by Valerie Laws
The ruined castle on the headland of the river mouth got nearer, as her breath came harder, the wind kept rising, and the thoughts in her brain kept coming but getting nowhere. The sky was darkening to a slaty wet mussel-shell colour, and the matching sea moaned in sympathy with the wind keening in the overhead wires. Waves were beginning to lash the sea walls below to her left. She could hear the familiar ‘wump!’ as tons of water met solid rock and concrete, flinging up curtains of spray.
There must be something I can do, she repeated like a mantra. Suppose Anderson never recovers fully, or is brain-damaged? He’ll never go to trial, but they’ll assume he did all three killings. She wasn’t convinced he’d killed Gupta either. No, Erica. Keep to the point... A bus swung past, its slipstream all but sucking her and her bike into the traffic. It was a relief to get off the road and down the hill to the beginning of the pier.
Waves were appearing over the top already in puffs of smoky spray. The big wrought iron gates at the entrance to the pier were still open. Hardly anyone was on the pier itself in the bitter cold wind and rising sea. There was a clutch of people on the concrete platform on the open sea side of the start of the pier, watching the waves from safety as the wind built them up higher, stronger, whiter. At this rate the harbourmaster would be emerging from his little hut soon to close the pier. She felt a strong urge to get to the end, even if she’d only have to turn round and run back again. Standing out there, as if on an island, just her and the sea, she’d find calm in the heart of the storm, and answers.
She ditched the bike against the salt-corroded railing, and ran through the gates. As she pounded along the pier, waves flew higher on her left, trying to climb over the pier wall. On her right, inside the harbour, it was calmer, but the contained swell was still impressive. The moored fishing boats and the green and red buoys marking the safe channel for big ships bucked frantically like rocking horses on crystal meth.
A father and his two children and a middle-aged couple passed her heading back to land, already wary of the increasingly dangerous waves. Dark irregular patches on the path showed where water was landing, and the two children were sopping wet. Kids could never resist daring the waves. Soon, larger and larger volumes of water would leap the wall, swill across the path, and gush from the pier through the railings on the right into the harbour. She kept going, heading for the stubby little lighthouse on the end. She focused on getting that far, determined to go round its hollow body, stand if only for a minute on the very end of the pier.
She’d always shaken her head sadly and wisely when newspapers reported that someone had been washed off a pier or some rocks, or fallen from a cliff, or capsized a boat while not wearing a lifejacket. Now the risk didn’t matter. Getting to the end was something she could set her sights on and achieve, and that seemed more important than anything at that moment. Something she had control over.
Her hair whipped about her right ear, the icy wind knifed her left with a horrible earache. The sound of the waves hitting the huge stone barricade beneath was accompanied by plumes of spray stinging like hailstones. She kept running. As she got to the last third of the pier, a huge mass of water leapt up, threw its multicoloured tentacles above her, and fell. From the land, it would look like a fine spray. It felt like buckets of icewater thrown over her, including the buckets. She ducked under the weight, checked by the freezing cold shock as the crest of the wave splatted over the path and ran down the other side. Water ran off her. Her hair was plastered down, her clothes were lead-heavy, harsh salt was in her mouth and stinging her eyes. She was gasping with shock but she kept going, and as she reached the lighthouse straddling the pier’s end, another wave shot across behind her and flooded off under the railings. It would have been hard to keep her feet if that one had hit, but the railings would stop her being washed off. Probably.
The clamour of wind and water howled around the lighthouse, but there was a sliver of partial shelter on the side of it opposite to the weather’s full sound and fury. The path went right round it, on the outside, with a kerb-like wall and an iron railing where she stood for a second watching the sea. It was spectacular, rainbows dancing madly in the white towers of spray, as waves flung themselves right past her, hard and cold as hammer blows. She hung on to the rail, but the walls gave her some protection. She’d made it to the end, and she’d have a very wet time getting back. She’d have to get out of wind and water soon or exposure would set in. The sea was painfully icy. She went inside the open base of the lighthouse to catch her breath. The doorway went dark. The harbour master, come to chase her back. But it was Harold Archer, and he was right in front of her, blocking the entrance.
