The Jonah

by James Herbert

  He felt himself tremble and his eyes tried to drink in the darkness, to absorb it and see what lay beyond. Was there a shadow darker than the rest? Something moved and his eyes locked on to it. But he was mistaken; he edged closer and there was nothing hiding there, no person, no creature. The smell had gone.

  Kelso backed away, the coldness tightening his spine. He turned, but did not run. His footsteps were swift, though.

  He left the car park, grateful for the modest glow from the streetlights and glanced back over his shoulder. The car park was empty. But the darkness could have hidden a hundred demons.

  4

  It was like walking onto the set for a Western. The bar was long, almost stretching the whole length of the one-room public house; black pull-pumps – genuine pull-pumps – projected from the bar’s rough wood surface, each one denoting a different strength of local brew. The walls were covered in planking which had originally matched the uncarpeted flooring; rough boots had removed any sheen that the floor may have had at one time. The coal-burning stove in the middle of the floor, its pipe ascending to the ceiling, then turning right to run the length of the room and disappear through an outer wall, emphasized the unique cowboy flavour of the small, English pub, although two elements managed to spoil the image to some extent: dozens of chamber-pots hung from the ceiling, an unusual addition to the decor, to say the least, and a fruit machine stood near the double-door entrance. Even most of the clientele, given the right garb, had the rugged appearance of ranch-hands. And that included the women.

  The smoke haze made Kelso blink his eyes for a second or two; he hid the reaction by turning and carefully closing the double-doors behind him. Heads looked in his direction and one or two nodded an acknowledgement. He had tried all four public houses in the town, but had soon realized that this was the one which might provide some useful information, for many of the drinkers here were boat people; local fishermen, or those working in nearby boatyards. Several of the younger members of the community also gathered here, youngsters who might be vulnerable to the temptation of speed or grass; there was little else to provide kicks in the town.

  Kelso made his way to the bar and eased his body between the backs of two solid-looking individuals, careful not to jog their drinking arms. The barman was already waiting for his order, having seen him enter. It made a refreshing change from London pubs.

  ‘How’d you get on today, then?’ The barman’s voice had a pleasing local drawl to it, not unlike the Cornish accent, but softer, less broad.

  ‘Not bad. I kept hearing distant bangs all day, though. It frightens the birds.’

  ‘That’d be the bomb disposal. Your usual, is it?’

  Kelso nodded. His ‘usual’ was the strongest of the local brew; somehow he felt intimidated by the pub’s atmosphere and clientele into drinking the ale.

  The barman filled the straight pint glass and placed it before Kelso. As he counted out Kelso’s change, he said, ‘Be years before they’re finished there.’

  ‘Can’t be many left, can there, after all these years?’ He took a deep, grateful swallow of the beer.

  ‘You wouldn’t have thought so. But they say there’s hundreds of those mines left over after the war. Got covered by silt, you see. It’s worse where they’ve drifted up the estuary. Always finding something there. There’s little danger now, though, so you don’t have to worry.’ He smiled reassuringly, then strolled away to serve someone else.

  Kelso took another long drink of beer, feeling his nerves settle a little more. He had been glad to get into the brightness and warmth of the pub after the strange experience in the car park. Maybe not so strange – it hadn’t been the first time he’d had such feelings. The dark liquid was satisfying and he could already feel its soothing influence. He casually turned his head, looking for a familiar face.

  There were several in the bar whom he knew by sight, a few he had spoken to. It was the man at the fruit machine who drew his attention, though. Kelso picked up his beer again, sipping it this time, and studied the man’s back, waiting for him to turn his head so he could be sure. It looked like one of the young fishermen he had spoken to down by the quayside just a few days ago. He was a cousin or nephew to the man who owned a drifter moored in the natural habour; fishing was mainly a family business and most boats were worked by members of the same clan.

