Then we get on the boat. It’s not a boat like I was expecting. I was expecting something with a cool name, like a sloop, or a cutter, or a dory. I don’t know what any of those look like, but this one looks like it’s made from plastic.
We could have paid for a brochure at the main office, but we’re all of a mind. It’s a boat. Then there’s the seals, and above all, the sea.
You don’t need literature for that.
I tap the boat with my knuckle. It seems more like fibreglass than plastic. I don’t think Frank’s too happy to be going out to sea in a boat that’s not made of wood. We sit toward the front.
Helen’s giddy.
The wait’s OK. Frank goes green pretty quickly. Helen looks good. The boat is rocking in the dock. It doesn’t bother me. Me and Helen, we’re chatting. It’s the first time for both of us.
Frank’s quiet. He’s looking pasty. He looks like he might bring up the bacon sandwich he had with us before we left.
‘Frank?’
‘Mm?’
‘You OK?’
‘Yep.’
‘No, really,’ says Helen.
‘Really,’ says Frank.
I can tell he’s ill. He’s got a cigarette behind his ear. Ordinarily he’d have smoked it, but it’s just sitting there, a little bent, sodden from the drizzle.
Each wave coming in rocks the boat. It gets so Frank moans whenever the boat gets lifted, dropped.
‘Frank,’ I say. ‘Are you seasick?’
‘Nope,’ says Frank.
Helen and I share a look. Frank’s stubborn, certainly, but this is just stupid.
Then the skipper is saying, ‘All aboard!’ which I’m sure is just cheese for the tourists, all seven of us – me, Frank, Helen, and two other couples.
We pull away. The skipper gives us some safety spiel. I don’t listen.
I’m in love with it as soon as we’re out in the water, free of the shore.
The feel of the boat, responding to the sea, like the sea’s stroking the hull of the boat. The boat’s pushing back, purring along in the swell. The spume gets in my hair. It feels different to the rain.
I can taste it on my tongue, in the air. It’s different to our bench. Not better, but good. Definitely good.
Helen’s getting a kick out of it, too. The boat chugs, but you can’t really hear it. The splashing of the sea against the hull is the main noise.
We head out and all of a sudden we’re not surrounded by land anymore. The land just falls away behind us. We’re in the sea. The proper sea. The hull slaps the waves and we get drenched and laugh every time. Some old and rusty boats sit in the water, rocking like we are. Some are just little wooden sail boats, all anchored in the bay. The rusted boats could be abandoned, for all I know. Like expensive litter, but almost like a Japanese gardener’s idea of litter. Like he’d come along and arranged them just so...just so they look like scenery. The rust isn’t offensive. It’s something true. Like all of us, people, boats, even the land, we’re all just little fish in a big fucking sea that never ends, never gets tired.
We pass a huge blue building on the arm of the bay that I saw on the map. It looks like a great house. I can imagine it featuring in a film. It’s an epic location for a house. It’s not a house, though, the skipper tells us. It’s for the National Trust.
I’m disappointed. For a minute, I’d entertained thoughts of living there, out on this barren stretch of coast, swept by the wind, smelling the sea all day. Watching the weather. Maybe wearing a thick sweater and drinking tea from a tin mug.
But then I think, where would I get my milk?
There’s a small peninsular, out to sea. I can see it’s covered with seals. Helen’s gibbering, pointing out seals diving through the water, sleek and natural, where our boat is stocky, powering through the sea.
It’s spoiled, though, because Frank is retching over the side of the boat. His hair is hanging in his face, his cigarette long lost overboard.
Helen takes charge. I can’t hold Frank’s hand while he’s puking. He’s not that kind of man. Helen can, though.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says, to me, but for Frank, too. ‘He’s just sea sick.’
Frank pukes some more and groans.
His rain mac is flecked with grey, which I figure is yellow, because sick shouldn’t be grey.
Frank waves me away, so I spend the rest of my time gazing at the sea, feeling it on my face, in my hair. I’m wiping my eyes, watching the seals.
