He readjusted his grip on Becky, and on his dread, and struck out deeper, away from shore and the forest of legs blocking his progress. He turned left and kicked. Feeling above him with his free hand for the edge of the raft. He thought it might never come, but it did, and he hauled Becky coughing and spluttering from the water. It filmed his eyes like oil; he could feel it in his mouth like the residue of a pastry saturated with lard. They were both sick as they splashed from the water, around fifteen yards away from the worst of the squabbling. People were dying. Jane shouted at them, an incoherent bellow of anger and frustration.
He wheeled around at the sudden crunch of approaching footsteps, ready to launch his forearm into whatever face came at him, but it was Loke, his nose and mouth bloodied. He looked tired, hunted. Jane supposed they all did.
'I couldn't stay,' he said. 'It was getting very, very nasty out there.'
'It's all right,' Jane said. 'Mission accomplished. Becky? Meet Loke.'
They all turned to watch the raft. Another horn blared through the grey nets of retreating dark; Jane couldn't see the player. It would be dawn in an hour or two. He envied them their place on the raft at the same time that he was secretly thanking whatever invisible guardian had kept him from that insane binding of waterproofed wood and tarpaulin. He heard the 'chunk' of an axe as it bit through the ropes attaching the raft to land. There was a great cheer, subsumed by an even greater caterwauling of dismay. The raft slid slowly away from the shore.
Becky began to cry.
'It's all right,' Jane said, without conviction. He placed a hand on her belly, imagined it swelling, becoming a curve that arrived almost by stealth but then could not be ignored. He imagined the baby's hands reaching for them, the knock of its limbs and the faint tremor of its heart.
'They'll come back. They'll come back.' He kissed her cheek, the top of her head.
He stepped away from Becky, drew Loke in towards her. He touched Loke's arm. 'Look after her for a moment,' he whispered.
He turned towards the headland and the cottages that dogged the coastline for half a mile or so. The figure had moved this way. He crunched towards the flimsy buildings. Many had been turned to so much driftwood by the Event, or the winds that it had created. His ears were pricked, listening out for Becky's voice. If she called him back, he would go to her. This would stop, if she decided it. But she didn't call him. He did not look back.
Over the years he had tried to project the babyish face of his son on to a fifteen-year-old boy. A manchild. He had never been able to do it. Trying to imagine that face without its remnants of baby fat, the pudgy cheeks and wide eyes, the trim, pouting bow of his mouth, was beyond him. Further, he didn't like to do it. It was negating who his boy really was for some fantasy that could never even approach the truth. The likelihood, although he baulked whenever he confronted it, was that he would walk straight past Stanley in the street. The difference between the baby and the five-year-old was greater than he perceived. Add another ten years and you had a new person, in effect. Maybe the shape of the eyes remained, but there was a change in the bone structure, a moving away from the infant that made you strangers, no matter how tight these factions of the family.
Movement now, up ahead. A shifting of shadow around the edges of a stoved-in cottage, window frames gone, door blown in by the wolf that was the wind.
A whimper turned his head. He saw someone duck out of sight beyond the dry gardens and their blasted configurations of sea kale and yellow horned poppy, santolinas and crambes. Starfish lay around his feet as if the heavens had turned to stone at the insult to the world and had fallen on this spot. He had to step over a wreckage of railway sleepers and shattered floorboards, downed telegraph poles and great cairns of bleached crab carapaces. It was like walking a moonscape infected by dreams of violence and perversion.
There was a slight incline up ahead, a dip that exposed the rear of the cottage and a hole dug into it, leading to deep shadow beneath the building itself. He saw the figure hunker down and wriggle into the hole. He felt a jerk in his chest at the sight of blue and white striped pyjamas, his son's favourite pyjamas. He was sure of it.
I luff these jim-jams, Daddy, they're all warm and soft and make me look like toofpaste . . .
'Stan?' he called out, and he ignored the thickening pain in his jaw, the fresh seep of blood from his ruined gums. The swelling had puffed his left eye almost completely shut. He could still see through the right, just, a blurred, splintered view. He supposed he would have to cut into an eyelid to reduce the swelling if it blinded him completely.
