Nailed by the Heart (18 page)

As
he watched, his body rigid, the thunder voice returned to smash
against his skull; a tidal wave of sound that threatened to split his
eardrums.

This
time something snapped.

He
recoiled back from the white face.

Twisting
away, he ran across the dunes as fast as he humanly could, the dune
grass whipping his legs and arms.

The
white disc appeared over his shoulder.

It
followed him effortlessly. He ran on, convinced it was riding him, a
nightmare jockey, the great white face just inches from his ear.

The
voice thundered. Christ, what did it want? What did it want! It was
like someone shouting an urgent warning. The edge of the dunes came
up to his right with a sheer drop twenty feet down to the beach.

Relentlessly
he plowed through long grass to his left and rejoined the path, his
feet kicking up sprays of sand.

The
face was still there. Just behind him.

It
wasn't going to let him go; not ever.

The
thundering voice: it would burst his skull like a paper bag.

He
slid down a five-foot tussock on his backside, landing in a crouching
position, the momentum ramming his face down into a mound of sand.
Instantly he leapt to his feet and ran on.

Each
breath felt as if it would split open the lining of his airway, from
his throat to his lungs.

Keep
going ... mustn't catch me. If that face touches me...

He
knew he wouldn't be able to bear it. Embracing a rotting corpse would
be preferable. If that face pressed against his, his heart would
burst with terror; he would die screaming there on the dunes.

He
ran on, shooting pains jabbing from heel to hip.

He
looked back. Still following ... round white face ... alive with
crawling shoots.

He
looked forward again.

This
time to see the dunes end ...

...
and nothing but the night air begin.

He
fell forward, then down, his feet higher than his head. The moon
rolled down through the sky until it was beneath him.

He
plunged downward.

He
didn't even have time to brace himself before his body cracked into
the beach twenty feet below.

The
beach stopped his falling body instantly, but his mind had jerked
free from whatever mounting held it here and it went whirling down
... down ...

Down
into everlasting dark waters ...

Of
oblivion.

"Ready
for lunch?"

Ruth
slipped her arm around Chris's waist.

"Starving."

"Come
on, then. Where's David?"

He
looked along the beach, the brilliant sunshine making him squint. "He
was there a minute ago. Down by the sea. Ruth, do you think David is
... different these days? I mean, different from how he used to be
when we lived in the old house?"

Ruth
smiled. "You mean he hasn't mentioned this story about being
able to fly for the last few days?"

"But
he was obsessed with flying. He told everyone he could fly. Now ...
Not a peep. He just seems different lately."

"And
he's not asked to wear his Superman costume for more than a week, and
he's not bothered to watch his Superman videos"

"What
do you think it is?"

"Chris,
I know exactly what it is."

He
looked at her sharply.

"It's
called growing up."

"But
that business with him leaving his favorite toys on a rock to get
washed into the sea."

"It
might just be a way of getting rid of his childish toys. You have to
realize, Chris, you won't be able to sit on the settee with your arm
around him watching Tom & Jerry cartoons when he's twenty-three."

"Point
taken. Come on, I'm starving ... David! We're going home."

They
walked up the beach, Chris enjoying the feel of Ruth's arm around
him.

"How
is the invalid anyway?" she asked, and rubbed his chest with her
free hand.

Chris's
mouth suddenly bled dry. He wished she hadn't reminded him. "Not
bad. More stiff than anything. I suppose it serves me bloody well
right. I shouldn't wander along the top of the dunes in the dark."

"With
a bellyful of beer." She giggled softly. "Next time take a
torch."

Next
time? He doubted it. The stiff arm and bruised ribs paled to nothing
compared with how he felt inside his skull. Instinctively he had
blotted out the worst of it. But occasionally he caught a kind of
nimbus of memory, just an echo of what he had come face to face with
the night before, and it felt as if his mind was threatening to
uproot itself from its moorings and flee into the refuge of insanity.
He shook the strange dislocated feeling out of his mind.

He'd
told her nothing, of course. Nothing apart from just a manageable
portion of the truth. That he'd accidentally taken a header off the
dunes to land on the beach twenty feet below. He'd been lucky not to
bust his back.

As
memories of the previous night began to recede, he began to run
through the jobs he'd assigned himself for that afternoon. Clean out
Clark Kent's bowl. For some reason the water always felt warm these
days. The fish looked different too. It was changing. And he wanted
to look in the seafort's cellar. He'd still not managed to grab so
much as a glimpse of what was down there.

The
sand crunched behind them.

"Prepare
to die!"

Chris
turned.

"Catch
the sword, Dad."

David
threw the red sword hard enough to make Chris's hand tingle as he
caught it.

"Careful,
David. Remember your dad's hurt his arm."

"It's
only plastic." He swung the sword sharply against Chris's leg.

"Ow!
Now for my revenge!" He chased after David who ran giggling
breathlessly in the direction of the seafort. "Head him off,
Mum," shouted Chris, trying not to limp. "We'll make him
eat sand and seaweed pie!"

