrace not pausing for an instant, not daring to. His breath was ragged in his throat and he realised he could hear his own breathing. The trees surrounding him cutting out the sound of the rain as it beat out its tattoo on the leafy canopy above. Below the branches, in the thick of the woods, it was almost as if he were in a cavern. The air was warmer here, trapped in, and sound was kept out. His breath rattled out of his lungs loud enough to startle him in the sudden quiet.

He forced himself to slow down, not because he was tiring but because the darkness had become overpowering. Inky blackness obliterated his vision. He cursed himself for not bringing a flashlight. He held his hands out in front of him, could barely see them, and pressed forward as quickly as he could. Moving from tree to tree, hands running over rough bark, feet stumbling over fallen branches, wading through drifts of leaves. Lower branches, thin and spindly, clutched at his hair, scraped his face. One scratched sharply at his brow opening a small, thin line above his left eyebrow. He lifted a hand to the small wound, fingers rubbing at the viscous quality of his blood. He kept his hand at his head, protecting his eyes as he made his progress.

His breathing was normal again and he listened for other sounds, sounds of pursuit. He could hear none. His heart leapt at the sounds of his own passage, the rustle of leaves, the snapping of twigs and he paused often now, fear making him nervous. He wondered at the time. It had been after midnight when he’d made his break for freedom. It couldn’t be more than half an hour ago, forty-five minutes at the outside. It seemed a lifetime as time itself seemed to lose all meaning. Half an hour? An eternity. Minutes might as well be months. Seconds were endless. Should he measure time another way? In heartbeats perhaps? How many times had his heart beat in the last forty-five minutes? It felt like millions. Trip-hammering, crashing against his ribcage, trying to burst out of his chest as it pumped his adrenalin charged blood around his body. Even now, with the speed of his flight reduced to a careful stumble, that tough, hard muscle pulsed rapidly, playing a tune of fear that echoed around his very being.

What would happen if they caught him? Stupid question, he berated himself. He knew exactly what would happen, they would kill him. The only questions that mattered were the How Question and the Who Question. The How Question was the worst. Would it be quick? Or would they drag it out? He thought the latter, perhaps to teach him a lesson. Perhaps because they would want to do tests on him, though what tests there could possibly be, he had no idea. Or perhaps it would be slow because they would enjoy it. A shiver ran down his spine at that thought. Enough! I don’t want to think about it anymore. That’s too bad! His inner voice spoke up. This discussion isn’t over until I say so.

Yes it is. He spoke aloud, whispering to himself. The trees had thinned. Rain had begun to dribble through the upper branches as the vegetation became sparser. Light too, trickled weakly down from a pale, washed out moon. He stood at the edge of the woods, allowing his eyes to adjust to the change in light and figuring out where he was. He visualised the layout of the island in his mind and realised he was not far from where he had intended to be. He’d reached the coast. He was on the Northwest side but he’d come out of the woods too far down. The boathouse was higher up, around the next outcropping of rock. He shivered, this time from the cold and turned to his right. He began to jog, keeping near the tree line and the shelter it provided from the sheeting rain, a watchful eye on his destination and all points in between. If anyone was there, he did not see them, if they had made noise, he would not have heard them, all sound was drowned out by the howling wind and the pelting rain. Heavy droplets struck his body and face, cold and hard, stinging like hailstones.

He rounded the outcropping and there it was, the boathouse. A small expanse of rock and loose stone led down to the small jetty and a large wooden shack housing the two powerful motorboats. He could see no sign of life, no one waiting there for him to arrive. A moment of cheer heartened him. Maybe they hadn’t discovered he was gone yet. Still he had to be careful, if he wasn’t, he was going to be dead, and that brought him back to the How Question.

Holding his breath, he stepped out onto the rocks and stone. He tensed his body in preparation for the expected sting of a bullet or more probably a tranquilliser dart. None came and he expelled his breath in a whistling sigh. Across the stone onto the wooden planks of the jetty. He peered through the grimy, rain-streaked windows into the boathouse. Both powerboats were there, as he knew they would be. Covered over, moored tightly. He stared wistfully at them, wishing he could take one. But he could not. The boathouse was locked and secured, protected by an alarm system far more sophisticated than its appearance belied. Motion sensors and infrared beams would instantly detect the presence of an intruder. Alarms would be triggered, silent here, giving no warning to alien parties, but in The Clinic, they would know. Within ten seconds of unauthorised entry a response team would be on the move. No, he could not take a powerboat. He had no intention of doing so. The rowing boat was always kept outside, lashed securely to a leg of the jetty. He ran to the end of the pier, planks groaning in protest as he ran, their moans lost in the wind and the crash of the waves.

