“Get away you old fool!” A middle-aged woman had rounded the corner of the holiday lettings, bearing their key. The old man turned to face her and his eyes hardened to marble, but he walked off towards the cliff path without saying anything further.
“Mrs Rollason,” Rod introduced her to Steph. “Stephanie, my wife.”
“He’s all right,” Mrs Rollason said. “Gilbert wouldn’t hurt a fly I daresay, but he’s not quite right, if you know what I mean.” She smiled hopefully and handed Rod the key to their accommodation. “Nice to meet you, Stephanie. I’m Joan. I’ve put a loaf of bread and some butter and milk in the fridge for you both, start you off. The beach shop sells groceries if you don’t want to go into Broad Haven right away. If you need anything else in the meantime, please come over to the farmhouse. Either Ted or me’ll always be around.”
Stephanie nodded in acknowledgment, but was distracted as she watched the old man labouring up the steep coastal path that navigated the cliffs out of Nolton Haven. “Does he live around here?” she asked, hoping he did not. The man had given her quite a jolt.
“Up there,” Joan nodded towards the highest visible point of the cliff. At the top, surrounded by gorse, was a small, once white-painted wooden building. It did not look much to live in. “His wife was drowned off the beach, quite a few years ago now, and he’s out day and night looking for her, so they say. He’s harmless enough. Needs help of course, but won’t take it. Stubborn old fool.”
“What on earth was he jabbering about?” Rod asked. “Sounded familiar.”
“Oh, he’s always saying some poetry or other. Now you two newlyweds enjoy your honeymoon and forget about old Gilbert, won’t you.”
When the farmer’s wife had gone, Stephanie snatched the key from Rod and opened the door to Swift Cottage. A single-bedroom holiday cottage with all the modern conveniences, she recalled the brochure. The roof space above the living room was open to the rafters, one of the charming features advertised. But the furniture was a bit tatty and the kitchen units, cooker and fridge had all seen their best days some years before.
“You told her we were on our honeymoon?” Stephanie asked as she walked around the living room, her fingers lightly caressing an elaborately decorated earthenware ewer and bowl on an old side-board.
“Well, no,” Rod answered, lowering his head to come through the door from the kitchen, where he had been examining the contents of the fridge. “But I didn’t disabuse her if that’s what she thinks. I just told her we were recently married.”
And so they were, but their honeymoon had actually been taken in Turkey earlier in the year and had turned out disastrously. The honeymoon holiday from Hell had nearly wrecked the marriage. They were still trying to get their money back from the tour company, as well as their fractured relationship from each other.
During the holiday, Stephanie had discovered that she did not really know Rod very well at all. So much for whirlwind romances. She loved him still, but the comforting ache of new love had dissipated. She tried to recapture the emotion, yet it eluded her like a favourite piece of music that on subsequent hearing no longer has the passion to arouse. On their honeymoon she found Rod quarrelsome and bad-tempered, and he took his frustrations out on her, instead of the holiday rep.
Nothing went right and, to try to salve the wounds caused by the various holiday brochure failures and their constant arguments, she had suggested on their return that they squeeze their bank account a little more, on the promise of actually getting some compensation, and go away again, for a few days while summer was still hanging on in England. Rod managed to wangle some more leave from the office and she walked another tightrope of self-certificated sick leave. It might be her last before her employer had to let her go.
“Oh, well, this might as well be our honeymoon! The Turkish one definitely wasn’t! In fact, Rod,” she said eagerly, throwing her arms around his neck and draping herself onto him, “let’s call this our real honeymoon, eh? Try to forget about the . . . about the . . .”
“The—?” he began before he clocked her little jest. They kissed, Rod tasting the smear of lipstick she wore. He lifted her and carried her to the sofa, which creaked of old springs as he lowered her onto it. They began removing one-another’s clothes and Rod’s hands caressed her.
His middle finger found its way inside her and she groaned. As her heart beat faster with her arousal, she wondered if the ache of new love was returning. Then she remembered the old man. Pushing Rod up off her, her eyes looked serious for a moment. “Close the curtains will you, Rod,” she asked.
