Nailed by the heart, p.8
Nailed by the Heart, page 8
He opened his mouth.
It opened its mouth too. It had big white teeth with a definite gap at the front.
He smiled. Then tapped the glass. The face smiled back.
‘Ree-fleck-shun … Ree-fleck-shun.’
He looked out into the courtyard which was flooded with cool moonlight. It lit the skips that his dad would have to fill with rubble tomorrow morning.
Through the open gates he could see the waves all twinkling and foaming across the causeway.
High tide. Now the sea-fort had become a little island once more.
Tonight the sea looked black in places. A bit like black-cherry jelly.
Something broke the surface of the water. Then immediately disappeared again. He leaned forward, pressing his nose to the cold glass. Things were moving about in the water. Maybe they were the seals his dad had told him about. He stared hard, certain they would show themselves again.
‘Chris …’ She breathed a deep, sobbing breath. ‘Don’t stop, don’t stop.’
Her fingernails dug sharply into the back of his neck; her legs were wrapped tightly around him, her heels forcing themselves into his back in a series of spasms.
He had never experienced love-making like this before. Her ferocious passion only excited him more. Their bodies clashed together. She held the two of them together, grinding at him. It was as if she were making that desperate bid to force him so deeply into her body that they would permanently merge into one – like two figures made from moist clay, pressed together to be moulded into a new form. He panted. He kissed her violently; the salt on her breasts bit into his tongue. There was no sea-fort now, no sea, no coast, no Manshead, no nation, no world, no universe. Only the two of them, meshing together, joining into a single pounding being. A huge heartbeat thundered in his ears. Faster and faster.
Now he was no longer conscious of moving his body. He did not own it. It moved faster and faster, like a mechanical hammer, untiring; beating out an ancient rhythm that was as old as life itself.
An explosion was building in his body. She bit hungrily at his neck. An unearthly sweet pain – he desired it; he wanted it to pierce his body from head to toe. The explosion rose inside him.
She panted. ‘Do it. Now … Break me! Ah!’
* * *
David looked out.
There, slap bang in the middle of the causeway, was a—
He jumped, startled. He’d not expected that. Shocked, he covered his face with his hands. For a moment he thought of calling out. But these days he was trying to be a brave boy.
Maybe it was … Maybe it was just a …
Slowly, so he could just peep through them, he opened his fingers, bit by bit.
On the causeway, just beyond the gates, standing as if it were a sunny day in the park, was a man.
But there was something odd about him.
He did not move. He had a white face. A very, very white face which had startled David.
And the man with the white face stared at David in the window.
Just then he had the strongest feeling that the man wanted David to go to him. It was like being called by your mum or your dad – you just felt you had to do it.
You must.
But David wasn’t allowed out of the caravan at night on his own. Too dangerous.
Too scary.
All alone in the dark.
But the man wanted him.
The man did not move. And now the waves were washing round his legs.
Wasn’t he wet?
But David couldn’t see his feet in the water.
A little boat maybe? A raft?
He felt alarmed.
He had a feeling in his stomach. Like when he had the nasty dream about the wormhole under his bed. This was nastier somehow.
And the man was calling.
Calling him down.
Time to go, David.
Time to see the man on the water.
His sweat-soaked pyjamas were sticking to his skin. They felt cold.
What was he doing here?
He looked around him. The sea-fort walls were like cliffs, shooting up into the moonlit sky. Why was he standing in the courtyard in the middle of the night? The cobbles felt cold and gritty under his bare feet. The caravan lay behind him; the door swayed open in the breeze. Why wasn’t he back there nice and snug under his quilt?
Then he remembered. That man had wanted to see him. That was all he knew.
The man with the hard white face stared. He did not move.
Even though David was frightened, something inside him wanted to go.
He had something that David wanted. Just what, he didn’t know. But he wanted it so badly now.
He wanted …
Now … Give it to me!
I bought it. It is mine!
David heard his own voice – demanding, demanding, demanding.
