And men like Larsen existed.
* * * *
Elston could well have been a bleeding heart, panicking for slight reason, but Larsen - there was a good reason for him to be there. I lay on the bed, waiting. I didn’t expect Elston to contact me again so soon, probably not until Mary Carlyle inspired him once more, but I waited, anyhow, and after a while I slept and when I woke up I thought, for a moment, that the walls were vibrating or grating - as if all the violence that had taken place in this building in the past had somehow seeped into the fabric of the walls. I sat up. The vibrating slowed. It had been the drumming of my heart. Yet I had not been dreaming. I took a deep breath and smiled at my fanciful sensation. This strange island, with its sordid past, and its great panorama of pretence, was affecting me. But whatever was going on here, it was not supernatural.
Unnatural, perhaps.
My heartbeat was regular now.
I was hungry and decided to try the diner I’d noticed across the street. . .
* * * *
V
The Fisherman’s Café, a long, narrow building much ravaged by time, was diagonally across the street from the Red Walls. It wasn’t elegant but it was handy. I went in, squinting from the dazzling sun, and took a seat at the chipped Formica counter. The Cuban counterman agreed to make a sandwich and served good coffee in a cracked mug. There was one other customer, an old fellow at the end of the counter. He had one eye, a greasy cap and leathery skin. After a while he walked down and stood beside me.
’I see you just come outta the Bloodbath.’
’I beg your pardon? What?’
He pointed across the street, his finger like a gnarled rope, his hand mangled from long years on the shrimp boats.
’Place there. See you come out.’
’Oh, the Red Walls? I did.’
’Yeah, that place. Bloodbath is what we calls it.’
I smiled at the idea that the Red Walls was too euphemistic for this old sailor.
’Ain’t no place now like that was then. My oh my, that was a place. That surely was a place.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
He squinted at me. Strangely enough, he squinted with the empty socket, not the eye.
’You’ll be no Conch, then?’
’No.’
’Didn’t think you was a Conch.’
’Coffee?’
’Wouldn’t say no.’
He sat on the stool beside me. The Cuban slid a mug across and the old man enfolded it in his remarkable hand.
’Lost an eye in there,’ he said.
He was peering down into his coffee mug and, for a moment, I thought that his eye had dropped in like a lump of sugar and he was wondering if he should stir it.
‘In the Bloodbath,’ he said. ‘What you call the Red Walls. That’s where I lost my eye. You notice I only got the one eye? That’s ‘cause I lost it in there. Fightin’.’
’Oh,’ I said.
‘Cuban fella and me, had to get at it. Over a woman, you know. Quite the woman. No better’n she ought to be, but a good old gal. Old Jenny what they called the Wolfgirl, on accounta how she used to howl. Howlin’ fool, she was. Dead now, Jenny. Forget how she died. This big Cuban and me, we got down to it with fishknives. Not like you see in the moving pictures, no sir. We was sword fightin’, up and it down the bar. Hunks of flesh and bone flying all over the place. I flipped a big chunk of shoulder right off of him. That’s how I lost my eye. Knife got wedged in his tendons, see, so that I had to sort of lever it out like haulin’ in on an anchor. That’s when he got my eye, while I was liftin’ his shoulder off. Figured we was even. Neither of us relished fightin’ much after that. Worse on him, really. Big, strappin’ fella, worked on the docks, weren’t much use there after he lost that big chunk of shoulder. Hanged hisself, in the end.’
He turned the mug around in his hand like the memories unwinding in his mind.
‘That was in the Bloodbath, too, come to think of it. Nothin’ to do with me, though, unless maybe he was broodin’ and mopin’ about his shoulder. Yep. Got to feelin’ morose, the way some of these Cuban fellas get to feelin’, got him a rope and walked in the bar, just plain announced he was aimin’ to hang hisself. Plenty of fellas in there, friends of his, they tell him he hadn’t ought to do that, but he says his mind is plumb made up. Don’t even care if he has to go to Hell ‘cause of it. Throws the rope over one of them big beams up to the ceiling, puts the noose around his neck and commences to haul away. Well, it was plain as day he was never gonna hang hisself that way. Plain as the nose on your face.’ He squinted at me, the empty socket closing like an envelope. ‘Say, I ain’t borin’ you, am I?’
