Читать книгу The Devil's Whelp - Vin Hammond Jackson - Страница 5

She couldn't reach him!!

No matter how she tried it made no difference, and the trying was so desperate that her muscles screamed for relief. Something - a current, a force, she didn't know what - was drawing her back, preventing her from going to him, at the same time holding her close enough for her to see the agony of his contortions.

When she had first sighted him, he was just an unrecognisable shape in the distance. Her curiosity aroused, she'd swum in that direction, stroking through the warm sea, feeling the sun on her back, even this far below the surface. It was so dreamy, just her alone in her own private ocean with nothing better to do than drift along and be amazed by the wonders that surrounded her.

What was that strange thing in the water ahead?

Now that she had closed the gap somewhat, she could see that it was blue. It twitched and waved like a large piece of material, a beach towel maybe, caught at the junction of many currents which were fighting for possession of it. The movements were fascinating. She was captivated by the magic of this azure ballet, so much so that she was totally unaware of the diabolical, unseen force which had been watching her for some minutes already. Slowly at first, then with increasing speed, it began to advance.

Suddenly, it swept in from behind, picked her up, and began to carry her with it. As if strapped to the nose cone of a rocket, she was thrust along so fast that her arms were pinned to her sides and her head and shoulders began to hurt from the pounding of the water through which she was being driven.

Surprisingly, though, she could still see ahead. The blue dancer was much larger. In another second it was bigger still. Whatever it was that held her captive was propelling her straight towards the strange phenomenon. She thought for a few anxious seconds that she would slam right into it. Then the force slowed until it had ceased altogether and she found herself treading water.

Confused and disorientated, she stole a few moments to gather her senses and just hung there. The blue image danced before her and now that she was close, she was able to identify it as a man, a diver of some kind. Her son, Eddie, was a diver. She realised it was a stupid notion, but she wondered if this diver knew Eddie.

In a moment, the idea had become totally irrelevant, not because of the odds against such an acquaintanceship, but because this was Eddie!!

She'd caught a glimpse of his face behind the clear panel in his helmet as he'd swung close. He was calling to her. There were no sounds, but a mother didn't need to hear to know that there was pain, terrible, racking pain, compounded within him now by her mere presence. He wasn't just pleased to see her - he was desperate to be with her, for her to be with him.

The instant she tried to go to him, the force stirred and began to pull her away. She thrashed and hauled, just managing to hold her ground, but no more than that. She was a prisoner of opposing energies - the unknown power which kept her from her son, and the deep, maternal love which refused to let her leave. She could only witness his torture, but could do nothing to release him from it.

She watched the lips curl back from gnashing teeth and the eyes rolling up in their sockets, all of this through the curved, plexiglass view-plate set in the front of that stupid hat they made him wear. A rat-hat, they called it, and now he was a rat caught in it.

Her heart ached for Eddie, her son, her only son, her wee bairn. Except he, was no longer a defenceless child. He was a man, for all the good it was doing him.

He continued to gyrate and lurch before her. When he wasn't cavorting in hesitant circles, he was turning turtle, his back arching like a whip about to crack, legs flicking uselessly up and over. His inverted body passed through the expended, rising air, shattering larger bubbles, creating a cloud of effervescent fizz which hid all but the blue of his body suit.

She hated that suit in the same way that she despised the rat-hat. Both were lines drawn between her and Eddie. While he wore them, he wasn't her son. He was an oil man.

He maintained he wasn't, that he was just a diver who happened to work on an oil rig, but she knew differently. Proper divers wore recognisable equipment. She'd seen Jacques Cousteau on the tele. He had a face mask and tanks on his back. He didn't need a rat-hat with pipes running from it to the surface to stay alive. If, it was good enough for him, then why not Eddie?

Because Eddie was an oil man, that was why! He wasn't normal any more. He'd become like the people he worked with. He was no longer satisfied to merely appreciate the undersea world for the miracle that it was. He had to corrupt it, to use it in the avaricious quest for oil. And that meant being like them, turning a blind eye to what was normal, sensible, perhaps disregarding these attributes on purpose to prove a point so obscure that she was unable to fathom it.

Why, oh why did he have to do it? Wasn't he happy with the Navy? It was a good, secure job with a future, and a pension. And he'd got to wear the same kind of skin-tight suits that normal divers wore, not the ridiculous, blue rags that he had on now.

They were hardly more than overalls, really. In fact, Eddie used the same kind of clothes when he worked on the car. If only he could be doing just that, right now. Please God, let it be so, she pleaded, and me watching him. She tried to clasp her hands in prayer and knew that unless she could perform this simple task her prayers would be ignored, but she couldn't do it and fight the current at the same time.

Eddie jerked and danced. The lines running from the back of his rat-hat to the surface looped and bowed. It was as if some invisible monster had hold of them and was bouncing her son around as if he were no more than a child's toy on the end of a piece of elastic.

She screamed in frustration and anguish. The sounds were in her head, in her mind, but all that came from her mouth was a rush of bubbles which obliterated her son's image. She stopped screaming. She had to, in order to see. Terrible though it was, she had to look!!

Eddie was screaming, too. His mouth was open wide, his throat a raw, yawning cavern. Folds of skin on his face became ropes straining to the limit. They would never hold. They wept for release as she did, as Eddie would be weeping, if he didn't have the need to scream in terror-filled silence.

