"Dad!
You've missed it!"
Ruth
laughed. "You'll have to start throwing it more gently, David.
Your dad's not getting any younger."
The
evening sun shone brilliantly as they played frisbee on the beach.
Two hundred yards away, the seafort reared out of the beach.
They
stood in a triangle, throwing the yellow frisbee from one to the
other.
"You're
getting too good for me," laughed Chris, his spirits high.
"Right, I'm ready for some more refreshment."
"Wimp!"
shouted David, and ran giggling back to the picnic they had spread on
the blanket.
"I'll
second that," called Ruth mischievously, her dark hair blowing
in the breeze. "Wimp! Wimp!"
"I'm
chucking both of you in the sea ... See who the wimps are then ..."
"Can't
get me!" shouted David.
"Nor
me," Ruth panted.
David
picked up the French stick, holding it like a sword. "We're in
our den."
"Den?
It's only a blanket. I can get the pair of you-easy!"
"But
it's the den, Dad. You can't be got once you're in a den."
"Okay."
Chris grinned. "I'll obey the rules." He sat down
cross-legged on the sand beside the blanket. "But that doesn't
mean you can't pass essential supplies out to me so I don't starve."
Ruth
passed him a glass of Liebfraumilch. "I'm glad you had the gates
repaired."
"You've
not seen that man hanging around the dunes again?"
"No.
Perhaps I was letting my imagination run away with me."
"Anyway,
it doesn't really matter now. Believe me, love. Once those gates are
locked, they will keep an army out."
Mark
looked out to sea. The tide advanced, lifting the few small boats and
dinghies off the sand.
All
the villagers were there.
The
Major with his dog; Mrs. Jarvis in her wheelchair, resting one foot
on the low wall that separated sand from road.
A
car crept down the road behind them. The Reverend Reed would drive up
and down the seafront road at least three more times before the sun
set.
Apart
from Brinley Fox, the beach was deserted. He paced up and down,
ravenously smoking a cigarette.
Tony
Gateman stood by Mark's side.
As
the sun dipped behind the white-painted cottages, Mark found himself
thinking of a time long ago. He and his brother were on vacation.
Their parents had taken them to a fairground that had a huge
rollercoaster ride. His brother was about eleven; Mark would have
been a couple of years younger.
They
had walked around the fair, going on the usual rides, firing rifles,
eating stick-jaw candy. A ride on the rollercoaster would be the
climax of the trip. They debated its potential all day-how fast it
would go, how high it soared, had anyone ever fallen off, would they
scream like the rest? They had enjoyed anticipating the thrill of the
ride, with the iron wheels clattering and roaring down the iron
track. All day Mark had looked forward to riding the rollercoaster
until he had ached inside.
Then
he and his brother joined the queue. At last they climbed into the
bright red carriages.
It
wasn't until the carriage had begun its long clanking climb up the
incline that seemed to go forever up into the sky that he realized
the last thing he wanted to do in his life-ever-was go on this thing.
Frightened? He was terrified. He gripped the safety bar. This thing
wasn't safe. He wanted to get off. He didn't want to ride the damn
thing anymore.
He
remembered those few moments riding upward in that carriage more
keenly than he'd remembered anything before.
Because
that's how he felt now. Here in Out-Butterwick they were waiting for
a terrifying monster rollercoaster of a ride that no one alive had
ever experienced. Once again the sense of anticipation and excitement
he had felt had been transformed into fear. This was a ride he wanted
to get off now. He wanted it to stop. He wanted out.
But
he knew, Tony Gateman knew, every damn person here knew, it was far,
far too late.
The
knots in his stomach grew tighter as the sun hung on, a blob of red
fire on the horizon. Then it slipped from sight. The sighs of relief
were audible. It would not happen tonight.
The
Vicar's car fired into life and he slowly drove back to the Harbour
Inn. He had an appointment with a green bottle that promised to wash
away his fears for a few sweet hours.
Mark
turned to Tony. The little Londoner still stared out to sea, his eyes
gleaming behind the thick lenses.
Mark
licked his dry lips. "I've seen them moving about. Under the sea
at Manshead. They've found a way out of the ship ... Tony, they're
coming back."
Tony
looked up. "It's all going wrong, isn't it?"
After
he had left Tony and Mark at the Harbour Tavern, Chris strolled away
from the village in the direction of home.
Home?
A caravan, parked in the courtyard of a derelict seafort? But now it
really did begin to feel like home.
He
was glad he had made the effort to come to the Tavern tonight. After
a day ripping out more pre-war panelling from what had been the
seafort's lavatories, he'd been tempted to slump in front of the TV,
feasting on pepperoni pizza washed down by a couple of cold beers.
"Get yourself out," Ruth had told him. "If you're
going to be Out-Butterwick's leading businessman you should be mixing
with the locals."
The
street lights ended with the last cottage in the village. He struck
off on the path that led along the top of the dunes back to Manshead.