‘Not at all,’ I told him.
He nodded and went on, ‘We all got to feelin’ sorry for him. He looked so danged foolish, tuggin’ away with his eyes poppin’ out, standin’ on his tiptoes. One of his friends asked if he wanted some help. So he sort of nodded, looked like he nodded...hard to tell, his head in the noose and all. So three or four of his buddies got the end of the rope and give him a hand; hauled him off the floor and tied the end of the rope to the bar rail. Brass, it was. The bar rail. He kicked around awhile and we had some drinks. Then we got to thinkin’ as he might of changed his mind and we cut him down but it was too late, if’n he did change his mind, ‘cause he was already hanged. Be a bitch, he did change his mind.’
He giggled with fond memories, a man whose history was carved upon his body in runic scars and wrinkles and who added to his substance by subtracting an eye.
He saw I was fascinated.
‘Say, can I get some rum in this coffee?’
‘All right.’
The Cuban pulled an unlabelled bottle out and sloshed a healthy portion in his mug. The old man took a big gulp. He had a more interesting delivery than the bartender and I wanted to hear more. I said, ‘Things like that don’t happen so much these days, huh?’
‘Not so much, not at the Bloodbath.’ He gave me another eyeless squint. ‘Strange things happen, though. Maybe even stranger than what usedta be. Not so natural, maybe.’ Now he was squinting at his cup, with his good eye. I nodded to the Cuban, who poured some more rum in. There was more rum than coffee now, and the old man stared into the amber fluid as if seeking inspiration reflected in the surface. He looked vaguely uncomfortable.
‘Things like fightin’ and hangin’, they is natural enough. Thing do what I saw the other mornin’, now...that was strange. Happen it’s the strangest thing I ever see...’
His voice trailed off. I felt he wanted encouragement - a proud man who wished to pay for his rum with words - and said, ‘What was that?’ but he didn’t seem to hear me. He was thinking, either choosing his words or gathering his recollections. Then he looked up and said, ‘Say, now...you wouldn’t be connected with this government thing here, would you?’
’No. I’m just...’ I hesitated. I had been about to tell him that I was just a tourist, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to lie to this old man. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Didn’t figure you was. You don’t look like most of them government Johnnies. Thought as I’d ask, though. On account of...they got lots of security up to the compound,’ he added. I realised that he was actually debating whether to continue; it didn’t seem in character. For some reason he was wary. But then his basic nature won out and he began to speak.
* * * *
’I got a boat,’ he said. ‘Used to be I did a bit of free trading, you take my point. Well, now, other side of the island there is this little cove, place you can land and nobody sees you. ‘Cept you can’t land there no more, they told me to bugger off. But they don’t give a hoot what’s on my boat, nothin’ to do with customs duty, just don’t want me there. Well, I tell you this ‘cause it was around there I saw this strange thing. Maybe three weeks ago, it was after they told me not to land there no more, but I had to go sneakin’ back. I’d left some crates there, things what I didn’t want found. Nothin’ bad, nothin’ like
dope or stuff, just some duty free stuff from the islands. Anyhow, I sneaked back there, took the dingy so I wouldn’t make no noise and got to the cove all right; got ashore and dug up these crates. Then, just ‘cause I was there, I went on up to the fence - this big fence they has built around the compound - just to have me a look. It was dawn. Just before dawn, sky sort of pearl-coloured and plenty of shadow for me to stand in. Well, that’s when I see this strange thing.’
I was well and truly interested now. I nodded to the Cuban and got some rum in my own coffee.