Then luminous, violet milk was pouring into his mouth. That was what it looked like, a trailing, twisting, viscous stream that flowed around his body then curled up to his neck and under the seal of his breathing helmet. Once inside, it just went into Eddie, through his mouth and his nostrils, right inside.

She pitched and pulled, dragging at the water with clawing fingers, coming no closer, destined to witness the invasion of her bairn by this affront to both nature and God.

It continued to flow relentlessly in a never-ending stream, saturating her precious Eddie, bloating him until there was no more space left in either his body or the suit and hat which were supposed to have kept him safe.

The suit began to tear. Eddie's nose and lips pressed flat against the view-plate. His teeth gnawed involuntarily on the clear, plexiglass panel. Then it started to crack.

Her world began to come apart, everything did - the suit, the rat-hat, and finally Eddie. The sea before her exploded. Pieces flew, spiralling through the water, trailing millions of bubbles captured in spearing, violet jet-streams. Eddie was everywhere, and yet he had gone completely and forever.

Her anguish and fear had reached a climax. She was impotent. She had let her son die. She wasn't a mother. She was a weak, useless woman!

Wailing bubbles, she tore at herself, raking her nails down her cheeks, forcing them to pierce right through and into her mouth, clutching the flesh in greedy palms and ripping it from her face. Then she turned her rabid attention to her body. Her hands fought through the material of her clothes until the fingers were able to hook and drag great pieces of gory meat from the bones and thrust them in despair at the unnatural power which held her, making her final gesture of contemptuous defiance.

But the force which had been rushing like a stream seemed to have disappeared. The water was still, and so the chunks of flesh which she had torn from herself just floated away a short distance then hung suspended, seeping wispy trails of blood.

She had stopped, mesmerised by the phenomenon, a flap of torn stomach wall in one hand and a kidney oozing between the clutching fingers of the other. Blood trailed from both hands. It rose. Then there was more, and more, until it was billowing from the huge, jagged rents in her abdomen.

Just when the opaque cloud of red began to mask her view, she saw something, a dark shape at the periphery of her vision. The crimson screen became denser, and the shape moved closer, coasting gracefully. She recognised it by the way it moved. The name was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't quite recall it. Then the spectre changed direction suddenly as such creatures do and she was able to watch it circling, alert, deadly, the first of many sharks.

After all she'd seen, all the torture she had been forced to endure and had finally put herself through, it should have been over. No one person ought to be allowed to suffer more. Now this!! Couldn't she just have grieved in peace? She had loved Eddie and always would, but she had to be alive to mourn his passing.

They were circling closer, four, five, and more coming. The front runners were growing agitated, snapping and warning off those nearest to them, marking their ground, establishing a pecking order.

She turned and began swimming. The water was placid, no rushing tide, not even a gentle current, nothing to aid or abet her. No one thing that she could blame, or curse, or sacrifice her fate to. All that lay between life and death was her ability and determination.

And she did want to live. Now that Eddie had gone and there was nothing she could do to bring him back, she wanted time to grieve. She didn't want to die, not like this, not mashed and torn apart by....

One swam so close to her that she could have touched it. It seemed to be taking not the slightest notice of her and had almost passed. Then, with a surge, it jack-knifed and rushed at her. She churned water in a frantic dog-paddle, going nowhere fast.

She'd heard that you felt no pain when a shark attacked, just the impact - it happened so quickly. So why could she feel the teeth spearing into the flesh of her thigh? How was it possible that a person totally submerged in water could hear her bones snapping and splintering? And if she could feel and hear this, what would it be like when it started to eat its way up her body? God in heaven, why was this happening at all?

A terrible darkness engulfed her that was not merely visual. A dense, perceptual screen surrounded her, masking reason, defying logic. Agnes MacFarlane was alone within it. There was no more pain, not of the physical kind. But it hurt to be there, probably more so because nothing made sense any more. She had been swimming, yet she had never learned how. She was floating, but at the same time was sitting bolt upright. She had been drowning and thought that she still was; only the water was perspiration that streamed down her face like a river over the rocks of a waterfall. And the wet suit which she had never in her life possessed she now recognised as a flimsy nightdress which clung to her saturated body. And the sharks....?

She paused, frowning. Where were they? Fear caused a fresh outbreak of perspiration to well from her pores. They must be there still, lurking beyond the darkness, waiting to move in for the kill. She strained her eyes to look for them. The closest shape she could find was the silhouette of her arch-topped wardrobe canting harmlessly against the wall next to the window.

Her attention became fixed on the curtains. Light shone through them, accentuating the folds and threadbare patches. She wanted to get up, walk over to them and peer out, but she was afraid that the dingy Glasgow back-street which ought to be there might not; and anyway, she couldn't walk - the shark had been feeding on her. It had taken her legs.

Oh, God, my legs!!! Panic snatched at her. She felt for them and they were there! The sharks were just imagination. Everything must have been. Then she remembered savaging her own body and thought that she might have done just that while in the grip of her terrible dream. Her hands frantically traced the contours, finding no rents or gaping holes, none at all. She was complete again, almost.

Only one thing was missing - her son, Eddie. He wasn't there. He was on the other side of the World - Australia. He was out on an oil rig, with his rat-hat, and his air lines, and his blue body-suit. He had all he ever wanted, all he needed, except for his loving mother. She was still here in Scotland, having nightmares about him, so afraid that he might never return.

In his absence, she did the only thing a mother in her situation could do for her son - she cried.