Nailed by the Heart (48 page)

The
Saf Dar howled and ran in terror.

And
he exulted in their destruction.

For
a few days the Saf Dar had soaked up the power from this chunk of
coast. That force had animated them, driving them onto fulfil their
own warped passions. But now the power was leaving them. No, not
quite that. Something was taking away that power-and redirecting it
through Chris Stainforth.

Even
as he cracked open another face he saw that they were weakening.

Their
skin was wrinkling, like a tomato left too long on a shelf. Inside
they were withering, muscles shrinking. Their skin was turning
gray-bloodless. They stumbled across the beach and died as the
massive block of iron hammered them to mush.

Within
minutes he faced the last one. It trembled.

He
looked into that gray face. The eyes were sticky white drops, weak,
barely focused. The face twisted into an expression of utter,
bottomless fear.

It
raised its thin white hands to its face.

He
raised the hammer high, ready to swing it down on top of its hairless
gray head.

But
he did not bring the hammer down.

Welling
up from deep inside him was a huge swelling of absolute power; it
rocketed up through the core of his body, up through his throat, to
his mouth.

Then
he roared out an ear-bruising cry. The sound rolled over the beach
and away, to reverberate down and down and down to another sea, which
belonged to a different world.

For
ever and ever, world without end.

Amen.

Before
him, the last Saf Dar crumbled without being touched. Its skin peeled
away from its head, exposing shriveled eyes that looked bleakly back
at Chris. As if molded from ice-cream, the body melted, dribbling
down to form pools of gray on the beach.

Seconds
later it flopped onto the sand with a wet smacking sound.

As
he walked slowly back to Ruth and the villagers, the sea slid in to
wipe away the melting remains of the dead men.

He
knew. They would not come back this time.

The
villagers watched him in silence.

Chris
looked down toward the surf. A line of figures-Wainwright, the Fox
twins, Hodgson, the drowned boy and the others-was filing into the
sea. They walked calmly, like sleepwalkers. Now a greater voice was
calling. They obeyed. Their nightmare was over too.

He
dropped the hammer to the sand, put his arm around his wife, and they
crossed the causeway together, back to the seafort.

They
stood together in what was left of the courtyard, the car a crumpled
metal box beneath the masonry. What was left of the caravan blazed.

Hardly
one stone stood above another; there was just a heap of rubble rising
from the sea. Here and there, like a scattering of yellow daffodils,
small flames flickered through the rubble.

I
killed our son. Chris wanted to say the words, but nothing came.

He
had his arm around Ruth. She said nothing. She seemed somehow inert,
as if part of her life had left her.

A
car tire hissed as air escaped from the burning rubber.

He
felt empty now. The huge reservoir of bitterness, frustration, rage
had been spent.

Ruth.
I sacrificed our son. The words would have to come out soon. I let
him run in here. I waited. Knowing it would blow and that our only
son would be killed.

I
sacrificed our six-year-old boy.

The
contract is fulfilled.

That
old god that resides behind our shadows milked me dry of the grief
and rage I felt. And took them away to use for its own purposes,
whatever they are.

And
it gave me the strength in return to destroy the Saf Dar utterly and
completely.

Something
touched his foot. Something soft. For a second he was afraid to look
down, guessing it might be-

He
forced his eyes to travel downward, down from the sky now clearing,
the blue of early evening showing through, down over the mounds of
rubble with their scattering of fires, past the wrecked car, the
caravan, with its scorched curtains trailing across the ground, and
down to-

-a
flattened, scorched ball. The one David had played with that morning.

He
moved it with his foot.

The
feeling that came over him now was one of enormous sadness. David
would never leap onto their bed in the morning, laughing, pulling him
out of bed. Asking if he could go and watch a Superman video as they
ate their cornflakes together.

All
that had gone.

He
stared down at the punctured ball. Its edges blurred as Chris felt
his eyes prickle, as if little needle-points were touching the skin
around his eyes.

"Dad..."

No
... He wanted to shut off the mind video now. No more.

"Dad
... I want to go now."

"David?"

Ruth's
voice.

Chris
looked up. On a mound of stones a figure stood, looking smoky and
indistinct against the sun now pushing through the mist.

"David!"
Ruth's voice rose into a piercing squeal.

The
smoky figure jumped down into the courtyard. And became solid.

David
flew toward them.

"I
hid in the cellar, Mum. I went down inside ... and bang! Then I got
out again."

Chris
crouched down and threw his arms around his son, hugging him tightly.
Ruth wrapped her arms around both of them.

Chris
whispered, "David, I... I'm sorry ... I'm crying ... I'm
actually crying. I'm sorry ... stupid ..."

"It's
not stupid," said Ruth, kissing her husband and son. "It's
not stupid to cry."

He
held onto his wife and son and wept. The sound that came from his
throat was not sobbing. He felt it rather than heard it, as it flowed
from him in sweet notes, like the sound of some delicate, mystic
music.

