The Jonah (29 page)

There was only one person foolhardy enough to be walking the beach that evening, but he was a man that not even dire circumstances could bend. Twenty years as a High Court judge had hardened him
against the iniquities of human nature; nothing could shock him any more, and not much could stir pity in him for his fellow man, be they perpetrators or victims. His senses, his emotions, had
become jaded by years of judgement. He had learned in his first few years as a judge to hear only dimly the complications of each case – and
every
case became complicated by the
sparring of prosecution and defence counsels – and to keep the facts clear and simple in his own mind. He had long ago abandoned grey areas, for he believed they could only thwart justice.
Even now, in his retirement, he refused to believe prejudice had ever played any part in his decisions, nor had he ever been swayed by the smooth arguments of counsel. He was certain his judgements
had always been correct, even though more than one had been overruled in subsequent courts of appeal. That, he told himself, was only legal tomfoolery. He had invariably decided upon the guilt or
innocence of the person in the dock within the first few days of trial and, once his mind was made up, little could alter that decision. He sometimes smiled inwardly at the barristers –
particularly the young, up-and-coming ‘bright boys’ who somehow, often uncannily, guessed that the verdict was prematurely clear in the judge’s mind long before the end of the
case – as they made frantic and ingenious attempts to persuade him otherwise. He knew that some of them considered his eventual elevation to the Court of Appeal to be a means of putting him
where he could do the least harm; but that was merely malice on their parts, for many had felt humiliated in his court. No, he had never regretted any judgement he had made, for there were never
strong
doubts in his mind. Smaller doubts that tried to nag away at his resolution were easily swept aside by the knowledge that he was never wrong. He was always right. That was why he was
a fool. And only a fool would have walked along the shoreline on such a night.

Even his Welsh Terrier, the judge’s sole companion in his retirement and who had never once in his twelve years’ lifespan doubted his master’s decision, was not
that
foolish. The dog had fled the beach minutes before and was now whimpering on the doorstep of their home near the centre of their town.

The judge called out against the wind, but the terrier was nowhere to be seen. Dratted animal, he thought. Hadn’t missed an evening’s walk along the beach for the past two years,
come wind, rain or snow. It certainly looked fierce out there, but damn it all, winter was over! The cutting wind and driving rain denied his assertion.

Where was that rogue? Cowering behind a fisherman’s hut, no doubt. Frightened of a little bit of bad weather. Thinking the old man was wrong to bring him out on such a foul night. Stupid,
stupid dog. The old man was never . . .

His muttering stopped abruptly and he looked into the distance. A strange rumbling sound was approaching, but it was difficult to trace its source in the darkness and with the rain dashing
against his eyes. It may have just been the trembling of his old, podgy legs, but he was sure the shingle he stood on was undulating with some movement beneath the surface.

Then he saw the massive wave appearing from the gloom like a thick black wall, its top fringed with a churning whiteness that threatened to roll down and smash against the beach at any moment.
Huts and fishing boats were absorbed into the dark wall without resistance, while others were swept before it, some pulverized so that only fragments of hurtling wood remained.

The judge could have run, but it would have done him no good. He could have screamed for help, but that, also, would have done him no good. Standing up to face the onslaught was a poor
alternative. He sank to his knees and rolled himself into a ball. He had never been so terrified in all his life. Somewhere along the line, he had acquired the notion that his position in law had
given him some kind of invulnerability against adversity, that his infallibility in judgements extended to decisions outside the courtroom. Now, as the water pounded over him and he was swept along
with the torrent, he knew that he had been wrong to walk along the beach that night. About that, he was right.

