Amy's Brush With Danger

Talented but struggling artist Amy Price finds herself plunged into life threatening danger during a seaside painting session. (3000 word short story)

Amy’s Brush With Danger. By Jay Boone.

Talented but struggling  artist Amy Price finds herself plunged into life threatening danger during a seaside painting session. 

This story set is in the glorious beauty of the Purbeck coastline. 

Where Amy, after she receives news of a bitter setback to her career, finds herself trapped and alone on a remote cliff top. Will she survive? And what is the significance of the mysterious stranger she met earlier that day?  

 

It was spring, the end of March, Amy’s favourite time of year. 

When the weather changed from the wintry chill that could penetrate even her thickest overcoat, to the milder air that meant she could really feel the pencils and brushes between her fingers.

Warm enough to spend all day painting outside and make the most of the day’s light. 

 Today would be a good day, she thought as she threw her bulging rucksack, heavy with her art gear, paints, brushes, small flask of coffee and sandwiches she had prepared, onto the back seat of her little, mud spattered Ford.

As she started the car there was a tap on the window.

 ‘Letters for you,’ The postman mouthed the words as she wound down the window.

 ‘Thanks,’ She said, thumbing through the mail.

 Junk, Junk, more junk. And then, her heart skipped, it was the letter she had been waiting for from the Academy

 She tore open the letter with shaking fingers, her eyes flicked over the words to the most important last couple of lines…Sorry to say your application has been unsuccessful on this occasion….Her mouth open, she sat there numbed with the disappointment, one of many that year, the car’s engine still running.

With a sigh, she crumpled and stuffed the piece of paper deep into her coat pocket, put the car into gear and drove off, tears welled in her eyes.

 God I wish dad was still here, she thought as she drove. Her heart still ached with sadness whenever she thought of him. He had died just over a year ago after a long illness. She had taken care of him the previous three years as his condition deteriorated, until he slipped quietly away at home.

Dad would have said something like ‘One door closes another one opens,’ Or some such cliché she always teased him about. Or ‘All’s well that ends well,’ was another one of dad’s gems of wisdom. Her mouth curved with a semi smile at the thought. Not much ending well at the moment though, she thought wryly.

 Amy’s mother had left before she had any memory of her. It was her father that brought her up, encouraged her with her art and painting.

Often they would visit galleries together when she was a little girl.

Amy particularly loved the Turner watercolours in the Tate Gallery; She was fascinated that the artist could create such emotive paintings with just a few pencil lines and washes of colour. Amy would sit cross legged in the gallery gazing at them, sometimes sketching copies into her art pad, then colouring them with the little set of pencils that dad would buy her from the gallery gift shop. But now he was gone, she was all alone, 32 years old, single, her last chance, she felt, of making a career of painting gone. 

 Amy turned into the seafront car park at the foot of the cliff. She grabbed her rucksack and set off to her usual spot to paint. 

After a couple of minutes of brisk walking past the little shack café that was already open for the season, she started the steep climb up to the top, her boots soon caked with mud caused by showers that had lashed the coast for the past couple of days.

The cool fresh sea air had already helped to clear her mind of the mornings’ disappointment and as she climbed higher, the sound of the waves on the rocks below and cry of the gulls swooping around her head, intoxicated her.

She loved the feeling of the wind blowing her sandy blonde hair around her face and into her eyes.

Often she would stop along the way pulling the hair from her eyes and turn her head to take in the view of the glistening sea behind her.  

She lived for painting and knew that the solitude it would bring and the concentration she needed to work on a new picture, would be the best tonic for her current state of mind.

 Soon she reached the disused quarry, long since closed, as the workings had become dangerous. A hundred years ago the whole area would have bustled with activity. The sound of chisels, chinking furiously as the local quarrymen tunnelled into the cliffs to extract the valuable stone and marble. Now though, the quarries were deserted, the tunnel entrance overgrown with bracken and shut off by a high, rust eaten iron gate, locked to prevent adventurous kids or curious walkers from entering the crumbling caves. 