The sky’s turning the colour of the seals.
I look over at Frank. He’s sitting quietly. He’s got nothing left to give the sea.
I look back. The seals are cute, but I’m not really interested in the seals. I watch the sky, the sea, the white caps and the green and the grey. I feel empty and full at the same time. Light, but content. Like after a really good meal.
Helen looks at me when we get back, and grins.
We were on the boat for the best part of an hour, but to me, it seemed like it was just a few minutes.
Probably seemed like an hour to Frank. If not longer.
He stumbles off the boat. Helen stops him from falling off the dock.
‘Should have started out small,’ he says, eventually. ‘Maybe a puddle.’
Helen laughs. I laugh, too.
Frank just gives us this filthy look, but in the end he gives over.
The rain is heavy all the way home.
Helen asks if she’s heading the right way. The road goes west to east. It’s the coast road.
‘You’re doing fine, Honey,’ I say.
*
30.
That’s the way of things, for a time. It’s a rhythm. I’m not much for music, so I don’t know what to liken it to. It’s smooth, though. You could dance to it.
Me and Helen, we build on what we’ve got, though maybe we’re building on sand. At our wedding the vicar said not to do that. As far as I remember, that was what he said. Something about how building on stone was better than building on sand. It’s pretty hazy. The stranger wasn’t in me then. He hadn’t been born. But I think wedding vows are hazy for most people. You’re nervous, but you’re concentrating. You’re stressed, but you’re delirious with happiness at the same time. You’re alone, just you and your wife to be, but God’s there. The vicar’s there. And then about a hundred people sat behind you, most of whom you wouldn’t even recognise on the street.
We got married in a church. I remember that, too. And it wasn’t a Catholic one. I didn’t tell the vicar about my latent Catholicism. It’s not relevant to me, day to day. I didn’t see as it was relevant to them.
But sand. I was talking about sand.
It’s easy to forget the sand, right there, under the sea.
We’re like that, me and Helen. The sand beneath us is shifting. We’ve got no foundations. They rotted away while the stranger was in me. He came in, dug them up, ploughed them over. Maybe he fucked someone’s dog on the way back to wherever he comes from. I don’t know. I don’t know because when the stranger’s in the house, I’m not there.
Sand.
We’re starting afresh, building on sand. It seems fitting, by the sea. It’s a good way to build, as far as I can tell. It keeps you on your toes. We could fall down at any moment, but we’re vigilant. A marriage needs vigilance. You’ve got to set a watch. You’ve got to keep the stranger out.
The sea’s there, everyday. That’s part of our rhythm. It’s the drums, keeping beat in the back. The sea’s keeping time. It’s solid, dependable.
It’s not like in it was in London. In London, time’s in pieces. The day’s winding down faster there, because it’s broken. Here, the clock is the sea. You can’t break the sea.
And yet, although the pace is slower, it’s winding down just the same. The shore is changing. The sands are shifting, our buildings washing away.
One day the sea, too, will be gone. But I won’t be here to see it. For now, we’re here, me and Helen. We’re solid enough
.
Frank’s there, too, and my tennis ball.
The days pass. Sometimes Frank’s there. Sometimes it’s just me and Helen.
People in town say, ah, you’re Frank’s neighbour. Never Bob’s neighbour. People associate us with Frank, and that’s good. People think Frank’s sound. That rubs off.
He comes over for dinner. We pop in for tea. Sometimes I take my tennis ball. I squeeze it and I bounce it and sometimes I drop it, but not so often.
We watch out for each other. The sea watches over us, too.
We roll along while we keep the beat. I don’t remember my dreams. They fade as I have more and I don’t remember what happens in them, whether people are on fire, or whether my daughter’s in them. That’s good.
But it can’t last forever. No matter how vigilant we are, we can’t keep the stranger at bay.
He’s there in me, in the dead parts. I can feel him. He’s rotten. A pale, bloated thing. He smells of graveyards and dirt, of decay and mould. He’s dead, but he’s come back.
