Sea Change

by Francis Rowan

  "Come on," he said to the thing. "Come on then. Think I'm scared of walking compost? Come on."

  The thing carried on its slow, steady progress towards him, not showing any signs that it could hear or understand. He tested it, taking a pace out towards the centre of the cave. Immediately it changed direction slightly, so that it was still moving towards him, finger outstretched. John stepped back again, and again it changed course. It was very close to him now. Closer, John thought. Must be closer. The cave smelt damp, like a forest floor after rain, a smell of leaf mould and fungus. John waited, until the pointing finger was only a half a metre away from him. He could see the centre of the creature moving, could see the moonlit cave entrance through gaps in the spinning mass of its body.

  "Come on," he said again, "dare you," and he took a step to his right, still facing the creature. If it did not follow him as exactly as it had so far, his plan would not work and he would be lost. He took another step back, and another, and the thing followed. John risked a quick glance behind him. One more step. Get it right, he thought to himself. For once in your life don't be clumsy. He stepped back, keeping his foot as close to the wall as he could, and placed his foot on the narrow shelf of rock that ran behind the hole that fell deep into the earth, so far down that you couldn't hear a rock hit the bottom.

  Easy, he said to himself. The local kids do it. Easy. Yes, but they don't do it backwards, and they don't do it in darkness, and they don't do it with some thing from their nightmares chasing them. Still, it beats the alternative. Step. Step. Now both of his feet were on the shelf, and it was so narrow that he could feel the drop beneath the outside of his back foot. A cool draught drifted up from the depths of the earth.

  The thing took a step forward towards him, and then another. The hand reached out, dry stick fingers curving like claws, reaching. It came closer, closer.

  John stepped back again, and his back foot slipped, and he thought that he was going to fall. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to do but sway on the spot, regaining his balance, hoping that now was not the moment when the creature was going to grab. He steadied himself, stepped back again. The thing stepped after him, and now it made its move, the hand lancing toward his face like a snake striking for its prey. It lashed out towards John and he shrank back against the rock, sliding his back foot farther back along the narrow ledge.

  Thin stick fingers snapped together only inches from him, nearly catching in his clothes, but then fell away from him as the creature toppled into Hob's Hole, its arms and legs flailing to get a grip on the sides but failing, leaves and earth and wood whirling round as it bounced off the sides and down into the darkness, the rustling threshing growing fainter until in the end John could not hear anything at all except the boom and crash of the waves outside.

  He stepped carefully back around the hole until there was rock floor under the width of both feet. There, he thought. "Bring me luck Hob, bring me luck." He listened over the hole in the ground but nothing came out other than a soft, cool breeze. John turned and walked out of the cave, treading carefully so as not to make a sound, wary that Elias would be there waiting for him, or that he might have sent some other terrible creation in case the first had not done its work.

  There was nothing but the waves breaking over the beach, a thin line of foaming white in the darkness that was much closer than John had expected. He did not want to go back up the cliff path and face Elias up there. The only way back to the village was along the beach. And the only way that he could do that would be if the tide was still out far enough to let him through the small cove before the harbour. If it was in, he would be trapped between the sea and whatever waited for him on the cliff tops.

  John walked down the beach, treading carefully, not wanting to turn his ankle over on a loose stone, not wanting to draw attention from anyone who might be watching from above. The waves were close. And coming closer. The tide had not just gone out, it was on its way in. He did not have a lot of time.

  The journey along the beach was like a dream journey through some strange world in which everything was at once familiar and different. The darkness rendered everything strange; distances did not seem the same, John could not tell how far he was from the cliff face, or how close the sea was to him, except that it was always getting closer. Once, he thought that he saw a figure on the cliff top, a darker, deeper black against the night sky, and he froze, crouching down near a rock that walled a small inky pool. The shape did not move, and John decided that he was mistaken, that it was a stunted tree or one of the standing stones. He carried on, but for quite some way he crouched down low and kept turning his head to look back up at the cliffs. After what seemed like half a night of walking, the cliff curved out in front of him.

