CHAPTER ONE
JULY
2002
THE WINDOW of the cramped bedroom was thrown wide open, clothing strewn across the floor, a large bed taking up most of the room.
Tyrone Dunn sat in the bed, sweat beading his muscled chest, a slender woman pressed against him. He glared down at her, wriggling free and standing. Picking up his nearby watch, he checked the time, seeing it was just after 1 am.
Pulling on his trousers, Tyrone rubbed his eyes and headed downstairs. Rooting around the basic living room, he cursed as he stubbed his toe on a toy left on the floor. Scowling, he headed to the back door, grabbed a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it.
Tyrone opened the door and stood outside, staring out into the darkness. The summer seemed hotter; he put this down to the shootings and beef that had plagued Leeds for the better part of a year.
Tyrone was aware of his place in the street hierarchy. He and his brother ran a successful crew, but there were bigger ones out there, which didn’t sit well with him. He wanted more, and as was common nowadays, this led to him overthinking the future, wondering how he could step up his game and ascend.
Finishing the cigarette in contemplative silence, Tyrone flicked the butt and closed the door, fixing himself a coffee.
A creaking from above caught his attention, and he rolled his eyes. Tyrone recognised the movements and took a seat, savouring
the warm mug. Soon, Shardell appeared in the doorway, looking in on him.
‘What are you doing up?’
Shardell was an attractive woman; tall and long-legged, with dark hair flecked with brown highlights, dark brown eyes and delicate facial features. At twenty-five, she was several years younger than Tyrone, but they looked the same age.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Tyrone replied.
‘Drinking coffee won’t help.’
Tyrone tensed, but ignored Shardell, sipping his drink. Shardell moved towards him and held out her hand. Without a word, Tyrone passed her a cigarette, and she smiled at him. She stood by the door, lighting the cigarette, smoke wafting all around her.
‘You look like you have something on your mind,’ she said after a few moments.
‘I don’t.’
‘Why else would you randomly wake up at this time? It’s not like I didn’t tire you out,’ she said, shooting him a saucy smile. Again, he sipped his drink and paid her little attention.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Why won’t you talk to me?’
Tyrone kept his steady gaze on her.
‘You don’t need to worry. I just told you.’
Snorting, Shardell shook her head, nostrils flaring.
‘I don’t know why I even bother.’
Silence lingered. Tyrone finished his drink and clambered to his feet. Despite her mood, Shardell’s face softened, and she moved over, kissing him. Tyrone allowed it, but didn’t prolong it any more than necessary, and she moved her lips from his, but remained pressed against him.
‘Come back to bed, Ty. I’ll tire you out again.’
‘I need to go. I’ll get a shower and let myself out.’
‘Why do you have to go? You said you’d stay the night.’
‘Just go back to sleep, Shardell. I don’t have time to deal with this right now.’
Tyrone headed upstairs, turning on the shower, undressing and climbing straight in. He liked the water piping hot, and closed his eyes as the water beat down on him. When he was done, he towelled off, put his trousers back on, then headed back to the bedroom. Thankfully, Shardell was asleep by now. Tyrone grabbed the rest of his things and silently padded down the stairs, closing the door behind him.
As he approached his ride, Tyrone surveyed the quiet street, reflexes honed from years of street battles ready to act at a moment’s notice. He climbed into the BMW 5-Series and drove away, eyes flicking to his mirrors, checking for potential tails. He flicked on his MobbDeepCD, bopping his head to QuietStorm, hoping it would calm the restlessness surging through his body.
Arriving at his destination, Tyrone parked, heading inside and locking the door. He didn’t need to turn any lights on, able to navigate in the dark. He did this now, taking off his clothes and dumping them in the washing machine. Heading upstairs, he climbed into his bed. Tia sleepily shifted, but made no move toward him. Fatigue washed over Tyrone, and he closed his eyes, grateful that his body was allowing him the rest he needed.
As his mind drifted from the streets, to Shardell, to Tia, Tyrone’s eyes opened briefly, softly closing again shortly after as his body relaxed.
CHAPTER TWO
THE SOUND of his Nokia mobile phone chirping forced Tyrone’s eyes open. Grumbling, he sat up, groping for the stupid device, noting at the same time that Tia was already awake. He couldn’t answer the call in time, but recognised the number as Cropper’s, his right-hand-man.
Rather than call back, Tyrone threw on some clothes, stuffed the phone in his pocket, and headed downstairs. He smelled the fried breakfast long before he reached the kitchen. Tia Dunn pottered around, making herself a drink, allowing Tyrone to get his plate. He kissed her on the cheek, which she didn’t return. The dirty look on her face told Tyrone that she knew exactly what he’d been doing the night before.
Tyrone ignored this, stifling a yawn.
‘Can I get a cup of coffee, babe?’
Tia shot him another evil look. ‘You can if you get it yourself.’
Tyrone’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you in such a bad mood?’
Tia didn’t respond. Snorting, he stood and made his own drink. Sarcastically thanking her, he sat and devoured his food.
‘Where’s Nat?’ He asked, his mouth full of eggs and plantain.
‘Out. Probably getting into trouble,’ she replied, her demeanour darkening. Tyrone smirked. Nathaniel was eleven and big for his age. He was lively, and Tyrone believed he was destined for big things.
‘He’s a good lad. I’ll catch him later; maybe take him to play football or summat.’
‘Nat doesn’t want to hang out with his dad. He wants to do things with his friends,’ Tia cuttingly said. Tyrone frowned, slighted by her comments.
‘I’m more fun to hang out with than you. All you do is sulk and watch shit TV.’
Tia shot him a withering glare, shrugging. ‘Believe what you like, Ty. You always do. The fact is, Nat didn’t even ask about you today. I don’t think he cares as much as you want him to.’
‘Whatever. Why aren’t you at work?’
‘I have the week off. I told you yesterday, and I told you last week. I arranged it ages ago.’
Tyrone grinned.
‘Must have forgotten. Doesn’t matter. Why don’t you go away with your friends? You could go London or summat?’
‘Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ She snorted.
‘What do you mean by that?’ Tyrone asked, affronted.
‘Forget it. I wouldn’t leave Nat with you, anyway. Nothing would get done, and you’d lose track of him like you always do.’
‘Sorry, I forgot, you’re the perfect parent who can do no wrong, and I’m the waste of space,’ he snapped, irked by her attitude.
‘I didn’t say that, but we have different ideas about raising a child.’
Tyrone’s phone rang before he could reply, which was probably for the best. He answered, keeping his eyes fixed on his wife.
‘Yo,’ he said.
‘It’s me. I tried you earlier. We need to talk.’
‘I’m just getting ready. Pick me up in an hour. Got a few errands I can run at the same time.’ Tyrone hung up once Cropper had confirmed, then he finished the coffee, and left the cup and plate on the table as he hurried from the room. After a quick shower, he threw on some clean clothes, picking a grey long-sleeved top, jeans and boots. Snapping on his watch and grabbing his phone, he thundered back downstairs.
Tia was still in the kitchen, now washing up.
‘I’ll be back later,’ Tyrone said to her.
‘Fine,’ she replied.
‘Tia, what the hell is going on? I don’t know why you’re in such a bad mood, but you need to fix up.’
‘If you need to go, then just go.’
‘Fine. I left some money for you next to the bed. I’ll come and look for you and Nat later.’
Cropper waited by the curb in a Blue Renault Clio. He was a stocky man, with big ears and wide nostrils. He wore a hooded top, tracksuit bottoms and all-black trainers. Cropper had been working for the Dunn’s for five years. He kept to himself, and was a hard worker Tyrone had taken under his wing, keeping him close and schooling him.
‘Where are we going?’ Cropper asked, as Tyrone jumped into the car and grunted a greeting.