I didn’t even know he was there until the night with Helen by the sea. I was watching for him. Part of me knew he’d come back, standing in the door one night, flesh sloughing from furry green bones.
I think it was the stranger in me that fucked it up. Fucked up our rhythm.
I think it was the stranger that made me go back to the estate. Because the stranger’s the one that can’t leave it alone. The stranger is the addict in me.
The stranger peered out through my dead eye, watching Frank talking about the estate. ‘It’s bowed,’ says Frank, and the stranger watches. Maybe he lip reads. Maybe he can hear what I hear.
But he’s interested, and this time he’s hooked on worse than coke.
Addiction is part curiosity, part fascination.
He’s curious, alright. This time it’s Townshend he wants, and the same as all addicts, he hides it with lies.
*
31.
‘I’m going up the shop,’ I say. ‘You want anything?’
That’s the best lie. The one that’s true. I was going to the shop. After.
‘No. I’m fine. Maybe some milk…’ The fridge door pops, closes. I imagine the rubber sucking, holding the door. ‘Yeah, some milk.’
I’m in the dining room. She’s in the kitchen.
‘See you in a bit,’ I say.
‘Hang on,’ she says, and comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a cloth. ‘Kiss.’
We kiss. Just a touch on the lips. I feel guilty, but the stranger’s there, too. Now’s the time to tell her, but then I’m hitching my bag onto my shoulder and heading out the door. Thump, slide, clump. A three-legged circus act.
By then it’s too late.
I stop on the front step and look up at the sky. There are no clouds, no sun. It’s behind Bob’s house. I’m in a shirt, with a t-shirt underneath. It’s warm enough. Spring’s in full flow. Our grass is long, but I haven’t been able to find a gardener. It’ll keep. It’s only grass.
Frank isn’t in his garden. I’m grateful. If he saw me head down the alley at the side of Bob’s he’d know.
I never told Frank about the first time I went to Townshend. Helen told him about the blackout, and he knew I went to the hospital.
In my head, the events weren’t linked, but addicts lie, and they lie to themselves most of all.
I cut down Bob’s. Bob’s in the garden. I can see his head over the fence. I walk in a kind of crouch. I don’t want to talk to Bob. He probably wouldn’t even look up, but I’m hiding just the same. I’m hiding from strangers and friends alike.
I come out on Cedars. Same as before. I go slower than I need to.
The houses look different somehow. It’s probably just a trick of the light. The last time I was here, with Helen, the sun was full in the sky. Now it’s off to the west, maybe an hour or two away from setting. The light’s different, and so the estate looks different. That’s all it is.
I can see individuality in the structures. Some have bay windows; some have Dorma’s in the roof. There’s one, it’s got this kind of ornate wooden decoration under the gable’s eves.
They’ve all got double glazing. Cars are parked neatly on drives. The drives are short. Enough for one car, maybe two hatchbacks.
The cars are all new. Three years old, maybe, the oldest of them. Apparently, there is some money down this street. But how? I wonder about it, walking in my three-legged shuffle over onto Townshend.
All the cars, new. But it’s a weekday. Why is no-one at work?
You don’t make enough money to buy these kinds of cars working in town. There are solicitor’s offices, some hotels, an accountant who we pay to sort out our finances. There aren’t many high flyers. It’s nothing more than a town of gift shops and chippies.
These are yuppie cars.
It’s weird. But it’s not the weirdest thing. I go over to the house where the painter was doing the double glazing. I don’t walk up the drive. I’m not that bold. I can see, standing at the edge of the property. The frames are plastic. Not a hint of paint.
I’m freaked out already when the cat walks out.
I can’t tell where it came from. It walks up to me, and I’m repulsed at first, because where its tail should be is just a stump. It’s like I used to feel when I saw someone in a wheelchair. I’d feel uncomfortable, look away. I’m a cripple now, too, so I try to curb that.
I kind of lean down, rubbing my fingers together to get the cat interested, feeling bad for thinking bad thoughts about a maimed cat. It’s a fucking cat, I think. Only a cat. It’s miaowing like mad. Happy to see me. But then I’m up straight, clumping away, because there’s no sound coming out of the cat.
