"We're never going out in that," Simon said. "We can't."
"We have to," John said. "There's no choice. You don't have to come, Si. It's okay."
But Simon just shook his head, lips tight, and walked off towards the moorings at the side of the harbour. John exchanged a look with Sal and followed. They hurried around to the far side of the harbour, towards the rusting iron steps that ran down into the greasy black water, Simon a few paces ahead. Then Simon stopped, standing completely still, and John and Sal caught up with him, puzzled, looking at him to see what was wrong. He was staring straight ahead, into the shadows where the long ramp ran down from the lifeboat house and into the water.
"Oh God," Sal said, "No, no, no. It isn't. Simon, it isn't."
Simon said nothing, just stared.
A dark figure stood at the bottom of the ramp, as if he had just walked out of the water. It wasn't the old man, or Greg, but John did not recognise him.
"Maybe it’s just someone back from fishing," John said, but he did not believe it himself, as there was no boat anywhere near the bottom of the ramp.
"You're right. It is," Simon said. He started to walk forward, onto the slippery weed-stained concrete of the ramp. "It is. And he's been out such a long, long time." The figure stood at the bottom, waiting. Simon walked on, tears rolling down his face. "Oh God, Dad, I've missed you so much."
Chapter Sixteen
Simon carried on down the towards the sea that fidgeted and shivered at the bottom of the ramp, and the man who stood there, water curling around his ankles in the same way that the mist that had chased them curled around the bricks and stones of the village.
"Simon," Sal shouted. "Stop."
“It’s Dad, Sal. It's Dad."
"Simon!" Sal screamed this time, and chased after her brother, but slipped and fell on the wet concrete, banging her knee so hard that she cried out in pain. "Simon, don't, it's not him. It can't be him. It’s just a trick."
Simon did not stop, but he slowed. "Sal, you can see its him, Dad, say something. It's us Dad."
"Yes, say something," John shouted. He pulled the jet so tight to him that it hurt, but the pain was a welcome anchor in a world that felt like a nightmare. "These are your children. They love you so much, I've heard them talk about you, they love you and miss you so, so much. So tell them. Tell them you love them too."
The figure stood, motionless. Its clothes were dripping with water. Simon stood still, uncertain, torn apart. Sal hobbled down to him, put an arm around him.
"Tell them!" John shouted. The mist had snaked its way along the harbour wall towards them. John knew that there was not much time. When the mist reached them, surrounded them, then so would whatever moved within it. "Tell them you love them, then. If you're real, it can't be hard, can it? Your own children. They love you. At least let them hear your voice."
"Dad?" Simon stood, waiting, tears rolling down his face. "Dad?"
"It isn't him," Sal muttered. "It looks like him Simon, but that's all. Look at him. Really look at him. It looks like him, but there's no Dad there."
The figure remained motionless, expressionless, but more and more water began to drip from its clothes, from its skin. John hurried down to join the others, and when he got there he could smell the rank smell of decaying vegetation. Up above them, the first fingers of mist were starting to stretch towards the top of the ramp.
"Simon,” John said.
"You're not my Dad," Simon said, in a dull flat voice.
The figure wavered, and then started to crumple in, losing its human shape, falling apart in long dark strips that crumpled softly to the concrete. Within just a few seconds, there was no figure there any more, just a pile of dank seaweed lying at the foot of the ramp. Every wave that came in stole away a little bit more of the seaweed, taking it into the dark heart of the water, and then there was nothing left at all.
"I'm so sorry, Simon," John said. "I'm so sorry. But we've got to move. That's all it was, something sent to slow us down. All it was."
Simon stood still for a moment longer, looking out into the water. Then he turned and walked back up the ramp without a word.
They hurried along the harbour wall, the cold fingers of the mist tugging at their skin. John looked back, and he could see dark shapes moving within the mist. They were blurred, and he could not make out what they were. He was glad that he could not.