‘I’ve got some pickups to do. Drive up to Beeston and I’ll direct you.’
‘Think there’ll be trouble?’
Tyrone shook his head. ‘People know not to play with my money.’
Satisfied, Cropper nodded and drove away.
‘What did you want earlier?’ Tyrone asked.
‘Craig Hynes has been hanging around our people.’
‘Hanging around how?’ Tyrone felt his muscles tense.
‘He’s cornered a few of them around the Hood. Always while they’re not working, making general chit-chat, seeing how they feel about things.’
‘Has he made any threats?’
‘Not yet.’
Craig was a dangerous goon, connected to Snypa, a wellrespected Jamaican associated with a feared group of killers known as the JKPosse. Tyrone had known Craig for years, and they’d never gotten along, yet they’d never had issues. The timing of the conversations was telling, and they would need to do something about it.
‘We’re gonna need to get deep on this one,’ he said.
‘Definitely,’ replied Cropper as they stopped at a traffic light. ‘He’s headstrong and independent. Plus, he’s been grumbling about you and Mitch for ages.’
‘Even so, the timing is weird,’ said Tyrone. ‘I’ll speak with my bro and see what he thinks. When we’re done here, I need you to get either Ban-Dan or Nathan to keep an eye on Craig’s people. If Snypa or any of his people are around them, I wanna know immediately.’
‘Got it, Ty. I’m on it.’
CHAPTER THREE
AFTER FINISHING his pickups and getting food, Tyrone met Mitch at his Moortown home. In 1994, the Dunn’s had an issue with another gang that escalated. Out to make a name for themselves, this gang targeted Mitch, shooting up his house.
By chance, Mitch had been out when the attack occurred. He and Tyrone hunted down the crew, wiping them out. Soon after, Mitch was contacted by a down-on-his-luck associate, who had a house in Moortown and was looking for a quick sale. Mitch took the offer, and had been living there for the past eight years.
As Tyrone entered, Rudy was already with Mitch. He was a good friend of Tyrone’s who had worked in the crew since its inception, moving up in the ranks until he worked alongside Mitch. He had no official title, but Peacekeeper seemed the best fit. He ensured the money was always right and handled business when it wasn’t.
On paper, the Dunn brothers equally ran the crew, but to the streets, Mitch ran the show. He was seen as the smart one that made plans, and Tyrone — who enjoyed getting his hands dirty — was seen as a thug, who handled security and pickups, hitting hard against anyone who attempted to go against the crew.
They converged in the kitchen, the door behind them wide open. Mitch had a beer in his hand, as did Rudy. He was well-built, shorter than Tyrone, and bald-headed with a tidy goatee and the same sharp features Tyrone possessed. Rudy was a few inches shorter than Tyrone and Mitch, and had a wiry build with corded muscle.
As both men smiled at him, Tyrone took a moment to look between the pair, hard-faced and unsmiling. He grabbed a bottle, opened the beer, and took a long pull before taking a seat. His phone rang, but when Tyrone realised Shardell was calling, he ignored it. Mitch noticed, smirking.
‘Which of your women is trying to get to you?’
Tyrone glowered as Rudy chuckled.
‘She’s a pain. I swear, I’m gonna cut her off if she carries on.’
‘You’re not cutting off anyone, bro. You’re as hooked on these women as they are on you. You can’t quit them.’
‘Bollocks. I can move on any time I like,’ said Tyrone defensively, frowning at his brother. ‘When are you settling down, anyway? Are you waiting for Rudy to declare his love or summat?’
Rudy flipped his middle finger at Tyrone, still smiling, happy to let the brothers go back-and-forth.
‘Anyway, what were you talking about before I came over?’ Tyrone asked. The pair had been hanging out before he arrived, and he was curious about the discussion.
‘Nothing important. Just chit-chat,’ said Mitch.
‘If it’s business, I wanna know what’s going on,’ Tyrone insisted, knowing how cagey his brother could be.
‘Honestly, there’s nothing to say, bruv. If there was, you’d be the first to know.’
Rudy nodded in agreement, and Tyrone again shot both men a look, before he changed the subject.
‘I delivered a few late drop-offs to Cassim,’ he started. ‘He said he’d speak to you about it later, Rudy.’
‘Yeah, he sent me a text. That’s cool.’
‘Any problems collecting?’ Mitch asked. Tyrone shook his head.
‘Everyone paid. A few are getting a bit too frequent with the late payments. We need to stamp that out.’
Mitch scratched his chin, putting his empty bottle on the kitchen sink.
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, we’ll keep an eye on them.’
Tyrone shook his head. He didn’t think keeping an eye on latepayers was the answer. It was a sign of disrespect and would fester if it wasn’t handled.
‘That’s not enough. We look soft, and that brings me onto the next thing. Craig’s sniffing around our people.’
Rudy and Mitch shared a look. Tyrone picked up on it, eyes narrowing when they didn’t immediately clarify.
‘What’s going on?’
Rudy sipped his beer before he spoke.
‘Craig reached out to me personally.’
‘Saying what? Why did no one tell me?’ Tyrone’s voice rose.
‘We were waiting for the right time. It was a general chat, but he was fishing, seeing if I was happy working for you,’ said Rudy.
‘Is that all he said?’
‘Pretty much. He warned me about keeping my mouth shut. Not directly, but, it was implied.’
Tyrone mulled this over, still annoyed that they hadn’t spoken with him.
‘Ty, I know what’s going through your mind, but I wasn’t trying to keep shit from you. We wanted to see if it became something,’ said Rudy.
Mitch lit a cigarette and cut in. ‘We’re having our best year yet. We’re low on the police radar, and we’ve done well to stay out of the mix.’
Again, Tyrone shook his head. ‘You’re missing the point. This isn’t about Craig; it’s about the people he works for. Snypa is probing, and if we don’t act, we’re gonna look weak.’
Mitch remained impassive. ‘If Craig or Snypa dare make a move, we’ll crush them. Until then, we need to avoid making waves — the streets are still tetchy after all the drama. People just wanna quietly make money.’
Smiling, Tyrone nodded. He knew how stubborn his brother could be. Mitch was set in his ways, and being older, always expected to get what he wanted. Despite the apparent subservience, Tyrone was already planning his moves. He didn’t intend to wait around to be picked off by anyone.
Tyrone hung out a little longer, then left, looking at his phone as he climbed into his car, debating whether to go home. Starting the engine, he remained in place, his mind buzzing. Finally, he called Shardell.
‘I’m on my way. Have a cuppa ready for me.’
CHAPTER FOUR
TWO DAYS LATER, Tyrone and Rudy went for drinks. He’d kept his moves to himself during that time, the streets as quiet as Mitch had mentioned. Other than posturing and people trying to show off in the hot weather, nothing had transpired.
It was early evening, and the pair sat outside a pub. Tyrone’s eyes gleamed as he scoped various women in the multitude of people, holding eye contact with a few.
‘Have you heard anything else from Craig?’ He asked, sipping his beer. Rudy shook his head.
‘Nope, nothing since the last time.’
Tyrone leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking into the distance.
‘Just thought I’d check, seeing as you lot don’t tell me anything.’ Rudy sighed. ‘C’mon, Ty. Don’t be like that. We weren’t keeping it from you.’
Tyrone straightened, eyes boring into his friend’s, instantly snapping out of his reverie. ‘It’s done. If he reaches out, I want you to play along.’
‘How far do you want me to take it?’
‘Make it sound like you’re receptive to switching teams, and take that as far as you need to. I’ll let Mitch know what the skinny is.’
‘You haven’t spoken with him yet?’ The worry on Rudy’s face further annoyed Tyrone.
‘Listen, we both run the crew. I’m running it by him as a courtesy. The same way you lot kept key info from me, works both ways. Get it?’
