No Sharks in the Med and Other Stories (19 page)

7:15 p.m.

The road gang had knocked off more than two hours ago and the light was only just beginning to fade a little. An hour and a half to go yet to the summer’s balmy darkness, when the young people would wander hand in hand, and occasionally pause mouth to mouth, in Lovers’ Lane. Or perhaps not until later, for tonight there was to be dancing at The Barn. And for now…all should be peace and quiet out here in the fields, where the luststone raised its veined dome of a head through the broken soil. All
should
be quiet—but was not. 

“Levver!” shouted King above the roar of the bikes, his voice full of scorn. “What a bleedin’ player you turned out to be! What the ’ell do you call this, then?”

“The end o’ the bleedin’ road,” one of the other bikers shouted. “That’s where!”

“Is it ever!” cried someone else.

Leather grinned sheepishly and pushed his Nazi-style crash-helmet to the back of his head. “So I come the wrong way, di’n I? ’Ell’s teef, the sign said bleedin’ Affelsford, dinnit?”

“Yers,” King shouted. “Also no entry an’ works in pro-bleedin’-gress! ’Ere, switch off, you lot, I can’t ’ear meself fink!”

As the engines of the six machines clattered to a halt, King got off his bike and stretched, stamping his feet. His real name was Kevin; but as leader of a chapter of Hell’s Angels, who needed a name like that? A crude crown was traced in lead studs on the back of his leather jacket and a golden sovereign glittered where it dangled from his left earlobe. No more than twenty-five or -six years of age, King kept his head clean-shaven under a silver helmet painted with black eye-sockets and fretted nostrils to resemble a skull. He was hard as they come, was King, and the rest of them knew it.

“That’s the place I cased over there,” said Leather, pointing. He had jumped up onto the dome of a huge boulder, the luststone, to spy out the land. “See the steeple there? That’s Affelsford—and Comrades, does it have
some
crumpet!”

“Well, jolly dee!” said King. “Wot we supposed to do, then? Ride across the bleedin’ fields? Come on, Levver my son—you was the one rode out here and onced it over. ’Ow do we bleedin’
get
there?” The rest of the Angels sniggered.

Leather grinned. “We goes up the motorway a few ’undred yards an’ spins off at the next turnin’, that’s all. I jus’ made a simple mistake, di’n I.”

“Yers,” said King, relieving himself loudly against the luststone. “Well, let’s not make no more, eh? I gets choked off pissin’ about an’ wastin’ valuable time.”

By now the others had dismounted and stood ringed around the dome of the boulder. They stretched their legs and lit ‘funny’ cigarettes. “That’s right,” said King, “light up. Let’s have a break before we go in.”

“Best not leave it too late,” said Leather. “Once the mood is on me I likes to get it off…”

“One copper, you said,” King reminded him, drawing deeply on a poorly constructed smoke. “Only one bluebottle in the whole place?”

“S’right,” said Leather. “An’ ’e’s at the other end of town. We can wreck the place, ’ave our fun wiv the girlies, be out again before ’e knows we was ever in!”

“’Ere,” said one of the others. “These birds is the real fing, eh, Levver?”

Leather grinned crookedly and nodded. “Built for it,” he answered. “Gawd, it’s ripe, is Affelsford.”

The gang guffawed, then quietened as a dumpy figure approached from the construction shack. It was one of Sykes’s men, doing night-watchman to bolster his wages. “What’s all this?” he grunted, coming up to them.

“Unmarried muvvers’ convention,” said King. “Wot’s it look like?” The others laughed, willing to make a joke of it and let it be; but Leather jumped down from the boulder and stepped forward. He was eager to get things started, tingling—even itchy—with his need for violence.

“Wot’s it ter you, baldy?” he snarled, pushing the little man in the chest and sending him staggering.

Baldy Dawson was one of Sykes’s drivers and didn’t have a lot of muscle. He did have common sense, however, and could see that things might easily get out of hand. “Before you start any rough stuff,” he answered, backing away, “I better tell you I took your bike numbers and phoned ’em through to the office in Portsmouth.” He had done no such thing, but it was a good bluff. “Any trouble—my boss’ll know who did it.”

