by Pete Kahle
There were lumps of flesh on the ground. Lumps of George. Not enough even to be recognisable. Like someone had taken a mincer to the friend he had known since primary school.
He heard Robert breathing loudly. He asked the question they were all thinking. “What… What was that?”
There was silence. Phil thought he heard the soft rustle of something moving in the grass. He took a step backward, away from the bloodied remains of George. He looked sharply to his left and to his right and tried to track the noise.
The stalks of the tall grass waved back and forth, and it was impossible to be certain that the movement was just down to the wind. He wondered if he could really hear the low sound of something breathing just a few feet in front of them. He sniffed but the only scent he could smell was the hot copper of George’s blood.
“Did you see what it did to George?” Harry asked.
Phil closed his eyes and he could see a replay of what had happened, but still what he saw made no sense and so his mind refused to believe it was true. One minute George had been there, five steps ahead of them because he was trying to drag them back to the car so they could get a quick pint at the pub before heading back, and the next moment he was gone.
“It could come back for the rest of us,” Harry said.
Phil wanted to applaud – a slow handclap. Of course whatever had taken George was still out there. He resisted the temptation to mock Harry. George would have been impressed. George had coached him to keep his mouth shut on the trip – that if he couldn’t think of something positive to say then it was better to say nothing at all.
He took another step back and tripped over the pile of fishing gear dumped on the ground. He stopped himself from falling by the stark recognition that if he was flat on his back he would be the next target. He stumbled but stayed upright and he noticed the others watching him.
“We need to tell someone what’s happened,” Robert said.
Phil looked down the narrow canyon. That was the only way out. Their escape would require trekking down the path through the remains of George’s body. Leaving bloody footprints on the ground. Past the creature that had taken George.
“Be my guest,” he said.
“Is there another way out of here?” Harry asked.
Phil shrugged. “Not that I know.”
“But you grew up around here.”
“This was George’s place,” Phil said. Maybe a little harsher than he had to, but he needed them to understand.
“He told me he used to come down here as a kid,” Harry said. There was an accusation buried in the statement.
“I lived in a village ten miles over that way. George came with his dad. I never even liked fishing.”
The noise came from behind the stalks of wheat. Usually he would have dismissed it – just a rabbit scurrying back to its burrow – but now each sound suggested danger. He looked at the trail and was seized by the temptation to run. Drop his head and hammer along the narrow passageway until he reached the road. He would be safe there.
He glanced at the other three and wondered whether they could tell what he was thinking. He tried to judge the distance to the end of the field. He’d never been the fastest at school, but he thought he could cover the distance in twenty seconds. It didn’t sound long, did it? Twenty seconds. But he imagined how it would seem crossing that gap and waiting to feel the hot breath of that thing on the back of his neck.
Phil looked down the canyon, but now that he found himself planning his mad dash over the bloodied remnants of George, he knew he didn’t have the courage to go ahead with it. When Harry said “We can’t stay here,” Phil hid his relief and followed the others past the dump of fishing gear for the relative safety of the rocks.
The grey outcrop jutted into the end of the field and formed a natural barrier to the bay beyond. They had clambered over the granite, laughing and scraping their knees and shins against the sharp surface and cursing George for not arranging a boat trip out, even when he had explained that the tides made it impossible – and that was the beauty of the place.
Harry climbed halfway up the rocks and then stopped. “There’s no point going any further,” he said. “There’s only the bay.” Phil thought about the semi-circle of golden sand where they had spent the last few hours, drinking beer and chasing conversations into rabbit holes. Much of the conversation made little sense to him – in-jokes George shared with the other three. Had shared, Phil thought to himself.
“Maybe we could swim for it?” Robert suggested.
Phil shook his head. “It looks calm enough, but once you get beyond the bay the current would rip your legs out from underneath you and you’d be in the North Sea before you knew what had happened.”
“You said you’d never been here before,” Harry said.
“I’ve lived on this coast all my life. This bay is no different to others. Go ahead and see for yourself.” He waved his hand in the direction of the slit between the rocks where they had squeezed through one at a time, passing the fishing gear over their heads in a human chain.
Phil rested his back against the rock. It was cold and hard but there was something comforting about how physical it was. Since that thing had risen up from the grass it was hard to know what was real anymore.
Robert pulled a phone from his pocket.
“It won’t work,” Phil said.
Robert tried anyway, holding the device high above his head. When he couldn’t get a signal, he slipped between the rocks down onto the sand only to return a few minutes later with a look of defeat etched into his features.
“Instead of telling us what won’t work, why don’t you try coming up with some ideas of your own?” Robert asked. His words were hard nuggets of bitterness.
Phil shrugged. “I don’t have any.”
# # #
He thought he heard Jack’s teeth chattering with the cold, but maybe it was just his own imagination. The light was fading and the air already had a chill about it. No one had spoken for about an hour, not since Harry had suggested that they try and scale the face of the rock and clamber over to the other side. Phil had said nothing about the plan, but he noticed that none of the others were keen to try climbing a sheer rock in the dark. After a few minutes Harry had quietly folded the idea away and sat in a sullen silence.