‘Don’t be like that, Tyrone. I’m just saying. It’s a big move, and I don’t want Mitch having me taken out because he thinks I’m snaking the crew.’
‘I’ll talk to him. It’s fine.’ Tyrone dismissively waved his hand. Rudy nodded, knowing that the matter was settled.
‘What’s the next step then? I know you’re planning something big,’ Rudy pressed.
Tyrone grinned.
‘You’ll have to wait and see. I’ll bring you in when I need to.’ Tyrone’s eyes flitted toward a bottle blonde in a vest top and cut-off shorts. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’
Rudy chuckled to himself as Tyrone approached the woman.
Tyrone woke early the next day. He’d flirted with a few women at the pub and taken the number of one, but went no further. He traipsed downstairs, grinning when he saw his son, Nathaniel, eating in the kitchen. He tussled Nathaniel’s hair, grabbing a cup and spooning coffee into it.
‘Where’s your mum?’
‘She went out, but I didn’t wanna go with her. Think she went shopping,’ said Nathaniel. Tyrone nodded, still smiling.
‘Look at you, Nat. Go on, stand up.’
Nathaniel rose to his feet, his head reaching his father’s chest as he looked into Tyrone’s eyes.
‘You’ve grown,’ Tyrone went on, ‘and so have these!’ He squeezed his son’s bulging biceps, smile widening. Nathaniel chuckled, looking at the ground, hiding his own bashful grin. ‘Go on, sit down, son. Eat.’
Nodding, Nathaniel returned to his breakfast.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t seen you much lately,’ he said, reflecting on his conversation with Tia. ‘Things have been mad out there lately, and I have to keep them in line.’
Nathaniel nodded, munching his toast. Tyrone noticed his shoulders slumping, though, and it tore away at him. At times, he wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing with his son, but he had little to guide him. His father had left him, Mitch and their mum when they were kids, and they’d had to make their own way in the world, battling for everything they had. He didn’t know what to think of a son that genuinely wanted him around, but he didn’t like the thought of disappointing him.
‘Just . . . make sure you keep training hard when I’m not around, Nat. And don’t just be building show muscles to impress the girls. You can’t slip up. The streets are waiting for that, and they’ll tear you apart if you’re not prepared. Get me?’
‘I know, dad. I’ve been doing exercises every other day. I’ve even got Cam doing press-ups and sit-ups.’ Nathaniel intentionally avoided responding about girls, but his flushed cheeks were telling.
Tyrone sipped his drink.
‘Good. I’m gonna finish my coffee, then we’ll get in a workout. Go let your food settle for a bit.’
When Tyrone was ready, they headed to the garage, where he’d set up a makeshift gym, with weights, a heavy bag, a bench press, barbell and several exercise mats. Tyrone immediately noticed that several of the larger weights were askew. He glanced at Nathaniel, who froze.
‘Have you been messing with the big weights?’
Sighing, Nathaniel nodded. Tyrone shot him a hard look.
‘You’re eleven, Nat. Give your body time to grow before you get on them. They’re too big for you right now.’
‘I could almost lift one,’ Nathaniel protested.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yeah, dad.’
‘Good.’
They began their workout, and Tyrone was pleased to see Nathaniel keeping up with the pace and intensity.
‘Who are you chilling with at the moment? You mentioned Cam earlier.’
‘Yeah, me and Cam are tight. There’s a few other guys, but it’s mostly me, Cam, and Darius.’
Tyrone scratched his head, taking a break from his latest exercise.
‘Is that Two-G’s son?’
Nathaniel nodded.
‘Yeah. The one you told me to look out for at school.’
‘Good. Two-G’s alright,’ said Tyrone. ‘What else is going on? You after any girls? Bet that’s why you’re training so hard.’
Nathaniel shook his head.
‘I’m not!’
‘Why did you react so quickly? Who are you after?’ teased Tyrone.
‘No one! I swear down,’ said Nathaniel.
‘For now. Soon, you won’t be able to stop thinking about them. When that happens, be careful not to go too far with them; otherwise, you’ll get in trouble. Got it?’
‘Got it, dad. I’ll be alright.’
‘Good. Grab those weights, then. We’ve rested long enough.’
Tyrone’s phone rang a while later. He instructed Nathaniel to do some press-ups while he answered.
‘Cropper, what’s going on?’
‘Just checking in. Did what you said, and spoke to a few people about Jamar, and he’s apparently not happy.’
‘For real?’ After meeting with Rudy and Mitch, Tyrone had ordered his crew to dig into Craig’s people. He knew Jamar was someone Craig kept close, meaning he would have access to him.
‘He’s feeling unloved and left out. A few people are saying the same thing, and they’re not people prone to telling tales.’
Tyrone grinned, his eyes on his son, pleased to see he wasn’t slouching with his form.
‘That’s our way in then. Find out where Jamar hangs out.’
‘Will do. Get at you later.’
Tyrone hung up, grabbing some water before re-joining his son.
By the time Tia came back, Tyrone had seasoned some meat and was in the process of preparing dinner. He poured her some wine and, after they had eaten, sat to watch a football game with Nathaniel, who smiled widely throughout.
When Tia got up to go into the kitchen, Tyrone went with her, snuggling her from behind, kissing the back of her neck. Tia relaxed at first, then stepped away, breathing hard.
‘Don’t even start,’ she warned. ‘Go to one of your other women if you’re after that.’
‘You’re being daft,’ said Tyrone. Tia shook her head, not even looking at him as she added a teabag to a chipped blue cup.
‘You’re the daft one if you think I don’t know what you’re out there doing.’
Ignoring this, Tyrone moved closer, blocking her path.
‘Tia, you’re my wife, and I love you. That’s the only thing you need to concern yourself with. You and Nat are the most important things in the world,’ he softly said. This time when he kissed her, Tia didn’t pull away.
CHAPTER FIVE
DAYS LATER, Tyrone sauntered toward the entrance of a club on Friday night. Two burly bouncers were in the middle of denying entry to a loud group of young men. One of them shot a dark look at Tyrone, barring his path.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Before Tyrone could respond, the other bouncer stepped in. ‘He’s good. Let him past.’
‘Good looking out, Adam.’ Tyrone grinned and slipped the man twenty pounds. He was a former bare-knuckled fighter who wore the scars from his previous profession, with his cauliflower ears and crooked nose. Adam smirked, pocketing the money with thanks.
Inside, a UK garage act was performing, but it wasn’t one Tyrone was familiar with. The skinny white DJ accompanying him was more recognisable, but he still couldn’t put a name to him. Tyrone wasn’t the biggest music guy. He liked hip hop, but he could see why people in the vicinity were dancing and smiling to the energetic beat and lyrics.
Tyrone moved through the crowd, giving several women a onceover. Soon, he saw the person he’d come to see. Cropper’s intel had proved correct. Jamar sat amongst a group of people, a morose expression on his thin face. The group was mixed, and the smattering of women hanging around weren’t paying attention to Jamar, which surprised Tyrone. Jamar was slender and wore glasses,
but he wasn’t bad looking. He appeared to lack confidence, though, and they sensed this.
Tyrone grinned to himself. There was an easy way to play this, and he didn’t need to rush it.
Heading to the bar, he ordered a beer, moving through the crowds again and approaching Jamar. When Jamar noticed Tyrone, he visibly tensed.
‘You know who I am then?’ Tyrone asked, his voice carrying over the music. A few of the group glanced over, but quickly lost interest.
Jamar nodded, his grip on his glass of brown liquor tightening. ‘I don’t want any trouble.’
‘What is it you dowant?’
The question stumped Jamar, as Tyrone had assumed it would. He sipped his beer.
