Nailed by the Heart (19 page)

The
man was through the gates before Chris was even through the doorway.
Ruth stood in the center of the courtyard, her arm around David's
shoulders.

Chris
let the madman go. He knew where to find him when he needed him.

"Chris,"
began Tony, "we've got to talk. I've got to tell you what's
happening here."

Chris
swung the axehandle down; it struck the cobbles so loudly it made
Tony jump.

"I
know what's happening here," said Chris.

"You
do?"

"Of
course I bloody well do. You and that lunatic Fox are trying to drive
us out of here. I don't believe for one minute that you just happened
... just happened to be sauntering along the bloody beach ... just
happened to see him pouring petrol all over the place."

"Chris,
you don't understand ... his brother died here. He wants to get even.
This place-"

"Whatever
the motive, I think you're lying. You were helping him." Chris
had never felt this way before-an icy calm, but underneath he could
feel some enormous force building, ready to explode. If he snapped
... if he snapped ... He gripped the axehandle tightly.

Tony
talked quickly, but Chris did not listen.

"Chris,
you don't know what's happening here at Manshead. This place is
dangerous. We can't go just yet. Not until the tide drops again. Then
you've got to get away from here. Right away. Go and stay with your
family for a few weeks. You can-"

"Get
out."

Tony
looked out through the gates. "I can't. Not now. It's too late.
The tide's coming over the causeway."

"Afraid
of getting your feet wet?"

The
smell of evaporating petrol grew more intense.

"I
want you off my property."

"Look...
I can't. For God's sake's, man, there's something in the sea. We need
to lock the gates until low tide then drive out of here. We must get
away from the coast altogether."

"Something
in the sea?" That dangerous feeling grew more intense. "Just
what is in the sea, Mr Gateman?"

"Take
a look for yourself." He pointed. "They're in the water."

Chris
did not even glance in the direction of the gates. "I don't see
anything, Mr Gateman. Now, I'll give you ten seconds to leave my
property."

"Chris,
please, you can't make me leave now, I'd-"

"One."

"Just
look for yourself, man. Tell him, Ruth. Make him look-"

"Two."

Something
suddenly occurred to Tony. "Ruth ... Can you see Fox? Did you
see him make it to the beach?"

"Three.
Four."

"Ruth.
Tell me. Can you see him?"

"Five."

Ruth
gave a little shake of her head.

"Oh,
Christ. Please. I'm begging you, don't make me go out there."

"Six
... Seven."

"Look.
We'll sit down." Gateman's face ran with sweat. "We'll
talk. I'll tell you everything."

"Eight."

"Chris!
Your wife, your little boy. They're in danger."

"Nine."
Chris gripped the handle so tightly his hand turned as white as bone.

"Oh
... Jesus Christ... I'm going, I'm going ... But just watch me."
Tony ran-the slow jog of an unfit man. At the gates he slowed briefly
and looked back. Then he ran as hard as he could.

The
pace was slow, that same slow jog. The sea had covered the causeway
to ankle deep; sometimes a wave would bring that level up to his
knees.

Chris,
with an alien calm, watched the little Londoner run through the surf,
dragging his feet through the water, the man's arms jerking out like
those of an incompetent tightrope walker, fighting to keep his
balance on the roadway.

After
what seemed a long time, Gateman fell onto the beach at the far side.

Chris
walked across to the twin seafort gates and watched Tony rise then
stagger further up the beach. He was pointing wildly at the surf.

Slowly,
Chris closed the massive timber doors, then drew the steel bolts.

Feeling
calm, in that detached alien way, he crossed the courtyard and took
David by the hand. David relinquished his hold on his mother.

"Chris
..." Ruth's voice was low. "That man Fox ... I didn't see
anything, but... I didn't see him on the beach."

He
looked at her without emotion.

"Chris,
I don't know if he made it to the other side."

"Come
on, Ruth. It's time we had lunch."

Then,
holding David's hand, he walked back to the caravan.

At
first Brinley Fox thought he had tripped.

The
man waving the axehandle in the seafort had terrified him. Brinley
was going to hide in one of the rooms-all those rooms squeezed tight
full of shadows!- but then he thought of all the petrol he'd gone
splash! splash! splash! all over the place and he felt even more
frightened.

And
those rooms packed full of shadows-not nice, Brinley, not nice ...

So
he'd run out of the seafort (seems like the best thing, Brinley);
he'd got halfway across the causeway, big boots splashing in the
water, and now, oh, silly Brinley, he'd fallen. He was all wet, and
cold.

And
now he remembered.

The
memory had been there all along. Like a frightened puppy waiting to
come indoors from the cold.

Now
it scampered in.

For
the first time in ten years he thought of his brother.

Brinley
Fox remembered watching as his brother-Jim, yes, Jim-as his brother
ran across this very causeway in his bare feet, the water as deep as
this as the tide came rolling in. He remembered.

The
arm, dark and strange-looking, flashing up out of the surf, grabbing
hold of Jim, then pulling him into the water.

