by David Haynes
Chris shrugged and they were both silent again. Doing stupid things was pretty much a prerequisite of growing up, especially where boys were concerned.
“So how come you’ve never met anyone, Pat?” He regretted the question immediately. It was tactless.
Pat grunted. “I’ve been lucky, haven’t I?” He paused and turned his head away from the window for the first time in ten minutes. “Maybe I did and maybe things didn’t work out. For either of us.” He took a long drink and released a loud belch.
That was about as philosophical as he’d ever heard Pat get.
“Still time. You just need to give that a rest.” He flicked the can Pat had in his hand.
Pat burped again and licked his lips. That was his response to Chris’s remark.
Chris climbed out of the car. “Right, I’m going for that walk. Coming?”
Pat opened the last can. “Nope.”
Chris dropped down the bank using the whitewashed perimeter wall to guide him. He could hear the waves crashing into the rocks below and although he knew it was some distance to the cliff edge, he was still nervous because it was so dark. There was no access to the lighthouse and part of the building had been turned into holiday cottages. There were no lights from inside the complex except for the huge lighthouse itself.
He looked up at the lantern. He remembered coming here with his dad and doing the same thing. He counted in his head and just before he reached four, the bulb winked, sending its warning beacon out onto the black mass of sea. It was a beautiful place, night or day.
He unzipped, closed his eyes and listened to the waves. He was getting better by the day. By the time Ollie and Lou came, he’d be back to how he was before all of this. He might even be able to write something...
He opened his eyes immediately. A sound had pushed the waves aside. A man-made sound. It was the engine on his car revving loudly.
He zipped up and started walking back up the slope. “Come on, Pat,” he whispered.
When he got to the top, he stopped. Partly because he was a little out of breath but mostly because of what he could see. The Volvo wasn’t where he’d parked it. Pat had managed to move it and the front wheels were on the slope. The car was pointing at him, at the cliff, and the engine was revving with a constant high-pitched whine.
“Pat!” he shouted as loudly as he could but he knew there was no way Pat could hear him. He started running until his legs went from under him. It wasn’t exertion this time, it was something else entirely. It was terror.
The car was lit momentarily by the lighthouse and then was dark again. But in that brief moment, he saw a twisted black shadow on the bonnet and a look of absolute horror burned onto Pat’s face.
Pat was in the driver’s seat and his foot was obviously jammed down on the gas and the brake. If he took his foot off the brake, the car would hurtle down the slope and kill them both.
He had to move, he had to do something, but what he’d seen on the car was what he’d seen at the cemetery. He closed his eyes, counted to three then opened them.
The shadow crept up the windscreen, and as the light went out again, Chris knew the shape was human; twisted and deformed, but human. The car lurched forward. Even above the screech of the engine, he heard the sound of Pat’s scream. It was a horrible sound. The pitch was wrong for Pat, all wrong.
“Move, move, move!” he shouted and scrambled to his feet. He counted in his head for the next strobe from the lantern but he was still ten metres away from the car and his legs felt like jelly.
“Pat,” he shouted, “get off the gas!” It was hopeless but he did it anyway.
And then the beam hit the car again and the light seemed to last an eternity. Pat’s hands were covering his eyes, his mouth ajar in a silent scream.
She – and Chris knew it was a she now – turned and swept toward him like a cloak billowing in a storm. He’d seen that face before. He’d seen it in his nightmares, in his daydreams, and at Hawk’s Cove on that day. And now she was here, right in front of him again. He staggered back, the sound of the waves and the engine forgotten and lost.
“I can see you,” she hissed.
There were no eyes, there had never been any eyes, just empty voids. In those deep and dark pits was a feeling of hopelessness, of desperation and of hatred. Of hell.
He fell back again. The cliff edge was behind him, he knew it was, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. She could see him. She knew what was down there, buried deep in his soul. It was the same thing that was in his dad’s soul. It was the same thing that had made him put pen to paper and write that note.
He needed to keep walking. He needed to go over that precipice. Down there, on the blackened and jagged rocks was the answer to everything. Ollie would under...
“Ollie?” His own voice startled him. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t how it was supposed to be for him, for Ollie or for Lou. He hadn’t come here for this.
He had stopped staggering backwards but his eyes were still fixed on her. He knew that if she pushed again, he would be powerless to resist.
The lighthouse foghorn blasted into the air. The depth of its tone sent what felt like a shockwave flying at him, he could feel his flesh rippling under its impact. He staggered again but now he could hear another sound.
The horn on the car was sounding frantically in time with the beat of his heart. There were lights too. Pat was switching them on and off rapidly and revving the engine to breaking point, creating a piercing, whining sound.
He looked away from her to the car. Whatever spell she had cast was broken.
“I can see you there, Chris.”
Her words were a faint whisper on the wind and then she was gone. She was gone.
He crawled back up the slope toward the car, all the time praying that Pat would keep his size twelves firmly on the brake. The car was still revving and in the lighthouse beam he could see Pat banging on the centre of the steering wheel, sounding the horn.