He had nearly reached the gates. One swayed, creaking on its rusty hinges. The breeze was fresher here, the hiss of the surf louder over the causeway.
The man’s white face shone. It shone brighter than something reflecting mere moonlight.
Would David have to touch that smooth face? Now he could see dark patches where the man’s eyes should be.
I’ve made the swap. I let my toys get washed away into the sea on purpose. We had a deal. I don’t have to give any more. That’s the rule, you don’t have to give any more once you’ve made the deal. Spit on my palm, shake hands.
Now the face towered above him. Big and round and white and hard. Like the man in the moon.
Too soon, David. Too soon.
David stepped out of the sea-fort and on to the causeway. A wave licked his toes.
* * *
‘If we hear it again I’ll go see what it is.’ Chris pulled his wife close. Even though it was dark, somehow he knew she was smiling. She kissed him on the chin.
‘If we don’t …’
‘Then it’s the same again for you, my dear.’
He chuckled, feeling deliciously relaxed. The sheets were a tangle beneath them but he couldn’t care less.
‘It’s nearly two. We’ll have to sleep some time.’
‘We will… Some time.’
He ran his fingers down her spine.
‘Blast,’ she murmured. ‘Did you hear it?’
‘It’ll be a seagull.’
‘Or a seal. I don’t want it raiding the dustbin. I’ll just check.’ She nipped the end of his nose with her teeth.
She sat up in bed and raised the curtain.
Her sudden yell stabbed his ears.
‘David!’
Mark Faust sat on the dunes, watching the sea-fort by moonlight.
Waves rolled in over the beach in a soft roar. He’d watched them creep over the raised causeway, turning the sea-fort into an island. The sea-fort itself loomed against the moonlit sea like a beached battleship. The breeze ruffled his hair and he shivered slightly, feeling the hairs on his arms rising up on end one by one.
The sight of the place always did that to him. He remembered the first time he had seen the sea-fort. And he knew what lay just a few hundred yards beyond it in ten fathoms of ocean.
Through the sea-fort’s big double gates he could make out the caravan that the family lived in while they converted the stone heap into a hotel. Jesus … A hotel…
He shook his head.
As he watched he heard a bang; a light shone from the window of the caravan.
Swiftly, he climbed to his feet. Two figures ran from the caravan towards the gates.
Jesus, one of the figures was as naked as the day they were born. They were too far away for him to be certain, but he got the impression it was the woman. She ran like an athlete across the stone cobbles – in her bare feet.
Why on earth? …
Then the American saw what she was running towards.
The little kid. For some reason he stood ankle-deep in the surf on the causeway. Like a little blond statue.
He saw the boy’s mother grab hold of him and clutch him to her bare chest. She held him like that for a moment. The husband, wearing a dressing gown, stood a little distance away. Mark saw that they were speaking to one another – at first agitated; he could not tell what they said. They soon appeared calmer. The little boy rubbed his eyes as if he had woken from a deep sleep, yawning.
Then all three returned to the caravan, the naked woman carrying her son. The man shut the door. More lights came on behind curtains.
He waited another ten minutes until it became clear that nothing else was going to happen tonight, then he walked away into the dunes.
Chapter 15
‘David, stop doing that while I’m driving. It’s distracting.’
‘Okay.’
David didn’t seem any the worse for wear after what had happened the night before. Nor did he seem bothered by the experience. They had asked him why he had left the caravan. ‘Just a little walk,’ he’d replied. They had decided to leave it at that, although Chris still wondered if moving away from his friends might have had a disturbing effect on him. In future the caravan door would get locked at night and the key put where David couldn’t reach it.
‘Where we going, Mum?’
‘I’ve told you a hundred times. To Mr Gateman’s in the village. He’s invited us to a barbecue.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a cannibal, David. He’s going to eat us for his supper.’
‘Chris, you’ll give him nightmares.’
‘Dad, what’s a sacrifice?’
Chris had thought he was going to ask, ‘What’s a cannibal?’ The question tripped him. ‘A sacrifice? What makes you ask that?’
