A roar close by produced a shriek from Emma, and Stephen clamped her hand even more tightly. They were navigating the paths around the bungalows, amongst the lavishly tended gardens. There was no one else around it seemed, no onlookers at the mad race. Emma glanced over her shoulder only once and the sight of a grey shape, yellow eyes fierce in the blazing sunlight, caused her to pray for her life.
And then they were at the door to the complex building. A glass door that might lead into a corridor. It was locked.
Stephen banged his fist against the glass, his breathing hard. Emma slumped against him, her soft body wanting to blend into his, to lose itself in the skin and folds of his. She looked back at where they had ran, and saw a monstrous figure looming out of the sun, the branches of the trees creating a halo above its head.
She screamed. Then felt her hand jerked forward as the door opened and Stephen pulled her through. She fell against him sobbing uncontrollably as three men pushed past them. There was a gunshot and a guttural roar then voices all talking at once.
“I’ll take her,” she heard, and Stephen’s arms around her were replaced with Jack’s and he was kissing her and they were both crying. Jack was saying it was all right, and they would get out and they would have a baby just as soon as they got back home to England.
Outside she could hear more gunshots. “Adam has got a rifle,” Jack explained.
Stephen was slumped against the wall, trying to get his breath back and trying to stop his whole body shaking. “I have never been so frightened.”
Redmond and Adam rushed back in. “We got one.” Redmond was as excited as a little boy at Christmas.
Emma felt Jack grow tense. “Did you kill it?”
Adam shook his head. “No. I’m not even sure I hit it.” He glared at Redmond.
“You seemed to have scared them off though,” Stephen commented.
“For the moment.”
Stephen asked, “Where’s Grace?”
But no one knew.
“What are Kumari?” Grace asked.
Sybella smiled, a far away look in her oval eyes. “Once they were the rulers of Ashuma and all the surrounding islands. My grandfather’s people, and generations before them, worshipped them as gods. They gave sacrifices to them years ago, hoping they would be kind to the tribes. They aren’t gods really of course, they never were.”
Grace sat on one of the wicker chairs, listening to Sybella as if they were relaxing before lunch. “What were they?”
“Are. They still exist. When my mother left with my father, and my grandfather was killed, it was to appease them. In truth they are cruel, as ready to kill as to be appeased. They let the tribes live here so they could feed on them. Only a few each year, mostly given up by the tribes as part of the ancient rituals. They were able to take human form sometimes, and this let them prey more easily on travellers or sailors who landed on the islands. The native islanders grew to recognise a Kumari in human shape, and knew if they gave a certain greeting the creature would leave them alone. As the islands became more inhabited, as civilisation encroached so the Kumari retreated into the jungles and the more remote areas. They practised a hibernation technique that allowed them to remain dormant for years without needing food or water.”
The murmuring was like a low droning now; a chanting quality about it reminded Grace of church ceremonies she had attended.
“The standing stones protected them from being harmed. They had stood in the same place for centuries, keeping away any danger.”
“But Redmond had them moved.”
“So he tells us. To the north cove. That is unless he destroyed them altogether. Whatever he did it’s disturbed them enough for them to want to destroy Beaches.”
“And us.”
Leo wasn’t sure if anything was broken as he was struggling to move with Vicky draped over his legs. She was quite dead; the top and bottom halves of her body almost totally detached from each other. Her blood was pouring out of her, soaking into his clothes, which were turning a deep red as they lapped it up. The lift had only fallen a floor and a half but the impact had badly shaken Leo. Vicky’s body had fallen through the ceiling and avoided striking him full on, but now it was effectively pinning him down, like a grotesque wrestling hold.
Trying hard to control his breathing Leo shuffled around trying to get free. He shifted to the left and then to the right, each movement making the dead weight on him just a little less of a burden. Eventually he had managed to push it off him and, still unable to stand properly, he crawled out of the broken lift and into the corridor.
“There he is.” Rough hands grabbed him under his arms and hauled him to his feet. Not quite sure who they were Leo was just grateful they didn’t seem to mean him any harm.
