Nailed by the heart, p.1
Nailed by the Heart, page 1
Nailed by the Heart
SIMON CLARK
For Janet, my wife.
Her hard work and dedication made this book possible.
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
– Dylan Thomas
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
A Note on the Author
Chapter 1
‘Dad! Look! I’m flying!’
The six-year-old boy came bounding down the beach, kicking up gouts of sand, scattering white shells, the light breeze blowing out the Superman cape behind him like a bright red tablecloth. Every half-dozen steps or so he would make a determined leap.
Chris Stainforth called back to his son: ‘If you do take off, don’t go too far. Just circle the sea-fort a couple of times then come back.’
David ran along the beach, which lay deserted apart from the pair of them. He turned, almost slipping on some strands of kelp, and came bounding back shouting in a breathless voice. ‘That’s our sea-fort now … isn’t it, Dad? We bought it.’
‘We sure did, kidda. All ours.’ Well, truthfully, thought Chris, they owned around five per cent of the thing outright and the rest was shackled to a gigantic mortgage.
He stood, his feet firmly planted in the sand, and gazed at the nineteenth-century sea-fort. Cut from a stone the colour of butter, it reared up from the sands like a beached battleship. This morning it seemed to shine in the warm April sunlight. Around its flanks the advancing tide swirled and foamed in a shining pool.
There was his castle.
‘When can we go in the swimming pool?’
‘It hasn’t been built yet, David. In fact there’s still a lot of work to be done before we can even move in.’
‘I want to move in now. It looks ace.’
‘Me too. But we’ll have to be patient.’
David looked up at him, his blue eyes twinkling with that laughing look he had when he was excited. The sun had brought out across his snub nose a spattering of freckles that looked as if they had been sprayed there by aerosol. His grin grew wider.
‘Tell me what’s going to be in there, Dad.’
Chris Stainforth smiled warmly. ‘Well, you know it’s an old sea-fort.’
‘Like a castle?’
‘Yes. It was put there to stop an enemy attacking us from the sea. And you know we’re going to convert it into a hotel?’
‘Then people pay to stop there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Even Nan and Grandad?’
‘No. They’ll come and visit us for free. We’ll have our own apartment. Your bedroom window will look out over the sea.’
‘And a swimming pool?’
‘Yes.’
‘Goody!’
David hurled himself at Chris, punching him enthusiastically in the stomach.
Chris clutched his stomach and fell convincingly to the ground.
‘Ugh … I’m Zorgon the Disagreeable, and Superman is beating me to a bloody pulp. Help! Help! Ouch …’
David threw himself on to Chris’s back with enough force to drive the air from his lungs and ram his face into the beach.
His little lad wasn’t so little any more. Six years old and he could pack quite a punch.
‘Can I kick you in the head now, Dad?’ asked David politely.
‘No, you can’t.’ He laughed. A long, hearty laugh that had its origins deep inside. He’d not felt this good in years. The plan to convert the old sea-fort into a hotel was a dream come true. From now on he would be his own boss.
Father and son rolled about the beach getting sand in their hair and clothes.
Eventually David collapsed giggling into a sitting position on the beach. Then he asked if his mum was coming down to join them.
‘No. She’s back at the hotel. She’s got to phone some plumbers, some builders and some other people. The sea-fort needs lots of work.’
‘Lots and lots?’
‘Yes. That’s why we’re going to see the man in Out-Butterwick about that caravan.’
‘When can we look inside the sea-fort? I want to see the gun.’
‘Perhaps tomorrow.’ Chris smiled until his cheeks ached.
For David the excitement became overpowering and he raced off down the beach once more, leaping from one patch of shells to another, the cape shining a brilliant red in the sunlight.
Chris sat on the beach basking in the warm sunshine. Overhead, gulls hung like scraps of white paper against the sky. Most of them wheeled over the hulking shape of the sea-fort. The mass of masonry, heated by the sun, produced a thermal of warm air on which gulls rose until they were high in the sky. From there they would launch their forays out to sea in search of fish.
He breathed deeply and closed his eyes. The air was fresh and smelt faintly of kelp. Why were people locked away in factories, deafened by machines or offices that reeked of overheated photocopiers, for nine-tenths of their lives? Here he felt truly alive.
‘Shells, shells, shells! Here’s your bloody shells!’ David’s sing-song voice cut into his reverie. He opened his eyes to see the boy’s impossibly wide grin.
‘David, how many times have I told you? Don’t swear.’
‘I’m not swearing.’ David’s amused look intensified. ‘Bloody hell, I only said here’s your bloody shells.’