  Kelso watched him thump the machine angrily with the flat of his hand, then place another coin in the slot. The detective swiftly looked around and saw the unattended half-filled beer glass resting on a table on the opposite side of the double-doors. It was a small table and no one else sat at it. Kelso casually walked over and pulled out a low stool that nestled between the table’s legs. He lit a cigarette.

  Within minutes a figure slumped into the seat opposite and he knew he had guessed right.

  ‘Hello, there,’ he said and the young fisherman stared back in surprise. He was somewhere in his mid-twenties, heavyset with thick black curly hair matched by a thick black curly beard. The beard was shorter than his hair, but not much shorter.

  ‘I spoke to you the other day,’ Kelso told him, seeing the puzzlement in his eyes. ‘Down by the quay. Remember?’

  ‘What? Oh yeah. Bird-watcher or something, aren’t you?’ He reached for his beer and drained it in three noisy gulps. When he placed the empty glass back on the table, his eyes flicked around the bar. He seemed distracted. Or perhaps nervous.

  ‘Another one?’ Kelso asked.

  ‘Eh? Oh, yeah. Lovely.’

  Kelso scooped up the glass and went back to the bar, feeling the fisherman’s eyes on his back. He returned with both glasses full to the brim.

  ‘I didn’t catch your name the other day,’ the bearded man said, reaching for the proffered ale.

  ‘Jim Kelly.’

  ‘And you’re writing a book or somethin.’ The Suffolk accent was even stronger than the barman’s.

  ‘That’s right. It’s to do with the bird sanctuaries in this area.’

  ‘Oh, aye. There’s plenty of those.’

  Conversation ended momentarily as they both drank, Kelso surreptitiously studying the other man over the rim of his glass. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I didn’t get your name, either,’ he said.

  ‘Trewick. Andy.’

  ‘You look as if you’ve had a heavy day.’

  Trewick’s voice was sharp. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Kelso shrugged. ‘You look a bit tired, that’s all.’

  ‘So would you be if you’d been out on the sea since four this morning.’

  ‘Tired? I’d be dead.’

  Trewick grunted something unintelligible.

  ‘Still,’ Kelso said, unperturbed, ‘there’s not much to do around here at night, is there?’

  ‘Oh no?’ The bearded man managed a grudging smile. ‘There’s plenny if you know where to look.’

  ‘I’ve been here a couple of weeks now, and I haven’t seen anything in this town. Apart from the little cinema and the pubs, that is. So where’s all the action?’

  ‘Depends on who you know. There’s always a party goin on some place.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I suppose I’ll have to get to know a few more people. Still, you can get a bit fed up with drinking every night.’

  ‘There’s more’n just drinkin.’.

  Kelso’s senses became instantly keener. ‘Like what?’

  Trewick grinned, one black-stained tooth spoiling what could otherwise have been a handsome face. ‘Like screwin.’

  He laughed aloud and Kelso forced himself to join in. ‘You can even have too much of that,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t. Can’t get enough.’ Once more Trewick laughed aloud, but the sound died quickly when the swing-doors opened. Kelso saw the apprehension in the bearded man’s eyes just before it vanished as two giggling girls entered the pub.

  ‘No, in London there’s other things you can get into, know what I mean?’

  ‘Ah, fuck London. You thin
k you’ve got it all down there, but you’d be surprised, boy. There’s a lot going on aroun here.’

  Kelso felt close to something, but decided not to push his luck. It was always a tricky time, knowing just when to press further or back off. ‘Any time you fancy showing me, I’ll be around. I’ve got a lot of work to do yet.’

  ‘Watchin birds. Funny kind of job for a bloke.’

  ‘Yeah, I think that myself sometimes. Beats working for a living, though.’ Kelso grinned, but there was no amusement on Trewick’s face. Instead there was a trace of hostility.

  Oh shit, Kelso thought, I’m messing this one up.

  ‘What kind of money d’you get for doin that sort of stuff?’ Trewick asked.

  ‘Not much. Enough to get by on.’

  ‘About how much?’

  Kelso cleared hs throat, then sipped his drink. Trewick waited, his eyes not leaving the detective’s face.

