The Jonah

by James Herbert

  ‘No, we did the right thing considering what little evidence we had. Anyway, now we have proof.’

  ‘Terrific. Will you ask Slauden to give himself up, or shall I?’

  ‘Let’s just try to get out of this place. They may try an even stronger dose . . .’

  His body stiffened once more. ‘Jim, what is it?’

  There was a tremor in his voice when he replied. ‘Last night. Christ, last night!’ Kelso tried to get to his feet and she held onto him, trying to calm his panic. His legs were still weak and he collapsed next to her.

  ‘It was only a bad trip, Jim. Just a nightmare.’

  He was shivering now. ‘No, Ellie, it was something more,’ he said after a while. ‘I went through more than just hallucinations last night. I remembered the things, things in my past I’ve tried to cut out. I remembered being a kid, Ellie. A baby. Oh God, I remember being born.’

  Kelso began to weep quietly and Ellie could only kneel before him and cradle his head in her arms.

  ‘The acid must have made you regress – it sometimes happens. But you’re all right now, Jim. Try not to think about it any more.’

  His head came up slowly. ‘I know why I’m a Jonah, Ellie. I know why these terrible things have happened to people around me. And I wasn’t alone down here last night. Something was with me . . .’ His voice trailed off into a low moan.

  She shook him gently. Then harder when there was no response. ‘I don’t understand, Jim. Please help me to.’ Ellie wanted to push back the darkness, to see his face, to pull him back from the abyss of despair that he was falling into. In desperation, she reached into her pocket and drew out the lighter. He jumped when she flicked it on and his eyes half-opened against the glare.

  Ellie tried to force a smile. ‘I bought it yesterday. It’s for you, Jim, a present.’

  He looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  ‘Don’t you know what day it is?’ Her cheerfulness was a pose, but she had to shake him out of his mood. ‘I read it in your file. It’s your birthday, Jim.’

  Ellie cried out at the look of stark horror that suddenly appeared on Kelso’s battered face.

  15

  The depression was moving in a south-easterly direction and deepening as it travelled. Its origin had been in the cold waters around the south of Iceland and now it had reached the Atlantic where the tips of the undulating waves were skimmed off by a sudden breeze that had sprung up from nowhere. Within minutes, the breeze had become a wind and, by the time the depression’s centre had neared the Hebrides, the wind had become a gale.

  By noon, urged on by the wind-drift, the depression had reached its greatest intensity and had swung south into the North Sea. The wind’s ferocity had reached Force 10 with individual gusts reaching a velocity of 120mph, and it followed in the wake of the depression, circling counter-clockwise and striking the east coast with the strength of a tornado.

  The depression began to fill as it moved southwards at a speed of almost 30mph and the waters began to pile up before it. Fishing fleets were forced to flee back to shelter, those not fast enough and those who had refused to heed the first warnings swamped or swept along by the rushing sea. Other commercial ships tried gamely to resist the surge, but these, too, were forced to flee to the nearest ports where, even in the most sheltered harbours, docking proved hazardous. The Edinburgh-Reykjavik ferry sank. There were no survivors. Thousands of acres of trees in the eastern part of Scotland were flattened by the winds that travelled inland. A North Sea oil rig’s leg buckled under the strain of pounding waves but, miraculously, the platform did not topple into the sea as had a sister rig, the Alex Keilland, only a few years before. Those on board, many of whom had been injured when the structure had tilted, had to decide whether to take to the life rafts or remain on the perilously angled rig. They were aware that Sea King helicopters would never reach the crippled platform in such conditions, yet most chose to stay with the rig: the sea looked the more dangerous of the alternatives. The banked-up waters sped along the coastline, sweeping inland where the sea defences were weak or the lay of the land was low, devastating coastal towns and ports, destroying property and lives with merciless fury.

  The rise in the sea level increased as the north wind relentlessly pushed it onwards, for movement was blocked further south by the narrowing of the North Sea basin between East Anglia and Holland, and the bottleneck of the Straits of Dover. The water rapidly accumulated and began to pile up as it moved southwards towards the vulnerable coastal towns.

