Guy N. Smith - Night Of The Crabs 1 - Night of the Crabs

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Chapter 1

THE sunlight sparkled and shimmered on the deep blue of the incoming tide, the

waves lapping gently at the harbour wall. Fishing-smacks bobbed lazily on the

slight swell, and flocks of seagulls screeched noisily as they anticipated the

titbits which would be thrown overboard as the latest catch was unloaded.

Behind, the range of mountains where the deep green of summer and the purple

heather was just coming into full bloom.

Jan Wright rested his elbows on the harbour railings and idly watched the

outboard motor-boat, which served as a ferry between Fairbourne and Barmouth,

chugging its way across the estuary, leaving a trail of foam in its wake. He

was in his early twenties and his broad, handsome face was already tanned to a

deep mahogany after less than a week of exposure to these Welsh coast

sea-breezes.

'Penny for your thoughts!' the attractive red-haired, freckled-faced girl,

dressed in jeans and sweater, nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. She was

roughly the same age as himself, and her slim, perfectly proportioned figure

had already caused many a male holiday-maker to glance in her direction.

'Nothing much,' he smiled back at her. 'I was only thinking how nice it would

be to spend another week here instead of going back to London on Saturday.'

'Well,' she wrinkled her nose, 'I must say I agree with you but I don't think

your uncle Cliff would. He would be the first one to blow his top if we didn't

turn up at the laboratory on Monday morning!'

'Dear old Uncle Cliff,' Ian laughed.

'Not so much of the "old",' Julie slipped an arm around his waist. 'He may be

one of the country's leading botanists but he isn't forty yet. He's very much

your mother's younger brother.'

'You're right,' Ian sighed. 'Cliff is almost like a brother to me. And he's

hip, too, to quote a modern phrase. He didn't even raise an eyebrow when he

discovered that we were going away together for a week. "Have a good dirty

week", he said, as I left on Friday night. "I don't expect you'll be good, but

try and be careful. I don't want Julie to have to pack up work just yet." You

wouldn't find many uncles taking that attitude.'

'Well,' Julie winked, 'we have been careful, haven't we? Or at least, I hope

you have!'

They both laughed, and then their attention was diverted by a train crossing

the estuary over the viaduct a mile away.

'One more day,' Julie sighed, 'and you still haven't taken me to Shell Island.

They say the bathing there is superb.'

'We'll go tomorrow,' Ian promised solemnly and began steering his fiancee in

the direction of Davy Jones's Locker, a cave-like caf6 overlooking the

harbour.

Saturday dawned with those same cloudless blue skies and blazing sunshine. Ian

and Julie were grateful for the coolness of the open 1949 red MG as it glided

along the narrow coast roads.

After about twenty minutes Ian slowed down as they approached the small

village of Llanbedr, and noticed a sign off to the left which read 'Mochras'.

That's Welsh for Shell Island,' he shouted above the roar of the engine, and

then they were turning off down an even narrower road. Soon the tarmac gave

way to rough shale, and they could see the tide already lapping at the edges

of the causeway.

'What's that?' Julie pointed to some buildings and grass runways which were

cordoned off by extensive barbed-wire fencing, almost like some concentration

camp from the last war.

'War Department,' Tan said as he slowed down. 'Uncle Cliff told me all about

it when he heard we were coming here. It's a pilot-less aircraft base. See

those small planes over there? Well, they fly them by remote control. All very

hush-hush, though. You'd need a WD pass in triplicate to get even as far as

the first check-point! Uncle Cliff said some lads who were camping on Shell

Island went on an exploration trip one night and ran into the guards. They

nearly got shot, and then had to undergo an extensive interrogation before

they were allowed to leave with severe warnings ringing in their ears!'

'It sounds awfully creepy.' Julie shuddered in spite of the warm sunshine. 'I

hope we'll be away from here before dark!'

'No need to worry about that place,' Ian saw the water across the road ahead

of them, reduced his speed still more, and drove slowly on to Shell Island

itself. 'You'll forget that place even exists when you see the real beauty of

Shell Island!'

Shell Island was a veritable maze of narrow roads, with ample parking places.

Everywhere tents were pitched as campers made the most of the unexpected heat

wave, A signpost stated that the South End lay to the left, and the North End

to the right.

Ian swung the steering-wheel hard over to the left, noting the sign guiding

them to the bathing beaches. Half a mile further on he turned off the road,

and parked the car on the top of a steep rise which afforded them a view of

sand-dunes and an extensive golden beach beneath.