'Stanley?' He strode towards the house, ignoring any pretence he'd made at caution. 'It's me,mate. It's Dad. Don't be scared.'
He slithered down the shingle into the dip and leant close to the hole. He could see nothing in there but the pure black of childhood nightmares. But then there was a flurry of movement. The grimy striped swatch of his pyjamas shifting back and forth beyond the edge of the hole, settling now, his back to Jane. The whimpering continued. Cold, afraid, alone for so long.
'Hey,' Jane said. Tears were forming. He could almost feel the slender bones under his fingers, the shivering of his boy. 'I'll make you warm. I'm here, Stan. Dad's here. I never left you, you know. I'd never let you go. Come on.' He was finding it hard to keep his voice level.
He bent to the hole, resting one hand on the cold shingle, reaching his other towards his boy.
'Stanley, it's time to go.' His fingers touched the cotton. It did not feel right.
The whimpering stopped. The shivering of his boy stopped.
The tiger turned around within the black circle of the hole and showed Jane what properly rotten jaws ought to look like.
'Stan,' Jane said, and his voice was nothing but an old man's breath, tired, played out, defeated. He kicked back against the shingle but managed only to dig his heels deeper into the loose stones. He was going nowhere. The strength was gone from him. The tiger clawed a path towards him, muscling out of the hole like something born of darkness. Its ragged, matted cloak stank of death. It placed one massive paw on the centre of Jane's chest, pinning him back against the cold ground. The pitted box of its muzzle wrinkled as it bared its black fangs. The shrivelled tubes of its eye sockets told of distances that Jane could never comprehend. How many millennia had these things drifted through the stars, waiting to find food? How many dead planets had they impacted upon, waiting for an atmosphere, a primordial scenario, an evolution that would never come?
He was thinking this as the tiger almost nonchalantly swatted a claw across his throat. Jane felt an instant numbing chill there and found that he could not swallow. He tried to say something, but his mouth only filled with blood. He jerked against the weight of the rotting animal but it did not budge. Jane couldn't breathe. He was vaguely aware of footsteps in the shingle slowing. He couldn't see who it was.
Light.
A gap as the clouds parted. The moon appeared, gibbous; osteal white. The tiger raised its great head towards it, growling, unsure. Jane put his hand to his own shoulder and withdrew the long shard of shrapnel. He didn't feel a thing. He drove it deep into the tiger's eye. The tiger made no sound but slumped against him, like Stanley used to as a baby when he was tired. His sweet, warm head on Jane's chest. The passage to sleep, so swift as to be almost seamless.
Jane felt like that now. He could close his eyes and drift into oblivion and it would not be any effort. He placed a hand against his throat and there was nothing but pumping wetness.
A snuffling noise.
But he felt no pain. He saw the girl and behind her, coming up the beach, Loke with his arm around Becky, who was steadfastly looking out to sea. The girl raised her hand. Protection. He knew the baby would be cared for. He knew there could be a future.
That snuffling noise.
Jane turned his head and Stanley was standing there in his pyjamas, at the edge of the dip, Walter dangling from his hand.
'Hiya, Dad,' his boy said. 'Whe
re've you been? I'm freezing.'
Jane struggled free of the tiger's dead weight and stood up. He moved slowly towards his son. He was cautious, unsure. He didn't want to be tricked again. He clambered up to level ground and Stanley reached out a hand, slid it through the gap between Jane's thumb and forefinger.
'Makeme warm, Dad. I've been cold for such a long time. Waiting for you.'
Jane wiped away tears, eager after all this time to have Stanley clear in his sight. 'I'm here. I've always been here.'
'Me too, Dad. Come on, it's this way.'
Jane allowed himself to be led. He did not look back. After a while, he reached down and picked his boy up. He closed his eyes to his magical, unique smell, the soft measure of his breath, his strong, regular heartbeat. He closed his eyes and it was as if nothing had changed.
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