He was holding a golf club, raised as if to swing, but the handicap was hers. She was fitter and younger, but trapped and unarmed. She couldn’t get past him and any other retreat was cut off by the storm-crazed North Sea. If the harbour master was coming, Archer could easily belt her one with the metal club before he got to them. It would be impossible for anyone to see what was happening from further along the pier, especially in these conditions. She could have ‘fallen and hit her head’ on the slippery wet concrete.
Could she keep him talking? She thought of the dialogues he’d had with Kingston and Chambers and the cold went to her heart.
‘I knew you’d come here,’ he shouted, loud enough to hear above the weather, the effort distorting his face to an animal snarl. ‘It’s where you always go isn’t it? I saw you leave the Club, and drove down to beat you to it. You just ran right past me! I’ve been waiting for you just round the lighthouse.’
‘Why?’ Her throat was the only dry thing on the pier. ‘Trouble with golfer’s elbow?’ She was shivering so much her voice wouldn’t stop shaking. She sounded scared, which made her angry.
‘Oh, no. Nothing wrong with my swing. Years of golf have left me with strong arms and shoulders.’ He swished the golf club with its solid metal end back and forth. She could only get past him if she went for him, and before she could get near enough, that club could get her first.
‘Blackett told me about your allegations. He doesn’t believe you, or so he says, but he warned me it could affect my application for membership until it’s all cleared up. After all I’ve been through! You have no idea! I should have known you’d be trouble, peering over fences, asking questions, butting in where you aren’t wanted, even going to the Golf Club! Why did you have to interfere? And what proof have you anyway?’ His voice, shrill enough to cut through the noise of the waves, almost wailed in self-pity.
‘Witnesses, I found witnesses,’ she lied. Without taking her eyes from the club, she thought of her neat digital recorder. A chance at least to get something on him, even if she didn’t survive. She reached inside her jacket to switch it on, and remembered she’d left it, with her phone, in the saddlebag on the bike. Shit. If I ever get out of this, she promised herself, I’ll superglue it to my forehead rather than risk being without it. If. Not that he’d have let her use it anyway.
‘Those bloody hooligans was it? I can’t believe it, you and them, ganging up on me, destroying everything I’ve worked for all my life, who are you to do this to me…’
‘Mr Archer, you tried to kill me, remember? With a golf ball…’
‘I missed, didn’t I? Well nearly. But you wouldn’t be put off! Bloody women, can’t leave anything alone. Everyone’s against me, no sooner get rid of one obstacle than another springs up.’
Her mind riffled through possibilities. Should she tell him she’d already passed her suspicions on to the police? Then what – he might feel he had nothing to lose by killing her anyway. With what he’d done already, that would be nothing to him. Except he’d never done it face to face with a conscious victim. Maybe she could keep him talking until the harbourmaster got here to check the pier was empty. (If, if, he was coming at all.) She did have a knack for making people spill their guts… trying to blot out this image, ‘You said I’ve no idea, so tell me, why did you do it?’
> His face was screwed up like the butt-end of a pepper, anxiety, anger and fear shrivelling his features.
‘Why?’ he shrieked. ‘I started with nothing, nothing! Years and years scrimping and saving, working all hours, doing night classes to get more qualifications, working my way up the housing ladder, all I wanted, dreamed of, was a nice house by the sea next to the Golf Club. Where my parents worked like peasants for members who wouldn’t so much as say good morning to them. I was determined to make it, however long it took.
‘That bastard Kingston conned me! Sold me a house at an inflated price, promised he’d get me straight into the club, then once I’d signed the contract, he reneged. Of course it turned out it was all up to that pompous fart of a Membership Secretary, and his precious rules! Rules to keep out riff raff, oh yes Kingston told me that, you should have seen his face! He was loving it! He’d known all along! Riff raff!’