  16

  Sector Officer George Gavin slammed down the phone and stared out into the stormy blackness beyond the windows of the coastguard lookout tower. It would be on them at any moment. Bloody fools! As in ’53, the warning had come too late! The build-up to the flood had begun in the early hours of the morning, but only when the rising waters had steamrollered their way down half the coast of eastern England had the alarms gone out.

  He checked his watch and swore softly. A few minutes past eight. There was an unnatural darkness outside as though the winter night had suddenly returned. The town would be unprepared, memories of the last disastrous flood dim in the minds of the older inhabitants, and merely interesting stories to the younger folk. George had been sector officer for that area of coastline even then, and had felt helpless against the sea’s vicious onslaught: now that same sense of uselessness had returned. The local constabulary, whom he had just spoken to on the telephone, had already been alerted to the danger and units had been dispersed to the nearest seaside towns. But there was no time for evacuation, only a chance to warn people to get themselves above ground level. If only more time, more money, had been spent on building sea defences . . . The floor barriers and walls that had been erected after the ’53 flood would have some effect in reducing the catastrophe, but the Waverly Committee, appointed by the government to indicate a margin of safety for sea defences with regard to risk and costs, had made the 1953 flood the standard for all other floods. A higher surge had never been taken into account.

  It was George’s duty to stay in the lookout tower situated at the southern end of the town’s sea parade until circumstances dictated otherwise, but this time his loyalties were more immediate. Mary, his wife, was no longer the robust woman she had been in the fifties: tonight she would be propped up with cushions on the sofa in their front room, watching television. She rarely complained of the arthritis that almost crippled her limbs, but the pain was evident in the lines that had eaten into her face, ageing her once strong features with a severity that had nothing to do with passing years. George knew he had to get to their small house just a few hundred yards across from the deserted car park behind the lookout tower. There were no other warnings he could give and even less duties he could perform to help the general situation. Mary’s safety was his prime concern.

  The wind smashed into him as he stepped from the cocooned shelter of the tower, almost throwing him down the metal steps. He clung to the handrail for several long seconds, shocked by the ferocity of the gale and struggling to regain the breath that had been knocked from him. Rain lashed at his face, forcing him to shield his eyes with one hand. He became even more frightened when the wind buffeted his thin frame, trying to force him away from the railing, and quickly used both hands once more to grip the metal. God, he hadn’t realized the wind was so strong even though he had seen the waves whipped mercilessly white by it from inside his lookout post! The reports from further up the coast had not prepared him for its intensity. Perhaps it had gained such a momentum only in the past hour. He began to descend the steps, clinging to the rail and moving cautiously. Had it not been for Mary he would have crept back into his shelter and prayed for the rest of the night.

  By the time he reached ground level, his cap was gone and his eyes stung with salt water pelting in from the sea. He was reluctant to let go of the rail, knowing that he would be fully exposed to the elements once he left the shelter of the building. Closing his mind against the danger
, he stepped out onto the parade, his body crouched low against the tearing wind. Both hands shielded his eyes now and, when he looked along the edge of the sea wall towards the north from where the worst of the storm was approaching, a numbness ran through him.

  He knew there was no chance for him, not even if he ducked back into the shelter of the building. ‘Oh, Mary, Mary,’ he said, as the solid wall of black water hurtled along the seafront towards him.

  The caravan park on the northern fringe of the town was the first area to be hit by the massive wave. It had easily broken through the defences further along the coast, gale force winds driving the sea swell forward with a force that was impossible to stop.

  On site No. 11, Joseph Frazetta was running the buzzing vibrator over the nipples of the girl lying beneath him in the bunk bed. They had arrived earlier that afternoon and this was only their third bout of lovemaking. Joseph, who was forty-two and had his own small printing company in Colchester, reckoned the caravan – or ‘Mobile Home’ as his wife, Doreen, preferred to call it – was the best buy he had ever made. Ideal for the family and summer holidays, great for renting out to friends when he wasn’t using it, and terrific for bringing girlfriends to when he was ‘officially’ away on business. Mandy, the girlfriend who happened to be under him at that moment, was not too ecstatic, though.