‘When you figure it out, or want to chat, come and see me. I’ll hang about for an hour.’ Tyrone moved away. He finished his beer and ordered another, making small talk with various people and having a dance, shimmying between two dark-haired white women in clinging leather outfits.
Jamar finally approached when Tyrone was getting a phone number from one of the giggling women.
‘What’s this all about?’ He asked, eyes flitting between Tyrone and the women.
‘I guess you’re ready to talk then. Ladies, this is Jamar. He’s a proper big deal in Leeds; can get you whatever you want. Jamar, talk to the women.’
Tyrone did his best to wingman Jamar, but his shyness quickly put off the women, and they moved away. Tyrone resisted the urge to laugh at the devastation on Jamar’s face. He led the man outside, and they walked a little down the road.
They stood in a back alley. At the far end, a thoroughly drunk man urinated against the wall. He zipped up his trousers when he finished and tottered past the pair without shame.
Jamar still looked nervous, unable to meet Tyrone’s eyes. Tyrone reached for a pack of cigarettes, the movement making Jamar jump.
Tyrone didn’t comment, offering him a cigarette, then lighting it for him. The gesture seemed to relax Jamar, and he took a deep breath.
‘I’m glad you came to speak to me.’
‘I still don’t know why you wanted to,’ said Jamar, closing his eyes and savouring the smoke.
‘It’s good that things in the streets are so quiet now. For a while, it got a bit mad.’
Mad was an understatement. Tyrone was in the know, but even he was unsure of the exact cause of the recent wars. There had been building tension between several gangs with West-Indian roots, and the local English-born gangs. Jealousy on both sides over money and market share, combined with loosely related scuffles involving various women, ratcheted this in a significant way, with deaths on both sides, the most high profile of which being a high-ranking Yardie known as Leader.
‘It still is,’ Jamar replied, his jitteriness returning. Tyrone smirked.
‘You don’t need to be so nervous.’
‘I’m not really trying to get my head kicked in.’
‘You wouldn’t have come outside with me if you thought I was gonna do that,’ said Tyrone.
‘I didn’t think you’d give me a choice if we’re being honest.’
Tyrone didn’t immediately respond, letting Jamar stew.
‘I’ve heard good things about you. Heard you keep to yourself and that you work hard. Craig doesn’t know how to reward that.’
Again, Jamar tensed.
‘I’ve known Craig a long time.’
‘So have I. He’s greedy and out for himself.’
‘I can’t say anything about that,’ said Jamar.
‘I think you can. You’re smart, and I think you, better than anyone, know exactly what I’m talking about.’
Jamar’s eyes flitted from Tyrone’s to the floor. Again, Tyrone waited, finishing his cigarette and flicking the butt to the floor. Spotting a woman he knew walking down the nearby road, Tyrone called her over. They spoke for a minute, before he told her he would come and look for her soon. Turning his attention back to Jamar, Tyrone noted how hungrily his eyes followed the woman.
‘I think there’s a way we can work together.’
‘How?’ Jamar dreamily responded, his imagination holding his attention.
‘If you’re interested, meet me tomorrow night. I’ll give you the address.’
Jamar’s eyes narrowed.
‘How do I know you’re not trying to set me up?’
‘Because you’re smart enough to know that if I was, I’d just break both of your legs right now.’ Tyrone stepped towards Jamar, who instantly moved back. ‘If I did, no one would stop me. They wouldn’t even call you an ambulance.’
Jamar audibly swallowed, the threat doing its job. Tyrone patted him on the back, making him jump.
‘C’mon, mate. Let’s get you another drink.’
They headed back inside. Tyrone had a few drinks, flirting with several more women around Jamar, noting the man watching with a forlorn expression on his face.
Tyrone was charming a mixed-raced girl, eyes drifting to her prominent chest as they spoke, when he was shoved from behind. Righting himself, he saw a stocky man with peanut butter-shaded skin and closely cropped hair.
‘Are you taking the piss?’ He snarled.
Tyrone glanced down at his designer top, eyes narrowing when he realised his beer had been spilt down it. Glancing back at the man, he repeated the question back to him.
‘Are youtaking the piss?’ He dabbed the stain with his thumb.
‘Do you think you can just flirt with my girl?’ The man snapped.
‘Baby, it wasn’t like that. We were just talking,’ she pleaded.
‘It was definitely like that, mate,’ taunted Tyrone. ‘I wouldn’t waste my time talking to a woman I wasn’t going to fuck.’
Jamar hung back, tense from the exchange, not wanting to get involved and set off either man.
‘You’re not gonna disrespect me like that and get away with it. Step outside,’ the man said.
Tyrone’s nostrils flared. ‘Why go outside?’ He pushed the man, knocking him back. The man lunged forward with a right hand that Tyrone ducked under, swinging his beer bottle and crashing it into the man’s temple.
Tyrone stood over him, the smashed bottle in his hand, dropping it beside him. He ignored the screams of the man’s girlfriend as the bouncers swarmed. Calming down, Tyrone allowed Adam to lead him from the club without further issue, exchanging a final look with Jamar as he did so.
CHAPTER SIX
‘WHAT
THE HELL DO YOU WANT?’
Tyrone grinned at Shardell. She stood on her doorstep, arms folded, glaring out at him.
‘I’m here to see you, obviously. Haven’t you missed me?’
‘You’ve been ignoring my calls for like a week. I can’t believe you’re just brazenly turning up like this,’ said Shardell, her eyes hard.
‘I wanted to see you. I didn’t want to talk on the phone. You know how things get for me. I’m out there in the world, but I’m here for you whenever I can. Just like this.’
As always, Shardell visibly softened at his words.
‘I just don’t want you to take me for granted,’ she said, her voice shaky.
‘I won’t, but like I said, it’s deep out there. I don’t work a nineto-five, and you know that.’
Shardell nodded, hanging her head. Tyrone tilted her chin, so he was looking at her, gazing into her eyes.
‘Are you going to let me in, or do you want me to go?’
Wordlessly, she stepped aside. Tyrone entered the living room, flopping down on the sofa, glancing at the action figures and other toys in the corner of the room.
‘Do you want a drink?’ Shardell asked.
‘Yeah. Summat strong if you’ve got it,’ replied Tyrone.
‘I’ve got some brandy you left, if you want that.’
‘Sounds good.’
After finishing his drink, Tyrone again gazed at Shardell. She sat in an armchair, rubbing her arms. Music played in the background. Tyrone didn’t recognise the R&B singer.
‘Who’s this?’ He asked, motioning to the hi-fi.
‘Tweet,’ Shardell replied.
‘Never heard of her.’
‘Seriously? She’s amazing,’ Shardell gushed. Tyrone tuned her out as she spoke about the singer.
‘Tell me more about her later. Come and sit next to me. I don’t know why you’re sitting all the way over there.’
Soon, Shardell sat on his lap, allowing his hands to roam over her body as they passionately kissed. Amid the heated session, a knock on the door stilled them.
‘Who the hell is that?’ Shardell climbed from his lap, straightening her clothes and smoothing her hair. Tyrone followed, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. Positioning himself behind her, he watched as she opened the door to Jamar.
‘Who are you?’ She asked. Jamar struggled to meet her eyes, tongue-tied and tripping over his words. Tyrone took pity on him and gently moved Shardell, allowing him to come in.
‘Make yourself comfortable. Shardell will get you a drink,’ said Tyrone. ‘Shardell, this is my mate, Jamar. Jamar, this beautiful woman is Shardell.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Jamar quietly. Shardell ignored him, glaring at Tyrone.
‘What the hell is this?’ She snapped. Tyrone signalled to Jamar.
‘Go and sit. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
‘Are . . . erm . . . are you sure?’ said Jamar.
‘Yes, now go.’