He stood up and did so. “In case mad Gilbert peeks in?” he guessed. “Maybe we should pay him a neighbourly visit after, invite him down to dinner?”
“Fuck off.” She reached up and pulled his belt free from his jeans as if cracking a whip. “Now fuck.”
The seaward facing window of the wooden house that crowned the top of the cliffs gazed blankly across St Bride’s Bay, the grey water reflected back upon itself. Inside, a shape moved across the window-pane, an eye’s pupil milked by a cataract. The dwelling and its single occupant were as old and weathered and colourless as the sea.
Gilbert pulled up his chair and watched through the salt-rimed glass. Cradled in his hands a mug of hot water in which was dissolved an Oxo cube. Down below, the waves, ever eager to smother the sand, were elbowing close to the land, lifting the stern of his little dinghy where it was moored on the beach. It would soon be dark and he would venture down to the surf and the shadows, and the silver light from the moon. Once again row out on the tide, undisturbed in his search.
Tonight, as ever, he would unleash the boat and make his way to where the two walls of the cliffs hugged around Nolton’s bay like protective arms. Out he would go, to where the wide sea spanned to the horizon and the gentle slop of the waves was omnipresent, but muted, so that the sound of the oars could be heard as they sliced and skated the slack ocean. Tonight would be a reprise of many such nights. A habit only curtailed when winter storms blew in, and sea spray mixed with driving rain dashed his tiny vessel with salty fury. Then he would have to curtail his repetitive and fruitless forays.
Watery runnels formed in his glazed, despairing eyes like salt waves bridling across reddened sand, and dripped in a silent cataract down a face as craggy and dark as the grey cliffs. Out there . . . somewhere . . . his beautiful lost Siren.
There seemed to be few tourists here, fewer beachcombers or sun worshippers.
Stephanie and Rod were walking arm-in-arm along the road to the pub up the hill. From up here Stephanie could see a small caravan park nestling in the valley, from which there was little sign of movement, even though summer still had a few throes to throw. She conceded to herself that the beach was a small one by any standards and that the sea was probably too inconsiderate for swimming.
The little bay, hemmed in as it was by high cliffs, allowed the tide too much wilful leeway; delightful rock pools at low tide, but precious little sand to sit on once the sea had ridden in at high tide. The bay had a wild charm but also, she thought, an aura of loneliness. As they walked she watched a lone fulmar skim the cliff’s face, wheeling slowly this way and that, its wings as stiff as an aircraft’s. The solitary bird evoked the sense of an ancient landscape, one so untenanted that it was a simple matter to believe that they were the first humans to reach this shore since some Celtic tribe harvested the fish here a millennia ago.
Dusk was arriving with the cold breeze off the sea. “Hug me,” Stephanie said, wishing she did not always have to ask.
As he did so, Rod turned his attention to the pub. They climbed the steps that wove through the beer garden to its entrance. “Hope the food’s hot.”
Stephanie wished he were not so easily distracted; she would have liked more of his attention devoted to her. But not wanting to dampen things with an unguarded comment, she said instead, “I should think they get plenty of business from the caravan park.” As they entered the lounge, th
e dining area was surprisingly unoccupied. “Or maybe not.” If a pub’s busy at mealtimes, she tended to think, its food was likely to be more agreeable.
“It’s only,” Rod glanced at his watch, “six-thirty. Oh, well, let’s see what’s on the menu.”
They found a small table in a cosy corner by a window and ordered some wine and a meal. While they waited, Stephanie watched the rollers through the window, forever surging for access to the land, but somehow blocked at the last second by a hidden influence, and rippling back. The quickening mass of the ocean was darkening, the surf tracing ragged luminescent curves against the shore.
If she gazed seaward long enough something might take hold in her, she thought, until each gleaming breaker arrives with the impression that the sea is some surly spirit, rising swiftly, disgorging some half-sensed emotion on what was left of the beach. And that illnatured spirit’s jetsam was inside her already. Despite their earlier lovemaking, she did not feel anything much except a formless dissatisfaction.
