The Camp

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by Guy N Smith


  From here one could see the queue waiting for the train, a line of beach-clad folk stretching fifty yards or more. A long wait. Norman thought that perhaps he would return on foot across the dunes or maybe linger on the beach. Jeff Beebee might be down there somewhere. He would decide when they alighted, which should not be long now. Already the cable was beginning to dip for the final run-in. He braced himself, had learned to spot the joints before they hit them, waited for the bump. One coming up now.

  The car lurched, swung. Norman was gripping the safety bar, closed his eyes instinctively, a small boy on a funfair ghost train feeling the swish of a fake cobweb as it brushed him, sitting rigid and knowing that in a second or two it will have gone.

  A grinding of metal, another lurch and a sensation of falling. Norman opened his eyes, heard his companion scream, clutch at him. The cab was tilted at a crazy angle, suspended so that they had an unrestricted view of the ground below them. Swinging, a pendulum going crazy, held aloft by a single wire strand.

  ‘The bloody cable’s snapped!’ The man was now lying across him, the two of them crushed into a corner of the gyrating car.

  Norman struggled, tried to push the other away from him, managed to twist his head round and look up. Oh, my Christ, they were hanging by a single wire, the main cable bowing under the uneven strain. And behind them the following car was gaining speed on the sudden dip, hurtling down on to them!

  People were screaming, Norman braced himself for the impact. Directly below he saw the edge of the steep cliff, a sheer drop down to the pebbled beach below, upturned faces, bathers panicking and fleeing. He experienced a kind of paralysis, a freezing of his limbs trapped beneath his shrieking companion. Mentally surrendering; knowing that he was helpless to take any evasive action, a victim of Fate. God would decree whether he lived or died, the state of his injuries. It was out of his hands.

  The oncoming car hurtled at full speed, no sign of the occupants, they had thrown themselves down on to the floor. An approaching giant that hissed metallically, screamed its hate in a shower of sparks.

  Metal crumpled against metal, steel wire snaked venomously as it snapped, a whiplash bent on destruction. Crushed cabs broke free of their moorings, somersaulted. Norman was aware that the other was still hanging on to him, tried to kick himself free but their bodies only flailed helplessly. Knowing that they were no longer in their vehicles, that they were plummeting downwards, free-fallers whose parachutes had failed to open.

  Slowly at first, they seemed to float in the air, had an unrestricted view of the landscape below. Broken metal showering all around them but miraculously missing them, not that it would have made much difference to the ultimate outcome had it struck them.

  Falling fast now. Faster and faster, seeming to veer from a direct downward course, the clifftop sucking at them with its cold salty breath. Aware that he was free of the other, twisting and turning, everything a blur so that he could no longer recognise his surroundings. A rush of shrieking icy wind that drowned the screaming. He closed his eyes, shut everything out, felt an impact that was an anaesthetic in itself, numbed him. And after that there was nothing.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Ruth mace had been sick again that morning. The feeling of nausea had awoken her, had her dashing to the bathroom, aware that it was only just getting light. Oh, God, she felt terrible, usually the sickness did not hit her until she got up. As she leaned over the bowl, kneeling on the linoleum floor, she wondered how far advanced the baby was; more than she had at first thought, as soon as they got home she would go and see Doctor Davis.

  She hoped that she had not woken Gwyn, not just because he needed all the sleep he could get but he would surely pour sarcasm on her. Well, whatever he said she wasn’t having an abortion.

  She sank down on the floor, knew she had to wait. She would be all right in a few minutes. Of course, they were going home today, that was a relief. This holiday had turned out an unmitigated disaster. That business yesterday, she did not understand it. It had seemed so real at the time and she had fully believed the Evanses about the snow although it had not felt cold enough. A kind of nightmare that you went along with knowing that eventually you would wake up and everything would be all right. She wished that she could wake up from this one. Well, she would, in a way, when they got home. And Sarah … Ruth puckered her forehead, attempted to remember exactly what the arrangements were with Sarah and Norman. They’d wanted to go away on holiday, there had been a row, and it had been agreed that the young couple could come to the camp with them. A lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ and various provisos, Ruth had lost track of it all at the finish. But it seemed that their daughter and her boyfriend had not come with them after all. She must try and remember to ask Gwyn where it was they had gone.

