The Jonah

by James Herbert

  Kelso turned as the barman placed the drinks he had ordered on the bar top. ‘Doesn’t take much to upset old Tom, does it?’ the detective remarked, feeling a little shaken.

  The barman chuckled and plucked the pound note from Kelso’s hand. ‘He’s been in here all evening drinking himself silly. I don’t know what gets into him sometimes.’

  Kelso took the drinks over to Ellie’s table, not before he had gulped down some of the beer, though.

  ‘What was that all about?’ she asked as he slid onto the bench next to her. ‘I thought he was going to eat you.’

  ‘He didn’t like my smooth manner.’ Kelso drank more of the bitter and felt his nerves beginning to calm down a little. ‘Come to think of it, I didn’t go much on his,’ he said.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Trewick’s skipper. And he said Andy isn’t around any more.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  ‘He felt disinclined to explain.’ Kelso frowned and put his glass down on the table. ‘Strange, though. He got really upset when I asked about Trewick. Said I was the sort who got him into trouble. He’d ordered another beer, too, but didn’t wait for it.’

  ‘You think this Trewick has done something to upset him?’

  ‘Well, maybe he’s just skipped off for a couple of days and the old man feels let down.’

  ‘Or he’s got himself into trouble and his skipper’s keeping quiet about it.’

  ‘Could be. I’d like to know just what he’s been up to, though. It might be interesting.’

  They both sipped their drinks, then Kelso took Ellie by surprise by moving closer to her and putting an arm around her shoulders. She looked quizzically at him.

  ‘We’re supposed to be in love, remember?’ There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. ‘They should have sent someone less attractive; you draw too much attention.’

  The stares and winks in her direction had not entirely gone unnoticed by Ellie. She kissed his cheek. ‘Just to make it look good,’ she explained.

  He surprised her again by returning the kiss. ‘That was because I felt like it,’ he said.

  Ellie gave a tiny shake of her head. ‘You’re a strange one, Jim. You change moods so fast.’

  ‘I’m sorry about earlier. I know I’m difficult at times, but I promise you, there is some truth in what I told you.’

  ‘Do you want to talk about it now?’

  He paused and she knew he was trying to decide in his own mind. Finally he said, ‘No, Ellie. I think we should do as you said, keep this on a professional basis. If it’s any use to you, I think you’re good at your job. And I also like your company.’

  She smiled. ‘Okay, you’re the boss. What happens next?’

  ‘I feel kind of beat. Let’s relax and enjoy our drinks for a while, then we’ll take another look at the harbour. There’s something drawing me to that place like a bloody magnet, but I don’t know what. Somehow I feel the answer is there, staring us in the face.’

  Ellie frowned. ‘I know what you mean – I have the same feeling. Maybe whoever lives in that – what was it called? The Martello Tower? – maybe they’ve seen something suspicious going on. They’d have a clear view of the estuary and harbour; they can even see a good stretch of the coastline from there.’

  ‘I’m not sure there’s anyone in residence at the moment. Anyway, we can hardly knock them up this late, and even if we did, what could we say? I don’t think they’d welcome questions on birdlife at this time of night.’

  ‘True, but we could take a look, see what they’re able to see. It might give us some ideas.’

  Kelso refrained from telling her he had spent hours along that point and had found nothing to arouse his suspicions; instead he agreed they should take a look and then turn in. He was suddenly aware that having Ellie in the caravan with him tonight would be even more disturbing than on previous nights.

  They continued chatting, keeping their conversation light and away from their investigation, discussing any topic that came into their heads. She enjoyed his quiet but wry sense of humour; and he enjoyed her appreciation of his quiet but wry sense of humour; she was an enthusiastic listener, with a ready laugh and, although there was still some reserve on his part, her natural affability was beginning to bridge the distance between them. Ellie now understood why he was a good undercover man, for he had a toughness about him – not obvious at first – that had to be respected, and a casual manner that must have made it easy for him to be accepted by members of the criminal fraternity. It was a pity that past misfortunes, exaggerated or perhaps exploited by others, forced him to back away so often, to hide behind a barrier of aloofness. The silly stigma that he had been labelled with – and one in which he seemed to believe himself – was enough to make anybody moody.

