Then
Mark Faust was by his side, gripping the shotgun in his two huge
hands. "Any sign of him?"
"No.
Christ, why on earth would he come out here?"
Ruth
ran up and gripped Chris by the arm. "Find him, Chris."
"Look,
he can't have gone far." He was lying through his teeth. He
could have gone far. His son might be at the bottom of the sea.
He
looked back at the rocky ledge that ran around the bottom of the
seafort walls. Just half an hour before, Mark Faust had been trapped
there.
At
first Chris did not see them there.
His
eyes searched the ocean boiling around the slab of rock on which the
seafort was built, half imagining he saw David struggling in the
surf that was streaked brown by strips of kelp.
The
realisation of what his mind had subconsciously registered came in a
slow burn of understanding. His head snapped back.
Almost
at the far corner, standing on the narrow ledge of rock, four feet
above the sea, was the Reverend Reed, white tufts of hair stuck out,
his raincoat hanging off his thin body like a gray blanket.
Behind
him a smaller figure, blond-haired, twisting and turning as if moving
in a strange kind of dance.
"David!"
The relief he felt was short-lived. Something was wrong.
The
old man had one bony hand clamped around David's upper arm.
"Dad..."
Even
though the rumble of the surf almost submerged David's voice, he knew
the little boy was frightened.
He
reached the ledge first, Mark behind him, Ruth last.
The
ledge was narrow enough to make it feel as if they were walking along
a plank, the massive wall of the seafort behind them and five feet of
seething North Sea beneath their feet.
Moving
as quickly as he could, Chris reached a point a dozen paces from
Reed. Here the ledge, as flat as a pavement, broadened to four or
five feet.
"Stop!"
Reed watched them through a pair of eyes that were frightening. They
blazed with a manic intensity. All civilization, culture, education
had been stripped from that blazing stare. This was animal. Something
trapped in a corner-terrified, but more dangerous than it had ever
been before.
"Dad
... Make him let go. ... I don't like it. ..."
Chris
took a deep breath. "Mr Reed. Mr Reed. ..."
"Reverend
Reed, please ... Don't forget I am a holy man. The link between
mortal men and God."
"Reverend
Reed, look, it's dangerous out here. We should go inside where it's
safe."
"Safe?
Ask Gateman whether it's safe or not."
"If
you're concerned about something we'll talk about it. But inside."
"No."
"Reverend
Reed ... let my son go. ... please." All at once he knew that
Reed had planned something. Unpleasant.
He
couldn't rush at the old man because all Reed had to do was push
David over the ledge into the sea. The sea was dangerous enough. But
likely as not there would be things waiting there. Already he'd
noticed shadows swimming beneath the surface. The Saf Dar probably,
drawn like sharks to a chunk of bloody meat.
"Reverend,
please come inside. My son's done nothing to you. Can't we talk about
it?"
'Yes.
We can talk until the cows come home. Go ask Gateman. The time for
talking is over. It's time we acted.
Boy
... stand still, will you!" Shocked, David stopped trying to
twist himself free.
"Reverend
Reed. ... Look, please let my son go. He's only six years old. You're
frightening him."
The
old man looked keenly at Chris and asked: "What are your
feelings now? When I twist the boy's arm like this does it distress
you?"
"Yes
... you know it does. Don't do it. Please ... you're hurting him.
..."
"Mummy..."
"Don't
hurt him, Reverend. He's just a little boy."
"You
love your son, Mr Stainforth?"
"Yes.
Of course. Now-"
"Listen
to me, then. What did you buy him for his birthday this year?"
"Just
let him go."
"Answer
the question."
"A
video ... Books ... And-and a computer game."
"You
love him a lot, then?"
"Yes!
But why-"
"It
goes without saying that the mother loves her child. Nature
programmed the female of the species that way. But fathers ... They
can be different. They say they love their children. But some can be
quite indifferent. They'd rather spend their free time with their own
friends, drinking beer, playing squash ... football. But I believe
you do love your son very much, Mr Stainforth. You spend time with
him, talk to him, not down to him, you treat him as someone very
important in your life. Probably far more important then you yourself
realize. I see you at Christmas spending the morning playing on the
living room carpet with him, putting together the toys, laughing and
joking together. I truly believe you do that, Mr Stainforth. Ah, now
you're wondering why I wanted to establish that belief, and why I am
standing out here above the North Sea, holding onto your beloved
son's arm. The reason is this, Mr Stainforth. Because I am going to
kill your son. And you are going to watch me kill him."
The
power of the words:
I
AM GOING TO KILL YOUR SON.
Chris
stood locked in the same position, trying to draw breath.
"Dad
..." David sounded weaker.
The
Reverend Reed maneuvered David closer to the edge of the rock. The
sea churned fiercely beneath him. Chris glanced back at Mark's grim
face; behind him Ruth looked as if she was in shock.
In
the surf a head broke the surface. Red, grotesquely hairless, the
eyes like two splinters of white glass staring at what was happening
on the ledge.
"Sacrifice,"
said Reed. "Gateman was right. He should be here to witness
this. Oh, and there he is."
