Midnight is a Lonely Place (33 page)

He had lain there watching the tide rising higher and higher, swimming in and out of consciousness. He was not catatonic like Alison, nor dazed like Bill, but he knew, as he lay back, resigned to the cold that was creeping through him, that he was well on his way to unconsciousness. Then he had seen the crazily flashing light of Kate’s torch for a second in the dunes behind him. The sight had given him the shot of hope which had sent the adrenalin coursing through his veins again.

Kate crouched forward. She held the torch close to his ankle. ‘It’s fishing line. All wound round your foot. The hook has gone through your shoe.’

She felt her stomach clench at the sight of the blood soaking into the sand around his foot. The line had tangled around a whole pile of jetsam weed which had snagged against something which stuck out of the sand. She tugged at it, careful not to touch his foot, but it was immovable, tethering him there in the path of the tide.

Greg eased himself forward on his elbow. ‘Can you free it? I’ve got a knife somewhere in one of my pockets. Inside, here.’ He tried to drag the zip down from his chin but his hands were cold and slippery and he could feel another wave of nausea and dizziness building.

‘I’ll look for it.’ She left his foot and came close to him again. The knotted ends of her scarf were fluttering wildly in the wind. He could feel them drumming against his cheek as she knelt beside him, her eyes narrowed. ‘Wait, I’ll have to get my gloves off.’ She gave him the torch and he saw her pulling at the fingers of her glove with her teeth. He switched off the torch. He could see how weak the battery was, and he ducked suddenly as a stronger than usual wave hurtled up the beach and crashed almost over them, covering them both in icy spray. The glove was off and she had the heavy zip in her hand now, coaxing it down. He could feel the cut of the wind as it slid inside and froze his skin. Her hand followed and he felt her fingers rummaging against the jacket lining. Easing his position slightly, he lifted himself onto his other elbow and put his free arm around her shoulders, trying to borrow some of her warmth. But her jacket was slick and cold with rain. She glanced up at him, her face only inches from his and he saw her smile grimly in the darkness. ‘Hang on in there. I’ll find it. You’ve got more pockets than the Artful Dodger.’

‘Keep searching. I wish I were feeling better. I’d take the chance to make a massive pass at you!’ He gave a wan grin.

‘In this cold I might just reciprocate.’ Her hands were methodically searching each of the deep pockets on the inside of his jacket. Another wave broke across them and she heard herself gasp at the cold.

His arm tightened around her. ‘It’s getting closer.’

‘It must be nearly high tide. It was in over the edge of the grave.’

‘There’s an easterly wind. It’s pushing it higher than usual.’ He glanced up at the sky over her head. ‘Thank God the moon, wherever it is, isn’t quite full. We’re not into springs or I would have been a goner by now.’

The pain from his foot was hitting him in pulses, travelling up his leg and receding but always constant from his ankle down. He did not dare to try and waggle his foot. The pain when he had done that had caused him to faint. When he had woken up it was because a wave had broken across his face; he had come to, choking. He did not dare to contemplate what the pain would be like when Kate freed him. If she could free him. Perhaps he would pass out again – God’s own anaesthetic. He tried to concentrate on her hand roaming the pockets of his jacket. He was not so far gone that the old system had not reacted a little to the questing hands of a beautiful woman. Her hair smelt of woodsmoke and ash from the woodburner, and her body, pressed close to his, had the slightly musty smell of wet wool, but under it all he could smell the faintest traces of whatever scent she had put on that morning – whenever that was, and her own indefinable smell, the smell that registered subconsciously and made you like or hate, love or loathe, or remain purely indifferent to every human being you met. In her case, in spite of the aggravation she had caused him, he found it extremely attractive. He lay back a little, trying to ease the weight on his elbows, jumping as the movement jarred his leg.

‘Sorry. Did I hurt you?’ She had noticed.

‘Not you. The hook.’

‘Found it.’ At last her fingers had closed over the knife. She pulled it out of his pocket and sat back. Catching hold of his zip she dragged it up. ‘Can’t let you freeze to death.’ She shook her head as another deluge of cold spray poured over them. Officially, the tide had turned half an hour before, but nobody seemed to have told the sea. She glanced at his face. ‘I’ll try not to hurt you.’

