by Max Gilbert
"Be serious, Ruth," she mimicked.
She looked up at him through the waves of steam, her eyes misty and huge. That pleased expression told him she had a secret bursting to escape.
"Look. How much was that caravan going to cost for a year?"
"Rent at two-fifty a month. About three thousand."
"Three thousand? We can get a second-hand caravan for around five. Then we site it in the courtyard of the sea-fort. And when I say caravan I mean a decent one. You know, the kind you get on holiday caravan sites. Bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom, all mod cons. That's it ..." She wriggled in the bath. "A bit lower. Ah ..."
"Five thousand. That's eating into the budget a bit, isn't it?"
"Not a bit. Think of it as an investment. It costs us five thousand now. In twelve months we resell. For what ... Four thousand?"
"Keep talking. I like what I'm hearing."
"That way our original budget for accommodation, three thousand pounds, is slashed to one thousand- And there will be no traveling to and from the sea-fort each day. And we will always be on-site if there are any problems. Right, now you can call me Genius."
"Genius ... Brilliant... Wonderful." He kissed her- with feeling. "You are brilliant. You've saved our bloody skins." Elated, he dried his hands on the towel. "I'll grab a paper and start looking."
"Oh no you don't, Chris. You'll finish what you started." Her look needed no explanation. Her eyes exuded a smoky longing that sent desire tingling through him.
"Which bit of my wife needs washing next, then?"
She lifted a wet strand of hair and flicked a water droplet at him.
"More back. Then you decide."
First he rubbed her back with long, slow strokes, squeezing out the sponge as he did so, the warm water bubbling through his fingers.
Ruth let her head fall forward until the wet tips of her hair dipped into the water.
"Mmm ... that's nice." Water squeezed onto her bare shoulders trickled down her breasts in glistening rivers. He dropped the sponge into the water and firmly began to rub her back with his bare hands.
The skin felt smooth to his palms and fingertips-the corrugated contours of her ribs and the slightly curving hollow of her back. He loved the feel of it. His heart began to pump hard.
Gently he began to soap her shoulders, then her stomach. And then her breasts, his fingers gliding over a slippery layer of soap lather, skittering over the hardening tips.
"Oh ... Chris. I could let you do this forever." She smiled, her eyes shut. "I could make you do this forever."
He lightly traced a line with his fingertips downward from the tip of her nose, over her lips, her chin, her smooth throat, down through the gap between her breasts which had firmed and risen into soft points that glistened in the light. Down over her stomach until his hand slipped into the hot water. A distinct quiver ran through her body.
After ten years of marriage their love-making could sometimes be almost a chore. Not today though.
Today, he knew, it would be special.
Chris was almost dressed when he heard the knock at the door.
"Hang on." Ruth, topless, plucked a bra from the dressing-table drawer. With a schoolgirl giggle she ran lightly into the bathroom.
Chris, pulling on his sweatshirt, went to the door and opened it.
"Hello, Mr. Stainforth."
It was the hotelier, a tall man with a white beard.
"Everything okay?"
The hotelier spoke hesitantly. "Er, I'm afraid there's been an accident. Your son ... Out in the yard."
The man's face was expressionless.
A sick feeling began to rise through Chris's stomach.
"Where is he?"
The man's reply was puzzling. "You mean you can't smell him?"
The hotelier stood to one side. Behind him, tiny and the color of gray clay, a sullen-looking figure dripped water onto the corridor carpet.
"David?"
Chris pulled a face as the pungent smell of river silt rolled into the room. "Christ, what happened?"
The white-haired hotelier was struggling to suppress laughter. "The little fellow said he was on top of the slide when he fell off it into the stream."
"The slide? That's nowhere near the stream. How could you fall all that way?"
46
"I didn't fall," said David in a way that was dignified and angry at the same time. He walked stiffly into the room, his feet squelching inside his shoes.
"I didn't fall at all. I was flying."