Tyrone led Shardell upstairs to her bedroom, closing the door.
‘What the fuck are you playing at? This is my house, Ty. My son is sleeping here, and you think it’s acceptable to do business here and invite strangers over?’
‘It’s no big deal. Jamar is cool, and look at him. He’s soft. I need to chat with him, and we’re gonna hang out for a bit. That’s it. Your kid’s fast asleep, and we’re not gonna wake him up, okay?’ Before
Shardell could answer, Tyrone gathered her in his arms, giving her another deep kiss. ‘Can you do me this favour?’
It took a few more kisses, but Shardell sighed, pulling away from him.
‘Guess I’d better introduce myself properly,’ she said.
Shardell refreshed Tyrone’s drink, pouring one for Jamar. She made conversation with him and seemed in a better mood, but Jamar still seemed uneasy. Despite his unease, he stared at Shardell every moment he could, trying and failing to be subtle.
After a while, Tyrone reached into his pocket, pulling out a baggie full of white powder.
‘Who wants a bump?’ He asked.
It took little effort to persuade the pair, who snorted a few lines off the coffee table. They quickly relaxed, starting to enjoy one another’s company. The conversation nicely flowed, the pair laughing and joking like they were old friends. Tyrone watched with a smirk. It vanished when he glanced to the corner of the room again, noting Shardell’s son’s toys. He didn’t say anything, but used some kitchen roll to clean the cocaine residue from the table.
‘This thing you were saying the other night about Craig . . . what did you mean by it?’ Jamar asked after a while, wiping his nose and sniffing. Tyrone wasn’t sure if he was a regular drug taker, but the potent cocaine had done its job. Shardell danced nearby, hips popping as she shimmied to the beat. Jamar was managing to avert his eyes more successfully, Tyrone reasoned. Having been caught gawping a few times, he clearly didn’t want to run the risk again.
‘Chill for a bit, Jamar. We’ll get back to that soon enough, but we’re just relaxing for now,’ said Tyrone. After a few minutes, he slid to his feet, taking Shardell by the hand and leading her into the kitchen. Once he did, she pushed him against the wall, pressing her body against his, biting his lip in her haste to stick her tongue down his throat. Tyrone held her close, then pulled her away by her hair, savouring her hiss of desire.
‘We’ll get to this later,’ he said, his voice ragged with passion. ‘I need you to do me another favour.’
‘What is it?’
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of the stomach are disgorged, or the excrement voided, either of which is adroitly caught by this foul freebooter of the sea before it reaches the water.
A hazy moonless night, with a sou’-easterly breeze and drizzling rain—given these conditions, at this season of the year we have numerous visits of various birds, members of the autumnal migratory flight. Making straight for the light, they dash themselves against the heavy plate-glass of the lantern; many of them are thus killed and swept by the wind into the sea. Others, again, arrive with more caution, and though taken in the hand and thrown clear of the tower invariably return, and remain fluttering against the glass till daylight reveals to them the futility of their exertions in that direction. The most numerous of these visitors are the redwings and fieldfares, but blackbirds, larks, starlings, wheatears, finches, tits, etc., may be met with in the course of the season. It is somewhat startling, when on watch in the lightroom, to hear the thud with which they strike. The woodcock, owing to his rapid flight, strikes hardest of all, and the other extreme is met with in the smallest of our British birds, the tiny gold-crested wren, whose presence on the lantern is announced by a feeble tinkling sound, which a robust butterfly might easily imitate. The heavier birds do not always strike with impunity; instances have occurred where ducks have gone clean through the lantern to the derangement of the revolving gear of the light, the splintered glass bringing the machinery to a dead stop. An incident of this nature happened a few years ago at Turnberry Lighthouse, on the Ayrshire coast, the intruder in this case being a curlew or whaup A stormpane is considered a necessary adjunct to every lightroom, and is always held in readiness to be shipped in case of such emergency. At some shore stations it is customary on the approach of a favourable night, during the migratory period, to keep the cats indoors to prevent them mangling the expected catch. In one particular instance the birds collected of a morning filled an ordinary clothes-basket, and a few nights later included five wild geese, which were secured out of a large flock that came to grief on the dome.
An hour before daybreak on the 22nd it appeared as if we were about to suffer a bombardment, and that daylight was to witness the
commencement of hostilities. No less than seven torpedo-boat destroyers were seen creeping close up to the Rock, their low black hulls scarcely discernible in the feeble light, and not until daylight disclosed the white ensign were we assured of their intentions. A little later they were joined by three gunboats and, after some clever manœuvring, formed into three lines, the gunboats occupying the centre. They then steamed away in the direction of the Firth of Forth. Two hours later other three gunboats passed us, going in the same direction, escorted by four destroyers, and followed shortly after by a solitary gunboat. Extremely interesting it was to witness the precision and dexterity of their movements as they swung into their respective positions for the advance, their semaphores all the while going like windmills. Again, on the 24th, about 11 a.m., a fleet of about a dozen battleships, headed by a dispatch boat, was seen moving in stately procession from the Tay, evidently bound for the Forth.
We have had several heliographic communications from our shore station in Arbroath during the month, and providing there is sunshine there is now no difficulty in transmitting messages to the Rock by this means. Four years ago the late Dr Russell, Arbroath, while on a professional visit to the shore station, for which he was medical attendant, witnessed our initial attempts in this direction, and, convinced of the feasibility of the method, urged upon us, in his characteristically vigorous style, the necessity for persevering in our attempts, at the same time predicting that it would ultimately prove successful. Little did we then dream it was soon to become the means of conveying the sorrowful intelligence of this estimable gentleman’s death.
NOVEMBER 1901.
B weather prevailing for the greater part of this month, we have been closely confined to the house. Our connection with the amphibia being so extremely remote completely disqualifies us from enjoying our usual “constitutional,” the grating, even at low water, being occasionally swept by the heavy seas. Our winter boarders, the eider ducks, have been reinforced, on the morning of the 14th— somewhat later than usual—by the arrival of a flock of long-tailed ducks. These, with the eiders, will keep us company till April again calls their attention to domestic affairs. Our relief, which was due on the night of the 11th, was effected just in time; had it been delayed another day a “missed relief” would probably have been recorded. The morning after brought a severe north-easterly gale, which precluded all possibility of making a landing during the three succeeding days. That is usually the time allotted by the steamer in the attempt. Should she fail to make a landing on the third day, we are abandoned for another fortnight, minus the time engaged in the attempt. As our stock of fresh provisions is generally consumed by the time the relief is due, a missed relief means a fortnight’s regime of “hard tack” and “beef embalmed,” of which during the winter months we have a three months’ reserve stock on hand in case of such emergencies. Fortunately, this is not of common occurrence; during the past six years but three reliefs have been missed, and only one in the preceding ten. This speaks much for the ability and skill of those concerned in the handling of the boats, for during the winter months the landings were until recently effected in darkness, and an exciting scene it was to see the two boats buffeting their way through the foaming channels, with jutting rocks so close on either side that an oar’s length deviation would entail serious disaster. A powerful searchlight has of recent years been added to the equipment of the relieving steamer, and is of much advantage in the guidance of the boats, though it has the peculiarity of grossly
exaggerating the tempestuous appearance of the sea. The sea, which on the evening of the relief was comparatively calm, was the next day rolling down on us like a solid wall, and viewed from the balcony in all its magnificent grandeur what a puny, frail, unstable structure our habitation seemed in comparison. Each succeeding wave seemed imbued with the sole motive of accomplishing our destruction, and as they struck and sliced away on either side in two mighty crescents of hissing foam, blinded our kitchen windows seventy feet above the rock. Clashing together again to leeward with a roar, as if incensed at our stubborn resistance, they drive their way furiously along the remaining portion of the reef in foam-capped ridges, and where the cross seas meet them the spray is flung high in the air from their points of intersection. The appearance of the reef at this stage, as seen from our elevation, is of a number of rectangular enclosures, each about the size of an ordinary bowlinggreen, with well-defined walls, the whole under a heavy coating of snow, with each corner marked by a snow-laden tree. At high water—the sea having flowed about twelve or fifteen feet on the building by that time—the waves, generally unbroken, slip past harmlessly; an hour before or after high water is when we experience the heaviest shocks, for then the depth of water is such that the waves are arrested by the rock when close to the tower, and their whole volume flung violently against the building. The effect of such weather on the tower must be felt to be understood. The nearest description I can give of the seas striking is as if a log of wood were hurled by each sea, striking end on, and a short, sharp, tremulous motion—sufficient to rattle the crockery in the kitchen cupboard—is imparted to the tower by each impact. This tremor is more particularly felt when the gale subsides and the heavy swell sets in, for when the gale is at its height, the seas are so broken and tossed about that their assaults are but feeble in comparison with those of the long curly-headed combers of the after-swell. The bellshaped formation of the base of the tower is admirably adapted for withstanding the assaults of the sea, and is built solid to a height of thirty feet, above which the seas never strike, though I have seen the spray carried right over our balcony, a hundred feet from the rock. That the building remains to all appearance as intact as when
completed, almost a century ago, speaks volumes for the skill and ingenuity displayed in its erection. In weather such as I have described we are as completely cut off from outside assistance as though we were at the North Pole; indeed, it is doubtful if there is another situation—save similar ones, of course—where men could live so comfortable and unconcerned and yet remain for the time being so completely “ungetatable.”