 Amy turned right here and squeezed herself past a small tree that had somehow taken root in the rocky soil. The path split from the public path and climbed ever steeper to an outcrop above the old stone workings. It was more of a narrow winding track than a path, which was formed by the footfalls of foxes, badgers and sheep that roamed the area.

 It took most of Amy’s concentration to safely climb the steep track, which was made even narrower by the high gorse bushes that grew either side, their sharp thorns scratching and clawing at her clothes. 

Then, the sudden sound of footsteps above her startled her. Looking up, she could see a man, coming towards her down the path.

 Due to the remoteness of the path, she couldn’t help feeling a little uneasy as he approached. The path was so narrow she was forced to squeeze past him closely.  ‘Morning,’ she said, trying to sound casual.

‘Er, yeah,’ he mumbled, his gaze averting her absently.

She caught a brief glimpse of his face, as they passed. His stubbled chin, eyes that seemed somehow haunted, his brow knitted into a dark frown that was strangely threatening or sad, she wasn’t sure.

Amy hurried up the path, her sense of unease fading as she reached the top. 

Here, the path levelled out onto a grass covered ridge where she usually set up her easel and looking back she was glad that the man was nowhere to be seen.

With a sense of relief she took a minute to breathe in the vista, with its far-reaching views of the surrounding coast and the glinting sea below her.

 Quickly, she set up her easel and canvas, laid out her paints and brushes 

and set to work. Using her pencil to sketch out the scene she worked swiftly with minimal lines to draw the arc of the coastline, with the sheer cliffs dropping steeply into the sea below. The cliff top studded with ancient trees that bent like old men with the constant battering of the wind, their leafless branches like gnarled fingers pointing inland as if guiding the spirits of lost sailors to the safety of dry land.

 Then she painted. Working fast to capture the immediacy of the moment, expertly manipulating the paint with her brushes, pallet knife or even her fingers.

Trying to get the texture of the rocky cliffs, the distant patches of gorse, with their tiny yellow flowers, like flakes of gold under the bright spring sunshine. Amy marvelled at the sky. Changing from pure blue to grey as the wind chased the clouds across the horizon. Sometimes bright sun, then a soft hazy light. It didn’t matter that the light changed so frequently. She wanted to catch the ever-changing nature of the scene in the same picture and it was working. Amy painted feverishly, pausing only briefly to half eat a sandwich and guzzle some coffee from her flask. The picture had an abstract purity that she had never achieved before. For hours she worked totally absorbed, until it was nearly finished.

 ‘Its very good, your painting,’ came a voice from behind her.

Amy was concentrating so hard, that she had completely failed to notice someone was now standing behind her. She froze, her shoulders visibly tensing at the sound of his voice. 

‘Sorry to startle you,’ he went on

Amy turned her head slightly and to her horror she saw the same man she had encountered hours earlier on the path.

 ‘Er, thanks, that’s ok,’ she fought to keep her voice calm.

She turned back to her canvas and nervously biting her lip, continued to paint. It was her usual ploy if someone stopped to watch her working. After a while onlookers would usually carry on their way with a nod of approval or mumbled farewell. 

The man stood there silently though, for what felt like an eternity. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head. He cleared his throat as if he was trying to think of something else to say, but no words came. Eventually she heard quiet footsteps behind her and after a while, when she found the nerve to look round, she saw that he was gone. Her unease now turned to fear, as she realised the man had been loitering around the area for hours! Had he come back to find her? Would he come back again?  

Amy wanted desperately to pack up and hurry back to her car, but the picture needed more work and she felt irritated that she had allowed herself to be so easily spooked.                       The wind had died away to a whisper now. There was a silent serenity to the scene, the sea was flat like burnished pewter, shimmering beneath the last hour or so of daylight as the sun set. She wanted to just somehow capture that element in her painting.

 She stood up looking around to convince herself that the man had really gone.  Seeing several walkers on the public path below her gave her some reassurance.

 It was then that she heard a faint noise. It sounded like a dog barking, whimpering in the distance. There was an odd quality to the sound though, as if it was muffled.

 No, she thought, the sound was not distant. She heard it again as she cocked her head and as she walked down the path the barking got louder. The sound was still faint, she never would have heard it before the wind had died down, but now she could hear it clearly. It sounded like it was coming from the ground. 

