by Simon Clark
Tom took a deep breath. Perhaps that deep, bass rumble of boulders in the river had prompted those strange thoughts. To prevent himself falling back into that disquieting mindset, he started walking.
Tom needed to visit Chester Kenyon in order to have a conversation that was as important as it was overdue. Then he decided he would heed the war veteran’s warning about getting out of Danby-Mask – river levels were rising fast. And all the time the angry rumbling continued. It sounded like an argument of the gods.
Tom headed in the direction of the Kenyon workshop. Already, the floodwaters followed along the pavement. So far the water was only an inch deep. But he knew full well the worst was yet to come.
THIRTY-NINE
Chester Kenyon boiled the kettle for coffee. Tom produced the cherry pie. Meanwhile, raindrops hit the workshop’s roof with a hard clatter.
Tom liked Chester. He didn’t want to fall out with him over Nicola Bekk. He suspected that Chester felt the same way. The man kept his lips pressed together as he poured boiling water into the mugs. He looked like someone who really wanted to speak, only he knew whatever he did say would come out all wrong and make the situation worse.
So what is the situation? Tom asked himself as he put the pie on a plate. Chester’s known Nicola since childhood. He believes she’s mentally retarded and can’t speak more than two words in a row, and that she lives with her deranged mother in the forest. Chester worries about me. He thinks I’m going to be in trouble with the police because I’m seeing Nicola. That could be the case if Nicola really was mentally ill. But she isn’t. Nicola is perfectly normal. Hell, she’s perfect. Totally perfect.
Neither had spoken more than a dozen words to each other since Tom walked into the workshop. Chester had continued work on a farmer’s tractor, and after several minutes of that he’d gone to make the coffee. Tom would have left if it wasn’t for the fact that Chester had put two mugs by the kettle.
Chester set the coffees down on the workbench, stared Tom in the eye for a moment, then sighed. ‘Tom. Can we talk without you blowing a valve?’
‘Are you saying I’ve got a temper?’
He sighed again. ‘Temper times ten.’
‘I hadn’t noticed. I always thought I was one of the mild-mannered types.’
‘In your dreams, Tom. Sometimes you make erupting volcanoes look tame.’
‘Only when people are deliberately not listening to what I’m telling them.’
‘You’ve got a temper, bud. A ten-megaton temper.’ He examined the cherry pie. ‘You should take that back to the baker’s. A rat or something’s taken a bite.’
‘That something was me.’
Chester smiled. ‘Yeah, likewise. I can resist anything but temptation.’
‘Wilde?’
‘No, I’ve just got a bloody monster of an appetite.’
‘No, I meant Wilde . . . Oscar Wilde. The “resist anything but temptation” line?’
Chester shrugged a beefy shoulder. ‘Oscar Wilde? Does he come from Leppington? They’re a strange lot from there; I never have anything to do with folk from Leppington. Neither should you.’
This was Chester’s jokey way of breaking the ice. ‘Now that we’re talking properly,’ Tom said, ‘we need dishes for the pie.’
‘Half each?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I get the half that hasn’t had the bite out of it?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Alright.’ Chester’s eyes gleamed at the big cherry pie with its tempting golden crust. ‘You know what’ll go with this?’
‘Some cream?’
‘Clotted cream. Ma’s got some in the fridge. I’ll be right back.’
Chester headed for the Kenyon family’s house, which stood behind the workshop.
Tom had been working on a plan. He’d ask the big man to come along to Mull-Rigg Hall. The rotten weather was a pain, because he’d decided to hold a barbecue. But never mind. He’d persuade Chester to meet up with Nicola over a couple of beers. Chester would find out that she was perfectly normal. Eventually, he’d learn that Mrs Bekk was to blame. She’d terrified Nicola with stories about the villagers being child-killers and so on when she was a young girl. No wonder Nicola Bekk had been unable to speak at school. Nicola had been terrified to the point of being struck speechless. That had led to her growing increasingly isolated from the other children.
Tom sipped his coffee. He was enthusiastic about his plan. No obstacles stood in his way now. He’d persuade Chester that Nicola was one hundred per cent normal.
Chester jogged in through the door, shaking the rain from his hair. ‘Cats and dogs.’ He laughed.
‘Aren’t you worried about the flood?’
‘Oh, the Five Year Sop? That’s what they call it round here.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Nah. We’ve never been flooded here at the workshop. The water gets into the bottom half of the graveyard and no further.’ He clinked the dishes down on to the workbench. ‘Though it makes you wonder what those graves are like when the ground’s waterlogged. All those coffins filling up with water. All those bones and body parts getting all juicy. Masses of wet skulls. It’d look like the cherries in that pie.’
‘Thank you for that image.’ Tom smiled. ‘I’ve a good mind to give you the half with my bite out of it.’
‘No way. There’s the cream, help yourself.’
‘Cheers.’
Chester grunted, ‘Uh, there’s an old blanket in the store room. Will you do me a favour and get it? I’ve been working on that tractor, and I’ve got oil all over my backside for some reason. Dad’ll go krang if I sit on these chairs and get them clarted with oil.’ He grinned. ‘Clarted. A Yorkshire word for getting coated or covered.’ He dipped his finger into cherry syrup oozing from the pie. ‘Ooops . . . . just got myself clarted with cherry.’
