Part 17 (1/2)

He was thumping the wall with the flashlight as though to remind himself that one or the other was there. Yes, there was a wall, and he was backing along it: backing where? Towards the shop, his shop now, where he wouldn't need to use the flashlight, mustn't use the flashlight to illuminate whatever was pursuing him, mustn't see, for then he would never be able to move. Not far to go now, he wouldn't have to bear the dark much longer, must be nearly at the gap in the wall, for a glow was streaming from behind him. He was there now, all he had to do was turn his back on the cinema, turn quickly, just ------------------------------------261 turn. He had managed to turn halfway, trying to be blind without closing his eyes, when his free hand touched the object which was lolling in the nearest seat. Both the overcoat and its contents felt lumpy, patched with damp and dust. Nevertheless the arm stirred; the object at the end of it, which felt like a bundle of sticks wrapped in torn leather, tried to close on his hand.

Choking, he pulled himself free. Some of the sticks came loose and plumped on the rotten carpet. The flashlight fell beside them, and he heard gla.s.s breaking. It didn't matter, he was at the gap, he could hear movement in the shop, cars and buses beyond. He had no time to wonder who was in there before he turned.

The first thing he saw was that the light wasn't that of streetlamps; it was daylight. At once he saw why he had made the mistake: the gap was no longer there. Except for a single brick, the wall had been repaired.

He was yelling desperately at the man beyond the wall, and thumping the new bricks with his fists--he had begun to wonder why his voice was so faint and his blows so feeble--when the man's face appeared beyond the brick-sized gap. Lee staggered back as though he was fainting. Except that he had to stare up at the man's face, he might have been looking in a mirror.

He hadn't time to think. Crying out, he stumbled forward and tried to wrench the new bricks loose. Perhaps his adult self beyond the wall was aware of him in some way, for his face peered through the gap, looking triumphantly contemptuous of whoever was in the dark. Then the brick fitted snugly into place, cutting off the light.

Almost worse was the fact that it wasn't quite dark. As he began to claw at the bricks and mortar, he could see them far too clearly. Soon he might see what was holding the light, and that would be worst of all. ------------------------------------262 ------------------------------------263

The Ferries

When Berry reached Parkgate promenade he heard the waves. He couldn 'that recall having heard them during his stroll down the winding road from Neston village, between banks whispering with gra.s.s, past the netted lights of windows. Beneath clouds diluted by moonlight, the movement of the waves looked indefinably strange. They sounded faint, not quite like water. 'that recall having heard them during his stroll down the winding road from Neston village, between banks whispering with gra.s.s, past the netted lights of windows. Beneath clouds diluted by moonlight, the movement of the waves looked indefinably strange. They sounded faint, not quite like water.

The promenade was scarcely two cars wide. Thin lanterns stood on concrete stalks above the sea wall, which was overlooked by an a.s.sortment of early Victorian buildings: antique shops, cafes that in the afternoons must be full of ladies taking tea and cakes, a nursing home, a private school that looked as though it had been built for something else. In the faltering moonlight all of them looked black and white. Some were Tudor-striped.

As he strolled--the June night was mild, he might as well enjoy himself as best he could now he was here--he pa.s.sed the Marie Celeste Hotel. That must have appealed to his uncle. He was still grinning wryly when he reached his uncle's address.

Just then the moon emerged from the clouds, and he saw what was wrong with the waves. There was no water beyond the sea wall, only an expanse of swaying gra.s.s that stretched as far as he could see. The sight of the gra.s.s, overlooked by the promenade buildings as though it was still the River Dee, made him feel vaguely but intensely expectant, as though about to glimpse something on the pale parched waves.

Perhaps his uncle felt this too, for he was sitting at the black bow window on the first floor of the white house, gazing out beyond the sea wall. His eyes looked colourless as moonlight. It took three rings of the bell to move him.

Berry shouldn't feel resentful. After all, he was probably his uncle's only living relative. Nevertheless there were decisions to be made in London, at the publishers: books to be bought or rejected--several were likely to be auctioned. He'd come a long way hurriedly, by several trains; his uncle's call had sounded urgent enough for that, as urgent as the pips that had cut him off. Berry only wished he knew why he was here. ------------------------------------264 When at last his uncle opened the door, he looked unexpectedly old. Perhaps living ash.o.r.e had aged him. He had always been small, but now he looked dwindled, though still tanned and leathery. In his spotless black blazer with its s.h.i.+ning silvery b.u.t.tons, and his tiny gleaming shoes, he resembled a doll of himself.

