The Tide of Terror

by Stuart G. Yates

  “Look who it is, little-miss perfect!” said one of them, the younger of the two. He was thinner, but, if anything, seemed even more dangerous. There was a glint in his eye that spoke of violence and intimidation. A man who was used to getting his own way, of forcing others to do as he wished, unfeeling and uncaring, devoid of emotion or conscience. Someone capable of anything.

  Jenny felt sure that he was the one who had plunged the knife into the tyres. He was probably smiling when he did it.

  The other one laughed, a cackling sound, splintered like glass. A sound designed to make you think twice, to turn around and retreat. But Jenny had come too far. She stopped, pulling off the helmet, and glared. “Where's your mother?”

  “Talk to us, little-miss perfect,” snapped the younger one. He stepped closer, wiping his dirty hands on an old piece of rag. “Got a bike then, have we?” He looked back at his brother, “That was an oversight, eh?”

  “I know it was you.”

  The older one joined his brother, sneering now. “And what do you know?”

  “That you punctured my tyres. That you broke in to the Rescue Centre. I'm going to report it, just so you know.”

  They exchanged looks, the two brothers, then burst into great gouts of laughter, holding their stomachs as they rocked back and forth. It was forced and it was horrible. Jenny watched it, screwing up her eyes up, trying to prevent herself from crying. Not through sadness or fear, but out of frustration. She couldn't prove anything, and they knew it. So they mocked her and it hurt. Taking a deep breath she demanded, “I want to speak to your mother.”

  “Ooh,” spluttered the older one, wiping his eyes, forcing a frightened look, “What you going to do, get us told off?” He burst into another bout of laughter.

  “No. I'm going to check the papers on those dogs. If they haven't been properly cleared through customs, I'm going to have the police take them all down to the kennels.”

  Before she could take a breath, the younger one loomed up right in front of her, his hand gripping her collar, pushing her backwards. She tried to defend herself, grabbing his hand, tearing it away from her, but he was far too strong and, taken completely by surprise, she couldn't do anything. He jutted his face forward, nose close to hers, causing her to close her eyes as he spoke. “What you're going to do is go back home, and keep your nose out! We don't like being told what to do, not by anyone. You got that?”

  The other brother was there too now, that great apish grin on his face, looking smug, “You see, we get a little upset when people come round, accusing us of things. You want to keep your opinions to yourself…you might end up getting yourself hurt.”

  “Yeah,” snarled the younger one, “like that van of yours. Terrible shame that would be, wouldn't it?”

  Jenny wanted to say something, to lash out, to scream at the top of her voice, but she couldn't. His grip was like a vice and she had to take all of her energy to drag in a breath, let alone deliver any words. Then he let her go, pushing her backwards so violently that she stumbled and fell, landing awkwardly on the hard earth, jarring her back. She winced and cried out a little.

  “You're a silly little girl.”

  It was the mother. Jenny had no way of knowing how long she had been there, what she had seen. By the look of her, it wouldn't have mattered – she wasn't about to interfere. As heartless as her sons, the smile that now crept over her face, mirrored those of the two men. Empty of humour, full of venom.

  “You won't get away with this,” croaked Jenny, rubbing her throat as she got to her feet on wobbly legs. Her head was reeling too and she realized that she had been very close to passing out.

  “Get away with what?”

  The two women exchanged looks. She was right, of course, and Jenny knew it. No witnesses, the police wouldn't be able to do a thing. Jenny bent down and picked up the helmet that had slipped from numbed fingers. She pulled it on over her head and, without another word, turned and made her way back to her bike.

  All three of them were now laughing and, dreadful as it may sound, Jenny felt ashamed. It had been pointless trying to confront them. As she kick-started the bike and trundled it down the road, she felt, for the first time, at a complete loss as to what to do next.

  Chapter Seven

  Checking herself in the mirror, Jenny tenderly felt the welts that had appeared on her throat.

