Nailed by the Heart (15 page)

Cold-blooded.

Chris
looked at his hands.

Now
that was odd. He had always thought fish were cold-blooded. This one
had felt hot to the touch. It had been like carrying, if not a hot
potato, at least a very warm one. But then it may have been flapping
across the caravan floor for ten minutes before David had spotted it.
Chris knelt down to look at the fish, magnified by the distorting
effect of water.

"Is
Clark Kent okay, Dad?"

"Yeah,
'course he is, kidda. Just look at him swim."

The
fish swam around and around the bowl until it was a blur, its big
fishy eyes staring fixedly ahead as if it were chasing something no
one else could see.

He
thought there was something appropriate about a clergyman living in a
stable attached to an inn. Even if the stable had been converted into
comfortable living accommodation only ten paces from Out-Butterwick's
Harbour Tavern.

But
Chris saw that the Reverend Horace Reed (retired, yet still wearing a
white dog-collar), late fifties, didn't look a happy man. Oh, he
smiled constantly. But he'd seen that smile before. Usually on the
faces of politicians in a crisis.

"The
cannon?" said the Reverend Reed. "I don't see any real, er,
problem. The vicarage is surplus to requirements and the diocese is
looking for a buyer."

"My
wife saw the cannon first; that's her outside on the swings with my
son."

A
couple of days ago, Ruth had taken a stroll around the village. First
to the church, which she wanted to see inside. But sand had drifted
against the door. Then she had noticed the vicarage. Outside, a dozen
cannon barrels had been set upright in the ground where they served
as fence-posts.

"You'd
have to agree," she'd told him, "cannon would look
impressive flanking the entrance to the seafort."

He'd
agreed, and here he was in the Reverend's living room.

"Er,
you'll appreciate selling the cannon is not a decision I can make."

Great
thought, Chris. No doubt letters in triplicate with justifications ad
nauseam to the bishop of somewhere a hundred miles away.

"There
are, I believe, twelve cannon, Mr. Stainforth. Er, how many would you
wish to acquire?"

"Three.
The two long cannon for the entrance to the seafort; plus the short
squat one; hopefully that will go inside the bar."

"Ye-es
... Well, I will, as I, er, mentioned, have to telephone my bishop."

"Telephone?"

"Shouldn't
take long. I don't have a telephone here so I will have to use the
one in the inn. Ahm ... I don't seem to have any change for the pay
phone."

"No
problem. Allow me."

The
man's smile was cold. "Why, thank you. But, er, it is
long-distance, I'm afraid."

"Will
this be enough?"

"That
will be enough." For the first time a hint of warmth crept into
his voice.

Chris
waited in the car park while the Reverend scuttled through the back
door into the pub. On the swings,

Ruth
and David waved to him. He waved back.

Five
minutes later: "Ah, Mr. Stainforth ..."

"Any
luck?"

"Yes.
Yes indeed. I managed to catch the Bishop before he left for a
meeting. Er, he has authorized me to sell on behalf of the diocese.
Er... Four cannon, wasn't it?"

"Three."

"Ah,
yes-three. Let's see, the Bishop authorized me to sell at one hundred
and fifty each."

The
man's dark-ringed eyes watched Chris with anticipation.

Do
you haggle with the Church? Chris decided not.

"We've
got a deal, Reverend."

The
vicar licked his lips. "Good ... good. Now. Removal and
delivery. May I suggest I arrange that for you? I'll have Hodgson,
the farmer, deliver them to you. He has two muscular teenage sons."

Chris
was about to thank him for his generosity, but he went on:

"I
think we should give a little for their troubles, don't you think? An
extra fifty?" The grin-cum-snarl didn't falter. "If you'll
make out a check. Five hundred pounds ... please."

Chris
wrote the check. "It'll be payable to-"

"To
cash ... The parish bank account was closed some time ago. Good day."

He
watched the Reverend Reed hurry back to his stable and slam shut the
door.

Pleased,
he strolled across to Ruth and David, now swaying slowly from side to
side on their swings.

"Got
them, Dad?" called David.

"Sure
have."

Chris
explained that the Reverend Reed had to phone his bishop for
permission to sell. Ruth listened, then burst out laughing.

"What's
so funny, Mrs Stainforth?"

"He
phoned who?"

"The
bloody Bishop. I gave him coins for the pay phone in the bar."

"Chris,
David and I watched the Reverend Reed as you waited by the car. We
watched him go up to the bar and drink what looked like three neat
gins straight off. The phone was right behind him. He never even
touched it."

"The
... scallywag. You can bet it's not church funds that are being
bolstered, it's the Right Reverend's in there. Never mind. We're
having the cannon delivered. And we've got them at a bargain price.
Right." He clapped his hands. "It's back to the ranch.
There's work to be done."

They
drove slowly by the white-painted cottages then by Out-Butterwick's
village store. Tony Gateman and Mark Faust stood talking outside the
front door. When they saw the Stainforths' car, both gave a friendly
wave. Chris, Ruth and David waved back.

Chris
noticed that the two men, one large, the other small and thin, were
still watching as they drove out of the village.

