Nailed by the Heart (4 page)

In
the back, David sat quietly, scared now.

"I've
a good mind to-"

"A
good mind to what, Chris?" demanded Ruth. "We have nothing
in writing. We can't sue. Or are you going back there to batter the
man's brains out?"

Chris
shot Ruth a glance. He saw her looking at him, her eyes thick with
tears.

He
eased off the accelerator and the speed began to drop until the
fields full of black and white cattle were no longer a blur. And for
God's sake at least pretend you're in control of yourself again.

"No.
I know there's nothing we can do," he said in a deliberately low
voice. "It's my stupid fault. I should have tied Mr. Greene down
to a written agreement." He called back to David, "How you
keeping, old son?"

"Not
bad, Dad."

"Shall
we have another game of Superman later?"

David
grinned broadly. "Sure can, Dad."

Although
Chris put on a cheerful front, he was worried. The seafort's
interior remained in a semi-derelict state. Ten years ago, a builder
had attempted to convert the place into a hotel. It had new mains
services: water, electricity, access road. There were new windows
giving panoramic views of the sea. The builder had gone bust, leaving
work half done. Mounds of rubble rose from the floor of virtually
every room. The place was patently uninhabitable. It would be months
before they would have even the most basic accommodation for
themselves.

He
turned off onto the gravel car park of the country inn that was their
temporary base.

"Home!"
shouted David gleefully.

"Not
for long," said Chris, then added with a grim smile,
"hopefully." The plans he and his wife had made were
important to him. He would not allow them to fail.

The
wheels crunched over the gravel as Chris slowed the car to a stop
alongside the gable-end wall of the hotel. A few cars were already
there. In six weeks tourists would fill the bars until they
overflowed into the beer garden and car parks. Next year at this
time, Chris told himself, we'll capture some of that trade.

"Can
I play on the slide?" shouted David, taking a heroic leap out of
the car.

"All
right," said Ruth. "Until lunch."

He
ran to the area of lawn where there were swings and a large
fiberglass elephant with a long pink-tongue slide that curved down to
the ground.

David
liked to climb the steps, sit on the elephant's head and survey his
world.

His
parents went into the hotel.

"One,
two, three, four ... David counted up the steps. "... five, six,
seven, eight." The breeze seemed to be stronger up here. He
looked around. It was very high. When his dad stood near the elephant
David was higher than his dad's head. David'd call him names, then
giggle as his dad growled like a monster and tried to jump up and
grab him, his hands grasping like monster claws. It always ended the
same way, with his dad climbing the steps and David aiming pretend
kicks at the monster's snarling face-just like the films. Bang! His
foot would smack into the monster's head. Then it would plummet to
the ground below.

To
oblivion, he would think with a walloping sense of satisfaction.
Then, panting, he would look down, and the sprawling monster would be
his dad again, laid flat out on the grass laughing breathlessly, his
Adam's apple bouncing in his throat.

David
looked up. Big fluffy clouds like mountains of mashed potato hung in
the sky. In between, the sky showed through, dark blue.

He
sat on the head of the elephant and watched the water flow in the
stream that ran by the hotel garden. His dad had told him that the
stream ran down to the coast not far from the seafort. There it
flowed across the beach and into the sea-all that fresh water getting
mixed up with the salt. Sometimes they threw sticks into the
slowflowing water and imagined them floating all the way down to the
sea like lazy seals.

Sometimes
things came up from the sea, his dad had told him. Once a dolphin had
swum all the way up-river from the sea to the town where they lived.
It had got lost. The police, the council (or was it the fire
brigade?) had to catch it and send it safely back.

As
he sat in the warm sunshine his attention wandered from the stream to
the gulls gliding in big circles high overhead, and he wished he
could fly. Up, up, up, high into the sky. As high as the
mashed-potato clouds.

"Yes,"
answered David, looking round.

His
mum-or was it his dad?-had called. It must be time for lunch.

No.
No one was in the car park. Just a few empty cars. And there were no
windows at this end of the hotel to shout out of. Maybe his dad had
sneaked behind the big willow tree down by the stream.

"Da-had!"
he shouted, grinning. "I know you're therehair!"

He
looked hard at the tree, leaning out from the elephant as far as he
dared.

No.
There was definitely no one there.

It
must be someone shouting in the farm over the road. Lots of people
are called David.

He
sat back down again on the warm fiberglass elephant head. It was nice
being there.

"What?"
His voice echoed across the car park. "Where are you?"

He
was certain someone had called him again.

Again
there was no one there. All he could see moving was a duck in the
stream. The duck quacked and flew away, its wings cracking noisily
against the water.

Fly
...

David
wanted to fly. Maybe he only had to want hard enough.

And
there in the sunshine he felt warm-and light enough to float up and
away over the tree-tops like a bubble.

Overhead
the sky got bluer and bluer and the clouds bigger and bigger.

I
can ... I can ... I can ...

