Twisted Little Things and Other Stories (29 page)

I wait.

Nothing.

“Hello?” I call out.

The only sound is the wind outside, and the crashing waves as the ferry makes its way forward. We're not only moving, we're moving
fast
.

Hurrying past the wheel, I head to the door and then back out onto the open deck. I look up, desperately hoping that I'll spot a helicopter, but there's no sign of anyone coming after us. Running through the possibilities, I realize that it must be half an hour or so since the ferry was somehow raised from the seabed. Since that could only have been achieved with significant outside effort, there's no way the shore team aren't aware, so I don't understand why they're not monitoring us in any way. Heading over to the railing, I look overboard and stare down at the waves for a moment, and I try to work out what's happening.

None of this makes sense.

All I can do is find Mark and get us out of here.

Heading along the deck, I find the old wooden lifeboat that I spotted earlier. It's as basic as can be and in normal circumstances I wouldn't even consider using it, but there are a couple of oars and I figure it should be seaworthy provided another storm doesn't hit. Grabbing one of the ropes that's holding it all in place, I realize I can fairly easily get the lifeboat into the water, which means I just need to focus on finding Mark. Then again, as I look back toward the bridge, I realize that there's another possibility. Whatever happened when the ferry came up from the seabed, it was a sudden and violent movement that sent a lot of water crashing away from the vessel, and it's more than possible that Mark was simply swept away, in which case he might well have made it back to the dinghy.

I might be alone out here.

“Mark!” I shout, although my voice is instantly carried away by the wind. There's no way he can hear me right now.

Checking my watch, I see that it's almost four in the afternoon. The light's going to start fading at around seven and darkness should fall by nine, which means I don't have long to make a decision. I can't risk being out there in the lifeboat during the night, alone and with no way of signaling anyone. After all, the English Channel is a busy shipping route and I'd most likely get hit by another, larger boat; with only the flashlight to draw attention to myself, I'd be a sitting duck, but the alternative would be to spend a night on the ferry and hope that someone comes to rescue me.

Then again, they have to come. They can't have forgotten about me, and they'll be here by nightfall. I just have to wait.

***

Several hours later, standing on the bow of the ferry, I watch the sunset as a slow, creeping sense of dread makes its way through my gut.

After a moment, I turn and look back across the deck. There's still no sign of anyone: no sign of a rescue team coming after the ferry; no sign of those people coming up from the hold; no sign of a crew or anyone in charge; and most importantly, no sign of Mark.

The lifeboat is a few feet away, but it's too late to use it now. Setting out on the English Channel in a small wooden boat, with no communication system and no realistic method of drawing attention to myself, would be suicide, especially in darkness. Maybe if I'd gone earlier, I could have tried rowing either north-east toward the Cornish coast or south toward France, but I chose to stay here and search for Mark. With the shadows lengthening and night rapidly approaching, that decision is starting to look like a mistake.

Still, I can't spend the night on here. I need water, and so far there doesn't seem to be a supply on-board As the ferry's hull creaks and I make my way back toward the bridge, I spot the open cargo hold. Despite my misgivings, I head over to the edge and look down, and sure enough all the figures are still below, still looking up, and some of them slowly turn to look at me. A few of them have large patches of skin worn from their faces, revealing their skulls below. With the wind ruffling my hair, I realize that I have no choice.

I have to find a way to communicate.

“Who are you?” I call out.

No reply.

“I need your help,” I continue, my voice trembling with fear. “Come on, at least one of you must speak a little English. O Espanol?”

I wait.

Nothing.

“Norsk? Snakker du Norsk?”

No response.

“Someone has to understand what I'm saying!” I shout, starting to feel as if this whole thing is some kind of huge trick. “Come on, I don't care where you're from, one of you has to be able to speak a few words of English or Spanish or something!”

Finally realizing that they're not going to reply, I turn and head toward the bridge. I know I should fight the anger, but I'm starting to feel as if someone must have set this up. I'm being played for a fool, and I wouldn't be surprised if people are hiding behind the scenes, laughing at me. After all, the only other explanation is that I'm on some kind of ghost ship, trapped miles from anyone else, and I'm not ready to believe that. Not yet.

“Hello?” I shout as I reach the door and look in at the empty bridge. “I know there has to be someone here! Someone's in charge of this thing!”

I wait, before taking a step back and slamming the door shut. I feel as if I've stayed calm for long enough and now I'm at the end of my patience. It's all starting to make sense now. There's no way that I'm alone out here with just those
things
in the cargo hold for company, so there must be someone else on the boat, someone who's doing a damn good job of keeping out of my way. Someone who's laughing at me.

I swear to God, I'm going to find them.

“Hey!” I shout, hurrying around the rear of the bridge and heading to the aft of the boat. “I give up! You win! You've got me, okay? Whatever this is about, you might as well tell me!”

Stopping at the railing, I look back along the open deck.

There's no-one.

There's really no-one.

Heading back to the bridge, I pull the door open and step inside.

“Can you hear me now?” I ask, trying not to panic as the anger grows in my chest. “Are you operating this thing by remote control? You must have microphones, though. You must be able to at least monitor what's going on here! After all, how else are you getting your kicks?” Heading to the control panel, I take a look at the ancient buttons and readouts before crouching down and opening the cupboard below, looking for some hint as to what's really happening here. I swear, right now I'm on the verge of losing my mind.

Finding nothing, I get to my feet again and head over to the navigation wheel. I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched, but at the same time I know that if I look over my shoulder, there'll be no-one there.

“You're losing your mind,” I whisper to myself, even as I try to keep calm. “Just because you can't see the rational explanation, that doesn't mean there isn't one. Stay strong, stay focused.”

