Nailed by the Heart (21 page)

"What
happens next?"

David
paused, a chunk of chocolate an inch from his mouth. "Superman
drops the iceberg through the hole into the nuclear reactor."

"And
the fire goes out?"

"It
goes out ... pers-shhh ..." David pushed the chocolate into his
mouth and turned his attention back to the TV.

Chris
sat with his arm around David. He'd done it to make the boy feel safe
after they had found the road blocked. Now it was Chris who gained
more reassurance from hugging another human being. Even one six years
old, wearing red pajamas with a jet fighter on the front. Ruth moved
about at the far end of the caravan making coffee and slicing pieces
of cake. He could guess what she was thinking.

"Fancy
a drink?" he asked David.

"Milk,
please. And some cake."

"You'll
burst if you eat anymore."

Chris
went to where Ruth was chopping at a slab of Madeira.

"Coffee."

As
she slid the cup across the worktop he took her hand.

"Can
you think of another way?"

She
shrugged.

He
spoke softly. "We've got to do this for David's sake. It's a
pretense, I know. But we've got to act as if everything is normal.
That we're just going to stay in the seafort a few days. We've got
videos, food, drink-all we've got to provide for David is a smiling
face and play with him as if nothing ... is happening."

"What
is happening, Chris?"

"Christ
knows ... But we know this: we know it might not be safe outside the
seafort. Now we've got those things in the sea."

"But
they're interested in the seafort, Chris. Or are they interested in
something inside the seafort? Us."

"We
don't know that."

"But
we can make a damn good guess. Like we can guess they put the barrier
of stones across the coast road. They don't want us to leave. Why?"

"All
I can say is don't worry. Look, these walls are over twenty feet
high, they're five feet thick, solid stone. The only way in is
through the gates-and the timber is that thick." Chris held his
hands ten inches apart. "I've stacked bricks behind them. You
couldn't push through those things with a tank. Believe me, love,
what's out there stays out there-nothing, absolutely nothing, can get
in."

"So
we stay in here, then; and everything in the garden is lovely."

"For
David's sake-yes. We certainly can't drive where. If we walk, we
can't guarantee it won't be straight into one of those things."

She
shook her head sharply. "I keep thinking about the people in the
village. I remember how kind they were when we moved in. Particularly
Mark Faust and Tony Gateman. They made us welcome."

His
voice turned to a hiss. "Welcome. They tried to burn our bloody
home down."

"Who's
guessing now, Chris? We don't know that. We do know that Fox was
here. And we know he's sick here." she tapped her temple. "Don't
you believe Tony when he said he was trying to stop him? That he'd
taken the petrol can off Fox?"

"Do
I hell. I believe he and Fox were in it together. And probably
Faust."

"And
the whole of Out-Butterwick as well? Chris, you are paranoid."

He
held the cup with both hands-as if squeezing a throat.

"Look,"
she said, "I appreciate you are doing what you think is best for
us. But I'm worried about those people in the village. Okay, nothing
might happen to them. But if it does ... Chris, they are defenseless
people living in little wooden cottages; they haven't got a castle to
lock themselves up in."

"What
are you suggesting?"

"That
we go on foot-if it's safe enough-to the village. We warn the
villagers. Also we can phone the police from there."

"What
if those jokers out there have blocked the road out of
Out-Butterwick? There's only the one."

"Then
we ask anyone who wants to, to come back to the seafort. It would
only be for an hour or two before help comes."

She
looked up at him expectantly.

He
laughed-a humorless sound. "You have got to be joking. I'll tell
you this: you, David and I are not moving from this seafort. That
gate is staying locked until it's all over. And I'm sure as hell not
going to bring a single one of those people from the village in here.
They've been against us from the start."

He
went back to sit next to his son. She stood at the kitchen sink, her
back to him.

Before
it grew dark, Chris walked once more around the top of the seafort's
walls. It had grown cold; a cloud-laden sky lumbered overhead. The
sea swirled around the flanks of the seafort, breaking here and
there in a wash of foam. In the gloom, the seven figures were dark
shapes against a slightly lighter background of sea. Even so, some
deeply disturbing quality shot them through, reminding him of hungry
reptiles-watching and waiting.

With
an effort he turned his mind to making the place more secure. He
decided to use the timbers he'd stacked in the courtyard. He could
wedge them behind the gates. He was convinced. Nothing could get in.
They would be perfectly safe. All they needed to do then was sit and
wait. This thing would sort itself out. By tomorrow, he promised
himself, those things would be gone. Life would return to normal and
he could return to working on the seafort.

He
continued his patrol. He climbed the iron ladder from the top of the
courtyard walls onto the fort building.

Ruth's
suggestion that they bring the villagers from Out-Butterwick to the
seafort had been ridiculous. What if they were trapped here for
days? Where would they sleep? They had ample food for three. But for
twenty?