  Proof enough, surely? She was unsure what to do, torn between reporting what had happened to the police, and the embarrassment of not being able to make any charges stick. There were three of them and they would all back one another up. She had been foolish to go up there alone and now she was reaping the rewards of her rash, unthinking behaviour. Dabbing some antiseptic cream on the raised, red marks, she was about to go over to the kennels to let Scruffy out when the telephone rang. It was the other farmer who lived on the other side of the island, Mr Fletcher. Mr Fletcher was quite old, and had been ill recently, but refused to give up what had been a lifelong devotion to his chosen way of living Now his illness made his voice weak, uncertain and Jenny had to strain to hear him. Something about his pigs. She groaned inwardly: surely not more attacks?

  He looked ill too. By the time she'd negotiated the winding, pot-holed track that led to his rundown farm, she felt she had been inside a liquidiser. Her head was buzzing, her hands ringing, her whole lower body shaken and rattled. Mr Fletcher watched her rubbing her legs. He was wheezing loudly and every sentence was punctuated with a cough. “Thank you, for coming so quickly.”

  Jenny took his hand. It was limp, no strength in it at all. How did he manage? “Are you all right, Mr Fletcher?”

  He shrugged, coughing again. “I'm as well as I'll ever be,” he said wryly, then forced a smile. “Let me show you the pigs.”

  She followed him, watching his stooped back, which convulsed every time he coughed. She felt terribly sorry for him, but he was a proud man and she knew he would politely refuse any help. Except when it came to his pigs.

  The fence was down. It was on the ground, not broken, just lying there as if someone had simply ripped it up and thrown it to one side. Before she realised it, she was amongst them. Small, squealing little bundles, all running around, all of them delightful in their simple enjoyment of just being alive. Squashed faces nuzzled up against her, saying 'hello' in their own, peculiar way. She bent down and scratched one on the back. Something loomed up to her side and she turned and almost yelped, her stomach flipping over, turning to mush. It was the sow, and she was huge.

  Jenny didn't think she had ever seen anything so big in all her life. It was like a cow, but unlike a cow, she had enormous intelligence behind those eyes, and she was not happy at being disturbed by this unwelcome guest.

  Fortunately, Mr Fletcher was there. The mother pig knew him and instantly relaxed as he came over, patting her back. “She's a bit protective of her litter,” he explained, “especially after this.” He reached out and scooped up a tiny little piglet that squealed and wriggled in his hands, before he turned it over and tickled her belly. It instantly became still; a look of total bliss on its grubby face. Fletcher motioned her to come closer. She did so, albeit a little reluctantly, keeping one eye on the mother as it watched her intently. “I've never seen anything like this,” said the farmer.

  Jenny knew what it was before she took a look. The claw marks, or whatever they were. Not so deep this time, more like scratches than cuts. But four of them, on each flank, just as before. She touched them but the piglet didn't seem concerned. “I've seen these on other animals,” she said slowly, a frown creasing her face. “But these…these aren't as deep…almost as if, whatever it was, couldn't get through the hide.”

  “Aye, well…they're tough ol' things, you know. What is it, then? Buzzard?”

  Jenny shook her head. “We don't think so.” She saw his confusion, and quickly explained what she had found out so far. Fletcher listened, nodding and coughing as he did so. When she'd finished, he gently laid the piglet back on
the ground and it quickly scurried off to its mother. Seeming to accept her 'visitors', the great sow fell down in a heap, sighing deeply, and allowed all of her piglets to nuzzle into her for an early afternoon feed.

  “Seems happy enough,” said Fletcher. He nudged the fallen fence with the toe of his boot, “If it wasn't a bird, then whoever did this must have been responsible. But it must have happened at night; I would have heard it otherwise. But I didn't. So…” he turned to Jenny but stopped. Jenny wasn't listening, her attention elsewhere. Fletcher followed her eyes, upwards towards the sky.

  A helicopter circled around the other side of the island, close to the area where Jenny had found the dead owl. More disturbing, it was a Royal Navy rescue helicopter, and that probably meant somebody was in trouble.

