by Simon Clark
"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."
Chapter Forty-three
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 sea-fort 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 sea-fort 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 sea-fort. 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 sea-fort 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."
His face was stony.
Ruth handed him a mugful of black coffee. "We're low on food. But I put aside the biscuits you're owed. In the plastic box behind you."
Stiffly he turned, nearly filling the kitchen area of the caravan. David watched from the sofa, his eyes wide.
Mark pulled out a handful of biscuits.
Then he held them out to David. His face broke into such a broad grin it felt as if a light had shone into the caravan.
"Here you are, son. When I was your age I always hated going to bed on an empty stomach. And yes, as far as I know the rope swing is still there hanging from that tree. Waiting for you to play on it again."
David delightedly took the biscuits. "Thanks, Mark."
"Pleasure." Mark, taking his coffee, stepped out into the courtyard where he stretched his stiffened arms into the air.
Chris followed.
"It's time to do something," Mark said. "I reckon there isn't much time left."
"We've done what we can. Tony says we can do nothing but wait."
"Tony Gateman is full of shit." Mark grinned. "There is something we can do. Hey, Gateman, can we have the pleasure of your ugly face, please?"
The little Londoner walked cautiously across the courtyard, maybe wondering if his friend's sanity hadn't leaked away under that old blanket. Mark looked almost cheerful. Like a man who knew there was work to be done and was itching to do it.
Ruth joined them as they stood there in the growing gloom.
Tony asked, "What now?"
Mark took a deep swallow of the scalding coffee. He relished the rush of burning liquid down his throat. "I've decided I'm going for help."
"In God's name how?"
Mark nodded at the Hodgson boys' motorbikes leaning against the sea-fort wall. "I'm riding out."
"That's suicide, Mark. You know that."
"It's suicide to stay here, old pal."
Chris shook his head. "But you saw what happened to Wainwright. Even for someone on a motorbike those things move bloody fast."
"And you'd never get past the ones outside the main gate. There are always four of the monsters blocking the causeway now."
"If you ask me," said Tony, "this is what they're expecting now-us to panic, and make a run for it, right into their arms."
Mark wouldn't be discouraged. "No problem. We blast the causeway clear with shotguns. We did it before and we put the bastards out of action for six hours. All I need is six minutes. I'll be long gone."
"A problem." Tony held up a finger. "They are learning. They stand about twenty yards from the gates which puts them beyond effective range now."
"And if you do get past them," said Ruth quickly, "there are more up the beach. They've put a barrier across the road. I know they must have opened it up to let Wainwright drive through, but no one can guarantee the road has been left clear."
Mark swallowed another mouthful of burning coffee. "With the Saf Dar on the beach, I'll have to take the chance that the bike can shift faster than them. I used to be pretty good on cross-country trials bikes. If the barrier of stones is still there I can lug the bike over even if I can't ride it over. Or maybe cut up through the dunes. Then if I get a clear run I can be in Munby within twenty minutes. A couple of hours after that the choppers will be lifting you off the roof."
The man's enthusiasm was infectious. A straw for a drowning man to catch. Chris felt his spirits rising.
But Tony poured on the cold water. "But how are you going to shift the Saf Dar from the causeway? You can't simply ride at them and hope you'll get through. They'd yank you off that motorbike as easily as if you were a child on a tricycle."
Mark smiled. "I haven't a clue. But I know someone who's got the answer."
Tony stared back at him through his thick-lensed glasses. "Who?"
"My old friend Tony Gateman. That's who."
Tony blinked.
"Chris, Ruth, can I prevail upon you to get Mr Gateman a coffee? He's got some thinking to do. If this cunning old fox can't come up with a solution, no one on earth can."
Tony shook his head. "You've over-estimated me this time, old son."
Mark smiled. "We'll see about that."
Chris sat with his arm around Ruth on the caravan sofa. It was 8 p.m. Dark outside.
She rested her head against his cheek. "I'll check David in a minute."
"Oh ... No rush. He's all right. He'll be fast asleep by now." He smiled. "You'd think Mark Faust had given him the world when he gave him those biscuits. You know, I'm sure David knows more than what we've told him."
"He's an intelligent boy. You can't hide the truth forever."
"But what effect is it going to have on him psychologically?"
Ruth kissed the back of his hand. "Don't worry. He's safe in here. We're still able to give him attention. It's not as though he's been separated from us. That'd be traumatic for a six-year-old. At most all he's experiencing is inconvenience. No sweets. No videos."
Tony tapped lightly on the caravan door. "Sorry to bother you, folks. But I thought you ought to know something."