He forced a grin. ‘Listen, if I keel over, just go on and do it. Cut the line, and get the hook out while you can and stop the bleeding.’ He paused to catch his breath as another spasm of pain took him. ‘Don’t try and move me though. I’m heavy.’ Another wan grin. ‘When I come to, I’ll be able to wriggle away from the sea. Then you can go and get help.’

‘OK boss.’ She put her hand on his for a second and squeezed it. Then she picked up the torch.

Whatever happened she mustn’t drop the knife. She tried to pull open the blade with cold, wet fingers but they slipped off uselessly. Swearing, she tried again, hands shaking. Behind her Greg had lain back on the sand. His eyes were closed. His face in the torchlight was almost transparent. She breathed on her fingers for a moment to warm them and then, half unzipping her jacket, pushed her hand under the opposite arm to dry her fingers on the wool of her sweater and bring some feeling back. The next time she tried to prise open the blade the knife opened easily. With a sigh of relief she edged down his body until she was opposite his feet. His free leg was hunched up beneath him where he had tried to drag himself away from the approaching water, his other leg stretched out, the foot twisted, the patch of blood beneath it washed away now by the tide. Holding the torch close to the foot, Kate studied it. Her hands were shaking and she felt suddenly very sick. The first job clearly was to cut away the tangled fishing line where it was wrapped around the ankle. She inserted the knife blade flat against his sock and pulled tentatively against the nylon line. Nothing happened. She pulled harder. Greg groaned. Kate bit her lip. ‘I’ll cut away this bit from the rest. That way I won’t hurt you so much.’ She felt around beneath his foot amongst the weed. Another wave swamped her hands and she clutched desperately at the knife, waiting for the water to draw back again. How had he got it tangled so tightly? It was as if someone had tied the line around and around the foot, tethering him to something buried in the beach. She scrabbled with her hands in the sand. There were shells and an old dead crab tangled amongst the weeds, then the ice-cold, wet sand, then her fingers encountered something hard. A balk of timber completely buried. The line seemed to come from under it. She pushed the knife blade against the timber and gave a ferocious jerk. The line parted. Cautiously, she felt for the next bit. That was easier. It came away at once as did the next. But the final strands, wound round his foot seemed to be pulled tight. Of course, he had done that himself, struggling to free his foot. Shaking the water out of her eyes she worked steadily, strand by strand until at last the final piece fell away. He groaned again. She ignored it. Gently she felt around his shoe. The fish hook in his foot was the largest of several that had been knotted into the line. Curved and barbed they lay glittering in the torchlight, all except the one which disappeared into the side of his trainer. She studied it for a moment, biting her lip. Then she turned, shining the torch for a moment onto Greg’s face. ‘Shall we try and drag you back away from the sea before I do anything else? I’ve cut the line that’s holding you.’

Lifting himself on his elbows he nodded. ‘I’ll be too heavy for you, Kate. Just help me while I edge back.’ He crooked his good leg up, wedging his heel into the wet shingle and sand and pushed. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Grimly clenching his teeth he did it again, painfully inching his body back away from the sea’s edge. The drag on his bad foot was agony. He could see Kate bend over him. He knew she had gone behind him and he felt her hands under his shoulders. One more good pull and he would be out of reach of the waves, where the line of wet debris showed the tide had at last begun to pull back. The pull was agonising. He bit back a cry, then everything went black.

‘Greg! Greg? are you all right?’ Kate laid him gently down. ‘Greg?’

His eyes were closed. She stared round in the darkness, feeling suddenly terribly alone. But she knew what she must do: get the hook out, now, while he was unconscious. Biting her lip in concentration, she wedged the torch so the beam shone on his foot and groped in her pocket for the knife. The trainer laces were easy after the fishing line; and the fabric of the shoe itself was not much tougher. Cutting carefully round the hook she managed to remove the shoe and straighten the twisted foot which was blackening and swollen. She wondered if it was broken. Swallowing the wave of nausea which threatened to overwhelm her, she gently lifted the remaining flap of the shoe and stared down at the hook. It had gone completely through his foot. There was no question of trying to pull it out the way it had gone in. The cruel barb on the end of the hook was half out of the top of his foot, wedged between two tendons. ‘Dear God.’ For a moment she wondered what to do. There was no choice. Taking as much care as she could not to jolt his foot further, she sliced the remaining length of line where it was knotted around the hook and began to ease the hook into the cold white flesh, pushing it right through his foot.