”Here we are again.”

Though he sounded gruff, his handshake was firm, and felt grateful for company. When he'd toiled upstairs, using the banisters as a series of walking.-sticks, he growled ”Sit you down.”

There was no sense of the sea in the flat, not even maritime prints to enliven the timidly patterned wallpaper. Apart from a couple of large old trunks, the flat seemed to have nothing to do with his uncle. It felt like a waiting-room.

”Get that down you, James.” His uncle's heartiness seemed faded; even the rum was a brand you could buy in the supermarkets, not one of the prizes he'd used to bring back from voyages. He sat gazing beyond the promenade, sipping the rum as though it was as good as any other.

”How are you, Uncle? It's good to see you.” They hadn't seen each other for ten years, and Berry felt inhibited; besides, his uncle detested effusiveness. When he'd finished his rum he said ”You sounded urgent on the phone.”

”Aye.” The years had made him even more taciturn. He seemed to resent being reminded of his call.

”I wouldn't have expected you to live so far from everything,” Berry said, trying a different approach.

”It went away.” Apparently he was talking about the sea, for he continued ”There used to be thirteen hotels and a pier. All the best people came here to bathe. They said the streets were as elegant as Bath. The private school you pa.s.sed, that was the old a.s.sembly Rooms.”

Though he was gazing across the sea wall, he didn't sound nostalgic. He sat absolutely still, as though relis.h.i.+ng the stability of the room. He'd used to pace restlessly when talking, impatient to return to the sea.

”Then the Dee silted up,” he was saying. ”It doesn't reach here now, except at spring tides and in storms. That's when the rats and voles flee onto the promenade--hordes of them, they say. I haven't seen it, and I don't mean to.”

”You're thinking of moving?”

”Aye.” Frowning at his clenched fists, he muttered ”Will you take me back with you tomorrow and let me stay until I find somewhere? I'll have my boxes sent on.”

He mustn't want to make the journey alone in case he was taken ill. Still, ------------------------------------265 Berry couldn't help sounding a little impatient. ”I don't live near the sea, you know.”

”I know that.” Reluctantly he added ”I wish I lived further away.”

Perhaps now that he'd had to leave the sea, his first love, he wanted to forget about it quickly. Berry could tell he'd been embarra.s.sed to ask for help-- a captain needing help from a nephew who was seasick on hovercraft! But he was a little old man now, and his tan was only a patina; all at once Berry saw how frail he was. ”All right, Uncle,” he said gently. ”It won't be any trouble.”

His uncle was nodding, not looking at him, but Berry could see he was moved. Perhaps now was the time to broach the idea Berry had had on the train. ”On my way here,” he said carefully, ”I was remembering some of the tales you used to tell.”

”You remember them, do you?” The old man didn't sound as though he wanted to. He drained a mouthful of rum in order to refill his gla.s.s. Had the salt smell that was wafting across the gra.s.s reminded him too vividly?

Berry had meant to suggest the idea of a book of his uncle's yarns, for quite a few had haunted him: the pigmies who could carry ten times their own weight, the flocks of birds that buried in guano any s.h.i.+ps that ventured into their territory, the light whose source was neither sun nor moon but that outlined an island on the horizon, which receded if s.h.i.+ps made for it. Would it be a children's book, or a book that tried to trace the sources? Perhaps this wasn't the time to discuss it, for the smell that was drifting through the window was stagnant, very old.

”There was one story I never told you.”

Berry's head jerked up; he had been nodding off. Even his uncle had never begun stories as abruptly--as reluctantly--as this.

”Some of the men used to say it didn't matter if you saw it so long as you protected yourself.” Was the old man talking to himself, to take his mind off the desiccated river, the stagnant smell? ”One night we all saw it. One minute the sea was empty, the next that thing was there, close enough to swim to. Some of the men would almost have done that, to get it over with.” He gulped a mouthful of rum and stared sharply out across the pale dry waves. ”Only they could see the faces watching. None of us forgot that, ever. As soon as we got ash.o.r.e all of us bought ourselves protection. Even I did,” he said bitterly, ”when I'd used to say civilised men kept pictures on walls.”

