[ShortNCuddlyAm]

(chapter 3)

It’s a glorious summer day. They sky is blue with picture-postcard little fluffy clouds, the sea shimmers between blue and turquoise, small waves break on sandbanks and beaches with just enough white foam to look picturesque but not so much it frightens small dogs and children, and boats bob around lazily. Some white cliffs topped with green downs roll along the coast, broken by the mouth of a river lazily flowing into the sea. On either side of the river picnickers eat sandwiches and drink from Thermoses. One more adventurous couple start a small stove going on one of the wooden groynes, only to quickly remove it and throw water over the place where the stove sat. Some people sunbathe, some paddle. One or two swim in the river mouth. Two young guys paddle a canoe out of the river and into the sea, turning west along the coast. Gulls scream overhead. A gentle breeze whispers through the grass before dying down again.

Out at sea, a motor launch slows almost to a stop, in line with the river mouth, but some way out at sea. The people on board are indistinguishable black shapes. There’s a slight splash, and the boat speeds off again. Where the boat was a small black shape can be seen, moving slowly closer to shore. Eventually it resolves into a man, wearing a wetsuit, swimming with a large waterproof bag. After some minutes he reaches the eastern shore of the river, walks up the shingle beach to behind a convenient shrub. There is some shuffling and scuffling noises, and if anyone was close enough they may have heard three very quiet, but very distinctly different, voices muttering at each other. He emerges again a few minutes later, dressed in normal clothes and nonchalantly heads off up a path by the side of the river, still carrying the bag, which is clearly far too large to just be holding his wetsuit. Most people on the beaches either side of the river only pay cursory attention to this performance, as if it is something that happens every day, before going back to their activities.

An hour or so after this, the two chaps in the canoe paddle back up the river from the sea, looking a little sunburnt. People come and go, walking off over the Downs, or up the river to the pub and micro-brewery further upstream. Boats drift along out at sea, powered by wind or motor.

It is the sort of summer’s day that exists usually more in memory and dreams than reality. A day for enjoying and relaxing. Certainly not a day for intrigue and plotting.

Further up river, now past the pub and micro brewery, and over the main road, past the sheep centre and country park, past all of the day trippers and most of the walkers, past the river’s larger meanders and man-made channels, the man with the waterproof bag pauses. A group of swans glide effortlessly past, watching him curiously. Higher up, a white horse - carved as a drunken prank a couple of centuries back - watches silently. He glances around, pulls out a notebook and compass, nods to himself, then strips down to a pair of swimming trunks, stowing his clothes in a bag within the bag. Ignoring the fact that only a few hundred yards upstream there is a bridge, he crosses the river, part wading, part swimming. Then, checking his compass once more, he heads towards a clump of bushes at the base of the hill, and vanishes from sight.

Back at the mouth of the river a tall, hairy creature - which looks suspiciously like a yeti (confirmed sightings (Sussex): 0. Confirmed sightings (SE England): 0. Confirmed sightings (UK): 0. Actual numbers: Unknown, at least one) - looks at an empty bag longingly and mutters something about really wanting a spotted dick pudding. His companion, sporting a badge that says “I’m a llounge llama - let me back in there!” looks warningly at his tummy before commenting that they ought to be making a move anyway, and did he want to go along the river or along the coast?