"Here!" Simon shouted, his voice hoarse. "This one." They all skidded to a halt. There was a dip in the harbour wall, a narrow gap that could be stepped over. Beyond it, a rusting iron ladder clung precariously to the stone and vanished down into the water. Tied to the bottom of the ladder, by a length of blue plastic rope, was Uncle Davey's boat. The water rolled beneath it, and the boat surged in towards the steps, so close that it touched, and then it bobbed back out into the harbour, too far to jump from the ladder.
"We can't do this," Simon said, staring at the water.
"We have to," John said, and he moved between the two of them. "We have to. We can't run any more. Look what's behind you." Simon and Sal turned and looked into the mist, and then looked back at John, horrified.
"What is it?" Sal asked.
"What are they?" Simon said. "What's that noise?"
John shrugged. "I don't know. Don't want to find out. Do you?"
Sal turned and stepped over the dip in the wall, grabbing hold of the ladder. She scrambled down, waited on the bottom rung until the waves brought the boat close, and then simply stepped across and on to it. Simon looked down at the water, looked at John.
"I'm going last,” John said, and Simon did not argue. Sal held her arms out, bracing her feet on the boat's deck, riding with the swell. Simon looked down at the water again, swallowed, and then climbed over. He reached the bottom of the ladder, and the boat moved within reach, but he hesitated and it moved away again.
"Come on Si," Sal said. "It's got to be this time."
But again he hesitated, again the boat moved in and then away. The mist was starting to thicken around John, and his skin began to feel like ice. The dark shapes were forming, becoming more coherent, coming closer.
"Si," he said.
The boat was only halfway in, and Simon jumped. He nearly missed the boat but his front foot just landed on the side rail. He teetered for a moment, almost lost his balance and fell backwards, but as he flailed one arm forward Sal grabbed it, and pulled him down and onto the safety of the boat's deck.
It was only when John stepped up onto the harbour wall that he realised that he was holding the stone and would have to climb down the ladder one handed. He hesitated for a moment, and Simon and Sal both started shouting up at him to get a move on. Then it dawned on Sal.
"Throw it down," she said.
"No way," John said.
"We'll catch it, John." Simon had cottoned on by now.
"No way. The boat's moving too much. If it gets dropped here, we can never get it out. But he might be able to. It's got to be in Hob's Hole." John gripped the stone so tight with one hand that the metal felt as if it were cutting into his flesh, and grabbed hold of the ladder with the other. He swung his feet round, and found the first rung. Then he stepped down, until his arm was stretched above his head, made sure his feet were securely on a rung, took a deep breath, and let go of the ladder with his hand for a moment, dropping his arm and grabbing on further down. He did it too fast, and the momentum of the action swung his balance out and away from the wall, and as it did one foot slipped on the wet metal and fumbled out into empty space.
"John!" Simon and Sal shouted together. He gripped the ladder hard with his right hand, kept the stone pressed close to him, brought his foot back on to the ladder. He took a breath, willing himself to stay calm, knowing that he'd have to repeat the process at least twice more to reach the foot of the ladder. As he paused, he looked up, and then wished he hadn't. He could not see beyond the top of the wall for a swirling cloud that was thickening by the second, pouring over the lip in t
he harbour wall like cream. As the mist eddied, John thought that he saw something that looked like a pair of eyes, lit by hatred, and a dark hand reaching, reaching.
He squeezed the jet to his chest, held on to the ladder with his hand, turned his body to the side and saw the boat below, moving in, riding out on the waves.
"John, no!" Sal shouted, but he was not listening. The ladder was getting cold under his hand, colder than it should have been, colder than anything ought to be. The boat moved in and John let go of the ladder, pushed out with his foot, and suddenly everything around him was darkness and space and he was falling, and then the wooden deck of the boat came rushing up to meet him, and Sal and Simon were breaking his fall and trying not to be fallen on all at the same time, and he dropped the jet but it just rolled away across the deck and came to rest in a tangled pile of plastic netting. John waited for a surge of pain that would tell him that he had broken something, twisted something, but it did not come. He was winded though, and could hardly speak, but he gestured frantically with his hand.