He
reached the iron ladder at the far end of the building and descended
to the wall on the far side of the courtyard. Every few paces he
leaned over the wall to look down into the rolling surf twenty feet
below before continuing his patrol.

On
the walkway he found a comic. He picked it up. It was one of the old
Superman comics Mark Faust had given David on the night of Gateman's
barbecue.

As
he looked at it he suddenly felt touched by the man's kindness.

He
rubbed his jaw. Without his even trying the memory came: Mark pushing
David on the swing, the big man's hearty laugh. Chris sitting back
enjoying Tony Gateman's beer and smelling the aroma of beefburgers
sizzling on the barbecue.

Half
an hour before, Ruth had called him paranoid. Maybe he had been hard
on Gateman that morning. What if the guy had been totally innocent?
Maybe he had just been walking by when he'd seen Fox wildly dousing
the car with petrol.

No.
He closed off the flow of thoughts. Wild horses wouldn't drag him to
the village. He'd concentrate on making the seafort safe for himself
and his family.

He
promised himself he'd make an early start the next morning on
strengthening the barricades behind the doors.

As
he walked down the steps he stopped, struck by an outlandish idea.

Immediately,
he went down to the seafort building, opened the doors, and went
inside.

"What
are you doing, Chris?"

Chris,
standing in one of the seafort's empty barrack rooms, hadn't heard
her approach.

He
looked round. "I had planned on taking out more timber to
barricade the gates, but ..."

"But
what?"

"But
..." He gave a small smile. "But now I'm trying to work out
just where on earth we're going to put twenty unexpected guests."

"Ready?"

"I'm
ready." Chris zipped up his leather jacket. In his hand he
carried the axehandle; as long as his arm, its weight felt
reassuring. "Ruth, close the door after me and lock it."

"Don't
worry. I will."

"And
don't open it again until I get back, not under any circumstances."

He
kissed her. He felt the tension in her face with his lips.

"This
goes without saying, Chris. Be careful. If it doesn't look right; if
anything's on the beach-anything-come straight back. Then we'll do as
you wanted in the first place. We'll lock the gates and sit it out."

He
shot a look back at the caravan. David looked through the end window,
his face pale and frightened.

"I
shouldn't be more than an hour," he said. "Fifteen minutes
there, fifteen minutes back. That gives me thirty to phone the police
and talk to Gateman."

"Careful,
love." She kissed him.

The
closing gate shut off Ruth's worried expression. He didn't move until
he heard the bolts ram home, then he jumped off the causeway onto the
beach.

Low
tide. The sea must have been a good hundred yards from the seafort.
Even so he felt a growing tension as he walked quickly away.

He
kept midway up the beach. It would have been quicker to have crossed
the dunes to Out-Butterwick, but there were too many hollows up there
that could hide ... Well, that could hide something unpleasant. The
memory of the encounter two nights before still left a ragged memory.

When
he looked in the direction of the sea he saw for the first time a
mist drawing in. Even so he could make out seven dark heads in the
surf. From here they could have been seal-heads poking out of the
water.

Could
have been.

He
shivered and quickened his step. Behind him the seafort had become a
huge block resting on the beach, its edges growing fuzzy in the
thickening mist. For a moment he could see Ruth standing on the
seawalls. He saw her arm raised in a slow wave; he waved back.

Then
the mist thickened. He could see her no more.

Chris
glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock.

He
had given no thought to what he would say to the villagers when he
arrived. They were in danger. He knew that. The feeling came in
invisible waves from the sea. You could almost put your hands into
it; a half-solid thing that made the hairs on your neck and body
stand on end. But what was the danger? How could he explain it to the
villagers? If the village had been cut off from the outside world
like Manshead, how would he be able to persuade a mainly aging
population to leave their comfortable homes to go and sleep on the
stone floors of the half-derelict seafort? They would laugh in his
face.

Tightening
his grip on the axehandle, Chris walked faster. Soon the tide would
be on the turn. And whatever was in the water would return with the
incoming sea.

David
climbed the stone steps up to the walkway that ran around the top of
the seafort walls.

His
mum and dad were anxious. He knew that. Like he knew it was something
to do with what they had seen in the sea.

When
he reached the top, he watched his mother for a moment. She leaned
forward onto the wall, chin resting on her hand, looking down the
beach in the direction of the sea.

"Mum
... Where's Dad gone?"

"To
the village. To see Tony Gateman."

"To
hit him with the stick?"

"No
... To talk to him."

"Why?"

"Go
down and play in the caravan. There's a lolly in the breadbin."

Unhappily,
he returned to the caravan below.

Chris
had wondered how he would convince the villagers that they were in
danger. What he saw when he entered the main village street told him
he'd have no problem.

Disembowelled,
lying in the middle of the road in a lake of blood that was turning
from red to black, was the mutilated body of a horse.

He
stopped and stared at it. The tightness in his stomach made breathing
difficult; his mouth turned paper-dry.

What
else would he find in the village? At that moment he wanted ...
longed to turn and run back to the seafort.