The hotel overlooked the seafront and the dining-room was not crowded on that blustery April night. The head waiter, or
maître d’
as he preferred to be
called, strove to look elegant in his black jacket and sharply creased trousers, but the tiny bow tie clinging to his neck like a shrivelled bat and his slightly frayed shirtcuffs thwarted his best
efforts. The long jacket served to conceal the shine in the seat of his trousers but could not, of course, conceal the shine in the bottom of his jacket. His squat nose, which looked peculiarly
overwrought, did not sit too happily with his finely trimmed, pencil-line moustache, and his neatly plucked eyebrows were somehow in contrast with the heavy, purplish bags beneath his eyes. The
effect was of someone who had modelled the superficial parts of his body – his hair was brilliantined flat at the top with crinkly grey pieces carefully cultivated to sweep over his ears to
meet at the back of his neck – to match every magazine ad’s idea of the perfect restaurant
maître d’.
Only the loose heaviness of his features let him down. And the
feebly disguised shoddiness of his attire. Not to mention the occasional lapse of good professional manners when a waiter made one mistake too many. Or a diner was over-demanding.

He quickly scanned the room to make sure everything was in order, his attention drawn mainly to the long centre table where the Freemasons were having their monthly get-together. There were
several important businessmen from the surrounding area among them, as well as one or two councillors, and the head waiter always made sure their every need was catered for. There were many better
hotels and restaurants to work in in that part of Suffolk and recommendation by word-of-mouth was important in such a community. The only other diners were a young couple, probably in their late
twenties, and an older couple, probably in their early forties. Second honeymoon or just a dirty weekend? The older pair looked more in love than the younger two. Perhaps these were the ones not
married. A man sat alone in the corner of the room, slowly munching his food with all the self-consciousness of someone without a dining partner. He would have business somewhere in the area. Not a
sales rep though; there were cheaper hotels in the locale that they used.

The windows rattled against their frames, startling him from his thoughts. My God, the weather was a bitch tonight! He doubted there would be any customers from outside the hotel that evening
and there were not many guests staying anyway. He felt pleased: he could pay more attention to the Freemasons. In an hour or so they would retire to the conference room upstairs which they had
booked until 12pm, and there they would go into their silly ‘secret’ rituals. They weren’t aware of the giggles they provoked in various members of the hotel staff eavesdropping
at the door.

Ah, they had finished their first course. He snapped his fingers and frowned when John, the young Australian waiter, did not instantly appear at his side. No doubt flirting with Helen, the
part-time waitress. Little slut! And so was she.

He walked towards the swing-doors leading to the kitchen and quickly stepped aside as John came crashing through, a big grin on his face. The beam vanished as he stopped before the
maître d’.

‘Really, John, sometimes I despair of you.’

John subdued his grin into a boyish smile, the kind he knew his superior was fond of. ‘Sorry, Mr Balascombe,’ he apologized sheepishly. ‘Just giving Chef a hand.’

‘Your duty is out here, John. A good waiter spends as little time as possible in the kitchen.’

‘Yes, Mr Balascombe.’ You old poofter.

‘See to the centre table; they’re ready for the next course.’

‘Right, Mr Balascombe.’ Dirty old buggerer.

John swept towards the crowded centre table whose occupants thought his smirk was a subservient smile directed at themselves.

The head waiter sighed inwardly. The boy wouldn’t last through the summer. He was trouble. Like the Italian last year, who imagined private favours earned special privileges in the
dining-room. Not so, though; nothing would interfere with the smooth running of his professional domain. He had once dreamed he was
maître d’
on the
Titanic
and had gone
to each table as the ship sank, enquiring if everything was in order.
Tartare
not spicy enough, sir? Perhaps a touch more Worcestershire. A little dressing on your green salad, madame?
French, or perhaps vinaigrette? The game soup is too watery, sir? Perhaps it’s just the sea spilling over into the dish.

He glided authoritatively towards the Freemasons’ table, casting a well-practised eye towards the other diners; it wouldn’t do to have any grumbles within range of his more important
clients. He would make sure Helen gave the two couples and the solitary man all the attention they required.

He smiled benevolently at the ageing gannets and several turned to look up at him with wide-open mouths. Sorry, I have no worms. Perhaps I can find some juicy cockroaches in the kitchen. He
said, ‘I’m sorry about this awful weather, gentlemen,’ as if he were its creator. They good-humouredly informed him that it wasn’t his fault, although one or two implied
they would hold him responsible next time.

