Nailed by the Heart (44 page)

Barely
twenty seconds had passed, but to Chris it seemed like an age. His
little boy was drowning in here. Or maybe he was already in the big
red paws of the Saf Dar.

He
had to get him out of there.

His
hand caught something.

He
pulled. Up came a handful of leathery seaweed.

Ten
yards along the ledge, a red figure was pulling itself out of the
water with a reptilian smoothness.

Tony
shouted, "They're coming out of the water. We're going to have
to get back inside."

Chris
didn't answer; his world consisted of an area of hissing sea-water
the size of a table-top beneath his face. He searched through it with
his hands.

It's
no good, he's gone. I'm going to go in myself. Even if those things
take me. It's better than admitting defeat. He dug his hands deeper
into the sea, ignoring the pains shooting through his shoulders as he
stretched his arms out. His face nearly touched the water as the
waves swelled up toward him, the water now rising up to within an
inch of his face.

God,
if only-

There!

"Got
him!"

Mark
knelt beside him, ready to help.

Chris
felt his fingers around the thin arm. Never let go, never let go ...
The words sped around his mind.

He
pulled. At first nothing happened, then he saw the shape of a head
just under the water, a blurred pale shape, then-

"Jesus
Christ!"

A
head of matted hair.

It
was the dead boy.

The
boy he had seen on the beach. With that procession of long-drowned
men. The Fox twins; the dead pilot; the drowned fishermen. And there
had been this boy. A skeletal figure with enormous eyes and black
hair.

That
was the face he looked into now.

The
face must have mirrored Chris's in a surreal way. It wore an
expression of shock, mouth wide open, a silver-sided tongue looking
like a tinned sardine.

One
eye stared up into his. It bulged hugely; the boy was torn by some
colossal agony.

The
force that had brought it to life had been so powerful it had
ruptured the other eye, the explosive cancer replacing it with a red
growth that swelled from the socket like a ripe tomato, its skin so
tight it looked ready to split once again.

The
boy opened and closed his dead mouth, trying to speak. Chris knew it
was pleading to be lifted out of the sea and carried inside. After
all these cold and lonely years, to be held tight and consoled. He
wanted Mummy to kiss away his pain and make him better.

The
vast red cancer eye began to crack open, exposing spiky fibers like
the antennae of a shrimp.

Chris
released his grip on the arm, which was as thin as an African famine
victim's.

The
face with its beseeching expression slipped away.

David
had been under the waves for forty seconds.

"Hold
my legs!"

Even
before Mark had a chance to grip properly, he launched himself
forward, his head beneath the surface of the water. Eyes open, he saw
only distorted silver bubbles and rags of dark weed. His arms snaked
away into the darkness beneath, searching desperately. No David.

Chris
yanked his head up. Mark was still hanging onto his legs.

"Chris
... They're moving in."

The
Saf Dar were half a dozen yards away, wading forward.

Soon
they would be able to snatch Chris into the sea.

"We've
got to get into the seafort!"

Gasping
in cold air, Chris shook his head. He plunged his face into the water
again, arms shooting out.

Hit.

He
grabbed, hands gripping fabric.

Chris
pulled. A blond head emerged from the swirl of bubbles.

Then
Chris's head was clear of the water.

"Mark
... got him ... Pull!"

Chris
hoisted himself partly back onto the ledge.

Mark,
kneeling, heaved, but the angle was too awkward for him to get proper
leverage. Together they hauled David by his sweatshirt. They got his
head and part of his upper chest clear of the waves. He was
conscious, sobbing with shock and fear.

"I
can't lift him any further," shouted Mark. "Something's got
hold of him! From underneath."

Chris
pulled but, still lying on his stomach, his leverage was worse than
Mark's.

"Quick
..." called Mark. "They're coming."

The
Saf Dar were almost within arm's length. Their red faces were
expressionless above the water; but their eyes blazed with menace.
They sensed new victims.

"Dad
... my legs ..."

Chris
cried, "They've got him. ..."

This
close. Christ. They might have to let David go after all.

No.
Not ever.

As
Chris hung on, another arm reached over his head.

It
grasped David by the back of his sweatshirt.

When
the arm pulled it seemed effortless. David came cleanly out of the
water like a baby lifted from the bath. The force was enormous. As
the arm raised David up, it lifted both Chris and Mark's upper bodies
clear of the rock ledge.

Chris
twisted to see who had lifted David from the water with such
superhuman strength.

"Ruth."

She
completed the single-armed lift, her face blazing with concentration.

Around
her bare arm, muscles knotted into bullet-hard lumps beneath her
skin, the tendons looked like steel rods raising the skin into
ridges. It took three seconds. As soon as David was clear, the
expression melted from her face and she collapsed back against the
wall.

Mark
panted, "Get David inside!"

The
Saf Dar reached up their long red arms toward them, fingers as thick
as raw beef sausages.

"Don't
worry about Ruth, I'll get her."

Chris
picked David up then ran along the ledge to the gates. John Hodgson
was standing on the small area of causeway that was still dry, his
son by his side. Both held their shotguns raised to their shoulders.