I’m freaked already, because of the feel of Townshend. The atmosphere of the place. The silence. The weight.
Then the fucking mute black cat.
The mute cat tips the balance.
I walk away as fast as I can, my heart working too hard.
I look back as I reach the end of Townshend. The cat’s there, its jaw working, no sound coming out. It’s just sitting there. Mute. Miaowing, just the same.
Townshend’s long, but it’s a short enough walk to the old road, down the hill, to the shop.
My head’s pounding by the time I get to the shop, but my heart is beating slower. There’s a short wall hemming in a wheelchair ramp, so I go in, buy some milk and a Coke, go back out and sit on the wall. I sit for a long time, drinking the Coke.
My legs are shaking. My head hurts, but I figure it’s just the fear.
I laugh, after a while.
I laugh because I’m afraid of a little cat.
I laugh because I’m still afraid. I can imagine it sneaking up on someone easy enough. A silent cat, biting through my achilles’ tendon, my ankle flopping as I try to run away.
I’m thinking about the cat eating me. I don’t know why. It was just a little cat. Black, sure. Maimed and mute. But it was just a fucking cat.
I pull my mobile out of my pocket and my hands are shaking even though I have no idea why.
‘Helen?’
‘What’s up?’ she says, straight off. It’s my voice. I take a breath. Get some control.
‘Nothing. I’m just tired. Would you come pick me up?’
‘Sure. Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Fine,’ I say. Calm. ‘Just tired.’
I’m concentrating enough to follow Helen’s words, but my head’s pounding and I can’t shake the cat. It’s burned into my eye. The vision of it, sitting there, miaowing, purring, no sound.
‘Where are you?’ she says. I tell her.
She’s there in five minutes.
I don’t tell her about the cat. I don’t tell her about the headache.
We watch the sea, at sunset, same as always.
The headache fades with my sunset. Same as always.
Then I figure, what do I need to tell her for? Why should I tell her about every little headache? Every little cat?
A man’s got to have some secrets.
It’s a simple thing. As simple as that.
Just open the door. The stranger’s in. You can’t keep him out, anyway. Why fight it?
*
32.
I’m bouncing the ball against the wall. I throw it with my left, catch it with my right. I’m getting better at it. I’m sitting close to the wall because I still miss often enough to make getting the ball a chore.
Helen’s reading on her sofa. She can read with pretty much anything going on. TV, radio, world war.
I’m getting on my own nerves, though. Bu-donk…bu-donk…I stop.
‘What you reading?’ I ask.
‘The Reach,’ she says. ‘It’s by Stephen King.’
‘Good?’
‘Give me ten minutes, I’ll tell you.’
It doesn’t take ten minutes.
‘Yes,’ she says in answer to my earlier question. ‘You should read it.’
So I read it.
I cry. Just a bit.
It’s good. It’s really good. I’m enjoying it, but the wind is getting up. I can hear the wind blasting against the side of the house, whistling across the front. I can hear something banging, outside.
‘Did you bolt the gate?’ I say.
‘Don’t know. Did you?’ she says. ‘I didn’t go out the back.’
I think back. Neither did I.
I push myself up, get my stick set. ‘I’ll go check.’
‘OK,’ she says. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘That’d be nice,’ I say. Every now and then I take tea. It seems right, on a night like this, with the wind blowing and the gate bashing and Stephen King folded down beside me.
I go out the back door. Round the side. The gate’s flapping in the wind. I grab for it and bash my hand as the wind snaps it shut. I try it again and manage to get the catch on, and then the bolt. I turn around and see a pair of eyes, low down, unblinking. The lights from the house reflect in the eyes.
It’s a cat. I cluck, crouch.
The cat turns and walks away. I can hardly see it. It’s as black as night, but I can tell. Where the tail should be is just a stump.
RAIN/Damned to Cold Fire (Two Supernatural Horror Novels): A RED LINE Horror Double: Supernatural Page 32
