THE KILLER OF THE DARKNESS

EPISODE TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SIX

The police moved in a calm orderly way down the narrow streets to the harbour, Roome and me leading.  The column moved purposefully, but without the noise obtrusiveness of the military of the 29th century that I belonged to.

            Big-George lived up to his name.  A huge man with black beetling brows and a bald head, was waiting on his twenty-six sea-going cruiser, already fired up, the diesels thumping and gurgling over the stillness of the harbour and echoing off the walls of the stone houses.  Several figures could be seen at dreary lit windows and two or three people were on the quayside.

            The police, chequered caps with chin straps down, rifles slung over their shoulders, scrambled aboard.

            Irritated, Roome looked at his watch.

            “Where’s Doctor Walton?  We’re five minutes late already.”

            I tightened the canvas belt that held my revolver in the holster outside the jacket.  It had loosened on the way down to the boat.

            “Have a heart.  The man’s getting on in years.”

            Roome frowned.

            “He’s used to getting up all hours don’t forget.  If there’s anybody left out there…”

            He nodded in the direction of the North Sea; the blazing Coastguard Station could not be seen from the harbour.

            “… then we have got to be away as fast as we can.  There’s a risk of exposure if that ‘Thing’ hasn’t got to them first.”

            “How do you know it’s involved.  It could be a natural accident, couldn’t it?”

            “Yes.”

            I could almost taste the lack of conviction in Roome’s voice.

            After another two minutes wating in the cold, in which Roome checked his timepiece at least ten times, the slightly overweight figure of Doctor Walton, scarf flying out like Biggles, bag at his side, scurried into the square and on up the quay.  Puffing and panting he joined us.

            “Sorry I’m late.  I had to get Doctor Dunmore cover for me.”

            Roome stamped his cold feet on the ground.

            “Well, you’re here now, Doctor.  Let us get on board.”

            We assisted the Doctor, holding him by both elbows, and passed him into the care of the police on the deck.  Then we stepped across him.

            Big-George nodded to the men holding the lines fore and aft, who threw them into the boat.  The engine roared and the deck vibrated as the took her out into the middle of the harbour, stern first, the dark water churning up white with millions of tiny bubbles.

            The engine noise died away, leaving only the hiss of the bubbles lifting to the surface.  Big-George pushed the gear handle into forward drive and slammed on the throttle.  With a roar, the bows lifted, the police grabbing for rail support as the deck canted.

            Leaving a white wake, the boat headed straight out between the twin grey stone arms of the jetty and down to the open water.

            Big-George knew these waters well.  On a morning like this, dark as doomsday, snow blowing down and a thickening mist making it impossible, for me at least, to tell the difference between a naturally breaking sea and a wave foaming over a reef, Big-George showed what a rare-breed he could be.  A rare breed of naturals to whom the sea is truly home. 

            Twenty years’ daily polishing and refining in every conceivable condition rarely bestowed gift with which you must be born with in the first place.

            His huge hands on the throttle and wheel had the delicacy of a moth.  He had the night-sight of a barn owl and an ear which could infallibly distinguish between waves breaking in the open sea, on reefs or on shores.

            All this to keep us safe.  Without this knowledge, the patrolling U-Boats would not even attempt to stick this close to the coast, without having to give their positions away to the Typhoon patrols.

            Foaming white-fanged reefs reached out at us, bare few feet away, on either side.  Big-George did not seem to notice them.

            Roome, Walton and I had sought solace inside the cabin, out of the cold wind and spray lifting back from the thumping bows.

            Nobody spoke until I suddenly remembered something important.

            “Hey, did you find Corporal Turner’s recording?”

            Roome and Doctor Walton exchanged concerned glances.

            “Yes, we did.”

            “Was there anything on it?”

            For a moment I thought the two of them had not heard me, and I almost repeated myself when Walton answered.

            “We did.  I tell you I never want to hear anything like that ever again.”

            The sea rained down on the cabin.  Walton, seemingly pleased to be distracted, looked out of the porthole.  Mystified, I turned to Roome.

            “Well?”

            Roome stared fixedly at me.

            “Apart from the terrible noises of a man being killed, there was a background of grunts and whistling sounds; nothing definite.”

            Walton wheeled around, indignant.

            “Don’t be daft, man.  There’s no doubt about it.”

            “Well, I say there is.  The whole thing is indistinct and full of burst of interference or something?”

            I raised my arms.

            “Hey, hang on a minute.  What are you two arguing about? You haven’t told me yet.”

            Frowning, Roome passed a hand across his brow.

            “Doctor Walton maintains he could hear something else.”

            I turned to Walton.

            “What?”

            The old Doctor took a deep breath.

            “I just don’t know for sure.  As Roome said, the whole thing was confused and horrible, but there is this sound.  To me it was laughter, demented bursts of ape-like screeching.  Human?  I couldn’t swear to it, but I’d say yes.”