Chapter 2: The Cove and the Crimson Serpents
The journey to the coast was a quiet communion. Gary drove his modest estate car, the windows down as they left the city’s grime behind, the air gradually swapping exhaust fumes for the damp, green scent of pasture. Lorraine navigated with an old paper map on her knees, her fingers tracing forgotten lanes. They talked about nothing consequential—the awful radio play, the price of petrol, a funny-shaped cloud—but the subtext hummed between them, a live wire lying in the footwell.
She’d been right about the cove. It wasn’t signposted. A cattle grid, a rutted track through gorse, and then a sheer drop to a bowl of furious sea. The path down was treacherous, a scramble over slick, black rock. He went first, testing each foothold, then turning to offer her his hand. Her grip was firm, practical, but when she landed beside him, breathless, she didn’t let go immediately. Her green eyes scanned his face, looking for hesitation, for judgement. He just nodded towards the beach. “Lead on.”
The sun broke through as they reached the bottom, transforming the grey light into something sharp and glittering. The cove was a cathedral of noise and solitude. Waves slammed into a natural arch, booming, then retreating in a hiss of white foam over pebbles. The rocks underfoot were warm where the sun caught them, cold and damp in the shadows.
She spread the blanket on a broad, flat slab above the tide line. “Right then,” she said, her back to him. Her fingers went to the buttons of her denim shirt.
Gary sat on the edge of the blanket, unpacking the flask and the sunscreen. He heard the soft rustle of fabric. When he looked up, she was standing there, facing the sea, the weak sun painting her skin in gold and shadow.
The bikini was exactly as promised. Shockingly brief. Two tiny triangles of white fabric tied at her neck, and just one at her hips. She turned slowly, a faint, defiant smile on her lips. Her body was magnificent—not a gym-honed perfection, but strong and real, with the softness of a woman her age, the pale skin of someone who lived under northern skies. She was completely unselfconscious.
“Will it do?” she asked, her voice almost lost in a crash of surf.
“It’ll do,” he said, and his own voice was rough.
He applied the sunscreen with the methodical care of a man completing an important task. Factor 30. His calloused hands were gentle on her shoulders, her spine, the wings of her scapulae. She sighed, leaning back into his touch. He smoothed it over the back of her thighs, the dip behind her knees. His fingers lingered at the knot on her hip. “Front?” he asked.
“Please.”
She lay back on the blanket. He knelt beside her, the white cream stark on his palm. This was more intimate, more challenging. He covered her collarbones, the gentle swell of her breasts above the scrap of fabric, her stomach. Her eyes were closed, her breathing steady. The sun warmed the crown of his head. The world narrowed to the sound of the sea, the feel of her skin, the scent of salt and coconut oil.
When he was done, she opened her eyes and pulled him down to her. Their first kiss tasted of coffee and sea air. It was slow, exploratory, a conversation without words. His hand rested on her waist, thumb stroking the ridge of her hip bone. Her fingers threaded into his hair. It was perfect, a private world hewn from rock and water.
Then the world ruptured.
The rumble was distant at first, a distortion of the wave sound. It grew, coalescing into the distinct, aggressive snarl of multiple big-bore engines. They broke apart, sitting up. Over the cliff edge, a line of motorcycles appeared, picking their way down the impossible path with unnerving confidence. Chrome gleamed. Black leather swallowed the light.
Six bikes. Seven men. They rolled onto the pebbles, the engines throttling back to a menacing idle. The leader killed his engine and swung off his machine. He was huge, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard and a cut-off jacket that read ‘CRIMSON SERPENTS’ above a twisted snake emblem. Scars covered his knuckles. His eyes, a pale, watery blue, swept the cove and landed on them. A smile touched his lips, devoid of warmth.
“Private beach, is it?” he called, his voice carrying easily over the surf. His men fanned out, a loose semi-circle. They didn’t speak, just lit cigarettes and watched.
Gary stood up, his body between Lorraine and the newcomers. “We’re not causing any trouble.”
“Didn’t say you were, mate.” The leader—Cyrus, his name was etched on his jacket—ambled closer. His boots crunched on the stones. His gaze slid past Gary to Lorraine, who had pulled her shirt around her shoulders but hadn’t moved. His eyes travelled the length of her legs, up over the scant bikini, with a possessiveness that was like a physical violation. “Lovely spot. Lovely… view.”
One of the younger bikers, all acne and bravado, smirked. “Bit cold for a dip, innit?”
Cyrus ignored him, his focus on Gary. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or you just not used to sharing your toys?” His tone was conversational, which made it worse.
Gary felt the familiar, primal, anger of his youth rising - but he also saw the numbers, the casual violence in their posture. This wouldn't be a fight. It would be an execution. His mind, pragmatic to its core, began calculating futile odds, but his pride wouldn't let him back down.
He stepped forward, knowing that he'd either wake up in hospital – or not at all.
“Gary no!” yelled Lorraine. “Don't be stupid! You don't stand a chance!”
Gary shook his head, stood his ground. and stared deep into Cyrus.
“Don't Gary,” warns Lorraine. “Even if by some miracle you win... I detest violence... So set your pride aside... Or whatever it is that's driving you... Please... For me...”
“So what do you propose little lady?” asks Cyrus. “Make love not war?”
“Safe sex?” she offered.
Cyrus’s eyebrows raised. He looked at her properly for the first time, intrigued. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” she confirmed up, letting the shirt fall from her shoulders. She looked directly at Cyrus, her chin high. “You leave him alone. You all leave him alone.”
“Well I'm okay with that,” says Cyrus, “but I can't speak for them... So what is it boys... What do you want? Love or war...”
“We want to fuck her,” said the second in command, staring deeply into Izzy.
She nodded.
A stunned silence fell on them all, broken only by the sea. Gary’s heart hammered against his ribs. “Lorraine, don’t—”
She turned to him. Her eyes were blazing, not with fear, but with a furious, desperate logic. Her apology was there, and her shame, but beneath it was something else—a terrifying, liberated certainty. This is how I fix this, her look said. This is what I’m for.
She looked back at Cyrus. “Well?”
Cyrus chuckled, a low, grating sound. He jerked his head towards a deep shadow at the base of the cliff, a recess where the rocks formed a crude, hidden alcove. “Over there.”
Lorraine didn’t look at Gary again. She walked, back straight, across the uneven stones towards the darkness. Cyrus followed, a predator on a sure leash. One of his men let out a low, appreciative whistle, which was immediately followed by one from another.
Gary stood frozen. His fists were clenched, his muscles singing with the urge to charge, to break bones, to die uselessly on the pebbles. But his mind, that cold, analytical engine, observed the scene with detached horror. He watched her go. He saw the defiant set of her shoulders, the way her hips moved in that minute white bikini. He saw Cyrus’s broad back block the light as they all disappeared into the cliff’s shadow.
From the shadow of the cliffs, there was no sound that carried over the waves. Just the occasional, distant cry of a gull. Gary stood by the blanket, the bottle of Factor 30 lying on its side, a slow, white trickle leaking onto the wool. He stared at the empty alcove, and a profound, quietude settled over him, deeper than the ocean’s roar. The jealousy didn’t come. Instead, a vast, terrifying curiosity opened up inside him, cold and bright as the northern sun. He was waiting. But he wasn’t sure what for.