DECEMBER 1901.
A a consequence of the stormy weather which has been prevailing here of late, we have been visited by numerous “Travellers.” This may seem strange considering the inclemency of the season, but stranger still when it is known that our reception of them is fiercely hostile, and our duty only considered accomplished when we have completely annihilated them. Huge boulders of hard red sandstone, sometimes weighing over three tons; these are our “Travellers,” and their appearance on the Rock is at once resented and their speedy removal effected by blasting and hammering whenever the tide and weather permits. This is absolutely necessary, for if allowed to remain lying in the boat tracks they constitute a serious danger at relief times, besides the possibility of their carrying away portions of our cast-iron grating, which occasionally does happen in spite of all precautions. Where they come from is a mystery; ever since the tower was built they have been in evidence. Although composed of the same material, the Rock itself does not suffer any apparent diminution, nor can their original abode be located even at the lowest tides. Many of them carry a crop of seaweed and tangles, and have their angularities rubbed down and water-worn; none of them, however, bear any trace of recent detachment, but probably from their similarity of structure they at some remote period formed a part of the reef. They generally effect their entrance from the south side of the reef during the prevalence of a heavy ground swell. This side of the reef forms a steep declivity, sloping to 35 fathoms at a distance of ¾ mile, while at a similar distance on the north side the depth, though not exceeding 11 fathoms, presents a more precipitous barrier to these wanderers of the deep. A dull, rumbling noise, distinctly audible in the light room, announces their presence at the base of the tower, and at low water a dotted line of chips and abrasions marks their passage across the Rock to where they are again hurled to the depths. Others, again, may bring up in some
sheltered corner, where, if not considered dangerous, they may remain a fixture for years.
An instance occurred recently where one was wheeled against our grating after occupying a safe position for many years. Those that take up positions in the boat tracks are of course assailed at the earliest opportunity, an operation which generally entails a bit of submarine mining on our part. The reef consists of hard, red sandstone, arranged in irregular layers, with a dip of 15 degrees towards the south-east and extends in a north-easterly and southwesterly direction, having an area of about 500 yards by 100 yards considered dangerous to shipping. The north-east end, on which the Lighthouse is built, is slightly higher, and has an area of about 140 yards by 70 yards, the highest portions of which do not exceed 10 feet above the lowest tides. The geological formation of the Bell Rock is similar to that of the Redhead, in Forfarshire, and can be traced northward through Rossshire, while in the opposite direction the shores of Berwick present the same features, and continues as far as Cumberland. Soundings prove the existence of a ridge or shallower part of the sea bottom extending a considerable way in these directions, and as the adjacent coasts present ample evidence of the sea having at some remote period in the world’s history occupied a much higher level, the theory that the Bell Rock did not always occupy the isolated position it now does, but stretched continuously from the Red Head to Berwick, damming the waters of the Forth and Tay, appears highly tenable. Possibly our present day “Travellers” are, through some great seismic disturbance, wandering evidences supporting this theory.
An item of interest to Arbroath Freemasons is the laying of the foundation stone of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, on the 10th July 1808, with Masonic honours, by the builder, Robert Stevenson, who, in his own words, applied the square, the level, and the mallet, and pronounced the following benediction:—“May the Great Architect of the Universe complete and bless this building,” on which three hearty cheers were given and success to the future operations was drunk with the greatest enthusiasm. Another interesting feature of that period was the existence of the “Pressgang,” which, owing to our war
with the Northern Powers, was considered necessary Centres were established at Dundee, Aberdeen, and Arbroath, and were the means of rendering the Lighthouse operations popular with seamen, as they stood protected from impressment while in that employment. Prior to this there was a tendency among seamen to shun the works on account of the hazardous nature of the undertaking. As the impress officers were exceedingly active in their duty, it was found necessary to furnish each seaman engaged in the operations at the Rock with a “ticket,” descriptive of his person, to which was attached a silver medal, emblematical of the Lighthouse Service. On one side of the medal was a figure of the Bell Rock Lighthouse, and on the other the word “Medal,” referring to the Admiralty protection, and a description of the person by the engineer. One of these medals is at present in possession of an Arbroath gentleman, and is said to be the only one in existence. The following is a copy of one of the “tickets,” taken from “Stevenson’s Bell Rock Lighthouse”:—
B R W , Arbroath, 31st March 1808.
“John Pratt, seaman, in the service of the Honourable the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses, aged 35 years, 5 feet 8 inches high, black complexion, and slightly marked with the smallpox.”
(Signed) R S , Engineer for Northern Lighthouses. Obverse.
“The Bearer, John Pratt, is serving on board of the ‘Sir Joseph Banks’ tender and craft, employed at the erection of the Bell Rock Lighthouse.”
The signature of the Master of the tender.
(Signed) D T . The signature of the bearer (Signed) J P .
Notwithstanding these precautions, so rigorous were the impress officers that they actually pressed a Bell Rock seaman named George Dall, while on a visit to some friends near Dundee, in July
1810, and this despite the fact of his having the protection medal and ticket in his possession. These proofs the officer chose to ignore, holding that a seaman only stood protected on board the ship to which the Admiralty protection had been granted, or in a boat belonging to the ship. This was absurd, as it was impossible for each man to carry the ship’s protection with him. However, Dall was kept a prisoner, and only on the representations of the Lighthouse Commissioners did the Dundee Magistrates order his release.
JANUARY 1902.