Chapter Seven
The world Mark Faust fell into after he leapt from the ship was one of utter darkness, but full of hissing sounds and rushing air.
Then the ocean swallowed him.
So cold.
He wanted to scream. His eyes snapped wide-open with shock, the sheer terror of it, as he went down into liquid darkness.
Jesus ... Like ice.
If only he had stayed on the ship. If only ...
What for? To be blinded, castrated then perhaps dropped over the side anyway?
This way he had a chance.
What chance? he asked himself frantically. Here I am maybe a hundred miles from the coast. In the sea. In winter.
I have ten minutes of my life left. What's that the equivalent to?
Two Tom & Jerry cartoons. Three Buddy Holly numbers. "Peggy Sue" ... "Heartbeat" ... "That'll Be the Day" ...
A part of his mind rambled on in a disjointed way as if no longer part of his body.
The other ordered him to kick off his Wellington boots.
Then start swimming.
First the left foot.
He reached down. The boot came off easily.
Shouldn't I be breathing?
The right one stuck.
Kick.
I need air!
Off!
Kick the mother off! It's pulling you down!
Oh, sweet Jesus, give me air! Abruptly his head broke the surface. Cold winds blasted at him, driving spray in his face. Here at sea level the water roared like thunder. It filled his ears. Angry sounds, constant, unbroken.
Half panting, half choking, he gulped down lungfuls of sweet air. Again, Mark kicked hard, trying to dislodge the right boot.
It wouldn't budge.
The bastard would pull him down as surely as if it were cast in lead.
Holding his breath, he doubled his body, bending down to tug at it.
It shifted slightly.
His heel came partway out.
Breathe ... Breathe ... Breathe ...
His head snapped up; he breathed deeply. One more breath, then try again ...
Then-
Then his boot was gone. He'd not even touched it.
It felt for all the world as if something had snatched it off.
A simple sharp tug.
Gone.
Shark!
No. No sharks in the North Sea. He panted as he trod water. No sharks ... No sharks ...
It must just have slipped off.
Christ, this water is so cold ...
As his breathing steadied his night vision kicked in. He could see black mounds of water rising and falling all around him. Dark shapes. They bulged upward then smoothly deflated. Almost like the black backs of massive whales breaking the surface in haloes of white foam and froth.
The Mary-Anne!
The clouds were being torn apart in the wind, allowing a quarter-moon through. It lit the sea with a thin, silver light.
There she is!
The ship's superstructure and red funnel appeared indistinctly through a mist of spray. A wave came up, blocking his view. The next time he glimpsed her he saw that her nose was dipping deep into the water.
Mark Faust pictured the murdering bastards inside the ship. Surely they knew by now. He imagined their frantic attempts to escape. Running through the corridors, trying to salvage as much as they could before they ran for the lifeboats. If only he could have done something about them. Hacked holes in the b
ottom maybe. But he couldn't do everything. This way there was a chance most would perish in the sea.
For a moment he lost sight of her. He swam in the direction in which he had last seen the Mary-Anne, forgetting that his own life was slipping away in the cold ocean.
He had to see her go.
It would hurt him. He loved that ship and her crew.
They had been a second family to him. Still, he knew he must watch her final seconds.
There!
Nose down, stern up. Jesus, she was slipping down like a submarine. The twin screws chewed at air instead of water. Moonlight glinted wetly on the massive keel.
She was going.
Anyone on the ship would no longer be able to stand upright as the floors reared to the vertical. Screaming, they would be sliding forward to the bows.
Mark tried not to picture the captain-or what was left of the Mary-Anne's crew. The sea closed men's eyes quickly.
Oh, God, please don't let it hurt them ...
For ten seconds he was down in the trough of a wave. The next time the sea raised him up she was gone. Already somewhere under his feet, she was falling to the ocean bed like a stone.
All of a sudden it was lonely out there. The cold bit deeply into his skin until he felt his bones would crack.