What kind of bastards left this stuff lying around on the beach to ensnare anyone or anything who walked there after them? She thought of the gull, drowned and cold, its feet laced together with nylon mesh. And this – a line of hooks abandoned by someone who had no doubt decided to go off to the chip shop somewhere down the coast and couldn’t be bothered to take his line with him. The heat of anger which washed through her as she worked took her mind off the task she was performing. She wanted to push her hair out of her eyes – long strands of it had pulled free of her scarf – but she ignored them grimly. She had to do this and somehow bandage his foot before he came round, and before, she glanced at the torch, the battery failed. The hook slipped free surprisingly easily. Behind it the wound began to ooze with fresh, dark blood. She tore off her scarf then she fumbled in her pockets, searching for the small pack of tissues she had wedged there days earlier. They were still there. She tore several out of the cellophane and folded them carefully into two pads, one for the entry wound and one for the exit, then she bound them in place with the scarf. She wound the ends round and round his ankle, trying to tie it tightly, then she knotted it again and again. As she wrenched the last knot tight the torchbeam gave up and went out. She flopped back on the beach, wrapping her arms around her legs, her head on her knees, and sat quite still for a moment. She was shaking so much she could not move but Greg’s groan brought her to her feet. She crouched next to him and reached for his hand. ‘All over. The hook’s out and I’ve straightened your foot.’

‘Feels like hell.’ He tried to sit up and failed. Closing his eyes he concentrated hard on staying conscious. ‘What do we do now?’

Kate shook her head wearily. ‘I suppose I ought to try and go for help. We can’t move you.’ She glanced up without enthusiasm at the stormy blackness of the shore behind them.

His hand tightened on hers. ‘I don’t like the idea of you wandering around out there on your own. Listen, let me get my strength back a bit, then maybe I can walk.’

Kate smiled wistfully. ‘No chance. You’ve damaged your foot horrendously.’

Greg was silent for a moment. ‘If you could find me something to lean on. Some driftwood perhaps. There’s masses of stuff chucked up on the beach. If we take it slowly, I’ll manage to get back to the cottage.’

The word cottage triggered something in both their minds. Kate collapsed on her knees on the sand beside him and suddenly her eyes were filled with tears again. ‘Bill’s at the cottage.’

‘I know.’ He reached over and touched her face. ‘But so is the Land Rover.’ Somehow he kept his voice firm. ‘You have to drive us back to the farm.’ He did not mention Alison. ‘Have you ever driven a four wheel drive?’

She shook her head wordlessly.

‘Well, that doesn’t matter. It’s easy enough. I was just wondering how far you could get it on the sand.’ He thought silently for a moment, then he gave a deep sigh. ‘No. It’s not worth trying. There’s so much mud and soft stuff around. If you got bogged down, that would be our last chance gone. Our only hope is walking sticks.’ Somehow he forced a bracing note into his words.

‘I’ll go and look along the tideline.’ Kate wiped her nose on her sleeve – just like a small child, he thought affectionately – and she climbed wearily to her feet. ‘I’m not going far. I’m not going out of sight.’ She was reassuring herself as much as him.

‘There’s no need. It’s surprisingly easy to see when one’s got one’s night vision. I can see lots of junk down there now.’ He reached out and touched her hand. ‘Only for God’s sake be careful where you walk, Kate. I don’t want you treading on some more of those bloody hooks.’

He watched as she made her way cautiously back down to the tideline. What had happened was a blur; a nightmare which was coming back to him in sudden flashes. He could remember putting his foot down on something slippery; he could remember it sliding away from under him and he could remember going down on one knee in the icy water. That much was clear. He had been running away from something. Or someone. He frowned, cudgelling his memory.