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By Root 420 0

some kind of cosmetic surgery, and that quite recently: though, again, the exact procedure, and the techniques used, were unknown to the hospital staff. The inquest had been postponed while more tests were carried out, and the tale was embroidered as people formed and aired their own theories. The obvious answer, most agreed, was that the dead man was probably American – well, cosmetic surgery was a big thing over there, wasn't it; and their technology was real state-of-the-art stuff, and cost a fortune into the bargain. American, and rich: that was it. That, though, wasn't exciting enough for some, and the wild idea that he was the result of some of genetic experiment soon began to circulate. He had probably escaped from a high-security military base (the arguments as to where and how were an interesting diversion, if not really relevant) and you could lay odds that any day now the body would be spirited out of the mortuary in the dead of night and some tightlipped Ministry bigshot would slap a Dnotice on the whole thing.

By Thursday the body had not vanished, and neither the Army nor Ministry nor anyone else of note had put in an appearance. The village was undaunted. Gossip spiralled, interest flowered, and with another weekend approaching everyone was looking forward to Friday and Saturday evenings in the pub exchanging the latest news, real or imaginary.

The local press hadn't caught on to the rumours — or, if they had, had dismissed them — but in the early part of the week the lifeboat press officer had been kept busy. Requests to interview the crew were politely refused, but a statement giving details of the recovery operation was issued, together with photographs of Steve and his colleagues with the boat, and the media were satisfied. When the papers came out, a lot of money was put into lifeboat collecting boxes in the district — it always happened when a rescue was publicised — but, beyond the village boundaries, interest soon began to die down.

With two exceptions.

Nina encountered both on Friday afternoon. Sixth-formers were not expected to do all their studying in school but were trusted to spend some time working at home. Nina should have been revising, but with the weather sunny and the sea blue and inviting, she was spending the day on the beach, school books replaced by a surf board and a feminist novel. Holidaymaker numbers had dropped somewhat after the holiday week, but the beach was still quite busy and a few of the fishermen were working on their boats, ready to go out at the weekend. Charlie Johns wasn't among them, which was surprising as Charlie rarely missed a chance to fish, but then Nina remembered hearing that he had gone down with one of the summer 'flu bugs that always seemed to crop up around now, and was laid up at home.

She spent most of the morning sprawled on a spread towel in her bikini, trying to read the novel (which she wasn't actually enjoying, but battling through it was a matter of principle). Then, just as she had finally reached an interesting chapter, a shadow fell over her and an

unfamiliar female voice said, 'Excuse me please ...'

Nina rolled over. For a moment the figure silhouetted against the sun looked strange, as though something about her proportions wasn't quite right. Then Nina blinked, the illusion vanished, and she was looking up at a perfectly ordinary, petite, red-haired girl.

'Yes?' Irritation at being interrupted, made her voice aggressive.

The girl smiled. 'I'm sorry to bother you, but one of the lifeguards pointed you out and said you might be able to help me.'

Nina was surprised and puzzled. 'How?' she asked.

'Well ... I understand that your – brother? – is a member of the lifeboat crew.'

Nina sat up. 'That's right,' she said cautiously.

'Hi.' Another smile. She was a bit of a stunner, Nina had to admit. The hair wasn't much; obviously dyed, and very badly cut, but she had a fabulous figure, and there were gold flecks in her unusual green eyes. For a moment it occurred to Nina that she might have seen her somewhere before,