Occasionally Phil caught one of the others looking at him as if this was his fault. He almost said something to remind them that this trip had been George’s idea, but of course George was beyond reproach now.
“That’s it. I’ve had enough.”
Robert stood up. It was too dark to see him properly but Phil assumed he was striking his ‘Something needs doing and I’m the man to do it’ face. He didn’t know why George had invited him after confiding to Phil over a pint and a Man United match that he thought Robert was a prick.
“What?” Harry asked.
“I’m not going to stay here and wait for that thing to come and get us.”
“So what are you going to do?” Phil asked.
Robert dropped his voice, as if he thought the creature in the field might be listening. “I’m going to creep around the edge of the field. Try and sneak out along the perimeter.”
“Don’t,” Harry said.
“You don’t stand a chance,” Phil told him. His memory replayed the soft whump as the creature had fallen on George. He didn’t like Robert, but that was no reason to wish him dead.
“I have to do something,” Robert said.
“Let him go.”
In the shadows Phil had almost forgotten that Jack even existed. The man had seemed apart from the others all along and even his relationship to George seemed unclear. He didn’t work in the same office as Harry and Robert, or even in the same building. George had said something by way of introduction when they had first met up, but Phil hadn’t been paying attention at the time because it didn’t seem important.
He sat away from the other three in a lair near the top of the rocks.
He spoke with a sneer; everything he said seemed designed to prove how much better he was. His blond hair reminded Phil of the grass, and that seemed to be just one more reason not to like him.
Robert moved from his place on the rock. The way he moved – slow, unsure – suggested to Phil that he was waiting for someone to persuade him out of his mad idea, but instead they watched him.
He clambered down until he stood at the edge of the field. A strip of silver light slashed across the wheat and their gear was a silhouette in the middle of the pale track that ran through the field.
Phil watched the man shuffle away from the safety of the rocks.
“We should stop him,” Harry said, but he didn’t move to do anything.
Yes, we should, Phil thought. He leaned forward. The man was now a dirty smudge against the shadows that infested the field. He paused for a second in the aisle and then turned left and then right, caught by indecision. From where Phil was standing he could tell it didn’t make any difference. On the left, the field dropped into a pool of pure black. Somewhere in that direction there was a forest of thin birch saplings and Phil imagined the man racing between the young trees, trying to get away from the creature. To the right the field of wheat seemed to extend into forever.
“Is he going to…?” Harry started to ask but Phil shushed him into silence. He scoured the field but there was now a dark blanket laid over the landscape. He heard birds nesting in the trees and branches creaking in the wind. He thought he could hear Robert breathing but he understood that this was impossible. What he heard, a low, ragged sound like air dragged through a punctured lung, did not come from the man.
Amongst the shades of black there was movement. Robert was now creeping along the left hand side of the field.
Phil looked at the route. Maybe Robert hoped to make it to the outcrop of trees and gambled on the idea that the creature would not chase him through the forest. Good luck to him, Phil thought. His own assessment of the situation was that Robert would not make another ten yards. He was quiet, quieter than Phil would have expected from a man who looked like he played Forward Prop for a Rugby team, but he was not silent. And Phil wasn’t sure that even silence would have been enough.
When he gets caught, maybe I’ll make a run for it, Phil thought. He felt the muscles in his legs lock at the thought of dashing into that field where the creature stalked.
He’d lost track of Robert. The man was in the darkness. Maybe he’d even made it as far as the trees.
Phil heard the rustle of breaking wheat stalks a fraction of a second before Robert screamed. The man’s cry split the silence, loud as a klaxon. The night air filled with the stink of offal and excrement. Although Phil could see nothing he could picture the scene perfectly in his mind – Robert on his hands and knees, creeping forward, careful not even to break a strand of wheat underneath him, and then above him the creature like a breaking wave; a tsunami of teeth and claws.
# # #
Harry was crying.
It was close to dawn, as far as Phil could tell. He told Harry to keep quiet. He even threatened him with the creature and said that if he didn’t shut up it would come out of the grass and find them wedged between the rocks. And did he want that? Did he want to be the cause of all their deaths?
Phil could hear the hysteria in his own voice even though he didn’t believe his own warning. If the creature had been able to reach them, then it would have come during the night. They were safe amongst the rocks, he was sure of that. Still, that didn’t stop him issuing the threat.
“Leave him alone,” Jack said.
“Why?” Phil asked.
“Because it doesn’t make any difference.”
Harry was oblivious to the conversation around him. His sobs grew quieter until he was breathing heavily.
Phil clambered over the rocks and scrambled down onto the beach. The sand still held their marks from the previous day; scuffed grooves in the sand. They had come over the rocks, leery with the excitement of entering this secret place. George had been the loudest, his voice carried out over the sand and Phil recalled thinking that he couldn’t remember when he had last heard George sounding so joyous. Maybe it was all the crap from the job, maybe it was the stuff with Hazel that he dodged talking about any time Phil tried to bring up the subject. George had been happy, truly happy.