I
remember everything now, he thought, the shock driving him sane after
ten years wandering in a mental fog full of dreams with a rambling
voice that he thought was a ghost. Now at last he realized, the voice
had been his own.

Brinley
Fox wanted to scream out to Tony Gateman in the seafort to help him,
but a wave mottled green with mossy pieces of seaweed rushed at his
face, filling his gaping mouth.

He
tried to climb to his feet.

His
foot was stuck hard.

Got
stuck in a crevice, or tangled in seaweed.

Half
kneeling, he looked down at his foot. No.

A
hand held it there. A hand with a wrist that disappeared into the
water.

Then
a wave hid it.

I've
got to get out... I've got to get out, he thought, turning back to
face the beach. If I can put my head down and just crawl on my hands
and knees, just a few inches at a time, I'll make it to dry land.
Then he'd be home and safe within five minutes. The door of his
caravan locked and bolted. After ten years of insanity he wanted to
relish the sensation of being sane again. He did not want his life to
end here in the cold North Sea as his brother's had.

He
dragged himself forward, jaw clenched, muscles straining.

Again
he tried to shout. Again, before he could make even a grunt, he felt
a savage tug that brought him whipping face down into the water. No
...

Suddenly,
he felt himself being dragged backwards with tremendous power toward
the edge of the causeway. Pain blistered like fire along his legs as
his knees were bent against the joint.

He
tried to grip the cobbles. There was nothing to cling on to. His
nails popped from his fingers as he tried to hook them into the
cracks between the stones.

Waves
broke over his head as he was dragged further over the edge.

Now
his head was under the water more than out of it. Breathing became
near impossible; a rising scream in his throat ended in a gurgle.

A
hand gripped the waistband of his trousers. The next wrench took him
to the edge of the causeway. His legs kicked frantically in deep
water, like someone practising the crawl leg-kick while holding onto
the edge of a swimming pool.

Panicking,
twisting round, he felt his mind slipping back into the dreamworld it
had inhabited for the last ten years. No. He wanted to hang on; he
wanted to live like a man once more, sane, intelligent, clean, with a
mind of his own.

No,

it
began

sliding

out
of control

again
... again ...

...
Want home. Want to sit... eat chocolate, drink cider, smoke
cigarettes ... watch television ...

Not
this ... Not to be pulled underwater by hands with fingers that
looked like raw sausages. Not this ... don't like it... hurting ...
frightened.

He
felt another set of fingers gripping his face. A finger and thumb
found his eye. Quickly they forced their way into his eye socket.

Agony...
It felt like a cold chisel being forced through to the back of his
skull. Sick, feel sick ... His trousers filled with shit.

As
the fingers tore out his eye.

Briefly
he broke the surface. With his good eye screwed shut he saw a world
crazy once more through his unsocketed eye. It swung wildly,
pendulum-like, blurred images flicking against the twisting retina:
ripples on the sea, spray from his flaying arms; a strange red hand
gripping; the lady and the boy in the seafort; a seagull gliding
through the sky. ...

Another
hand came up from behind him and gripped his wild bush of hair. It
pulled mercilessly.

He
managed to stand. Feet braced against an underwater boulder, he held
onto a rock in front of him. Two pairs of wetly red hands tried to
pull him into the sea but he would not come. He was strong. Probably
stronger than any sane man.

The
hand gripping his hair tightened its grip then pulled harder. It
pulled until with a splitting crack his scalp gave way. The skin
split at the hairline across his forehead. It came away in a solid
piece like a wig; hair and skin peeling away in a slow, agonizing
rip.

The
hand released the scalp to leave it dangling by a thin piece of skin
from the back of his neck. The skull, denuded of hair and skin, shone
like a smooth pink egg in the sunlight.

A
hand came up and caught the swinging eye. It parted from the socket
with a crack.

Catatonic
from shock, Brinley Fox opened his remaining eye. Water swirled
around his face. Now, even though his body had become rigid, he did
not resist as one of the red hands pulled him back by his shirt
collar into the sea.

Above
him, he saw the water swirling like a liquid puddle of light. Then
the water turned pale green.

His
one eye saw little silver bubbles, rising to the surface.

Now
he no longer felt or heard, he only saw the sea above him turn from
pale green, to green, to dark green.

To
black.

In
the caravan's galley kitchen, Chris scraped two platefuls of burger
and salad into the pedal bin. The third, smaller plate had been
cleaned of all but streaks of ketchup.

They
had not talked much since the incident with Fox and Gateman that
morning. Despite Gateman's denials, Chris believed he had been
involved in some plot to drive them out of the seafort. Why?
Jealousy? Did he want the place for himself? Or didn't the villagers
want holidaymakers ruining their seclusion?

He
squirted washing-up liquid into hot running water. "Dad, why
were you so angry with Tony Gateman?" David sat at the table
coloring in a picture with a fat crayon.

"Mr
Gateman had done something wrong. He tried to stop us living here."