The Jonah (30 page)

Reacting rather than thinking, he turned the wheel even further to the left, then tried to straighten it when he saw the low sea wall rushing towards him. He avoided the dog, but hit the
wall.

Sparks flew from the car’s bodywork as metal and concrete screeched against each other. Instead of taking his foot from the accelerator pedal, he kept his foot down, hoping to tear himself
away from the wall rather than be twisted into it. He ignored the grinding, scraping sound and the shower of sparks flying past his passenger window, and pulled against the tug of the
steering-wheel, using his strength and skill to ease the BMW away from the wall without stopping.

Too late he saw the stone steps that jutted outwards from the wall and his front, left-hand tyre had hit them before he could wrench the wheel around. The impact sent him bouncing upwards, his
head striking the car’s sunroof. The BMW spun round, once, twice, rear right-hand corner cannoning off the wall, spinning so that the front hit again at an angle, rebounding and speeding
backwards, leaving rubber smeared against the wet road.

The seat-belt, after the initial wrench upwards, had firmly locked him into the driver’s seat. He was stunned, but still aware of what was approaching his windscreen, for the car was now
facing the rushing wave. Feebly, he reached for the ignition key and turned it, pressing a leaden foot down on the clutch. He pushed the gear-lever into First and gripped the steering-wheel,
twisting it towards his left. The engine whined pathetically as the car crawled forward a few inches before bumping to a halt. The smell of burning was strong.

There was nothing outside now, just the lights bouncing off the black churning wall only a few feet away. Then no light at all. The wall was around him and the car was moving once more. The wall
broke through the windscreen before he had a chance to scream.

The wave swept through the town, pounding against and tearing through buildings, pouring into sidestreets and cascading down into basements. Debris and bodies were carried with
it and other waves followed the first, supplementing each other, driven on by the volume behind, the fierce wind lashing at the crests so that they spewed white. It was too late for the townsfolk
to close their shutters, too late to pile up sandbags before their front doors and, for many, too late to climb upstairs or onto their rooftops, for the flood had hit too fast, too suddenly. It
raced into the high street, a churning, bubbling deluge now, seeking out every low opening, picking up anything not welded or concreted into the ground, a watery mass of destruction.

The usherette sat upright in her seat and craned her neck round, peering through heavy-lensed spectacles into the flickering gloom of the cinema. On screen, the walls of the
old house were dripping blood and the madman with the axe stalked the dark corridors searching for his prey. A severed hand from the first victim was tucked into his belt.

Someone snickered again, a suppressed sound that spread like an infectious disease along one particular row of teenagers at the back of the tiny theatre. Hilary Burnchard, the usherette, stood
with her back against the entrance/exit door for several moments to let the troublemakers know she would not stand for any nonsense. There were other patrons – not many tonight, granted
– who had paid good money to see the film and who didn’t want it spoilt by hooligans who couldn’t or wouldn’t behave. She knew the ringleaders all right, for in such a small
town, reputations and names were all too familiar.

The madman with the axe had stopped outside a door and was testing the handle. It was locked. Now he was crouching to look through the keyhole, an insane grin on his hairy features.

Hilary averted her eyes; she hated this bit. She had seen the film four times already that week and had still not got used to the horror and gore. She wondered what the film world was coming to:
whatever happened to those nice musicals they used to make?

Several girls in the audience shrieked when the thin, foot-long spike came through the keyhole and pierced the madman’s bulbous eye. Blood spurted along the glistening spike and the
actor’s scream drowned out the guffaws of the disorderly row of teenagers.

Hilary’s lips tightened into a straight line when one of the boys, clutching his eye, jumped to his feet and moaned, ‘I only wanted to see if the bathroom was free!’

She walked across the aisle just below the screen, her step slow but steady, unaware that the cut-out silhouette of her head was moving across the face of the writhing man and was about to be
snapped off by his gnashing teeth. She wondered what had caused the increased howls of laughter from the back row.