Tony
stood a little beyond the gates, watching.
"You
were right, Gateman. I was wrong. I understand now. We have to
sacrifice the boy. Just as you wanted, Gateman. The most powerful
sacrifice is when you give what is most valuable. And what is more
valuable than the life of a young child? If an old woman is
terminally ill you hear nothing about it. But a sick child. ... then
you hear about it day after day. You see it on the television, in the
newspapers. Charitable people raise money to send it for the finest
treatment. As the saying goes: you see a sick child and your heart
goes out to the child. When I kill this handsome little boy, whom we
all like, everyone will feel the grief. More importantly, the child's
parents will feel it most powerfully. They will watch as he dies.
Their grief will be like a hurricane." Reed reached into his
pocket, groped there for a moment, then pulled out a screwdriver.
The
long steel shaft glinted in the misty light. Years of use had worn
the tip as sharp as a blade.
"The
parents' outpouring of grief is what Gateman's dirty old god wants so
badly. In return it gives us the power to remove those monsters that
imprison us here so we can return to our homes, and to our lives. And
we will forget this ever happened."
Mark
rumbled, "After you have murdered a six-yearold boy? Man, you're
crazy."
Chris
felt oddly calm. More than that, it was as if all his emotion had
been locked away in the heart of an iceberg. The feeling was
dangerous. As if that emotion could not be contained for long. Any
more than you could freeze a nuclear reactor.
"Let
him go." Chris breathed ice. "Let him go now, Reed."
"Hurt
him," rasped Mark, "and I swear I will personally-"
"Who
said this would be easy? Not me. Ask your new holy man, Gateman. This
is not easy at all." Reed angled the screwdriver so that he
could force the glittering shaft into David's eye.
"Mummy
... Daddy ..."
Chris
bled inside.
"Listen
to me," cracked Reed's voice. "I admit it. We obey
different rules here. My God, my redeemer, cannot enter this place. I
know ... for some reason he is excluded. So: we sacrifice the boy.
Then we are free."
"Oh
no you're not, Reed." Tony spoke for the first time.
"We
have to make the sacrifice, Gateman. We have to give something
precious."
"Yes,
we do. We must give something precious-something so precious it
hurts us to part with it. But what are you giving?"
"The
boy. That mother and father's only child."
"But
he's not yours to give. He's theirs. The sacrifice will only work if
the mother or father gives the child."
The
wild look returned when Reed understood this.
"But
they're not going to do it, are they?" He moved his arm back
with the screwdriver's point a foot from David's eye.
"Well
then, Gateman. It's a gamble. Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm wrong.
But we will have to see which one-ah ..."
How
David did it Chris didn't know, but he kicked out with both feet.
Reed was still hanging onto the sixyear-old boy but it threw him off
balance. He had to use the hand holding the screwdriver to steady
himself against the seafort wall.
Chris
ran.
He
threw himself forward, grabbing the old man's thin arm, pushing the
screwdriver upward away from David.
It
was the right thing to do.
And
it was the wrong thing to do.
He
smelled the gin stench on his face as Reed spat, "Fool... Fool."
With
a single shove of his arm, the old man pushed David off the ledge and
into the sea four feet below. The foam swallowed him without a
splash.
"No!"
Chris
threw himself down, eyes searching the surf. David didn't come up.
Just
five yards away there was a semi-circle of four Saf Dar, the waves
breaking over their shoulders.
Behind
him Mark picked up Reed, swung him out over the sea, past Ruth, then
threw him along the ledge, bouncing him off the seafort wall. The
old man squawked like a wounded crow.
"Get
him inside."
Dangerously,
the villagers were spilling out through the gates and onto the dry
section of the causeway.
Tom
Hodgson strode forward, shotgun in one hand. He grabbed Reed by the
dog-collar and hauled the old man inside.
Chris
looked down at the shifting mass of water. It looked alive, sucking
at the rock, slapping the sides of the causeway with a cracking sound
that sent spray shooting six feet into the air.
"I'm
going in!" he shouted to Mark.
"No.
Not yet. Those things are in the water."
"It's
my boy in there. He can't swim. He's-"
"He'll
come up. He's got to. Wait until he does, then grab him. They'll kill
you if you go in there."
Chris
threw himself onto his chest, not even noticing the Saf Dar surfacing
one by one just yards away. Five ... six. Another broke the surface
below the ledge ten yards to his left. Seven.
Thrusting
his hands into the water, he blindly felt for David beneath the surf.
Spray fired up into his face.
Water,
only water. His fingers swam through it, touching nothing solid; he
didn't even acknowledge the possibility that a larger hand might grab
his and drag him forward into the sea.
Beside
him Mark did the same, the shotgun on the ledge by his side. Behind
him Ruth stood staring at the surf in numb horror. Her son was
somewhere beneath it all, battered by the whirling surf, unable to
breathe, the little air that remained in his lungs turning into
pockets of fire in his chest. Wanting to breathe ... needing to
breathe ... no air ... only a roaring darkness ...