The hotel overlooked the seafront and the dining-room was not crowded on that blustery April night. The head waiter, or maître d’ as he preferred to be called, strove to look elegant in his black jacket and sharply creased trousers, but the tiny bow tie clinging to his neck like a shrivelled bat and his slightly frayed shirtcuffs thwarted his best efforts. The long jacket served to conceal the shine in the seat of his trousers but could not, of course, conceal the shine in the bottom of his jacket. His squat nose, which looked peculiarly overwrought, did not sit too happily with his finely trimmed, pencil-line moustache, and his neatly plucked eyebrows were somehow in contrast with the heavy, purplish bags beneath his eyes. The effect was of someone who had modelled the superficial parts of his body – his hair was brilliantined flat at the top with crinkly grey pieces carefully cultivated to sweep over his ears to meet at the back of his neck – to match every magazine ad’s idea of the perfect restaurant maître d’. Only the loose heaviness of his features let him down. And the feebly disguised shoddiness of his attire. Not to mention the occasional lapse of good professional manners when a waiter made one mistake too many. Or a diner was over-demanding.
He quickly scanned the room to make sure everything was in order, his attention drawn mainly to the long centre table where the Freemasons were having their monthly get-together. There were several important businessmen from the surrounding area among them, as well as one or two councillors, and the head waiter always made sure their every need was catered for. There were many better hotels and restaurants to work in in that part of Suffolk and recommendation by word-of-mouth was important in such a community. The only other diners were a young couple, probably in their late twenties, and an older couple, probably in their early forties. Second honeymoon or just a dirty weekend? The older pair looked more in love than the younger two. Perhaps these were the ones not married. A man sat alone in the corner of the room, slowly munching his food with all the self-consciousness of someone without a dining partner. He would have business somewhere in the area. Not a sales rep though; there were cheaper hotels in the locale that they used.
The windows rattled against their frames, startling him from his thoughts. My God, the weather was a bitch tonight! He doubted there would be any customers from outside the hotel that evening and there were not many guests staying anyway. He felt pleased: he could pay more attention to the Freemasons. In an hour or so they would retire to the conference room upstairs which they had booked until 12pm, and there they would go into their silly ‘secret’ rituals. They weren’t aware of the giggles they provoked in various members of the hotel staff eavesdropping at the door.
Ah, they had finished their first course. He snapped his fingers and frowned when John, the young Australian waiter, did not instantly appear at his side. No doubt flirting with Helen, the part-time waitress. Little slut! And so was she.
He walked towards the swing-doors leading to the kitchen and quickly stepped aside as John came crashing through, a big grin on his face. The beam vanished as he stopped before the maître d’.
‘Really, John, sometimes I despair of you.’
John subdued his grin into a boyish smile, the kind he knew his superior was fond of. ‘Sorry, Mr Balascombe,’ he apologized sheepishly. ‘Just giving Chef a hand.’
‘Your duty is out here, John. A good waiter spends as little time as possible in the kitchen.’
‘Yes, Mr Balascombe.’ You old poofter.
‘See to the centre table; they’re ready for the next course.’
‘Right, Mr Balascombe.’ Dirty old buggerer.
John swept towards the crowded centre table whose occupants thought his smirk was a subservient smile directed at themselves.
The head waiter sighed inwardly. The boy wouldn’t last through the summer. He was trouble. Like the Italian last year, who imagined private favours earned special privileges in the dining-room. Not so, though; nothing would interfere with the smooth running of his professional domain. He had once dreamed he was maître d’ on the Titanic and had gone to each table as the ship sank, enquiring if everything was in order. Tartare not spicy enough, sir? Perhaps a touch more Worcestershire. A little dressing on your green salad, madame? French, or perhaps vinaigrette? The game soup is too watery, sir? Perhaps it’s just the sea spilling over into the dish.
He glided authoritatively towards the Freemasons’ table, casting a well-practised eye towards the other diners; it wouldn’t do to have any grumbles within range of his more important clients. He would make sure Helen gave the two couples and the solitary man all the attention they required.
He smiled benevolently at the ageing gannets and several turned to look up at him with wide-open mouths. Sorry, I have no worms. Perhaps I can find some juicy cockroaches in the kitchen. He said, ‘I’m sorry about this awful weather, gentlemen,’ as if he were its creator. They good-humouredly informed him that it wasn’t his fault, although one or two implied they would hold him responsible next time.
His eyes and smile glazed slightly when he saw John allow the dregs of a soup spoon to drip onto the head of the man he was leaning over. Fortunately the thick mat of hair obviously had no roots in the aged scalp it covered, so the diner was unaware of the accident. The head waiter felt his knees go weak when he saw John reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief and he desperately tried to catch the waiter’s eye. It was like a bad dream. Everything slowed down. John produced a grubby wodge of grey material, a crumpled-up ball that resembled a small, washed-out brain, and carefully, ever-so carefully, guided it towards the green blob of pea soup that refused to be absorbed in the man’s Crown Topper.