  They left the pub half an hour later, both feeling more relaxed than when they had entered. Kelso held the Escort’s door open for Ellie. She watched him through the windscreen as he walked around to the driver’s side, his shoulders hunched against the light drizzle that had started, longish dark hair flowing over his upturned jacket collar, and smiled when he hand-leapt over the corner of the bonnet rather than walk around it. She was glad, at least, that he had broken out of the earlier sullen mood.

  Kelso got into the car and switched on the ignition. He caught her studying him.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Right.’

  The car moved slowly away from the kerb, heading down the high street towards the harbour. Neither Ellie nor Kelso had noticed the car parked further along the road and the three men inside who had watched with silent interest as they had left the pub. It was only when Kelso’s Escort was some distance away that the car moved out and began to follow.

  April, 1960

  The Lone Ranger galloped over the debris, slapping his own backside for extra speed because there was no Silver between his legs. There were Indians all around, shooting arrows from the glassless windows of the bombed-out buildings, and he had to weave and dodge, calling for the invisible Tonto to do the same; if either one of them went down out here, there would be no hope – their scalps would be lifted. But The Lone Ranger did go down, for he had failed to see the metal piping protruding from the ground. He cried out as he hit the earth, scattered half-buried bricks making the impact even harsher.

  He lay there stunned for a few moments, fighting back the welling tears, even though there was no one around to see him cry. He finally sat up, no longer the Masked Man, but just a skinny kid who had come a cropper. He sniffed as he brushed the dust from his hands, then reached down and rubbed his sore ankle; he groaned not through pain, but because of the small rent in one knee of his jeans. Mum was going to be upset about that – not angry, she never really got angry with him. The jeans were only two months old, his first pair of long trousers, bought for him because he had told her the other kids laughed at his skinny white legs. Dad wouldn’t be too pleased, either.

  The boy got to his feet and gingerly tested his ankle. It was okay, it bore his weight. He examined the tear once more, holding the sides together in the vain hope they would stick. They didn’t, as he knew they wouldn’t. Mum would patch them and maybe Dad wouldn’t notice, although, as a policeman, there wasn’t much that got past him. He ran a finger beneath his nose, sniffing as he did so. Twerp, he called himself. He’d been warned not to play on the bomb-sites, now he’d paid the penalty. There’d be no Gun Law tonight.

  He limped over to a pile of rubble and sat, stretching out his legs to dust the dirt from them. It was a warm day, the sun not fierce, but friendly enough. A single fly, deceived into birth by the fair weather, buzzed around his head; he snatched at it, almost sure its wings had brushed his palm at one point. The fly’s antennae sensed a more interesting prospect and zoomed away to the drying human excrement just inside the open doorway of a gutted building. The boy scratched his cheek, then brushed his long, dark fringe away from his eyes. He knew
he should hurry home, that Mum grew anxious when he was late and Dad, as always, would have a few little chores for him to do in the house; but it was nice sitting here among the dirt, nice being out of school, and nice feeling the sun’s heat after such a long, dreary winter. The bright blue sky, with just a few puffy clouds hanging motionless, reminded him that the long, no-school, summer months were not far away. Weeks that seemed to stretch into years, days that wallowed in a vacuum of time. Playing, helping Dad, pictures at the Bug-hole on Fridays, helping Dad, shopping with Mum, helping Dad, playing and more playing and more playing. Then, with a bit of luck, if he had passed the scholarship, the new school. The grammar school. A uniform and homework. It must be funny to do schoolwork at home. All boys there, no girls. He quite liked girls, really.

  He noticed a line of ants passing by his right foot and jerked himself up so that his chin was touching his knees; he peered down at the ants, studying their black, scurrying forms with frowning concentration. There were two lines, in fact, both moving in opposite directions, so close it seemed each ant would bump into its approaching partner. None ever collided, though; they would stop and, it seemed to the boy, indulge in a quick excited conversation, then move around each other, journeying on to where the other had just come from. He picked up a chunk of brick that was lying nearby and, careful not to squash any of the little creatures, planted it firmly in their path, wondering how they would react. What would he have done if a ten-storey building had just been plonked down in front of him? Run a mile, that’s what. The ants didn’t; they weren’t even puzzled by the massive object. They scuttled around it, both sides instinctively choosing the same route so their contact would not be broken. The boy smiled admiringly.