  ‘Er, about three hundred to begin with, then a percentage of the royalties on the book if it comes out.’

  Trewick scoffed and sat back against the wall. ‘Three hundred? That wouldn’t keep me in baccy papers, boy. I need . . .’ Once more his head swung towards the swing-doors as they opened. This time the alarm stayed in his eyes as a figure entered.

  Kelso glanced towards the entrance as he raised his glass to his lips. If the man who had entered knew Trewick, he did not show it; he strolled towards the bar, pushing his way through the crowd without looking left or right.

  The bearded man’s eyes followed him.

  ‘You all right?’

  Trewick didn’t seem to hear. He slowly reached for his beer and took a long, deep, swallow. Then he looked at Kelso. ‘What?’

  ‘I said are you all right? You look a bit pale.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m all right. Got to get goin, that’s all.’

  ‘Another party?’

  ‘No. Got to make an early start tomorrow. Need some kip.’

  ‘Do you want another beer before you go?’

  ‘No. It’s my turn anyway. I’ll get you one next time.’

  He slid out from the bench against the wall, buttoning his anorak as he did so. Without another word to Kelso, he pulled open one of the double-doors and stepped out into the cold night.

  Cheers, Kelso said silently, raising his glass in mock salute. He moved around into the seat just vacated and casually looked towards the bar; the man who had seemed to unsettle Trewick was standing alone, drinking what looked like gin or vodka. For an instant, their eyes met, but the man turned his head as though studying the crowd in general. His hair was cut short, resting flatly over his skull and his features had a hardness to them that had nothing to do with an open-air life. He wore a thigh-length leather jacket and as he raised his glass, Kelso noticed the little finger of his right hand was missing.

  Kelso wondered if he were being overly suspicious, making too much of the man’s arrival. Maybe Trewick really did need his beauty sleep. The man at the bar was making no attempt to hurry his drink and had now turned his back on Kelso. The detective waited to see if he would follow the bearded man.

  Ten minutes went by and Kelso decided he had been wrong. The man with the missing finger had ordered himself another drink and had joined in the conversation with a group of men at the bar. The detective stifled a yawn, then drained his glass. He felt tired, the smoke haze inside the pub and the strong ale in his stomach a wearying combination for someone who had spent the day trudging along footpaths and swallowing lungfuls of sharp, sea air. Boredom with his assignment didn’t help, either.

  He rose from his seat and strolled to the door, glancing at the man at the bar to see if his departure had caused any reaction. The man seemed engrossed in a story being told by one of the group he had joined. Kelso left the pub, coldness leaping at him as though it had been waiting for fresh prey.

  Back inside the pub, the man in the leather jacket watched the doors close in the long mirror behind the bar.

  Kelso walked down the quiet high street, making for the opposite end of the town where the caravan site was situated. It was a discreet location, for the town council went to great lengths to prevent any eyesores from spoiling the charm of their seaside resort, much of which was protected by a charter designating it as an Outstanding Conservation area. The site was tucked away behind buildings on the very fringe of the town and was mostly empty of occupants, the holiday season not having yet begun. He had rented the caravan for an indefinite period, telling the site manager, who was rarely there, that it all depended on how long his project took. The caravan, itself, was small but not uncomfortable – he’d had experience of far worse quarters on other operations – and had most of the conveniences to make life bearable. His budget for the investigation did not allow for anything much better and the isolation and self-catering aspect certainly gave him more freedom of movement.

  Tomorrow, he knew, he would have to give a report concerning his progress (or lack of it) to HQ in Lowestoft, and his dilemma was whether or not to inform his superiors that the case was a complete waste of time. All reason told him that it was, that there was no organized drugs ring in the area, but he had an uneasy feeling . . . He had come to rely on irrational instincts, for they had been justified in the past, and there was something about this place that disturbed him. Perhaps it was because the town was too quiet, the outlying areas too peaceful. In many ways it was ideal for smuggling of any sort, and the fact that he had found little indication, let alone evidence, of such illegal operations aroused the contrary side of his nature. He was suspicious because he had, as yet, found nothing to be suspicious of. The darkness closed in around him as he left the high street and entered the narrow lanes of the town. Soon there was not even the friendly glow from windows for company.