The boat was there, blue tarpaulin stretched tightly over its open shell. He paused at the end of the jetty, looking back along its wooden trail at the trees that hid him from the rest of the island, took a deep breath and dropped the few feet to the rowing boat. Air squeezed from under the tarpaulin as he landed, expelled with a loud phutt! He pulled back the covering, folding it untidily into the bow of the small craft. He unlashed the mooring rope and pushed away from the jetty. Instantly the waves caught the boat, tugging it away from the safety of its rest. He fell backwards over the seat as the boat was spun around by the pull of the tide. Righting himself, he took up the oars and began to row. Light from the moon, disappearing now behind clouds pregnant with rain, shone on his watch face. It was less than an hour since he began. Less than an hour, but everything had changed. There’s no going back now, Alex, his inner voice spoke again, I just hope you realise that. I do, he answered himself, and there’s no way that I’m going back, not ever. Then I hope you know what you’re doing! He had no answer for himself, instead he just grimaced and increased his efforts with the oars, concentrated on getting as far away from the island as quickly as he could. The boat reared and bucked like a wild stallion under the administrations of the storm. Waves crashed over the sides of the boat flinging icy cold water in his face, soaking his already sodden clothes. His hands were numb, he could not feel them, only knew they were still attached to him, were still alive and working because he could see them, see the oars working in the circular motion he was struggling to maintain against the force of the storm. It was three miles to the mainland. The night, black again now without the moon, and the rain conspired against his vision. How far had he come? Not far enough, that was sure, not nearly far enough.

His muscles strained, his shoulders were beginning to ache, oh how they were beginning to ache. Don’t think about it, don’t think about how it hurts to pull back on those oars, about all the effort, or it’ll all become too much. Think about something else. Like what? He groaned as he pulled back once again. That was easy, he discovered when he put his mind to it. Encouragement can be easy to find when you’re running for your life. What he thought about was the Who Question. Who would be given the task of killing him if they caught him? Which one of their Technicians would be given the honour? He would have laughed then, but there was nothing funny about the very real possibility of his death at the hands of one of The Clinic’s Technicians. It was too polite a word to use, too innocuous. Think of a technician and you think of a science lab, a little bald headed guy in a lab coat. It just didn’t fit.

Assassin. Now, there was an altogether more appropriate word. Somebody says to you assassin and you know exactly what they’re talking about, it cuts right to the chase. Alex found Technician just a tad too ambiguous. Better to think of them as what they are, it helped focus the mind.

Would it be Kyle? He hoped not. If it came to it, Alex did not want to die staring into Kyle Ricci’s soulless eyes. Maybe it would be Chazz Borkan. Chazz, who looked like a movie actor, not a star, but a supporting performer. The sort of man who isn’t supposed to be noticed but who steals the show with his easy smile and his casual elegance. Even more than Kyle, he hoped it wouldn’t be Chazz.

Maybe it would be Shelton himself? His stomach rolled over at that, his mind was headed dangerously back towards territory clearly marked, The How Question with that thought. It could be anyone, of course, someone he had never met, or even…

A huge wave reared over the side of the rowing boat. Hundreds of gallons cascaded over Alex burying him in a marrow-freezing shroud of ice. The boat was picked up and hurled across the water. The oars were wrenched from his grip and he was thrown into the air before plunging head first into the numbing water. His sudden immersion was a shock to his system and he involuntarily opened his mouth in a silent cry. Water rushed in and he swallowed coldness into his lungs. Panic creeping over him he kicked hard, trying to push him to the surface. It was totally black under the waves and he had no idea if he was right side up. If he weren’t, the storm and the sea would have done The Clinic’s job for them. His lungs were sore and he was choking. He kicked again, if he didn’t break the surface very soon it was over. One more kick.

He shot out of the water as if fired from a gun, a writhing, thrashing, coughing, human bullet. He sank back down under the waves but this time bobbed back up quickly, spluttering and spitting out water. He dragged a precious breath into his lungs and coughed some more as he trod water. Another breath and another. At last he began to feel as if he was no longer drowning. He looked for the rowing boat but it was lost from sight. He thought he saw a brief flash of the blue tarp but then that too vanished.

He wasn’t drowning, but if he didn’t get out of the water soon, that would not matter. It was winter and the water was quickly draining all the heat from his body. Hypothermia was a killer every bit as deadly as The Clinic’s Technicians, and it could creep up on you just as stealthily. Alex began to swim, his only thoughts now of survival, of dragging himself through the water. Arms, numb and senseless, making circles, pulling him through the freezing curtain of water, feet kicking behind him, lungs dragging in breath from the rain sodden air. He swam, for how long, he didn’t know. He did not know if he was still headed away from the island or back towards it. After a while, it did not seem to matter.