"What? Are you okay? Oh, yes, yes, hell—Si, untie the boat, quickly."
Simon didn't need to be asked twice, he leapt for the side of the boat and scrabbled at the knot that was round tight around a cleat. He tore at it with his fingers but could not get it undone.
"The knot's tight and my hands are too cold," he said. “You have a go, Sal."
"But I need to start the engine and—"
"Go then, go, do the engine!" Simon dived into the wheelhouse, and John heard a series of bangs and clatters. Sal darted in after him, and after a moment Simon came tearing back out, a knife in his hand. John was starting to regain his breath now, and he scrabbled over the pitching deck and grabbed hold of the stone again. Underneath him, there was a dull coughing, then a thump, then silence. Simon leaned over the side of the boat and sawed at the rope with the knife. A slender arm of mist reached down from the ladder and pawed at his face. He shrieked, seeing something in it that John could not see, and slashed the knife through the air.
"Ignore it, Si," John shouted. "Focus on the rope. It's trying to distract you." Simon bent over the rope again and this time the mist came down in flowing waves, wrapping around him until John could hardly see his face. Then there was another thump, a throatier cough this time, and then the engine hammered into life and suddenly the boat was straining away from the rope, leaving it taut. Simon made one last desperate hack, the rope parted, and the boat shot away from the wall, nearly pitching him into the water. John made a dive for the side and grabbed hold of Simon's legs, dropping the stone again in the process.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," Simon said. "Just wish people would stop grabbing at me, I'm not an idiot, I won't fall in."
"Sorry," John said.
Simon grinned, a strange mixture of fear and laughter. "It's all right. Don't like the idea of falling in, much."
"No, I mean for all of this. All of it.”
Simon and John looked back at the harbour wall. The mist had poured over the top now, and was eddying around the surface of the water like a cloud of angry wasps that could go no further. They couldn't see any of the lights of the village, couldn't see anything other than darkness.
"S'all right. Adventure, isn't it. Beats riding around on my bike, wondering what to do next." The boat pitched, sending both of them sliding across the deck, grabbing for anything they could take hold of. The stone went sliding along past John like an ice hockey puck, but Simon stuck out his foot and trapped it. John snatched it up, and held it close to his side.
"Can Sal really drive this thing?" John asked.
They leant to the side, cautious, fingers wrapped tight around ropes and woodwork. The boat was heading for the gap in the breakwater that led to the open sea. As they got closer, the gap seemed narrower and narrower, and the walls of the breakwater loomed higher and higher over them, implacable expanses of black stone that would smash the boat to pieces.
"I dunno," said Simon. "Can you?"
"Me? Never driven a boat in my life. When we went out the other day, that was the first time I'd ever been on a boat like this one. I thought you could drive it."
"Steer, you're meant to say. On a boat."
"Whatever it's called, flying it, it doesn't matter, can you drive—steer it better than Sal?"
"No way."
"But you said—oh never mind."
Simon stumbled forward, opened the door to the wheelhouse and bellowed "Sal, do you need a hand?" The wind snatched her reply away and John could not hear it, but Simon let the door bang shut and came back to stand beside him.
"I take it she didn't want a hand then," John said.
"No," Simon said. "She told me that if I kept pestering her than we were all going to die. So I thought I'd come back out here. At least if we crash I'll be in the fresh air."
The breakwater loomed larger before them, its bulk a deeper blackness against the dark night sky. The water was getting rough, a giant hand slapping the boat about. John held on tight, swallowed hard. His mouth was dry and his lips tasted of salt. Simon was staring straight ahead just muttering, "Come on, come on, come on, come on,” over and over again. A wave took them and slid them sideways, the wall coming closer and closer until John thought that he could have reached out and touched it, and then it slid past to the side of them, the air full of wet stone, seaweed and salt, and then there was nothing there, nothing at all, not in front of them, not to the side of them, nothing except the sea.