‘Enough.’ Ruth raised her finger – both father and son knew it meant change the subject. ‘We’re going to have a good time tonight. David, you’re having a treat because you’re stopping up late. Your dad’s having a treat because I’ll drive home so that means he can drink beer and get all squinty-eyed.’
Chris turned the car into Main Street.
‘Chris, there he is. Quick. Stop.’
He pulled over. ‘Who?’
‘The man who does odd jobs around the village.’
Chris saw a man chopping at a privet hedge with some shears.
‘You said we needed some help at the sea-fort – go ask him.’
‘Are you sure? He looks a bit wild.’
‘It won’t hurt to ask, Chris.’
His arms, legs, and most of his body ached. Some help shifting the rubble mountains, he had to admit, would be welcome.
Stiffly, he walked along the pavement to where the man was cutting the hedge. With every snap of the shears his hair and wild-man-of-the-woods beard shook.
‘Excuse me. I’m—’
The man continued cutting.
‘Excuse me.’
The words sunk in. The man stopped abruptly and looked up. The face was expressionless but the eyes had an odd cast to them. Chris pressed on. You don’t need Einstein to shift concrete slabs.
‘Excuse me. My name’s Chris Stainforth. I’ve just moved into the sea-fort up on Manshead.’
No response. Just an empty stare.
‘There’s a lot of rubbish to shift and I wondered if you’d be interested in some work.’
‘Uh …’ the man held the shears in front of him frozen in mid-cut.
Then understanding hit him like a lump of concrete dropping out of the sky. The empty eyes blinked. Suddenly a fierce look blazed from them.
‘Manshead … Sea-fort …’ the wild man shuddered as if he’d found a severed hand in his sandwich box.
‘No … No. Mans … head.’ The voice, thin and cracking, sounded as if it hadn’t been used for weeks. ‘No. I don’t go. You don’t make me go. I live here. You say … you say, go there, go do this, go do that. I’m here, I’m here. You want this, you want that. Go to the sea-fort. Go to Manshead. Do that in that place. That bad place.’
Chris’s polite smile dried. ‘It’s okay. Forget it … Don’t worry. Just a suggestion.’
The wild man pointed at Chris with the shears. They were stained green with the blood of the privet. ‘It’s not right. They say: Do this, do that. I wash cutlery, you know. There’s so much of the bloody things. Knives, forks, spoons. More than anyone needs. It’s just not right… No … no. I’m not—’
‘Easy, there, old son.’
The big American who ran the village store ambled casually along the road, an easy smile on his face. ‘You got work to do, Brinley?’
‘Cutting this blasted hedge.’
‘Hey, watch the language,’ said the man soothingly. ‘Lady and kid present.’
‘I’ve got lots to do before hometime. Hedge. Watering.’
‘Plenty of time, old son. Take it easy. You got your flask? Have a drink.’
It took five whole seconds for the penny to drop.
‘I want a cup of tea.’
‘Sure … No point wearing yourself out. Grab yourself a break.’
The wild man abruptly walked away.
‘Thanks,’ said Chris. ‘I think I upset him.’
‘Ah, don’t bother yourself. He gets like that. Hey, how’s David? Still got the Superman stuff?’
David, leaning out of the car window, beamed shyly and nodded.
‘That’s great. ’Cos I found some Superman comics in my old magazine store.’ He handed a carrier bag full of glossy comics to David.
‘That’s great. Thank you.’
‘That saves on introductions.’ Tony Gateman had appeared and was swinging open an iron gate. ‘You met my other guest.’
‘Sure, we’ve met before in the shop.’
‘This way, folks. The barbecue’s lit, the drinks are cold. I don’t know if anyone’s thirsty, but I am.’
They followed Tony into the back garden.
‘There you go, David, old son. I’ve rigged something up for you.’
‘A rope swing!’ David ran down to the bottom of the garden where a mature willow stood. From a branch a rope dangled with a piece of wood pushed through a knot at the bottom.
‘You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, Mr Gateman.’