"I'll
do no such thing," she laughed. "Fight your own battles."

Swords
rattling together, Chris allowed his son to drive him back toward the
seafort with Ruth shouting encouragement. "Aim for his
knuckles, David."

"Hey,
who's side are you on?" laughed Chris, parrying David's
merciless slashes.

"Come
on, the tide's coming in. We don't want to be stranded."

The
tide had already flooded the beach around the seafort and was
creeping along the flanks of the raised causeway. They had plenty of
time but it would mean a detour in the direction of dry land before
they could climb up the three or four feet to the causeway, then
double back to the seafort with the waves washing the stone sides.

"Ow!
Come here, you monster." He and David fenced all the way back to
the seafort, through the open gates and into the sun-filled fort.

Errol
Flynn-style, Chris jumped, after two attempts, onto the old wooden
table by the caravan where they sometimes ate outdoors. They
continued fencing, David gleefully slashing at Chris's ankles.
"David, do you know the meaning of the word sadist?"

"No
... stand still while I hit you."

"Chris
..." Ruth stood looking around her, concerned.

"David
... Stop." Chris held up his hand, wondering what Ruth had seen.
At that moment nothing seemed unusual. The seafort courtyard looked
the same as when they had left it an hour before. The table he now
stood on, red plastic sword in hand; the caravan, its windows open in
the hot sunshine. Everything in its place. He shot a look back at
Ruth.

"Chris,
can't you smell it?"

He
sniffed.

"Petrol?"

"The
place reeks of it."

He
climbed off the table. "There might be a leak in the car's
tank."

He'd
barely taken half a dozen paces toward the Ford Sierra when he
noticed it was shimmering. The car, wet from end to end, literally
dripped petrol; it gathered in puddles beneath the car.

"Jesus
Christ." He looked under the caravan to see a piece of old
carpet and half a dozen wooden crates. They too were soaked in
petrol.

Heart
thumping, mouth dry, he looked around the courtyard. It seemed
deserted. Either this was a failed attempt, or they were still in the
process of trying to torch the place. He thought of the room on the
ground floor of the seafort where the half-dozen gas bottles had
been stored.

"Mum
... What's wrong?" David sounded alarmed.

"David,
hold your mother's hand. And keep away from that petrol."

Chris
ran around the caravan to pick up an old axehandle he had propped by
the door. "Ruth, I'm going to check the seafort."

"Chris
..."

"Someone
might be hiding in there ..." He dropped his voice to a whisper.
"The gas bottles. They'll go up like a bomb if they're burnt."

"For
God's sake be careful."

"Don't
worry. They probably scarpered when they saw us coming back. I'll
check inside then we'll put the hose on the car and the caravan ...
Look after this for me, kidda." He handed the plastic sword to
David.

He
made a circuit of the courtyard. No one hiding behind the stacks of
stone or timber. He ran lightly across the cobbles to the main door
to the seafort building.

The
door had been shut; now it lay open.

On
the step a splash of petrol the size of a coin stained the stone.
Testing the weight of the axehandle, he stepped inside.

Standing
in the entrance hall, a three-gallon petrol can in his hands, was the
person he would least have expected.

Dressed
in suit trousers, white shirt, silk tie and polished shoes was Tony
Gateman.

For
a moment they stood, Chris staring in disbelief, blood thumping
through his ears. Tony stared back, his long fingers curled around
the handle of the petrol can.

Chris's
voice came in a low hiss. "You miserable bastard."

"I
know ... I know what you're thinking, Chris. It's not what it looks
like. Believe me. It isn't. I stopped him. ... I was walking by ...
up there on the dunes, and I saw ..."

Chris
raised the axehandle. It felt heavy enough to crack a skull like an
eggshell.

"To
our faces, my wife, my son, me, you're Mr Nice Guy, then when our
backs are turned you pull this bastard stunt."

"Chris
... It wasn't me. Look-"

"No,
you look. You broke in here; you trespassed on my property with the
intention of burning the place down. Jesus Christ, don't you know the
work, time, money we've put into this? Over the last two years I've
put nine-tenths of my life into it-planning, worrying, sitting in
bank managers' offices, talking to architects and piss-stupid
planning officers. Now you want to burn the fucking thing down. Jesus
... Why, Gateman? What have we done to you to deserve this?"

"Chris,
listen. I've not done anything. I was walking along the dunes and I
saw Fox. You remember Fox? He was throwing petrol around. I managed
to talk him out of it-he-"

"Where
is he now?"

"I-I...
I don't know."

"Leave
that petrol and go outside... Stay there. Do nothing."

Tony
Gateman nodded so sharply he dislodged his glasses. Straightening
them, he hurried outside.

Chris
had walked into the first room when he heard a thin cracking cry. He
turned to see Fox, as wild-eyed as a demented baboon, running down
the corridor and out into the courtyard.

Chris
followed.