'Isn't it marvellous!' Julie breathed, the welcome stiffening breeze ruffling

her auburn hair. 'All these people camping here - yet we've almost got the

beach to ourselves!'

They've probably all had their early morning dip, and are snoozing it off,'

Ian stretched. 'Now, let's have that picnic, and then we'll see how warm the

water really is!'

Half an hour later, clad in their bathing-costumes, they were racing across

the beach towards the incoming tide, laughing and shouting as they splashed

ankle-deep through the white foam.

'It's really warm,' Julie laughed. 'Shall we go for a nice long swim?'

'Suits me,' Ian glanced down at the front of his bathing-costume. Julie always

made him like that, damn her! He thought of stripping off, showing her what

she had seen in the bedroom only last night. Why the hell shouldn't he? There

wasn't a soul about. All the same, somebody might have a pair of

field-glasses, and the watcher might be prudish as well as being a busybody,

and report him. He thought of all the publicity . . . Uncle Cliff . . he

shrugged off the thought and splashed after Julie. God, what a figure she had!

Enough to make any man want her badly, really badly...

Julie, the water up to the top half of her bikini, turned back to him.

'Come on,' she yelled. 'What's keeping you? Race you round that headland.

Maybe there's a quiet cove there where we can...'

Tan never heard the rest of the sentence, for with a seductive smile she dived

backwards and began kicking out with her legs. Yes, he smiled to himself,

maybe there is a quiet little cove just around the headland where we can...

He plunged into a crawl, losing sight of his fiancée as his head went under

water. He powered on, heading out to sea. About a couple of hundred yards, and

then he would veer left, following the coastline, maybe even catching up with

her...

'Julie Coles was a strong swimmer, too. She even matched Tan for speed, and

after ten minutes or so there were still a good fifty yards between them. Of

course, she had got a good start on him. He increased his efforts, clawing the

salt water as he strove to narrow the distance.

Ten minutes or so later he paused. Damn these waves. He couldn't see her.

Turn, you fool, turn, he swore inwardly. We're far enough out to sea!

Still she persevered with a direct course.

'Stupid bitch,' he gasped aloud- 'You'll be too far out... '

He closed his eyes and mouth as a wave enveloped him. The swell was getting

stronger out here. Now he couldn't see her at all. He began to swim

desperately. Overtaking her was no longer a game. Their very lives might

depend upon it!

Occasionally he caught glimpses of her amidst the rising swell. At last! He

breathed a sigh of relief. At feast she was turning now, even though she had

come too far out to sea.

He decided to strike out diagonally, and head her off. A faint stirring down

in his bathing-costume told him that things were getting back to normal. Soon

they would be lying on the sun-drenched golden sand of some desolate cove, far

from prying eyes where they could strip off, and...

Her shrill scream disrupted his daydreaming. A wave obscured his view of her.

Christ! If she got cramp out here ... He trod water looking for her. Suddenly

the sea around him was empty. There was no sign of Julie Coles!

'Julie!' he yelled desperately, a note of panic starting to creep into his

voice. 'Julie!'

For the first time in his life he felt completely helpless. She was gone. How

the hell was he to look for her here?

Strangely, even this far out, the water was comparatively shallow. As he trod

water he realised that he could just touch the bottom. He' was above some sort

of sandbank. Then he espied a large ripple between the ever-increasing waves

heading towards him. He blinked and looked again. There was no doubt about it.

It had to be Julie. What a stupid trick! She had screamed to frighten him and

now she was trying to sneak upon him underwater!

He rested his feet on the sandy bottom, and laughed, almost hysterically.

Well, so long as she was all right...

Suddenly he staggered back, his own piercing scream muffled by the water as

his head went under. He fought to free himself from whatever it was that had a

hold on his left leg that could only be compared with a pair of garden shears

with serrated blades, biting deeper into the bone with every second. He fell

full length on to the sea-bed, already gulping down mouthfuls of the murky,

sandy water. He began to panic, kicking out with his free leg. There was no

escape. That much was quite clear to him. Furthermore, he knew that he was

going to die. He knew, too, that whatever it was that was attacking him had

also claimed Julie Coles!