Chris
ducked in through the gates. Mark, carrying Ruth, followed them. Then
the Hodgsons were inside, slanting the balks of timber against the
locked gates.

Mark
set Ruth down on the floor against the wall. The arm she had used to
lift David in a single mother-love-fueled pull had gone into spasm.
Uncontrollably, it stretched out, rigid, as if it didn't belong to
her; the muscles still bulged like clusters of walnuts beneath her
forearm. She looked in agony, but she was more concerned about David.
She made Mark sit the little boy on her lap. With her good arm she
hugged him to her breasts and stroked his forehead with her fingers,
rocking him and whispering softly.

Mark
looked at her in wonder. "You ... you hear about things like
this. Mothers lifting up cars to free trapped children, and beating
off bears attacking their kids to ..." He broke off embarrassed
and moved away, dripping a trail of sea water, to sit next to Tony on
one of the cannon.

Chris
watched mother and son, closer together than any man could
understand.

Then
he walked into the center of the courtyard and looked up into the
sky.

The
mist moved like smoke. Now it was flushed with a rose-pink tint.

Around
the walls the villagers watched. They were waiting to see what he
would do next. Because they knew he would do something. Even before
he knew he would.

His
body language sang out a message as old as humankind itself.

The
message rolled out from deep inside his mind. Some part of him that
he shared with the first men on earth as they gazed in awe at a
thunderstorm or painted animal-men on cave walls was telling him what
he should do. It was not thought in words, it was a primeval,
wordless understanding.

A
knowing.

When
you are hungry, you find food.

When
you are thirsty, water.

When
the old god that normally stands in the shadows of your soul steps
into the light to be recognized, you know what you must do.

Chris's
lips, after the fourth attempt, clumsily shaped the word:

"Sacrifice."

Wrapped
in a large blue-striped bath towel, cuddled by his mother as she sat
on a straight-backed chair in the courtyard, David looked three years
old.

More
than anything, Mark wanted to pick them both up and carry them away
from this nightmare.

David
allowed his head to be hugged against his mother's breast; the
still-dripping fringe partly concealed a bad graze above his left
eyebrow. Already it was swelling, speckles of blood seeping through
the scraped skin.

The
graze would be the least of their worries.

She
moved her arm to hold David more securely. She winced. The muscles
still stood out through the skin in a painful cramp.

"Ruth,
you should get some ice on that arm," Mark told her gently. "A
bag of frozen peas would do it."

"There's
nothing left." Ruth forced a weak smile. "Anyway, it's
feeling better. ... Thanks, Mark. For all your help."

Mark
couldn't manage a reply. He felt like shit. He'd let them all down.
They had depended on him to get help. All he had to do was get
through a miserable half-mile-wide strip of marsh.

"You
might need this, lad." John Hodgson walked up, a shotgun in his
hand. "It's loaded, and here's two more shells."

Mark
looked around the courtyard. All the villagers were there. Waiting
expectantly. They'd fed their hopes of escape from this place. Now
they hung around unwilling to accept the idea that they were still
trapped here, the food all gone.

What
next? They had discussed sacrifice-why not slip back further into the
mire. Cannibalism. In a couple of days it would be an option.

And
he wondered about Chris. As he walked across the courtyard, he'd worn
an expression that he'd never seen before. Fear wriggled inside him
like a bellyful of cold worms.

Tony
was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall. He seemed absorbed in
some problem.

What
the hell was he thinking? Another idea to get them out?

Shit.
... They'd finally run into the brick wall at the end of the road.
There were no more ideas. No more hope. All they could do now was
wait. What for? Mark no longer believed in miracles.

Body
aching, he walked across to Tony and squatted beside him. Behind the
glasses the man's eyes twitched quickly from side to side. Mark
shivered. It was like looking into the eyes of a man who had been
struck blind.

"Tony
... You okay?"

Tony
did not answer.

"Tony.
Hey, Tony. Anything I can get you?"

Tony
suddenly snapped out of it. He looked up at Mark, his face bright
like a kid who'd just been shown the world's biggest Christmas tree.
Surprised-and almost frightened by its stupendous size.

"Mark
... It's happening ..."

"Now?"

"Yes
... Oh, yes. Now. Can't you feel it? I never thought it would be like
this ... I didn't think I would feel things ... Or see things. But
it's inside my head. Sort of... ideas-images mental. No, er, I-I mean
... mental images. It hurts in a way ... something I don't want.
Frightening. Hurting. Then I do want it, badly. Feels like ... or
should I... Feels like I should reach out and pull it to me. Hold it
to me. Tight."

Mark
listened to the low babble of words.

"
'S always been there, you know. Always. I think it ... You-remember
Williams? Ralph Vaughan Williams. What he said when he first
discovered folklore, folk music. He ... He said: 'I had a sense of
recognition ... here was something which I had known all my life,
only I didn't know it. ... It's like that. Known it. But didn't know
it. Know it deep down. ... Like babies knowing how to suckle.
Instinct. Born down the ... eggs waiting to hatch. Eggs ... small
eggs ..."