Max Gilbert

by Simon Clark

  "Now, what was that?" He reached down under the boat again, his hand clutching at sea water.

  Nothing.

  Probably just a stalk of sea kelp floating by.

  He stood up, flicking the water from his hand, then drying it with a rag.

  "Reckon it's Davy Jones up to his old tricks again."

  He reached the next lobster pot, caught the plastic bottle marker floating on the dead-calm surface, and began pulling in the line.

  Blackwood returned to his singing again. Then he stopped. The line had snagged. He pulled harder. It still held firm.

  He was just about to yank it when the line cracked tight, jerking his hands down toward the water.

  "Ach ... Damn, damn-damn!"

  He let go of the line and watched as the slack he'd already pulled on board shot over the gunwale and disappeared, taking the bottle marker with it.

  He looked over the side. The bottle had disappeared.

  The sod had actually sunk like it was made out of stone.

  Incredulous, Blackwood shook his head. "Well, I've never seen that before. Something pulled that bugger straight down ... Hmm, we've got something bloody peculiar going on here ... Ach, that's sore."

  He looked at his fingers. A friction burn ran across them in a raw-looking groove. It began to burn like hellfire.

  The fisherman knelt down and reached over the side of the boat again to dip his hand into the water. He stayed there for a moment, letting the cold ocean take the fire out of the burn.

  "Suzy ... What did I say about it being a good day? That sod nearly burnt away my finger ... But what the hell could snag the line and yank it down like that? Mmm ... Might be submarine trouble again. Last year old Bob ended up with a periscope through his keel. If the bloody Navy want to-"

  Blackwood stopped and stared down at his hand in disbelief. It was below the surface of the water; he could see nothing, but-

  "That's odd. You know, old girl, it feels as if someone's holding my-Christ!"

  It had him.

  He tried to pull back his hand.

  He couldn't-something held it there beneath the water. For all the world it felt as though another hand were gripping his. Strong fingers around his fingers ... Shark? Conger eel? It had to be-

  Get it out of there! Get it out!

  Blackwood wrenched backward until his back muscles creaked.

  He couldn't shift it.

  He strained harder. He could see nothing, but now the water swirled and boiled under the boat like big fish in a feeding frenzy.

  "Let go ... Let go ..."

  The pull on his hand increased. The boat began to tip sideways. She was going to capsize.

  Blackwood shifted his balance so he could pull harder, his mind spinning like fury.

  Something was trying to drag him overboard... . Something wanted him in the water. ... Something ...

  "Let go!"

  But the hand only tightened around his. Then pulled harder.

  Now his face was nearly in the water that threshed and bubbled to foam.

  He felt the boat tipping; now he was lying at an angle so steep his blood ran from his legs to his head. The lobsters slid from the catch-box back into the ocean.

  His face was an inch from the churning sea that splashed his head and neck.

  "Get off... Get off ... Getoff!"

  He panted and choked as the sea splashed into his mouth. Any second now.

  Any second now Suzy would roll over and he'd be trapped beneath her. Alone with her and whatever was in the water, unseen, pulling him down.

  He didn't see it come. But suddenly he felt a blow to his face; followed instantly by a pain that pierced his right eye.

  "Christ!"

  The water churned white. The heavy catch-box rolled over his back and into the sea.

  Why could he no longer see out of his right eye? He blinked to try to clear it. Why did it hurt? Why-

  He was still blinking when the second blow came. This time to his left eye. Again came the piercing pain as if something sharp had been driven into the eyeball.

  Now the foaming white had gone. There was only a throbbing dark, blotched with red.

  With a mighty pull, the fisherman freed his hand. With the release the boat slapped back level onto the water.

  And then it was still-and silent. The ferocious threshing of the ocean had stopped.

  Henry Blackwood shakily pulled himself up onto the bench seat that ran across the middle of the boat.

  He lifted his fingers to his face and felt his eyes.

  "Blind ... I'm blind, old girl. ..." His voice was a dry whisper. "How are we going to get home, girl?"

  He sat there for a full three minutes, whispering over and over, "Who's done this to us, girl? Who's done this to us?"

  Then he felt the boat dip beneath him.