  With dismay John saw that the waves were already kissing at the rock. He was trapped. As he got closer he realised that the water was only half a metre or so deep. He did not know how deep it would be round in the cove, but if he hesitated for much longer he would not even make it around the corner.

  John waded into the sea, and gasped as the icy water soaked through his jeans. He knew that if it had been much deeper he would not have been able to walk far. He could feel strong currents pulling and tugging at his legs, invisible hands snatching at him. He waded forward, trailing one hand against the rock of the cliff, ready to grab at the rock if he felt that he was going to fall, because he was very tired, desperately tired, and the water pressed on him with great strength, and he worried that if he fell that he would never get back up again.

  Buffeted by the waves, John waded around the corner and into the cove step by laborious step. He stumbled once and nearly fell, but his hand gripped tight around a nub of rock that protruded from the cliff and he steadied himself. He followed the curve of the cove round, the water over his knees now, the level seeming to rise with every wave that surged in, the foam boiling around him.

  "Not far to go," he muttered to himself, and the words became a mantra, which he said with every step. Not far to go, push against the sea, move one leg, tread down firmly, not far to go, now the other leg, god he was cold, very cold now, not far to go, take another step, not far to go, one more John, not far to go, and another, not far to go, not far to go, not far to go. So cold. So cold.

  Then there was a dark wall in front of him, a dark wall of stone that smelt of seaweed. He had reached the harbour. The water was up around his waist. John stumbled along the wall, flailing out with his hands, pushing himself through the water by will power only now, and then there was cold, rough metal under his hands.

  The ladder. John tightened his hands around it, as if he were never going to let it go. I don't have the energy to climb it, he thought. All this way, all this effort, and all I can do is hang here, getting colder as the sea gets higher, and takes me. Then he was climbing, not even aware that he had taken the decision to move, putting one hand over the other, stepping slow steps up, not daring to stop. It was as if he was hanging there, in the air, watching someone else climb a ladder.

  Then he was falling over the wall and onto the concrete beneath it, and he lay there for a moment, not quite believing the solidity beneath him, the way that the world had stopped moving. He closed his eyes, thought I could sleep here, just sleep, but he forced himself to his feet again, and walked shivering up into the village. He realised how he must look, and hoped that he could get back to Laura's without anyone seeing him, and asking awkward questions about how he had got in this state.

  As he reached the bottom of the street that led away from the harbour, John looked across and up at the north cliff. Up there, he thought. That's where the solution to all of this lies. Up there, buried in earth. But what do I do? If I do nothing, then Elias will take revenge on Laura, or Simon or Sal. If I do get it though, what am I giving to him, and what will he do with it? He won't keep his promise to me. It means nothing. Nothing. What do I do, I don't know enough to know what to do. And then he thought: if you don't know enough, find out.r />
  And John realised that when Charles had said trust in those who are your friends, he had not just been talking about Simon and Sal.

  Chapter Thirteen

  John hurried off towards the flat above the bookshop. If Charles was still unwell, John would just have to persuade Alan how important it was that he spoke to him. If he could have a minute with Charles and tell him everything that had happened, the old man would help. He knew Elias. He knew the old legends. If anyone could help, it would be him. Please let Alan agree that I can see him. Please.

  Then John heard shouts behind him, voices that made him warm and cold all at the same time. He stopped, and waited for Sal and Simon to catch him up, but he could still taste betrayal, like bitter medicine.

  "John," Sal said. "Wait for us. Please. We were worried, please, stop and at least talk to us. Please."

  John turned in the street, said nothing, because he didn't trust himself to be able to speak in a voice that wouldn't betray the rush of emotion he felt. Anger and joy fought to be the first out.