  Ruth began to feel better, let herself out of the bathroom. She peeped through into the bedroom; Gwyn was still asleep, he had rolled across into the middle of the bed and she would not be able to get back in without disturbing him. She realized that she no longer felt sleepy, in fact she felt more lively than she had done for a long time. Just the morning sickness, that was all that was troubling her.

  She decided she had better start packing if they were going to get off to a prompt departure. For once packing-up to go home wasn’t a chore that she put off, she set about it with relish. The urge to get away from here; holiday camps were all right for folks with young children but they were no place for adults. It had been a crazy idea and the sooner they got it out of their system, the better.

  She padded about in bare feet, eased drawers open as quietly as possible. Her brain wasn’t working too well, she decided, it was a job to think just where everything went. Did it really matter if she and Gwyn didn’t have separate suitcases? She would be unpacking at the other end anyway, she could put everything in its proper place then.

  It was fully daylight and the sun was up, streaming in through the kitchen window. She put the kettle on; when it boiled she would take her husband a cup of tea, wake him up gradually. He must not be rushed, he needed every minute of rest he could get. She wondered if she ought to drive, she was never relaxed sitting in the passenger seat when Gwyn was at the wheel. Her husband couldn’t stand to see any vehicle in front of him, he relied on the Volvo’s acceleration to get him past in the face of oncoming traffic.

  The kettle had just started to steam when she heard the kitchen door click open.

  ‘You’re up early.’ Gwyn stood in the doorway, wearing just his pyjama trousers, his stomach flopping over the elastic. She tried not to notice, lately he had become a revolting sight!

  ‘I’ve nearly finished packing.’ She began to fill the small aluminium teapot. ‘We can be away early. There isn’t any bread left so if you want breakfast it will have to be Ryvita.’

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ There was an undercurrent of nastiness in the way he asked, a leer on his ruddy features, his eyes fixed on her lower abdomen. ‘I’m all right, thank you, Gwyn.’

  ‘Apart from being bloody pregnant, that is. You’re beginning to look like you’re in the club these days!’

  She flushed. ‘Well, it’s all your fault.’

  ‘Is it? How do I know?’

  The innuendo wasn’t lost on her. The flush spread across her cheeks, she bit her lower lip. ‘Gwyn, how dare you! How could you think such a thing?’

  ‘A lot of wives do it when their husbands are at work,’ he laughed. ‘Christ, I’m not bothered about some other guy shagging you, just that I’m not going to fork out for the upkeep of his brat.’

  She would have run through to the bedroom had he not been barring the door. She was trapped, humiliated, fighting against a flood of tears, wanting to retaliate but it wasn’t her nature. Turn the other cheek, as her mother always said, it’s best. Let them walk all over you. ‘There’s tea in the pot. Pour yourself a cup if you want one.’

  ‘Great.’ He shuffled into the room. ‘It’s a nice morning, and for your information it is
n’t snowing outside!’

  She ignored the jibe and said in a voice that faltered, ‘I’m worried about Sarah. Where d’you think she is, Gwyn?’

  ‘Like mother, like daughter.’ He was pouring tea with a hand that shook, spilling some of the steaming amber liquid on to the Formica. ‘I expect she’s having it away with that fellow, I’ve forgotten his name, in some dingy little holiday love nest. Right now they’ve probably just woken up and he’s fucking the arse off her.’

  ‘I hate you, Gwyn.’ She sank down into a chair by the table. ‘Sarah’s your daughter as well as mine. Insult me if you want but leave her out of it, please.’

  ‘I’d better go and fetch the car round.’ He sipped his tea, appeared to have forgotten the trend of the conversation. ‘The sooner we get away, the better.’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better drive.’

  ‘Christ, no, not if I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown, as you imply!’

  ‘Thank you, Gwyn.’ She felt an urge to throw her tea in his face. ‘Fetch the car when you’re ready.’