Leather grabbed him by the front of his sweat-damp shirt. “You little—”

“Let it be,” said King. “’E’s only doin’ ’is job. Besides, ’e ’as an ’ead jus’ like mine!” He laughed.

“Wot?” Leather was astonished.

“Why spoil fings?” King took the other’s arm. “Now listen, Levver me lad—all you’ve done so far is bog everyfing up, right? So let’s bugger off into bleedin’ Affelsford an’ ’ave ourselves some fun! You want to see some blood—OK, me too—but for Chrissakes, let’s get somefing for our money, right?”

They got back on their bikes and roared off, leaving Baldy Dawson in a slowly settling cloud of dust and exhaust fumes. “Young bastards!” He scratched his naked dome. “Trouble for someone before the night’s out, I’ll wager.”

Then, crisis averted, he returned to the shack and his well-thumbed copy of
Playboy
…

Four

“
This time
,” said Chylos, with some urgency, “
I cannot be mistaken
.”

The two buried with him groaned—but before they could comment:

“
Are you deaf, blind—have you no feelings?”
he scorned.
“No, it’s simply that you do not have my magic!”

“It’s your ‘magic’ that put us here!”
finally Hengit answered his charges.
“Chylos, we don’t need your magic!”

“But the tribes do,”
said Chylos.
“Now more than ever!”

“Tribes?”
this time it was Alaze who spoke.
“The tribes were scattered, gone, blown to the four winds many lifetimes agone. What tribes do you speak of, old man?”

“The children of the tribes, then!”
he blustered.
“Their children’s children! What does it matter? They are the same people! They are of our blood! And I have dreamed a dream…”

“That again?”
said Hengit.
“That dream of yours, all these thousands of years old?”

“Not the old dream,”
Chylos denied,
“but a new one! Just now, lying here, I dreamed it! Oh, it was not unlike the old one, but it was vivid, fresh, new! And I cannot be mistaken.”

And now the two lying there with him were silent, for they too had felt, sensed, something. And finally:
“What did you see…in this dream?”
Alaze was at least curious.

“I saw them as before,”
said Chylos,
“with flashing spokes in the wheels of their battle-chairs; except the wheels were not set side by side but fore and aft! And helmets upon their heads, some with horns! They wore shirts of leather picked our in fearsome designs, monstrous runes; sharp knives in their belts, aye, and flails—and blood in their eyes! Invaders—I cannot be mistaken!”

And Hengit and Alaze shuddered a little in their stony bones, for Chylos had inspired them with the truth of his vision and chilled them with the knowledge of his prophecy finally come true. But…what could they do about it, lying here in the cold earth? It was as if the old wizard read their minds.

“You are not bound to lie here,”
he told them.
“What are you now but will? And my will remains strong! So let’s be up and about our work. I, Chylos, have willed it—so let it be!”

“Our work? What work?”
the two cried together.
“We cannot fight!”

“You could if you willed it,”
said Chylos,
“and if you have not forgotten how. But I didn’t mention fighting. No, we must warn them. The children of the children of the tribes. Warn them, inspire them, cause them to lust after the blood of these invaders!”
And before they could question him further:

“Up, up, we’ve work to do!”
Chylos cried.
“Up with you and out into the night, to seek them out. The children of the children of the tribes…!”

From the look of things, it was all set to be a full house at The Barn. Athelsfordians in their Friday-night best were gravitating first to The Old Stage for a warm-up drink or two, then crossing the parking lot to The Barn to secure good tables up on the balconies or around the dance floor. Another hour or two and the place would be in full swing. Normally Gavin McGovern would be pleased with the way things were shaping up, for what with tips and all it would mean a big bonus for him. And his father at the pub wouldn’t complain, for what was lost on the swings would be regained on the roundabouts. And yet…

There seemed a funny mood on the people tonight, a sort of scratchiness about them, an abrasiveness quite out of keeping. When the disco numbers were playing the girls danced with a sexual aggressiveness Gavin hadn’t noticed before, and the men of the village seemed almost to be eyeing each other up like tomcats spoiling for a fight. Pulling pints for all he was worth, Gavin hadn’t so far had much of a chance to examine or analyse the thing; it was just that in the back of his mind some small dark niggling voice seemed to be urgently whispering:
“Look out! Be on your guard! Tonight’s the night! And when it happens you won’t believe it!”
But…it could simply be his imagination, of course.

