by Simon Clark
‘Are you sure you can eat steaks?’ Nicola shared his cheerful spirits. ‘That breakfast you put away was colossal.’
‘Of course I can. Besides, it’ll be hours before the steaks have soaked up the wine and all that herb stuff.’
As he brewed up more coffee she lightly rested her hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m going to paddle in your pool again.’
‘You go paddle the life out of the thing. Enjoy yourself.’ He grinned. ‘Party time!’
‘Thank you, Tom, I’m really loving this.’
‘We’re going to enjoy today like it’s the last day of our lives.’
‘That sounds grim. The last day of our lives?’
‘Ah . . . I know a diver who’s had one near-death experience too many.’
‘Scuba-diving sounds dangerous.’
‘It’s not, as long as you don’t get careless. Anyway, whenever we went for a night out with this guy, Dave Grice was his name, he’d be enjoying himself, laughing, having a brilliant time, then suddenly Dave’d shake his head like this.’ Adopting a mournful, hangdog expression, Tom sadly shook his head in imitation of the fatalistic diver. ‘Then he’d always say these words: it’s like I’m being given one last good time before I die. One last party spree before they nail down my coffin lid.’
‘My God.’ She laughed with a quirky mixture of shyness and glee that appealed to Tom. He liked it when she did that. Pretty – amazingly pretty. ‘What a mournful thing to say! Is he still working as a diver?’
Tom sighed. ‘I find it hard to put into words what happened to Dave Grice.’
‘What did happen?’
‘Well, we were diving on a wreck . . . when all of a sudden Dave screamed out that his air valve was stuck. But that’s not the worst part . . . I still can’t believe what I saw next.’
‘He wasn’t hurt?’
‘Hurt? No, far worse. The aqualung valve stuck open, and air kept gushing into his mouthpiece, he couldn’t shut it off. I watched as he . . . No, it’s too terrible to describe.’
‘Oh . . .’
‘But as I’ve started telling you, I’ll finish.’
‘You don’t have to, Tom.’
‘Poor Dave. Anyway, the valve stuck open. The air from the aqualung kept gushing into his lungs. Of course, he got bigger and bigger until something went pop and . . .’ Tom made a colossal farting sound with his lips while pretending to watch an object zipping crazily round the kitchen.
‘Tom Westonby!’ she squealed. ‘You pig. You had me believing you!’
He doubled up with laughter.
Nicola splashed water at him from the sink. ‘You’ll suffer for that,’ she cried, laughing all the time.
‘You’ll suffer right back.’ He scooped up a cup full of dishwater.
She fled shrieking from the house. Her blonde hair fluttered in the warm summer breeze. He loved to hear her laughter. This was fun – sheer, carefree fun.
Nicola darted for the pond, flicking off her sandals, before wading out until almost knee deep. There in the crystal-clear pool she kicked her feet. Drops of spring water glittered like crystals in the sunlight. He didn’t avoid the spray.
In fact, he advanced right into the deluge, laughing all the time. This was glorious. He loved the drenching she gave him. What better way to get joyously soaked.
She stopped kicking and stood there panting. ‘You didn’t tell me what happened to Dave Grice.’
‘Oh, he’s still out there somewhere, making a living as a pro diver.’
‘Idiot.’ Playfully, she kicked more droplets over Tom. ‘You really had me believing that he’d blown up like a balloon. I’d decided to persuade you to get a job in an office where you’d be safe.’
‘An office? I’m not going into an office without a fight. I’ll be a diver until they stick me in the ground.’
‘I can believe it.’ She gave him a knowing smile. ‘You always get what you want, don’t you?’
‘I do. I most definitely do.’
THIRTY-ONE
Tom asked himself: did I get my own way? Or did Nicola get hers?
Both of them were dripping wet in the garden when she kissed him on the mouth. That particular type of kiss: one that’s deep, hungry; almost a feeding movement of the mouth; one with pressure. Urgency. Need. Tom was no innocent boy. He knew what that kind of kiss signposted.