A round the rocks at low water just now discloses a scene of bareness quite in keeping with the season of the year. The upper surface of the higher lying rocks is as bare as a street pavement, and only an occasional patch of acorn barnacles remains of the encrustation with which they were invested during the summer. The white whelk, so much in evidence here, have all gone into winter quarters, and underneath projecting ledges and in sheltered nooks they may be seen in myriads, their position being so judiciously chosen as to be completely protected from the heavy north-east seas. So closely are they wedged together that were a given space to be cleared it would be found almost impossible to replace them in the same area. Detaching one from its anchorage, it seems quite dormant and inert, and appears to have lost the alacrity with which, in summer, they withdraw themselves into their shells, and only with apparent difficulty is the operculum or door of their domicile closed against intruders. To witness the continual thumping and pounding to which the Rock is subjected during the winter, one is surprised to find that life in any form should continue to exist under such conditions. A close search reveals exceedingly minute forms of life. Here in this stony basin, originally but a shallow depression in which a stone had lodged, and by the swirling action of the seas converted to its present shape, with its sediment of broken shells, is a small crab, so small indeed that a split pea might easily conceal him. He is not a youngster either, but fully adult, in proof of which we have frequently found them, in the proper season, with their spawn attached. Deep in his little pit he seems quite immune from the furious seas that tumble overhead as the tide makes. Numbers of small white-banded whelks, which one may easily crush between the fingers, maintain their position on the base of the tower, despite the constant swirl of waters, though they may be detached with a flick of the finger.
Vegetation now exists only at low-water mark; above that, broken tangle roots, or, to be more correct, the claspers are seen still adhering to the rocks, the tangles themselves having been shorn clean from their moorings. Away towards the south-west, in the deeper water, a boat may float among whole groves of storm-torn tangles as they flaunt their tattered banners in the frosty sunlight, suggestive of leafless trees in a winter landscape. Over the recently emptied contents of the cook’s slop-pail a flock of gulls are circling and screaming, actually hustling each other in their attempts to capture anything edible. A solitary “black-back” is seen amongst the noisy crowd, and as he swoops at some tempting morsel, his black, beady eye watches our every movement with suspicion. What a handsome bird he is as he swings past within a few feet of us, the back and wings presenting a dead black appearance in startling contrast with the immaculate whiteness of the fan-shaped tail and the remainder of the body. Despite his handsome appearance, he is a veritable vulture, and nothing comes amiss to him in the way of food, be it fish, flesh or fowl. Frequently I have seen them make a meal of a wounded duck, and once witnessed in Orkney a tug-of-war between two of them for the possession of a dead lamb, resulting, thanks to its decomposed state, in an equal division.
More gruesome meals are credited to them by those who have witnessed their proceedings on a wreck strewn shore where loss of life had been involved. A terror also on the grouse moors, they devour both eggs and young, and even the sitting grouse herself is not safe from him. One can scarcely credit such a sweeping indictment against this handsome bird, but the proofs are all too plain. Consequently we find him outside the pale of the Wild Birds Protection Act, an Ishmael among his kind, whom any man may slay when and wherever found. Except when harrying the eider ducks of their legitimate spoil, he may be seen riding gracefully, head to wind, in front of our kitchen window, with his weather eye always lifting in our direction. A hand thrust from the window is sufficient invitation, he is up at once, and the smallest morsel tossing among the foaming breakers does not escape his keen eye. How gracefully he floats back to his former position, lighting on the surface like a fleck of foam. What a contrast to the eiders, who, when changing their
fishing ground, wing their way with such rapid wing beats as to give one the impression that they are barely able to support themselves, and finally strike the water with an awkward splash, reminding one of the somewhat inelegant term with which boys designate a bad dive—a “gutser.” Should a flock of eiders be fishing to leeward of the tower, an amusing sight may be witnessed if advantage be taken, while they are under water, of pouring a little paraffin oil from the balcony, so that it will drift in their direction. No sooner does the head of the first emerge in the greasy track of the oil than he is conscious of something unusual having taken place. Flippering hither and thither with outstretched neck, he becomes quite excited, and each as he bounces to the surface joins in the commotion, frequently colliding with each other. Finally, with loud cacklings, the whole flock takes wing, evidently in high dudgeon at the insult offered to their olfactory organs.
Sea pheasant is the name by which the long tailed duck is known in some localities, and as we watch a flock of them crossing the reef in full flight the synonym is at once apparent. In style of flight and shape, to the long tail feathers, they are similar to the pheasant, but only half the size, with beautiful plumage of black and white. Here they are known as “candlewicks,” their call notes needing but little stretch of the imagination to be rendered “Here’s a candlewick,” repeated several times in shrill falsetto, which on a quiet day becomes somewhat annoying as it clamorously floats through our bedroom window. Some queer visitors we have here at times in the way of birds. Once we captured a large owl dosing sleepily in one of our windows. During the week of his captivity he would not deign to partake of any food we offered him. Coming off watch one night I took one of a flock of larks which were making suicidal attempts to pierce the plate glass of the lantern. Placing it in the room where the owl was roosting, it fluttered to the window, when, like a flash of lightning and equally as noiseless, from the other side of the room the owl came crash against the glass, a few feathers later on testifying his appreciation of this form of dietary.
FEBRUARY 1902.
P cold weather here of late, with a good deal of frost and occasional snow showers. No matter how heavy the snowfall may be here we only see it falling, as it does not lie long round our doors, and only when our gaze is directed Arbroathwards—which, you may be sure, is not seldom—are we reminded of its occurrence. The close of last month saw our barometer taxed to its utmost intelligence, and though a tenth higher would have seen its limit, nothing of a phenomenal nature was noted. The solan geese or gannets, which are pretty much in evidence here during the breeding season, foraging for their families on the Bass Rock, gradually disappeared, till during the month of November not one was to be seen. A solitary one was seen in the first week of December, and since then the number sighted has gradually increased, till in the middle of the present month, as many as eight in one string were counted winging their way southward. The Bass Rock, Ailsa Craig, and the outlying stacks of lonely St Kilda, are said to be the only breeding places of these birds in Scotland. At the beginning of the past century they were considered a dainty article of food by the Edinburgh gentry, and the Bass Rock was rented for the purpose of supplying the market, the birds selling at the rate of half-a-crown apiece. I have seen it stated that the modus operandi of these birds when engaged in fishing is to flit along the surface till fish are sighted, when they rise to a high altitude, close their wings, and drop hawk-like on their prey. This, I venture to think, is scarcely correct. My experience is that when flitting near the surface if fish are sighted they are invariably struck at without rising to a higher elevation. It is a well known fact that objects under water are more easily distinguished from a height than from near the surface, so that it may be taken for granted that the higher these birds are flying when in pursuit of prey the deeper the fish are swimming. Again, when diving from a high altitude, the wings are kept rigidly outspread, and as the
tail is never seen spread rudder-like, as in the case of the hawk, any deviation from their line of descent is controlled by the long narrow wings, and only when nearing the “plunge” are they partially closed.
For the past fortnight we have had the company of a solitary seal. His fishing does not seem to be very successful, either in quantity or quality, as the only catch we have seen him negotiating was a saithe the length of a man’s forearm. Playing with it as a cat would a mouse, he would allow it to swim feebly for some distance, then diving he would bring it to the surface, till latterly, with a toss of his head and a thrust with his fore flipper, he quite disembowelled it, an act of charity which the screaming gulls were not slow to appreciate. Although so long here he has not been seen to rest on the rocks; indeed, I only once saw one ashore here, and as we had a somewhat amusing experience with him it will perhaps bear relating. For several days it was seen, as the tide fell, to rest in one particular place a few yards from the base of the tower. Our outer door opens outwards, and is always closed at night, not that we are afraid of burglars, but merely to prevent the entrance of the seas, and for our own general comfort. The opening of this door always alarmed the seal, and sent him into the water instanter. Dropping a line from the balcony at low water, we made the end of it fast within a few feet of his accustomed resting place. Next day, as the tide fell and the rocks began to appear, he was seen to take up his former position, yawning lazily as he rolled from side to side in the sunshine. Fixing a four ounce charge of tonite to our electric cable, we quietly lowered it down the line we had already made fast till within about six feet from where he lay, apparently in blissful ignorance of what was happening overhead. When yawning at his widest, we, by means of our magneto-exploder, fired the charge, and, well—he stopped yawning and went away! and his going was about the smartest thing I ever witnessed. The force of the explosion, being unconfined, merely tilted him on his side, but quickly recovering himself he flopped into the water and shot seaward through the gully like a flash, a black line under water denoting his course. Rounding the outer end of the gully, he doubled back on the outside of the reef, and when opposite his original position, made his appearance on the surface, a very much startled seal. His aspect was quite comical as he stood, so to
speak, on his tip-toes evidently investigating the cause of his hurried departure.