His eyes and smile glazed slightly when he saw John allow the dregs of a soup spoon to drip onto the head of the man he was leaning over. Fortunately the thick mat of hair obviously had no roots
in the aged scalp it covered, so the diner was unaware of the accident. The head waiter felt his knees go weak when he saw John reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief and he desperately tried
to catch the waiter’s eye. It was like a bad dream. Everything slowed down. John produced a grubby wodge of grey material, a crumpled-up ball that resembled a small, washed-out brain, and
carefully, ever-so carefully, guided it towards the green blob of pea soup that refused to be absorbed in the man’s Crown Topper.

Mr Balascombe resisted the urge to faint. Had his thinking cells not become paralysed he may have offered a silent prayer; had his mouth not locked open, he may have offered a strangled but
discreet discouragement. Instead it was left to the harsh forces of nature to save the situation.

All heads turned towards the windows that looked out onto the seafront as they heard the deep rumbling noise.

The first boat crashed through the far window of the dining-room, sweeping in with the torrent of water, its mast snapped in two by the brickwork at the top of the frame. It smashed onto the
table where the young couple sat, crushing them so that drowning had nothing to do with their deaths. The second boat was larger and became wedged in the centre window of the dining-room. Every
ground-floor window on the east side was broken as the huge wave hit the hotel front and sea water poured into the building.

The head waiter screeched as the torrent raised the big centre table high into the air, cutlery and dishes sliding its length to be cleansed of foodscraps as they had never been cleansed before.
Mr Balascombe fell backwards, other bodies piling into him and the entire contents of the dining-room were swept towards the far wall. Objects struck him, stunning him, and he could not be sure if
they were tables, chairs, or human limbs. Sea water rushed up his nose and into his throat and he spluttered for breath; he twisted his body in a vain attempt to take up a swimming position. As he
burst through the kitchen doors and caught a crazy, swirling image of the transfixed kitchen staff, a small part of his mind was relieved that John had been prevented from using the handkerchief.
It’s an ill wind, he thought as he went through the window on the other side of the kitchen.

He was heading out of town when his car’s headlights picked out the solid black wall racing towards him. He wasn’t puzzled by the sight, only frightened. He stood
on his brakes and locked the wheels with the handbrake, spinning the steering-wheel to his right so that the BMW went into a tight skid and turned in the direction from which it had just come. His
foot was already on the accelerator pedal before the car had completed the turn and he had to fight the steering-wheel to gain control. First, Second, Third, and he was roaring back into the
rain-lashed streets, his foot down hard, body hunched forward for better vision through the speckled windscreen, the wipers working frantically to keep it clear. His reactions had always been good
– sometimes he thought that maybe they were too good, for he had the tendency to leap before looking. Tonight, though, he and his car would have already been under several feet of water had
it not been for prompt action. He was scared, yet a wave of excitement ran through him, a heightening of senses that had become rare since marriage, a son, and business commitments. Fear was a
great motivator – perhaps the greatest – and a great adrenalin-pusher. He had known that in his racing days where speed had been both foe and ally; no such sensations existed for him in
the plodding commercial world of buying and selling autosport goods. The two shops he owned provided him with an income, but could not provide stimulation. They were no adrenalin-pushers. The wave
behind him was.

Mercifully, the road along the seafront was empty of people and moving vehicles, not many encouraged to venture out on such a night. He used the centre of the road, aware that it narrowed
considerably further ahead so that turning right would be a comparatively slow process. And he had to turn right to reach higher ground, which meant he would have to make the manoeuvre now, before
he reached the narrower confines.

He glanced into his rear-view mirror, and saw nothing but blackness behind. A small green lawn, at its centre a stone monument in the shape of a cross, was lit up by his headlights and he swung
to the left, intending to sweep in a wide arc to enter a small sidestreet on his right. He would have made it had he not tried to avoid the dog that suddenly streaked across his path.