Jack and Emma were holding hands and gazing at each other like teenagers discovering love for the first time. Adam and Stephen it was who were pulling Leo from the wreckage of the lift. Redmond was staring silently at the wreckage that was Vicky.
It was Emma who quietly took his arm and guided him away. “There’s nothing you can do. Nothing any of us can do for her.”
Redmond allowed himself to be led into the dining room, still containing all the debris from the dinner of last night. For a moment he found himself making a mental note to reprimand the staff, but when he realised what he was doing he pulled away from Emma and was sick in the corner.
“Leave him,” Adam said, with a touch of pleasure. “Who’s not here?”
A rising atmosphere of sound surrounded Grace and Sybella. Several voices increasing their volume gradually, although voices was not an accurate description. They were making sounds, combining to create a wall of noise that was caving in on the two women.
Grace was terrified. The water of the pool was alive with movement now, grey shapes weaving patterns beneath the surface. Misshapen heads breaking through the clear blue frothing water, droplets of white caught in the rough skin.
“Come on.” Sybella took hold of Grace’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
They were just a few yards from the door back to the main corridor. Shadows scuttled in front of them, threatening to trip them, send them hurtling into the welcoming water.
“Don’t look back,” Sybella commanded.
Grace clutched her hand.
Together they ran, around the side of the pool, slippery underfoot where the water had dripped over the sides. Sybella was almost dragging Grace, who seemed unwilling, unable almost, to hurry. She was mumbling to herself. Fear was confusing her, making her movements heavier than they should have been, giving a disjointed co-ordination to her limbs.
Then she slipped.
One moment Sybella was holding her hand, the next Grace had gone and Sybella was at the door, and the door was opening, and Sybella was through and into the silent corridor.
She tried to open the door to get back to Grace but the door wouldn’t open. Grace was lost somewhere amidst a cloud of water spray and grey bodies.
Sybella banged her fists on the glass door but the participants were too engrossed to pay any attention.
When Sybella entered the dining room her shoulders were heaving with painful sobs. The others were seated at the dishevelled tables, slumped in submission. When he saw Sybella, Leo let out a deep, long held sigh. She went over to him and their foreheads touched in that intimate manner of theirs.
Stephen looked on, mouth opened in stunned bewilderment. He seemed as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t remember the words. Then emotion burst out of him. “Grace. Where’s Grace?”
Everyone knew by the sadness that descended over Sybella’s face that Grace was dead, but Stephen was not looking closely enough to notice. He repeated his question and sounded as if he was about to get hysterical. Sybella walked across to him and cradled him in her arms.
“This is all because of you.” Adam pointed at Redmond.
Redmond backed away until he was at the bar. “I haven’t done anything.”
Sybella stroked his gloved hands. “This is all because of the stones. Did you destroy them?” She sincerely hoped he hadn’t because then none of them had any hope left.
Redmond shook his head, almost eager to please. “No. It was just as I told you. We moved them. I told the contractors to be most careful. They put them back exactly as they were, the same pattern.”
Sybella sighed. “Except they are in the wrong place. The north side of the island is no good at all.”
No one spoke for a while. The complex was quiet. Bright sunlight danced on the tabletops and on the floor, refracted through the roof. Everyone was deep in private thoughts, not sure what to do next.
“We’ll have to move them back.” Adam finally broke the silence.
Jack spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “We can’t shift a lot of stone from one end of the island to the other. We’d need tools, trucks.”
“The buildings are built on the site,” Redmond said, as if that was logic enough.
Adam was clearly irritated. “I don’t mean now. We’ll have to contact the company and get it properly organised.”
“But what do we do about the Kumari?” Leo asked.
Sybella stood and addressed them all. “There is only one thing we can do.”
The north cove was sculpted into a curve by a natural formation of dark rock that bound the beach on three sides, leaving the beach open to the sea on the other. Waves on the shore were gently lapping the sand, inviting casual play. Further out, on the lip of the horizon, clouds were gathering, deepening from ghostly white to funereal black as they approached.
Adam was driving the jeep; the others crowded beside and behind him. The road from the complex was newly hacked through the jungle and every hole and bump had stridden out to meet the tyres. Barely a quarter of a mile from the beach the road capitulated and the compressed earth gave way to loose shingle and grass.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” Adam said as he pulled the jeep onto a small hillock.