  He entered the caravan park. There were nearly twenty similar types of trailers in the grounds, only another two occupied as far as he knew. His was to the rear of the site, its back close to a bushy hedge, with open fields beyond the natural boundary. He could hear the waves rolling in onto the shingle and feel the wind cutting across the land between the caravan park and the sea to rattle fiercely against the fragile frames. He reached his temporary home, looking forward to some good, strong coffee and a soft, warm bed. He was too tired to eat. As he searched for the key in his jeans’ pocket, he thought he heard a movement inside the caravan. It may have been the wind whistling around its structure.

  But when he carefully pushed the key into the lock, he discovered the door was already open.

  5

  The bearded man’s pace was brisk, almost a run. He repeatedly glanced over his shoulder. Near the edge of the town now, he should have turned off to his right to reach the small terraced house in which he rented an upstairs room; but someone was waiting for him on the corner just ahead. The dark figure stepped into view when the bearded man was no more than ten yards away.

  Trewick stopped dead, his mouth suddenly dry, the ale he had consumed an uncomfortable and shifting weight in his stomach. Hurried footsteps from behind confirmed his fear that he was being followed.

  The man in front said nothing as he approached, but Trewick began to move sideways, out into the road. He raised a hand as though it would halt the man’s progress, but the gesture had no effect. He saw the one who had been following him now, the one who had been waiting for him outside the pub, waiting for him to be flushed like a pheasant from the undergrowth.

  ‘Wait! Look . . .’ Trewick knew that words would not help him.

  ‘You were warned, Andy.’ The man’s voice was soft, almost regretful.

  Trewick turned away from the two men and ran, almost tripping over the kerb on the other side of the narrow road. He plunged into a small sidestreet, one hand scraping against the brickwork to steady himself. Footsteps echoed behind him and a tight sob escaped his lips. He emerged from the sidestreet and knew there was only one way to go: away from the town and into the darkness beyond. Into the marshes.

  The car
park opened out to his left, a vast black pit, the waves pounding the beach on the other side of the sea wall. Gravel crunched beneath his feet and his body was already damp with sweat. He took a swift, panic-stricken look over his shoulder and saw they were still following, their pace steady, unhurried, as if they knew he could not escape, that there was nowhere to run to.

  He was beyond the car park, nothing ahead but darkness and stars. If he could reach the marshes he had an advantage: he knew the paths, they didn’t. His feet slid from beneath him and he went slithering downwards, his body rolling over as he tried to grab at earth to slow his descent. His hands only closed around loose shingle, though, and he cried out, confused by what was happening. He came to an abrupt halt, soft mud cushioning the impact, and sat up almost at once. He quickly realized why he had fallen.

  The road from the town turned into a raised track that ran along the coastline, the sea wall and beach on one side, a steep embankment on the other. He had slipped down the embankment. At the bottom of the slope on this side was a boatyard, beyond that the quay to the harbour. The river headed directly inland from that point, winding its way through the marshes. A minor avalanche of shingle told him his pursuers had begun their descent, and once more he was on his feet, running, heading into the boatyard, hoping to lose them among the clutter of motor cruisers and sailing boats.

  The two men steadied themselves at the bottom of the slope and watched him disappear into a channel created by two rows of boats. They glanced at each other, their eyes well-accustomed to the darkness by now, then moved forward, splitting up, one man following the same channel as their prey, the other taking a parallel path.

  Trewick had a choice: hide in the yard itself, either beneath or inside one of the boats, or make his way into the marshes. His breathing was laboured, his throat becoming raw as though the air he sucked in was full of grit. He stumbled on, afraid of running into something in the dark, but equally afraid of giving the two men the chance to catch up. And in his haste, he did trip.