Mr Balascombe resisted the urge to faint. Had his thinking cells not become paralysed he may have offered a silent prayer; had his mouth not locked open, he may have offered a strangled but discreet discouragement. Instead it was left to the harsh forces of nature to save the situation.
All heads turned towards the windows that looked out onto the seafront as they heard the deep rumbling noise.
The first boat crashed through the far window of the dining-room, sweeping in with the torrent of water, its mast snapped in two by the brickwork at the top of the frame. It smashed onto the table where the young couple sat, crushing them so that drowning had nothing to do with their deaths. The second boat was larger and became wedged in the centre window of the dining-room. Every ground-floor window on the east side was broken as the huge wave hit the hotel front and sea water poured into the building.
The head waiter screeched as the torrent raised the big centre table high into the air, cutlery and dishes sliding its length to be cleansed of foodscraps as they had never been cleansed before. Mr Balascombe fell backwards, other bodies piling into him and the entire contents of the dining-room were swept towards the far wall. Objects struck him, stunning him, and he could not be sure if they were tables, chairs, or human limbs. Sea water rushed up his nose and into his throat and he spluttered for breath; he twisted his body in a vain attempt to take up a swimming position. As he burst through the kitchen doors and caught a crazy, swirling image of the transfixed kitchen staff, a small part of his mind was relieved that John had been prevented from using the handkerchief. It’s an ill wind, he thought as he went through the window on the other side of the kitchen.
He was heading out of town when his car’s headlights picked out the solid black wall racing towards him. He wasn’t puzzled by the sight, only frightened. He stood on his brakes and locked the wheels with the handbrake, spinning the steering-wheel to his right so that the BMW went into a tight skid and turned in the direction from which it had just come. His foot was already on the accelerator pedal before the car had completed the turn and he had to fight the steering-wheel to gain control. First, Second, Third, and he was roaring back into the rain-lashed streets, his foot down hard, body hunched forward for better vision through the speckled windscreen, the wipers working frantically to keep it clear. His reactions had always been good – sometimes he though
t that maybe they were too good, for he had the tendency to leap before looking. Tonight, though, he and his car would have already been under several feet of water had it not been for prompt action. He was scared, yet a wave of excitement ran through him, a heightening of senses that had become rare since marriage, a son, and business commitments. Fear was a great motivator – perhaps the greatest – and a great adrenalin-pusher. He had known that in his racing days where speed had been both foe and ally; no such sensations existed for him in the plodding commercial world of buying and selling autosport goods. The two shops he owned provided him with an income, but could not provide stimulation. They were no adrenalin-pushers. The wave behind him was.
Mercifully, the road along the seafront was empty of people and moving vehicles, not many encouraged to venture out on such a night. He used the centre of the road, aware that it narrowed considerably further ahead so that turning right would be a comparatively slow process. And he had to turn right to reach higher ground, which meant he would have to make the manoeuvre now, before he reached the narrower confines.
He glanced into his rear-view mirror, and saw nothing but blackness behind. A small green lawn, at its centre a stone monument in the shape of a cross, was lit up by his headlights and he swung to the left, intending to sweep in a wide arc to enter a small sidestreet on his right. He would have made it had he not tried to avoid the dog that suddenly streaked across his path.
Reacting rather than thinking, he turned the wheel even further to the left, then tried to straighten it when he saw the low sea wall rushing towards him. He avoided the dog, but hit the wall.
Sparks flew from the car’s bodywork as metal and concrete screeched against each other. Instead of taking his foot from the accelerator pedal, he kept his foot down, hoping to tear himself away from the wall rather than be twisted into it. He ignored the grinding, scraping sound and the shower of sparks flying past his passenger window, and pulled against the tug of the steering-wheel, using his strength and skill to ease the BMW away from the wall without stopping.
Too late he saw the stone steps that jutted outwards from the wall and his front, left-hand tyre had hit them before he could wrench the wheel around. The impact sent him bouncing upwards, his head striking the car’s sunroof. The BMW spun round, once, twice, rear right-hand corner cannoning off the wall, spinning so that the front hit again at an angle, rebounding and speeding backwards, leaving rubber smeared against the wet road.
The seat-belt, after the initial wrench upwards, had firmly locked him into the driver’s seat. He was stunned, but still aware of what was approaching his windscreen, for the car was now facing the rushing wave. Feebly, he reached for the ignition key and turned it, pressing a leaden foot down on the clutch. He pushed the gear-lever into First and gripped the steering-wheel, twisting it towards his left. The engine whined pathetically as the car crawled forward a few inches before bumping to a halt. The smell of burning was strong.
There was nothing outside now, just the lights bouncing off the black churning wall only a few feet away. Then no light at all. The wall was around him and the car was moving once more. The wall broke through the windscreen before he had a chance to scream.
The wave swept through the town, pounding against and tearing through buildings, pouring into sidestreets and cascading down into basements. Debris and bodies were carried with it and other waves followed the first, supplementing each other, driven on by the volume behind, the fierce wind lashing at the crests so that they spewed white. It was too late for the townsfolk to close their shutters, too late to pile up sandbags before their front doors and, for many, too late to climb upstairs or onto their rooftops, for the flood had hit too fast, too suddenly. It raced into the high street, a churning, bubbling deluge now, seeking out every low opening, picking up anything not welded or concreted into the ground, a watery mass of destruction.
