Dead Bait 2 Page 9

  He scrambled down the bank, gripped her ankles and hauled her from the wash. As he pulled, her shorts hitched back into place. Mud clung to her, shimmering in the sun. He rolled her over, knowing deep within his racing heart it was too late. Although her mouth gaped and her tongue lolled, the ribcage beneath her flaccid breasts lay dormant. “Shit,” he said. He searched the eye that wasn’t swollen and split—his doing, he realised—for any signs of life. Clogged by a creamy cataract of river silt, it stared blindly, and he looked away, noticing a section of red tribal paint untouched by mud; it gleamed impossibly bright.

  His surroundings now thrummed through mighty speakers, pulsed in time with his heart. A million accusatory eyes studied him from their invisible lairs. The red daubing made him think of poison and he saw himself sprinting through the forest, shadowed assailants close behind. With the camp in sight, he’d think he’d made it, only to swat at a sudden pain stinging the back of his neck. He’d probably have enough time to pluck out the dart, to rationalise it had been traced down the oily spine of a poisonous frog, might even survive its toxins long enough to see one of the girl’s tribe leaping from the shadows.

  “Calm,” he said, “just calm down.” The incessant throb joining his heart to his ears abated with every breath, and the threat of imminent danger dissipated. He didn’t know how long he’d stared into the water, but the girl’s muddy skin had started to crack in the heat.

  Pivoting on the spot, he searched the trees, scanned up and downstream. No one had seen him, he thought; he’d be dying a painful death by now if he had. He blinked sweat from his eyes, squinted down at the girl. Apart from the red shorts, she merged with the silt and reeds. In fact, he thought, her legs, now covered in cracked mud, had taken on the appearance of bark.

  Camouflage! Yes, he’d push her deeper into the reeds, slop on more mud for good measure. He’d be back at the camp in less than an hour, on a small plane headed back to civilisation in four, sitting in first class on a 747 in under eight. In less than twenty-four hours from this very moment, he’d be sharing a hot bath with a glass of wine. And the girl, he mused, she’d most likely be a stew of chunks sitting in the stomach of a crocodile.

  He sank to his knees, gripped the girl’s ankles, and shunted her into the reeds. He slathered handfuls of silt over her limbs and torso, looking away as he covered her face. Aware the water would eventually wash the shorts clean—a red flag for her tribe to find—he slipped his hands into the mud and lifted her hips. As he pulled the shorts clear, he balled them up and stuffed them into his pocket.

  Invisible, he thought. He could just make out her outline, but supposed that was because he knew she was there.

  He grinned, and looking at his glistening fingers, whispered, “Ferry-moans.”

  ***

  He’d have to be quick; it was blisteringly hot, and his fingers were already beginning to dry. With the girl—a mere cluster of dead wood—only yards away, he saw the perfect spot. He figured the grassy island fifteen yards out would be teeming with the smaller fish picking at its sunken roots, attracting predators.

  Positioned higher up on the bank for a better cast, he pinched the feathers masking the lure’s hooks, and transferred the magic bait. He flicked it out just off to the side, let it sink, and began reeling in. Every so often, he twitched the line, imitating a wounded fish.

  His first cast produced nothing and he gave the lure a final rub, deciding he’d finally give in to defeat if nothing took.

  Again, he placed the bait perfectly. Just something, he thought, anything. If he could just take something away from this hell, he’d—

  The line twitched. “That’s it,” he whispered, slowing the pace, “easy does it.”

  Without any tentative warning nibbles, the line pulled taut. He struck hard, his rod-tip pulled down, carving a white arc into the water. Off balance, he widened his stance. The line changed direction, heading towards the safety of the bank, towards the reeds... towards the girl. “No you don’t,” he said, straining.

  He’d never fought a fight like it, the surge constant, relentless, no head-shaking, no snapping efforts. Using all his strength and the curve of the rod, he managed to force the monster away from the reeds. The line slashed a V into the water as it passed in front of him. He caught a glimpse of the shape gliding beneath the murk, indiscernible, an indistinct shadow.

  The line suddenly fell slack.

  He didn’t even have time to curse, to complete a single turn of his reel.

  The black tendril burst from the water like a torpedo, coiling its way up and around the line. He flicked the rod as though it was an extension of his arm as something revolting had landed on it. The black thing held fast. Incredulous, he watched as it shrunk into itself, hoisting its bloated sack of a body half out of the river. Before he could attempt another shake or abandon the rod altogether, the part still submerged flattened out like a paddle and gave an almighty kick.

  For the second time that day, Ryan took a trip over the bank. He slid down on his knees, belly-flopping the water.

  Although it was shallow and he broke surface immediately, his boots sank into the silt. He splashed around to face the bank, panic causing him to buck forward before his ankles were swallowed up to his knees. About to make a dash and scramble for the grass, he looked up... and froze.

  It was at least seven feet long in its entirety as it hauled itself onto the bank. The black thing had disgorged the hooks, and now rose up onto its bulbous sack, its extending arm reaching high.

  “What the hell?” He let his hands and boots sink for fear of attracting attention. If he remained perfectly still, it might...

