Nailed by the Heart (5 page)

"Five
thousand. That's eating into the budget a bit, isn't it?"

"Not
a bit. Think of it as an investment. It costs us five thousand now.
In twelve months we resell. For what ... Four thousand?"

"Keep
talking. I like what I'm hearing."

"That
way our original budget for accommodation, three thousand pounds, is
slashed to one thousand-And there will be no traveling to and from
the seafort each day. And we will always be on-site if there are any
problems. Right, now you can call me Genius."

"Genius
... Brilliant... Wonderful." He kissed her-with feeling. "You
are brilliant. You've saved our bloody skins." Elated, he dried
his hands on the towel. "I'll grab a paper and start looking."

"Oh
no you don't, Chris. You'll finish what you started." Her look
needed no explanation. Her eyes exuded a smoky longing that sent
desire tingling through him.

"Which
bit of my wife needs washing next, then?"

She
lifted a wet strand of hair and flicked a water droplet at him.

"More
back. Then you decide."

First
he rubbed her back with long, slow strokes, squeezing out the sponge
as he did so, the warm water bubbling through his fingers.

Ruth
let her head fall forward until the wet tips of her hair dipped into
the water.

"Mmm
... that's nice." Water squeezed onto her bare shoulders
trickled down her breasts in glistening rivers. He dropped the sponge
into the water and firmly began to rub her back with his bare hands.

The
skin felt smooth to his palms and fingertips-the corrugated contours
of her ribs and the slightly curving hollow of her back. He loved the
feel of it. His heart began to pump hard.

Gently
he began to soap her shoulders, then her stomach. And then her
breasts, his fingers gliding over a slippery layer of soap lather,
skittering over the hardening tips.

"Oh
... Chris. I could let you do this forever." She smiled, her
eyes shut. "I could make you do this forever."

He
lightly traced a line with his fingertips downward from the tip of
her nose, over her lips, her chin, her smooth throat, down through
the gap between her breasts which had firmed and risen into soft
points that glistened in the light. Down over her stomach until his
hand slipped into the hot water. A distinct quiver ran through her
body.

After
ten years of marriage their love-making could sometimes be almost a
chore. Not today though.

Today,
he knew, it would be special.

Chris
was almost dressed when he heard the knock at the door.

"Hang
on." Ruth, topless, plucked a bra from the dressing-table
drawer. With a schoolgirl giggle she ran lightly into the bathroom.

Chris,
pulling on his sweatshirt, went to the door and opened it.

"Hello,
Mr. Stainforth."

It
was the hotelier, a tall man with a white beard.

"Everything
okay?"

The
hotelier spoke hesitantly. "Er, I'm afraid there's been an
accident. Your son ... Out in the yard."

The
man's face was expressionless.

A
sick feeling began to rise through Chris's stomach.

"Where
is he?"

The
man's reply was puzzling. "You mean you can't smell him?"

The
hotelier stood to one side. Behind him, tiny and the color of gray
clay, a sullen-looking figure dripped water onto the corridor carpet.

"David?"

Chris
pulled a face as the pungent smell of river silt rolled into the
room. "Christ, what happened?"

The
white-haired hotelier was struggling to suppress laughter. "The
little fellow said he was on top of the slide when he fell off it
into the stream."

"The
slide? That's nowhere near the stream. How could you fall all that
way?"

46

"I
didn't fall," said David in a way that was dignified and angry
at the same time. He walked stiffly into the room, his feet
squelching inside his shoes.

"I
didn't fall at all. I was flying."

The
world Mark Faust fell into after he leapt from the ship was one of
utter darkness, but full of hissing sounds and rushing air.

Then
the ocean swallowed him.

So
cold.

He
wanted to scream. His eyes snapped wide-open with shock, the sheer
terror of it, as he went down into liquid darkness.

Jesus
... Like ice.

If
only he had stayed on the ship. If only ...

What
for? To be blinded, castrated then perhaps dropped over the side
anyway?

This
way he had a chance.

What
chance? he asked himself frantically. Here I am maybe a hundred miles
from the coast. In the sea. In winter.

I
have ten minutes of my life left. What's that the equivalent to?

Two
Tom & Jerry cartoons. Three Buddy Holly numbers. "Peggy Sue"
... "Heartbeat" ... "That'll Be the Day" ...

A
part of his mind rambled on in a disjointed way as if no longer part
of his body.

The
other ordered him to kick off his Wellington boots.

Then
start swimming.

First
the left foot.

He
reached down. The boot came off easily.

Shouldn't
I be breathing?

The
right one stuck.

Kick.

I
need air!

Off!

Kick
the mother off! It's pulling you down!

Oh,
sweet Jesus, give me air! Abruptly his head broke the surface. Cold
winds blasted at him, driving spray in his face. Here at sea level
the water roared like thunder. It filled his ears. Angry sounds,
constant, unbroken.