‘Tony,’ he corrected gently. ‘No trouble. The little chap’d be bored with my old-fogey talk anyway.’ He led them on to a paved barbecue area. A large purpose-built barbecue smoked in a business-like way. Two tables stood side by side, one laid out with foil-covered plates and bowls; the other with bottles.
‘White wine, Ruth? Or am I being a sexist pig?’
‘I’m sure you’re not, Tony. But I’ll have a lager if you’ve got one.’
‘Ah, working up a thirst on that sea-fort of yours, eh? Beer, Chris?’
Mark Faust spoke in his bass rumble. ‘Chris and Ruth had a taste of Fox just now. I should have warned them.’
‘Ah.’ Tony handed Chris a pint topped with a foam as white as ice-cream. ‘Every village has a Brinley Fox. Harmless, though. But you’ll have met his father?’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘Fox and Barnett. The builders you bought the sea-fort from. That’s old Mr Fox’s son.’
‘I always dealt with the agent. I never met Mr Fox himself.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, I suppose.’
Why? Chris was tempted to probe deeper. The excuse that Fox had simply pulled out of converting the sea-fort because he had had a change of heart was pretty light on authenticity in Chris’s eyes. And he suspected Tony Gateman knew the real reason.
Tony poured Mark a Guinness and himself a generous Scotch and ginger while effortlessly engaging the three of them in small-talk. Eventually, Mark excused himself, saying he was going to talk to David.
Tony topped up the drinks. ‘Smashing place, Out-Butterwick, you’re going to love it.’
‘What brought you here?’ asked Ruth. ‘You’re not local.’
‘Ah, you spotted the lad from the East End accent. A dead give-away. To tell you the truth, my dear, you won’t find many true locals. As far as I know, only the Hodgson brothers, the chaps who farm all these meadows at the back here, are original Out-Butterwickers. No …’ Tony leaned forward as if sharing a secret. ‘Truth is we’re all flaming outsiders. You know Mark Faust is. Came here in ’62. I followed in ’69. Before that I was a partner in a film production company.’ Chuckling, he pulled a cigar from his pocket. He didn’t light it but turned it over and over in his long, thin pianist’s fingers as he spoke in his soft, eager, secrets-to-be-told manner. ‘Film production sounds a bit grand. In fact we made training films and promos for the big corporations. I was the East End lad done good. Flash Jag, apartment in Mayfair, a leggy wife. That’s when it got stupid. We had more work than we could handle. I’d find myself in the office at midnight; the night before you’ve got to present a sure-fire hit to the client. And you know, you’ve not got a ruddy idea in your head. That’s when you reach for the white powders.’ He tapped the cigar on the side of his nose.
‘With me going flakey on forty fags a day and a lot of white powder up my tubes I came here. We were doing a location shoot for a new lawnmower; up on the dunes. You know, it looks like twenty miles of overgrown lawn.’ Anyway, I came. Did the shoot, feeling like a slice of death warmed up, coke up my nose, pains in my arms and chest; God, was I in a mess … Then I walked along the beach to Manshead. I just stood there and looked … The sea, the fresh air, the dunes, miles of beach, seagulls shooting this way and that … And – bang!’ He poured himself another drink. ‘It hit me.’
He paused. Then smiled. ‘God knows what. But something did. It’s okay, folks, I’m not going to get religious on you. But I walked out on that causeway. And I chucked my fags and coke into the drink. Gone.’ He shrugged. ‘I went back to London. And all I did was think about this place. It was like seeing an enchanting woman. I fell in love. That’s when I sold my share in the company and came to live up here.’ He sipped his drink. ‘What do you make of that, then? A dozy old bugger? Mid-life crisis?’
‘No,’ said Ruth, ‘it sounds as though Out-Butterwick saved your life.’
‘I think it did, Ruth … Ah, enough of me. Tell me your plans. Another beer, Chris?’
‘Thanks. Tony … You said Fox just pulled out of the sea-fort conversion. To be honest, the idea of someone pulling out after sinking all that money into a project is insane.’
