Nailed by the Heart (14 page)

Ruth
lifted her eyebrows. "So, he cracked his head on the side of the
causeway when he fell. He wouldn't cry out, and the tide just carried
him away. It was an accident."

"Of
course it was." Tony chuckled, the jolly host again. "Tell
me to shut my trap if I get boring. I just wanted to give you the
facts before you heard any halfbaked tales. Right, I'm starving.
Shall we get started?" He ripped the foil from the plates.
"These burgers I made myself. I like experimenting. Some are
plain, those are with barbecue sauce, those with garlic, and I went
crazy with those and soaked them in red wine." Using a metal
fish slice, he began arranging the burgers on the barbecue grill;
morsels of meat fell into the flames to sizzle against the coals.
"Fancy some celery dip, Chris?"

Chris
rose. "In a minute, thanks. I'll get David."

He
strolled down the rolling lawn. He wrote off Tony Gateman's
disappearing Fox twin story as the minor eccentricity of one living
alone too long in a place like this. He liked the man; he was just
trying perhaps a bit too hard to be friendly-and interesting.

As
he sat on the swing, David told Mark everything. About the elephant
slide at the hotel the previous week. About the strange feelings and
dreams he'd had at the seafort. Grown-ups sometimes treat you like a
little kid when you tell them serious things. They laugh like you're
telling them a joke or say "That's interesting." But Mark
listened. He understood when David struggled to tell him that he was
making swaps. David couldn't explain it properly. But he did know
that if he gave away the toys and comics he liked to the sea, he
would be given something back, just as you give money in a shop for a
comic.

"You've
been making deals, David."

As
the swing came back ready for Mark's next massive push, Mark asked:
"What kind of deals are you making?"

"David
..." It was his dad's voice. "Come on. Tony's cooking now."

"Chow
time." Mark lifted David off the swing, then turned to Chris.
"Tony's not let his tongue run away with him, has he? He's a
decent guy but he can talk the legs off a mule."

"He
was telling us how he came to live here. It seems this place has
quite a hold on visitors."

"Sure
has."

"How
did you end up here, Mark?"

"Oh,
I used to work the North Atlantic merchant freighters, moved into
other jobs, then ... I just sort of drifted in. Looks as though young
David's worked up a thirst."

David
was greedily attacking a can of Lilt. A steady stream of green liquid
ran down the front of his white tshirt.

"Reminds
me of me when I was a boy." Tony turned the burgers; puffs of
flame leapt up through the grill. "Coming home from school with
gravy stains down my tie. Sent the old man hairless. Everyone got
salad? Right, who's for a garlic burger?"

The
talk was now purely small-talk. Tony did most of it with Mark
underpinning the conversation with a few comments in his rumbling
bass voice.

Sunset
came, and the sky turned dark blue; a few bats flickered overhead,
gorging on insects.

After
they had eaten the mood became even more relaxed. Tony settled down
into a lounger, while Mark laid more burgers on the barbecue. The
smell of sizzling beef filled the garden.

"Tempt
you with a brandy, Chris?"

"You
certainly can." Chris leaned luxuriously back into his seat.
David was back on the swing; this time with Ruth pushing, a glass of
orange juice in her hand.

"Thanks
for the barbecue," said Chris. "It's been great."

"My
pleasure." Tony teased the cigar out of his breast pocket.
"Three fresh faces is a treat for me. One day, you'll have to
let me show you around the area. We're not snowed under with
archaeological sites but we've got a few. You might get a few guests
wanting to know where they are. Just to the south of Manshead you've
got some Iron Age earthworks and a couple of standing stones. Trouble
is you're sitting on the main Neolithic temple."

Chris
looked around him in a brandy haze.

Tony
chuckled. "Not here. Where you live."

"Up
on Manshead," rumbled Mark. "Before the seafort was built
there was a Neolithic stone circle. Five thousand years old."

"They
probably used the standing stones in the fort's construction. You'll
probably come across the odd stone lintel, or footing a different
color to the rest."

"Any
time you want a look, just call in. It's a marvelous place.
Marvellous."

Tony
refilled the glasses.

"You
know," Chris continued, "there's actually a cellar under
the seafort. It's bloody impossible, really. At high tide the water
is higher than the cellar."

Tony
slipped the cigar out of its cellophane sleeve. "Remember, I
told you Manshead was a holy place. Do you know how holy?"

"A
Neolithic Vatican?"

"Close-damn
close. We're talking important. We're talking where the ancients got
close to their gods, where they would ask favors from the big cosmic
daddy of them all. But as I found out as a kid, Chris, if you want
something in this world"-he rubbed his fingers together as if
separating sticky banknotes-"it bloody well costs. Do you know
how the ancients bankrolled their gods?"

"Rituals?
Prayers? Hymns?"

Tony
lit the cigar at last and blew a huge cloud of blue smoke over
Chris's head. "Listen, have you ever made a sacrifice to
supernatural powers?"

"Have
I buggery. I've been an atheist since I was nine."

"Have
you ever chucked a few pennies into a wishing well?"

