‘You see that brown thing sticking out the sand over there?’ He pointed towards a dark misshapen tangle of metal that Poe had assumed was a piece of flotsam. ‘That’s what’s left of the last idiot who tried to take a short cut.’
Poe looked closer. It wasn’t marine debris; it was the skeleton of a vehicle – a campervan by the looks of it. It was half buried in a sandbank. The only thing not yet stripped away by the sea was its frame, which was now a mass of bubbling rust. During high tide Poe suspected the van would be fully submerged and become a haven for some of the smaller sea creatures, the same way shipwrecks were for lobsters and moray eels farther out.
‘The locals wanted it moved,’ John continued, ‘but it serves as both a warning and as a navigation tool. We’ll see a few of these on the way to the island. The world’s full of fools who think they can race the tide.’
Poe stepped forwards to take a closer look.
‘I’d stop there if I was you,’ John said. ‘See that sign beside the van? The white one encased in erosion-resistant concrete?’
‘I see it.’
‘That’s telling you there’s quicksand in that area. Get stuck in that and you’re in trouble.’
Poe shuddered. Since he was a child he’d had an irrational fear of drowning in quicksand, a legacy of too many cheesy westerns in which the struggling cowboy sinks, leaving only his hat behind. He’d mentioned it to Bradshaw once who, true to form, had explained the science behind it. Something to do with reduced friction between sand particles, meaning it couldn’t support the weight of a human. She’d said it was a myth that you could drown, though – eventually the particles would rearrange themselves.
‘I thought you couldn’t drown in quicksand,’ Poe said.
‘You can’t. But it will trap you until the tide comes in. How long can you hold your breath, Sergeant Poe?’’
Poe rejoined the small group.
After forty minutes they skirted past Piel Island. Despite the encroaching gloom, the ruins of the fourteenth-century castle, built by the Abbot of Furness to guard Barrow against pirates, were clearly visible. Another slice of Cumbria’s impressive history.
Nightingale said, ‘Jesus, that’s bleak.’
He turned to where she was looking.
Montague Island, hidden until then by Piel Island and the inclement weather, was now visible.
Poe stared at the place Atkinson had chosen for a home. Nightingale was right: it was bleak.
Chapter 60
Montague Island, half a mile from the southern tip of Walney Island, sat outside the protective windbreak that Walney afforded Barrow and everything inside the channel.
Poe reckoned if Montague had been sand and soil based like the others it would have eroded away eons ago. Instead it was a craggy outcrop, steep-sided and aggressive looking. It was the type of island that deserved a lighthouse even if there was no strategic need for one. A less hospitable coastline Poe couldn’t have imagined. Jagged fingers of barnacle-covered rock, jutting out in no discernible pattern, greeted them in the same way defensive spikes greeted advancing cavalry in medieval times. The pier that the marine unit had docked against the night before extended into the sea on mussel-encrusted stilts. It cast an ominous silhouette in the early morning light.
There was a small beach to the right of the pier and the rocks. Half a dozen small boats had been hauled onto the dunes to ensure they didn’t float away when the tide returned. Poe assumed it was how the islanders coped with their isolation. Rather than rely on deliveries, some of the islanders sailed to the mainland for their provisions.
Steps had been carved into the rocks beside the pier and the party headed towards them. John the guide had been right: despite the tide being fully out, a ring of shallow water formed a natural moat all the way around the island, and although it
was no more than a foot deep, no one stepped onto the island with dry feet.
‘Montague Island, ladies and gents,’ John said, after they’d helped each other up the treacherously slippery rock steps and onto drier land. ‘The pier and the land up to that boundary fence’ – he pointed to a sun-bleached structure made of crudely assembled driftwood – ‘is public land. Everything else is privately owned and you’ll need permission to enter. The people on the far side of the island have right of way so I suppose you’ll be OK passing through to visit the man you want.’
The area designated as public land included the outline of what had been the isolation hospital. Poe wandered over to have a look. He suspected it had been dismantled and the stone used to build the island’s homes. What remained looked like rows of broken teeth.
On the way back he glanced in the boats that had been pulled onto the small beach. The one on the end had a lobster pot tucked under the seat. Shaped like a miniature Nissen hut, it had a oneway ‘funnel’ entrance and was lined with rocks so it wouldn’t blow away. All the other boats were empty.
He rejoined Nightingale.
‘How long do we have, John?’ she said.
Their guide reached into his jacket and handed her a folded document.
‘That’s the tide timetable for Piel Island. There isn’t one for Montague as no one comes here. Low tide was at ten past eight and we set off then.’ He checked his watch. ‘It’s taken us an hour and fifteen minutes to get here and the next high tide is at one-forty. We’ll need to leave here by midday to be safe. Any later than that and you’ll have to wait until the next low tide this evening.’
Poe checked his own watch. It was 9.30 a.m. In two and a half hours they’d have to leave.