by Max Gilbert
He recoiled back from the white face.
Twisting away, he ran across the dunes as fast as he humanly could, the dune grass whipping his legs and arms.
The white disc appeared over his shoulder.
It followed him effortlessly. He ran on, convinced it was riding him, a nightmare jockey, the great white face just inches from his ear.
The voice thundered. Christ, what did it want? What did it want! It was like someone shouting an urgent warning. The edge of the dunes came up to his right with a sheer drop twenty feet down to the beach.
Relentlessly he plowed through long grass to his left and rejoined the path, his feet kicking up sprays of sand.
The face was still there. Just behind him.
It wasn't going to let him go; not ever.
The thundering voice: it would burst his skull like a paper bag.
He slid down a five-foot tussock on his backside, landing in a crouching position, the momentum ramming his face down into a mound of sand. Instantly he leapt to his feet and ran on.
Each breath felt as if it would split open the lining of his airway, from his throat to his lungs.
Keep going ... mustn't catch me. If that face touches me...
He knew he wouldn't be able to bear it. Embracing a rotting corpse would be preferable. If that face pressed against his, his heart would burst with terror; he would die screaming there on the dunes.
He ran on, shooting pains jabbing from heel to hip.
He looked back. Still following ... round white face ... alive with crawling shoots.
He looked forward again.
This time to see the dunes end ...
... and nothing but the night air begin.
He fell forward, then down, his feet higher than his head. The moon rolled down through the sky until it was beneath him.
He plunged downward.
He didn't even have time to brace himself before his body cracked into the beach twenty feet below.
The beach stopped his falling body instantly, but his mind had jerked free from whatever mounting held it here and it went whirling down ... down ...
Down into everlasting dark waters ...
Of oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-two
"Ready for lunch?"
Ruth slipped her arm around Chris's waist.
"Starving."
"Come on, then. Where's David?"
He looked along the beach, the brilliant sunshine making him squint. "He was there a minute ago. Down by the sea. Ruth, do you think David is ... different these days? I mean, different from how he used to be when we lived in the old house?"
Ruth smiled. "You mean he hasn't mentioned this story about being able to fly for the last few days?"
"But he was obsessed with flying. He told everyone he could fly. Now ... Not a peep. He just seems different lately."
"And he's not asked to wear his Superman costume for more than a week, and he's not bothered to watch his Superman videos"
"What do you think it is?"
"Chris, I know exactly what it is."
He looked at her sharply.
"It's called growing up."
"But that business with him leaving his favorite toys on a rock to get washed into the sea."
"It might just be a way of getting rid of his childish toys. You have to realize, Chris, you won't be able to sit on the settee with your arm around him watching Tom & Jerry cartoons when he's twenty-three."
"Point taken. Come on, I'm starving ... David! We're going home."
They walked up the beach, Chris enjoying the feel of Ruth's arm around him.
"How is the invalid anyway?" she asked, and rubbed his chest with her free hand.
Chris's mouth suddenly bled dry. He wished she hadn't reminded him. "Not bad. More stiff than anything. I suppose it serves me bloody well right. I shouldn't wander along the top of the dunes in the dark."
"With a bellyful of beer." She giggled softly. "Next time take a torch."
Next time? He doubted it. The stiff arm and bruised ribs paled to nothing compared with how he felt inside his skull. Instinctively he had blotted out the worst of it. But occasionally he caught a kind of nimbus of memory, just an echo of what he had come face to face with the night before, and it felt as if his mind was threatening to uproot itself from its moorings and flee into the refuge of insanity. He shook the strange dislocated feeling out of his mind.
He'd told her nothing, of course. Nothing apart from just a manageable portion of the truth. That he'd accidentally taken a header off the dunes to land on the beach twenty feet below. He'd been lucky not to bust his back.
As memories of the previous night began to recede, he began to run through the jobs he'd assigned himself for that afternoon. Clean out Clark Kent's bowl. For some reason the water always felt warm these days. The fish looked different too. It was changing. And he wanted to look in the sea-fort's cellar. He'd still not managed to grab so much as a glimpse of what was down there.
The sand crunched behind them.
