The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 10 - [Anthology]

by Edited By Stephen Jones

  That, they’ll tell you, was the horror that marred last summer. They’re wrong. The real horror wasn’t to do with the fouled-up beaches and the near-death of the local fishing industry. It might have all begun with the Edda Dell’Orso, but the real horror was . . . how do I put it? . . . much more personal than that.

  It happened in the abandoned swimming pool on Tynemouth beach. Derelict and boarded up. Rotting under the salt-spray and the sun and the cruel sea winters. That’s where the real horror began.

  And where I might have lost my sanity.

  Very soon now, I’ll know for sure.

  The open-air swimming pool had been a real crowd-puller, from its opening at the turn of the century right up until its closure in the 1960s. Built in an oval-shape, below the cliffs on Tynemouth beach, its sluices were open to the sea. One side faced the cliffs, the other out to the sea; the rounded end of that oval looking down on clustering rocks where children climbed and hunted for crabs and winkles. Back then, the pool itself had been tiled in blue and white; the surface of the water glittering under the summer sun like molten silver. I played there as a kid, with my sister; just before the place was closed. And every time I try to get a picture of it as it was then, I always seem to get sounds instead. The sound of the sea, beyond the walls and in the sluices. The cries of children splashing and diving matched by the wheeling cries of seagulls overhead. The cliff side of the pool was bordered by the pumping station and its chlorine tanks. There was a side gate there, with a steep and tightly winding set of stairs that took you straight up to the promenade above. The main building housed the changing area. Inside was a maze of mini-corridors with individual tiled cubicles. Plastic curtains hung from the overhead rails. Again, the sounds come back to me. It seemed that the place was always filled with laughter; echoing screeches as kids ran and played; the slap of bare feet on tiled floors as they dashed in and out of those cubicles, consumed by holiday excitement. Lots of Scottish accents, I remember.

  Bloody funny, that. The accents, I mean.

  Every “factory-fortnight”, all the shipyard workers from the River Tyne would pack the family up to Scotland for the traditional family holiday in cheap digs on the sea front. At the same time, all the shipyard workers from the Clyde would do the same thing, and head down here to Tynemouth and Whitley Bay. Staying in the same cheap bed and breakfasts, and doing pretty much everything their Geordie compatriots would be doing north of the border. I often wondered why everyone didn’t just stay where they were. Anyway, I seemed to make a lot of Scottish holiday friends back then. Close as blood-brothers for two weeks, then gone forever after. Even though Amy and I were local kids, that swimming pool was an exotic visit for us; maybe two or three times a year, in a good summer.

  And then that terrible, terrible thing happened.

  No one ever told me this, but I reckon it was Amy’s death that led to the closure of the pool. Two weeks after the funeral, the gates were chained. Thirty-odd years later, and the place still haunted me.

  First, let me tell you what happened on that Thursday morning when the Edda Dell’Orso ran aground.

  I guess you must have seen the television news reports about the oil slick that washed ashore and what it was doing to the seagulls and the guillemots. I’ve heard it said that more people were enraged about what was happening to the seabirds than what had happened to the crew. Right or wrong, I guess people felt that it was the men’s fault at root, and that the “dumb” animals were suffering the consequences. I’m an animal lover, that’s why I spend so much of my spare time working with the RSPCA and the RSPB; but I would never put animals before people, the way that some animal lovers do. Anyway, there was one hell of an outcry.

  And I was down there on Tynemouth beach with the other volunteers, doing my bit. Trying my best not to scare to death the oiled-up gulls and the other seabirds which were bobbing on that tide of black filth; carefully trudging waist-deep through all that foamed-up crude oil in my waders and trying to get the poor buggers passed back to shore without getting my eyes pecked out. A difficult job in more ways than one; mess around too much trying to get your hands on a seabird and the chances are that it’ll die of fright before you’re able to get it back to where it can be cleaned. Same thing with the cleaning operation. The washing and cleaning is a gruelling, painstaking operation. No matter how careful you are, it’s an arduous and distressing experience for them, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a bird suddenly just die in my hands while I was trying to get the oil and the shit out of its plumage, no matter how gentle I was trying to be.

  It was a particularly distressing experience on that Thursday morning. The oil was so thick close to shore that the waves just weren’t “breaking” anymore. Undulating black ripples flowed around me as I worked. A lot of the birds had been early morning feeders, and we hadn’t got there until just after ten. Consequently, there were a lot of dead gulls as we made our slow way south down the beach. A lot had drowned in that oily morass, others had struggled to be free, their wings hopelessly gummed until they’d died of exhaustion.

  And all the time we worked our way down the beach, I was aware that we were getting nearer and nearer to the abandoned swimming pool. I tried to keep its presence out of my mind, tried not to let those memories overwhelm me. To a great extent, it worked. The needs of those birds were so immediate that they outweighed the bitter memories. But even though the waves weren’t breaking because of the heavy overlay of oil, I could still hear the sussurant rush of the sea further out, and every once in a while, it brought it all back to me with a vividity that made me want to turn around and wade back to the beach. Luckily, there were twelve of us out there that morning, all relying on each other; so the thought of letting them all down, in what was a painstaking team effort, kept me going.

