Nailed by the Heart (35 page)

Chris
wondered if the man was working up to a sermon against the villagers'
pagan leanings.

As
the Major talked, Chris watched the Vicar sliding along the wall
toward them.

The
old priest looked ill. From his face flared two red-rimmed eyes; the
man's lips were cracked and dry, covered with flaking pieces of skin.

"Padre,"
acknowledged the Major with a nod, and walked away to rally his
imaginary troops.

The
Reverend Reed hugged the Bible to his chest and glared at them. His
voice was a dry-throat whisper:

"Why
have you ignored me?"

Chris,
Ruth and Tony exchanged puzzled glances.

"We
haven't," said Ruth gently.

"Oh.
... You have, you know, my dear. The times I've watched you all.
Huddled away as thick as thieves, whispering away."

The
Vicar caught Chris's expression. "No, I'm not mad. Or even drunk
this time ... wish I was. No. Listen to me." Tony had begun to
turn away. "Listen to me, Mr. Gateman. I've had to be content to
stand by and allow you to treat me like some innocent virgin while
you gossiped about sex. ... Now isn't that true, Mr. Gateman? Mr and
Mrs Stainforth? You've not once asked me to contribute to your secret
little meetings. Why? Because I am what they call a man of the cloth?
Because I would be shocked by what you had to say about the nature of
this place? About that man's beliefs." He used the Bible to
point at Tony.

Chris
spoke. "Look, Reverend. ... We haven't questioned your beliefs.
All I'm interested in is keeping us alive. You know we are low on
food and fresh water. What I'm-"

"Listen
..." Tony interrupted. "The times, Reverend Reed, I have
tried to tell you what was happening here at Manshead. That there was
some ... force building. That this was a pagan holy place. But you
closed your mind to it. You fucking well didn't want to know. Now
it's coming. And there's nothing you, your Bible, your candles, your
fucking holy water can do about it. Now if you want to hide your head
in the sand, be my guest."

"Good
heavens. I am not saying I do not believe you, Mr. Gateman. That is
just the point. Look at me." He held out his trembling hands,
the Bible almost slipping from his fingers. "Look at me.
Gateman, I am admitting I am wrong." He held up the Bible above
his head. "How many times have I read this? How many years have
I believed? Since I was a tiny child! How many years did I study at
theological college? How many sermons have I written? How many
baptisms, weddings, funerals, harvest festivals? Christian ritual
after Christian ritual. And now at last I stand on top of this wall
and say here in this place I have been wasting my life. Because I
know this"-he slapped his palm down onto the Bible.-"I know
this does not matter here. It is irrelevant. It may as well be
written in Chinese. Because time and time again here I've had my nose
rubbed in the truth. And that truth is that my Christ, my savior, my
God has no jurisdiction in this place. The father, the son and the
Holy Ghost are not here. They never have been here! What rules
absolutely is Gateman's ugly old god. The foul pagan thing that has
made this place its own garden." He paused, his eyes watering.
"And yes, I admit it, we belong to that ugly, ugly old god."

Suddenly,
with a ferocious swing of his arm, he hurled the Bible over the wall.
It hung for a second in the misty air, its pages flicking through
from Genesis to Revelation. Then it dropped down to the sea.

The
man leaned back against the wall, his arms wrapped around his body as
if trying to comfort the frightened child that must still be there
inside him. He breathed deeply. "Listen to me ... I believe in
the power of this pagan ... beast. Maybe my God is dead, Mr. Gateman.
But I know yours is very much alive. I can feel it here." He
tapped his chest. "It is coming here. Soon. And I know what must
be done. You must make that sacrifice. You have to sacrifice as our
forefathers did. You have to pay the price to the old god: render
unto Caesar that which is Caesar's." The old man looked steadily
at Chris for a moment with raw eyes that bled pure pain.

Then
the old priest said simply: "You have to give the thing what it
wants."

Edgy.

Very
edgy.

Like
a bunch of kids before Christmas Day.

They
found it hard to sit still now. They paced the floor of the gun room
or stared expectantly out of the panoramic window over the
mist-shrouded sea.

Chris
had been trying to persuade Mark to help them with his plan to distil
sea water into fresh water, but the big man had not replied. He lay
on the stone floor under his blanket, not eating, not drinking.

Chris
looked around at the twenty or so villagers restlessly pacing away
the hours until ...

Until
what?

He
wasn't sure whether or not he preferred their silent apathy. At least
when they were like stuffed dummies they didn't make him edgy. Why
stare out of the window like that? There was nothing to see. Just a
few acres of lumpish salt water. The mist effectively sealed them
within a great white-walled box. Now, it seemed, nothing lay beyond
it.

The
Major stood peering out, his dog walking around him, its bright eyes
looking up at his master's face.

He
felt a stab of sudden irrational anger toward the villagers. No, it
wasn't irrational, it was rational. Here he and Ruth were, flogging
their guts out to keep these ungrateful bastards alive. This is our
home. Our food. No one offers to help.

He
shot an angry look around the roomful of people. Faust pining away
beneath his blanket; the mad Major with his fucking useless dog; the
idiot Tamworth girl playing with a grubby doll; the landlord of the
Harbour Tavern, arms folded over his massive gut, mist-watching with
half a dozen others.