Amy called out. ‘Here boy,’ the barking immediately stopped, just briefly, then started again this time more frantically.

As she walked quietly down the path nearer to the sound, she realised it was coming from behind a bracken bush.

She pushed though the undergrowth scratching her skin as she did, until she found a small clearing in front of a low overgrown tunnel in the side of the hill. The sound was definitely coming from there. Crouching low, she scrambled into the gloom, fumbling for her car keys that had a little torch on the key ring. The low tunnel tapered into a narrow crevice. Then, about ten feet into the hole, the small beam of light picked out the rear end of a little white dog his legs kicking weakly, his bark now turning into a miserable yelp.

‘Its OK boy, I’ll get you out,’ Amy reassured the little dog, as she took off her coat and hung it on a small tree.

She crawled deep into the hole that was so narrow she had to stretch forward with one arm in front of her, holding the torch in her teeth.

Using her feet to push herself deeper into the hole she could just reach the dog with one outstretched hand. Amy could now see that the dog was trapped by the loose soil and rock and a tree root that had pushed through from the bank above.

She cleared away the soil with her fingers and scooped away loose stones. But it was no use the dog was still stuck. Frustrated, she grabbed the tree root and pulled and twisted it as much as she could in the confined space, small stones and soil shifted, dust choking Amy, as she frantically worked. With one final effort she heaved on the root, moving it just enough to enable the dog to scramble and kick its way to freedom. Amy was elated.

‘Well done, good boy,’ she praised the dog.

‘Come on, this way,’ she coaxed. Her elation quickly turned to despair. Instead of coming towards her, the little dog crawled deeper into the hole.

‘No, no, this way,’ she pleaded. But with the sound of scurrying paws the dog disappeared into the velvet blackness.

After a minute or two of silence as Amy caught her breath, she sadly realised the dog had vanished.

Now defeated, she decided to give up. It would be dark soon, she would return tomorrow to search for the dog again.

She tried to crawl backwards kicking with her legs and pulling with her other arm that was pinned to her side by the cramped space. 

 ‘I got myself into this hole so I should be able to get out again,’ she said to herself, her voice shaking, trying to force back the feeling of dread that was starting to rise from her stomach. But she was unable to move.

Somehow she had pushed herself deep into the hole with her feet, but could gain no foothold to pull herself out again. Her legs kicked helplessly, causing more loose soil and stones to fall around her restricting her movement even more. No matter how hard she tried she could not move forward or backward. She was trapped.

Now panic simmered in her throat.

 ‘Help,’she called out quietly, almost half hearted, as she still had vestiges of embarrassment that she had got herself into such a desperate predicament.

She called out again, louder this time and as stark realisation that there would be no-one to hear her cries at this time of day, she was soon screaming hysterically between sobs and coughs as dust entered her desperate lungs.

Eventually, exhausted, she became quiet, trying to clear her mind, to think.

At that moment she heard shuffling noises, then a voice behind her. A surge of relief came over her.

It was a man’s voice. ‘Hello,’ he called out.

‘Never mind hello, bloody get me out of here!’ she spluttered’ Then calmer, 

‘Sorry, I’m stuck, can you help me?’

‘Ok don’t worry,’ he reassured Amy.

Amy realised there was something familiar about his voice. Yes, she was quite sure it was the same man she had met earlier on the path.

Her relief was replaced with unease now, but tempered with the feeling of resignation.

She was hardly likely to say, she was fine and just looking for a place to sleep for the night. What choice did she have?

‘Right,’ came his voice again. ‘I’ll grab your ankles and pull. Try to wriggle your body gently as I do, and call out if it starts to hurt, ok?’

‘Ok,’ Amy said feebly, now exhausted, relieved that she had been found, and just a little embarrassed, that in the back of her mind, she was glad that she had worn jeans today, instead of the flowing dress she usually wore in the summer months. 

With one more heave on her ankles she popped out of the hole and was soon stood outside blinking in the fading sunlight, face to face with her rescuer.

It was the man she met earlier on the path. But somehow he looked different now.

He had lost the haunted look he had, his slightly crooked mouth no longer looked cruel, but cute, Amy thought, blushing slightly under the tear streaked grime on her face. 