For a moment, I think back to the advice I was given by my first diving instructor, all those years ago:

“Don't panic. If you panic, you'll lose your sense of direction.”

It was good advice and it kept me alive several times over the years in difficult situations. Just because I'm out of the water right now, that doesn't mean it's not
still
good advice.

“There's an explanation,” I whisper, before turning to look at the wooden cupboards that run beneath the main consoles all around the bridge. “Someone's in control of this thing. Someone's making it run and steering it and...”

My voice trails off as I realize that there's only one option left.

I spend the next hour taking the bridge apart, piece by piece. I break every door, I tear out every shelf, and I literally kick the backs of the cupboards away from the walls, determined to find some kind of control system. There's no way this boat is just drifting, so someone has to be making it run. Even when exhaustion kicks in and brings a sense of fatigue, I keep going until I've pulled apart every section of the room and still found nothing. With pain in my chest and shoulders, I lean against the wall and look around at all the damage I've caused.

“Fine,” I mutter. “So you're not controlling it from here. Where
are
you controlling it from?”

I don't even know who I'm talking to, but
someone
has to be listening.

Looking out the window, I see that the sun is setting now, which means the boat will soon be shrouded in darkness. Heading out onto the open deck, I quickly check that Mark's flashlight is still working, which at least means that I'll have
some
light. There's no way I can sleep, and I need to think about how to acquire potable water. As I reach the railing and look over the side, I realize that I can use my old tri-mix tanks to create a crude desalination device, provided I can find a way to make a small, contained fire on the ferry's deck. That last part won't be easy, given that every piece of wood on the vessel is still drenched, but I'm sure I can get some flames going somehow.

And then, in the morning, I have to get away. Mark's not here, I'm sure of it, so at sunrise I'll launch the lifeboat and take my chances.

Turning, I'm about to head back to the bridge when I spot something in the distance, out of the corner of my eye. Glancing toward the ferry's bow, I'm shocked to see land ahead. I hurry as far forward as possible, and finally I realize that the ferry is slowly approaching a coastline, with a wide canal running inland. Confused, I look at the setting sun and realize that we're heading due west, but somehow that doesn't seem right. Given our course since we left the Cornish coast, there's no way we should run into any land in this direction, not until eventually reaching the eastern seaboard of the Americas. I try to work out whether we might have turned at some point, but I'm convinced we've maintained a steady course.

Looking toward the sun again, I realize that the sky suddenly seems different. Redder than a normal sunset, and closer, more claustrophobic. In the distance, large, dark birds are wheeling through the air.

Slowly, the ferry eases into the mouth of the canal and continues on its way. Looking down, I see that the banks on either side are muddy and bare, as if we're entering a kind of desert landscape. There are a few black rocks around, dotted between the twisted and burned remains of trees, and in the distance there are huge black mountains rising up into the darkening sky. I know enough of the area around the English Channel and the Atlantic to be certain that there's not supposed to be any place like this, but I can't deny what I'm seeing with my own eyes. Up ahead, the canal bends a little to the left, and sure enough the ferry navigates this bend smoothly. Turning back to look toward the bridge, I see that the wheel is once again turning of its own accord, with no sign of anyone controlling the vessel.

We're definitely being steered, by something or someone.

A moment later, the hull creaks slightly. I stay at the bow for a few minutes, looking down at the banks of the canal on either side as I feel a slow, creeping sense of concern rising through my belly. There's no way any of this can be real, so I'm worried that the whole thing is part of some vision or dream, maybe induced by all the water I swallowed. It wouldn't be that implausible for me to start cracking up after a few hours alone on this thing. Then again, as a shudder passes through my chest, I start to wonder whether I actually drowned earlier when I was tossed through the submerged corridors. After all, ever since that moment, nothing has made sense and the entire world has seemed turned on its head. Reaching down, I pinch my arm through the wet-suit, and despite the pain I keep on pinching until I have to let go.

Madness is still a possibility. Maybe even a
probability
, by now.

Spotting light on the horizon, I realize that there's a hill up ahead and a vast fire burning somewhere nearby, seemingly burning through an entire forest. I have no idea what else I can do, so I simply stay in place and watch as the ferry reaches the next turn and veers slightly to the right, and finally I see that there are several small buildings on one bank of the canal, with a few smaller fires burning close to the water's edge. A moment later, in the glow of those fires, I spot several figures making their way through the darkening landscape, heading to what appears to be a basic wooden jetty. Further off, there are several more figures approaching on horseback.

With a slow feeling of dread, I realize we're reaching our destination.

For the next few minutes, all I can do is watch as the ferry slows and begins to pull alongside the jetty. Once we're close enough for the figures on the shore to see me, I duck down and start looking out through one of the fair-leads, which allows me to watch as three dark figures stop at the edge of the jetty, waiting for the ferry to come to a halt. These figures are darker than the others and their bodies are much thinner, almost as if they're made of burned match-sticks.

A moment later, there's a firm bump as the vessel stops, and I look back across the deck, waiting to see whether any crew-members suddenly make their presence known. After a few seconds, however, I hear a loud banging sound from deeper in the ferry, and I realize that the cargo hold must have a door on the side.

Staying low, I hurry across the deck until I reach the edge of the hold. I get down on my hands and knees and inch forward, until finally I peer over the edge and see that I was right: a large hatch has opened in the side of the ferry, and the bald figures are slowly filing out. I still don't have a clue what they are or where they came from, but they've obviously been waiting all along to get to this place. Scurrying back to the side of the ferry, I peer out once again through the fair-lead and watch as the figures emerge onto the jetty and start making their way to the shore, with one of the dark figures leading them. There's something solemn and ritualistic about the whole scene.