Rod sat silently beside her, also gazing westwards, until there was nothing but blackness outside, the sea a memory of salt and the tang of seaweed. Then someone switched on the pub’s exterior lights, which illuminated the picnic tables in the beer garden and two spiky Cordylines in tubs. Stephanie perked up, trying to imagine that Rod was thinking about the two of them and not his work.
The food finally arrived, and she almost balked at the size of the battered cod and mound of chips on both their plates. “We certainly won’t go hungry tonight!” Smiling she brightened as she unwrapped the knife and fork from the red paper napkin and wove her head from side to side as if she did not quite know where on the plate to begin demolishing her meal. “We can find the shops tomorrow and stock up the fridge.”
“Maybe we’ll eat out more – I wouldn’t want you slaving in that excuse for a kitchen every evening.” He despatched several french fries. “I’ve heard there’s a couple of very good restaurants in Solva.”
“Expensive restaurants, Rod.” She had also read the tourist information brochure the Rollasons had left in the cottage. “If you’ll recall, we just gave a small fortune to that package tour company.” It felt good to be chatting amiably.
“Which we will get back . . . eventually.”
“If you say so. But, really, I don’t mind self-catering.” She prodded her fish and began to eat, and they lapsed into silence for a few minutes.
Later they both sat on bar stools with a glass of brandy each, to finish the evening. The pub’s restaurant had not filled up significantly, and most of the clientele appeared to be locals. Among them Rod noticed the farmer who they had rented the cottage from at the other end of the bar. “Evening Mr Rollason,” he said, raising his glass.
He did not mean the gesture in any other way than friendly acknowledgment, but the man raised his pewter pot also, saying, “Thanks, most obliged to you. I’ll have a pint. Beth?” he called to the barmaid. “Put another one in there when you’re ready.”
“Nice one,” Stephanie said under her breath as the farmer moved down the bar and sat closer to them. She could imagine the state of both men in an hour or two’s time, after performing one-upmanship with several more rounds of drinks.
Rod ignored her comment, paying for the drinks and turning his attention to their companion. “Seems quiet,” he said to the farmer. “Here. For the time of year,” he added.
Rollason took a long gulp of his fresh pint. “Welsh Tourist Board,” he said as if that explained everything. “Still, the cottages help, as the farm don’t pay these days.”
Stephanie thought Rod must have been thinking about the unpopulated-looking caravan park and the empty seats in the pub, not the farmer’s holiday lets. “Well, it’s a lovely place, Mr Rollason,” she stated. “Very quiet. I like that.” She added, “We’re hoping to do some walking, forget about the car for a bit.”
“Ted’s the name. Yes. You’ve got some good walking hereabouts, if you’ve a mind.” Just then, his attention was caught by a rough-looking figure of a man who was leaving the pub, having put his head around the door and decided against entering. He snorted into his drink. Stephanie followed his glance and recognized the man passing along outside one of the windows.
“Oh, that old man.” She turned to face Mr Rollason. “Your wife told us a bit about him this afternoon. The one who lives at the top of the cliff?”
“Ay, that was ‘im.” He drained the rest of his pint, keeping whatever thoughts he had to himself for the time being. “I’ll take another one in there, Beth, if you please.”
Rod sipped his brandy. “His wife drowned, we gather, and it’s sent him a bit over the edge.”
The farmer glanced sideways at their two unfinished glasses and thought better of offering to buy a round. “Some say,” he said conspiratorially, leaning in Rod’s direction, “that it was ‘im that did it. That it weren’t no accident.”
“Ahh,” Rod said. “The plot thickens!”
Rollason ignored his quip.
Stephanie said, “That’s terrible. That’s murder.” She shivered, in spite of the warmth in the lounge bar. Then she thought about it a bit more. “No, they’d have had their suspicions and arrested him by now, surely?”
“They?” Rollason queried.
“The police, of course,” Stephanie replied. Who on earth did he think she meant?
The farmer downed most of his pint in one go, before turning to them both. “Has a boat, he does. You might have seen it on the beach. They say he took her out in it one night and only he came back.”