Mark
heard the thud against the beach. A splash of blood showed dark
against the pale sand. He looked up.

Against
the moon, the milky-white flash of the owl's wings beat the night air
as it carried the mouse back to its nest. He shivered. Did it seem
cooler tonight, or was it just him?

The
pace of events seemed to be quickening.

It
wasn't just the "feelings". Everyone in Out-Butterwick had
those. They were getting so strong now it was an effort to sit still;
you just wanted to jump itchily to your feet and pace around, like
poor Brinley Fox.

Not
just the "feeling." Mark was beginning to see things too.

And
hear things. He heard it now.

Mark
Faust sat on the dunes, the beach some twenty feet below running out
in a long curving arc. In front of him lay the seafort. The tide had
begun its long roll in.

It
looked very different from the first time he had set eyes on it, that
stormy night in December. He had been nearly split in two by the
piercing cold as he had dragged himself from the surf. He remembered,
vividly, the waves that thundered across his body like a locomotive.
That night he had been a damn sight closer to death than life. His
nose had bled from the re-opened cut from the man's fist. That man,
with the rest of his pack, now lay at the bottom of the sea with the
MaryAnne. Sent there by a sixteen-year-old Mark Faust.

The
sea twinkled, catching the moonlight. Beneath the faint hiss of the
surf he could hear it again. That sound he had heard so clearly on
that December night all those years ago.

A
metal beat. Metal on metal, a deep, deep bass sound-so deep you felt
it in your stomach rather than heard it ...

...
Bang ... bang ... bang ... bang.

Keep
beating the drum, Skipper, he had thought as he limped away that
night long ago. Keep beating the drum.

Christ
knows how. But from the hulk of the MaryAnne lying rusting on the
ocean bed the sound came again. That beat, deadly slow, rhythmic,
like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant.

His
nights were restless now. He dreamt of a dark torso, water-bloated
arms and legs, a head without eyes; long, long, long white hair
floating around the head in the water; the drowned figure beating the
freezer walls with that same iron bar. Bang ... Bang ...

Mark
reached down between his legs, picked up a handful of sand, then
rubbed it hard against his face. His skin was burning; the sand felt
cool. He rubbed harder, its coarseness pushing the nightmare images
back into his brain.

The
deep pounding continued. Perhaps no one else would notice it. But he
couldn't stop hearing it. It went reverberating down into his soul,
down into the depths of eternity.

"I
hear you, Skipper ... But in God's name what am I going to do?"

For
the third time that evening Tony Gateman thought he heard prowlers in
his back garden.

He
looked up from where he was sitting at the dining room table to the
clock on the wall. Ten o'clock.

"Bloody
kids," he told himself softly. But he knew there were no kids
out there.

Shakily,
he stood up, walked to the window and looked out.

Nothing
but darkness. If he really wanted to check that there was no one
there he would have to go out into the back garden.

"Come
on, you silly old fool-there's nothing to be afraid of."

But
there is, Tony, old son, said the voice of common sense in the back
of his mind. There is lots and lots to be afraid of. You know it.
Don't go out there. The doors are locked, the windows are shut, just
draw the curtains and--"Oh, God ... The bloody back door."

He'd
been out earlier to empty the pedal bin and he was sure he hadn't
locked it.

Heart
thumping, he hurried from the dining room to the kitchen at the back
of the bungalow. The door into the back garden was shut but unlocked.

His
first impulse was simply to drag the bolts shut and snap on the Yale
lock. But a stronger impulse drew him to the door. No. He had to see
if anything was out there.

A
deadly fascination compelled him. If there was something there, he
had to see it. Just as you hear the crash of cars colliding, you have
to turn and see, even though the scene might bring you nightmares for
years to come.

Fear
oozed through him as thick as meat-worms as he slowly pulled back the
door.

Nothing
immediately outside the door. Just the pale gleam of patio slabs
before him on the ground. He stepped out into his garden and walked
through the darkness toward the barbecue area, his head twitching
left and right at every imagined movement or sound.

Get
back inside, Gateman, jabbered pure, naked fear inside his head. Get
inside. Lock the doors. Hide, man, hide!

No
... He had to look. If it was them he had to see.

Maybe
they were no longer dangerous. Maybe whatever it was they had gone
through had changed them.

He
peered short-sightedly across the lawn. The night had turned
everything into shadowy ghosts. The trees, bushes, the fence-posts.
They even seemed to creep nearer when he was no longer looking at
them.

Get
a grip on yourself, you idiot. There's nothing there. They are-

Christ...

There's
one behind me.

Gateman's
heart lurched agonizingly in his chest and he nearly vomited with
fear.

He
twisted around to see the figure behind him. It stood there, loosely
wrapped in a winding-sheet. He backed away, his hands clutched to his
mouth, trying to choke out a scream.

It
did not move. When the night breeze blew, the winding-sheet flapped
gently.

Tony
Gateman dragged in a lungful of air.

Idiot
...

It's
only the patio umbrella. He'd folded it up himself that afternoon so
the breeze wouldn't yank the thing out of the ground.