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'Pay it out, I would, and leave it for now,' he suggested. 'It might free itself, especially if we get a couple of really big seas.'

Charlie grunted. 'Or bust, like as not, and lose me a brand-new pot! No; you're right. Can't stay out much longer, anyway; if this gets any heavier I'll have the devil's own job getting back.' He picked the coiled line from among several large and lively crabs in a fish box, tossed it overboard and watched it sink, then smiled broadly, showing two missing front teeth. 'Tell you what, boy; when it's calm again you can get that scuba kit of yours out and go down for a look. Might be sunken treasure, and we'll all be rich!'

'Hey!' said Steve. 'I just saw a flying pig!' But he might do it. Hadn't been scuba-ing for ages; it would make a good excuse. He opened the throttle again and turned the boat around, said, 'Save me a spider crab!' and gave Charlie a wave as the lifeboat bounced away.

In typical British fashion, the holiday week was almost over before the weather really improved. There were two days of high winds and ferocious rain squalls during which the entire world seemed to turn to endless grey. The granite houses of the village huddled wetly under scudding clouds, and though the sea was half a mile away the distant sound of it was a constant, ominous background. Even with all the windows of his flat firmly shut, Steve could hear the breakers roaring as he lay in bed at night. Each low tide revealed a litter of seaweed and debris, and the water itself was a heaving, threatening predator, with choppy white wave-crests visible right to the horizon. The fishermen's boats stayed firmly on land, and the coastguard issued warnings not to walk on the cliff paths as there was a very real danger of being blown over the edge. Each evening when he finished work, Steve went down to the beach and stood with his face to the wind, watching the sea and the very few tourists who had braved the weather to pretend they were enjoying their holiday.

Then on Thursday morning, as he was about to take his lunch break, Steve's pager, which he always carried with him, buzzed loudly. Snatching it from its pouch, Steve scanned the screen and saw the words, LAUNCH REQUEST. Moments later it buzzed again, and the message changed to: LAUNCH I.L.B.

The maroons went off with an echoing double bang as Steve turned the ignition key in his battered van, and he made it to the beach in under one and a half minutes. Two other cars were already there and more arriving as crew and launchers mustered. The wind had dropped somewhat and the sea was less ferocious, though still churning enough to promise a rough ride; Steve sent up a silent prayer that whoever was in trouble could hang on until help arrived. Then as they scrambled into their drysuits and the tractor started up, Paul, the Operations Manager, emerged from the office, where he had been in radio contact with the coastguard.

'No need to rush,' he said. 'It's not a rescue.' He pulled a face. 'Someone's spotted a body in the sea, and you've got to fish it out. Sorry, guys.'

Faces fell, and someone said, 'Oh, shit ... '

'It's not a false alarm, is it?' another asked hopefully. The last time this had happened, the 'body' had turned out to be a healthy and very grumpy seal.

'Doesn't matter,' Paul told him. 'We've got to check it out, whatever it is. Pick your crew, Steve ... and you'd better take the body bag.'

Steve nodded, understanding. He preferred not to have the youngest crewmen on this sort of job. Dealing with a corpse was bad enough under any circumstances, but if it had been in the sea for a while the task was grisly. He chose the two most experienced and hardened men of those who had answered the call, and they trooped gloomily to the beach in the lifeboat's wake.

Nina, in waterproofs and sandals, was on the beach. She had come running down when the maroons were fired, and she intercepted Steve as he walked across the sand.

'What's the shout?' she