Several schools of porpoises have been seen this month, presumably in pursuit of herring. To anyone who has seen these animals gambolling in front of a ship’s bows when travelling at her best, the ease with which they maintain their distance is a matter of surprise—always on the point of being run down, but ever ahead, snorting playfully as if in derision at the possibility of their being overtaken by their lumbering follower. Off the island of Anticosta, in the Gulf of St Lawrence—where these animals attain a size several times larger than those of our home waters, and are of a cream colour—I had an interesting view of their manner of suckling their young. I have seen it stated that the mother by muscular compression expels the nutritive fluid, which is absorbed by the young one as it floats to the surface. The operation appeared to me to be one of actual contact. The young one—which, by the way, is of a slatey-blue colour—snuggling as close as possible to the mother as she lay somewhat on her side on the surface, all the while exhibiting the tenderest solicitude for her offspring. Truly the one touch of nature which makes the whole world kin. It is surprising to learn the evolution these animals have undergone in order to accommodate themselves to their altered circumstances. Landdwellers at one stage of the world’s history, but acquiring a taste for fish, they gradually became aquatic in their habits, dispensing with such portions of their anatomy as were no longer necessary, while developing others more appropriate to their new sphere of existence, till, like their big brother the whale, from being a four-footed animal they became quite fish like in appearance, even to the cultivation of a dorsal fin, though still possessing rudimentary traces of their former construction. Change is apparent on every hand in the plan of nature; ages were necessary for the evolution of our present day horse from his five toed ancestors; and after all it does not seem so very startling when the transformation is enacted before our very eyes in a few short stages, as in the case of the common frog, from the gill breathing tadpole to the lung breathing adult. More startling it is to learn that man himself was at one time a gill breather, and, as
biologists affirm, still exhibits traces of gill clefts at one stage of his embryonic development.
MARCH 1902.
S of uneasiness and unrest are now apparent amongst our winter boarders, the eiders and long-tailed ducks. Taking wing on the slightest provocation, they wheel aimlessly round the Rock, and instead of their usual steady persistence in diving for a living, they seem quite discontented with their lot, and plainly making up their minds to desert us for the summer. Advances by the males are as yet met with scornful rebuffs by their less showy plumaged partners, but soon a mutual understanding will be arrived at, and before the month closes they will have gone house-hunting, eiders possibly to the Isle of May, while the long-tails, being migratory, seek their homes in the frozen North. It seems a strange anomaly that the less robust looking longtail should choose such rigorous latitudes for the rearing of its brood, while the sturdy “dunter,” swathed in his arctic coat, should elect to stay at home. On the other hand, we have been visited on hazy nights by numbers of larks and thrushes returning to our shores, after wintering in “Norroway ower the faem.” These members of the spring migratory movement often come to grief on our lantern, and when one considers the number of lighthouses round our coasts, it will be understood that the death-roll from this cause alone must be extremely high. Designed to save life, we unwittingly lure our feathered friends to their destruction.
A couple of seals have been sporting round our door of late, and they also exhibit signs of exuberance in keeping with the season. At high water they come quite close to the tower, and their antics are seen to advantage from our balcony. Rolling over each other, they make for the bottom, gliding along the rocks like hounds hunting in couples; then with a rush they are on the surface, floating bolt upright, with their muzzles almost touching, staring with their large, expressive eyes into each other’s face. An almost human touch was given to their play by one taking the head of the other between his
fore-flippers, as if about to salute him, or more likely her, in the orthodox fashion. One was seen the other morning in possession of a large fish, while a number of gulls sat at a safe distance round him, waiting for the fragments when the feast should begin. By the way he glared at them, he was evidently annoyed at their presence. Sinking for a few seconds, he appeared on the surface minus the fish. This was evidently intended as a ruse, and meant to imply that he had lost it; but the gulls seemed to know better, and kept their position. Diving, he made his appearance some distance off, this time with the fish in his mouth, only to find himself, to his annoyance, again the centre of wistful expectations. Presuming these gulls to be up-todate birds, their exulting cacklings might be literally rendered—“You better begin, Mister Phoca; it’s no use trying, you know; you can’t possibly dewett us!” At least, the seal seemed to think so, for he there and then opened the banquet with a rip of his teeth that distributed the offal amongst the hungry cordon.
The rocks become at this season of the year invested with a slippery coating of algæ, which renders it extremely difficult to maintain one’s footing, and also necessitates repeated applications of hot lime to our gratings in order to render them passable. Myriads of minute whelks, no larger than turnip seed, strew the rocks and crunch under foot as we walk, while great patches of mussel spawn delight the heart of the more venturesome of the white whelks—a prospecting party who will doubtless communicate the promising state of the commissariat to their fellows still in winter quarters.
Fishing in the Rock pools has been tried for the first time this season, and resulted in the capture of a solitary “cobbler.” It may be a month hence before we meet with any success.
This month has been extremely mild, though the hills behind Arbroath are still seen to carry portions of their winter coat, while the higher ranges inland are completely snow-capped. On a clear day our view is limited by Tod Head, about twenty-five miles to the north, and St Abb’s Head thirty miles south of us. The coast-line presents a uniform flatness, which becomes monotonous in comparison with the more picturesque raggedness of the West Coast. A most conspicuous feature in the landscape in the vicinity of Arbroath is the
clump of trees on the summit of the Law Hill—a landmark well known to navigators, and easily discernible, as it stands sharply defined against the sky-line. Arbroath, when not enveloped in smoke, is clearly seen, and with the aid of our telescope the after-church promenaders can be distinguished on the Protection Wall, or wending their way towards the Victoria Park.
APRIL 1902.
T extremely low tides prevalent at the opening of the month enabled us to extend our hunting grounds somewhat further than usual, and also to reach and demolish several “travellers” which the heavy seas had hurled into the boat tracks, thus constituting a serious danger at relief times. Quite a forest of luxuriant tangles now cover the lower lying portion of the reef. Their dripping blades appear on the surface, scintillating in the brilliant sunshine like so many diamonds, till the receding tide permits the warm sun to rob them of their freshness, their beauty vanishing in a perceptible vapour, leaving them flaccid and inert till the returning tide restores their pristine beauty. The badderlock or henware is here also in great profusion, and usually selects a position the reverse of peaceful, being generally found where the wash of the seas is most constant. Of rapid growth, they attain a great length, some measuring fully sixteen feet; one we had under observation was seen to increase a foot in length in six weeks time. Owing to hazy weather we had a number of compulsory visitors to dinner yesterday. Seated outside our kitchen window was a party of fog-bound travellers, consisting of a pigeon, a starling, a wagtail, a robin, and a couple of wheatears. The starling was sitting bunched up by himself, preserving a stolid indifference at his enforced detention, and appeared to treat the animated expansion and flirting of the wheatears’ tails as undue levity, unbecoming their sorrowful predicament. The beautiful blackthroated wagtail is all alertness, and the slightest movement on our part sends him circling round the Rock till, unable to sight the land, he is fain to regain his resting place. The pigeon has been here a week now, and evidently has no intention of leaving. Should the window be left open he makes bold enough to enter, although but the other day he gave us a somewhat dramatic illustration of the proverbial hen on the hot “griddle” by rehearsing a fandango on the top of our cooking range, a position from which he had to be forcibly
