Nailed by the Heart (41 page)

And
he bled sweat.

"Keep
that straight line. ..." he muttered to himself, glancing back
to judge whether his crater-like footprints through the mud were
straight.

Damn...
no sun. No landmarks. Nothing to guide him.

But
the thought kept him going.

Get
help. He liked the Stainforths. Nice folks ... Nice folks. The words
echoed around his brain like a chant.

If
he'd ever married and had a family he would have wanted it to have
been like them. He had never got close to marrying. He'd had some
good relationships with women, but they always became platonic
friendships. He could never establish a deeper involvement. He knew
why. Part of him had died that night thirty-odd years ago when he
killed the Mary-Anne and all on board her.

Not
much further now, then he would be pounding up the meadows. He
imagined himself gratefully falling down into the meadow grass, then
lying there hungrily sucking at the cool air. He would grab five
minutes' delicious rest before moving on. Not running. A steady jog.
Get to the road. Maybe flag down a passing car. A police car would be
like Christmas come early. Then help would be on its way. As he ran
he nourished himself with this mental picture.

He
took a huge leap over the next stretch of liquid mud. He fell short
of the tussock, his hands grabbed at the rough grass; his legs sank
knee-deep into slop.

Hell.

Heaving
himself out, he moved on, panting until his ribs ached.

When
he reached the next expanse of mud he noticed something moving in the
center of the channel. Like a seal. It turned slowly over and over
with a heavy squelching sound. Although too far away for him to tell
exactly what it was, Mark had a damn good idea.

He
swallowed. Perhaps it really was a seal-sick, lost ...

Was
it hell. It was one of them. Not Saf Dar. Perhaps it was Wainwright,
or Fox, or one of the long-dead encrusted with barnacles or seaweed
or sea anemones spreading across its naked body like a disgusting
disease.

Mark
dropped forward, supporting the weight of his body with outstretched
arms against his knees, panting noisily and shaking his head. A
thread of silver snot slid from his nose to stretch down to the
grass.

He
would have to work around the thing rolling manically over and over
in mud in post-mortem ecstasy.

He
turned left. Soon the splashing seal-shaped thing was out of sight,
and he turned in what he judged to be a half-circle before moving
forward-again in a straight line.

"Come
on, old son. Nearly there." Soon the level of the land would
rise up from this squelching muck. There would be fields, a few trees
and-

The
post.

He
stopped.

Standing
out like a lone ghost sentinel guarding the swamp was the post.

Near
the top, the around hole.

Below
that, a muddy handprint. Fingers splayed out.

Shit!

Back
where he started. He dropped to his knees and punched the turf. He
punched again and again, his mind a boiling mess of confusion,
frustration, anger.

Shit...

Which
way now?

The
time was ten minutes to two.

Chris
glanced at his watch. Ten minutes to two.

He
stood in the courtyard, watching what seemed the full complement of
villagers moving restlessly to and fro. An exception was the Reverend
Horace Reed, who sat on one of the cannon that had been fired that
morning. The man himself, lost in a gin-sodden haze.

The
villagers, excited by the idea that rescue might be on its way,
chattered and laughed in overloud voices. Help was coming. Nothing
else mattered-just the idea of that first hot bath in days, a square
meal then a comfortable bed.

Chris
walked quickly around the perimeter of the walls, looking down onto
the beach.

Already
the tide was sliding in, gobbling up acres of sand. Soon the first
waves would be licking the flanks of the causeway. Within minutes
Manshead would be an island again.

A
hundred yards along the beach three Saf Dar stood, the surf tonguing
at their bare ankles, their tomato-red bodies vivid against the sand.

He
passed John Hodgson keeping watch over the beach, and went down the
steps to the courtyard full of villagers.

The
excitement. You could almost reach out and run your fingers through
it. His pulse raced, like an electric motor whirring away in his
wrist. His legs ached, the muscles tensed into hard cords. This was
like all the Christmas Eves and last days of school term rolled into
one. He knew that nearly everyone felt that way. That sizzling sense
of expectancy. Any minute now. ... Any minute now It's going to
happen soon This is it.... This is it. ... It's coming now. ... Any
minute now. A sense that something immense was straining at a barrier
that would give way with a crack and a roar.

He
joined Ruth. She was throwing a tennis ball for David to catch. He
missed it and it rolled under the front of the car.

"I'll
get it," called Chris.

"Are
you playing, Dad?"

"Of
course." He threw the ball harder than he meant to, and felt a
burst of surprise and pleasure when his son leapt up to catch the
ball easily.

"Good
catch."

"You
feel it too." Ruth's brown eyes darted with excitement.

"I
feel relieved that we'll soon be getting out. I'm ready for a bath
and a decent meal."

"It's
more than that."

"Mum
... catch."

She
caught it. "Uph. Well done."

"His
throwing's improved these last couple of weeks."

"He's
changed in lots of ways, Chris. Or haven't you noticed?"

"Changed?
How?"

"I'll
tell you later. What I was talking about is the change in the
villagers. Just look at them. Chatting, laughing, moving about.
They're different people. It's as if they're high on something."