He lightly slid his fingers into the blonde hair that had been transformed into soft ringlets by the spring water. Her face was so close that he saw her smooth skin in close-up. A tiny freckle, then a glint of pale blue eye, the flash of white teeth as she broke the kiss for a moment so she could gently press the side of her face against the side of his.
‘I think it’s time that you should . . .’ She kissed him again. ‘That we should . . . OK?’
Communication had moved beyond the realm of verbal language. He understood what the kisses, gestures and those few wonderfully precious words of hers meant.
From the garden to the bedroom took no time at all. There they undressed each other.
The soft curves of her naked body made his heart pound. The excitement electrified him. Yet he didn’t rush. A full summer’s day stretched ahead in all its glory, all its warmth, all its promise of wonderful love-making.
He gently stroked her breasts and was astonished by the darkness of her nipples. He noticed a small pink scar on her forearm – an old wound inflicted by a sadistic bully from Danby-Mask? When he lightly touched the scar she took his hand and guided it downwards over the smooth skin of her stomach.
She whispered, ‘There’s nothing for you to worry about.’
‘The scar?’
‘That’s nothing. It’s in the past. I want you to enjoy being here with me now.’
Nicola rested her head back on the pillow. She smiled up at him. This time she waited for him to make the next significant move. As he embraced her she sighed with pleasure. If there ever was a time to preserve a sensation of physical pleasure forever this was it. Tom Westonby felt as if he’d stolen a piece of heaven all for himself.
Tom Westonby couldn’t remember having such a wonderful day equal to this one. The barbecue was perfect. The steaks sizzled to perfection. Salad added a refreshingly crisp accompaniment. He didn’t even feel the bruises on his face, or the V-cut on his lip. The attack on him by the four thugs didn’t feature at all in the conversations, or even in his own memory.
What made the day so wonderful was Nicola Bekk. Lovely, blonde-haired, blue-eyed Nicola Bekk. They’d spent the morning laughing and splashing about in the clear spring-water pond; it had more than a passing resemblance to chilled white wine.
Then, oh glory of glories, they’d spent the afternoon in bed. He couldn’t erase those images of her naked body from his mind – not that he’d want to – or those warm sensations of physical intimacy. The feel of her smooth skin, the silken parts that he loved to caress softly.
That evening, when they’d left the bedroom, they’d glided about the house as if they were floating on air. After the meal, they arranged comfortably padded loungers side-by-side beneath the apple trees and lazed an hour or so away. The sun shone through the branches. Birds wheeled round and around in a blue sky. Honeybees hummed gently and soothingly amongst sprays of bright yellow flowers.
This isn’t a bad way to spend a day, Tom told himself. In fact, it’s a brilliant way to spend a day. Great food, great weather, great company. Fantastic love-making.
Casually, he rolled his head to one side as he reclined there. Nicola lay with her eyes lightly closed. He found himself examining the profile of her face. When a red ladybird landed on a strand of hair he carefully removed the insect without her even noticing. Gently, he opened his hand, allowing the ladybird to fly away. Nothing must break this magic spell of happiness.
Later in the evening they returned the barbecue to the garage, where Nicola noticed a large box full of certificates and framed photos.
‘You might want to move this box,’ she told
Tom. ‘Rainwater’s leaked under the garage door; the cardboard’s wet.’
‘Ah, my parents’ Modesty Box.’
‘Pardon?’
He pulled out a framed photograph. ‘These were given to my parents as thank yous from people in Africa.’
‘When they worked for the water charity?’
‘That’s right. They dug wells and piped in clean, bug-free water.’
‘These are amazing.’ She picked out an inscribed parchment from a grateful tribal leader. ‘Why don’t they keep them in the house?’
He shook his head. ‘This is the Modesty Box. That’s what I call it, anyway. They won’t even put these photographs on the walls.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Because it would be showing off. Dad doesn’t like any fuss about the fantastic stuff he does.’
‘I like the sound of him. He’s a good man.’
‘He is.’
‘So learn to be proud of him.’