The first rays of sunlight stained the edge of the horizon. They filtered across the sea, picking out the tops of white-crested waves a long way from shore.
Maybe Harry was right – maybe they should try and swim for it. He looked at the rocks that curved out on both sides of the small bay and wondered whether it might be possible to cling onto the side. He knew the answer. You didn’t grow up this close to the sea and not understand the power of water pounding against a granite rock. He’d been brought up with enough tales of ships smashed into driftwood by the waves. If he closed his eyes he could visualize his own body lying on a beach somewhere further down the coast, every bone in his body broken and the soft tissue; his eyes, his lips; his ears, eaten by the fishes.
He turned his back on the sea and climbed over the rocks. When he returned to his place it was as if he had never left. Neither Harry nor Jack said anything about his absence.
He waited for the sun to rise up above the rocks and wash the ground. The shadows over the field drew back to reveal the bloody patch where George had been taken. Blood streaked over the crop but to Phil it looked like a dirty smudge, the sort of stain to be wiped away with a damp cloth.
It took him a few minutes to work out where Robert had reached when the creature came for him. It was a spot off to the left, almost as far as the trees.
The break in the wheat field came agonizingly close; no more than ten feet short of the forest. Phil wondered whether Robert had been able to see the thin silver trunks of the birch trees beyond. Had he made a mad, final dash over the last few feet? And when the monster came for him, did he even know? Did he hear its breath through the tall stalks of wheat? Did he smell it approach? Or was he oblivious right up to the moment when it pounced and ripped him apart?
It was such a slight thing, that break in the field of wheat. It was so easy to ignore.
Harry was sleeping. He lay in an awkward position, his spine curved against the rocks. It looked uncomfortable, painful even. His eyes twitched under their lids and Phil imagined that, in his sleep, the man was running in terror.
Phil stood over him. He could pick up a stone and dash the man’s brains out. Maybe it would be a mercy killing.
He found himself looking around for an appropriate rock. There was one not far from where Harry lay; it was the size of a tennis ball. He stood over Harry for a moment, feeling the weight dragging at the muscles of his arms. He watched Harry breathing; a shallow, ugly sound as he dragged each new breath into his lungs and then pushed it back out again.
It would be a simple thing.
Phil closed his eyes. He’d never killed anything before. Well, nothing of note. There were flies and wasps and fish… small things. Creatures of no consequence. He wondered whether that was how the creature in the field thought of them; as small things of no consequence.
When he opened his eyes, Harry was awake and staring up at him.
Phil threw away the rock and stood there, his hands open wide, dirt clinging to his palms. He waited for Harry to accuse him, but the silence dragged on. Phil wanted him to say something, and still the man lay below him. Silent; the perfect victim.
He turned away and climbed down until the crushed wheat stalks were beneath his feet. He looked out over the field. He envied George. No, not just envy – he was angry at him. He’d brought them here and now he was gone. For George it had been over in a fraction of a second, not even long enough to taste fear at the back of his mouth.
The grass rustled. Maybe it was just the wind.
# # #
“Someone will come looking for us,” Harry said.
Phil shrugged, remembering a furt
ive discussion in a pub after too many pints on a Friday night. Remembering the flash of excitement in George’s eyes as he spoke about the bay and how it was his bay – that in all the years he had been going there he had never seen anyone else.
Phil glanced over. The man was pale. There were dark rings around his eyes.
“Maybe it’s gone,” Harry said.
Phil thought he sounded desperate, but he didn’t say anything. If that was what Harry needed to believe then it wasn’t his place to tell him otherwise. Phil bit hard on his lower lip. He tried. He really, really tried. He stared into Harry’s watery eyes and tried to imagine him as a small child who just didn’t know any better.
And then he said it anyway. “Go ahead and find out.”
The remaining colour fled from Harry’s face.
Phil wanted to apologize, but he couldn’t get the words straight in his head. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be cruel. Anything he tried sounded clunky and insincere. Instead he climbed down to the ground so he didn’t see Harry trying not to cry.
He stood on the edge of the field, the grass close enough that he could touch it. His hair bristled and it reminded him of standing too close to pylons where the air was charged with electricity. He peered into the grass.
A set of blue eyes stared back at him.
Phil staggered backwards and almost lost his footing. His arms flailed at his sides but his fists closed on nothing. He scrambled across the ground and when the back of his legs touched the cold, hard stone of the rock he cried out.
“What is it?” Harry asked.
Phil didn’t dare turn his back on the field. He stared into the grass but the blue eyes were gone. He wondered if they were still watching him. Measuring him.
Phil dragged himself off the ground and climbed higher, until he reached the peak where Jack was still sitting. He looked out over the grass, but there was no sign of any movement.
“Did it scare you?” Jack asked.