David slapped a handful of cockleshells into his father’s hand. ‘These shells are dead, dead funny. They’ve got pictures of men’s faces on them like pennies. But not really like pennies. Because you can see their eyes and mouths and things and—’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ murmured Chris without listening. He slipped the shells into the pocket of his jeans.
‘Can we build a sandcastle now?’
‘No, we haven’t got—’
‘Aw, go on.’
‘Oh, all right, a quick one.’ Ruth would have disapproved. She always accused him of being too soft on David.
Chris began to pile sand into a mound with his hands. Here above the high-tide mark it was loose and dry. Easy enough to dig with your bare hands.
But then life for the Stainforths had become uncannily easy. Within a week of advertising their old home they had found a cash buyer. The property developer who owned the sea-fort jumped at their offer, which was nearly a quarter below the advertised price. Property conveyancing, usually a tortuously slow process, ran smoothly. Within six weeks he and Ruth were sitting in the solicitor’s office signing the transfer deed.
Two days ago, Chris had driven his family out of their old home town, where a dozen generations of Stainforths had lived. It had been raining. The shops, warehouses, and acre upon acre of cheap post-war housing looked dismal – a wasteland of red brick.
On the edge of town they had passed the iron-fenced cemetery where generations of Stainforths lay buried. Chris had acknowledged it with a tiny nod.
As they travelled, the rain eased off, the cloud thinned, and by the time they had covered the seventy miles to the coast the sun was shining brilliantly.
He paused to survey the results of his digging. Without realising it, he’d raised a huge mound of sand nearly to his waist. ‘How’s that, then?’ Chris found himself panting. Hell, he’d have to be fitter than this when it came to working on the sea-fort. He couldn’t allow illness or any other distractions if the hotel was going to open in time to avoid instant bankruptcy next spring.
David watched his father at work. The sandcastle was going to be enormous. When it was high enough he would run and dive into it. Maybe with his Superman costume on he’d be able to dive that bit further.
David still hoped that one day he would be able to jump high enough to actually take off. Then he would soar away like that white seagull he now saw skimming over the waves. He would find an old cup – no, a bucket – fly low over the water, scoop up a bucketful and fly – whooooosh! – up the beach and tip it all over his dad.
He’d bet his dad would laugh his head off. He’d laughed a lot lately now they’d come to stop in the hotel. Mum too.
Everything was waiting to be explored. The beach – miles and mi
‘Is that big enough for you, then, David?’
Chris rose, wiping his hands on his legs. He breathed heavily; sweat rolled down his forehead.
Once more he found his gaze being drawn back to the sea-fort. His plans ran through his head, as they had done ever since he had seen the place. Cut through the seaward wall, install windows, triple-glazed, giving guests panoramic views of the sea. On the landward side guests would look over the dunes towards the marshes. A bird-watcher’s paradise. Ideal, too, for the stressed business executive craving a get-away-from-it-all holiday. The coast here was a slice of ancient wilderness. A gritty no-man’s land between dry land and ocean.
Again, he mentally began adding up the cost of the conversion works. It would be expensive. If the venture failed it would mean financial ruin.
‘Dad! They’re in the water! They’re in the water!’
David came running back up the beach in long, leaping strides.
‘Who’s in the water?’ Chris looked back at the incoming tide. ‘There’s no one there.’
David looked up at him, his blue eyes serious. ‘They came up. Then there was one. Then there was two. Then there was three!’
‘You saw people? Swimming?’
‘Noooo … I can see people. With faces. Standing in the water. They are watching meee!’
‘Everyone has faces.’
‘I know-wer. But these men had’ – he held his hands within a few centimetres of his face while making a rotating motion with his fingers – ‘faces. Funny faces.’
Someone’s playing tricks, thought Chris. He glanced along the beach.
No one.
Maybe some kids messing around in the sea?
Unlikely.
Without a wet-suit this time of year you would be half dead of exposure within minutes.
He looked at his son. The expression told him David was not telling tales.
Then again, Chris told himself, David Alistair Stainforth had an uncanny knack of seeing people who were not there.
The River Troll Mark 3, he thought, remembering the time when David had been seeing ‘things’ in the river that ran near their old house.
Taking his shoulders, he turned David gently away from the sea. His son was shaking slightly. ‘It might have been gulls in the water or—’
‘Dad, there really was—’
‘Or a seal.’
‘A seal?’ David looked puzzled.
Chris saw the solution and grabbed it. ‘Yes, seals. You’ve seen them on telly. They look a bit like dogs, but with flippers and no fur. And—’ Inspiration flashed. ‘And when they bob up and down in the sea they look like people with funny faces. Come on, it’s time we saw that man about the caravan.’
After ineffectually brushing the sand from his Superman costume, David pushed his fist into Chris’s hand. Chris gave the hand a squeeze. It felt hot and gritty.
