The Rocks Below (8 page)

     As the tentacle coiled around his ankle, Dougal chopped down. It was like he was rubbing the blade against a knife-sharpener. There were a few sparks and that was about it.
 

     Instead of chopping, he tried slicing. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. End of game. It looked like this boulder was going to get 3 for the price of 1.
 

     Dougal’s ankle hurt. The wrapping was tight. He could feel the rough grain of the surface cutting through his trousers and into his skin. He couldn’t be sure, but there was a warm trickling sensation in his foot, which meant he might well be bleeding underneath his socks.
 

     He looked over to the other guys.
 

     It was useless. Now they were both out cold.
 

     He glared at the face that looked like that of a sleeper having a nightmare and wondered at the black shine to his skin. Then came the moment of recognition.
 

      “
Sam?  Sam Surf?  Wake yourself, man.”  If he was going to die, it might at least be nice for him to go with a bit of company.
 

     Sam didn’t even twitch.
 

     Dougal looked back into his bag. Thought for a moment about eating the chocolate and supping the whisky; that would be a better end than Doc Brown had if nothing else.
 

     And then he saw the flare.
 

     He grabbed at it and at the same time felt his leg being pulled in the direction of the
boulder. It was inching them all closer by the minute.
 

     To make things quick, Dougal snapped off the plastic safety cap with his teeth and spat it onto the ground.
 

     Next he twisted and removed the pink cap.
 

     He held it at arm’s length and at the required 45 degree angle and, being careful not to scratch with too much force, he rubbed the cap against the black button on the flare.
 

     Within moments, the night sky was brightened by a pink light that reminded Dougal of the nights when his dad would take him down to the shipyards in Glasgow.
 

     The light from the flare was blinding and Dougal had to screw up his eyelids.
 

     Molten residue poured from the flare and fell to the ground. Dougal was quick to direct it on to the tentacle that held him.
 

     There was a fizz, the kind of sound that came from an Alka-Seltzer dropped into a glass of water.
 

     A pink froth oozed from the black tentacle that had him and before he could register what was going on, it had let go.
 

      “
And Bob’s your uncle.” 
 

     Dougal went straight for the spongy opening into which Sam’s leg had disappeared. He let the flare drip and spill onto the boulder’s flesh.
 

     The result was amazing.
 

     There was more oozing. More frothy bubbling, this time accompanied by a melancholy yelp of animal pain.
 

     Dougal grabbed on to Sam by the shoulders and dragged him free. When Dougal felt he was far enough away, he dropped Sam and did the same for the other man.
 

     The boulder seemed to get smaller as it fully retracted its tentacles and the fizzing of flesh continued even when they’d disappeared.
 

     For a minute or two, Dougal just sat on the sand and sipped at his flask.
 

     As he waited for the others to come around, he went back to examine the boulder.
 

     It had solidified once more. Had the same stone façade that had been there the last time he’d seen it in daylight. The only thing that was different was a black smoulder mark on the bottom edge where the flare had burned away. Next to it lay the remains of a wet-suit boot, half chewed and discarded like an old dog’s toy.
 

Pearl Harbour

Jenny Wilson stood up when she heard her name announced by the Nobel Prize panel. She was wearing a long, slinky dress that she’d had designed by Stella McArtney and the high heels that were concealed by the dress made her look a good three inches taller than her usual self.

     The audience also stood, but they were clapping and calling her name.
 

      “
Jenny. Jenny. Jenny.” 
 

     Jenny Wilson blushed as she walked and practised for one final time her acceptance speech. “I’d like to thank all those who supported me along the way, especially my husband, Bill, who has seen the light and is behind me 100% of the way.”
 

     As she walked up to the stage, she felt her foot snag in her dress and she tripped over at the first step.
 

     The falling sensation caused her to wake up. She found the reality of her position so much less glamorous than her dream. Her head was on a note pad and there was a dribble of saliva coming from the side of her mouth.
 

     For a moment she wasn’t sure. She cleared her throat so that she’d be ready to give her speech and then she realised what was really going on.
 

     She wasn’t too disappointed by what she found.
 

     Before her were the prints of the photos she’d taken with the polarising light microscope and they told the story better than she could.
 

     Life and minerals fusing.
 

     She imagined new medical treatments, not least a whole new range of bone grafts and transplants.
 

     Another hour of work and she’d have everything ready for the next day. A little writing. Copy a batch of discs containing her press release. A quick trip home to pick up some decent photos of herself (she was thinking of the ones taken at the Musselburgh races Ladies’ Day), pay a visit to the hairdresser’s and she’d be ready. Arrange a press conference for the following day out in Dunbar at the boulder itself, et voila.
 

     The world was about to become her oyster and inside it she was sure to find an enormous, shiny pearl.
 

The Prisoners

Dougal persuaded Sam and Hashtag to return with him to his home.

     It took a little bit longer than it usually did on account of them all having to limp and
to carry the paddle-boards and oars along with them.
 

     They went in as quietly as they could at Dougal’s insistence, but it didn’t stop his wife from waking up and coming down to check up what was going on.
 

     She was wearing a cosy-looking bathrobe that was almost as pink as the flare that Dougal had used to save himself from becoming the dinner of a crustacean down at the beach. Her slippers looked like they were put together using the wool from half a sheep and her glasses perched on her nose like she’d spent a lifetime practising the art.
 

      “
Now, now Rose,” Dougal said to his wife as she plumped up the cushions in the living room for their guests and insisted on putting on the kettle to make them all a “nice, hot cup of coffee.”
 