David
Stainforth stood on the great gray head of the elephant, arms
outstretched like wings; he felt no fear; below him the lawn, as soft
as a mattress. Air rolled around his face, making his ears tingle.

He
leaned forward into the breeze. It blew lightly over his fingertips.
He was like a big, big bird getting ready to fly. Lean forward.
Further ... Further ...

And
that's when he fell.

After
leaving David at the slide they went up to their room. Ruth wanted a
bath before lunch and left Chris alone in the bedroom.

He
decided to change into something a little more respectable for the
inn's oak-paneled restaurant ...

As
he kicked off his jeans something fell from the pockets and rolled
under the bed. At first he thought it was a few coins and went down
on all fours to find them.

What
he pulled out were light and ribbed.

He
grinned. David's cockleshells.

He
would leave them on David's bedside table for him to add to his
collection.

On
the ribbed outside the shells were a dirty white with the odd
yellowy-brown patch.

He
turned one over to look at the smooth concave interior.

Then
he laughed.

It
had to be a practical joke.

He
turned the smooth inner side of the shell toward the bedside lamp to
get a better view.

There
was no doubt about it.

On
the inside of the shell was the clear picture of a man's face.
Slightly distorted, with his mouth stretching open wide, his eyes
shut.

It
looked like a still from a film. A particularly nasty film. The man
was crying out in terror.

Quickly,
Chris examined the other shells.

Each
had the picture of a face. Male. Female. Children. Some had their
eyes shut, others open wide, shockingly wide, as if they had
witnessed some horrible accident.

The
pictures, miniature paintings, he surmised, were in a yellowish-brown
paint, the color spilt coffee leaves on paper.

They
had to have been deliberately painted.

But
by whom?

For
a moment he had a mental picture of some barmy old artist living in a
hut tucked among the dunes at Manshead, painting miniature portraits
on shells before scattering them back on the beach.

Each
shell bore the image of a face. Only one stood out from the others.
The largest, a monster of its species. Almost the size of an oyster.

The
face on this one was different.

All
the other shell pictures portrayed victims. This face had narrow,
scheming eyes, and the lips were pulled back in the cruellest grin
Chris had ever seen.

This
one, decided Chris ... this was the hunter.

"Chris
..." called Ruth from the bathroom.

"What
do you want?"

"Come
here a moment."

"I'm
looking at David's shells," he called, sitting on the bed, his
jeans around his ankles. "There's something bloody odd about
them."

"Bugger
the shells, Chris. I need you to scrub my back. And..."

He
heard more water running into the bath.

"I've
been thinking about the seafort. And ..."

"And?"

"I've
been working out where we can live."

"Surprise
me."

"Come
here. You can wash my back as I reveal all."

He
smiled. "So I have to sing for my supper?"

"Of
course you do."

He
entered the bathroom which was filled with clouds of steam that
rolled around him as he closed the door. In the steamed-up bathroom
mirror Ruth had written "Ruth & Chris: TLFE."

"True
Love For Ever?"

Ruth
smiled through the steam. "Or until my millionaire comes along."

Moving
her bra and pants away from the side of the bath, he knelt down and
retrieved the sponge from the water and began to work it into her
back.

"Ow
... You're not polishing the car. This is real skin, you know.
Tender, sensitive skin. To be caressed."

"I
know." He kissed her shoulder. It was warm, wet-and smelled
wonderful. "Mmm ... Nice enough to eat." He squeezed warm
water down her spine. She arched her back with a deep breath.

"Hot?"

"No
... Nice. Now, as I was saying ..."

"Ah
... Where we live. Don't tell me. We throw ourselves on the mercy of
the Church and camp out in the graveyard, with tombstone beds and
tombstone tables to eat from? Perfect."

"No.
Let me finish. Keep sponging my back. This is going to cost you.
You'll be my slave for a year after this. Mmm ... Don't stop. I talk
better when you're doing that."

"I
hear and obey, mistress. Right, where do we live?"

"It's
simple, Chris." She hugged her knees to her glistening breasts.
"We move in straight away. Brilliant or what?"

"We
move into the seafort straight away?" Chris sighed. "But
you've forgotten one tiny, tiny point." He leaned back,
wondering if she was mocking him. "The seafort is derelict. The
rooms are packed with rubble, and those walls haven't felt the lick
of a paint brush in fifty years. So how?"

"And
I thought you were the one with the imagination."

"And
I thought you were the practical one. Come on, love. Be serious."

"Be
serious, Ruth," she mimicked.

She
looked up at him through the waves of steam, her eyes misty and huge.
That pleased expression told him she had a secret bursting to escape.

"Look.
How much was that caravan going to cost for a year?"

"Rent
at two-fifty a month. About three thousand."

"Three
thousand? We can get a second-hand caravan for around five. Then we
site it in the courtyard of the seafort. And when I say caravan I
mean a decent one. You know, the kind you get on holiday caravan
sites. Bedrooms, kitchen, bathroom, all mod cons. That's it ..."
She wriggled in the bath. "A bit lower. Ah ..."