It opened its mouth too. It had big white teeth with a definite gap at the front.
He smiled. Then tapped the glass. The face smiled back.
‘Ree-fleck-shun … Ree-fleck-shun.’
He looked out into the courtyard which was flooded with cool moonlight. It lit the skips that his dad would have to fill with rubble tomorrow morning.
Through the open gates he could see the waves all twinkling and foaming across the causeway.
High tide. Now the sea-fort had become a little island once more.
Tonight the sea looked black in places. A bit like black-cherry jelly.
Something broke the surface of the water. Then immediately disappeared again. He leaned forward, pressing his nose to the cold glass. Things were moving about in the water. Maybe they were the seals his dad had told him about. He stared hard, certain they would show themselves again.
‘Chris …’ She breathed a deep, sobbing breath. ‘Don’t stop, don’t stop.’
Her fingernails dug sharply into the back of his neck; her legs were wrapped tightly around him, her heels forcing themselves into his back in a series of spasms.
He had never experienced love-making like this before. Her ferocious passion only excited him more. Their bodies clashed together. She held the two of them together, grinding at him. It was as if she were making that desperate bid to force him so deeply into her body that they would permanently merge into one – like two figures made from moist clay, pressed together to be moulded into a new form. He panted. He kissed her violently; the salt on her breasts bit into his tongue. There was no sea-fort now, no sea, no coast, no Manshead, no nation, no world, no universe. Only the two of them, meshing together, joining into a single pounding being. A huge heartbeat thundered in his ears. Faster and faster.
Now he was no longer conscious of moving his body. He did not own it. It moved faster and faster, like a mechanical hammer, untiring; beating out an ancient rhythm that was as old as life itself.
An explosion was building in his body. She bit hungrily at his neck. An unearthly sweet pain – he desired it; he wanted it to pierce his body from head to toe. The explosion rose inside him.
She panted. ‘Do it. Now … Break me! Ah!’
* * *
David looked out.
There, slap bang in the middle of the causeway, was a—
He jumped, startled. He’d not expected that. Shocked, he covered his face with his hands. For a moment he thought of calling out. But these days he was trying to be a brave boy.
Maybe it was … Maybe it was just a …
Slowly, so he could just peep through them, he opened his fingers, bit by bit.
On the causeway, just beyond the gates, standing as if it were a sunny day in the park, was a man.
But there was something odd about him.
He did not move. He had a white face. A very, very white face which had startled David.
And the man with the white face stared at David in the window.
Just then he had the strongest feeling that the man wanted David to go to him. It was like being called by your mum or your dad – you just felt you had to do it.
You must.
But David wasn’t allowed out of the caravan at night on his own. Too dangerous.
Too scary.
All alone in the dark.
But the man wanted him.
The man did not move. And now the waves were washing round his legs.
Wasn’t he wet?
But David couldn’t see his feet in the water.
A little boat maybe? A raft?
He felt alarmed.
He had a feeling in his stomach. Like when he had the nasty dream about the wormhole under his bed. This was nastier somehow.
And the man was calling.
Calling him down.
Time to go, David.
Time to see the man on the water.
His sweat-soaked pyjamas were sticking to his skin. They felt cold.
What was he doing here?
He looked around him. The sea-fort walls were like cliffs, shooting up into the moonlit sky. Why was he standing in the courtyard in the middle of the night? The cobbles felt cold and gritty under his bare feet. The caravan lay behind him; the door swayed open in the breeze. Why wasn’t he back there nice and snug under his quilt?
Then he remembered. That man had wanted to see him. That was all he knew.
The man with the hard white face stared. He did not move.
Even though David was frightened, something inside him wanted to go.
He had something that David wanted. Just what, he didn’t know. But he wanted it so badly now.
He wanted …
Now … Give it to me!
I bought it. It is mine!
David heard his own voice – demanding, demanding, demanding.
He had nearly reached the gates. One swayed, creaking on its rusty hinges. The breeze was fresher here, the hiss of the surf louder over the causeway.
