Patrick heard the man’s feet ring out on the hard ground. He rolled onto his knees and started scrabbling for his shoes. The rain smothered and blinded him. His clothes were already soaking. Frantically, he passed his hands over the road. He found one shoe, then the other, and hurried to pull them on, leaving the laces untied.
The stranger had headed off to the right. Patrick followed, hampered by rain and darkness. Lightning flashed again, sheet upon sheet of it, white and cold like anger. Stencilled against the night, he saw a car and a man opening the door. He stumbled forward, desperate now.
There was the sound of an engine rasping, unwilling to ignite. He had a chance. Panting, he ran through the darkness. The engine turned again and died. A lace caught beneath his foot and sent him off balance, pitching forward in a heap, skinning his hands badly on the rough ground. He heard the engine cough then hold. Biting back the pain, he hauled himself to his feet, staggering across the last few yards.
He crashed into the car as it pulled away from the kerb, turned, ran, snatched for the handle. The door opened and he threw himself into the seat as the vehicle picked up speed. The driver had not yet switched on his lights. Rain and darkness flooded the windscreen.
Patrick reached for the wheel, pulling it towards him. The driver braked suddenly, sending them into a spin. The car mounted the kerb, tilted, and crumpled against the sea wall.
Panicking, the driver opened his door and stumbled into the road. He slipped, then picked himself up and began to run.
Patrick threw his own door open, but it stuck on the wall, leaving a gap too narrow for him to squeeze through. He wriggled across the gear-stick, then out through the driver’s door. Wind and rain grabbed him, tearing him back into their world. He spluttered, catching his breath, and broke into a run.
Another stroke of lightning raced down the sky, dragging behind it an angry roll of thunder. Out at sea, raging waves were frozen, as though the light had carved them in an instant out of raw ice. A ship appeared, running for harbour, hopeless and alone on crystal waves. He saw the man jump the wall, heading for the beach.
The sand was already filled with rain. His feet sank in it. It was like treacle, clawing at him, pulling him down. He moved as though in a dream, no longer certain why he was here. The world had vanished and been replaced by nightmare. He could hear waves crashing on rocks and wind tearing the sky to shreds. Jagged bands of lightning grew out of nowhere like the sudden branches of giant trees. The man was only yards ahead of him, scrambling among white spray at the edge of the rocks. A crash of thunder rolled across the void.
Patrick shouted, but the wind snatched the words from his mouth, leaving him breathless. The man was crazy. The rocks he was climbing on would soon be covered as the tide came further in: he could find no shelter there.
Waves were already dragging at his ankles. He pushed further out into the freezing water, unable to see a thing, his eyes blinded by the last flash of lightning. The water was already at his knees.
The first rock caught him unawares, striking him in the shin and almost sending him flying into the sea. He scrambled onto it, crouching down, finding his way to the next by touch. He was no longer sure which way the land lay and which way the sea. At any moment he might lose his grip and go spinning into deep water, at the mercy of cold currents, battered on dark rocks, pulled down into darkness.
He slipped on kelp and pitched forward into a freezing pool. A voice came to him out of the maelstrom, thin and anguished. The wind drove away all semblance of meaning. There was no way of knowing whether the words had been a threat or a cry for help. Out here, there was nothing but the wind and the sea.
Another rock, the rough edges of barnacles, rain and spray mingled in a single sheet of water, a wind like barbed wire against the skin. He saw a shadow darker than the rest, something crouching at the edge of the rocks, where they joined the sea. Scarcely balanced himself, he lunged forward and made a grab for the man.
They fell backwards onto a broad wrack-covered rock. He heard his opponent gasp as the breath was forced from his lungs.
Who are you?’ he shouted, anger forcing his voice above the storm. The man remained silent, struggling in his grasp.
Overhead, lightning tore the darkness away like a thin veil. Patrick saw a white face, the eyes opened in terror, and a hand across the face, as though to ward him off. A clap of thunder burst the sky open.
Suddenly, his opponent pushed him back, slipping out of his grip on the wet rock. He flopped down into a gap, twisted, and tried to stand. As he got to one foot, a huge wave crashed into him, throwing him off balance. He lost his footing completely. There was a loud cry, inhuman, passionate, past articulation. Patrick reached out. But there was nothing. Another bolt of lightning crossed the sky. The rock ahead was empty.
The tide was still rushing in. There was nothing Patrick could do for the stranger, not in a sea like that. He turned and started crawling back along the rocks. There were no lights on the shore to guide him. In the madness, he could have been moving away from the land, out to sea and certain death. He lost count of the number of times he slipped, crashing heavily onto the rocks. It would be so easy to break a leg and be trapped until the sea took possession of everything and dragged him out into its depths.
Lightning again. The world stark, insane. He got his bearings and dropped into the water, desperate for balance. Even here, the undertow was fierce, like ropes that tried to pull his legs from under him. The water rose up to his chest now. He felt tired suddenly, as though the sea had sapped him of all strength.
Aching, he gave himself to it, half swimming, half drowning. Salt water poured into his mouth, filling his stomach, weighing him down. His arms and legs moved sluggishly, as though he was swimming in another substance, in quicksand or mercury, thick and deadly, pulling him down.
Suddenly, he felt land beneath his feet. Coughing and spluttering, he threw himself forward. His head went under, then rose again. He fought to regain his balance. His feet found purchase on the sloping beach. Spewing up water, he staggered through the last few yards of angry waves, coming at last to rain-drenched sand. A few feet more and he threw himself to the ground.
All around him, the world was bedlam. But he scarcely noticed. All he could think of, all he could see polished on the darkness of the night was the white oval of the watcher’s face and his hand raised, pushing him away. And on the man’s inner wrist a tiny circle tattooed in black, and inside the circle a seven-branched candlestick crowned with a cross.
It was impossible, he thought. A nightmare from the past, a nightmare that could not possibly have followed him here, to this place, to this moment.
Behind him, in the darkness, the sea moved, rank and heavy with drowning men and the bodies of great fish sinking to its rotten bed. They were devouring one another down there, men and fish and all manner of swimming and crawling things.
SIX
He lost track of time, lying wet and out of breath at the foot of the sea wall, as though cast up there by nauseated waves. Slowly the rain subsided and the thunder became a distant rumbling as the storm passed on into the Wicklow Hills. Aching to his bones, he picked himself up and clambered back over the wall onto the road.