  “I'm going to go and have a look,” she said, pulling on her helmet. Fletcher was staring at her, open-mouthed. “Something's going on, Mr Fletcher. Animals are being attacked, sheep are disappearing, and now your pigs…I think it's all linked, and I'm going to do my best to prove it.”

  “You know who's done all this?” He sounded incredulous.

  She shrugged, “Let's say, I've got a pretty good idea. I just need some proof.”

  “Well, I'm going to stay up all night, and if I see anything, I'll let you know.”

  “Let me know anyway. Please?”

  He nodded, gave a thin smile, and watched as she straddled her bike and eased it gently down the rutted pathway that led to the main road.

  Once on the road, Jenny could relax and begin to consider everything that had happened so far that day. What she had told Fletcher she felt sure to be true. It was all connected. And now there was a helicopter searching for…searching for what? She opened the throttle, anxious to get there as quickly as possible but not looking forward to what she'd find out.

  Leaving the motor scooter still some distance from the area of craggy cliffs that overlooked that part of the island, Jenny made her way on foot towards where the helicopter was hovering. But as she came over the slight rise, she found that there were others already there. Police. They stopped her from getting close, but even from where she was, the helicopter was an awesome looking thing, its great rotor blades making an impressive noise as the airborne beast dipped closer to the rocks, then eased back again. There was a ladder trailing down from its belly, and on it was a man, red-suited, white crash helmet making him stand out in the grey surroundings. The weather wasn't good, the sky looking threatening, angry, about to erupt. Time was against the rescuers, but they weren't about to give up, not now that they were so close.

  The young policeman, who stood at the rear of his patrol car, turned to her. He didn't seem too confidant. “This isn't good,” he shouted. The noise of the helicopter drowned out almost everything and Jenny had to lean forward, her ear almost touching the man's mouth as he continued, “Someone is in there, in a cave. His friend managed to get out, but there's another one, his mate – trapped. They won't get him.”

  Jenny gaped. The area he was talking about was riddled with little, weather-eroded holes, but she had no idea there was a cave system there. She shook her head. There was still so much she didn't know about this tiny place, so much to learn. Its history was not a particularly happy one, and its present was riddled with mysteries. How many more were there to discover?

  Reluctantly she began to move away, knowing that there was nothing to be gained from standing there, waiting for the inevitable. She would tune into the local news later on, get the latest. Hopefully it would be good, but something told her that the likelihood of that was fairly remote.

  She rode past the house on the way back, deliberately keeping her face looking straight ahead, only chancing a swift glance as she shot by the gate. It was closed and there was no one around. She felt herself relax, which annoyed her somewhat. She was angry that she had allowed them to get to her. And, as she turned into the forecourt of the rescue Centre, the sight of the van, with its two rear tyres looking like squashed Pontefract cakes, caused her anger to rise up into her throat. She cursed loudly as she put the bike into the old rabbit pen and settled it on its rest. Damn them, damn them for who they were and what they had done.

  Taking Scruffy out of the kennels, she gave the little dog some freshly grilled steak (which she always kept for emergencies, in case any stray was brought in and needed feeding up quickly), then took her out for a quick walk. For some reason, visions of Mr Fletcher kept looming up in her mind. That poor man was going to stay up all night, in an attempt to try and catch whoever it was trying to harm his pigs. Trying was the word. Was it just its thick skin that had prevented the claws, or whatever they were, from penetrating any deeper, or was it something else? Had the person, or animal, been disturbed? And if so, by whom.

  When she got back, she decided to phone him, to tell him that it was pointless staying up through the night. If they came back and hurt the pig, then Jenny would investigate in the morning. Although the weather was closing in and it wouldn't be healthy to stay out in the cold for so long. But he wasn't answering his phone. Perhaps he was having his tea, and this reminded her that she was actually quite peckish. She made herself some beans on toast and settled in front of the television to catch the evening news.