The man’s white face shone. It shone brighter than something reflecting mere moonlight.
Would David have to touch that smooth face? Now he could see dark patches where the man’s eyes should be.
I’ve made the swap. I let my toys get washed away into the sea on purpose. We had a deal. I don’t have to give any more. That’s the rule, you don’t have to give any more once you’ve made the deal. Spit on my palm, shake hands.
Now the face towered above him. Big and round and white and hard. Like the man in the moon.
Too soon, David. Too soon.
David stepped out of the sea-fort and on to the causeway. A wave licked his toes.
* * *
‘If we hear it again I’ll go see what it is.’ Chris pulled his wife close. Even though it was dark, somehow he knew she was smiling. She kissed him on the chin.
‘If we don’t …’
‘Then it’s the same again for you, my dear.’
He chuckled, feeling deliciously relaxed. The sheets were a tangle beneath them but he couldn’t care less.
‘It’s nearly two. We’ll have to sleep some time.’
‘We will… Some time.’
He ran his fingers down her spine.
‘Blast,’ she murmured. ‘Did you hear it?’
‘It’ll be a seagull.’
‘Or a seal. I don’t want it raiding the dustbin. I’ll just check.’ She nipped the end of his nose with her teeth.
She sat up in bed and raised the curtain.
Her sudden yell stabbed his ears.
‘David!’
Mark Faust sat on the dunes, watching the sea-fort by moonlight.
Waves rolled in over the beach in a soft roar. He’d watched them creep over the raised causeway, turning the sea-fort into an island. The sea-fort itself loomed against the moonlit sea like a beached battleship. The breeze ruffled his hair and he shivered slightly, feeling the hairs on his arms rising up on end one by one.
The sight of the place always did that to him. He remembered the first time he had seen the sea-fort. And he knew what lay just a few hundred yards beyond it in ten fathoms of ocean.
Through the sea-fort’s big double gates he could make out the caravan that the family lived in while they converted the stone heap into a hotel. Jesus … A hotel…
He shook his head.
As he watched he heard a bang; a light shone from the window of the caravan.
Swiftly, he climbed to his feet. Two figures ran from the caravan towards the gates.
Jesus, one of the figures was as naked as the day they were born. They were too far away for him to be certain, but he got the impression it was the woman. She ran like an athlete across the stone cobbles – in her bare feet.
Why on earth? …
Then the American saw what she was running towards.
The little kid. For some reason he stood ankle-deep in the surf on the causeway. Like a little blond statue.
He saw the boy’s mother grab hold of him and clutch him to her bare chest. She held him like that for a moment. The husband, wearing a dressing gown, stood a little distance away. Mark saw that they were speaking to one another – at first agitated; he could not tell what they said. They soon appeared calmer. The little boy rubbed his eyes as if he had woken from a deep sleep, yawning.
Then all three returned to the caravan, the naked woman carrying her son. The man shut the door. More lights came on behind curtains.
He waited another ten minutes until it became clear that nothing else was going to happen tonight, then he walked away into the dunes.
Chapter 15
‘David, stop doing that while I’m driving. It’s distracting.’
‘Okay.’
David didn’t seem any the worse for wear after what had happened the night before. Nor did he seem bothered by the experience. They had asked him why he had left the caravan. ‘Just a little walk,’ he’d replied. They had decided to leave it at that, although Chris still wondered if moving away from his friends might have had a disturbing effect on him. In future the caravan door would get locked at night and the key put where David couldn’t reach it.
‘Where we going, Mum?’
‘I’ve told you a hundred times. To Mr Gateman’s in the village. He’s invited us to a barbecue.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s a cannibal, David. He’s going to eat us for his supper.’
‘Chris, you’ll give him nightmares.’
‘Dad, what’s a sacrifice?’
Chris had thought he was going to ask, ‘What’s a cannibal?’ The question tripped him. ‘A sacrifice? What makes you ask that?’