"Of
course. Everyone's done that at some time, but-"

"Ah,
that, Chris, is a sacrifice. Look... A wishingwell. What do you want?
A wish to come true. The price? A few coins in the water. Believe it
or not, the wishingwell is a direct descendant of the art of
sacrifice."

"Everyone
chucks a few pennies in a wishingwell at some time. It's just a fun
thing for kids."

"So
you throw in a stone, or maybe an old lollipop stick?"

"No,
like I said, pennies."

"Cash,
then. You pay cash for the wish. We're agreed, then. You give
something you value in return for something you value more."

"Put
it like that, then yes." Normally Chris would have wondered what
Gateman was driving at but the brandy mellowed him. "It's only a
pity the bloody wish doesn't come true. If it worked I'd be visiting
a wishingwell every day."

"Right
... You chuck a few pennies into the wishing well ... You want the
wish to come true. Now, Chris, consider this; would you go into a car
showroom and try and buy a new BMW with a handful of pennies?"

"
'Course I wouldn't. You wouldn't get the keyring for that."

"You
agree you need to pay a fair price for it?"

"Certainly."

"Maybe
you're not paying enough for the bloody wish, eh? Remember inflation.
Everyone's price goes up. Even the water sprite at the bottom of the
well."

"Put
like that, I suppose you're right. What's this got to do with
Manshead? Was there a wishingwell there or something?"

"Wishingwell
isn't far off the mark. It's the place where deals were done between
man and his gods. There they paid their price and got what they
wanted in return."

"I
take it they were paying more than a few pennies, then?"

"You're
not wrong, my friend," said Tony. "Because Manshead is the
place where they practiced their sacrifices."

"Virgins
on altar stones?"

"Whatever
the price demanded. A few bushels of corn or a chicken or two for a
small purchase, say a safe journey or sick horse to get well again.
For victory in battle or something a little more powerful from the
god, then ... Well, a sacrifice of something of greater value. Why do
you think the place is called Manshead?"

"I
think I know, but you're going to tell me anyway."

"It's
called Manshead because that's where the man's head was placed.
Probably on wooden spikes. Think of it as a kind of supernatural
stock exchange where the big deals were done."

"Speaking
of sacrifice," said Chris, "I think Mark has just made an
offering to the gods."

"Damn."
One of the burgers had slipped through the metal grill and was
blazing furiously. Mark grinned. "One burnt offering."

Chris
raised his glass. "And you never made a wish." There was a
significant pause before the other two laughed politely.

After
the Stainforths had left, Mark and Tony stood on the pavement,
talking in the cool night air.

"The
Stainforths," said Mark, "what do you think?" "They're
nice people." Tony dropped the cigar butt onto the floor and
ground it beneath his polished shoe.

"But
they'll have to go, of course."

"How
are we going to get rid of them?"

"That,
Mark, my old friend, is what we're going to have to discuss."

"Are
we going to get the guns now?"

"Later.
We can't get across the causeway because the tide's in. Go play with
your toys for a while."

David
slipped away to the caravan while Chris finished stacking timber he'd
salvaged from the seafort.

Ruth
brought him coffee. "I've been thinking, Chris. I want to get
the main gates repaired as quickly as possible."

"What's
the hurry?"

"There's
a lot of building material lying around. The last thing we want is
someone walking away with it all."

"And?"

"And
what?"

Chris
smiled. "I know you better than that. It's more than someone
waltzing off with the timber and a few stone blocks."

"I
know you're going to tell me I'm silly, but ... "

"But?"

"But
sometimes it's so quiet out here I start thinking. What if someone
came here when I was alone with David?"

"Ruth,
I don't think you're silly. I'm the stupid one. I should have known
you'd feel apprehensive out here by yourself. I'll get the gates
repaired by the end of the week."

He
heaved another balk of timber onto the stack. She squeezed his arm.
"Call out a joiner today, Chris. I'll feel safer. Look ... It
might be nothing to worry about, but I saw someone in the dunes
yesterday. They just stood there watching the seafort."

"What
did they look like?"

"That's
the strange part about it. They always-"

"Mu-umer.
Da-adder." The urgent shout echoed around the seafort.

Chris
grinned. "Here we go again ... And don't worry about the gates,
love. I'll get someone out to fix them this afternoon."

"Da-adder!"

"All
right ... Dad to the rescue."

Chris
jumped up into the doorway. To stand on the goldfish-almost.

Clark
Kent flapped wetly against his ankle.

"Okay,
the jaunt's over, buster." He reached down to pick up the
goldfish.

"Have
you got him?"

It
was like trying to catch a cross between a bar of soap and a
grasshopper. Each flick of its tail kicked it inches into the air.

Chris
grabbed it.

The
experience wasn't pleasant.

It
was solid muscle-hard, throbbing, occasionally giving a spasmodic
jerk.

Ruth
had always refused to catch the blessed thing because she said it was
like trying to grab a free-floating penis. Now he knew why.

The
fish seemed determined to escape. It was far more powerful than he
remembered. When it arched its body it prised his fingers apart.
Chris dropped the fish back into its water cell. "And stay
there. You cold-blooded monster."