The little cinema was in the high street and occupied the same building as an estate agent and a solicitor’s office, the latter two being on the first floor above the theatre. It did not
take many bodies to fill the rows of seats, but somehow it was always half-empty. An open book with a pencil stub attached by string usually stood just outside the foyer in the afternoon for people
to sign their names should they want to see that night’s showing: quite often, the manager decided not to open if there were not fresh names in the book and the particular film was
experiencing a dismal run. His staff – projectionist, usherette and cashier – were employed on the basis that they worked only when there were enough customers. Hilary did not always
enjoy the job, particularly when there was a horror or dirty movie on, but the money, a pittance though it was, came in handy to supplement her husband’s income as a handyman-cum-gardener.
She especially did not enjoy the job when there was a rowdy bunch present.

She strolled up the slight incline towards the back of the cinema as the giant door behind her slowly began to open. The row of teenagers nervously eyed both her and the screen as she
approached, one or two of them finding it difficult to stifle their giggles. The door made a loud creaking noise as it opened wider and the madman was silent as he watched with one, wide, good
eye.

The cinema had become quiet once more: no rustling of sweet papers, no shifting uncomfortably in seats, no suppressed giggles. A shadow moved in the doorway. Someone – or
something
– was about to emerge.

Even Hilary, who had seen the film four times before and knew what was going to happen, stared anxiously at the screen, the teenage irritation forgotten for the moment. And it was she who
shrieked when the exit door burst open and the manager stood there waving his arms and shouting.

The audience caught a few garbled words that sounded like ‘blood’ or ‘flood’ just before the water gushed through and began to fill the auditorium.

It took severe conditions to keep the regulars away and Ron, the barman, knew that tonight’s weather was not the worst they’d experienced. It was gusty, all right,
but most of his customers were used to that, being seamen. It would take a monsoon to keep his lot away. Maybe not even that.

‘Come on, Ron, let’s be havin you!’

He turned and waved towards the group of men at the far end of the bar, then continued counting the change into the hand of the customer he was serving. He walked down the bar towards the
impatient group, retrieving his half-smoked cigarette from an ashtray as he went. As usual, the air was thick with smoke. Once, Ron had tried to give up smoking, but soon had realized he was
inhaling so much lung pollution from the pub’s atmosphere that it would make little difference.

‘What’ll it be, gents? Four more of “Old”?’

‘That’ll do us.’

Ron placed the cigarette in an ashtray at that end of the bar and picked up a drained glass. As he pulled the first pint, he asked, ‘Anything out there tonight?’

The group knew what he was referring to, for they were fishermen. ‘They’d have to be bloody mad,’ one of them, a thick-set man whose eyes glowered angrily beneath bushy white
eyebrows, replied. His face had the craggy, weathered look of someone who spent much of his life on the open sea which, indeed, he had. He was the owner of the drifter now moored securely in the
town’s natural harbour and the men around him were his crew. None were blood kin, for he had been cursed with daughters who had long since fled his bitter grumblings and the confines of the
small town. His grumbling was more bitter than ever that night, for conditions had lost him a day’s work and his crew still expected to be paid.

Ron placed the pint of ale before him and he sucked at it noisily without waiting for the others.

‘Didn’t see old Tom Adcock’s boat in,’ one of his crew members said.

‘Nah, nothin stops im going out,’ his skipper growled. ‘Take a bloody hurricane. Some of the catches he comes back with sometimes, I don’t know why he bothers.’

‘Well, I bet he’s steamin back now, catch or no catch,’ the barman said. ‘He’s got more sense than to risk losin his boat.’

‘Aah, I’m not so sure about Tom any more,’ the skipper retorted. ‘Keeps sayin he’s gonna pack it in soon, retire somewhere where you can’t smell salt in the
air.’ He grudgingly joined in the laughter around him. ‘Funny notions, old Tom.’

‘Won’t get much for his boat nowadays, so where’ll he get the money to retire on?’ one of the men said, reaching for the next pint.

Ron shook his head, his usual affable grin on his face. ‘Can’t see him leavin the sea, anyway. Reckon he’d rather go down with his boat than rot in his rockin chair.’

