Nailed by the Heart (23 page)

It
made a bizarre and pathetic sight. A line of frightened men and women
walking along the beach, casting glances in the direction of a sea
hidden by mist.

Chris
caught up with Tony, who headed the column. "You were ready for
this, weren't you, Tony? You've prepared for it."

"Mr.
Stainforth, now isn't the time or place. ... Look ... I promise. I'll
explain fully later. ... I just... I just want to get off this
fucking beach. ..."

They
walked on in silence, apart from the odd yap from the dog.
Wainwright's expression was sour beneath his bandage. Wearing a suit
and tie, he had declined to carry anything. Unlike the equally
miserable-looking Reverend Reed, who carried a leather briefcase in
one hand and an overcoat in the other. The briefcase looked heavy.
But Chris doubted if it contained holy water and Bibles.

As
they neared the mouth of one of the streams that ran along the beach,
a dark object rose out of the water.

It
was man-shaped.

He
gripped the axehandle tightly.

The
Easter Island profile was the same; the same slightly open mouth and
the same eyes-closed like those of a deeply relaxed sleeper. But this
time the dark granite skin had taken on a different tinge. The
balance of red in the red-black color had shifted to the red.

He
slowed down.

Suddenly
Mark was at his side. "Keep walking, Chris. That's one of them.
For God's sake, keep walking. Please."

Chris
didn't need anymore urging. They forded the stream higher up the
beach, the water icy against their legs.

The
mist thickened. Chris stared hard into it, half expecting to see
shadowy figures blocking their way. Once he imagined he saw a figure
standing on the dunes, looking down at them. The figure had a round
white face. Shockingly white.

He
forced himself to concentrate on the next few yards of visible beach.

As
he walked, he found himself thinking about Fox. What in Christ's name
had happened to him? And what had Tony Gateman meant when he said
that, even though he was somewhere in the sea, whether he was
actually dead or not was debatable? He remembered lots of things now.
They were all little pieces of a jigsaw falling into place to form a
single picture. It produced a shiver that ran from his scalp to the
balls of his feet. The monster celery plant in the old sink-its
growth had been nothing short of mutant; the wooden chair in the wet
dirt-the bottom of the legs had sprouted roots, the carved arms had
begun to bud. The goldfish. That had been dead all right. But a few
hours later it had been hurtling around the glass bowl like a
torpedo. And now it looked as if it was changing. Then a couple of
nights ago he had come face to face with something on top of those
dunes. It had not touched him physically but it had messed his mind
around as easily as a kid twists a plasticine model out of shape. The
people in the sea with their sinister Easter Island statue faces?

The
questions he had to ask Gateman and Faust were stacking up inside his
head.

He
glanced at Tony. The little Londoner led the straggling band of
villagers. Head bobbing up and down, he plodded determinedly along
the beach, thin piano hands gripping the straps of the canvas
rucksack on his back. Mark Faust brought up the rear. Walking in a
long, easy stride, he wouldn't have looked out of place on a Wild
West prairie wearing a stetson, with a pair of six-guns strapped to
his sides.

At
last Chris could make out the bones of the wrecked fishing boat
through the clouds of mist. He quickened his pace, bringing himself
level with Tony.

"Tony,
I'll go on ahead. If the gates are already open we'll get this lot
inside quicker."

"All
right, Chris ... Be careful. This mist'd hide a bleeding dinosaur."

Chris's
pace turned into a jog. He wanted to see if David and Ruth were all
right. They should be. But the surf sounded louder-the tide was
coming in; and fast.

His
imagination began firing up images of the seafort doors flapping
open; the place deserted; David crying somewhere, lost in the mist;
Ruth lying on her back on the sands, one of those things from the sea
on top of her, cutting...

He
cut off the mental image. But it would come back. Soon, if he didn't
see that the pair were all right.

He
ran along the causeway, the dark blurred shape hardening into the
solid stone building.

"Ruth!"
he called up at the seafort.

He
waited an anxious twenty seconds before a head looked over the wall.

"Ruth,
open the gates."

Seconds
later Chris heard the metallic snap of bolts, then the gates juddered
open.

"Dad!"
David hurled himself at Chris so hard he nearly lost his balance.

"Whoa,
hang on, kidda."

Ruth
put her arms around Chris in a fierce hug. "You seemed to be
gone ages."

Chris
smiled. "Well, I ended up bringing this lot back." He
turned as the group plodded up to the gates. Without a word they
continued walking into the courtyard. Last of all, Mark Faust with
the shotgun resting over one shoulder.

He
nodded solemnly at Chris then walked inside.

Chris
took one look along the beach, slowly being engulfed by white mist,
then he swung the gate shut and drove the bolts home.

Safe.

For
now.

Chris
swung open the main door to the seafort building. The air that
rolled out over him felt cool, but dry. He entered, followed by Tony
and Mark. This place was going to be home for around twenty people.

"This
way." He led the two men along the corridor and up the
staircase.