‘I am proud. It’s just sometimes I wish he’d boast about what he and my mother have done. They’ve dug two hundred wells in Africa. They’ve replaced dirty, baby-killing scum with clean, life-saving water. They saved thousands of lives. That’s a brilliant achievement. It’s amazing. And here’s evidence of all that brilliant work in a box, dumped in some grubby corner of a garage.’
‘Tom, I don’t understand why your father’s modesty makes you so angry.’
‘He doesn’t brag like some guys I meet, who boast about any bit of crap that they’ve achieved, like winning three games of pool in a row, or brown-nosing their boss into giving them a two-bit nameplate for their desk. Get this: my father saves entire townships and he’d prefer not to even mention it. He’s awarded medals and certificates from presidents and kings, and he rams them away into this box like they’re a guilty secret.’
‘Try and understand him, then.’
‘I do try, but I can’t find the motor inside his head that drives him.’
‘You’re just like your father.’ Her blue eyes held his. ‘But instead of saving people in Africa you’ve a compulsion to save me.’
Tom couldn’t have been more shocked if she’d slapped him. ‘I love you, Nicola. I’m not trying to prove to my dad, or to myself, that I’m better at rescuing people than he is.’
‘Then slacken down.’ She smiled to defuse the tension. ‘Let’s not spoil the best day of my life.’
‘You can’t say that – it’s my line. I was thinking this is the best day of my life.’
‘Come on, there’s strawberries in the fridge. We’ll finish those off.’
‘OK – but “slacken down”?’ He grinned. ‘Where do you get these phrases?’
‘Ah, that’s local lingo. Slacken down. Meaning relax, don’t blow a wire.’
‘Then I’ll slacken down.’ He moved the treasure chest of photographs and prestigious awards on to a shelf where they’d be safe from the damp. ‘Maybe Dad will even let me put some of these in the house – unobtrusively, of course.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll find a cover for the Modesty Box. You grab those strawberries.’
His spirits rose again as he headed out of the garage. He’d no sooner walked on to the drive when he heard a voice call to him: ‘Tom . . . hey, Tom!’
He turned to see Chester Kenyon ambling up the driveway. ‘Hi, Tom. I thought I’d drop by.’ The big man let out a whistle. ‘What the heck’s happened to your face!’
‘Some idiots from the village don’t like my choice of friends.’
‘They made a mess of you, Tom. Have you reported it to the police?’
‘No, I’m going to settle this myself.’
‘Don’t go starting wars. These vendettas have a way of getting out of hand.’
‘Great to see you, Chester. Is there anything special you want, or . . .?’
‘Nah, just checking you’re OK. When you didn’t show up for quiz night at the pub I thought . . .’ Chester’s voice drained away. So did the smile on his face.
Tom saw what Chester had just noticed: Nicola stepping out from the garage.
‘Aw, Tom.’ Chester’s expression was one of total shock. ‘I warned you, didn’t I? If you keep seeing Nicola Bekk, you’re going to be in so much trouble. Man, you’re heading for disaster!’
Tom saw a brilliant opportunity. ‘Chester, talk to Nicola.’
‘No way.’
‘Do it. You’ll find out for yourself that she’s perfectly normal.’
Chester stared at her; he didn’t say a word. So Tom turned to Nicola.
‘Nicola. Talk to Chester. Prove that you’re just like us.’
With her eyes locked on Chester, as if afraid he’d suddenly attack her, she backed away a few paces, then she turned and fled into the house.
‘Trust me, Chester, Nicola can speak like anyone else. She’s perfect; she—’
Tom was talking to himself, because Chester had run to where he’d parked his van. Soon it roared away in the direction of Danby-Mask. Now he was alone with Nicola again. It was as if they lived in their own self-contained universe, while the rest of humanity shunned them.
Then something strange happened: Tom Westonby realized he did not mind one bit. Being alone with Nicola was wonderful. He loved it. While they were together like this it seemed impossible that a disaster could ever befall them. They were safe from any danger the world could throw at them. Weren’t they?
THIRTY-TWO
After Nicola went home, Tom strolled through the orchard at Mull-Rigg Hall with a big smile on his face. He even ran his thumb over his lips to feel the size of that huge, carefree grin. Nicola made him happy.
