He tore his gaze away from the friendly land and looked once again at the water. There was nothing to stop him now–absolutely no reason at all. Irresolutely his hand hovered over the bung. His stomach had a tight, painful band across it that was squeezing out the air. Come on-come on–pull it up–pull the bloody thing up. He hesitated, fiddling with it–drew his hand away and then quickly replaced it. Pull it up–all right pull it up in ten seconds: one–two–no–don’t count–don’t wait–do it now. He did and watched bemused as the water rushed in.
Gradually the boat sank and he launched himself into the water. It was bitingly cold and he suddenly wondered if he was too close to land. He turned and struck out, avoiding the swirl of water that closed over the top of his beloved boat. He was glad that the mast was not up or she might have turned over on her side and still floated. It was better that she should go down so quickly. He thought of all this quite idly as he swam out to sea with slow leisurely strokes.
His heavy tweeds seemed to be dragging him down, and treading water frantically he tried to remove his shoes. Then he paused and almost laughed aloud. After all–why this sudden preservation? He would go down now–he would put his hands to his sides and sink. He tried, but irritatingly enough he stayed afloat. This was ridiculous. He ducked his head underneath the water, emerging after a few seconds choking and gasping. Now–he would dive down, beneath the surface, and stay there–He kicked out but his legs seemed to have become very stiff and there was no strength in them.
A sudden humiliation crept over him–it seemed impossible to drown himself with dignity. The current swung him gently round, and as he was turned Paul saw a huge portion of the pier buckle and collapse into the pool beneath it.
The sound seemed a very long way off and he realised that he must have drifted quite a long way out already. The tide was still on the turn and some gulls flapped noisily over his head, turning to look at him curiously. His legs now seemed quite useless, and although he flattened himself several times on the surface he soon raised his head, choking and ejecting salt water. By now he had swallowed quite a bit and he felt his body stiffen. It was exactly at this time that Paul wanted very much to live.
He struck out with his arms as best he could but seemed to make no progress. He panicked and began to shout and scream but the workmen were mere specks in the distance. He took in more water and the waves slapped playfully at him–gradually his whole horizon became one grey-green expanse and the sea and the sky seemed to merge. Paul continued to swim feebly, sobbing intermittently and still trying to shout out. The sound of the sea was all around him–a sluggish blur that caressed him gently as he struggled ineffectually on. He heard the mewing of the gulls and a dull thumping sound–still he carried on, striking out with his arms. A dull pain seized him and he moaned softly–and the waves continued to slap at him with increasing force.
A grey blanket seemed to have wrapped itself around his eyes and there was a tremendous blast–the most gigantic sound–in his ears. He was lying in the surf whilst the water poured over his head and into his ears, and nose and mouth. They came running down the beach to him, calling to each other excitedly, and behind them more girders crashed into the sea.
Two children, idly standing by the pier, saw the rusty iron piled high in the largest pool that was gradually being uncovered by the tide.
One of them turned and said: ‘What a waste of a good pool,’ but the other was already running as fast as he could towards the sea. Left alone the child stood and watched a metallic flush creep over the surface of the slime-green pool. Then he waded in and climbed to the very top of the pile of girders.
‘I’m the King of the Castle,’ he chanted dismally. But there was no one there to see him–so he soon climbed down again.
A Note on the Author
Anthony Masters was renowned as an adult novelist, short story writer and biographer, but was best known for his fiction for young people.
Many of his novels carry deep insights into social problems, which he experienced over four decades by helping the socially excluded. He ran soup kitchens for drug addicts and campaigned for the civic rights of gypsies and other ethnic minorities. Masters is also known for his eclectic range of non-fiction titles, ranging from the biographies of such diverse personalities as the British secret service chief immortalized by Ian Fleming in his James Bond books (The Man Who Was M: the Life of Maxwell Knight).
His children’s fiction included teenage novels and the ground breaking Weird World series of young adult horror, published by Bloomsbury. He also worked with children both in schools and at art festivals. Anthony Masters died in 2003.
Discover books by Anthony Masters published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/Anthony Masters
A Pocketful of Rye
Confessional
Finding Joe
Hidden Gods
Murder Is a Long Time Coming
The Men
The Seahorse
Children and Young Adult Books
Cries of Terror
Dead Man at the Door
Ghost Stories to Tell in the Dark
Nightmare in New York
Scary Tales to Tell in the Dark
Vampire Stories to Tell in the Dark
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been
removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain
references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2013 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square,
London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1966 by Martin Secker and Warburg Ltd
Copyright © 1966 Anthony Masters
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise
make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means
(including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication
may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The moral right of the author is asserted.
eISBN: 9781448211647
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