  It was pot-holers. Two of them had gone exploring the old system of tunnels and underground communication passageways that the Germans had ordered built. They ran like arteries through the cliffs, stretching back towards the centre of the island. Many of them had fallen into disrepair, some of them dangerously so, but one or two were still navigable and it was down one of these that the men had moved in to investigate. One of them had slipped, some masonry had fallen, and he had become trapped. The other one had scrambled out and raised the alarm. But the rescue services were finding it increasingly difficult to reach the entrance. The pathway that the men had followed had mysteriously fallen away, crashing into the boiling sea below. The only way to gain entrance now was to be winched down from above. It was this that Jenny had seen. What she hadn't seen was that the rescue services had had to give up, for the time being. The wind had become too strong. They would try again tomorrow, if it became calmer.

  The man had water, so he wouldn't die. And it was warmer in the tunnel than it would be outside. But Jenny shuddered nevertheless. To spend a night in such a place. So alone, so dark, so full of memories…ghosts. She closed her eyes, thankful that she was where she was, got up and tried Mr Fletcher's again.

  Still no answer.

  She made herself a cup of tea, completed a crossword from an old paper, and tickled Scruffy behind the ear. But it was useless. There was something wrong. She pulled open her coat, kissed the little dog and apologised for going out again so soon. She crossed the courtyard and started up the bike, trying the number once more on her mobile. It just rang and rang and rang. Biting her lip, she slid out of the courtyard and made her way towards Fletcher's farm.

  It was dark by the time she got there, but no lights burned in the farmhouse. She brought the bike up to a stop and sat there, staring ahead, wondering what to do, the tangled mess of confusion inside her head too thick to cut through.

  It could mean anything, of course, there being no lights. Fletcher could already be out in the fields, wrapped up against the elements. But then, he could also be lying dead on the kitchen floor, with not a single friend in the entire world to look after him.

  This final, stark thought, sparked her into action. She pulled out the tiny pocket-torch, that had an impressive beam for something so small, and set off towards the house.

  She hammered on the door, all caution gone. Unsurprisingly, there was no answer. Her feelings of trepidation were growing. She pushed at the door and it opened.

  Not knowing the house, she made her way carefully inside. The torchlight cut through the darkness, illuminating strange and fantastical shapes on the walls. Distorted, mocking faces, twisted, mysterious scenes from ethereal worlds. She had to stop for a moment, take a few breaths.
They were all tricks of the light, she knew that, but that didn't help to steady her hammering heart.

  Running her hand along the wall, she came to the light switch. But nothing worked. The whole house was out. That made her stop again, holding her breath. In time-old fashion, she tried the switch two or three times more. Still nothing. Power cut, or something more sinister? As she took another step, her foot caught something and it clattered along the floor causing a terrible noise. Holding her breath, she stood there, listening. There was no response to the sound the object had made and she let out a slow sigh. She found it with the torchlight and quickly picked it up. It was as small shovel, used for putting coal into an open-fire. She felt better holding it, an improvised weapon, to defend herself…but against what? Jenny didn't want to think about that.

  She moved down the hallway and into the kitchen, half expecting to see him lying there, but again there was nothing. Only the debris of tea-time. Half full tea cup, crumb festooned side plate, a mangled slab of glistening butter that was beginning to ooze onto the table top. Evidence of a single man's life, with no one to tell him how he should do things, how he should tidy up after himself. She smiled, strangely reassured. He'd had time to get himself something to eat before the lights had gone. Or, perhaps, he'd eaten, gone out into the fields, and then the power-cut had struck. Either way, she felt a little easier. Mr Fletcher was here…somewhere. All she had to do was find him!

  Outside it was growing colder and the wind was becoming stronger with every passing minute. At one point a single gust nearly knocked her over. She pulled her coat more closely around her, training the beam of the torch this way and that. He had to be out here, but she was anxious to find him before the storm became so bad that she would find riding home virtually impossible.

  She knew that shouting out his name wouldn't help as the wind would snatch away her words. So she tramped on, torchlight moving from side to side, heading towards where she thought the pigs were.