‘Happen you won’t believe this I’m saying,’ he went on. ‘Tell you. My name’s Tate. John Tate, although of late they’s taken to callin’ me One-Eye Tate. That don’t matter. What I mean is, you can ask anyone about John Tate, they’ll tell you he’s an honest fella; might say he talks a piece too much but that what he says is straight. You can ask. Thing is, this I’m tellin’ you, I don’t believe it myself. I mean, I saw it, but I don’t believe it, you follow me.’
I nodded. I had taken but a single bite from my sandwich. The Cuban was washing plates at the far end of the counter. Tate pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and extracted one. It was wrinkled and a fine dust of dry tobacco spilled from the end.
‘Well, while I’m standin’ there in the shadows, just without the fence, a group of these Johnnies comes down from the big building. Laboratory, I guess it is. I was just about to light a cigarette, just stopped from strikin’ the match in time; they’d of see me, I hit the match.’ Now he lighted the crinkled cigarette, as if he’d been waiting to use it as evidence as he gave witness. Dry smoke writhed up around the grotto of his empty eye socket. ‘So down they come, there’s half a dozen of ‘em, two of ‘em got white coats like doctors or scientists and three of ‘em are wearing dark suits. You see these dark suits guys around town, time to time. Don’t like the weave of ‘em, myself. But it’s the other guy, the sixth guy, that takes my interest. He’s wearin’ a white thing, not like the doctors, more like a patient wears in hospital. And he looks...unnatural. Looks like a robot, maybe. Or like one of them zombies what you get down to Haiti and Jamaica, them living dead Johnnies, you see it? Face all blank, eyes all rolled back white, he’s to droolin’ down his chin somewhat. Walks stiff. Knees and elbows ain’t got much bend to ‘em. Well, sir, I figure he’s a pretty sick fella, and naturally I wonder why they’s walkin’ him down to the beach at dawn.’
He shifted on his stool. He had the mug in one hand and the wrinkled cigarette in the other and it appeared he couldn’t decide which to lift to his mouth. And it seemed a monumental decision; he looked nervous and jumpy.
‘I hunker down to have me a observation,’ he said, speaking more slowly now. ‘Down they come. They stop and then I see this big slab of concrete. It’s real big, big square block with an iron ring set in the top. Thing must of weighed, I don’t know...must of weighed plenty more’n a ton. Well, they gather around it. One of the dark suits takes the ring, gives it a pretty hard tug. Them dark suits is sort of skinny, but they looks to be strong enough. Slab of concrete don’t budge at all. Too heavy.’
Now Tate raised the coffee mug to his lips, very slowly, as if that, too, were too heavy. He sipped. Big veins stood out in his forearm and his hand was shaking slightly.
‘Dark suit fella nods; he’s satisfied.’
Tate nodded himself, not with satisfaction. He lowered the mug and raised the cigarette, both movements distinct, as if his arms were connected by a system of levers across his sunken chest. One went down and one went up. He moved by clockwork, timing his tale.
‘Then one of the doctors says to the sick fella, “Lift it.” No hemmin’ nor hawin’, just tells him to lift it. Now, I can see it ain’t possible for a man to lift it. Anyone can see that. ‘Ceptin’ this sick lookin’ Johnny. What’s he to do but step right up and take the iron ring in his right hand and commence to lift. Matter-of-fact, like it was a pillow. Don’t set his feet, don’t take no deep breath, nothin’. Just commences to lift. It was awful funny. Strange funny, I mean. Got some ground mist rising around them, sky all grey, they look strange standin’ around that concrete slab, like maybe they was worshippers at a tomb. And this guy is lifting!’
Tate lifted the mug, lowered it, lifted again; his leathery face was strained with the imagined effort.
‘I mean, his face don’t change none, it’s blank, got no expression to it, but he is liftin’ so hard I can hear his joints creak. He really thinks he can lift that slab!
‘Now, ain’t no man what could lift it, it’s plain too heavy, but he don’t know that. Ain’t no big guy, neither. The others are all watchin’ him and he’s liftin’ hard as he can and the slab ain’t shiftin’ at all, don’t move an inch. The doctor says, “Lift it,” again, but the guy is trying as hard as he can.