  The black arm flattened out and snapped around towards him. It started weaving back and forth like the hypnotic dance of a cobra.

  It’s seen me, he thought. No, it’s... smelt me. There were no discernable features, but he guessed within its oily flesh lay leech-like jaws—razors that would administer a circular saw bite.

  The black lump retracted its probing arm.

  Ryan eased his hands from the silt. There were only two options available: turn and make for the island, or clamber up the bank and try to out-manoeuvre it. He could try for the opposite bank, but it was at least double the distance, its banks muddy and steep.

  The decision was made for him as the blob poured itself down the bank like a barrel of spilt oil.

  Managing several clumsy leaps in the shallows, he plunged under, his clothes heavy, his boots blocks of concrete. He kicked hard, awaiting the tug that would take him under for good.

  But it never came and his palms found the island’s verge with a slap. With fistfuls of root and grass, he hauled himself onto the small outcrop.

  Poised and ready to stamp, he scanned the river.

  The water was quiet; the thing was nowhere to be seen.

  It’s waiting, he thought, coiled up beneath me. One false move, just one—

  He detected movement on the bank.

  From the island it looked like a snake that had just swallowed a bowling ball. It extended and retracted, hauling its distended sack behind it. As it entered the reeds, it weaved and probed with its spade-like head.

  The girl, he thought, it’s smelt her, prefers its meat dead.

  Go, his inner voice urged, go now whilst it’s distracted.

  The instruction was clear and loud, but the command never reached his limbs. He followed its course as it coiled around and lifted the girl’s thigh. Its spade head retracted as though considering its options and, tapering to a point, it lunged, plugging her and thrashing its way in.

  Oh god, he thought, it’s starting with her insides. Incredulous, he watched as it tunneled its way in, splitting in two, leaving an oily limb to slither up her stomach and between her breasts.

  His inner voice screamed: You can make it to the bank! Go! You’ll easily—

  Again, the black tendril retracted before striking, plugging her mouth, nostrils and ears.

  NOW! GO! RIGH
T NOW!

  The girl lurched onto her side as though she’d been dead for days and writhing with maggots.

  He could make it, he decided. The thing was feeding. By the time he’d reached the bank, the thing probably wouldn’t have even made it fully out. But what if it did? What if two smaller ones emerged? Quicker ones! And what if there were more?

  The girl’s right leg twitched.

  “Just go,” he whispered.

  Her leg flexed, kicked, and both feet dragged up to her buttocks. The featureless head slathered with mud pulled free and then slapped back into the slit. Her legs fell open and then pulled back together, and like a marionette plucked from a dusty shelf, she rose up, her arms limp, her chin resting on her chest.

  Ryan couldn’t feel the warmth spreading across his khakis, nor the throb in his neck; every part of his being tuned in to the figure staggering at the river’s edge.

  The girl placed a hand to her face, twitched her fingers as though trying them out for the first time. Her head snapped up only to loll back onto her shoulder.

  Although he couldn’t make out the silt-clogged eye, he could feel its blind stare.

  The mud-slicked figure scrunched up her face, her lips pulled back over her teeth. She clawed her fingers and raised them up over her head. Looking as though she were about to either dance or take a dive, she fell to her knees and, sliding effortlessly onto her belly, entered the water like a crocodile.

  ***

  The river continued its lazy stroll into the rain-forest. Ryan stared into the shimmering blanket, not seeing anything but the silver bubbles breaking on the surface as they made their way towards the island.

  RAISED BY THE MOON

  Ramsey Campbell

  It was the scenery that did for him. Having spent the afternoon in avoiding the motorway and enjoying the unhurried country route, Grant reached the foothills only to find the Cavalier refused to climb. He’d driven a mere few hundred yards up the first steep slope when the engine commenced groaning. He should have made time during the week to have it serviced, he thought, feeling like a child caught out by a teacher, except that teaching had shown him what was worse—to be a teacher caught out by a child. He dragged the lever into first gear and ground the accelerator under his heel. The car juddered less than a yard before helplessly backing towards its own smoke.

  His surroundings grew derisively irrelevant: the hills quilted with fields, the mountains ridged with pines, the roundish moon trying out its whiteness in the otherwise blue sky. He managed to execute most of a turn as the car slithered backwards and sent it downhill past a Range Rover loaded with a family whose children turned to display their tongues to him. The July heat buttered him as he swung the Cavalier onto a parched verge, where the engine hacked to itself while he glared at the map.

  Half the page containing his location was crowded with the fingerprints of mountains. Only the coast was unhampered by their contours. He eased the car off the brown turf and nursed it several digressive miles to the coast road, where a signpost pointed left to Windhill, right to Baiting. Northward had looked as though it might bring him sooner inland to the motorway, and so he took the Baiting route.

  He hadn’t bargained for the hindrance of the wind. Along the jagged coastline all the trees leaned away from the jumpy sea as though desperate to grasp the land. Before long the barren seaward fields gave way to rocks and stony beaches and there weren’t even hedges to fend off the northwester. Whenever the gusts took a breath he smelled how overworked the engine was growing. Beside the road was evidence of the damage the wind could wreak: scattered planks of some construction which, to judge by a ruin a mile farther on, had been a fishmonger’s stall. Then the doggedly spiky hedge to his right winced inland, revealing an arc of cottages as white as the moon would be when the sky went out. Perhaps someone in the village could repair the car or Grant would find a room for the night—preferably both.