There was a red mist before his eyes. No, it wasn't a mist... he could taste

it, taste it like that time in his boyhood when he'd fallen on the beach and

cut his lip. If was blood! For a second, he almost felt that he was free. That

grip had lessened. He made one last, desperate effort to surface, being

wrenched back instantly as his right leg was grasped by his unknown attacker.

It was as consciousness began to slip from his fear-crazed mind that he

realised what had happened to his left leg. It had been amputated! Then he

felt his right leg cracking. Mercifully he lost consciousness.

Cliff Davenport was in his laboratory shortly before seven o'clock on that

Monday morning. There were certain tasks that had to be attended to before Ian

and Julie arrived at nine. Certain specimens from sea plants had to be removed

from the glass tanks and allowed to dry before the next stage of discovering

their nutritional benefits could be started. They would be ready for his two

assistants to get to grips with as soon as they got back from holiday.

As he worked, the botanist caught a glimpse of his reflection in the water. He

smiled. At least he didn't think that he looked any older. Those lines in his

lean, aquiline face marked the passing of his dear wife. They could never be

erased, like his memory of her. His receding hairline and the odd flecks of

grey in his dark hair, were all that denoted his age. His lithe figure was as

sprightly as ever, and the pipe drooping out of the corner of his mouth

reminded him of the time when he had portrayed Sherlock Holmes in a local

amateur dramatic society's presentation of The Speckled Band.

His task completed, he retired to his study. There he poured himself a cup of

black coffee and relit his pipe. He felt vaguely hungry, but he knew that

Julie would automatically prepare him something to eat once she and Ian

arrived.

The morning wore on, and still there was no sign of Ian Wright and Julie

Coles. Cliff became impatient, yet he was not unduly worried. Probably they

had lingered over a 'last night' somewhere together and slept late as a result

of it.

By lunch-time, however, he was becoming increasingly worried. No longer were

sexual procrastinations uppermost in his mind. Instead his thoughts dwelt on

road accidents. Ian had always been inclined to drive far too fast in that old

heap of an MG of his!

It was shortly after three o'clock in the afternoon that the doorbell rang. As

Cliff Davenport saw the two blue uniforms through the frosted glass, his

stomach muscles tightened. The MG...

'Professor Davenport?' the thin-faced sergeant had an expression on his face

that boded distinct ill-tidings.

'Yes, yes.' Cliff's tone could not conceal his anxiety.

'I'm afraid, sir,' the officer said as he stepped over the threshold without

being invited to do so, 'we might have some rather grave news for you.'

'Might?'

'Well.. , er .. .' the policeman shuffled his feet awkwardly. The Merioneth

Force have reason to believe that a red MG sports car, registration number MNO

897, is the property of Mr Ian Wright, your nephew, who resides at this

address. The vehicle in question was found abandoned on Shelf Island. The

gentleman in question's clothing was found in it, along with those of a lady.

A search has been made, in fact it's still going on. The coast guards are

using helicopters. They, er, they haven't found anything yet. It appears that

. . . your nephew and his lady friend have been washed out to sea whilst

bathing.'

Cliff Davenport sat down on a nearby chair. His face was ashen. His whole body

trembled.

'Impossible! ' His dry croak lacked conviction.

'I'm afraid ...' the sergeant began, but stopped as he saw the look in the

other's eye.

'Thank you, Sergeant.' Cliff was on his feet as though he had instantly

shrugged off the sudden shock, 'Perhaps you will let me know at once if you

find anything.'

The two policemen stepped outside into the bright sunlight. Both heaved sighs

of relief. It had been easier than they had anticipated. The Professor had

taken the news admirably.

Inside the house Cliff Davenport stood with his back to the closed door. He

knew in his heart that he would never see either Ian Wright or Julie Coles

again.

Chapter Two

CLIFF DAVENPORT remained at his West Hampstead home for three days. He did no

work, and he ate little. He consumed on average an ounce of tobacco a day.

Those lines on his face deepened. He was hardened to grief, but it was the

very fact of not knowing that troubled him. If Ian and Julie were dead, then

for a short while he would succumb to grief. If they were discovered alive,

then he would rejoice. Until then he would endure untold mental agony.

Each day he rang the police headquarters at Harlech. The answer was always the

same. In the end the Inspector there told him that they would telephone him

the moment they had any news. That meant they were not hopeful of finding the

couple alive.

By Saturday morning the telephone had still not rung. Cliff roused himself

from the armchair which had, by now, been his sleeping place for five nights.