  Then someone cried: “Over there!”

  I turned to look back. It was Lorna Jackson. At first I thought she’d hurt herself, when I saw that there was a dark smudge right across her brow. Then I realised that it was oil, wiped there accidentally by her own hand. She was pointing urgently down the beach and when I turned to look I could see what had so alarmed her. A sea bird had become trapped in one of the swimming pool’s sluices; a three-foot-round aperture set into the base of the pool’s sea wall. The rocks and the wall were stained by years of green and yellow sea-encrustment, but now the area around that sluice and the rim of the aperture were smeared with the Edda Dell’Orso’s jettisoned filth. Right in the middle of that opening, wings flapping in distress as it bobbed up and down on a black mass, was a gull. Unlike most of the birds we’d come across, it still had a glimmer of white in its wings. Perhaps it had just come down on the rocks beside the sea wall, too hungry for pickings to take any notice of its fellows’ fate; but it didn’t seem to be as badly oiled-up and that in itself made it a prime candidate for rescue.

  “I’ll get it!” I yelled, before anyone else could respond, and surged back to the beach. It was maybe fifty yards to the sea wall.

  I’ve thought about why I responded so quickly.

  Sometimes I think it’s to do with everything I’ve just told you. The bird not being so badly oiled-up and everything. Now I know it had to do with something altogether different. There were a million and one reasons why I should have kept away from that swimming pool after what happened to Amy. I’ve said it was a place that haunted me. More than that. On the grim grey days of my depressions, when nothing in the world seemed to make sense anymore, or when I was tottering on the edge of that pit of melancholy, almost ready to let myself fall . . . my thoughts always returned to that swimming pool, no matter how much I tried to prevent it.

  Maybe that day I had a chance to grasp the nettle.

  Perhaps I saw the opportunity to do something I’d thought about doing for a long time.

  Not so much bearding the lion in its den, because there was no fucking lion in there. Just the echoes of those bygone days, keeping me awake at night. Now, I had a chance to
go where I’d dreaded. Does that make sense? I didn’t want to go in there, couldn’t have gone in there just with the idea of laying my personal demons to rest. But hell, now there was a reason. That bird would die. And maybe . . . just maybe . . . setting foot in there might go some way to easing my pain. Even as I watched, the bird was being sucked in through the sluice, out of sight and into that hateful place. There was a collective moan behind me as it vanished, but I turned as I ran, oil splattering the sand from my waders, and I waved:

  “Okay. It’ll be okay. I’ve got it.”

  There was a concrete ramp on the beach, maybe a hundred feet long, leading right up to the rusted and padlocked front gate of the swimming pool. The fence was wire mesh, so I knew that I could climb it if I had to. Not knowing whether my sense of urgency had to do with the plight of the bird, or my need to just get in and out of there as quickly as possible, I hopped the last few feet on either foot as I pulled off my oil-stained waders and dropped them on the ramp. I yanked at the padlock and a fine cloud of brown rust furled and blew away on the sea-breeze. The fence seemed to vibrate away on all sides; a strange noise, like the “singing” that sometimes comes from telegraph wires. That sound affected me badly and I didn’t know why. Back on the beach, the others were continuing with their job, but were still watching me. Gritting my teeth, I hooked my fingers through the mesh and climbed.

  The fence was about twenty feet high, and I had no problem with heights. But my heart was hammering as I swung my legs over the top and began the climb down to the other side. When I hit bottom, I still clung to that fence, sweat making my shirt stick to my back and running in itchy rivulets down my face. I screwed my eyes shut. Then, with an angry curse I pushed myself around, ran past the empty lifebelt stand and came face to face with the cracked and rusted fountain that I had played in as a kid.

  Back then, it had been a wonderful conical pyramid of bright blue and white paint, standing by the shallow end of the open air pool. There had been steps there, so that the kids could climb up and stand beneath a glittering curtain of breath-catching, cold sea water. Now, it was just a cracked and stained mass. I barely had a chance to take it in. Or the graffiti-ridden walls and the yawning, empty doors and windows of the changing area block off to my right.

  All I could see was the swimming pool itself.

  No more glittering water. No more sparkling blue and white tiles.

  The surface of the pool was a black mass, undulating and shifting as if there was something alive beneath it. Rubble, shattered spars of wood and tangled ironwork had been dumped into that pool, but it was impossible to make anything out clearly. Hundreds of gallons of the Edda Dell’Orso’s crude oil had been sucked in through the sea-sluices and had coated the entire surface. But it was not this that made the sight so obscene. It was what the tanker’s spilled load had brought with it. The tide and the clinging oil had sucked more than one seabird in through that sluice. There were birds all over that undulating mass. Maybe a hundred, maybe more. It was impossible to tell. Most of them were dead, and the only flash of white feathers I could see was down by the sluice itself, where the bird had been sucked in. It flapped and struggled as it was carried further into that seabird’s graveyard on the rippling ebony surface.