The usherette sat upright in her seat and craned her neck round, peering through heavy-lensed spectacles into the flickering gloom of the cinema. On screen, the walls of the old house were dripping blood and the madman with the axe stalked the dark corridors searching for his prey. A severed hand from the first victim was tucked into his belt.
Someone snickered again, a suppressed sound that spread like an infectious disease along one particular row of teenagers at the back of the tiny theatre. Hilary Burnchard, the usherette, stood with her back against the entrance/exit door for several moments to let the troublemakers know she would not stand for any nonsense. There were other patrons – not many tonight, granted – who had paid good money to see the film and who didn’t want it spoilt by hooligans who couldn’t or wouldn’t behave. She knew the ringleaders all right, for in such a small town, reputations and names were all too familiar.
The madman with the axe had stopped outside a door and was testing the handle. It was locked. Now he was crouching to look through the keyhole, an insane grin on his hairy features.
Hilary averted her eyes; she hated this bit. She had seen the film four times already that week and had still not got used to the horror and gore. She wondered what the film world was coming to: whatever happened to those nice musicals they used to make?
Several girls in the audience shrieked when the thin, foot-long spike came through the keyhole and pierced the madman’s bulbous eye. Blood spurted along the glistening spike and the actor’s scream drowned out the guffaws of the disorderly row of teenagers.
Hilary’s lips tightened into a straight line when one of the boys, clutching his eye, jumped to his feet and moaned, ‘I only wanted to see if the bathroom was free!’
She walked across the aisle just below the screen, her step slow but steady, unaware that the cut-out silhouette of her head was moving across the face of the writhing man and was about to be snapped off by his gnashing teeth. She wondered what had caused the increased howls of laughter from the back row.
The little cinema was in the high street and occupied the same building as an estate agent and a solicitor’s office, the latter two being on the first floor above the theatre. It did not take many bodies to fill the rows of seats, but somehow it was always half-empty. An open book with a pencil stub attached by string usually stood just outside the foyer in the afternoon for people to sign their names should they want to see that night’s showing: quite often, the manager decided not to open if there were not fresh names in the book and the particular film was experiencing a dismal run. His staff – projectionist, usherette and cashier – were employed on the basis that they worked only when there were enough customers. Hilary did not always enjoy the job, particularly when there was a horror or dirty movie on, but the money, a pittance though it was, came in handy to supplement her husband’s income as a handyman-cum-gardener. She especially did not enjoy the job when there was a rowdy bunch present.
She strolled up the slight incline towards the back of the cinema as the giant door behind her slowly began to open. The row of teenagers nervously eyed both her and the screen as she approached, one or two of them finding it difficult to stifle their giggles. The door made a loud creaking noise as it opened wider and the madman was silent as he watched with one, wide, good eye.
The cinema had become quiet once more: no rustling of sweet papers, no shifting uncomfortably in seats, no suppressed giggles. A shadow moved in the doorway. Someone – or something – was about to emerge.
Even Hilary, who had seen the film four times before and knew what was going to happen, stared anxiously at the screen, the teenage irritation forgotten for the moment. And it was she who shrieked when the exit door burst open and the manager stood there waving his arms and shouting.
The audience caught a few garbled words that sounded like ‘blood’ or ‘flood’ just before the water gushed through and began to fill the auditorium.
It took severe conditions to keep the regulars away and Ron, the barman, knew that tonight’s weather was not the worst they’d experienced. It was gusty, all right, but most of his customers we
re used to that, being seamen. It would take a monsoon to keep his lot away. Maybe not even that.
‘Come on, Ron, let’s be havin you!’
He turned and waved towards the group of men at the far end of the bar, then continued counting the change into the hand of the customer he was serving. He walked down the bar towards the impatient group, retrieving his half-smoked cigarette from an ashtray as he went. As usual, the air was thick with smoke. Once, Ron had tried to give up smoking, but soon had realized he was inhaling so much lung pollution from the pub’s atmosphere that it would make little difference.
‘What’ll it be, gents? Four more of “Old”?’
‘That’ll do us.’
Ron placed the cigarette in an ashtray at that end of the bar and picked up a drained glass. As he pulled the first pint, he asked, ‘Anything out there tonight?’
The group knew what he was referring to, for they were fishermen. ‘They’d have to be bloody mad,’ one of them, a thick-set man whose eyes glowered angrily beneath bushy white eyebrows, replied. His face had the craggy, weathered look of someone who spent much of his life on the open sea which, indeed, he had. He was the owner of the drifter now moored securely in the town’s natural harbour and the men around him were his crew. None were blood kin, for he had been cursed with daughters who had long since fled his bitter grumblings and the confines of the small town. His grumbling was more bitter than ever that night, for conditions had lost him a day’s work and his crew still expected to be paid.
The Jonah Page 22