  She listened to him dressing in the bedroom, heard the creak of bedsprings as he overbalanced pulling on his trousers. He really was not fit to drive, but he would and that was that. You pig, I hate you!

  Gwyn was a long time fetching the car. Ruth had piled all the luggage in the hallway in readiness, seated herself on one of the cases. She still felt unwell, put it down to her pregnancy. A sense of unreality, like watching your own actions from a distance, your astral body freed from your physical one. Lethargy, her memory was hazy, it was too much trouble to try to get to grips with it. Let it drift like a herd of cattle meandering over the horizon on a hot summer day. With a start she realized that a car had pulled up outside, perhaps Gwyn had not been as long as she had thought. It didn’t matter, anyway.

  There was nobody else about in the street of chalets as they loaded up the car. It could not be more than seven o’clock, Ruth decided, but her watch was missing. She had probably lost it yesterday and she wasn’t going to go looking for it, reliving that nightmare all over again.

  They didn’t speak, Gwyn seemed preoccupied with his thoughts which she had no wish to know. She climbed into the passenger seat, winced as the tyres spun when he let out the clutch. Down to the junction at the bottom, taking the corner too wide and throwing her against the door. Thank God it was too early for all the other campers to be up and about!

  The main entrance gates loomed up ahead of them and Gwyn braked. Familiar surroundings, that awful drab building on the left where the security guards had taken her and the Evanses yesterday … well, one of the days. She wondered if they were still in there.

  She pressed herself back into the seat as she saw a uniformed figure emerge from the box, wanted to hide on the floor. Come this way, please, we want to talk to you. No! Gwyn had his window down but the guard did not approach, stood there checking their registration number.

  Then the other turned, pressed a lever and the red and white bar lifted slowly, jerkily. A wave of the hand – drive on!

  Ruth was tense, clutching at her seatbelt. Please God he doesn’t change his mind, flag us down. He did not even ask to see their passes. A wave of relief as the Volvo moved forward, glided out through the wide gates with their mesh fence surrounds. Free!

  She was sweating, glanced in the wing mirror but there was no sign of the guard, he had gone back into his box. A main road, leading away from here and not another vehicle in sight. She felt the car gathering speed, maybe her husband sensed the same elation, too.

  A few miles further on the road narrowed, wound its way through scenic mountains, a steep climb, then going downhill again. Stone walls now instead of hedges, they gave Ruth a feeling of unease; a car could plough through a hedge, there was no hope for you if you hit a solid wall.

  Gwyn had to cut in sharply to avoid an oncoming van. The driver flashed his headlights, shook a fist as they passed.

  ‘Gwyn, I think you should slow up a bit.’ God, the number of times she had said that over the years.

  The answer was always the same. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  She closed her eyes, wished she could sleep; she envied passengers who managed to doze during a journey.

  Machynlleth. Ruth could not believe that they were here already, it seemed like only half an hour since they had left the Paradise camp and it was sure to be sixty miles. She looked up at the clock tower in the main street, saw that it was 8.20. Turning sharp left, she was thrown up against the door once more but this time she said nothing.

  A straight road again. She glanced surreptitiously at the speedometer, pursed her lips and let her fingers stray to the handgrip. 85 mph and still gathering speed. Gwyn blared his horn, had a couple of cyclists swerving into the side.

  Ruth was feeling sick again, really sick. ‘Perhaps we could break somewhere for a coffee?’ A suggestion, a plea. Just stop and let me stand on firm ground for two minutes. Or else I’ll throw up all over your car, Gwyn.

  ‘We’ll keep going,’ he was straddling the white line again, ‘go straight through. Home for lunch.’

  An awful thought had crossed Gwyn’s mind, was dominating his thoughts. Those grey uniformed guys, they were police of a sort. Specials … Inland Revenue police, secret police, call them what you will. It all figured, he should have realised it yesterday when they pulled him in. They were on to him; he glanced nervously in his rear mirror. A red car, about three hundred yards back, it looked like a Datsun, making no attempt to catch him up, nor dropping back. Level pegging; he looked down at the speedo. 85 mph. He accelerated.