  He whirled round when another brick, a whole one this time, smashed into his. Three boys leered down at him from the top of a mini-hill of stacked dirt and debris. He recognized one immediately: Billy Cross, same age as himself, in his class at school. The other two were older – about fourteen or fifteen, both wearing bum-freezer jackets, winklepinker shoes, and nasty grins. They ran down the rubble like three banshees, hooting and shoving, reckless in their descent. One tripped near the bottom and went scudding to his knees. He cursed as he rolled over in the dust, the other two skidding to a halt and laughing. The squatting boy nervously joined in the laughter.

  ‘What you fuckin laughin at?’ The fallen youth had picked himself up and was glaring at the boy.

  ‘Yeah, what you fuckin laughin at, Kelso?’ The one from the boy’s class was standing over him, his podgy red hands clenched into tight fists.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jimmy Kelso answered, looking back down at the ants and seeing the crashed brick had disorganized their line, the flow panic-stricken now rather than swift.

  ‘Who’s he, then?’ The other, older boy, the one who had been laughing at his companion a moment before, had come forward to stand over Jimmy.

  ‘He’s in my class – Jimmy Kelso’s his name.’

  Jimmy now recognized the older boy: he was Billy Cross’s brother, Davey, a senior year pupil.

  ‘What you doin here, kid?’ Cross’s brother asked, kicking dirt onto the fleeing ants.

  ‘Nothing.’ Jimmy tried to make his reply as friendly as possible.

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ the older boy mimicked. ‘You’re not laughin at nothin, you’re not doin nothin. Fuckin dead loss, int yuh?’

  Jimmy kept silent, not enjoying the fluttering feeling inside his bowels. He didn’t much like Billy Cross – he was one of those kids with fat fists and a fat head, who had a lot to say for himself in the playground, but little to say in the classroom. Jimmy had fought him once, and lost – badly. He didn’t feel like going through the same punishment again especially with Davey Cross there to help his brother just in case, by some miracle, Jimmy came out on top.

  ‘What’s this little cunt?’ The other youth had joined the group and was brushing off dirt from his coat sleeves so it drifted down onto Jimmy’s head.

  ‘He’s playin with the ants.’ Davey Cross reached for the brick and held it high. ‘Sputnik Three comin in!’ He dropped the brick onto the ants once more, crushing several and laughing gleefully. Jimmy began to rise and rough hands shoved him back.

  ‘Where d’you think you’re goin?’ Davey asked.

  ‘Going home.’

  ‘Oh, are yuh? You got any money?’

  Jimmy looked up at him and shook his head. The two threepenny bits felt like lead weights in his pockets. He was yanked to his feet.

  ‘Oh yeah? Let’s have a look, then.’

  Jimmy pulled himself away and took a few steps backwards. ‘Keep your hands off,’ he warned.

  ‘Saucy little git.’ The other youth grabbed his arm.

  ‘Wait a minute, Bri.’ Billy Cross was grinning from ear to ear, enjoying himself. ‘His old man’s a copper. Don’t think much of coppers, do we?’

  The two older boys looked at one another and slowly shook their grinning heads. ‘No, we fuckin don’t.’

  Davey Cross moved in closer. ‘Turn out your pockets, you little copper’s bastard.’

  ‘No.’ Jimmy’s fists clenched tightly.

  ‘Do as you’re told.’

  ‘No.’

  Jimmy’s shirt collar was grabbed and Davey pulled his face close to his own. ‘If you don’t, you little sod, I’m gonna smash your head in. You got that?’

  The boy was too afraid to speak.

  ‘Let’s give him a touch of this.’ Davey Cross’s companion had picked up a short length of hosepipe and was twirling it around his head in his own impression of Lash LaRue.