They all got out, pounded by the journey, though it had taken no more than fifteen minutes. It was the day that had taken its toll of them.
“I can’t see the stones,” Emma said, shielding her eyes from the lowering sun.
“They’re nearer to the beach,” Redmond said and began to stride forwards, as if leading an afternoon’s rambler's party.
Soon their feet were sinking into the soft sand as the beach replaced the grass and earth. Waves were starting to churn on the water’s edge, as the ferocity of the sea picked up momentum into a storm that was leering unbidden. Black clouds were so dense that the sun was obscured, turning the day into premature night. Sybella could only think of the partial eclipse her mother had told her about.
The stones were resting upright in the sand, as if patiently waiting. There was a fierce majesty about them. The sight of the smooth rocks with strange patterns marked on their surface seemed to affect everyone. Tall, like pillars reaching for the sky, the stones were arranged into an odd shape, with a flat altar-like stone in the centre.
“That was where the sacrifices were offered,” Sybella said. “You are a fool, Redmond. The sea will cover them with each tide, and the sand will gradually claim them.”
Redmond was eager to please. “We’ll do as Pegg suggested. I’ll get onto the contractors and have them moved back. We can accommodate them into the structure of the complex somehow.”
Spray from the bulging waves washed over them, as the wind whipped the water into a wildness that lent noise to the darkening sky. Warm rain began to fall, soaking them in moments.
Leo and Sybella stood facing one another and stared into one another’s eyes.
“I will do it,” Leo said. “It only brings the inevitable forward a few months.”
Sybella smiled. “I knew you would offer, just as you know it has to be me.”
Leo’s lips quivered and tears moistened his eyes.
“We both knew it always had to be me. It is my way of assuaging the past. You be strong, my Leo.” Sybella let go of his hand. She turned to the stones and without looking back she said, “And join me soon.”
“What’s happening?” Redmond asked.
Sybella struggled through the encroaching waves, which were now up to her knees as the wind brought the incoming tide to a frenzy.
Jack had guessed what Sybella and Leo were planning, but he thought it would be Leo who went. He started to herd the others from the beach, towards the higher ground. Leo was more submissive than Jack had anticipated, but then he had always known this would happen.
The altar stone was almost completely submerged when Sybella climbed onto it and lay down. All the others were off the beach and looking down. The sea was feasting on the sand, ripping and rolling it, the white shudders of water lighting up the backdrop of darkness that had become the sky.
“She’s going to let herself drown,” Emma said in wonderment,
“They won’t let her drown.” Leo spoke quietly.
As the waves laughed over her, pushing and pressing onto her body, shadows emerged from behind each of the standing stones. Grey, sloping shapes that moved with odd precision and quality.
It was difficult to see in the full darkness, with the sea struggling around and over the stones, but it seemed as if the shapes merged into one huge misshapen mass that swallowed Sybella, leaving the storm to rant in futile rage.
AT THE END OF THE PIER
A squall of early morning rain swept in suddenly from the sea, forcing Henry Turner to lower his head against the ferocity of the wind driven downpour. With head bowed as if in prayer, he could see through the gaps between the weather-beaten decking of the pier to the waves churning below, buffeting the barnacle encrusted stanchions. Even in calm weather he found the movement of the sea below his feet intimidating. Today, with the waves whipped into a rage by the wind, the prospect of walking over the water to the end of the pier was quite daunting.
The weather had been worsening steadily for the past ten days and, with October approaching, Eastmouth was beginning to resemble a ghost town. The only people filling the vacancies at the hotels and boarding houses were either vacuum cleaner salesmen, arriving on the east coast for their company conference; performers from the revues that were playing in the town’s two other theatres; or people from the cities affording themselves of the cheap end-of-season rates these accommodations were offering.
Was there a more depressing place on earth to be than a British sea-side resort at the tail end of a summer season? Turner thought, not for the first time, as he made his way along the pier to the theatre lurking at the end. The theatre that had been his place of work for more than twenty-five years, during which time his dislike of the sea had grown into a positive hatred.
