Dark Terrors 3: The Gollancz Book of Horror

comfort.

‘I love you, too,’ he replied, although she had not meant it as a cue. ‘I thought we were goners. I thought we were going to end up as part of a very disappointing Scotch egg-’

She laughed again and then suddenly felt like crying. Her upset was nebulous, there was no real reason for it, no rational reason. They had just been people, strange only because they were slightly more different to her than she was used to. Must be exhaustion. She closed her eyes and through the reddish dark of that unshareable interior, she immediately saw the measured sweep of a deeper blackness across her vision. She opened her eyes but there were no boringly equidistant trees to cast their shadows, no houses since Swaffham now lay behind them. She shut out the light again and yes, here it was, a slow black glide from the top of her eyes to the bottom. And again. And again. Again.

Her heartbeat then, she reasoned, not without some discomfort. But before she could offer any satisfying alternative, she was asleep.

She swam out of the dark, panicking that she would not grasp Jonathan’s question and be able to answer it before he lost patience with her. But it was not a question, he was merely talking to himself, loud enough for her to infer that he was pissed off with her sleeping while he did all the work.

‘Sea view, they said. A sea view at the hotel. Oh yes, certainly, if you’ve brought the Hubble telescope along with you.’ He looked at her and she could tell why; both to check she was awake and that she appreciated his joke. God, he really could be a minor irritant sometimes. ‘Wells-Next-The-Sea, they call this place,’ he continued. ‘Mmm, and my name’s Jonathan-Two-Dicks-Chettle.’

‘We’re here then?’ Claire stretched in her seat, and blinked against the afternoon sunshine. A clutch of beached boats seemed to cling to each other in the distance. Well beyond them, a silvery grey line — like a mirror seen edge on — marked the leading strip of the tide.

‘Yes, arrival can usually be said to be on the cards when the driver is in parking mode. And hey! We’re in a car park. Well done. Super.’

‘Oh shut up, Jon,’ Claire sighed. Twin glints of light drew her gaze towards a range of thin trees forming a paltry windbreak against the sea’s muscle. Someone was looking in their direction with a pair of binoculars.

‘Birdwatchers,’ Jonathan said, with a mock shudder. ‘This place’ll be crawling with them. Come on, let’s go and christen our room.’

They checked into the B&B and were led up a grand staircase past mounted blunderbusses and badly stuffed sea-birds. Their room looked out on the car park but was only slightly higher up, giving a better view of the acres between the hotel and the sea. Jonathan pressed up against her while she took in the tangy air. She let him peel down her jeans and panties, take her from behind even though she was dry. His pleasure, transmitted into grunts and selfish stabs, did nothing for her, but it was better than arguing about sex. She wondered why she had agreed to this holiday as he withdrew and came on her buttocks. She wondered if, as he wiped himself against her, it was to prove to herself that she did not want him any more.

‘Quick walk before dinner?’ he said, tucking himself away and kissing the back of her head. ‘I’ll wait downstairs. See if they can recommend some good restaurants.’

She masturbated to a swift, shallow orgasm, then cleaned herself up and pulled on a pair of shorts. Jonathan was leaning against the door outside, absently sniffing his fingers. He looked at her, obviously irritated that he had had to wait so long, then motioned with his head and set off for the road before she had reached him. They followed its uneven surface towards the boats then struck out across the fields, past cement coloured cows with vicious horns and thick reeds nestled into a deep gulley just off the track they were walking.

The quick, unexpected smell of camomile pleased her, a scent she had always associated with long summer walks as a child with Dad through the woods behind their house. She would ask him where they were going and he would reply, ‘The land of far beyond.’ They never arrived, though she would soon lose her excitement of that unseen place in favour of his soft words as he told her about the plants and the buildings and the animals they saw. More often than not, she would end up being carried by him, too tired to walk, as twilight drew around them.

‘What are you smiling at?’Jonathan asked.

‘Sorry,’ she said, reluctant to share her memory. He would probably only scoff. ‘I thought this was a holiday. I thought I’d be able to smile without being invited.’

‘Do you have to be such a snidey bitch all the time?’

‘Only when I’m with you, lover.’

Violently quiet, they approached an expanse of mud. Riven with trenches and pits, its scarred surface stretched out towards the sea. At this landlocked end, dry, stunted plants sprouted from its surface sheen. The acrid smell of salt was accompanied by something excretive: oil bound up in its organic processes, farting silently through moist fissures.

‘Jesus,’ said Claire. ‘Fucked if I’m wading through that’

‘This holiday was your idea, kid,’ Jonathan sang. ‘We could have been sipping anise outside the Cafe de la Mairie by now.’

It took the best part of an hour to cross the flats, by which time they were hot and cross with the way the mud sucked their feet in easily enough but was reluctant to give them back without a fight. Eventually the land solidified and gave itself over to a tract of well-packed sand. They squelched towards a band of shallow water and rinsed their feet. At the other side, they headed towards the boats, parallel to the path they had taken. Two hundred yards away, a man with a dog collecting shellfish in a carrier bag cast featureless glances at them.

The journey back seemed free of obstacles and they were able to relax and enjoy the walk. The sea breeze flirted gently with them, taming the sun’s heat. Claire was able to laugh at one point, at some lame crack or other that Jonathan came out with. She did not care. The water that they had crossed had broadened and it soon became apparent they would have to recross it to get back to their cottage. It seemed much deeper, with a fast-running spine.

‘Shit,’ Jonathan spat. ‘We could swim it.’

‘I’m not swimming anything. I’ve got my sunglasses on and money in my pockets. And my watch isn’t waterproof.’

‘And God fucking forbid you should smudge your fucking make-up!’

Claire flinched from his rage and inwardly threatened herself not to cry. She would not do that in front of him again. She was not happy with her silence — a mute response might only goad Jonathan further — but if she opened her mouth she would start bawling. She could not remember how their relationship had started. It was as passionless and inexorable as a driver picking up a hitch-hiker on the road.

While he judged the depth and keenness of the water, she watched the tide in the distance, creaming against the slate-coloured sand at a tempo to match the beat of her resentment towards him.

‘I’m going to try this, try walking across. To show you. Then you’ll be safe.’

Do I hate him? she challenged herself, bitter with her redundancy in this situation and angry that he should be illustrating her uselessness by making such a sacrifice. My hero. Suddenly she did not care if he disappeared into the sand and drowned. She would not dive in to help him, she would not scream for assistance. She might just sit down on the sand here for a while and count the diminishing bubbles.

‘Nah,’ he said, waist-high in water, ‘sand’s giving way. Too dangerous for you.’

She gritted her teeth and looked back along the flow. She saw a place where it chuckled and frothed and padded over to it. Shallow land. She had skipped across to the other side while Jonathan was still struggling to free himself of the beach’s suck. She had to turn away from him to conceal her laughter. He caught up to her, red and soaking.

‘You might have told me, you twisted little cunt,’ he hissed into her ear, and strode off.

She watched him, his prissy little steps. Yes, she thought, yes I do.

Shocked and hurt by his attack on her, more than she wanted to admit, Claire rinsed her feet in the sink while Jonathan languished in the bath. It seemed his good mood had revived somewhat in the twenty minutes it had taken them to return. His hand was gripping the head of his straining cock.

‘Hey, baby,’ he said, in a mock cowboy voice. ‘Why don’cha mosey on over here ‘n’ milk my love udder.’

‘Fuck off,’ she muttered, leaving him to it.