  He tilted his head to one side, listening. A low splash, then the sound of water dripping on water.

  The boat dipped down.

  Someone's pulling us down ...

  No ... No. Someone is climbing into the boat.

  He did not move. He did not speak. He did not show any sign that he had heard anything at all.

  He just used all his thirty years' experience as a fisherman to sense what was happening-and where.

  At the prow, someone was pulling themself onto his boat. On to his Suzy.

  Slowly he let his hand fall to his side.

  The oar. His fingers tightened around the timber shaft.

  Still pretending he'd noticed nothing, he waited until the time was right.

  Then in an explosive moment he was on his feet, picking up the heavy oar and swinging it in a tremendous arc; the oar buzzed through the air.

  It hit something wet. Something not hard nor completely soft. Something that felt like-

  "A man. A sodding man ... I got him, Suzy." Blackwood heard the satisfying splash of the man falling back into the water, no doubt with a mess of broken ribs to nurse on his homeward journey.

  It happened again. The tilting of the boat as another climbed on. The fisherman swung the oar again, hitting the man. Again the splash.

  "If only I could see the bastards. I'd bust their bleeding skulls." He panted and swung again. The oar cracked against flesh. And yet there were no cries of pain even though the blows were hard enough to snap bones.

  "Who are they, Suzy? Why are they doing this to us?"

  Drug smugglers. That's it, he told himself. Foreign boats were coming in at night and leaving the drugs in his lobster pots. The next day divers would swim out from the beach, pick up the drugs, and within hours they would be en route to poison the kids in the cities.

  Well, they'd cocked up. Blackwood had caught them. He would break their bodies with his bare hands if he had to. He didn't even feel the pain from his punctured eyes now-pumped with adrenalin and anger, he was ready for the fight.

  They were coming fast now. The boat dipped at the stern, then on the bow, then the port side. He saw them in his mind's eye, divers in wet-suits, hoisting themselves onto Suzy-catch him when his back was turned then slip a knife through his ribs.

  But the stupid bastards had picked the wrong man.

  With the Viking blood of his ancestors singing through his veins, the fisherman swung the oar like a warrior's sword, hacking and chopping the men off his beloved boat and back into the water.

  "Come on ... Come on! Get a taste of this!"

  Crack!

  The oar cracked against a head.

  Then another. And another.

  For five minutes he batted them off the boat.

  Then suddenly they were gone.

  Blackwood stood in the center of the boat, feet apart, and listened.

  Beneath his feet a stirring, then a light tap.

  That was followed by a series of hard blows that sent tingling shocks up through the man's legs.

  Something moved around his ankles.

  Bastards.

  They'd knocked holes in Suzy's pl
anking. Water swirled up around his knees.

  Roaring, like a lion raging at the death of its mate, he fought as the boat settled lower in the water. He struck at the unseen men as they used their body weight to pull his boat down into the sea.

  He wouldn't leave his Suzy. Not ever.

  Ferociously he fought on. Even when the ocean closed over his head and instead of air in his lungs there was only water.

  Chapter Eleven

  Chris pulled out the drawer in the side of the caravan's sofa and began rooting through the already swiftly accumulating junk.

  "Ruth ... Have you seen the shells?"

  She walked in from the bathroom, hurriedly brushing her hair.

  "What shells? Have you seen the car keys?"

  "On the hook by the door ... Those seashells David found on the beach last week."

  "Forget the shells, love. We're going to be busy enough today as it is. Do you think this skirt goes with the t-shirt?"

  "Perfect. I deliberately put them somewhere safe."

  Chris scratched the bridge of his nose as he squatted over the drawer. "Remember, I told you about-"

  "About how strange they were." Ruth sighed. "That you could see faces drawn on them. I know, I remember. Where's that money for the groceries? And I'll need some coins for the phone. Have you got ... Christ ..."

  "What's the matter?"

  "The bloody goldfish has gone and died on us."

  "Jesus. That's just what we need." He slid the drawer shut. "Where's David?"

  "He's playing outside."

  "Good. I'll flush it down the toilet. You hide the bowl."

  "Reason for Clark Kent's disappearance?"

  He kissed her on the forehead. "You'll think of something."