  ‘Gwyn!’

  ‘Shut up, will you?’

  ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

  Serves you bloody well right for having a bit on the side. The Datsun was holding them; give me a straight stretch and he won’t see my arse for dust. They could be waiting at home, perhaps having searched the house already, found what they were looking for, whatever that was. They wouldn’t trip him up on the VAT book, and all the money was in a Spanish bank account.

  Ruth had her hand pressed to her mouth; he deliberately ignored her. Throw up if you want but you can bloody well clean the car out when we get home. Oh, fuck it!

  The Volvo came out of a left-hand bend on to a length of straight road, a couple of hundred yards, no more, and then there was another ‘bends for ¼ mile’ sign. Looming up before him Gwyn saw a tractor, its trailer piled precariously with bales of hay, taking up two-thirds of the carriageway. Lumbering, the driver totally unaware of any traffic behind him, not caring. If there’s anybody there you’ll have to bloody wait!

  ‘Cunt!’

  ‘Gwyn!’ Ruth’s hand came away from her mouth, went straight back again. She writhed in her seat, closed her eyes. No, you can’t overtake here, you can’t see. There’s a bend up ahead, there might be something coming!

  The Volvo responded instantly, the speedo needle climbing. 90 mph. Gwyn felt the offside wheels bumping on the narrow grass verge, the stone wall was almost skimming the car’s bodywork. Past the trailer, level with the tractor and that bloody bumpkin hadn’t even noticed them. Move over, you bastard!

  ‘Gwyn!’ This time it was a scream from Ruth, followed by a jet of vomit which hit the windscreen. Twisting her body, spewing on the driver, frantic to escape as she saw the oncoming lorry, an artic swerving out into the road as it took the bend too fast. A scarlet dragon with a snaking tail, a grid of a mouth stretched wide in lust as it bore down on its prey. Tyres squealing, a stench of rubber, the tail jerking round; jack-knifing.

  Gwyn Mace tried to duck, an instinctive reaction, tasted his wife’s vomit, felt it scalding his eyes. The Volvo seemed to disintegrate from the roof downwards, sheet metal going through a rolling mill. Glass flying, shards being ground to fine powder as the car went under the front of the lorry.

  Somehow Ruth was still alive. Shocked beyond comprehension, she was aware of being trapped in a steel casket, the metal tight against her bo
dy, sharp edges cutting into her flesh. Semi-darkness, choking with the stench of burning rubber and vomit, too dazed to scream. A world of silence, everything had come to a standstill, she could not even remember where she was.

  Something to do with the snow, where were the Evanses? They had to be around somewhere. She wanted to break the news to them, inform them that she was pregnant. This place wouldn’t do her any good in her condition, the wall was pressing down on her stomach and it might injure the foetus. If only she had the strength to shout to them.

  They must have holed up for the night, found a place out of the snowdrifts. Beautifully warm but there wasn’t any space to move. Her legs were hurting now, they must be twisted beneath her, they felt all wet and sticky.

  With a determined effort she managed to turn her head. Thank goodness, there was somebody here after all, lying right up against her, just this ragged metal wall separating them. If she stretched her neck up she might just be able to see over the top. Mr Evans would surely help to make her more comfortable, particularly when he knew that she was expecting a baby.

  Her eyes were level with the twisted top of this metal partition, another inch and she would be able to look over the other side. Her neck hurt but she ignored the pain. So gloomy, it was probably nightfall.

  An arm, it was splayed out as if the other was asleep, sprawled back. That polka-dot shirt, she would recognize it anywhere even if the sleeves were cut to ribbons. Gwyn! So he had come along with them after all, he hadn’t deserted her. A reconciliation, everything was going to be all right. They would be together, she would have her baby and if only they could find Sarah then life would be wonderful.

  She peered, strained her aching eyes in the semi-darkness, searching for her husband’s face just to make sure that it really was him. The shoulders were hunched in an unnatural position, squashed up; he must be really uncomfortable sleeping like that. He would wake with a stiff neck in the morning, for sure.

 

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