Half
panting, half choking, he gulped down lungfuls of sweet air. Again,
Mark kicked hard, trying to dislodge the right boot.

It
wouldn't budge.

The
bastard would pull him down as surely as if it were cast in lead.

Holding
his breath, he doubled his body, bending down to tug at it.

It
shifted slightly.

His
heel came partway out.

Breathe
... Breathe ... Breathe ...

His
head snapped up; he breathed deeply. One more breath, then try again
...

Then-

Then
his boot was gone. He'd not even touched it.

It
felt for all the world as if something had snatched it off.

A
simple sharp tug.

Gone.

Shark!

No.
No sharks in the North Sea. He panted as he trod water. No sharks ...
No sharks ...

It
must just have slipped off.

Christ,
this water is so cold ...

As
his breathing steadied his night vision kicked in. He could see black
mounds of water rising and falling all around him. Dark shapes. They
bulged upward then smoothly deflated. Almost like the black backs of
massive whales breaking the surface in haloes of white foam and
froth.

The
Mary-Anne!

The
clouds were being torn apart in the wind, allowing a quarter-moon
through. It lit the sea with a thin, silver light.

There
she is!

The
ship's superstructure and red funnel appeared indistinctly through a
mist of spray. A wave came up, blocking his view. The next time he
glimpsed her he saw that her nose was dipping deep into the water.

Mark
Faust pictured the murdering bastards inside the ship. Surely they
knew by now. He imagined their frantic attempts to escape. Running
through the corridors, trying to salvage as much as they could before
they ran for the lifeboats. If only he could have done something
about them. Hacked holes in the bottom maybe. But he couldn't do
everything. This way there was a chance most would perish in the sea.

For
a moment he lost sight of her. He swam in the direction in which he
had last seen the Mary-Anne, forgetting that his own life was
slipping away in the cold ocean.

He
had to see her go.

It
would hurt him. He loved that ship and her crew.

They
had been a second family to him. Still, he knew he must watch her
final seconds.

There!

Nose
down, stern up. Jesus, she was slipping down like a submarine. The
twin screws chewed at air instead of water. Moonlight glinted wetly
on the massive keel.

She
was going.

Anyone
on the ship would no longer be able to stand upright as the floors
reared to the vertical. Screaming, they would be sliding forward to
the bows.

Mark
tried not to picture the captain-or what was left of the Mary-Anne's
crew. The sea closed men's eyes quickly.

Oh,
God, please don't let it hurt them ...

For
ten seconds he was down in the trough of a wave. The next time the
sea raised him up she was gone. Already somewhere under his feet, she
was falling to the ocean bed like a stone.

All
of a sudden it was lonely out there. The cold bit deeply into his
skin until he felt his bones would crack.

The
waves seemed to take pleasure in battering his face. Breathing became
harder and pain worked its way like a sharp-toothed worm into his
belly.

He
attempted to swim.

As
soon as he did so his body slipped underwater as if someone had
pulled him from below.

He
didn't fight it. He just slipped down, down, down ...

Shit,
the pressure ... It hurts. Like metal spikes driven through your
ears, deep into your brain.

He'd
almost lost consciousness before he resurfaced. Drawing a ragged
breath, he tried to pull more air into his chest than his lungs could
contain. They hurt like-oh for ... Jesus ...

God,
I want to live, I want to live, I want to live, please, God, let me
live ... I want, I want-

Down.

He
was following the Mary-Anne once more.

This
is it, Mark Faust, seventeen years old, never had a girl, never drank
whiskey, never smoked a cigarette. Ate too much apple pie ... Loved
apple pie, but-

His
mind began to turn, like a stunt car in a film going over and over in
slow motion, pieces of it flying off.

Slowly,
slowly disintegrating.

He
hit the bottom. The shock made him open his eyes. Little bubbles like
silver bells rolled away from his face toward the surface.

He
wanted to laugh and call after them.

Wait
for me! Wait for meeeeeeeeeeeee ...

But
his mouth didn't work anymore; his body was nine-tenths dead. Just a
few tiny sparks of life had retreated into some part of his brain to
cling there as limpets cling to a rock in a storm.

Not
long now. I'm going over the edge. I'll be home soon, Mom ...

Leave
a light on in the porch 'cos I'm on my way. ...

There
were people.

They
stood on the sea-bed looking up at him. Their white faces seemed kind
of mournful. Like they wanted him to stay. There were a good nine or
ten. All standing in a tight cluster. As if posing in one of those
fancy pop posters-all standing tight together looking up. Then they
reached up their hands toward him.

They
wanted him to stay. Join them there.

Be
one of the people standing ankle-deep in the kelp meadow, all
rippling brown, brown, brown, standing watching the passing keels of
ships go high above their heads.