Something
inside him had been made new again.

He
held his wife and son close, feeling the animal warmth of their
bodies.

Meanwhile,
the sound of the ocean gradually changed.

The
tide had turned.

"Afternoon,
Chris. Running to schedule?"

Chris
looked down from the top of the ladder to where the Major stood with
two West Highland terrier puppies which pulled enthusiastically at
their leads. The Major shielded his eyes against the brilliant
October sunshine.

"Just
about."

"When
you opening?"

"A
week on Friday."

He
chatted to the Major who watched him at work with his keen blue eyes
while the white puppies nipped at the laces of his highly polished
brogues.

He
found it hard to picture the Major as he had first seen him six
months before. Then the old soldier had wandered around the village
in crumpled clothes, his eyes sliding out of focus as senility ate at
his mind. The old Major had vanished like an exorcised ghost.

Like
everyone else who returned from the seafort, he had changed. The
Major could pass for a man in his fifties.

He
laughed. "These two are a handful. Nearly called them Donner and
Blitzen. You know, Thunder and Lightning. But we're almost
house-trained, aren't we, boys?" the Major waved an enthusiastic
cheerio and allowed himself to be pulled on down the street by the
dogs.

Grinning,
Chris returned to the job.

"Want
me to hold the ladder for you, Dad?"

David
stood astride his new bike, one foot resting on the bottom rung.

"No
thanks, kidda. Nearly done."

The
ladder juddered again as David used it to push himself off, pedalling
hard along the curving drive in the direction of the village street.

Chris's
dream was coming true at last. The insurance company had paid up
without a murmur for the loss of their car, the caravan, and the
seafort itself.

With
the money they had bought the redundant vicarage in Out-Butterwick.
The builders had carried out the conversion work superbly. Soon the
Vicarage Hotel would be open for business.

"Magic,
isn't it?" he'd say to Ruth.

"Magic
it is."

But
then life had been nothing short of magic these last six months.

The
awkward questions they had expected from the police-two people
missing, an old fortress torn apart by a colossal explosion-never
arose. They took photographs of the wrecked buildings, made notes,
and swallowed everything he told them. Not that they were stupid. It
was something about Out-Butterwick and Manshead which altered the way
they thought.

David
came pedalling down the gravel drive.

"When
are we going down to the beach?"

"In
about twenty minutes. When I've finished this."

"Is
Mum coming?"

"If
she feels up to it."

"I'm
up to it." Ruth leaned out of the window at his side, smiling.
"This doesn't make you an invalid, you know."

"Mum.
... How did you get that baby in your stomach?"

"Your
dad'll explain later." She grinned at Chris mischievously.
"Won't you, Dad?"

"A
lot later."

"Coffee?"

"Love
one, thanks."

Ruth
shut the window.

They
had not planned another baby just yet, but... it had happened.

The
memory of the day he had set fire to the seafort was now oddly
flattened. Almost dream-like. After they had stood on the beach to
watch the sticky mess, what was left of the Saf Dar, being washed
clean away from the beach by the surf, they had walked back to the
village. There someone had suggested a beach barbecue. But it was
more than that. A wild celebration-euphoric; an ancient exultation.

Odd
images flitted through his mind. The feasting on mounds of steak. The
blazing timber on the beach. People had even burnt their furniture.

And
he remembered running with Ruth through the dunes, their bare feet
flicking across grass and sand. They were running and laughing. The
next image: both naked, rolling over and over in the rough grass.
They had never made love like that before. Their bodies had collided
like exploding stars.

Then
it was over.

He
had been conscious of a long period of peace, and a sense of quiet
satisfaction, which remained with him.

And
when they learnt that Ruth was pregnant they both accepted it as a
natural part of the sequence of events.

A
sequence, a magical sequence, that was continuing.

He
looked to his left. The trees that screened off the church were
turning gold, those in the orchard bent under the massive weight of
apples.

The
village looked a more affluent place than it had done for years, with
new cars in the drives. Beyond the cottages the sea, as blue as the
sky it mirrored, rolled in over the sandy beach.

Odd
fragments of recent memory ran through his mind. John Hodgson,
smiling proudly, leaning over his farm gate, plump fingers knitted
together, saying: "Bleeding milk yield's gone through the roof.
We're going to do our own cheese with it. Y'can't pour the stuff
away, can you? It's not right."

Rosie
Tamworth, the retarded girl, had always called Chris Mifter
Th-tainfer. Yesterday, she had sung out, "Hello, Chris,"
her voice as bright as a silver bell.

Mark
Faust had talked a lot about the Mary-Anne and the loss of his
crewmates. Chris guessed that the big American was going through a
period of healing. Recently, Mark had been promising to take a boat
out, for the first time, to where the ship and crew he loved lay on
the sea-bed. It was time to say goodbye to them.