As
he turned and walked from the room, his face burning with repressed
fury, the thought occurred to him that maybe he should turf the
bastards out onto the beach and let them fend for themselves.

Outside,
Gateman sat on one of the cannon, smoking one of his panatella
cigars. Got a nice little supply, hasn't he? Couldn't the selfish
little sod have brought something useful? Chris snatched up the huge
hammer he'd left by the seafort doors; his eyes raked the courtyard.
Soon they would have to do something to protect themselves. If not
they would all die here.

Christ,
why did I let Ruth talk me into bringing the worthless bunch of
peasants back here? Some small voice at the back of his head
questioned whether this anger was really justified. Or was the thing
that drove the others to endlessly pace the room or fire their
tempers now beginning to have the same effect on him?

Repressing
the voice, he walked across to the caravan. He owed himself a coffee.

"You've
got to help us."

The
figure Chris crouched beside did not move. Mark's eyes were shut as
he lay on his side, one arm pillowing his head.

"It's
no use," whispered Ruth. "Don't push him."

"But
we've got to do something. We're running short of food and water."

"Why
do you think Tony isn't making any suggestions? You know he'll have
thought it all through. There's nothing we can do."

It
was as if they were parents arguing in whispers over their sleeping
baby, although Chris knew that Mark Faust wasn't asleep. He knew
everything that was going on around them-the villagers eating their
little puddle of baked beans and sausage on paper plates; Ruth and
Chris's hissed conversation above him.

"We
can't kill them." Ruth sounded exhausted. "We've tried and
tried and we can't."

"I
know, but-"

"But
we can do nothing, Chris. Just wait. Perhaps someone will come from
the outside and raise the alarm. Then, yes, thank God, we can leave
that lot out there for someone else to deal with. Until then-"

"No.
... We've got to do something. We ought to be sitting down thinking
how to get a message out. We need to bring help. ..."

"You
sit down, Chris. You work it out. I'm going to sit down before I fall
down."

There
was the sound of tired feet plodding away. Then the grate of heavier
feet turning on the gritty floor. And slowly walking away.

From
the top of the seafort building, Chris watched the dark figures on
the beach in the evening gloom. Streaming great clouds of fog rolled
in from the ocean like a more nebulous surf.

He
chewed the knuckle of his index finger. There had to be a way out of
this. There had to be a way.

Think,
you stupid bastard-think. ...

You've
got to find a way to save your home and your wife and your son.

Think.
... think. ... think ...

Early
evening.

In
the gundeck room, six-year-old David was having a one-sided
conversation with the big figure beneath the blanket.

"Why
don't grown-ups tell children what's going on?" David crouched,
his hands resting on his knees. "I know something's happened.
Bad people won't let us out of here, will they?"

The
big shape under the blanket didn't move.

Behind
David the Major's dog yelped. The people stood looking out of the big
windows over the gundeck. But you couldn't see anything. David had
looked. There was only a bit of sea water and mist. Anyone would
think that the most interesting thing in the world was going to jump
up out of the water.

"I
wish Tony would have a barbecue again. It was brilliant. All that pop
and crisps and burgers. And you pushed me on that swing. Is it still
there, Mark?"

The
only bit of Mark that showed was the black hair sticking out of the
blanket and one hand, fingers half curled.

"Because
someone's not letting us out, we can't go to the shops, can we? So we
can't buy any food. I'm hungry a lot now. But I'm not telling Mum,
because she'll worry. You see, there's not much left in the pantry. I
know it's not my mum or dad's fault. It's those bad men outside. So
I'm going to go to bed now. I won't feel hungry if I'm asleep."
He stood up. " 'Night, Mark."

David
left the gundeck and walked out into the evening gloom. It was quiet.
His dad sat alone on the stone steps. Thinking.

In
the caravan bedroom David pulled off his sweatshirt and jeans and put
on his pajamas. Out of habit he went into the lounge and tried the
television. It didn't work, of course. No electricity.

He
wished he could watch one of his Superman videos. It might make him
feel better. The meals were so small; he felt hungry all the time.
And he'd heard his mum making a noise last night. At first he hadn't
been able to tell what it was. But it had gone on and on and on.

Then
he had recognized the sound.

She
was crying.

Chris
had been sitting for a good half-hour on the stone steps, trying to
hammer out an idea that would get them away from the seafort. It
could only be a matter of time now before the Saf Dar managed to get
inside.

As
he thought, he allowed his eyes to travel up from the cobbled yard
toward the doors into the seafort building. As he looked, a massive
figure moved out from the shadows, swaying weirdly as if walking was
something new and strange.

He
jerked to his feet in a single spasmodic movement.

Jesus,
they're inside! The thought cracked through his head like an
executioner's bullet.

Then
the towering figure moved slowly into the foggy evening light.

Mark
Faust. The figure walked with a swaying motion; life was only just
returning to its limbs. Chris looked across to where Tony Gateman sat
huddled on one of the cannon. He too had noticed his old friend. ...
the big man had come back to life. Now he moved with a purpose in
mind.

Mark
headed straight for the caravan, where Ruth was boiling water for an
ever-weaker coffee.

Chris
followed the big man inside.

Mark
looked around the caravan slowly, his face drawn, the stubble now a
beard.

"I
reckon I'm owed some coffee," he rumbled, "and some food."