“But it could easily have been an accident—” Stephanie rationalized, but Rollason was quick to reply.
“Never found the body, see.” Both she and Rod waited as he sipped the remains of his beer. She sensed he had a piece of evidence, a clincher he craved to impart, but wanted to milk the moment. Finally he said, “The tides, y’see, hereabouts. They always bring what’s lost back to us.” His implication was clear. Drowned bodies float back. Perhaps ones weighted down do not.
Stephanie raised her glass and allowed the dregs of the liquor to inflame her throat and chest. The shivers were on her as soon as she pictured the old man’s face, his eyes. That old man, lurking up the cliff in his hut, his secrets wrapped about him like dark green kelp. She would make sure the cottage was locked up tight tonight.
Rollason carefully placed his tankard on the bar and, remembering that he was, to all intents and purposes, supposed to be an ambassador for Welsh tourism, said with a smile, “Don’t mind them tales though. Gilbert’s been living here quite a few years since it happened and nobody else has disappeared! Thanks again for the drink, I’ll wish you goodnight.”
Shortly after he left, Rod and Stephanie also started for home. They sauntered down to the sands for a quick walk before bed. The tide was a gentle caress, chuckling over pebbles before drawing back to reveal flat sand gleaming under a risen moon. Out in the bay the water was more agitated, as if tumbling over submerged rocks.
“Look out there,” Rod said, pointing. Stephanie stared across the bay, but her eyes had not yet adapted fully to the darkness of the sea. There appeared to be ripples, or many circles of dimpled water, as if the sea itself was agitated. “Something’s out there. Fish,” he said, stopping to watch. “Swimming into the shallow water. Something big’s herding them.”
Stephanie could see the phenomenon now, frantic little blips on the surface, as what might have been the fins of fish riding about one another in their haste to escape some predator. Beyond them the sea was calmer, no sign of anything big, like a shark, say. “It’s impossible to see exactly—”
“Quiet,” Rod said. “Wait.” As if not talking would mean whatever it was would come to the surface and show itself clearly. “There’s something out there,” he repeated in a whisper.
Why would he want to dramatize things? Stephanie asked herself. Yet the gentle, insistent lapping of the tide started to put her on edge. “What is it? A boat?” s
he asked. “I can’t see anything.”
Then a silver shape surfaced from the agitated black swell. It floundered. The sea decided to roughen up a bit and the rising water cut off her brief sighting. Whatever it was, the object was too large for a bird, too slim for a boat, too streamlined for flotsam.
“Yes!” she cried involuntarily as the moon highlighted whatever it was again. The roiling fish were racing away now, back out to sea beyond the arms of the cliffs. The moonlight was rippling on the shape, silvering it, modifying both its real colour and its true outline.
“Quiet,” Rod insisted. He gave Stephanie an indecipherable look in the dark, and she felt someone step on her grave. Why was he trying to frighten her?
They both gazed, frozen in place by some unsettling emotion whose source eluded Stephanie. Maybe it was the stories about Gilbert and his drowned wife that had allowed vague uncertainties to invade her thoughts. Whatever the strange fancy was, she knew that Rod was experiencing a similar emotion too, though he would deny it if asked.
Moored offshore, the old man’s boat bobbed as if it, too, was fearful of whatever had been chasing the fish. Stephanie allowed her concentration to lapse, hoping that a less creepy mood might intervene. Further along the beach, up the rise in the dunes were the barn-converted cottages. There were welcoming lights in some of the windows, suggesting neighbourly occupants.
“A dolphin perhaps?” Rod asked himself out loud. “Most likely.”
His words drew Stephanie’s attention back to the deeper water and, as a wave seemingly sloughed off a temporary skin, she glimpsed it again. This time there was a more obvious movement, almost a gesture.
“It has arms,” she said. “I saw one of them waving.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Rod said. There was not simply disapproval in the sound of his voice, but anger too. “Who on earth would swim at night, in that?” He knew plenty of brave or foolhardy friends who would, but was not going to admit it to Steph. “Got to be a dolphin. Manoeuvring a shoal of fish.”
The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 19 Page 35