He knew that he could not endure another night of waiting, the restless pacing

up and down, of the feeling of utter helplessness. He went upstairs to his

small, untidy bedroom and dragged a dusty suitcase from beneath the bed.

Pulling open drawers at random he began throwing items of clothing into it.

It was scarcely nine o'clock when he backed the Cortina estate car out of the

garage. The petrol gauge showed that the tank was full. He could be in

Llanbedr by tea-time. The prospect of some kind of action was comforting and

his spirits soared as he finally left London behind him.

The hotel in Llanbedr was not an hotel as such. Few holiday makers were aware

of its existence and the friendly, widowed Mrs Jones preferred to keep it that

way. She had her regular guests who returned, year after year, and that was

how she wanted it.

'Goodness me!' she stood aghast as she recognised Cliff Davenport getting out

of his car. 'Professor! This is a surprise!'

'Hallo, Mum,' the professor greeted her. Cliff always called Mrs Jones 'Mum',

much to her delight.

'I'm sorry to arrive unannounced like this. It's urgent, though. Of course, if

you haven't any room I shan't grumble.'

'It'll have to be the attic-room,' Mrs Jones was slightly embarrassed. 'I've

got a full house, and if I'd known... '

'The attic will do fine,' Cliff assured her, lifting his suitcase out of the

car. 'I don't want to put you to any trouble.'

'I'll put the kettle on,' she declared as she went indoors ahead of him.

'Now, Mum.' Cliff sipped his tea thankfully, and regarded her with a pair of

steely-blue eyes, 'Tell me what you know about the missing bathers.'

'Nothing that the papers haven't already reported.' She busied herself with

laying the table. 'If folks will go swimming where there's dangerous

currents... '

'There aren't any dangerous currents of the South End of Shell Island,' Cliff

Davenport snapped, 'and they were both first-class swimmers.'

'How d'you know that?' Mrs Jones paused. 'It isn't that what's brought you

here, is it, Professor?'

'It is,' he replied. 'Ian Wright was my nephew, and the girl was his fiancée.'

'Oh!' Mrs Jones sat down suddenly on the nearest chair, 'I didn't know... oh,

I'm terribly sorry, Professor.'

'You weren't to know.' The Professor smiled wanly. 'But it's almost a week now

since they disappeared, and everybody seems to have abandoned the search,

content just to let the tide wash them up in its own time. Well, I'm not

satisfied that everything's just as it should be. I intend to poke around a

bit. I don't know what it is, but I've got a funny feeling that there's more

to this than meets the eye. I also know in my own mind that they're both

dead!'

Grimly, he continued drinking his tea.

Sergeant Hughes looked up from his desk as the tall man with the receding

hairline walked into the police station.

'Yes, sir,' he grunted automatically, not bothering to rise to his feet. 'What

can I do for you?'

'If you could find my nephew, Ian Wright, and his girl friend I should be

delighted.' Professor Davenport's tone was terse. 'I have been waiting for a

call from you and, as nothing transpired, I thought that I had better come

down to Llanbedr.'

'Oh, you're Professor Davenport.' The sergeant rose to his feet and pulled

thoughtfully at his moustache. 'Everything that can be done is being done.

There was no need for you to ...'

'I prefer to,' Cliff snapped. 'They were both excellent swimmers, and there

are no dangerous currents to speak of off the South End where their car was

parked.'

'Any bathing is dangerous,' the sergeant stated adamantly. They're not the

first to be drowned on this part of the coast, you know.'

'And I have a strange feeling that they won't be the last,' Cliff turned on

his heel. 'No doubt we shall meet again during the course of my stay here,

Sergeant. Good day.'

Cliff was angry as he walked back towards the village. Of course, it could

have been an accident. Even the most experienced swimmers met with accidents.

Yet, he still had that strange feeling at the back of his mind,..'

The following morning, after breakfast, Cliff went on to Shell Island. He went

on foot, feeling it hardly worth the trouble of taking the car from Mrs

Jones's place to the South End of the island, a journey of possibly two miles.

It was a bright, sunny morning, and had it not been for the sense of

foreboding which clouded his mind he would have entered into the spirit of a

holiday-maker. His binoculars slung over his shoulders and carrying a long

stick of ash, a favourite companion on long hikes, he strode along.