"Prepare to die!"
Chris turned.
"Catch the sword, Dad."
David threw the red sword hard enough to make Chris's hand tingle as he caught it.
"Careful, David. Remember your dad's hurt his arm."
"It's only plastic." He swung the sword sharply against Chris's leg.
"Ow! Now for my revenge!" He chased after David who ran giggling breathlessly in the direction of the seafort. "Head him off, Mum," shouted Chris, trying not to limp. "We'll make him eat sand and seaweed pie!"
"I'll do no such thing," she laughed. "Fight your own battles."
Swords rattling together, Chris allowed his son to drive him back toward the sea-fort with Ruth shouting encouragement. "Aim for his knuckles, David."
"Hey, who's side are you on?" laughed Chris, parrying David's merciless slashes.
"Come on, the tide's coming in. We don't want to be stranded."
The tide had already flooded the beach around the seafort and was creeping along the flanks of the raised causeway. They had plenty of time but it would mean a detour in the direction of dry land before they could climb up the three or four feet to the causeway, then double back to the sea-fort with the waves washing the stone sides.
"Ow! Come here, you monster." He and David fenced all the way back to the sea-fort, through the open gates and into the sun-filled fort.
Errol Flynn-style, Chris jumped, after two attempts, onto the old wooden table by the caravan where they sometimes ate outdoors. They continued fencing, David gleefully slashing at Chris's ankles. "David, do you know the meaning of the word sadist?"
"No ... stand still while I hit you."
"Chris ..." Ruth stood looking around her, concerned.
"David ... Stop." Chris held up his hand, wondering what Ruth had seen. At that moment nothing seemed unusual. The sea-fort courtyard looked the same as when they had left it an hour before. The table he now stood on, red plastic sword in hand; the caravan, its windows open in the hot sunshine. Everything in its place. He shot a look back at Ruth.
"Chris, can't you smell it?"
He sniffed.
"Petrol?"
"The place reeks of it."
He climbed off the table. "There might be a leak in the car's tank."
He'd barely taken half a dozen paces toward the Ford Sierra when he noticed it was shimmering. The car, wet from end to end, literally dripped petrol; it gathered in puddles beneath the car.
"Jesus Christ." He looked under the caravan to see a piece of old carpet and half a dozen wooden crates. They too were soaked in petrol.
Heart thumping, mouth dry, he looked around the courtyard. It seemed deserted. Either this was a failed attempt, or they were still in the process of trying to torch the place. He thought of the room on the ground floor of the sea-fort where the half-dozen gas bottles had been stored.
"Mum ... What's wrong?" David sounded alarmed.
"David, hold your mother's hand. And keep awa
y from that petrol."
Chris ran around the caravan to pick up an old axehandle he had propped by the door. "Ruth, I'm going to check the sea-fort."
"Chris ..."
"Someone might be hiding in there ..." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "The gas bottles. They'll go up like a bomb if they're burnt."
"For God's sake be careful."
"Don't worry. They probably scarpered when they saw us coming back. I'll check inside then we'll put the hose on the car and the caravan ... Look after this for me, kidda." He handed the plastic sword to David.
He made a circuit of the courtyard. No one hiding behind the stacks of stone or timber. He ran lightly across the cobbles to the main door to the sea-fort building.
The door had been shut; now it lay open.
On the step a splash of petrol the size of a coin stained the stone. Testing the weight of the axe-handle, he stepped inside.
Standing in the entrance hall, a three-gallon petrol can in his hands, was the person he would least have expected.
Dressed in suit trousers, white shirt, silk tie and polished shoes was Tony Gateman.
For a moment they stood, Chris staring in disbelief, blood thumping through his ears. Tony stared back, his long fingers curled around the handle of the petrol can.
Chris's voice came in a low hiss. "You miserable bastard."
"I know ... I know what you're thinking, Chris. It's not what it looks like. Believe me. It isn't. I stopped him. ... I was walking by ... up there on the dunes, and I saw ..."
Chris raised the axe-handle. It felt heavy enough to crack a skull like an eggshell.
