Sea Change (18 page)

Greg grunted
and bent down. When he stood up he had the stone in his hands, and
his eyes were alight with something that was not Greg, never was
Greg. He made a sound like a cat mewing and then sighed, a deep
long sigh like the wind.

"Mine," Elias
said. "Mine," and his hands began to shake where he gripped the
jet, and then his arms, as if an electrical charge was surging
through him. The darkness around him thickened and gathered. There
was a sound like rushing water, as if the sea had boiled up and was
going to surge in over the top of the cliffs, foam racing across
the land, and there was a strong metallic smell, like copper or
blood.

"Mine," Elias
said, and the darkness seemed to be flowing in waves into him,
sucking substance from the world. Around John, things faded. The
grass became nothing more than a hazy wash around their feet, and
up above him, one by one, the stars were hidden. John felt himself
becoming less. He held a hand up in front of him and thought that
he could see through it, as if it were made of gauze. I've failed,
he thought, but the thought did not seem important any more, no
thought seemed important any more, I am not important any more he
thought, me, who used to be John but am now just—well now I am just
tired, so tired, but soon I shall no longer even be that and he
tried to take one more breath, just for old time's sake, to taste
the cool air of the night and the smell of the wet grass and the
salt of the sea one more time, and then a shaky voice said, "Greg
Downing, look at me.
Look at me.
”

Chapter
Fifteen

The terrible
fading drew back. John became himself again. He could see Greg
standing, holding the stone, his body still shaking.

"Greg Downing,"
Sal said. "It's me." She was standing where the path petered out
into the short grass of the cliff top. "Fight him, Greg. You're
being used. I know the real Greg, and I know that you're better
than this. When he's used you, he'll throw you away Greg, he'll
destroy you. Fight him, Greg. For me."

"I'll destroy
you, girl," Elias spat, but the words came out slow and stuttering,
as if the mouth he spoke with was fighting against him. "You're too
late. Feel it." He gestured, and again the world began to fade.
"I've held this stone for only seconds, and it has already given me
so much. Look. See. Fear me.” Again he closed both hands around the
stone, and the darkness started to reach out, towards Sal, towards
John.

Then a small
shape ran from the darkness, and Simon hit Greg in a tangle of arms
and legs, knocking him staggering forward. The jet fell from Greg's
hands and rolled again across the grass. Like elastic snapping, the
world jerked back into place. John could breathe again. He could
see Greg already starting to lift himself from the ground.

"Run," John
shouted, and he raced forward, past Greg, to where the stone had
fallen. "Go, I'll catch you. We've got to get to Hob's Hole, I've
got to get rid of this."

Simon
hesitated, but Sal came tearing past, grabbing him by the arm. He
turned to followed her, but then broke away, ran back a few steps
and kicked at Greg, making him collapse back down onto the ground.
He shaped to do it one more time, but then John shouted and
pointed, and Simon turned and saw the shadows rising from the
grass, a mist that had a darkness at its heart and that turned and
twisted and started to coalesce into shapes that did not quite make
sense.

"He's left
him," John shouted. “He’s not in Greg any more. Run, Si. Now! Don't
wait for me."

Simon looked in
fear at the rising mist, but stood his ground, waiting for John. A
few metres beyond him Sal had skidded to a halt, and she too
waited.

"Stubborn
sods," John said, and he slipped and slid his way to within a step
of the cliff edge, and then his foot hit something hard, and there
was the stone. He stooped and grabbed it, nearly dropped it again
because he thought that it was burning hot, then realised that it
was not heat, it was cold. John snatched it up, held it to his body
with one arm, and fingers of ice immediately penetrated his coat,
his shirt. The mist trickled towards him and he heard a vicious
hissing voice that saying words he did not know, in a language that
he did not recognise.

John froze for
a moment, and the world stopped and slowed down around him. He felt
very tired. It would be so easy to lie down, on the soft grass. To
sleep.

"No," he said,
and it was an effort to get the words out, but as soon as he did
his fugue was broken, and he said, "Right, Hob's Hole. Let's move
it. Now."