THREE

Thief

Dawn. The rough, grey blanket of morning overlaid the weakening darkness of the night. The beach was deserted. It was far too early in the morning and far too late in the year for anyone to brave the coastal weather. The sea rolled leisurely over muddy sand, washing stones and pebbles with its foam.

Seagulls swooped through the sky, eyes scanning the water and the beach for signs of food. A bundle of rags lay heaped at the water’s edge. Two seagulls saw the bundle and dove down to investigate. Landing several feet away, they pecked at each other, each trying to deter the other. Finally a chain of command was established and the larger of the two birds approached the bundle cautiously. A light wind ruffled its feathers as it hopped around its prize. It cawed loudly at the bundle then cocked its head to one side studying the rags. Satisfied there would be no sudden movement, the bird hopped onto the bundle. The second gull came closer, keeping a watchful eye on the bigger bird.

The first gull pecked at the bundle, beak catching on fabric. It squawked and nodded its head rapidly, freeing its beak from its snare. The second gull joined the first and it too began to peck.

The blackness began to lift. Coal black clouds of fog billowed and moved, seemed to be sucked away leaving just a memory of the dark. As the dark vanished, so too did the warmth and the comfort. Consciousness came back to Alex slowly, his mind tugged along like a petulant child by an angry father. He didn’t want to wake up, he was fine where he was, thank you. Awareness was insistent, jabbing at him sharply, prodding him awake whether he liked it or not. His senses responded one at a time. The blackness was replaced by an insipid grey. He opened his eyes, shut them again quickly. There was a low rumble in his ears. He was prodded again. Alright, alright, I’m awake! Prod.

Ouch! His eyes snapped open and he rolled over and sat up. The seagulls were startled. Wings batting in panic they flew off his body, beaks open, cawing anxiously. He watched them fly to a safe distance, then looked at his hand. His flesh was white, looked bleached, except for the small circle of blood on the back. He looked to where the gulls had flown but they were gone. He groaned out loud, his voice a rattling wheeze. Licking his lips he tasted salt and spat in the sand. The salt smell of the sea air filled his nostrils. He took a deep breath and immediately began to cough. His chest ached at the violent spasm. The coughing fit passed, the ache remained, it fit in perfectly with all the other aches he was discovering, slotting into place like the last piece of a jigsaw. His shoulders and back felt knotted. He reached a hand up to his neck, rubbed at the muscles there, winced. He had been pecked there by the seagulls, could feel the bruises. The cold seeped through his jeans from the damp sand and his legs felt numb. He tried to stand, made it all the way to his knees before bolts of pain shot through his legs. Pins and needles stabbed him, little sharp points of pain up and down his legs. Gritting his teeth he staggered to his feet and tried to walk. He hobbled in a small circle, loosening his joints, stretching protesting muscles. The tingling began to ease in his limbs leaving just the bone deep ache that stretched from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, there was nothing he could do about that, not until he could find a safe place to rest and he had no idea when that would be.

Memory returned with the use of his legs. He needed to find out where he had been washed up. He looked up the deserted beach, could see no landmarks that he recognised. He was not back on the island, at least that was something. And he was alive. That was two big plusses and that was two more than he had a right to expect. He turned his gaze straight ahead. The beach ended in a high stone wall sixty feet away. Alex walked towards it. He shivered and rubbed his arms with his hands. His sweatshirt still clung damply to him and his jeans clung to his legs as he walked. His trainers squelched water with every step. He was freezing cold. The morning air blew cold draughts at him and his teeth chattered as he reached the wall. He turned and walked towards the staircase carved in the stone. A metal railing offered meagre support as he dragged his feet up the steps.

He needed to move more quickly but his mind was as sluggish as his legs. He’d escaped from the island and survived being capsized. How he had not drowned he didn’t know, but he was grateful. Hypothermia had nearly claimed his life, and if he didn’t find shelter soon, and some dry clothes, it still might, if pneumonia hadn’t already put a bid in for him.

He reached the top of the steps. A road led away to the left and right of where he stood, disappearing around a long bend a little way to the left, running straight for a quarter mile or so to his right before turning inland. Ahead of him was a steep hill, shrouded in mist. Alex chose the path in front of him, his body groaned painfully but he wanted to get inland as soon as possible. The climb up the steps had kick started his brain and he was anxious to put as much distance between himself and the island as possible, he wouldn’t do that staying on the coast roads.

The mist hung on the hill like a curtain, one step Alex was in clear space, the next, he had been enveloped. He paused and turned around, stepped back out of the mist and looked down at the beach and out to sea, something he had not thought to do earlier. Fog crawled over the sand and the water was lost