  The ends of the half-mile arc of cottages were joined across the inlet by a submerged wall or a path that divided the prancing sea from the less restless bay. The far end was marked by a lone block of colour, a red telephone box planted in the water by a trick of perspective. His glimpse of a glistening object crouched or heaped in front of it had to be another misperception; when he returned his attention to the view once he’d finished tussling with the wheel as a gust tried to shove the car across the road, he saw no sign of life.

  The car was panting and shivering by the time he reached the first cottage. A vicious wind that smelled of fish stung his skin as he eased his rusty door shut and peered tearfully at the buildings opposite. He thought all the windows were curtained with net until he realised the whiteness was salt, which had also scoured the front doors pale. In the very first window a handwritten sign offered ROOM. The wind hustled him across the road, which was strewn with various conditions of seaweed, to the fish-faced knocker on a door that had once been black.

  More of the salt that gritted under his fingers was lodged in the hinge. He had to dig his thumb into the gaping mouth to heave the fish-head high and slam it against the metal plate. He heard the blow fall flat in not much of a passage and a woman’s voice demanding shrilly “Who wants us now?”

  The nearest to a response was an irregular series of slow footsteps that ended behind the door, which was dragged wide by a man who filled most of the opening. Grant couldn’t tell how much of his volume he owed to his cable-knit jersey and loose trousers, but the bulk of his face drooped like perished rubber from his cheekbones. Salt might account for the redness of his small eyes, though perhaps anxiety had turned his sparse hair and dense eyebrows white. He hugged himself and shivered and glanced past his visitor, presumably at the wind. Parting his thick lips with a tongue as ashen, he mumbled “Where have you come from?”

  “Liverpool.”

  “Don’t know it,” the man said, and seemed ready to use that as an excuse to close the door.

  A woman plodded out of the kitchen at the end of the cramped dingy hall. She looked as though marriage had transformed her into a version of the man, shorter but broader to compensate and with hair at least as white, not to mention clothes uncomfortably similar to his. “Bring him in,” she urged.

  “What are you looking for?” her husband muttered.

  “Someone who can fix my car and a room if I’ll need one.”

  “Twenty miles up the coast.”

  “I don’t think it’ll last that far. Won’t they come here?”

  “Of course they will if they’re wanted, Tom. Let him in.”

  “You’re staying, then.”

  “I expect I may have to. Can I phone first?”

  “If you’ve the money you can give it a tackle.”

  “How much will it take?” When Tom’s sole answer was a stare, Grant tried “How much do you want?”

  “Me, nothing. Nor her either. Phone’s up the road.”

  Grant was turning away, not without relief, when the woman said “Won’t he need the number? Tommy and his Fiona.”

  “I know that. Did you get it?” Tom challenged Grant.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Better start, then. Five. Three. Three. Five,” Tom said and shut the door.

  Grant gave in to an incredulous laugh that politeness required him to muffle. Perhaps another cottage might be more welcoming, he thought with dwindling conviction as he progressed along the seafront. He could hardly see through any of the windows, and such furniture as he could distinguish, by no means in every room, looked encrusted with more than dimness. The few shops might have belonged to fishmongers; one window displayed a dusty plastic lobster on a marble slab also bearing stains suggestive of the prints of large wet hands. The last shop must have been more general, given the debris scattered about the bare floor—distorted but unopened tins, a disordered newspaper whose single legible headline said FISH STOCKS DROP, and was there a dead cat in the darkest corner? Beyond two farther cottages was the refuge of the phone box.


  Perhaps refuge was too strong a word. Slime on the floor must indicate that it hadn’t been out of reach of the last high tide. A fishy smell that had accompanied him along the seafront was also present, presumably borne by the wind that kept lancing the trapped heat with chill. Vandalism appeared to have invaded even this little community; the phone directory was strewn across the metal shelf below the coin-box in fragments so sodden they looked chewed. Grant had to adjust the rakish handset on its hook to obtain a tone before he dragged the indisposed dial to the numbers he’d repeated all the way to the box. He was trying to distinguish whether he was hearing static or simply the waves when a man’s brusque practically Scottish voice said “Beach.”

  “You aren’t a garage, then.”

  “Who says I’m not? Beach’s Garage.”

  “I’m with you now,” Grant said, though feeling much as he had when Tom translated his wife’s mnemonic. “And you fix cars.”

  “I’d be on the scrapheap if I didn’t.”

  “Good,” Grant blurted and to compensate “I mean, I’ve got one for you.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “It’s a Cavalier that wouldn’t go uphill.”

  “Can’t say a word about it ‘til I’ve seen it. All I want to know is where you are.”

  “Twenty miles south of you, they tell me.”

  “I don’t need to ask who.” After a pause during which Grant felt sought by the chill and the piscine smell, the repairman said “I can’t be there before dark.”