The Judgement Book by Simon Hall

of the air. A mischievous wind pulled playfully at their clothes, flapping them back and forth. Between its buffeting blows they could hear the rhythmic wash of waves on the rocks below.
    A tang of salt from the swirling spray dampened their faces with its sticky, dancing mist. Even Rutherford was stilled by the moment. He stared at the view, his face turned instinctively into the wind, his sleek fur smoothed by its caress.
    St Agnes Head was stunning, even on an overcast day like this. Dan reached out an arm and pulled Claire closer. She half turned, and smiled. He tried to avoid driving at the weekend. He always felt he spent more than enough time in the car for work. But the panorama made the hour and a quarter journey from Plymouth to the north Cornwall coast worthwhile. They’d set out early and the traffic was light.
    It was more than the view. There was a “feeling” about this place, as the great legends told. No wonder it gave rise to so many tales of magic. He sneaked a glance at Claire. She had her eyes closed and was breathing deeply.
    ‘That way Wales,’ said Dan, pointing north. ‘That way America,’ he added, turning his finger to the west. He waited a moment for her to look, then pointed back to the car. ‘And that way the pub!’
    She dug him gently in the ribs. ‘In a while. Let’s enjoy a bit more of the walk and a chat first.’
    He found himself surprisingly content to agree. ‘Fine by me. It’s magnificent here. I can feel it massaging away the tensions of the week.’
    They turned from the headland and followed the coastal path along the cliffs. It was well-worn, in places more patches of dry and cracked earth than thriving grass. Further inland were the stone ruins of old mine workings, grey tumbledown towers of engine houses rising from the yellow gorse and grey and brown brambles.
    ‘There was a big mining industry here once,’ Dan said. ‘The tunnels used to go right out for miles, under the sea even. Dangerous business, but lucrative at the time.’
    ‘What were they mining?’
    ‘All sorts of stuff. Copper, tin, arsenic.’ Dan hoped he’d remembered right. It was a long time since he’d covered a story on Cornwall’s mining heritage.
    Rutherford found a stick and scampered circles around them to show off the prize. Dan wondered where he managed to conjure it from. There wasn’t a tree for miles. He tried to wrestle it from the dog, then gave up, found a tiny twig, picked that up and Rutherford dropped his and jumped for it. Dan bent down and picked up the stick.
    ‘Stupid dog,’ chuckled Claire. ‘He never learns, does he? Why is someone else’s stick always better?’
    ‘It’s the canine equivalent of the grass always being greener.’
    He threw the stick towards the mine workings and Rutherford sprinted after it. The dog vanished into the gorse. All they could see was a dismembered head floating about the bushes, appearing and disappearing as he hunted for the prize. His mouth hung open in what Dan always thought of as his smiling face.
    ‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ said Dan. ‘It won’t be long before you’ll have to take him out too. If we’re sharing the bills, cooking and chores, we’re sharing the dog-walking duties. I’m not the only one who’s going to be embarrassed by my stupid friend.’
    ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
    ‘So am I.’
    They stopped for a quick cuddle. To an observer it could be a sickly sight, a couple entranced and entwined. But when you were a part of it, you didn’t notice and didn’t care. It was one of the joys of the hypocrisy of love. Rutherford bounded up and nosed his way between them. He’d lost the stick. Claire stroked his back and Dan patted his head.
    ‘He doesn’t like missing out on anything,’ Dan explained. ‘I think he’s looking forward to us all being together too. I broke the news to him last night. I was a little worried what his reaction might be. For as long as he’s been around, it’s been