Or (and Gavin growled his frustration and self-annoyance as he felt that old obsession rising up again) it could simply be that Eileen had found herself a new dancing partner, and that since the newcomer had walked into the place they’d scarcely been off the floor. A fact which in itself was enough to set him imagining all sorts of things, and uppermost the sensuality of women and sexual competitiveness, readiness, and willingness of young men. And where Gavin’s sister was concerned, much too willing!

But Eileen had seen Gavin watching her, and as the dance tune ended she came over to the bar with her young man in tow. This was a ploy she’d used before: a direct attack is often the best form of defence. Gavin remembered his promise, however, and in fact the man she was with seemed a very decent sort at first glance: clean and bright, smartly dressed, seriously intentioned. Now Gavin would see if his patter matched up to his looks.

“Gavin,” said Eileen, smiling warningly, “I’d like you to meet Gordon Cleary—Gordon’s a surveyor from Portsmouth.”

“How do you do, Gordon,” Gavin dried his hands, reached across the bar to shake with the other, discovered the handshake firm, dry, and no-nonsense. But before they could strike up any sort of conversation the dance floor had emptied and the bar began to crowd up. “I’m sorry,” Gavin shrugged ruefully. “Business. But at least you were here first and I can get you your drinks.” He looked at his sister.

“Mine’s easy,” she said, smiling. “A lemonade, please.” And Gavin was pleased to note that Cleary made no objection, didn’t try to force strong drink on her.

“Oh, a shandy for me,” he said, “and go light on the beer, please, Gavin, for I’ll be driving later. And one for yourself, if you’re ready.”

The drinks were served and Gavin turned to the next party of customers in line at the bar. There were four of them: Tod Baxter and Angela Meers, village sweethearts, and Allan Harper and his wife, Val. Harper was a PTI at the local school; he ordered a confusing mixture of drinks, no two alike; Gavin, caught on the hop, had a little trouble with his mental arithmetic. “Er, that’s two pounds—er—” He frowned in concentration.

“Three pounds and forty-seven pence, on the button!” said Gordon Cleary from the side. Gavin looked at him and saw his eyes flickering over the price list pinned up behind the bar.

“Pretty fast!” he commented, and carried on serving. But to himself he said:
except I hope it’s only with numbers
…

Gavin wasn’t on his own behind the bar; at the other end, working just as hard, Bill Salmons popped corks and pulled furious pints. Salmons was ex-Army, a parachutist who’d bust himself up jumping. You wouldn’t know it, though, for he was strong as a horse. As the disc jockey got his strobes going again and the music started up, and as the couples gradually gravitated back towards the dance floor, Gavin crossed quickly to Salmons and said: “I’m going to get some of this sweat off. Two minutes?”

Salmons nodded, said; “Hell of a night, isn’t it? Too damned
hot
!”

Gavin reached under the bar for a clean towel and headed for the gents’ toilet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Eileen and Gordon Cleary were back on the floor again. Well, if all the bloke wanted was to dance…that was OK.

In the washroom Gavin took off his shirt, splashed himself with cold water, and towelled it off, dressed himself again. A pointless exercise: he was just as hot and damp as before! As he finished off Allan Harper came in, also complaining of the heat.

They passed a few words; Harper was straightening his tie in a mirror when there came the sound of shattering glass from the dance hall, causing Gavin to start. “What—?” he said.

“Just some clown dropped his drink, I expect,” said Harper. “Or fainted for lack of air! It’s about time we got some decent air-conditioning in this—”