Sal said, "Oh
no, oh no," and didn't move.

"What?" John
said, "Come
on
."

"Hob's Hole,"
she said.

"What about
it?" But as soon as John spoke he knew, remembering his struggle an
hour back, and Simon realised too.

"Tide's in.
We'll never get to it."

John looked
back over his shoulder. The bank of mist was rising, and the
shadows were surging within it. One looked like a man, but John
couldn't see it properly, and anyway it was too tall, and what he
thought were limbs moved in a way that arms and legs do not. The
mist began to roll towards them.

"We've got to
run anyway," John said. But I don't know where, he thought.

"The harbour,"
Sal said.

A finger of
mist reached out towards John. "Now!" he shouted. “Run!” They began
to sprint down the path towards the village, and the mist behind
them rolled and began to move, the way that clouds streaked across
the sky when there were strong winds, high up.

John ran,
staring ahead at what the faint moonlight let him see of the path.
It was rutted and jutting with stones, and John knew that if he
tripped, if any of them tripped, the mist would be on them, and
everything would be finished.

Simon shouted
something incoherent, and ran even faster. John didn't need to
wonder what had prompted it. He had heard the sounds from the mist
too, a distant screaming that sounded like an animal in pain, and
then a low howl that sounded like nothing he had ever heard before.
They were keeping ahead of it, but only just, and they would not be
able to keep up this pace for long.

"Why...harbour?" he shouted in a ragged voice to Sal who was
running alongside him. "Need...Hob's."

"Davey's boat,"
she panted back. "I'm taking us out."

Then there was
no more time to talk, no more breath to talk, just the panicking
run down the cliff path towards the sleeping red roofs of the
village, with the cold darkness at their backs and a constant chaos
of unearthly noise coming from what was within it. Then Simon
stumbled in front of them, just for a moment before he regained his
footing, but John had already swerved to avoid him and his foot hit
a rock he hadn’t seen, and he was in the air, and then on the
ground, winded by the fall, Sal and Simon skidding to a halt just
ahead of him as they realised, their faces full of concern as they
looked back, and then terror when they saw what was just behind
them.

John tried to
shout to them to leave him, to run, but he didn’t have the breath,
and the mist rolled down towards him and a shadow within it took
shape. The shape was squat, and powerful, and scuttling, and as the
mist neared John, who was trying to scrabble to his feet, the shape
began to rear up.

Then something
streaked past John from behind, a black blur of fur and paws and
aggression that plunged straight into the mist with a growl that
seemed to come from deep within the earth. The dog disappeared into
the mist and the shape staggered back, howling.

John's chest
heaved and suddenly he was drinking in the cool air, and he got to
his feet.

"Come on," Sal
shouted, but John held on for a moment, staring into the wall of
mist behind them, and then the dog exploded from it, racing past
him, one side of its head bloody and tattered. It shot past John,
heading down the path, then stopped just beyond Simon and Sal,
barking frantically.

"Follow it,"
John shouted. "Follow it."

And they began
to run again, the mist and what moved and wailed within it always
hard at their heels. The dog raced in front, leading them safely
down the path until they were off the cliff and into the village.
They ran down the street, footsteps echoing off the walls, running
through the night in a village that seemed deserted, lost to the
world that they all knew. The mist chased them through the streets,
tendrils of smoke reaching for them from the alleys and over the
roofs of houses, long thin fingers twisting, grabbing. It moved
closer to them as they slowed, running out of breath, and John
could feel it just behind him as he ran, a cold emptiness as if
there was nothing behind him at all, not the mist, not the cliff,
not the earth at all just a dizzying drop into a frozen infinity.
They were too slow. It was too quick. At least they had tried their
best, John thought. The mist drew closer to them.

The dog skidded
and turned, its claws skittering on the concrete.

"No," John
shouted, but the dog ran past him again, back into the mist, which
stopped its inexorable roll and exploded in a flurry of movement
and noise. The three kept running, getting as far ahead as they
could before the thing that pursued them started to move again.