Campers barely gave him a passing glance as he crossed the sand-dunes and

finally reached the long, wide rolling beach. The tide was well out. Quickly

he scanned the water's edge through his binoculars. A flock of

oyster-catchers, gulls . . . nothing. Not a movement otherwise. To his left

some children were making sandcastles, but he ignored them. It was way out

there where the answers to his many questions lay and he knew that he wouldn't

solve them from the edge of the dunes.

The sand beneath his feet was firm as he began walking out towards the distant

tideline. Virgin sand, untouched since the last tide had ebbed. Peaceful. And

yet...

A few hundred yards further on, the surface began to get softer. His walking

boots squelched beneath his weight, yet there was no hint of any quicksands.

The oyster-catchers rose in alarm at his approach. The gulls wheeled,

screaming their insults at him.

At last the water lapped at his feet. There was a huge ridge of sandbank on

his right, resembling a colossal defensive wall built by an ancient people. He

glanced behind him at the distant shoreline of Shell Island.

'Surely,' he muttered, 'they would have swum no further than this.'

Suddenly a deafening screaming sound filled the sky, becoming louder all the

time. He ducked instinctively, then straightened with a chuckle as the tiny

aircraft passed less than fifty feet above him, heading back towards Shell

Island.

'Damned unmanned aircraft,' he murmured. Then his eye caught something in the

sand about twenty yards away. It was a mark of some kind, maybe three feet

long and nearly as wide. It had been made since the tide had gone out, a fresh

scuffing of damp sand. The birds? His eyes widened as he saw another, and then

he began walking quickly towards them.

'My god!' he gasped, so excited that the words poured out aloud. 'They're all

along the tide-line. Claw marks. But what in the name of heaven could have

left a print that size? It's, it's like a crab, only dozens of them, and a

hundred times as big!'

He dropped to his knees, eager to examine the nearest one. It had the shape

and markings of a crab's claw, but. . . the very size of it was beyond

comprehension!

Cliff Davenport shook his head in bewilderment. It was fantastic. Impossible!

There had to be an explanation! And, for a scientist, a rational one, at that!

Then the water was lapping at his feet again. The tide had turned. He moved

back a few paces and watched as the incoming sea slowly began to cover those

weird marks in the sand, erasing them forever.

Cliff knew that he had no alternative other than to retreat. He had seen these

bizarre, crazy marks with his own eyes and now they were being removed. The

evidence was disappearing. If only he'd brought a camera. But nobody would

believe him now!

Reluctantly, he retreated before the tide. Two more pilotless aircraft passed

over him, dipping down towards the island. Vaguely he wondered if they could

have had anything to do with the strange markings in the sand. A new type of

undercarriage that made landings feasible on soft ground, marshes and beaches?

It was a possibility, even if it was an improbability. There was only one way

to find out. He unslung his binoculars and altered his course, heading towards

that large barbed-wire compound.

For some reason the visitors to the island seemed to keep well clear of the WD

compound. Perhaps they felt that it was not in keeping with the relaxation

which they sought, or maybe they had an inbuilt fear of military authority.

Cliff Davenport was not one of the latter. At that moment he cared neither for

authority nor the scenic beauty. All he knew was that he had to take a closer

look at one of those pilotless aircraft, paying particular attention to its

undercarriage. The discovery of some unorthodox landing device would ease his

troubled mind somewhat.

When he was within fifty yards of the nearest barbed-wire fence he saw the

guard. The man was dressed in RAF uniform, and had his back to the Professor.

Cliff noted with a faint tingling of his spine that he carried a rifle. He did

not doubt that it was loaded and that the sentry would use it at the first

threat to security.

Cliff sank down slowly until he was lying full-length in the long grass. As he

parted the tufts in front of him and began focusing his binoculars, he felt

more secure. The man could not see him even if he chanced to turn around. Two

of the aircraft he sought were standing motionless on a runway to his left.

All he had to do was to examine them through the high-powered lenses and then

crawl away discreetly. He could not help thinking how easy it would be for

foreign spies to adopt this same procedure.

He brought his powerful binoculars to bear on the nearest of the small

aircraft. Already it was shimmering in the midday heat, and everything seemed

utterly still and peaceful. He began to examine the plane. It was shaped like

a jet, and yet was hardly larger than the average glider. Nevertheless it had

a sinister appearance, as if it might be playing some secret role in all that

had happened recently, like some silent, mechanical bird of prey.