  The storm outside had bothered her for the past hour. She was sure the wind had shifted the caravan’s position a couple of times. And she was sure, despite Joey’s reassurances, that it was about to be blown over at any moment. Even the delicious tingle from the humming machine could not push the anxieties from her mind.

  ‘Come on, babe, relax,’ Joey urged as he moved the top of the vibrator down her ribcage.

  ‘How can I bloody relax with that commotion outside?’ Mandy complained.

  ‘It’s nothing. These shacks are solid enough.’ He nuzzled her neck. ‘The worst’ll be over soon, you’ll see.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What worst? Your dick or that storm?’

  He chuckled. ‘You didn’t complain the first time, darling.’

  ‘No, nor the second. Give us a bloody break, though, Joey. We haven’t even had dinner yet.’

  ‘Plenty of time for that, babe,’ he soothed. ‘Can’t go out when the weather’s like this.’

  Joey ran the vibrator over his own nipples and moaned at the sensation.

  ‘Who’d you bloody buy that for anyway?’ Mandy asked, the whine in her voice beginning to irritate her lover a little. You’re enjoying it more than me.’

  ‘Mustn’t be selfish, Mandy.’ He passed the instrument lightly over her lips, then down her neck between her breasts. Despite her concern, she shuddered when the tip ran over her stomach and into her pubic hair.

  ‘Ooh, that’s nice, Joe.’

  ‘Course it is, babe. I told you you’d like it.’ He taunted her by bypassing the place she wanted to be touched and instead brought the skin on her smooth thigh alive. She pulled at his wrist and guided the pulsating plastic towards the tender opening that had become moist once more. The first sensation was like a pleasurable electric shock and the second, as the mechanical penis entered, sent shivers of excitement radiating outwards.

  ‘Ooh, that’s good.’

  ‘Yeah, me next, darling.’

  She groaned, but he hardly heard over the howling outside. ‘Just a bit more with this, Joe. Then you can have me.’

  ‘No, not you, babe. Me. And the vibo.’

  ‘What? How . . .?’ She sighed. ‘Sometimes I wonder about you, Joey.’

  ‘We all like our little pleasures, doll.’ He was grinning from ear to ear and his eyes closed with pleasure as her writhing increased. They snapped open when he felt the caravan lurch sideways.

  At first, Mandy thought that the sensation had come from within herself such was the pleasure she had been feeling, but as the room around her began to turn she knew something dreadful was happening.

  Then it was as if a giant hand had smacked against the side of the caravan. They tumbled from the bunk bed and everything was plunged into darkness.

  ‘Joe!’ Mandy screamed, but a crashing, splintering sound drowned the cry. She felt air rush into the room; either the windows had smashed or the walls had cracked. She felt wet. She was lying in water. Rushing water.

  She tried to get to her feet, but the room was spinning, objects falling.

  ‘Joey, where are you?’

  Bedclothes tangled her naked legs and as she reached out to free herself, her hands came in contact with her lover’s body. She pulled at him and felt him stir. ‘Joey, what’s happening?’

  He couldn’t answer, there was too much dizziness inside his head. He must have struck something as he fell from the bed. But what the fuck was happening? Water was lapping around his bare arse.

  He managed to crawl onto the bunk bed and he lay there, teeth sinking into a pillow. Mandy managed somehow to scramble up onto his back and she clung to him. Clung to him until the caravan smashed against a tree and overturned and what was up was now down. And what was a wall became the floor. And what was the floor was just a torrent of foaming water.