The
caravan would hold eight people. He, Ruth and David could share the
double bedroom. Some of the other villagers could sleep in the
twin-bedded room David had used with two more on the bed-settee.
Those would be the ones who were sick or the most elderly. The rest
would have to make themselves comfortable here. He walked into the
largest first-floor room.

"We'll
get them organized to make up beds out of blankets when they've come
around a bit." Tony's shrewd eyes appraised the room. "At
least we'll be on timber floors. Kipping on stone wouldn't do anyone
any good."

"For
how long?"

"At
the most a day or two, I expect."

Mark
Faust shrugged. "This is all new to us, Chris."

"But
you do know something. You certainly know more than I do."

Tony's
smile was half-hearted. "We thought we knew lots. But events
seem to have overtaken our expectations."

"And
what did you expect?"

"What
we didn't expect was those things. Not to come back and smash up the
place."

"Something
occurred to me," said Chris, wanting answers. "Why didn't
you just leave? Back in the village you said you were in the shit.
You knew something was happening, something that would put you-us-in
danger because you've been preparing for it. Supplies of food, the
shotguns, sleeping fully dressed."

"Yes,
we were expecting something, but ..."

Mark
finished the sentence. "But we didn't expect it to be... bad."

"You
could still have left. When it was first light this morning."

"I
tried," said Mark. "The only road out is blocked at the
bridge. They've piled rocks across it."

"You
could have walked."

"We
could have," agreed Tony. "But you see, Chris, like the
ugly old troll in the story, one of those things was sitting in the
stream beneath the bridge. And even though I'm ashamed to admit it, I
was afraid-bloody afraid-to cross the bridge with that thing an arm's
length away."

Chris
sighed. "So, for a few days anyway, we're trapped. Until when?
Monday?"

"Why
Monday?"

"Well,
it's Saturday today. So barring casual visitors, the first certain
visitor is the postman early Monday morning."

"And
God help the poor sod." Tony removed his glasses and massaged
the red pressure marks on the bridge of his nose.

"And
God help us," added Mark quietly.

Chris
was about to try to pump more information from the two men when he
heard the sound of a shoe scraping across the timbers. It was the
Reverend Reed. The expression on his red, blotched face looked
suitable for a funeral. He said nothing, didn't even acknowledge the
three of them. Slowly, he walked around the perimeter of the large
room, looking it over. In his hand he carried the fat leather
briefcase, his knuckles white from the pressure of clasping the
handle.

With
the conscious effort of someone changing the subject,. Tony said,
"This is our dormitory, then. We'll get what bedding is
available. Then we'll get everybody in here and get them as
comfortable as we can."

Ruth
must have caught the last few words as she came through the door.
"And we really need to have some kind of group meeting, Tony."

"Why?"

"I
think everyone has a right to know what is happening."

"I'm
sorry, Ruth. We don't know what is happening. Other than the fact
that we are effectively trapped here by those things outside. I think
it's clear to everyone that those creatures don't want us to leave."

The
Vicar spoke for the first time: "And it is abundantly clear that
you and your pagan neighbors have no intention of leaving now-just
when your sordid little god is about to visit."

"Excuse
me, Reverend Reed," asked Chris, puzzled. "What do you
mean? I don't understand."

The
Vicar made the snarl that passed for his smile.

"Ask
that man, Gateman. He's behind all this."

The
Reverend Reed walked out of the room.

"What
did he mean by that?" Ruth asked Tony.

"He
says some bloody foolish things ... He makes it sound like we're a
pagan sect. We've done nothing. We just happened to be here. Whatever
happens will happen anyway ... We've done nothing to make it happen."

"Before
we do anything," said Ruth, "I think the four of us ought
to sit down-then you tell us everything you do know."

Chris
said, "I agree. Look, Tony, stop holding back. We're not kids.
Tell us."

Mark
smiled. "It's all a question of belief. Will you believe us?"

"We'll
believe you all right," said Chris. "Now, tell us."

As
Tony unwrapped a cigar, one of the Hodgson boys blundered in
breathlessly, his feet thumping heavily against the boards.

"Mr.
Gateman! Mr. Gateman! My dad says you'd better look at this."
The boy's face burned an excited red. "They're out, Mr. Gateman,
they're out!"

Chris
looked out over the beach.

He
saw that they were indeed out. A cold sensation hung heavily in his
stomach.

He
looked at the others. The villagers stood on top of the seafort's
walls, gazing silently over the sands, now blurred white with mist.

The
tide had begun to retreat. This time the dark figures had not
retreated with the water. Those at the top of the beach were now
completely free of the sea and sat cross-legged on the beach, looking
like ancient Red Indian warriors, their naked bodies a dark red, the
color of ripe cherries.

The
things looked brutally strong, their long, powerful arms resting
across their knees. Again their hairless heads gave the impression of
Easter Island statues with their sharp chiselled profiles. Each had
its head turned so it faced the seafort, eyes shut.

Eventually
the tide slid back, leaving eight figures sat randomly spaced
alongside the causeway.

"The
Saf Dar," murmured Tony in awe.

"The
what?" asked Chris in a low whisper.

Mark's
voice rumbled. "Saf Dar. It's Urdu. For a special kind of
warrior."