“Keep hitting it, Pat. Just keep banging it,” he muttered as he crept closer. The sound was like a beacon for him. A sign that he was getting closer to safety and proof that he was still alive.
He reached the car and touched the bumper. He could feel the heat coming from the engine. It was a good car but if Pat carried on much longer, it would blow up.
He clambered to his feet and yelled, “Enough!” Pat’s face, momentarily illuminated, was almost the most terrible thing he’d seen all night. Almost, but not quite.
He ran to the driver’s side and opened the door. “Handbrake on and move over.”
Pat stared back at him. His mouth was wide open.
“Pat, put the fucking handbrake on and move!”
Pat reached down and pulled the brake without pressing the button. The ratcheting sound was reassuring. Chris started clambering in before Pat had fully moved but he couldn’t wait any longer.
He barely registered how hot the steering wheel was as he pushed the car into reverse and released the handbrake. The front wheels tried to gain purchase but the car didn’t move an inch. He looked over his shoulder into the darkness. It was a better option than looking down the hill. He eased down on the gas harder. He hoped to God he wouldn’t have to get out again. He prayed he wouldn’t have to push the car up the hill. Pat didn’t seem capable of doing anything except staring, and his own legs felt like they were made of rubber.
“Come on,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Move.”
He pressed down even harder. He was conscious the car would dig a rut in the earth and become stuck but he needed the extra gas to move. He felt the front of the car start to slip to the side, jammed the pedal down to the floor as hard as he could.
The car lurched violently. As soon as he felt it start to level out, he cranked the steering wheel around to full lock. He didn’t care if there was a stone wall behind the car. He didn’t even care if the engine was completely shot. It just had to last long enough to get them out of there. He pounded over
the potholes without trying to avoid them this time. If there was anything coming the other way, well they better just get into the hedge because he was coming through, one way or another.
He didn’t take his foot off the gas until they reached The Trewellard Arms and he skidded into the car park like an eighteen year old boy racer. If there had been any other cars parked up he would have hit them all, each and every one.
He collapsed against the steering wheel, resting his head on the hot and sweaty leather. His breaths came in ragged spurts. It was as if he’d sprinted the last couple of miles while holding his breath, not driven them.
“Pat? You okay?” He didn’t look up. He couldn’t just yet but there was no reply. The car smelled of body odour, the sour stench of an alcoholic’s pores opening up, and spilled cider.
“Pat?”
“Yes, yes... yes I’m okay.”
He sounded far from okay but at least it was some form of response. Chris could feel his body shiver and shake now, and the feeling in his stomach told him there was a good chance he might vomit. He opened the window a crack and took several deep breaths. The streetlights cast an orange glow over the car and he was grateful for it. The light was constant. It didn’t flash every four seconds, it didn’t show things that weren’t supposed to be there. It was normal.
“What… was... that?” he asked. His head was still pressed into the steering wheel. “What was it?”
He heard Pat exhale loudly but said nothing. He just shifted in his seat.
Chris straightened and looked at him. “Pat, what was it?” Even under the warming orange glow of the lights, the man looked pale. A dark patch covered his chest. It was either sweat, cider or a horrible mixture of the two.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“What?” Had he heard him right? “What did you say?” He shifted in his seat so he could see Pat better.
“I said, it was nothing.” Pat looked straight ahead. “I’d like to go back now.”
Chris couldn’t say a word. He’d seen Pat’s eyes. He’d seen the look of absolute terror scratched across his face and now he was sitting there as if nothing had happened. He wasn’t mad. Pat had looked into the eyes of that thing, just like he had.
“You saw it! You saw the same thing I saw!”
“I’d like you to drive back to the village and drop...”
“Look at me. Look at me, Pat.” He could hear the anger in his voice and it scared him.
Pat didn’t move a muscle, he just sat there. Chris could feel desperation joining the anger. Both were close to the surface.
Chris grabbed his shoulder. Pat was bloated but the years of pulling lobster pots hadn’t melted away his muscles yet.
“Please, Pat. Just turn and face me and tell me you didn’t see her.”
Pat turned slowly and looked at him. He was ill and it wasn’t the streetlights that made him look that way. They just amplified what was already there. He opened his mouth to speak and left it hanging for a moment. “I don’t know what you want me say.”
“You looked into her eyes, same as I did. The same holes I looked into at Hawk’s when... when Dad died. You saw her, Pat, you saw her.”
Pat wiped a hand across his beard. “I saw nothing. She wasn’t there, Chris. Not then and not now. You made her...”
Chris didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence, he knew what was coming. He swung his fist and hit Pat in the cheek. There wasn’t much force in the blow, he hadn’t got the leverage, but Pat’s head snapped to the side.
“You bastard!” he yelled and swung his fist again. This time Pat lifted his shoulder, deflected the blow and shoved him with two meaty hands. It sent Chris into his door, the electric window control panel jammed painfully into his back.
“You saw nothing,” Pat said with his teeth bared. “Nothing at all.”
Chris hadn’t punched anyone since a fight at school and his hand throbbed already. The punch hadn’t been thrown out of anger but out of frustration and desperation, and now he regretted it. Pat was his dad’s oldest friend. He would no more want to hurt the man that he would Joe.