With each adjective, and without irony, he swung the club; it sheeeshed through the salty wet air. She tried not to flinch.
‘And oh,’ he went on, ‘how Kingston loved to keep rubbing it in! Always coming round, calling over the fence every time I went in the garden - how was the club membership going, wasn’t it a long list, what a shame I had to sit and watch others play or drive fifteen miles for a game, so sorry he couldn’t help, ‘I’m not Jesus Christ, you know,’ he’d say with that damn smug face of his, oh he loved to see me squirm. Me! Hard-headed, successful business man, pulled myself up from nothing by my own efforts and my own wit, conned by a bloody quack!’
Jesus Christ, with his crown of thorns. Or spikes. Nails in his hands. ‘You’re not the only one Kingston hurt.’ Erica tried to dilute his paranoia. But he wasn’t interested in anyone else. Like Kingston, he had tunnel vision and himself filled his field of view.
‘Anyway, he’s not so smug now, is he? Neither is that fool of a Membership Secretary. I always was a good shot, you know, always been a demon putter. Found a catapult, dropped by those thugs when they were running off, very powerful one I have to say. I used to fire balls I found on the course at Kingston’s windows, plants, at night, just to relieve my feelings, I felt so powerless! Then one day, I saw the secretary from my window, standing on the course in broad daylight, and I just - fired. On impulse. Whack! Bang on target. Saw him go down like a sack of spuds. God it felt good... then I was worried sick. But nothing happened. Nobody knew. I even sent him a get well card!’
He laughed, swishing the club in time with his mirth. Would that harbourmaster never get here, surely the pier was dangerous enough by now…
‘Then I heard that Kingston had advised Blackett to keep the old rules until they knew if the other bloke would be coming back… that night, I heard a disturbance, those bloody young thugs out the back, high on drugs probably. I looked out my bedroom window, saw Kingston burst out of his house, sounding off at them over the golf course fence. They must have scarpered pronto, I didn’t see them. I had the sadistic bastard in my sights. I didn’t think I’d hit him in that light, but no! Another bullseye! Hell of a smack on the back of the head, he went down like a dead man, and did he have it coming… and you know, it felt fantastic! Then everything blurred, I don’t know … I don’t remember... and still, after he’s dead, still there’s something in the way – you! But I had less luck with you didn’t I?’
Erica wasn’t feeling so lucky right then. She was shivering violently, her back pressed against the damp rough wall, Archer filling the space in front of her. He must have bashed Kingston with the stone right where the golf ball hit. To hide the tell-tale wound. To make sure he couldn’t resist or taunt Archer any more.
‘The lads saw you,’ she improvised. ‘They looked back and saw you. They didn’t come forward before - they don’t like the police but they told me. I’ve told them to tell the police.’
‘Those scruffy bastards – no respect for the law! You see what you and Kingston have done? I, who have played golf with city magistrates, have been turned into a criminal, like those scum!’
‘What about Chambers and Gupta?’
‘What about them? I’ve no sympathy for Chambers, he was above me on the list, another stuck-up quack like Kingston. And that other bloke, the day they let his sort in the club, I’ll resign. Bad enough they let them in the country. I’m not standing any trial, but I want you to know, you interfering little bitch, it’s all your fault!’
‘The nails, what about the nails?’ She was still stalling.
‘The police and those psychiatrist types can puzzle that out! My life is over!’
Suddenly he turned and went out into the storm, and stepped up onto the first railing, leaning out over the wild sea. Curtains of water fell over him, falling back to show him still there, clinging on with one hand, the other still holding onto his golf club. She darted out after him, and put out her arms to grab him. He turned towards her, his face contorted, and struck out at her. She didn’t hear her wrist snap as the heavy club caught it. She barely felt it at first, numb with cold and flooded with adrenaline as she was. But she knew it was broken. There was a strange electric buzzing up her arm. At the same moment a huge wave curved up over him, and he vanished behind a smoke of grey water. When the wave fell back, he was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
She hung over the rail, holding on with her good hand while the water hit her like a bomb blast. She could see his golf sweater bright orange among the waves, just a glimpse… oh god. Why me?