Even though the moon had started to wane, the thin silver light it
cast was bright enough to see by. To his right, the expanse of sand
looking misty and pale; beyond that were the brighter bands of surf
rolling in toward the shore. To his left the marshes were merely an
expanse of dark shapes.
He
strolled on, breathing in the warm night air scented by some wild
flower, listening to the hushed whisper of the sea. The evening had
left him feeling relaxed and amiable; a warm bubble of satisfaction
filled him.
The
knowledge that in twenty minutes or so he would be sliding into a
warm bed beside his wife only seemed to increase his sense of
well-being.
After
all the beer and brandies he seemed to be almost sleep-walking,
lulled by the slow rhythm of his stride, the sandy path crisp beneath
his feet. But then this place had a habit of relaxing you at night.
After these days of hard work, sleep came over you like the waves of
some vast dark ocean, rolling in and out, lulling you, filling you
with the most blissful relaxation.
He
yawned.
The
temptation rolled through him to lie down in some hollow with sand
for a comfortable mattress and let himself drift peacefully away to
sleep.
He
yawned again.
Ahead,
a figure stood alone on the dune.
He
remembered his policy of positive fraternization with the natives. He
took the right-hand fork in the path which would take him to the
figure. The man stood with his back to Chris gazing steadily out to
sea.
He'd
just say a few words in a neighborly way then move on. It was coming
up to 10.30 and he didn't want to leave Ruth and David alone at the
caravan too long.
"Hello
... Nice evening."
Chris
walked up level with the man and looked into his face.
OH,
GOD ALMIGHTY.
Chris's
eyes opened wide with shock-so wide the muscles around his eyes hurt:
He
stared unblinking at the face. Face? No ... No face ever looked like
that.
The
face was round, perfectly white. Shockingly white. As white as a
sheet of clean paper, as white as a freshly whitewashed wall; as
white as milk; as white as a plate; as white as Christ knows what.
He
wanted to lumber blindly away from the thing just an arm's length
away. He could not. He was held there. As if a dozen hands had
gripped his head, his face, his body; they even seemed to grip his
heart, constricting it painfully until he thought it would give one
savage leap then stop-forever.
Something
seemed to move beneath the face. As if fingers, or something
sluggishly alive, were wriggling beneath a tightly stretched sheet of
rubber, prodding shallow lumps to appear and disappear... Slowly.
Nothing
else existed in the whole world, only the white disc in front of him.
And the eyes.
They
were deadfish eyes. Cold, unmoving.
In
the bottom third of the white face a split appeared. The mouth
widened like a razor slash. There were things inside it.
Inside,
tightly packed, one after another, in two uneven rows, were
shellfish. The blue-black mollusc shells glistened in the moonlight.
Behind them something moved with a thick coiling and uncoiling
motion.
An
image of a roll-mop herring squeezed into his head. This had the same
dark gray coloring; the same silver underside. It continued curling
and uncurling wetly in the cavity of the mouth.
Chris
tried to screw his eyes shut. But his body didn't work anymore.
The
thunder started.
Only
it was not thunder. It was a huge thundering voice. Someone bellowed
at him in a language he did not understand.
He
didn't know if it was in rage. But it seemed to want something from
him. Urgent. Demanding.
And
it nearly split his bloody head in two.
What
do you want from me? he thought desperately. Jesus ... What do you
want? What do you want!
The
voice thundered.
Demanding
... Demanding ... Demanding ...
Demanding
what, for Christsake?
Christ...
Go away ... Please ...
If
only he could understand ... No!
A
raw feeling ripped away all rational thought.
He
was conscious only of an intense feeling of revulsion as he looked at
the face-his eyes nailed to it.
Then,
although the feeling-the sensation he experienced as he stared at the
white face-did not change, his own reaction to it did. From
revulsion, a disgust so deep it sickened him, the feeling slipped
seamlessly into one of attraction. An attraction so powerful he found
himself leaning toward the white face. Closer ... Closer ... Touch
that smoothly swelling white face with your lips and-
CRACK!
His
reaction to the face snapped again: disgust, loathing, revulsion,
fear. He wanted to run. Jesus, just run. Please ...
CRACK!
Back
again. The feeling of revulsion switched to a desperate need to
understand what the voice was thundering. It was important. He
wanted-no, he needed-to talk to the figure. To communicate.
CRACK!
Once
more revulsion swept through him like shit-filled water blasting
through a sewer pipe.
Suddenly:
Silence.
The
thunderous barrage that had battered his head stopped.
That
white face still hung in front of him. The deadfish eyes looked into
his. The slit of the mouth widened. And between the two rows of
mussel-shell teeth, the deadfish tongue rolled to one side, exposing
its silver underside, slick with a spunk-like cream.
As
he watched, the white face became covered by small lumps that began
to swell. There were dozens. He thought of the sea anemones that
covered the rocks at low tide in a soft pulpy rash.
Then,
like sea anemones immersed in sea water, one by one they opened.
The
face was flowering.
Shooting
out thousands of waving tendrils of delicate flesh, each one no
longer than a matchstick.