Disappointment welled up inside him as he studied the undercarriage. It was so

conventional. Just two wheels, in fact, no different from those on a mini! If

it landed in soft ground it certainly wouldn't take off again. He looked at

the other plane standing next to it. It was exactly the same.

His spine tingled again. If those crab-like prints out on the sands had not

been made by one of these pilotless crafts then there could only be one

answer. And that was almost unbelievable!

'Don't move!' The terse command close behind him made him start involuntarily

and the binoculars slipped from his grasp. He turned his head slightly. A

blue-uniformed man knelt up in the grass less than five yards away from him

and in his hand he held something black and shiny which was trained

unwaveringly on the Professor's back. There was no mistaking the snub shape of

a .38 automatic pistol.

'All right.' The airman's voice was almost a hiss. 'On your feet slowly. Don't

make any sudden movement. Just take it easy.'

Cliff Davenport rose to his feet and then he sensed another uniformed man only

a foot or so away. He hadn't even heard him move. This guy was an expert where

stealth was concerned. That was why he hadn't even suspected the initial

stalking. It would be a foolish man indeed who made a sudden bolt for it

'Go on.' Something decidedly menacing prodded Cliff in the small of his back.

'Walk slowly towards that gate over there. Don't try anything!'

Armed men appeared from all directions as he entered the enclosure. They

weren't taking any chances. Vaguely Cliff wondered how he had been spotted. It

certainly wasn't by the first guard. Probably somebody was scanning the area

constantly from a concealed vantage point. In the distance he could see

holiday-makers playing ball, pitching tents, cooking food, totally unaware of

the drama which was being enacted only a few hundred yards away from them.

Still he walked on, dazed at the suddenness of it all. Every time he slowed up

something hard and menacing bored into his back, forcing him to move again.

Now there was a uniformed man on either side of him. Nobody spoke. It was

almost as if the arrest of an intruder was an everyday occurrence. Smooth

efficiency. Merciless.

They were heading towards a concrete building that stood apart from the main

block. It was completely square and flat-roofed rather like the kind of

Foreign Legion detention blocks which one sees in the movies. Cliff had

visions of men sweating within as the sun climbed higher and the temperature

inside rose to intolerable heights.

A man came from behind and unlocked the door. It swung back on well-oiled

hinges. For a second everybody paused in the doorway. Cliff noted the interior

with some misgiving. Four walls, a ceiling and a floor, all drab, grey

concrete. Not even a window. A sudden push sent him sprawling inside. He fell

headlong and then, as he picked himself up, darkness closed in on him. The

door swung shut and that same lock clicked hack into place. Boyhood dreams of

the Foreign Legion suddenly started to become reality.

Chapter Three

CLIFF DAVENPORT sat with his back to the wall in total darkness. His

surroundings had a claustrophobic effect on his mind. He couldn't think

clearly. Maybe it was all a dream. Secret aircraft bases, giant crabs ... He

stretched out a hand and ran his fingers along the concrete. No, the walls

weren't padded. That discovery was a relief in some respects. It meant, too,

that all this was horribly real!

Time dragged. The face of his watch was not luminous so he had no means of

knowing what time of day it was. The useless watch merely emitted a continuous

ticking that after a time began to have the same effect upon him as the

infamous Chinese water-torture. He wanted to scream, call them all kinds of

bastards under the sun. Instead he just remained silent. Waiting; for what, he

knew not.

All the time he could hear the regular footsteps of a patrolling sentry. They

were taking no chances. He thought of attracting the guard's attention,

telling him who he was and why he had approached the base, but he knew it

would do no good.

Eventually he lost track of time and just sat staring into the darkness. It

was hot and stuffy.

At last there were more footsteps and the key turned in the lock again. The

door was flung wide open and Cliff Davenport was momentarily blinded by the

sudden sunlight He threw up his hands to cover his eyes, yet managed to notice

the five men who stood in the doorway. They all carried .38 automatics.

'Step this way, please.' A tall man with a clipped moustache seemed to be in

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Chapter1THEsunlightsparkledandshimmeredonthedeepblueoftheincomingtide,thewaveslappinggentlyattheharbourwall.Fishing-smacksbobbedlazilyontheslightswell,andflocksofseagullsscreechednoisilyastheyanticipatedthetitbitswhichwouldbethrownoverboardasthelatestcatchwasunloaded.Behind,therangeofmountainswheret...

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Guy N. Smith - Night Of The Crabs 1 - Night of the Crabs

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