The others nodded in agreement and the skipper placed the exact money for the drinks on the bartop as the last pint was drawn. Ron slid the loose change and pound note off the bar and into the
palm of his hand, then walked back towards the cash till. He rang up the order and placed the coins and note into their appropriate compartments, thinking for the thousandth time how lucky the
governor was to have such an honest barman. The Mister and Missus enjoyed their social life and more often than not left Ron in complete charge of the pub, knowing they could trust him. Tonight
they were seeing a show in Ipswich; tomorrow it was a licensed victuallers’ dinner and social. Not bad for some, he thought, without rancour.

A cold blast ruffled the hair on the back of his neck as the double-doors were flung open and a man and woman almost staggered in. The man had some difficulty closing the doors behind him. The
couple were well wrapped up in raincoats, scarves and hats and they dripped puddles as they made their way to the bar.

Ron’s grin broadened. ‘Just out for a stroll then?’ he enquired.

The couple scowled back at him. ‘Bloody weather!’ the man said, shaking water off his hat.

‘Doesn’t keep him indoors, though,’ his wife said tartly.

‘No, nor you, woman,’ came the reply.

‘What’ll it be, Eric?’ Ron asked amiably. ‘Guinness and a shandy for Mag?’

‘No, I’ll have a gin and tonic – warm meself up. Give her her shandy.’

‘Right you are.’

Ron had just pushed a small glass under the gin optic when he noticed that bottles on the shelf were vibrating slightly. He frowned and turned back to the bar to point out the strange occurrence
to his customers. But they were looking up at the ceiling. The decorative chamber pots hanging up there were stirring, clanking against each other as though invisible fingers were jerking their
strings.

Ron’s mouth dropped open.

His customers were switching their gaze from the ceiling to each other in bewilderment and it was the woman he was serving who realized what was about to happen. She began to shout a warning but
the rumbling noise was warning enough.

The windows and doors burst open as the sea flooded in.

Pandemonium broke loose as customers were swept off their feet and furniture became floating debris.

The surge hit the bar counter and smacked upwards towards the ceiling, dislodging chamber pots, bringing them down like shrapnel on the heads of the struggling customers below.

Ron fell backwards as more water poured over the bar. He crashed into the shelves behind him and bottles showered down. Then he was choking on sea water. Then he was swallowing it.

‘The buoys! They’ve gone! We’re losing them, Skipper!’

Tom Adcock’s groan was loud, a wail against the stormy sea. He shook off the despair. ‘It don’t matter! It’s ourselves we got to worry about!’

The wind lashed rain against the windows of the small deck cabin and he could barely see two yards in front. His three-man crew were crammed into the cabin and clutching at anything solid to
prevent themselves from being tossed against the walls. The man who had just checked on their illicit and now lost cargo wiped the salt water from his face with a shaky hand. Just a few minutes
outside, with no protection against the elements, had badly frightened him. ‘We’ll never make the estuary! There’s no way we can get into it.’

Adcock’s face was grim. ‘We’ve no choice! We can’t outrun the storm!’

The bows of the
Rosie
lifted high into the air, rising over the mountainous wave and plunging down the other side with sickening speed. Water smashed onto the sturdy little fishing boat
and the splintering of wood threw fresh panic into the crew.

‘We’re goin to break up!’ someone shouted.

‘Just shut your bloody traps!’ Adcock told them, his voice raised so that it could be heard over the pounding waves and howling wind. ‘The
Rosie
’ll get us home!
She’s never let us down yet!’

The drifter was rising again and Adcock saw what he had been looking for. Or, at least, thought he saw, for visibility was appalling. ‘Get over here, Ned!’ he ordered.
‘D’you see em? Dead ahead!’

‘I see em, Tom! Lights! We’re at the coast!’

‘Do we send up a flare, Skipper?’ another crew member asked as he peered out into the storm, trying to see what the others had seen.

‘No! We don’t need no lifeboat! Lot of bloody good they’d be in this sea!’ Adcock quickly checked his instruments and tried to recognize the formation of lights as the
vessel dipped and heaved. ‘I see the lighthouse, boys! We’re almost there!’

‘Can we get in, though?’ Ned demanded to know.

‘We’ll get in all right! I promise you that!’