Three anglers, dressed in green waterproofs, had set their canvas seats fifty yards down from the theatre, and were braving the rain. Vague dreams of mackerel suppers drew them to the pier long before the holiday makers stirred and began to enjoy their fried breakfasts, and would keep them there long after the day trippers had packed up their half eaten picnics and headed off to the railway station to catch their excursions back to the grime from which they had escaped earlier.
“Good day to you, gentleman,” Turner called as he approached them. “Are they biting today?”
The three men turned as one, with sour expressions of disappointment on their rain-spattered faces. None of them spoke, but eyed him with hostility, as if he alone were to blame for their lack of a catch.
“Good, splendid,” Turner said, hurrying by.
The Variety Theatre was living up to its name this year, much to Henry Turner’s chagrin. In the years previous to this one he’d had the place more or less to himself, putting on production after production, play after play. He remembered a time immediately after the war when he had managed to secure the talents of some top West-End names. In ‘46 he had Gielgud here for a week performing Ham
let, and in ‘47, Hordern with his inimitable Lear. And if the audiences had been thin for those thespian delights, and they were, it was hardly Henry Turner’s fault. Shakespeare was not the stuff of summer seasons.
Since then he had kept the fare light. Comedies by Shaw, Coward and Ian Hay, with the occasional Agatha Christie mystery thrown in to add some spice. For the last five years though, the theatre had been in decline. Audiences had dwindled to a mere handful and many of his more experienced actors and actresses had moved on to more successful repertory companies, where work was more secure and less seasonal.
During October the previous year he received a call from Mrs Dudgeon, the theatre’s owner demanding a change in policy. “This is nineteen sixty six, Henry, people are fed up with period pieces,” she declared, which amused Turner because the woman was in her eighties, very much a period piece herself. “They want glamour,” she continued. “They want to see the faces they see on the television night after night. And wrestling, that Mick McManus, that’s what holiday audiences want.”
“But my contract with you states…”
“Oh, bugger your contract, Henry. It’s either move with the times or move out. The choice is yours.”
So this year the Variety Theatre was providing entertainment along the lines laid down by Mrs Dudgeon. A revue starring the host of a popular television quiz show ran from Friday to Sunday, on Thursdays the wrestlers came to town with their own brand of choreographed mayhem, which left Monday to Wednesday for Henry Turner to put on a play. Three nights a week was hardly ideal, but for Turner it was better than nothing. He had been born into the theatre, of theatrical parents, and grandparents before them. He had acted, produced and directed with the best of them, only they had for the most part moved on whilst he…he had remained with his pier end theatre and his fearful attraction for the water on which it perched.
Cocooned in his memories, ignorant now even of the rain, he walked towards the theatre unaware at first of the patch of mist in the middle of the pier ahead of him. It was not drifting, as mist tends to drift, not shifting, as sea mist should. Rather it was moving with an almost purposeful intent, as if it had almost deliberate navigation. When he first saw it he paid little heed to it. Mist was a common enough occurrence along this coast at this time of year, and at this time in the morning. It was yet another of the treats the sea bestowed upon him to which he had long since become resigned. Then, when he looked more closely, he saw that the mist seemed to have edges that were defined. They were not blurred or obscure, as mist tends to be, with tendrils lagging behind, trailing over the railings of the pier. It was more solid in appearance, as though the edges were formed, chiselled into a more regular shape. The mist did not extend to either side of the pier, but sat, or rather lolled, in the centre of the pier deck, almost in the manner of a fat drunken man. It was then that Turner imagined the mist to have a shape, and for that shape to be of a figure. A tall, elongated, rather bloated figure, but a figure nonetheless, of a man. Before he could refine that thought the mist, if mist it was, moved with sudden speed to one side of the pier and then, with an awful slowness, it flopped over the rails as if it was falling off the pier. Turner waited for a splash from the sea below, as if mist could make a splash, but such an impression had been made upon him that he expected to hear one. He rushed to the railing and peered into the water to see if there was any trace, but the grey waves were restless only with the force of the tide and the wind.
Echoes of Darkness Page 6