‘In the store room, you said?’ Tom asked.
‘Yeah, through the door in the corner.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll cut the pie. That way I avoid the bit you’ve gnawed on.’
Tom opened the door and clicked on the light. ‘Where did you say the blanket was?’
‘In a box . . . Back of the store.’
Tom stepped inside. ‘Are you sure? There’s only bits of old engine in here.’
The door slammed shut behind him.
‘Hey!’ Tom laughed, thinking that Chester was playing a joke. ‘You’re not getting that pie all to yourself.’
A key turned in the lock at the other side.
‘Sorry, Tom,’ Chester said through the panels. ‘You’re staying here until you promise me you’re never going to see Nicola Bekk ever again.’
FORTY
He’s actually locked me in here. Chester’s supposed to be my friend, and he’s gone and locked me up in this stinking room.
Tom Westonby stared in disbelief at the thick wooden door. Surely, there’d be the click of the lock, the door would swing open, and there’d be Chester’s broad smiling face. After that, they’d laugh, Tom would playfully thump Chester on the arm, then they’d get back to that cherry pie topped with delicious clotted cream.
Only, the door stayed locked.
Tom rattled the handle. The thing was covered in rust and cobwebs. Spiders scurried over the door panels. They weren’t used to human visitors in their fusty-smelling domain.
‘Hey, Chester. A joke’s a joke, OK? Time to let me out.’
A muffled voice came back: ‘I’m serious about this, Tom. You’re my friend. OK, it sounds soft and dopey, but I care about you.’
‘So unlock this damn door.’
‘You can come out when you promise you’ll break this thing off with Nicola Bekk—’
‘Hey, that’s nothing to do with you!’
‘—and you swear on your mother’s life that you’ll never see Nicola again.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘Nicola Bekk isn’t right in the head. I’m sorry for her. I saw the hell she went through at schoo
l, but she’s trouble. You must tell her it’s over.’
‘It’s her mother that has the problems. Talk to Nicola, and you’ll see for yourself that she’s a lovely, warm-hearted person.’
‘No, Tom. Ask anyone. They’ll back me up. Nicola can’t even string more than a couple of words together, and—’
‘Let me out!’
‘—the police will arrest you. It’s against the law to have sex with someone who’s mentally defective.’
‘Mentally defective? Chester, when I get out of here I’m going to beat the crap out of you! Do you hear? I love Nicola!’
There was a pause. Tom could hear the crackle of rain on the iron roof. The smell of water even reached him here in this fusty little cell at the back of Chester’s workshop.
‘Chester,’ he shouted, ‘are you still there?’
‘Of course I am. I’m your friend, Tom.’
‘Then let me out.’
‘No.’
‘Chester. You damn idiot.’ Tom smashed a wooden crate with a single, furious kick. ‘Damn, damn, damn!’
‘I’m going to leave you to slacken down.’
‘I don’t need to slacken down. I need to get out of here!’
‘Try to relax, Tom. We’ll talk about your infatuation with Nicola.’
‘Infatuation? Didn’t you hear? I love her.’
‘She’s got a hold over you.’
‘When I get out of here I’m going to punch you in the mouth!’
‘That’s another reason why I locked you in there. You might not realize it, Tom, but you’ve got an evil temper. I don’t want to end up in an ambulance.’
‘I’d never hurt you . . .’ His voice trailed away. Haven’t I just threatened to punch him in the mouth? He realized he’d been striding to and fro with his fists clenched. Calm down . . . just get your temper under control. When Chester knows you’re not going to rip his head off, he’ll let you out.
Easier said than done. An inferno had broken out inside his stomach. And the insulting description of Nicola? That did it. Before he could stop himself he kicked the door. Not just once, either. At the fifth savage, full-blooded kick he forced himself to stop. Besides, the solid woodwork had suffered no more damage than a few scuff marks.
He tried to calm himself as he prowled the room. As he did so, he calculated his chances of getting out, other than through the door. He saw a window at one end, but that had iron bars over it. The room itself contained engine parts and a child’s red bike that leaned against one wall.
Tom intended to be perfectly reasonable. But the moment he opened his mouth sheer rage took over. He felt wronged, he felt betrayed. Why does everyone want to interfere with my life? I’ve done nothing to hurt them. This isn’t fair. In fact, it’s cruel. The sense of injustice infuriated him.
‘You can’t stop this!’ he shouted. ‘Do you hear? I’m getting married to Nicola Bekk! Nobody’s going to stop me. Not you! Not my parents! No one!’
FORTY-ONE
In the storeroom, Tom Westonby’s anger gradually subsided. OK, he told himself, Chester shouldn’t have locked me in here. But he thinks he’s trying to help. He’s convinced that he can persuade me to break up with Nicola. All I have to do is get Chester to meet her; he’ll realize she’s not crazy. Then everything will be alright. Tom took a deep breath. He’d be scrupulously diplomatic now. So no more yelling or kicking the door, OK?