  I ran forward, knowing that there was no way I could wade into that pool. I’d have to find something to pull the gull into the side. I glanced at the abandoned changing rooms as I ran alongside the pool to where the bird was struggling. The echoing sounds of kids laughing and of bare feet slapping on cold tile floors somehow seemed very real to me. Now, I didn’t know whether I was doing the right thing by coming in here, or whether I was just going to make the dreams and the memories even worse than they already were. It was replaying in my head now, the day when Amy died. I didn’t want it to, but just being in this place brought it back with a horrifying intensity.

  It had been my birthday party the day before, and Amy had stolen all the attention as usual. It was supposed to be my day. A special day when Mam and Dad could show me that they loved me just as much as her. But sure enough, just when it seemed that everything was going well-, when the kids were all playing and I was feeling really good - the party was brought to a halt when Amy told everyone that she wanted to sing her song and do her dance. And I remember looking at Mam and thinking: “They won’t let her do it. They won’t let her spoil the party. Any other time, any other day. But not now. Not atmy birthday party . . .”

  And Mam had told everyone to be quiet and had picked Amy up and put her on the table, and even though the other kids had seen it all before, they were made to be quiet, and Amy was asked . . . was asked... to do her song and her dance. I could have cried and begged and ranted, in the way that a nine-year-old will, but I was just so hurt. So hurt, that I couldn’t say a thing. My throat was constricted as I stood there and watched Amy be made the centre of attention as she sang . . .

  I tried to push those memories out of my mind, but it was impossible. The seagull’s movements had become weaker. It raised one oil-covered wing as if it was trying to wave at me. In another moment, it must succumb.

  And Amy began to sing:

  “Ain’t she sweet? I ask you, ain’t she neat? Now I ask you very con-fi-dentially: Ain’t! She! Sweet!”

  Her little feet began to pound out that tap-dance rhythm on the table and the kids shuffled and watched and God how I wanted that table to collapse beneath her, or for her to miss a step and fall and begin crying and . . .

  There was a broken spar of wood lying by the side of the pool. I picked it up. The wood was so rotten that it was crumbling in my hands even as I hoisted it out over the surface of the oil.

  The next day we had gone to the beach. The sun was shining and there were lots of families all encamped on the same stretch of sand that I’d just come from. But inside, I was feeling overshadowed in a way that I’d often felt. I wanted to be alone, that’s why I asked Mam and Dad if I could go on up to the swimming pool. Dad had insisted that I take Amy with me. After all, I was the older brother and it was my job to look after my little sister. That constricted feeling was in my throat again. Couldn’t I do anything without having her along in tow? Didn’t they realise that I wanted some time for myself? I sulked, but they made me take her. We were already in swimming costumes, so there was no need to use the changing facilities.

  “Keep in the shallow end,” Mam had said.

  I was able to reach the seagull with the spar, but the bird began to panic, even though I was being as gentle as I possibly could. Its one free wing began to flap and splatter the oil, and I began to make shushing noises as if I was dealing with a small child.

  “Easy . . . easy . . .”

  I didn’t want to take her. They shouldn’t have made me take her. What the hell were they thinking about, Mam and Dad? I was only nine years old, Amy was seven. What did they think I was? Amy’s nursemaid?

  Slowly and gradually, I drew the seagull in to the side. Its wing ceased to flap. It looked at me with one blank eye, giving in to its fate.

  There were other kids there. Kids my own age. Amy wanted to play, began to cry when I said she had to stay there in the shallow end while I went to play with those others. I knew why she wanted to come. She just wanted to be the centre of attention, as usual-, would probably sing that bloody song again and just embarrass me. So I left her there while I made new friends. And the first I knew that something had gone wrong was when that woman screamed . . .

  Still making that shushing sound, I reached out and gently took the bird by its wing. It didn’t resist. It just kept looking at me as if it knew that I was going to rend it apart and devour it. I let go of the spar and it slid soundlessly beneath the surface of the oil. I had the bird now and lifted it to the side; long tacky threads of oil spattered and flurried in the sea breeze.

  . . . and when I looked back down to the shallow end, I could see three men ploughing through the water; could see one of them lunging down and dragging something fro
m the bottom and the woman was just screaming and screaming, making the other kids down there begin crying too, as .. .

  The seagull was dead. Its head lolled on its neck. Its one eye was still blank and staring. I could feel that constriction in my throat again; just as if I was nine years old once more. What had I done by coming into this place again? How could I have been so stupid as to believe that I could exorcise those memories? I lay the bird at the poolside and crouched down on my haunches, looking back to the shallow end.

  And then, about six feet out from where I sat, something moved beneath the oil.

  I saw it from the corner of my eye. At first, I thought it might be sunlight reflecting on that ebony surface. I stared at the place where I thought I’d seen movement. It came again. Something that flapped out of the oil, smaller than a seagull’s wing, but with the same kind of movement. Another sea bird, trapped beneath the surface and trying to rise. I looked for the spar, then remembered that I’d let it drop into the pool. Frantically, I searched around for something else. Now, it seemed as if there was a chance to make good on my failure. If I could save even one bird from this morass, then somehow it seemed that my desperation need not be so intense. There was nothing at hand. Perhaps back there in the changing rooms . . .?