‘Enough.’ Ruth raised her finger – both father and son knew it meant change the subject. ‘We’re going to have a good time tonight. David, you’re having a treat because you’re stopping up late. Your dad’s having a treat because I’ll drive home so that means he can drink beer and get all squinty-eyed.’
Chris turned the car into Main Street.
‘Chris, there he is. Quick. Stop.’
He pulled over. ‘Who?’
‘The man who does odd jobs around the village.’
Chris saw a man chopping at a privet hedge with some shears.
‘You said we needed some help at the sea-fort – go ask him.’
‘Are you sure? He looks a bit wild.’
‘It won’t hurt to ask, Chris.’
His arms, legs, and most of his body ached. Some help shifting the rubble mountains, he had to admit, would be welcome.
Stiffly, he walked along the pavement to where the man was cutting the hedge. With every snap of the shears his hair and wild-man-of-the-woods beard shook.
‘Excuse me. I’m—’
The man continued cutting.
‘Excuse me.’
The words sunk in. The man stopped abruptly and looked up. The face was expressionless but the eyes had an odd cast to them. Chris pressed on. You don’t need Einstein to shift concrete slabs.
‘Excuse me. My name’s Chris Stainforth. I’ve just moved into the sea-fort up on Manshead.’
No response. Just an empty stare.
‘There’s a lot of rubbish to shift and I wondered if you’d be interested in some work.’
‘Uh …’ the man held the shears in front of him frozen in mid-cut.
Then understanding hit him like a lump of concrete dropping out of the sky. The empty eyes blinked. Suddenly a fierce look blazed from them.
‘Manshead … Sea-fort …’ the wild man shuddered as if he’d found a severed hand in his sandwich box.
‘No … No. Mans … head.’ The voice, thin and cracking, sounded as if it hadn’t been used for weeks. ‘No. I don’t go. You don’t make me go. I live here. You say … you say, go there, go do this, go do that. I’m here, I’m here. You want this, you want that. Go to the sea-fort. Go to Manshead. Do that in that place. That bad place.’
Chris’s polite smile dried. ‘It’s okay. Forget it … Don’t worry. Just a suggestion.’
The wild man pointed at Chris with the shears. They were stained green with the blood of the privet. ‘It’s not right. They say: Do this, do that. I wash cutlery, you know. There’s so much of the bloody things. Knives, forks, spoons. More than anyone needs. It’s just not right… No … no. I’m not—’
‘Easy, there, old son.’
The big American who ran the village store ambled casually along the road, an easy smile on his face. ‘You got work to do, Brinley?’
‘Cutting this blasted hedge.’
‘Hey, watch the language,’ said the man soothingly. ‘Lady and kid present.’
‘I’ve got lots to do before hometime. Hedge. Watering.’
‘Plenty of time, old son. Take it easy. You got your flask? Have a drink.’
It took five whole seconds for the penny to drop.
‘I want a cup of tea.’
‘Sure … No point wearing yourself out. Grab yourself a break.’
The wild man abruptly walked away.
‘Thanks,’ said Chris. ‘I think I upset him.’
‘Ah, don’t bother yourself. He gets like that. Hey, how’s David? Still got the Superman stuff?’
David, leaning out of the car window, beamed shyly and nodded.
‘That’s great. ’Cos I found some Superman comics in my old magazine store.’ He handed a carrier bag full of glossy comics to David.
‘That’s great. Thank you.’
‘That saves on introductions.’ Tony Gateman had appeared and was swinging open an iron gate. ‘You met my other guest.’
‘Sure, we’ve met before in the shop.’
‘This way, folks. The barbecue’s lit, the drinks are cold. I don’t know if anyone’s thirsty, but I am.’
They followed Tony into the back garden.
‘There you go, David, old son. I’ve rigged something up for you.’
‘A rope swing!’ David ran down to the bottom of the garden where a mature willow stood. From a branch a rope dangled with a piece of wood pushed through a knot at the bottom.
‘You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, Mr Gateman.’