‘Nice and easy does it,’ he murmured to himself.
A wise move right now would be to give Chester some space to cool down. Soon Chester will see the absurdity of keeping his friend prisoner, won’t he? After all, he can’t keep me locked up in a workshop forever. DIY jails are the kind of thing neighbours notice before long. Tom smiled. He felt his sense of humour trickling back.
‘We’ll be laughing about this in a few days,’ he said softly to himself. ‘Everything’s going to turn out fine.’
A rumble of thunder suggested that something disagreed.
For the next ten minutes he amused himself by exploring his cell. The door consisted of big old timbers that were hard as iron. The lock was a formidable piece of rustic steelwork, too, so no point in trying to break that. The fact that this place had been used as a strongroom in the past was forcibly reinforced when Tom found an old safe behind a heap of car doors. For a moment, he expected to see the glint of the Kenyon family treasure. What he did find in the unlocked safe were dozens of glass jars containing screws of all different sizes.
On top of the safe sat a huge jack. This monster of a device must have been used to raise trucks so the wheels could be changed. Tom wondered if he could use this big lump of steel to batter down the door. Tom worked out – he was proud of his biceps – but when he tried lifting the jack he could hardly budge the thing.
As he returned to the locked door he heard the rising wail of a siren.
Keeping his tone light, he called out, ‘Chester? What’s happening? Are we under missile attack, or something?’
Chester answered, in relaxed tones: ‘That’s the flood warning. The River Lepping must be breaking its banks.’
‘That’s a worrying sound, Chester. I mean, sirens aren’t things you associate with everything being OK, are they?’
‘It’ll be fine.’
Tom decided to bring a bit more pressure to bear. ‘Chester, I want to confess something right now – being locked in here while a flood siren’s screaming its guts out is making me concerned.’
‘I told you. It’s fine.’
‘If I’m locked in here and the river levels keep rising, I’m going to drown, aren’t I?’
‘Floods never reach the workshop.’
‘There’s always a first time.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘You’re not the one incarcerated in Prison Kenyon.’
At the other side of the door Chester laughed. ‘I’m right here. The key’s in my hand.’
‘Then let me out.’
‘No.’
‘When, then?’
‘Soon. I’ve called up some old school friends. You’ll hear from them what Nicola is like. That she’s . . . you know . . . mentally impaired.’
Tom sighed with frustration, but he managed to keep his cool. For a while, he listened to the siren, screaming out its message of warning: the river’s broken its banks. The flood is coming. Beware, beware, beware! Then Tom had a sudden flash of inspiration. ‘Chester, I need a whiz.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘I do. I’m busting.’
‘There’s plastic bowl in there. Use that.’
Tom slammed his hand against the door. Damn it. He took a deep breath and forced his voice to be conversational. ‘OK. I promise to sit quietly here in my cell and listen to what your old pals have to say. That’s on the strict understanding you talk to Nicola. Do we have a deal?’
Chester didn’t reply. The warning scream of the siren grew even more piercing. There was sense of urgency in the sound – a sense of danger, too.
‘Chester?’
Again, no reply.
‘Chester, are you there?’
Nothing. Only the scream of the siren.
‘Chester!’
Just then came the sound of a bullhorn. He couldn’t make out individual words. Yet the tone said it all. The voice was full of anxiety. There were major complications brewing out there.
Chester! Where are you?
After what seemed minutes rather than seconds, Chester returned to the door. He was breathless and excited sounding. Or is that worried sounding?
‘Tom, listen, there’s a problem.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘Can you hear the loudspeaker? That’s coming from a police car. The flood’s reached houses down by the river. They’re having to evacuate.’
‘OK, then evacuate me, Chester. I want out.’
‘Just another five minutes. My friends will be here by then. They’ll tell you about Nicola.’
‘My God. This is
insane. Unlock the door!’
‘You’ll be safe here.’
‘Chester—’
‘We’re friends, Tom. I don’t want bad things happening to you. And bad things will happen, if you continue having this weird relationship with Nicola Bekk.’
‘In five minutes the village could be underwater.’
‘The floods never touch this street.’
‘Sez you.’
‘Trust me. Now, don’t blow your top, but I’ve got something to say that you won’t like.’ His voice tailed away; he’d got bad news.
‘What is it?’
‘My grandad lives down by the river. I have to drive him up to his friend’s house.’
‘Chester, you can’t leave me locked up here.’
‘I’ll only be five minutes.’
‘Chester—’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be right back.’
Tom glanced up at the bulb that was the only source of light in his improvised prison cell. ‘Does the flood get into the substation? Hey? Won’t there be a power failure? Listen! I’ll be left here in the dark if the electric fails. Chester . . . Chester!’
This time there was no reply. Chester had gone.
FORTY-TWO
‘Do it! Bust out of there! Smash this dump up for good!’ Bolter quivered on the bridge. The brown waters of the Lepping roared through the arches beneath him.
God, this is great! Feel the power of the river. Feel it shake the bridge. This has the raw energy of sex! Bolter loved to watch the river when it became so fat and swollen it turned into a roaring, violent monster.
