The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Volume 19

her. But not wanting to dampen things with an unguarded comment, she said instead, 'I ' should think they get plenty of business from the caravan park.' As they entered the lounge, the dining area was surprisingly unoccupied. 'Or maybe not.' If a pub's busy at mealtimes, she tended to think, its food was likely to be more agreeable.

'It's only,' Rod glanced at his watch, 'six-thirty. Oh, well, let's see what's on the menu.'

They found a small table in a cosy corner by a window and ordered some wine and a meal. While they waited, Stephanie watched the rollers through the window, forever surging for access to the land, but somehow blocked at the last second by a hidden influence, and rippling back. The quickening mass of the ocean was darkening, the surf tracing ragged luminescent curves against the shore.

If she gazed seaward long enough something might take hold in her, she thought, until each gleaming breaker arrives with the impression that the sea is some surly spirit, rising swiftly, disgorging some half-sensed emotion on what was left of the beach. And that ill-natured spirit's jetsam was inside her already. Despite their earlier lovemaking, she did not feel anything much except a formless dissatisfaction.

Rod sat silently beside her, also gazing westwards, until there was nothing but blackness outside, the sea a memory of salt and the tang of seaweed. Then someone switched on the pub's exterior lights, which illuminated the picnic tables in the beer garden and two spiky Cordylines in tubs. Stephanie perked up, trying to imagine that Rod was thinking about the two of them and not his work.

The food finally arrived, and she almost balked at the size of the battered cod and mound of chips on both their plates. 'We certainly won't go hungry tonight!' Smiling she brightened as she unwrapped the knife and fork from the red paper napkin and wove her head from side to side as if she did not quite know where on the plate to begin demolishing her meal. 'We can find the shops tomorrow and stock up the fridge.'

'Maybe we'll eat out more — I wouldn't want you slaving in that excuse for a kitchen every evening.' He despatched several french fries. 'I've heard there's a couple of very good restaurants in Solva.'

'Expensive restaurants, Rod.' She had also read the tourist information brochure the Rollasons had left in the cottage. 'If you'll recall, we just gave a small fortune to that package tour company.' It felt good to be chatting amiably.

'Which we will get back… eventually.'

'If you say so. But, really, I don't mind self-catering.' She prodded her fish and began to eat, and they lapsed into silence for a few minutes.

Later they both sat on bar stools with a glass of brandy each, to finish the evening. The pub's restaurant had not filled up significantly, and most of the clientele appeared to be locals. Among them Rod noticed the farmer who they had rented the cottage from at the other end of the bar. 'Evening Mr Rollason,' he said, raising his glass.

He did not mean the gesture in any other way than friendly acknowledgment, but the man raised his pewter pot also, saying, 'Thanks, most obliged to you. I'll have a pint. Beth?' he called to the barmaid. 'Put another one in there when you're ready.'

'Nice one' Stephanie said under her breath as the farmer moved down the bar and sat closer to them. She could imagine the state of both men in an hour or two's time, after performing one- upmanship with several more rounds of drinks.

Rod ignored her comment, paying for the drinks and turning his attention to their companion. 'Seems quiet,' he said to the farmer. 'Here. For the time of year,' he added.

Rollason took a long gulp of his fresh pint. 'Welsh Tourist Board,' he said as if that explained everything. 'Still, the cottages help, as the farm don't pay these days.'

Stephanie thought Rod must have been thinking about the unpopulated-looking caravan park and the empty seats in the pub, not the farmer's holiday lets. 'Well, it's a lovely place, Mr Rollason,' she stated. 'Very quiet. I like that.' She added, 'We're hoping to do some walking, forget about the car for a bit.'

'Ted's the name. Yes. You've got some good walking hereabouts, if you've a mind.' Just then, his attention was caught by a rough-looking figure of a man who was leaving the pub, having put his head around the door and decided against entering. He snorted into his drink. Stephanie followed his glance and recognized the man passing along outside one of the windows.

'Oh, that old man.' She turned to face Mr Rollason. 'Your wife told us a bit about him this afternoon. The one who lives at the top of the cliff?'

'Ay, that was 'im.' He drained the rest of his pint, keeping whatever thoughts he had to himself for the time being. 'I'll take another one in there, Beth, if you please.'

Rod sipped his brandy. 'His wife drowned, we gather, and it's sent him a bit over the edge.'

The farmer glanced sideways at their two unfinished glasses and thought better of offering to buy a round. 'Some say,' he said conspiratorially, leaning in Rod's direction, 'that it was 'im that did it. That it weren't no accident.'

'Ahh,' Rod said. 'The plot thickens!'

Rollason ignored his quip.

Stephanie said, 'That's terrible. That's murder.' She shivered, in spite of the warmth in the lounge bar. Then she thought about it a bit more. 'No, they'd have had their suspicions and arrested him by now, surely?'

'They?' Rollason queried.

'The police, of course,' Stephanie replied. Who on earth did he think she meant?

The farmer downed most of his pint in one go, before turning to them both. 'Has a boat, he does. You might have seen it on the beach. They say he took her out in it one night and only he came back.'

'But it could easily have been an accident — ' Stephanie rationalized, but Rollason was quick to reply.

'Never found the body, see.' Both she and Rod waited as he sipped the remains of his beer. She sensed he had a piece of evidence, a clincher he craved to impart, but wanted to milk the moment. Finally he said, 'The tides, y'see, hereabouts. They always bring what's lost back to us.' His implication was clear. Drowned bodies float back. Perhaps ones weighted down do not.

Stephanie raised her glass and allowed the dregs of the liquor to inflame her throat and chest. The shivers were on her as soon as she pictured the old man's face, his eyes. That old man, lurking up the cliff in his hut, his secrets wrapped about him like dark green kelp. She would make sure the cottage was locked up tight tonight.

Rollason carefully placed his tankard on the bar and, remembering that he was, to all intents and purposes, supposed to be an ambassador for Welsh tourism, said with a smile, 'Don't mind them tales though. Gilbert's been living here quite a few years since it happened and nobody else has disappeared! Thanks again for the drink, I'll wish you goodnight.'

Shortly after he left, Rod and Stephanie also started for home. They sauntered down to the sands for a quick walk before bed. The tide was a gentle caress, chuckling over pebbles before drawing back to reveal flat sand gleaming under a risen moon. Out in the bay the water was more agitated, as if tumbling over submerged rocks.

'Look out there,' Rod said, pointing. Stephanie stared across the bay, but her eyes had not yet adapted fully to the darkness of the sea. There appeared to be ripples, or many circles of dimpled water, as if the sea itself was agitated. 'Something's out there. Fish,' he said, stopping to watch. 'Swimming into the shallow water. Something big's herding them.'

Stephanie could see the phenomenon now, frantic little blips on the surface, as what might have been the fins of fish riding about one another in their haste to escape some predator. Beyond them the sea was calmer, no sign of anything big, like a shark, say. 'It's impossible to see exactly —»

'Quiet,' Rod said. 'Wait.' As if not talking would mean whatever it was would come to the surface and show itself clearly. 'There's something out there,' he repeated in a whisper.

Why would he want to dramatize things? Stephanie asked herself. Yet the gentle, insistent lapping of the tide started to put her on edge. 'What is it? A boat?' she asked. 'I can't see anything.'

Then a silver shape surfaced from the agitated black swell. It floundered. The sea decided to roughen up a