“Pat, I’m sorry. It was...”
Pat banged his fist on the dashboard. “Not another word, Chris. Not another word. Just drive us back.”
Chris stared at him. “You’ve seen her before, haven’t you?” There was no way any sane person could see what they had both just seen and pretend it hadn’t happened. Not unless you had seen it before.
“Please, I’m asking you to take me home.” Pat’s voice was firm and emotionless.
Chris started the engine. He would take Pat home but this conversation wasn’t finished. Not by a long way.
*
Chris pulled over at the memorial. “Sure you want to get out here?”
“I need some fresh air.” Pat turned in his seat. “Your old man had a lousy right hook too. He couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.” He opened the door. “I’ll show you how to throw a proper punch tomorrow. You need to be able to show that lad of yours how to defend himself.”
He laughed and climbed out. It was as if nothing had happened. Chris wished with all his soul that nothing had happened; not the pathetic punch, not any of it.
He watched Pat walk across the square. The country was littered with men just like him; men who had, for one reason or another, allowed life to beat them up. He looked a sad figure as he shambled his way past the darkened shops and up the hill. The dark patch covering his crotch and thighs confirmed what Chris already knew. Pat had seen her and she had literally scared the piss out of him.
“Go home, Pat, and we’ll talk about this tomorrow,” he whispered and drove away.
He’d already decided what tomorrow would bring. There would be a long conversation with Pat at his house and he wouldn’t be brushed away quite so easily.
He drove down the winding lane toward Joe’s cottage. His heartbeat had slowed since Pendeen but it was still echoing in his ears. It would probably be like that until tomorrow. He wound down the window to let in some fresh air. The nutty smell of autumn hadn’t fully hit yet, the gorse still had its sweet coconut scent to offer and it slipped into the car.
The high stone walls, covered in gorse, moss and bramble, loomed over the car as they always did. Although it was impossible, tonight they felt aggressive and challenging as if they didn’t really want him there. It was a claustrophobic couple of miles and he was relieved to see the beam of light from Joe’s kitchen shining onto the road. It was the finish line for tonight.
Beyond it, beyond the welcoming light of the cottage, was the road to Hawk’s Cove and that was where he needed to go. That was ultimately where he had to go. First though, he needed a drink.
Joe never locked the door. Chris walked straight in and opened the cupboard where he knew the Bushmills was kept. It was definitely a night for some Irish but without the coffee. He poured a good measure, swallowed it in one then poured himself another. He pulled a chair out and sat down with both the glass and the bottle in front of him. It wasn’t possible what had happened at Pendeen. On no level was that possible. It wasn’t possible what he’d seen in Ollie’s sketch or to have seen her standing behind Ollie at the party either. And what he’d seen in the sitting room picture was inconceivable. Yet it had all happened.
If Pat hadn’t been there tonight, he would have assumed he was mad; that he had gone even lower than either he or Lou had thought. But Pat had been there and he had seen it. Pat was a drunk, but two people seeing the same thing wasn’t down to alcohol, especially when one of them had only taken a couple of sips. And then there was his reaction. The shock and fear had dissipated so quickly. There was no fuss and he’d refused to comment. Why, why, why?
He drained the second tumbler and poured another. He could feel the warmth spreading through his body but his brain wasn’t connected to the whiskey yet. What would have happened if he’d just kept walking backwards away from her, away from her eyes? He’d have ended up in a bloody, ma
ngled bag of bones like his dad. But it had been easy to give in, to just look into those voids and see the desperation, the loss of hope and of utter contempt, and give in to it. Is that what he’d glimpsed from her on the slipway at Hawk’s Cove? If there had been a foghorn then, perhaps none of it would have happened.
He drank half of the measure and put the glass down. He didn’t remember there being any fog but he hadn’t really been on the lookout for it. The sound of the foghorn was a bleak one, almost as desolate as her eyes. It made a horrible backdrop for her voice in his head.
“One more ought to do it.” He topped up the glass and downed it in one. It bit his throat on the way down but the brief exposure to the fresh air and the previous doses had given him what he was looking for – a spinning and insensible mind.
He tried the door handle again to make sure it was locked and turned off the light. There were shadows everywhere. Familiar shapes in the darkness, some he didn’t recognise and he’d have to walk past them to get to the stairs. He paused for a moment and switched the light back on. He was being childish, he knew he was, he was acting like Ollie did when he had a nightmare. It was irrational to someone looking in from the outside, but to him it was as real as... as real as what he’d seen at Pendeen.
He walked across the kitchen and took the dark stairs as quickly as he could without making too much noise and waking Joe. The whiskey had seemed like a good idea but now he wasn’t quite so sure. It had nullified the sensible part of his brain and fed the other half. The half which had her inside. The half with a voice which said, ‘I can see you,’ over and over and over again against the backdrop of the Pendeen foghorn.
He switched the lamp on and collapsed onto the bed. The voice was relentless and spiteful. It was deafening. He clamped his hands over his ears but it wasn’t coming from outside, it was coming from inside and there would be no quietening of it. Not tonight, not ever.