  "Didn't want to leave it like that," Simon said. "Doesn't mean we believe any of it, mind, but—"

  "Shut up, Si," Sal said. "Can we not just move on, John? Enjoy the rest of your time here. And there's something you need to know, it's not safe for you to be wandering around like this—you’ve got a mobile, haven’t you? I knew we should have got your number, I meant to—I’d never have forgiven myself if we hadn’t found you, and anything had happened. "

  John still said nothing, feeling the joy extinguished, like a candle flame pinched out and gone. They hadn't changed their minds. They still didn't believe.

  Simon and Sal got closer, and then Simon stopped and said, “Looks like something’s happened already."

  "John? What have you done?"

  John shrugged. "What's it matter? You won't believe it anyway."

  "You've been in the sea, what—how—you got a death wish or something?"

  John grinned, and there was no laughter in it, and Simon stepped back a pace, as if he were scared.

  "I'd love to stop and chat," John said. "But I have something important to do."

  Simon shook his head. "Oh, mate." There was no more anger in his voice, only sadness. "You need to see someone. Doctor, or something."

  "John, look, you're soaked through." Sal now. "You're going to get hypothermia or something, you need to get dried off, get changed. Where are you going? Come on, come back with us—"

  "Can't." John said. "Got places to go. Things to do." He grinned at Simon again, feeling heady and dizzy. "Monsters to meet. You don't believe anything I've got to say, and that's fine. Just leave me alone."

  "You've got to get inside,” Simon said. "Greg's after you."

  "Greg?" John said, caught off balance by this. "What the hell does he want with me?”

  "You tell me," Simon said. "Whatever you've done, he's mad and he's looking for you, and if he finds you...."

  "But I haven't done anything," John said. "I haven't even seen him since I was with you the other day."

  “My guess is he's seen you," Simon said. "With her." And he nodded at Sal.

  "He didn't say what he wanted," she said. "He wouldn't tell me. He seemed...different. Angry."

  Simon snorted. "He's always angry."

  "No Si, you saw him, this was different. And he wouldn't listen to me. He always listens to me Si, you know that, it's how I've saved your skin a few times. And you know why. But this time, he just kept asking, where's the boy, where's John."

  "The boy?" John said. "He said the boy?" He thought of Elias's dry whispery voice.

  "Does it matter what he said?" Simon clapped his hands to his head in frustration. "Point is, never mind what's going on in your head, John, if Greg catches up with you, you're in for a kicking. Come back with us. Please. We can sort this out."

  "I can't," John said. "Thanks, but I can't. I need to go to the bookshop."

  Simon stared at him. "When you fell in the sea, did you bang your head? It’s night-time, you think the bookshop will be open? And what the hell—"

  "I need to talk to Charles."

  "The old man? Why?"

  John shrugged. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. So thanks for your concern—seriously, I appreciate it. I'll watch out. But I've got to go."

  "Well, we're coming with you," Simon said. "You're not safe on your own."

  John smiled, shook his head. "No way. I'll be lucky if I get in to see him on my own. He's not well. No way would Alan let me in if we all turn up. I'll be all right. Seriously. I've got to do this on my own."

  "We'll wait at the door—"

  "No." John's voice was firm. "I'm doing this on my own. As you made clear, earlier on. Don't worry, I'm used to it." He turned and walked away, leaving them standing in the street. This time, as he reached the end, she did call after him.

  "John," she said, her voice imploring.

  John didn't look back, just raised a hand in farewell, and then turned around the corner. He felt very grown up, like a character in a film. And he thought, it's not as good as it's made out to be on the screen.

  He kept to the main streets, taking the long way around to avoid having to use any of the alleys. After a minute or so he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned nervously. A middle-aged couple were strolling along, hand in hand, deep in conversation.

  I forgot, he thought. I forgot that this is still a normal place, full of people living ordinary lives, people who have no idea what’s going on around them. If I tried to tell any of them, they'd think I was mad too. He kept on walking, up through the village, past the fish and chip shop, past the bus stop where he had first arrived—how long ago was it, a week? It felt like a lifetime. It felt as the boy who had stepped off that bus was someone else, someone different. One of the houses had a window open, and he could hear the faint sound of classical music drifting out into the night. Everything seems so normal, he thought. How could all this have happened? If I thought about it hard enough I could convince myself that I am mad, that I imagined it all. But John knew that he wasn't, and that he had not, and that it was real.