Hand in hand, father and son walked up the beach to the dunes, which they climbed together. They paused to look back. To Chris this view was nothing less than magic. To his right, the skeleton of a fishing boat lay half buried in the sand, the sun- and salt-bleached spars looking like the bones of a long-dead sea monster left high and dry by the tide.
Chris breathed deeply. Jesus, this air made your skin tingle.
Along the beach to his left, the quickly rising tide had almost surrounded the sea-fort. Already the beach on its flanks was submerged and the first waves were washing over the raised causeway that linked it with dry land. In ten minutes that too would be covered, and for a few hours the sea-fort would be an island.
As he let his gaze run over curling twists of foam which gleamed in the sunshine, his stomach became suddenly tense.
He screwed up his eyes against the dazzling brightness.
What had he seen?
Raising his hand to shield his eyes, he looked hard at an area of sea not far from the sea-fort.
Maybe there really were seals along this stretch of coastline after all. God knows it was remote enough. Yet, just for a moment, he had seen – no, thought he had seen – rising from the deeper water beyond the surf, the dark head and shoulders of a man.
And it seemed, for a second or two, that the man had stared intently back. There had been a sense of intelligence and purpose in that unwavering stare. Inexplicably it had made him feel uneasy.
He looked hard at the area of seawater until his eyes watered, then shrugged. It had gone.
A seal, he told himself. It had to be a seal. Only a lunatic would be swimming in the North Sea so early in the year. He smiled to himself. After living in a town all his life, he would have to get used to all this flora and fauna.
‘Come on, David,’ he said, squeezing his son’s hand. ‘Time to go.’
Chapter 2
After being locked in the ocean freighter’s laundry store for three hours, the engineer gave a deep groan and died.
The sixteen-year-old cabin boy sat crouched in a corner, arms tightly wrapped around his knees, his frightened eyes unnaturally wide.
This was hell.
This was pure hell.
Locked in a tiny room with a dead man, his mouth gaping wide where he had tried to chew in his last lungful of air.
His face.
The boy buried his head in his arms and rocked.
Why had they done this?
He had never harmed anyone before in his life.
Everything had been going so well. His first Atlantic crossing from New York had been a cinch. The crew, all American, apart from the Filipino cook, had been like one big matey family. Everyone on first-name terms, apart from the Skipper of course. Well, someone had to be the boss. Just last night he and Tubbs had played checkers while listening to Christmas carols on the radio. They had been able to pick up the American forces radio based in Germany. Even when the DJ played requests from folks back home for the GI Joes stationed in Europe he hadn’t felt homesick. Mark Faust had his new family right here on the big freighter, the Mary-Anne, shipping frozen beef to Norway.
Tubbs had given him his first beer. First swallow, it tasted like something scraped off the bilges – after the second it hadn’t tasted so bad. And everyone in the mess had laughed and slapped him good-naturedly on the back. By the time he’d finished the beer he felt great, all warm inside even though the beer was ice cold.
Mark Faust wondered what his ma and pa would say if they knew. Only at Christmas was wine allowed into the house, and then only sherry in order for the solemn toast to be taken. You just sipped it – you weren’t supposed to actually enjoy it.
Not like this. Boy, was this great! Sitting laughing and drinking in the mess, the radio blowing out ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ until the speaker made the bottles vibrate, and then—
… and then it all went bad.
The door opened as if it had been kicked.
In came half a dozen men carrying submachine-guns and shotguns. Tommo Greene had jumped up only to have half his face blown from his skull by a spray of bird-shot
That’s when Christmas became hell.
The attackers seemed physically huge, near-giants, with dark, tanned faces. But their eyes …
Their eyes glittered with such cruelty and hate. It was as if fires had been lit behind them. For Mark, their eyes were more terrifying than the weapons they carried in their massive fists. You actually recoiled when they looked at you.
If they had said they were demons from hell he would have believed them.
Within moments he had been thrust into the linen store with Tubbs. The shock had split the fat man’s heart.
The Mary-Anne rolled gently on the tide. They were at anchor in one of the hundreds of fiords that cut inlets deep into the Norwegian mainland.
He slowly raised his head. Light from the dim bulb reflected from the dead man’s dentures. They had slipped halfway from his mouth. One of the teeth was missing. A fight in some port, maybe, or perhaps Tubbs had simply walked into a telegraph pole after one rum too many. Tubbs himself sort of sat, leaning back against the iron wall.
Mark found his gaze pulled to the dead man’s face. Eyes closed, the face had turned white as the blood drained from the upper parts of his body to settle in the lower half, turning his hands blue. Then the dead man urinated. Wetness seeped through the denim boiler-suit to roll across the metal floor in a trickle the colour of orange pop.