  There were not many fishermen on the beach that evening, for the bad weather during the day had precluded any reasonable catch. The shore anglers had not even bothered to leave the comfort of their homes let alone attempt casting lines into the angry sea, and those whose livelihood depended on what their small boats brought in from deeper waters had long since abandoned their day’s toil. They had returned early and winched their vessels up onto the shingle beach, cursing the weather and their trade which was already dying. One or two worked on in the wooden huts that stood in a disordered row before the low sea wall, mending torn nets, a task that had to be completed before the next day’s fishing. They stopped and listened when the howling wind took on a new sound. It was a low rumble and, as it quickly developed into an approaching roar, they realized the noise had nothing to do with the wind. The shadows of their bodies, cast by the lamps they worked by, grew to giant proportions and curved around the walls and ceilings as the fishermen rose from their benches and hurried to the doors. They looked towards the north, from where the thundering noise was coming, squinting their eyes against the pelting rain. The disbelief on their faces quickly turned into expressions of despair.

  There was only one person foolhardy enough to be walking the beach that evening, but he was a man that not even dire circumstances could bend. Twenty years as a High Court judge had hardened him against the iniquities of human nature; nothing could shock him any more, and not much could stir pity in him for his fellow man, be they perpetrators or victims. His senses, his emotions, had become jaded by years of judgement. He had learned in his first few years as a judge to hear only dimly the complications of each case – and every case became complicated by the sparring of prosecution and defence counsels – and to keep the facts clear and simple in his own mind. He had long ago abandoned grey areas, for he believed they could only thwart justice. Even now, in his retirement, he refused to believe prejudice had ever played any part in his decisions, nor had he ever been swayed by the smooth arguments of counsel. He was certain his judgements had always been correct, even though more than one had been overruled in subsequent courts of appeal. That, he told himself, was only legal tomfoolery. He had invariably decided upon the guilt or innocence of the person in the dock within the first few days of trial and, once his mind was made up, little could alter that decision. He sometimes smiled inwardly at the barristers – particularly the young, up-and-coming ‘bright boys’ who somehow, often uncannily, guessed that the verdict was prematurely clear in the judge’s mind long before the end of the case – as they made frantic and ingenious attempts to persuade him otherwise. He knew that some of them considered his eventual elevation to the Court of Appeal to be a means of putting him where he could do the least harm; but that was merely malice on their parts, for many had felt humiliated in his court. No, he had never regretted any judgement he ha
d made, for there were never strong doubts in his mind. Smaller doubts that tried to nag away at his resolution were easily swept aside by the knowledge that he was never wrong. He was always right. That was why he was a fool. And only a fool would have walked along the shoreline on such a night.

  Even his Welsh Terrier, the judge’s sole companion in his retirement and who had never once in his twelve years’ lifespan doubted his master’s decision, was not that foolish. The dog had fled the beach minutes before and was now whimpering on the doorstep of their home near the centre of their town.

  The judge called out against the wind, but the terrier was nowhere to be seen. Dratted animal, he thought. Hadn’t missed an evening’s walk along the beach for the past two years, come wind, rain or snow. It certainly looked fierce out there, but damn it all, winter was over! The cutting wind and driving rain denied his assertion.

  Where was that rogue? Cowering behind a fisherman’s hut, no doubt. Frightened of a little bit of bad weather. Thinking the old man was wrong to bring him out on such a foul night. Stupid, stupid dog. The old man was never . . .

  His muttering stopped abruptly and he looked into the distance. A strange rumbling sound was approaching, but it was difficult to trace its source in the darkness and with the rain dashing against his eyes. It may have just been the trembling of his old, podgy legs, but he was sure the shingle he stood on was undulating with some movement beneath the surface.

  Then he saw the massive wave appearing from the gloom like a thick black wall, its top fringed with a churning whiteness that threatened to roll down and smash against the beach at any moment. Huts and fishing boats were absorbed into the dark wall without resistance, while others were swept before it, some pulverized so that only fragments of hurtling wood remained.

  The judge could have run, but it would have done him no good. He could have screamed for help, but that, also, would have done him no good. Standing up to face the onslaught was a poor alternative. He sank to his knees and rolled himself into a ball. He had never been so terrified in all his life. Somewhere along the line, he had acquired the notion that his position in law had given him some kind of invulnerability against adversity, that his infallibility in judgements extended to decisions outside the courtroom. Now, as the water pounded over him and he was swept along with the torrent, he knew that he had been wrong to walk along the beach that night. About that, he was right.