  There were lights on above the bookshop, but he hadn't really expected there not to be. It wasn't as if Charles could go out for the evening. John just hoped that the old man wasn't too tired, wasn't feeling too unwell. He knew he would be facing an uphill battle trying to convince Alan that he was anything other than a boy with an overactive imagination.

  John knocked on the door and waited, hopping from foot to foot with impatience. Come on, come on, come on, he muttered.

  Nobody came to the door. John knocked again, and this time he turned away to look out over the hill while he waited, and as he turned he saw a shimmer in a net curtain upstairs, a shimmer as if someone had just let it go. Can't have been Charles, John thought. And Alan would have answered. Maybe they had a cleaner in, and she wasn't supposed to open the door. No, not in the evening, not a cleaner. Maybe someone who does them dinner, or a friend of Alan's. Well, whoever, they're going to have to open the door. He knocked again, his knuckles getting sore, but he hit the wood harder all the same, out of frustration.

  He stooped and opened the letterbox, shouted through.

  "Hello? Hello? It's me, John. Alan? Charles? I need to talk, it's really important. I'm sorry it's late, but I need your help." John waited for a moment, and thought he heard a shuffling beyond the door. He bent and looked through the letterbox this time, but the hallway was dark and he could not see anything. "Hello? Is someone there? I'm a friend of Alan and Charles. It's really important. I've got to speak with them—if they're not here I need to find them. Please, it's very important, and I'm not going to go away until I know where I can get hold of them. Please."

  Abruptly the door opened, sending John skittering back into the porch with surprise. Alan stood there in the doorway, staring out at him.

  "Alan," John said, suddenly embarrassed by the way that he had hammered at the door. "Sorry—sorry to
disturb you. But it's really important, I've got to speak to Charles."

  Alan shook his head, stood still in the doorway.

  "I know it's difficult, I know he's not well, but he said, he promised me, if I found out any more about—about this thing we were talking about—anything else at all, he said that I should come here and tell him, no matter what, even if it was the middle of the night, even if he was at—he said even if he wasn't very well."

  "No," Alan said. "No."

  "But—" John trailed off, staring at the man in the doorway. Alan looked back out, not so much at John but beyond him, as if he were staring out into space. "Alan? Are you okay? Is everything all right?"

  "Yes," Alan said, and began to close the door, but his hand slipped from the handle and he stumbled and nearly fell out on to the porch.

  "Alan, what's wrong? Are you ill? Let me call a doctor or something."

  Alan steadied himself, but took some time in doing so. Is he drunk, John thought? He couldn't smell anything, not like with Uncle Phil who also appeared to move in slow motion at times, but who usually smelled of pubs when he did. No, not drunk, it was more like he wasn't himself, it was like—John swallowed hard, suddenly all the excitement of his news gone. He was very scared as to what might have happened to the old man upstairs.

  "Alan," he said. "Look at me."

  "Go," Alan mumbled, staring down at the floor.

  "Alan, it's me John. Alan, I know you're still in there. Fight him, fight him."

  Alan shook his head, made vague motions towards the door. "No, go. Go."

  "Pathetic," John said. "Found someone who's not letting you have an easy ride, aren't you. Alan's smart, you might be using him but he's not like some dog that you can get to do tricks, is he. He's fighting you all the way Elias, and all you can do is make him stand there and mumble. Call yourself a man of power? You can't even make him shut a bloody door."

  Alan lunged towards John, his hands out, but it was as if he were moving underwater. John ducked down and skipped underneath Alan's arms, dodging past him. A hand scraped along his coat but couldn’t take hold, and then John was away, running through the hall, sprinting up the wooden stairs, stumbling footsteps coming from behind him. He ignored them and raced along the landing and burst into Charles's room.