"Like
someone spiked their tea with cocaine."

"Exactly.
I feel it too. It's hard to explain. I feel good. Look in a mirror.
You'll see your pupils are dilated-everything seems brighter. I'm
happy. I shouldn't be. With those things out on the beach. But-"

"Mum!
Throw the ball."

She
threw it. David caught it easily.

"I
take it you're subscribing to Tony Gateman's theory of the second
coming of the-" He held his hands to his head, poking his
fingers out as if they were horns. "... the horny old god who
feeds on the souls of sacrificed virgins."

"See,
it's affecting you, Chris. You wouldn't normally talk so flippantly."

"Maybe."

"Listen,
Chris, this is important."

Chris
caught the ball his sixyear-old son had thrown at him, so hard it
made his palm tingle. "Wow! I'll need gloves soon." He
returned the ball. David snapped it out of the air with one hand.

"Chris
... Listen. You're forgetting what Tony told us, when he talked about
sacrifice-that we had to give something precious-precious to us-so
we'd receive something in return."

"This
bloody enormous chunk of energy, this magic power, that's supposed to
gush in." Chris laughed, feeling almost drunk.

"Yes
... Chris, I'm serious. Tony's been right about everything else.
Maybe we should work something out with him. To make sure we get this
power when it comes through-and not let it fall into the hands of
those things on the beach."

"You
mean make a sacrifice."

"Yes."

"But
what would you sacrifice?"

"Something
that is very important to us, Chris."

"Ruth,
be sensible, love. What on earth can we sacrifice that means so much
to us? David's goldfish? Your collection of U2 tapes? If you look
around you'll notice we don't have many fatted calves or goats
kicking around the place. ... Or maybe we could find some suitable
virgin for the sacrificial altar."

"Don't
close your mind to this. We've got to accept something is happening.
The evidence it is beginning is out there on the beach. Those red
men. You feel the tension in the air. The sheer excitement. It's
happening, Chris. It's happening here. Now."

"Ruth,
tell me what we can give-sacrifice-to Gateman's bloody god." He
looked across at David. "Are you suggesting that... Christ,
what's that now?"

Suddenly
the courtyard was filled with the sound of a pounding that rolled
from wall to wall as if a salvo of thunder had dropped from the sky.

Something
was knocking furiously on the seafort gates.

Chris
shouted up to John Hodgson: "John! What is it?"

No
reply. John Hodgson, feet barely touching the walkway, leaned forward
over the top of the wall as far as he could, his big stomach squashed
over the coping stones, so he could see what was battering the gates
with enough force to shiver the timbers like a power hammer.

"John?"

The
farmer beckoned to his son to carry on watching as he heaved himself
off his belly and ran down the steps to the courtyard, the shotgun
gripped in one beefsteak hand.

"It's
Mark!" His gruff voice was boosted to a higher note by
adrenaline. "He's back..."

"Jesus
..." Chris felt his mind draw back sharply, deeper into his
skull, like a snail retreating into its shell. He'd failed.

The
pounding on the gates stopped abruptly. The only sound was the hiss
of the advancing tide outside.

"Open
the gates. ... Get them open," Tony was shouting, frantic. "He's
not armed." He began pulling at the timbers propped against the
gate.

"No!"
bellowed John Hodgson. "They're out there. The bastards have got
him trapped."

"Open
the gates!" Tony's eyes flashed wildly behind the glasses.
"You've got the gun. Blast them."

Tony
pulled the remaining timber away and reached for the bolts.

"Mr.
Gateman ..." The big farmer pulled Tony's hand from the bolts.
"It's not that simple. He's trapped out there."

Chris
said, "Listen to what he's got to say. We can't rush this,
Tony."

"Chris,
Mark will-"

"Shut
up, Tony. John, where is he?"

"He's
stuck on the ledge to the left of the gates. The sea's around the
base of the rock. There's a couple of those Saf Dar bastards in the
sea. They're no real problem. The real problem is there's two outside
the gates. And there's one at the far end of the ledge. Left-hand
side."

Chris
nodded. "So Mark's stuck between two of them on the ledge. Can
you get a shot at them from the top of the wall."

"Angle's
too tight."

Tony's
nerve was snapping. "Fuck ... I don't believe I'm fucking
hearing this. Stood chatting while Mark's out there. They'll tear his
fucking head off."

"Tony.
... You heard John. We can't open the gates. The Saf Dar are right
outside. They'll. ..."

"Mark's
risked his life to get help. You're going to fucking well leave him
out there?"

"Do
you think I want to? Jesus Christ, Tony. What happens when we open
the gates? Those two will be in here in one second flat."

John
spoke. "Look, for the moment they're not trying to harm him.
They're just standing there."

Tony
rubbed his forehead. Chris realized that the idea of leaving his
friend of fifteen years out there to be battered to raw meat was
breaking the man in two.

"Dad.
... They've moved." The Hodgson boy ran heavily down the steps
to join them. "Them things have moved."

"Where?"
Tony's eyes sharpened.