The Burying Beetle by Ann Kelley

frightened by this huge bird thing like a pterodactyl hovering over them. It would serve him right if he fell and hurt himself. I get the camera and take some pictures of him, showing where he is in relation to the nesting ledge. Ginnie will be interested.
    Oh my God! What’s he doing? He’s gone onto the cliff. I can’t see him. Is he after the young bird? No, he’s dropped! He’s lost control and fallen like a stone, his glider like a broken kite crumpled on a ledge on the cliff. He’s half hidden under the billowing blue fabric. He’s not moving. There’s no one else in sight. I’ll have to call for help. 
    ‘Hello, an accident – ambulance please, air ambulance. Me? Augusta Stevens, Peregrine Cottage, Peregrine Point, near St Ives. Yes, an accident. A hang-glider. He’s fallen and is on a cliff edge. On the cliff below the railway track at Peregrine Point, near St Ives. It’s difficult to find. No, there’s no road. Just the railway line. The branch line. You can see him from here though, yes, Peregrine Cottage. OK, OK. Yes, I’ll be here. OK. Thanks, goodbye.’
    The hang-glider wing is torn and flapping in the wind. It’s blowing over the cliff edge, but the man’s not moving. What can I do to help? Maybe he wasn’t trying to harm the peregrine at all, maybe he was just curious. The wing is tearing more and now some of it has ripped off completely and is being whisked away by the wind. Should I do something? What? I can’t get to him, even if I walk along the railway track. And I said I’d wait here, anyway. And the trains are running. God, I wonder if he’s dead.
    It’s terrible not being able to do anything. Ten minutes go by very slowly. Still no bird. I am taking photographs of the torn sail as it drifts down the cliff. It has snagged on a bush and is stuck there. There are several men in orange jackets on the railway line. They are hurrying towards where the man fell. And here comes a helicopter. It’s huge. It’s the Navy rescue helicopter. The noise is tremendous. The house is shaking. The men are signalling. The noise is awful. The helicopter is hovering right next to the cliff, our cliff, just behind our trees. Now there are coastguards, firemen, police, paramedics, ambulance people, all sorts of people running along the railway line. They must have stopped the train. They are climbing down to the hurt man, carrying something. There’s two people, I think. They’re scrambling down by rope to get to him and now they’re trying to get him onto a stretcher. That’s what they were carrying. The helicopter is dropping a line to them. The wind is very gusty and the helicopter has to get in extremely close to the cliff. It looks so dangerous. Here’s another helicopter, the small air ambulance. It has gone over the top of the cliff, the hilltop above us, where the farm land is and has settled there. The paramedics are attaching the stretcher to the line. The man is wrapped up like a mummy and strapped onto the stretcher and he’s being lifted into the air. One of the paramedics is hoisted up with the injured man. They are safely in the helicopter and it speeds away over the bay towards Truro and the hospital. I’m still taking pictures.
    It’s like a very noisy action movie. Mum will be so cross she’s missed it all.
    The doorbell rings and it’s Ginnie.
    ‘Have you come to see if the peregrine’s OK?’ I ask her. I feel guilty that I hadn’t thought to phone her and tell her what was happening.
    ‘Yes, I’m going to climb up the cliff and see that the nest is still there. Are you all right? Was it you who phoned for the ambulance?’
    ‘Yes, it was. I’ve been keeping an eye on the nest, but I haven’t seen the birds today at all.’
    ‘If they survive that racket, they’ll survive anything,’ says Ginnie.
    I quickly take a picture of her, before she can complain. I’ve covered the whole event from start to finish and need her portrait to complete the story. She