The waves seemed to take pleasure in battering his face. Breathing became harder and pain worked its way like a sharp-toothed worm into his belly.
He attempted to swim.
As soon as he did so his body slipped underwater as if someone had pulled him from below.
He didn't fight it. He just slipped down, down, down ...
Shit, the pressure ... It hurts. Like metal spikes driven through your ears, deep into your brain.
He'd almost lost consciousness before he resurfaced. Drawing a ragged breath, he tried to pull more air into his chest than his lungs could contain. They hurt like- oh for ... Jesus ...
God, I want to live, I want to live, I want to live, please, God, let me live ... I want, I want-
Down.
He was following the Mary-Anne once more.
This is it, Mark Faust, seventeen years old, never had a girl, never drank whiskey, never smoked a cigarette. Ate too much apple pie ... Loved apple pie, but-
His mind began to turn, like a stunt car in a film going over and over in slow motion, pieces of it flying off.
Slowly, slowly disintegrating.
He hit the bottom. The shock made him open his eyes. Little bubbles like silver bells rolled away from his face toward the surface.
He wanted to laugh and call after them.
Wait for me! Wait for meeeeeeeeeeeee ...
But his mouth didn't work anymore; his body was nine-tenths dead. Just a few tiny sparks of life had retreated into some part of his brain to cling there as limpets cling to a rock in a storm.
Not long now. I'm going over the edge. I'll be home soon, Mom ...
Leave a light on in the porch 'cos I'm on my way. ...
There were people.
They stood on the sea-bed looking up at him. Their white faces seemed kind of mournful. Like they wanted him to stay. There were a good nine or ten. All standing in a tight cluster. As if posing in one of those fancy pop posters-all standing tight together looking up. Then they reached up their hands toward him.
They wanted him to stay. Join them there.
Be one of the people standing ankle-deep in the kelp meadow, all rippling brown, brown, brown, standing watching the passing keels of ships go high above their heads.
Were the people nice or nasty?
Kind or mean?
Living or dead?
He stared at the big faces with their wide, surprised eyes.
He couldn't tell. The faces were growing faint. The arms began to move. But they were all blurry. You could not tell them from the fronds of seaweed that drifted to and fro.
Time to sleep. So tired. He didn't need to breathe anymore.
His brother John was playing with his plane, the model of the Flying Fortress bomber Uncle Walt had built. He was playing too near Mark's bed. Mark told him not to- it was too close.
Hell. The plane hit him on the forehead. That hurt, you ...
It happened again.
Spluttering, Mark opened his eyes. He was in the middle of a great wash of white foam. With an effort he remembered where he was. In the middle of the sea.
Jesus.
Why wasn't he dead yet?
End it, for Christsakes, end this torture ...
The sea battered him. It tugged and pulled and rolled him over and over.
He went under.
This time there was no sense of falling. His head buffeted sharply against something. He thrust his hand out, clutching at it. Shingle. Sand. It felt like ...
Beach.
A wave hit again and shoved him roughly across a bank of sand.
He tried to stand but once more he was out of his depth.
Wearily, arms and legs feeling as if they were encircled with iron bands, he tried to swim.
In front of him something rose out of the water. A dark silhouette against the silver moonlit clouds.
It was massive. An enormous square block of darkness.
A ship so near to shore?
It looked like one but it had to be enormous. And there were no navigation lights.
He tried to swim toward it but found himself slipping under water.
"We sail our vessels on the sea, we are under power, we steer a deliberate course. But, you know, every so often the sea takes control. And when it does, don't fight it. Go with it. Surrender yourself to its will. Because if you don't, it will destroy you."
He remembered the Skipper's words. He made a conscious decision to leave himself to the mercy of the sea. If it wanted him, so be it.
The surf pushed and pulled him. All he could do was keep his head above water at least part of the time.
Bitingly cold brine repeatedly flooded his throat or drove into his nostrils.