"To our faces, my wife, my son, me, you're Mr Nice Guy, then when our backs are turned you pull this bastard stunt."
"Chris ... It wasn't me. Look-"
"No, you look. You broke in here; you trespassed on my property with the intention of burning the place down. Jesus Christ, don't you know the work, time, money we've put into this? Over the last two years I've put nine-tenths of my life into it-planning, worrying, sitting in bank managers' offices, talking to architects and piss-stupid planning officers. Now you want to burn the fucking thing down. Jesus ... Why, Gateman? What have we done to you to deserve this?"
"Chris, listen. I've not done anything. I was walking along the dunes and I saw Fox. You remember Fox? He was throwing petrol around. I managed to talk him out of it-he-"
"Where is he now?"
"I-I... I don't know."
"Leave that petrol and go outside... Stay there. Do nothing."
Tony Gateman nodded so sharply he dislodged his glasses. Straightening them, he hurried outside.
Chris had walked into the first room when he heard a thin cracking cry. He turned to see Fox, as wild-eyed as a demented baboon, running down the corridor and out into the courtyard.
Chris followed.
The man was through the gates before Chris was even through the doorway. Ruth stood in the center of the courtyard, her arm around David's shoulders.
Chris let the madman go. He knew where to find him when he needed him.
"Chris," began Tony, "we've got to talk. I've got to tell you what's happening here."
Chris swung the axe-handle down; it struck the cobbles so loudly it made Tony jump.
"I know what's happening here," said Chris.
"You do?"
"Of course I bloody well do. You and that lunatic Fox are trying to drive us out of here. I don't believe for one minute that you just happened ... just happened to be sauntering along the bloody beach ... just happened to see him pouring petrol all over the place."
"Chris, you don't understand ... his brother died here. He wants to get even. This place-"
"Whatever the motive, I think you're lying. You were helping him." Chris had never felt this way before-an icy calm, but underneath he could feel some enormous force building, ready to explode. If he snapped ... if he snapped ... He gripped the axe-handle tightly.
Tony talked quickly, but Chris did not listen.
"Chris, you don't know what's happening here at Manshead. This place is dangerous. We can't go just yet. Not until the tide drops again. Then you've got to get away from here. Right away. Go and stay with your family for a few weeks. You can-"
"Get out."
Tony looked out through the gates. "I can't. Not now. It's too late. The tide's coming over the causeway."
"Afraid of getting your feet wet?"
The smell of evaporating petrol grew more intense.
"I want you off my property."
"Look... I can't. For God's sake's, man, there's something in the sea. We need to lock the gates until low tide then drive out of here. We must get away from the coast altogether."
"Something in the sea?" That dangerous feeling grew more intense. "Just what is in the sea, Mr Gateman?"
"Take a look for yourself." He pointed. "They're in the water."
Chris did not even glance in the direction of the gates. "I don't see anything, Mr Gateman. Now, I'll give you ten seconds to leave my property."
"Chris, please, you can't make me leave now, I'd-"
"One."
"Just look for yourself, man. Tell him, Ruth. Make him look-"
"Two."
Something suddenly occurred to Tony. "Ruth ... Can you see Fox? Did you see him make it to the beach?"
"Three. Four."
"Ruth. Tell me. Can you see him?"
"Five."
Ruth gave a little shake of her head.
"Oh, Christ. Please. I'm begging you, don't make me go out there."
"Six ... Seven."
"Look. We'll sit down." Gateman's face ran with sweat. "We'll talk. I'll tell you everything."
"Eight."
"Chris! Your wife, your little boy. They're in danger."
"Nine." Chris gripped the handle so tightly his hand turned as white as bone.
"Oh ... Jesus Christ... I'm going, I'm going ... But just watch me." Tony ran-the slow jog of an unfit man. At the gates he slowed briefly and looked back. Then he ran as hard as he could.
The pace was slow, that same slow jog. The sea had covered the causeway to ankle deep; sometimes a wave would bring that level up to his knees.
Chris, with an alien calm, watched the little Londoner run through the surf, dragging his feet through the water, the man's arms jerking out like those of an incompetent tightrope walker, fighting to keep his balance on the roadway.