Having struggled out of his blazer, which he'd unb.u.t.toned carefully and tediously, he displayed his left forearm. Blinking sleepily, Berry made out a tattoo, a graceful sailing s.h.i.+p surrounded by a burst of light. Its masts resembled almost recognisable symbols. ------------------------------------266 ”The younger fellows thought that was all we needed. We all wanted to believe that would keep us safe. I wonder how they feel now they're older.” The old man turned quickly towards the window; he seemed angry that he'd been distracted. Something had changed his att.i.tude drastically, for he had hated tattoos. It occurred to Berry, too late to prevent him from dozing, that his uncle had called him because he was afraid to be alone.

Berry's sleep was dark and profound. Half-submerged images floated by, so changed as to be unrecognisable. Sounds reached him rather as noise from the surface might try to reach the depths of the sea. It was impossible to tell how many times his uncle had cried out before the calls woke him.

”James ...8 The voice was receding, but at first Berry failed to notice this; he was too aware of the smell that filled the room. Something that smelled drowned in stagnant water was near him, so near that he could hear its creaking. At once he was awake, and so afraid that he thought he was about to be sick.

”James...” Both the creaking and the voice were fading. Eventually he managed to persuade himself that despite the stench, he was alone in the room. Forcing his eyes open, he stumbled to the window. Though it was hard to focus his eyes and see what was out there, his heart was already jolting.

The promenade was deserted; the buildings gleamed like bone. Above the sea wall the lanterns glowed thinly. The wide dry river was flooded with gra.s.s, which swayed in the moonlight, rustling and glinting. Over the silted river, leaving a wake of gra.s.s that looked whiter than the rest, a s.h.i.+p was receding.

It seemed to be the colour and the texture of the moon. Its sails looked stained patchily by mould. It was full of holes, all of which were misshapen by glistening vegetation. Were its decks crowded with figures? If so, he was grateful that he couldn't see their faces, for their movements made him think of drowned things lolling underwater, dragged back and forth by currents.

Sweat streamed into his eyes. When he'd blinked them clear, the moon was darkening. Now the s.h.i.+p looked more like a mound from which a few trees sprouted, and perhaps the crowd was only swaying bushes. Clouds closed over the moon, but he thought he could see a pale ma.s.s sailing away, overtopped by lurid sketches that might be masts. Was that his uncle's voice, its desperation overwhelmed by despair? When moonlight flooded the landscape a few moments later, there was nothing but the waves of gra.s.s, from which a whiter swathe was fading.

He came to himself when he began s.h.i.+vering. An unseasonably chill wind was clearing away the stench of stagnant water. He gazed in dismay at his uncle's blazer, draped neatly over the empty chair. ------------------------------------267 There wasn't much that he could tell the police. He had been visiting his uncle, whom he hadn't seen for years. They had both had a good deal to drink, and his uncle, who had seemed prematurely aged, had begun talking incoherently and incomprehensibly. He'd woken to find that his uncle had wandered away, leaving his blazer, though it had been a cold night.

Did they believe him? They were slow and thorough, these policemen; their thoughts were as invisible as he meant his to be. Surely his guilt must be apparent, the shame of hiding the truth about his uncle, of virtually blackening his character. In one sense, though, that seemed hardly to matter: he was sure they wouldn't find his uncle alive. Eventually, since Berry could prove that he was needed in London, they let him go.

He trudged along the sweltering promenade. Children were scrambling up and down the sea wall, old people on sticks were being promenaded by relatives. In the hazy suns.h.i.+ne, most of the buildings were still black and white. Everywhere signs said fresh shrimps. In a shop that offered ”Gifts and Bygones,” s.h.i.+ps were stiff in bottles. Waves of yellowing gra.s.s advanced, but never very far.

He ought to leave, and be grateful that he lived inland. If what he'd seen last night had been real, the threat was far larger than he was. There was nothing he could do.

But suppose he had only heard his uncle's voice on the silted river, and had hallucinated the rest? He'd been overtired, and confused by his uncle's ramblings; how soon had he wakened fully? He wanted to believe that the old man had wandered out beyond the promenade and had collapsed, or even that he was alive out there, still wandering.

There was only one way to find out. He would be in sight of the crowded promenade. Holding his briefcase above his head as though he was submerging, he clambered down the sea wall.

The gra.s.s was tougher than it looked. Large patches had to be struggled through. After five hundred yards he was sweating, yet he seemed to be no closer to the far bank, nor to anything else. Ahead through the haze he could just distinguish the colours of fields in their frames of trees and hedges. Factory chimneys resembled grey pencils. All this appeared to be receding.