‘Tony,’ he corrected gently. ‘No trouble. The little chap’d be bored with my old-fogey talk anyway.’ He led them on to a paved barbecue area. A large purpose-built barbecue smoked in a business-like way. Two tables stood side by side, one laid out with foil-covered plates and bowls; the other with bottles.
‘White wine, Ruth? Or am I being a sexist pig?’
‘I’m sure you’re not, Tony. But I’ll have a lager if you’ve got one.’
‘Ah, working up a thirst on that sea-fort of yours, eh? Beer, Chris?’
Mark Faust spoke in his bass rumble. ‘Chris and Ruth had a taste of Fox just now. I should have warned them.’
‘Ah.’ Tony handed Chris a pint topped with a foam as white as ice-cream. ‘Every village has a Brinley Fox. Harmless, though. But you’ll have met his father?’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘Fox and Barnett. The builders you bought the sea-fort from. That’s old Mr Fox’s son.’
‘I always dealt with the agent. I never met Mr Fox himself.’
‘That’s hardly surprising, I suppose.’
Why? Chris was tempted to probe deeper. The excuse that Fox had simply pulled out of converting the sea-fort because he had had a change of heart was pretty light on authenticity in Chris’s eyes. And he suspected Tony Gateman knew the real reason.
Tony poured Mark a Guinness and himself a generous Scotch and ginger while effortlessly engaging the three of them in small-talk. Eventually, Mark excused himself, saying he was going to talk to David.
Tony topped up the drinks. ‘Smashing place, Out-Butterwick, you’re going to love it.’
‘What brought you here?’ asked Ruth. ‘You’re not local.’
‘Ah, you spotted the lad from the East End accent. A dead give-away. To tell you the truth, my dear, you won’t find many true locals. As far as I know, only the Hodgson brothers, the chaps who farm all these meadows at the back here, are original Out-Butterwickers. No …’ Tony leaned forward as if sharing a secret. ‘Truth is we’re all flaming outsiders. You know Mark Faust is. Came here in ’62. I followed in ’69. Before that I was a partner in a film production company.’ Chuckling, he pulled a cigar from his pocket. He didn’t light it but turned it over and over in his long, thin pianist’s fingers as he spoke in his soft, eager, secrets-to-be-told manner. ‘Film production sounds a bit grand. In fact we made training films and promos for the big corporations. I was the East End lad done good. Flash Jag, apartment in Mayfair, a leggy wife. That’s when it got stupid. We had more work than we could handle. I’d find myself in the office at midnight; the night before you’ve got to present a sure-fire hit to the client. And you know, you’ve not got a ruddy idea in your head. That’s when you reach for the white powders.’ He tapped the cigar on the side of his nose.
‘With me going flakey on forty fags a day and a lot of white powder up my tubes I came here. We were doing a location shoot for a new lawnmower; up on the dunes. You know, it looks like twenty miles of overgrown lawn.’ Anyway, I came. Did the shoot, feeling like a slice of death warmed up, coke up my nose, pains in my arms and chest; God, was I in a mess … Then I walked along the beach to Manshead. I just stood there and looked … The sea, the fresh air, the dunes, miles of beach, seagulls shooting this way and that … And – bang!’ He poured himself another drink. ‘It hit me.’
He paused. Then smiled. ‘God knows what. But something did. It’s okay, folks, I’m not going to get religious on you. But I walked out on that causeway. And I chucked my fags and coke into the drink. Gone.’ He shrugged. ‘I went back to London. And all I did was think about this place. It was like seeing an enchanting woman. I fell in love. That’s when I sold my share in the company and came to live up here.’ He sipped his drink. ‘What do you make of that, then? A dozy old bugger? Mid-life crisis?’
‘No,’ said Ruth, ‘it sounds as though Out-Butterwick saved your life.’
‘I think it did, Ruth … Ah, enough of me. Tell me your plans. Another beer, Chris?’
‘Thanks. Tony … You said Fox just pulled out of the sea-fort conversion. To be honest, the idea of someone pulling out after sinking all that money into a project is insane.’