  ‘You want some of that, kid? You gonna do as you’re told?’

  Jimmy thoght that Davey’s sneering face was just about the ugliest thing he had ever seen. He managed to jerk his head from side to side in a negative statement, and then found himself lying flat on his back in the rubble, wincing as sharp edges jabbed into his flesh. ‘Leave me alone!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll tell my dad!’

  The other boy and the two youths laughed aloud and this time Jimmy found it difficult to stem the tears that were brimming in his eyes.

  ‘He ain’t your dad, anyway,’ Billy Cross taunted. ‘Your mum told mine – you’re adopted. You ain’t their kid.’

  ‘Oh, he is a little bastard, then? A right little bastard! I ain’t surprised your own mother didn’t want you. Still, what an ugly cow she must’ve been to drop something like you.’ Davey’s breath exploded from him as Jimmy’s head connected with his midriff. They both went down in a flurry of arms and legs, the younger boy on top, hitting out with a fury that momentarily stunned his opponent. Jimmy couldn’t see through his tears, but he felt his small fists connecting with firm flesh and occasionally with hard bone. The best Davey could do was to try and cover his face with his arms.

  Jimmy felt his hair grabbed from behind and he screamed as he was wrenched backwards. He sprawled in the dirt and heard the whoosh of disturbed air, then, almost instantly, felt the shocking pain in his legs. He screamed again, but there was no respite from the rubber hose as it whacked against his thighs.

  ‘Give me that fuckin thing!’ Davey was on his feet and pulling the hose away from the youth named Bri. ‘You asked for this, you little git!’ He swung the length of hose over his head and brought it crashing down on Jimmy’s shins.

  The pain seemed to squeeze the boy’s heart. ‘Don’t!’ he screamed. ‘Please, please don’t!’

  More pain was his answer.

  He tried to rise and felt the lash against his buttocks, causing him to stumble forward onto his knees. Somewhere in the distance he could hear their laughter, the foul curses that accompanied each stroke of the makeshift whip. His hand groped around in the rubble beneath him, closed over something solid, a cracked piece of masonry that had once been part of a fireplace, and then he was blindly throwing it towards the source of his torment, hoping it would kill, maim, or at least stop the nightmare. The yelp he heard told him the missile had found a t
arget. He was on his feet and running before they had got over their surprise.

  Something thumped against his back, but he kept going, tears blinding his vision. Their wails of rage and the obscenities they called after him spurred him on; a hail of thrown objects caused him to stumble. He pushed against the ground to force himself up and a brick smashed into little pieces only inches away from his hand. He scrambled on and saw the dark opening ahead; he ducked into it as a length of metal crashed against the doorframe. The sudden gloom confused him and he slid to a halt, blinking furiously to clear the tears. He leaned against the damp wall of the corridor, huge panting breaths broken by painful sobs disturbing the silence of the ruined house.

  Jimmy began to see more clearly and could not stop the whimper that escaped him. The corridor was blocked by rubble, timbers and masonry fallen from the floor above. There was no way out. The staircase, its banister long since gone, many of the steps just open holes, was the only way to go. The shouts outside were drawing nearer, the footsteps louder.

  He began to climb the stairs.

  ‘I’ll kill the fuckin bastard!’ Davey sucked blood from the grazed knuckle which had been struck by the missile Jimmy had thrown. The length of hosepipe was curled into a loop in his other hand, ready to be used again and this time with even more force. He’d teach the skinny little git. He’d pulverize him.

  They stopped just a few yards from the opening the boy had fled into and warily looked up at the building, examining its crumbling state before entering. Billy Cross picked up more stones and bricks and began hurling them into the dark corridor. The two older youths joined in, screaming and whooping with the thrill of it all. When no cries replied to their onslaught, Billy and Bri turned to Davey, who drew up a gob of phlegm and spat it into the doorway.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to the other two, ‘let’s go in after him.’

  ‘I don’t know, Davey. Those old dumps are a bit iffy.’ Bri shook his head as he studied the black, glassless windows, secretly shuddering because they reminded him of a face with the eyes torn out.