‘Then the real strange thing happens.’
He put the mug down on the counter with a solid clunk, as if he wanted no further part of it. The Cuban looked up. His hands made slippery sounds in the soapy water.
‘What I don’t believe, ‘ceptin’ I see it. I’ve been a fisherman in my time, I’ve fought the big fish for hours, game as any man. I know when even the strongest guy has got to give in. But this guy don’t know that. And all of a sudden there is this snap, just like a tree splitting in a hurricane. A loud crack...’ the onomatopoeia of the word struck him: he repeated it, ‘Crack,’ relishing the word...but not the image behind it.
‘And the guy has broke his own arm!’
Tate grimaced and gave a little shudder. ‘Well, the bones are stickin’ out from the elbow, where it has snapped.’ He touched the inside of his own elbow. ‘Blood is spoutin’ out on the slab. And the guy is still liftin’. With his arm ruined, broke near in half and the bones all sticking out splintered, he is still trying to lift that concrete slab!’
He shook his head and peered at me. He looked down. I suddenly realised that I was gripping my own arm, rubbing it. It ached, tingling with some sympathetic vibration. I saw that concrete slab like a sacrificial altar, running with blood. My hand seemed to be stuck to my arm; it was hard to pull it away. When I did, the effort registered in my spine...my backbone seemed to be raising as if, set with rings, it was a handle by which his tale was hoisting me.
‘I don’t blame you, you don’t believe it, but that is what I saw. Guy still had to expression, you could tell he was to feeli’n’ no pain, he’s heavin’ with that bust flipper...Made me sort of sick. Ain’t told no one about it before, ‘count of I hadn’t ought to be there and ‘cause I maybe didn’t have it all straight in my mind. But that’s what happened. No, I don’t blame you, you doubt it. Don’t believe it, myself.
‘But I saw it, though; that is the thing.’
I said, ‘I believe you, Tate.’
‘You do?’ He looked pleased.
I said, ‘Listen, could you take me to that place?’
Then he looked uncomfortable. He drained his cup and I nodded for a refill. The Cuban came down, his forearms lathered with soapsuds. He poured some rum. It didn’t make Tate look any more comfortable.
Tate said, ‘I don’t believe I fancy going to there again.’
I didn’t press him. I paid the tab and left without finishing the sandwich. Elston didn’t contact me, I turned in early and had unquiet dreams...
There had been wreckers.
This island had been founded and prospered upon wreckage, they had drawn innocent ships onto the reefs with false lights and butchered the sailors as they foundered in the surf. They had not been sadistic men, those wreckers, nor cruel for the sake of cruelty. It was simply what they did, a way of life.
And there was wreckage now - the broken spar of a shattered arm, the breeched hull of a mind...drawn by the false light of science beamed from such as Larsen’s eyes...
Unquiet dreams...
* * * *
VI
The sun, too hot to be contained, spread in a pale curtain across the sky. It was ten in
the morning and I was walking the pebbled beach south of the town with some vague idea of having a look at the compound, or at least the surrounding fence. Elston hadn’t been in touch and I didn’t fancy spending the day waiting for a contact that might not come. The bartender at the Red Walls, drawing with his index finger in some spilled beer, had given me a rough idea of how the compound was fenced off and I knew I should come to that barrier soon. I would have liked to have a look at the cove on the far side of the island, and that immovable concrete slab, but knew that was only possible by boat. Nor would there be anything to see now. Just a slab of concrete. But the image that John Tate had stamped into my mind was graphic. He knew how to deliver a tale and I could visualise those men standing around the slab; could hear, in my mind, the terrible sound of shattering bones. I remembered Elston’s whispering, rasping voice, as well, and thought of the connection between the two...and of Larsen, with his eyes magnified in the lenses of his spectacles, glinting at me.
Dark Terrors 5 - The Gollancz Book of Horror - [Anthology] Page 67