She climbed through the rail, holding her wrist against her body, and jumped. She’d loved it all her life, but the sea doesn’t love you back. That’s the deal. Don’t fight the sea, she clung to the thought like a life raft as she sank into darkness and surfaced. The intense cold seized her like a steel fist, keeping her ribs from expanding so she couldn’t inhale but bobbed in the water, uttering shallow gasps. She forced herself not to struggle. You don’t need to breathe, she told herself. Not yet. Don’t fight the sea, don’t ever fight the sea. Go with it. Be with it. Like fish. Small, weak, yet they can go where they want. Fish swim near the rocks, the waves pounding above. Relax, become part of the water, then you can move within it. She repeated her meditation mantra in her head, her chest slowly relaxing a little. She tried to breathe out as much as possible when her face was under water. Whenever she felt air against her mouth, she took whooping sips of breath.
She tried moving through the water, kicking her trainers off her numb feet. The water was not swimming pool water, it was opaque, dark, salty, burning her throat. She swallowed it repeatedly, retching, making breathing even harder. Using her legs, stiff with wet clothing, and her right arm, keeping her left tight against her chest, she tried to search for Archer on the surface. Except there was no surface. The waves were high, and she was often underwater, trying to see through the water left in her eyes whenever she was in a trough of the waves. She wouldn’t survive long in that cold.
At least it dulled the pain caused by her attempts to wrench herself through the thick, resisting water. Where was the murderous old sod? The swinging swell of the water tried to carry her out past the piers into the worst of the storm, but she managed to keep just within the lee of the pier. Sea, sea, I love you, don’t kill me, love me back, let me be part of you...
She looked up through streaming stinging eyes to where the pier wall swayed above. There was a dark figure there, waving. Something orange burned the air like a flare; a lifebelt. She swam for it, gracelessly crabbing one-armed through the water, latched onto the plastic ring with its life-saving rope, and then, freed from the fight to stay afloat and breathing, tried again to look for Archer. The figure on the pier pointed. A shape in the water….she struggled towards it. Archer was unconscious, clinging for life to that bloody club with both hands. She was glad he was out of it. She didn’t fancy another swipe with that thing. She was glad she’d done a lifeguard course, but she’d never practised with one useless arm. She dropped out of the lifebelt and forced it over his head, clinging to
the outside of the plastic ring. Just a pathetic man with sparse grey hair, his face bluish and calm.
OK. Now we are both in icy cold water, losing body heat fast. We are at the bottom of a high, sheer pier wall, and if we go close to it, we’ll be dashed against it by the waves. For the same reason the tall dark figure on the pier wouldn’t be able to do anything with the rope from up there. Just stand and watch them die. Assuming the coastguard had been notified... That was her only chance.
As if she’d spoken to him, the figure high above her, still holding the end of the rope, dived into the sea. He began to swim, not very elegantly bearing in mind he had two arms, towards them, along the rope hand over hand. It was Will, gasping, and making squealing noises as he struggled to breathe against the tight grip the cold had on his ribs. He was beginning to panic, not as used to water as Erica, unable to force his ribs to expand, unable to time any possible inbreaths and outbreaths, but they eventually met, the three of them attached to the lifebelt in water which was like chilled syrup, then more like setting cement as Erica weakened. She knew that as hypothermia set in, she’d find it hard to think clearly and to move. Her leg kicks were erratic. Most of the time her face was under sideswipes of water. She fought not to breathe except when the sea allowed it, for that way lay drowning, your blood full of seawater. She was becoming lightheaded, and a drowsy warmth was invading her body. This was when people dying of cold in the snow crawl out of their sleeping bags under the illusion they’re too hot.