  The goldfish lay on the surface of the water. Its body arched so the tail pointed down toward the little plastic pirate ship.

  "Hurry up, Chris. I've got to phone the architect at half-past."

  "I was just finding the best way to-"

  "Dad!" cried David urgently. "They're here!"

  Chris quickly turned his back on the deceased Clark Kent, using his body to shield it from his son. David leaned in through the door at the far end of the caravan.

  "What's the matter, darling?" asked Ruth artificially.

  "The lorries are coming. Shall I tell them where to go?"

  "No, Dad will tell them. Stand somewhere safe to watch." She turned back to Chris. "Do it later. I'll lock the door. Now you two look after one another. Bye."

  Two lorries carrying steel skips came swaying through the gateway into the courtyard. One disconcertingly carried the command PISS OFF in yellow aerosol.

  David ran forward to clutch Chris's hand to watch as Chris pointed out where the skips should go.

  It had begun.

  All the rubble, old timbers, Army boots, boxes, broken furniture that lay heaped throughout the building had to be wheel-barrowed out to the skips. The trucks would be back in four hours to take the loaded skips away then return with two more. He would have to work fast. The tides would dictate his schedules. At high tide the causeway would be covered by ocean. Then nothing, on wheels anyway, could come in or out.

  While David played with his cars in the courtyard, Chris began. He chose the nearest room to the main entrance and began to empty it of old bedsteads, then a mountain of old Army boots.

  For two hours he worked furiously, losing all track of time.

  He was startled to see Ruth appear. She wore old jeans and a t-shirt bearing a picture of a black cat and the word PURR ... FECT.

  "What are you doing?" he demanded.

  "Helping you."

  "You can't, Ruth. This is-"

  "Man's work? We're doing this together. I do what you do."

  He looked across at his wife and not for the first time in the last few days he found himself loving her in a way that was new and deeper than ever before. What wouldn't she selflessly sacrifice for him?

  They worked together, clearing the next room in half an hour. The dust made Chris's throat paper-dry, and when he sneezed it left a black splotch in his handkerchief.

  The next room held all the old internal doors. Drabgreen painted things that had warped over the years.

  "This is the only room that smells damp," said Ruth, tugging at the first door. It bore the legend CO. KNOCK AND WAIT in white letters.

  He sniffed. A faint smell of mushrooms. "It doesn't seem too bad. We'll get the architect to stick the damp meter on the walls."

  "Chris!"

  He dropped the door he was carrying. It fell with a painfully loud crash. "What's wrong!"

  "Quick."

  "Jesus, Ruth, I thought you'd hurt yourself."

  Ruth grinned. "It looks as if we've got a sitting tenant."

  "Christ ... Not rats."

  "Not animal. Vegetable. See for yourself."

  Behind the door was an ancient ceramic sink. But it was what was in the sink, beneath a single dripping tap, that she had seen. There in the bowl bloomed a mass of green leaves.

  "A bush?"

  "Not any old bush." She reached into the green mass that looked as if it was exploding out of the sink and snapped off a thick white shoot. "Look." She bit a chunk off and chewed it.

  "Ruth?"

  She smiled. "It's celery. Here, have a bit."

  "Celery fits into the palm of your hand." He ran his hand through the verdant growth. "This'll fill a wheelbarrow. How the hell did it get here?"

  "One of the builders years ago. Probably had a celery fetish and left it in the sink with some water to keep it fresh. And it just grew and grew." She held out the stalk for him to bite. "Guess what we'll be having for tea for the next three years."

  He bit. The white flesh was crisp and surprisingly sweet.

  The mother of all celery plants took some shifting. The thick bole from where the shoots sprang had swollen over the years to fill the sink. It was like trying to prise a fat man from a too-small bath.

  "The sink will have to go anyway." He smashed the china bowl. "Shit." A small rush of water ran over his shoes. "Now will you look at that."

  Her eyes widened. "It's filled it." Like a jelly poured into a mold the celery had grown hard against every contour of the sink. It had even grown around the sink chain which disappeared into the plant. The plug itself must have been surrounded by layer after layer of celery stalks somewhere in the celery heart.