John and Simon shouted a ragged cheer, and John stepped forward to go into the wheelhouse, to congratulate Sal, but then the boat dipped forward as if it were going down a hill, and kept going forward until John was convinced that this was the end, something had gone wrong, they were going to keep plunging down and down until the boat rested on the bottom of the sea, any second now the cold dark water was going to close over their heads like a shroud—and then the boat lifted, lifted, the bow raising up towards the night sky. Down it plunged again, through and past the waves, wet spray lashing up across their faces, soaking their clothes, leaving the deck running with foaming water that spilled out through the drainage in the sides just before the next cascade came rushing in.
"Bit rough out of the harbour," Simon said, in a cool understatement that made John laugh despite everything.
"Little bit fresh, yeah,” he replied.
"Will that be it, John? When you get rid of that thing? Will all this be over?"
"I guess so," John said. "Apart from the little problem of getting home again without getting shipwrecked." And what revenge Elias might want to wreak, if he still has the power left, he thought, but I'm not going to mention that now. I have a plan for that, anyway. Maybe.
"Yeah well, she got us out, she can get us in. But all that—" Simon nodded back towards the shore without saying anything more. He didn't have to; John knew exactly what he meant.
"Yes. Over. All of it. We'll have done it, Si. We'll have done it."
Simon looked out to sea for a little while, then turned back to John. "It's funny."
"What is?"
"This has been like some nightmare come real, you know? I've been terrified, John, really scared, although if you tell anyone that I'll kill you. But now—now it's just about over...well. It's been really something, hasn't it?"
"Yeah, it's been an adventure." John thought back to the boy he'd been when he arrived at the village, haunted by Alex, haunted by his own cowardice and betrayal. Nothing that had happened would change that, he knew. Nothing could, because you could not undo what had been done. He would have to learn to live with that memory. But what had happened since he had arrived in the village would make that easier. Now there was something to throw in the other side of the balance, something that John could look to and think yes, I did a bad, cowardly thing, but now I have done a brave thing. I know I'm not a hero, but neither am I a coward. I'm just John. A bit of both.
Simon slapped him on the arm. "Don't do that, you looked miles away,
just like Greg.""
"Sorry. Anyway, Greg always looked like that, even before he got zombified."
Simon laughed, bending his head close to John's so that they could hear each other over the crack and splash of the waves and the buffeting of the wind.
"Shall we join Sal inside? Just to keep her company, mind."
"Why not. I mean, I could hang around out here all day, but..."
They staggered into the tiny cabin. Sal was standing up in front of the wheel, knuckles white as she held on to it for dear life, peering out into the dark through a window that was so awash with water it might as well have not been there.
"You managing, sis?"
"You did brilliant there, Sal, brilliant. Si thought we were going to hit the walls, but I always knew that you wouldn't."
"John was running around out the back shouting 'We're all going to die!', you know, Sal."
"Boys, I love you both dearly, but if you don't both shut up now I'm going to let go of this wheel."
John and Simon sat down on the narrow bench that ran along the left of the wheelhouse, each grabbing on to the windowsill to stop themselves from falling off as the boat carried on through the rollercoaster waves. Sal stood at the wheel, fighting it as if it were alive, peering out into the rain. After a while, Simon couldn't control himself any longer.
"How are you going to know when we're there, Sal?"
"Tell you what to watch out for," she said. "You know the line of rocks runs out from the beach near the Hole? At the sea-end they're about a metre higher than the beach. You know the ones I mean. I'm going to try and get alongside the end of them, can't take the boat in any closer. If I get it right, John might be able to jump down, use them as stepping stones to get above the high water mark."
"And if you get it wrong?"
"I'll rip the bottom of the boat out on the rocks and we'll all drown. Now, you want to keep talking to me in here, and distracting me, or do you want to get out there and look out for the bloody rocks, or the Hole, the beach, anything. You might get a little wet, and you probably want to hold on tight. If you fall in I don't think I'd be able to turn around and find you again."
Sea Change Page 14