     She’d already piled up towels and some of Dougal’s old clothes in the middle of the room so that the younger men could change.
 

      “
We don’t want to put you to any trouble Mrs Munro,” Sam said in a voice that was polite enough to win over the old lady in spite of the whisky fumes that poured from him.
 

      “
It’s no trouble at all, Sam,” she replied. “It’s like a trip down memory lane. Reminds me of when Dougal was policing nights. Now let me get you that coffee. You’ll be needing a few sugars in there by the looks of you and I’ll bring through the biscuit tin in a mo’.”  Rose shuffled out of the room and left the men together.
 

      “
You were police?” Hashtag asked.
 

      “
Aye. Man and boy.”
 

      “
Cool.”
 

      “
Why, do you fancy yourself on the force?” Sam asked.
 

      “
I might. Anyway, let’s get this stuff off and work out what we’re going to do about all of this.”
 

     The men peeled off their wetsuits and wrapped themselves in towels.
 

     Rose knocked at the door. “You decent?”
 

     Dougal opened the door and Rose came in with a tray full of mugs of coffee, sugar, spoons and a barrel-shaped biscuit tin.
 

      “
Shame,” she said. I was hoping I might catch a bit of action.”  She smiled at Hashtag, raising an ‘if-only-I-were-years-younger’ eye-brow, put down the tray and looked down at the bloody marks on his legs. “What the heck have you been doing?  Wrestling an octopus?” 
 

     She bent down and rubbed her hands around his calves shaking her head. “Well?”
 

      “
It was nothing Rose,” Dougal told her.
 

“
If that’s nothing, I’m a monkey’s uncle. You should be getting these men to the doctor.”
 

      “
We’ll be there first thing in the morning, don’t fret. Now leave us to it. There’s a lot for us to sort out before morning.”
 

     Rose stood, tutted at her husband and left the room again. She closed the door with a bang that was almost half a slam, caused the china cups to tinkle in their saucers and the key in the lock to fall to the beige carpet.
 

      “
Nice,” Hashtag said.
 

      “
She’ll be fine.”
 

      “
We owe her a bunch of flowers,” Sam said and then passed round the coffee that would help their insides warm to somewhere near room temperature.
 

      “
It’s like there’s a huge elephant in the room,” Sam said to break the silence when the drinks were gone and the biscuit barrel had been emptied.
 

      “
You don’t half talk some rubbish,” Dougal told him.
 

      “
Not a real elephant. More of a huge rock.”
 

      “
Makes me sick just thinking of it,” Hashtag said.
 

     Dougal stood up in the room, something he’d been trained to do in situations where he needed to take a position of authority. “Aye. Well we’ll have no time for messing around. I’ll need you boys to stay here overnight. Soon as we can, we’ll need to report what happened. I’ll be recommending that they get the army in to blow those things to smithereens.”
 

     Sam was in agreement. “If it means I never have to see them again, I’m all for it.”
 

      “
Now wait a minute…” Hashtag began.
 

      “
I’ll not be waiting thirty seconds. You know what those things can do. All those dogs. Doc Brown. Those twins, God rest their souls. The sooner we get rid of them, the better for everyone.”
 

      “
It’s not their fault they’ve been stranded on our beaches, it’s ours. Messing the world up. What are they supposed to do?  Turn vegetarian?”
 

     Dougal’s face reddened. He pointed a finger at Hashtag and waved it at him like he was about to teach him some kind of lesson. “There’s no choice.”  Dougal went over to the living room door, picked up the key and turned it in the door’s lock.
 

      “
What the hell?” 
 

     Dougal put the key on the floor and flicked it under the door as hard as he could. The
men heard it slide across the wooden floor of the hallway until it hit something solid way over on the other side. “And if you’re thinking you’ll shout for Mrs Munro, let me tell you that she’ll already have her earplugs in. She couldn’t hear an atom bomb with those in.”
 

      “
Are you crazy?  I need to pee.”  Sam had suddenly become aware of his full bladder and started jiggling up and down on the spot.
 

      “
Window.”  Dougal nodded over to the tiny slit of leaded glass.
 

     Sure enough, the window was big enough to pee out of but there was no way they were going to be able to climb out of there.
 

      “
Are you taking us hostage?” Hashtag asked.
 

      “
You can leave in the morning once you’ve show your wounds to anyone who needs to see it and soon as you’ve told your story and we’ve got the bomb squad over to those monsters you’ll be free to go wherever you wish.
 

     Sam pushed his way past Hashtag. “Get out the road, I’m busting.”  He opened the window and let out a satisfied gasp as he watered the roses in the flowerbed below.
 

     Hashtag sat in the corner. He pulled out his Blackberry from its waterproof cover and began to write the first of many messages that he’d send that evening as he began calling in as many favours as he could muster.
 

Fight Them On The Beaches

At half past 8 the next morning, Dougal, Hashtag and Sam were all awake.

     Dougal got up from his armchair, walked over to the door and pulled it open. “Anyone fancy a brew?”
 

     Sam’s jaw dropped open and he looked over to Hashtag for an explanation.
 

      “
You mean we weren’t locked in at all.” 
 

      “
Course not. I wouldn’t do that to my mates. That key hasn’t worked since before we moved in and that’s over nearly thirty years.”
 

      “
Ha Ha.”  Sam threw a pair of rolled up socks at Dougal as he left the room. “Coffee. 2 sugars. And I’ll need a go on your phone. I’d better call Dianne or I’ll be grounded for weeks.”
 

Rose made them the works for breakfast:  croissants, juice, eggs, beans and hash browns, a pot of coffee and an endless supply of toast.