‘Thanks, thank you so much,’ said Amy, ‘I don’t know what I would have done,’ her voice trailed off, as she brushed away the dirt from her clothes. He grinned, his eyes more intensely blue than she remembered, and said ‘Don’t mention it,’

‘Thank god I found you when I did’ he went on, ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did you end up down that hole?’

‘Oh my God,’ she said with sudden realisation. ‘The dog, the dog, its still down there!’

‘Hey, slow down,’ he said ‘What dog?’

 ‘There was a little dog trapped down the hole. I managed to free him, but he just ran deeper into the hole and disappeared.’

The man’s face looked puzzled. 

‘What did the dog look like’ he asked quietly.

‘It was small and white, I could only see it from behind, a small black patch 

on his tail,’

He said ‘Kind of like this one?’ The man motioned down to his feet.

For the first time Amy noticed a little dog sat there.

White, filthy, short legs, black patch on his tail looking up at them both expectantly.

‘Yes’ she said, now puzzled herself. 

 ‘But I don’t understand, how did he get out?’

 ‘The tunnel was probably an old ventilation shaft for the quarry workings.’

He said. ‘These cliffs are a honeycomb of tunnels that all connect up in some way.

I lost him during a walk a couple of days ago. I’ve been coming here every day since trying to find him, just about to give up actually. Then as I got to the quarry gates, on the way back to the car park, he showed up, I couldn’t believe it, looking a bit skinnier, but ‘right as rain’

Amy smiled slightly at the last comment. Then said.

‘So how did you find me?’

‘Well, I tried to put him in the car to take him home, but he wouldn’t come, then he ran off again, led me back here. I saw your painting abandoned, which seemed odd, then saw your coat hanging on the branch and heard you calling for help,’

Of course, she thought, the painting. She looked back up the path relieved to see it exactly where she had left it.

He followed her gaze.

‘It really is very good you know, your painting’

‘So your an expert then?’ she said, inwardly cursing herself at the ungrateful hint of sarcasm in her voice.

‘Well actually, I suppose, yes I am’ he said, producing a small rectangular card from his coat pocket, gave it to her.

As the last rays of the days’ sunset bathed the three of them in a golden light, she held the card between her grimy paint spattered fingers.

It read. Craig Harper, Senior Director, The Forbes Gallery, Kensington, London.

‘Oh, I see,’ she said feebly. Then smiled 

He smiled back, his face lit up as he did.

My god, he really is handsome. She thought.

For a few seconds they both stood there in wordlessly. Then he broke the silence.

‘Listen, would you like to grab a cup of tea from the shack café? It should still be open’

‘Unless of course,’ he hesitated, his feet shuffled slightly, almost bashful. 

‘Maybe you just want to go straight home after the trauma you’ve been through?’

‘No’ she interrupted. ‘Er,yes I mean, a cup of tea would be great,’

‘As long as you’re ok’ he said, helping her on with her paint spotted coat.

And with another smile said. ‘All’s well that ends well’

  

 

 

   

  

Reviews

[ocean_side]

Ha, you tied that together well.

The suspense you create through the beginning really kept me going, it was a comic relief to read the last line. You set a clear picture of the scene and your words continue to spark interest right to the end.
Could do with some general structural editing, but really it's a good piece the way it is.

Great work.

[Jay Boone]

really appreciate you reading the piece and leaving a nice comment! :-)

[Will Neill]

A good story Jay and one I enjoyed reading, I agree with Marie I think you should finish with the line she suggested. Also I think you are just about on the edge of what gets read on here, most like about 1500 words or less, believe me I know. But don't let that stop you, you have a good talent for story telling and I would encourage you to continue, only with practice can we hone our craft. Well done
Will

[Jay Boone]

wow really appreciate your review Will

[Marie]

Long for my taste, but really not bad at all. I think tis sentence would make a good endng:
"It read. Craig Harper, Senior Director, The Forbes Gallery, Kensington, London."

The rest is just unnecessary.

[Jay Boone]

Hi Marie, really appreciate your review, means a lot, and yes now I see that line would be great to finish on! thanks again. x