For no real reason Dave Grice’s words popped into this head. He even imagined the hangdog face, and droopy eyes, as Dave shook his head at some joyous social gathering and intoned the mournful words: it’s like I’m being given one last good time before I die. One last party spree before they nail down the coffin lid.
Even at that moment, Tom Westonby wondered if those lines ghosting through his head were a kind of prophecy. A whisper from the dark side: to beware of coming danger. Maybe there are times when future events can be so full of horror and terror that they send vibrations back into the past – and those ominous vibrations touch the nerves of those people who will experience the terrors first hand.
He switched on the radio and played the music loud, determined not to allow such morbid thoughts to poison a wonderful day. After that, he treated himself to a late-evening snack from the fridge, and he wondered what the future would bring with Nicola Bekk.
On the far side of midnight he heard the pounding. A fist on wood. Still in an unearthly mixture of deep sleep and suddenly springing awake he found himself halfway across the bedroom before he’d fully come to his senses. The thump of fists on the door continued. They possessed a frenzied urgency.
‘I can hear you!’ he shouted as he dragged on jeans and a T-shirt.
The pounding grew louder; even more frantic. The noise pulsated with anxiety.
Tom ran down the steps, thinking: there’s been an accident. This is the police. They’re here with bad news. This is about my family . . . . Bad news about my family.
A pain lanced through his head. The staircase writhed like the back of a snake. He realized he wasn’t completely over the concussion yet. Those thugs had pounded his skull with a passion. Lights flickered behind his eyes again, while a headache raged. The pain made him clench his fists.
Whoever beat their fists against the woodwork renewed their assault. Dear God, the noise was like thunder. He crossed the hallway, unlocked the door and hauled it open.
Mrs Bekk stood there. Her white hair glinted in the darkness. Her eyes were shockingly huge as she stared at him.
Gulping in the night air, he tried to steady his heart, which pounded like fury. ‘Mrs Bekk? What’s wrong? Is it Nicola?’
‘Yes,’ she hissed.
‘What’s happened to her?’
‘You best come and find out f
or yourself. Although I’ll give you this warning: you won’t like what you see. Because you’re going to have the shock of your life!’
THIRTY-THREE
She asked: ‘Can’t you walk faster?’
‘Mrs Bekk, where are you taking me?
‘Stay close. If you don’t, I can’t promise to keep you safe.’
‘Keep me safe? We’re only walking through the wood.’
Five minutes ago, Tom had answered the pounding on the front door of Mull-Rigg Hall. He’d found Mrs Bekk there, a wild look in her eye. Then she’d told him to follow her.
All he knew was that this involved Nicola in some way. That’s the reason why he followed Mrs Bekk through the forest after midnight. The moon shone through breaks in the cloud. That lunar glow made the leaves glitter as if they were cast from silver. When the cloud obscured the moon the trees became black.
‘Mrs Bekk, what’s happened to Nicola?’
‘You’ll see for yourself.’
‘Has she been hurt?’
‘Once you see with your own eyes, you’ll believe everything I’ve told you. Everything!’
‘Mrs Bekk—’
‘Stay close, Mr Westonby, otherwise you’ll be in danger.’
What could he do, other than follow the woman?
What if she’s attacked Nicola? She was so dead against us seeing one another that she might have hurt her. Tom found himself picturing a horrific scenario: Mrs Bekk and Nicola argue. Nicola tells her mother that she loves Tom. A flash of a knife. Then screams – there’s blood on the floor.
Tom Westonby felt sick. He realized that he hadn’t yet recovered from the beating. He displayed renewed symptoms of concussion. His vision became blurred again. Glittering sparks danced behind his eyes. Every so often, he needed to pause to hold on to a tree so he wouldn’t fall over. On top of all that, he suffered a monster headache. The intensity of the pain made it easy to imagine that a madman was slowly sawing his skull in half.
‘Keep up, Mr Westonby.’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ Troubling thoughts of Nicola lying in a pool of blood drove him forward. ‘I’ll be fine.’