This time, the
dog did not reappear, and John felt a stab of sadness inside him
that he knew he would never lose. His throat burnt raw from the
cold air, but still he sucked it in, ignored the stitch in his
side, kept on running, holding the stone close to his body. It felt
like ice through his t-shirt, but at the same time burning hot, as
if it would leave a mark against his skin that would never go
away.

They skidded
around the corner at the bottom of the street and came out by the
harbour. The sea slapped fretfully against the land, and the
strengthening wind whipped the tops off the waves and threw it into
their faces.

"We're never
going out in that," Simon said. "We can't."

"We have to,"
John said. "There's no choice. You don't have to come, Si. It's
okay."

But Simon just
shook his head, lips tight, and walked off towards the moorings at
the side of the harbour. John exchanged a look with Sal and
followed. They hurried around to the far side of the harbour,
towards the rusting iron steps that ran down into the greasy black
water, Simon a few paces ahead. Then Simon stopped, standing
completely still, and John and Sal caught up with him, puzzled,
looking at him to see what was wrong. He was staring straight
ahead, into the shadows where the long ramp ran down from the
lifeboat house and into the water.

"Oh God," Sal
said, "No, no, no. It isn't. Simon, it isn't."

Simon said
nothing, just stared.

A dark figure
stood at the bottom of the ramp, as if he had just walked out of
the water. It wasn't the old man, or Greg, but John did not
recognise him.

"Maybe it’s
just someone back from fishing," John said, but he did not believe
it himself, as there was no boat anywhere near the bottom of the
ramp.

"You're right.
It is," Simon said. He started to walk forward, onto the slippery
weed-stained concrete of the ramp. "It is. And he's been out such a
long, long time." The figure stood at the bottom, waiting. Simon
walked on, tears rolling down his face. "Oh God, Dad, I've missed
you so much."

Chapter
Sixteen

Simon carried
on down the towards the sea that fidgeted and shivered at the
bottom of the ramp, and the man who stood there, water curling
around his ankles in the same way that the mist that had chased
them curled around the bricks and stones of the village.

"Simon," Sal
shouted. "Stop."

“It’s Dad, Sal.
It's Dad."

"Simon!" Sal
screamed this time, and chased after her brother, but slipped and
fell on the wet concrete, banging her knee so hard that she cried
out in pain. "Simon, don't, it's not him. It
can't
be him.
It’s just a trick."

Simon did not
stop, but he slowed. "Sal, you can see its him, Dad, say something.
It's us Dad."

"Yes, say
something," John shouted. He pulled the jet so tight to him that it
hurt, but the pain was a welcome anchor in a world that felt like a
nightmare. "These are your children. They love you so much, I've
heard them talk about you, they love you and miss you so, so much.
So tell them. Tell them you love them too."

The figure
stood, motionless. Its clothes were dripping with water. Simon
stood still, uncertain, torn apart. Sal hobbled down to him, put an
arm around him.

"Tell them!"
John shouted. The mist had snaked its way along the harbour wall
towards them. John knew that there was not much time. When the mist
reached them, surrounded them, then so would whatever moved within
it. "Tell them you love them, then. If you're real, it can't be
hard, can it? Your own children. They love you. At least let them
hear your voice."

"Dad?" Simon
stood, waiting, tears rolling down his face. "Dad?"

"It isn't him,"
Sal muttered. "It looks like him Simon, but that's all. Look at
him. Really look at him. It looks like him, but there's no Dad
there."

The figure
remained motionless, expressionless, but more and more water began
to drip from its clothes, from its skin. John hurried down to join
the others, and when he got there he could smell the rank smell of
decaying vegetation. Up above them, the first fingers of mist were
starting to stretch towards the top of the ramp.

"Simon,” John
said.

"You're not my
Dad," Simon said, in a dull flat voice.

The figure
wavered, and then started to crumple in, losing its human shape,
falling apart in long dark strips that crumpled softly to the
concrete. Within just a few seconds, there was no figure there any
more, just a pile of dank seaweed lying at the foot of the ramp.
Every wave that came in stole away a little bit more of the
seaweed, taking it into the dark heart of the water, and then there
was nothing left at all.