Тим Леббон - New Fears 2 - Brand New Horror Stories by Masters of the Macabre

“Eamon!” He heard his name called from across the complex, saw Sherry waving impatiently from behind the pushchair, beckoning him to breakfast. When he looked back, the young man was walking away from the pool, cooing softly to his child.

It seemed ridiculously early to be eating such a big lunch. They’d not long finished breakfast when they were back in the dining hall, lining up at the buffet. Sherry had insisted, since it was nearing the end of their holiday, that they should experience the luxury of full board. It was no different really to their evening meal, the counters full of typical English fare, a tokenistic corner reserved for paella and an untouched urn of gazpacho. Eamon had managed to skirt Sherry’s entreaties to go down to the beach, citing the difficulty with the pushchair, the irritation of sand, but he had to concede something. He much preferred grabbing a bite at the poolside bar, where he could keep an eye on the bronzed man and he felt strangely disloyal being sat at a linen-covered table and not by the pool, where he was supposed to be.

The Two As seemed similarly frustrated at being indoors and force fed, snivelling in their highchairs as Sherry tried to tempt them with coils of pasta. Eamon found a CBeebies clip they liked and placed his phone in front of them.

“This is the future,” he heard an elderly woman say to her companion, “devices with dinner.”

Sherry smiled apologetically but returned to the buffet so that Eamon was alone in feeling their disdain. He tried to call after Sherry to get more bread rolls, but she’d woven her way along the dessert aisle and out of earshot. He stood to get her attention and it was then that he saw the bronzed man making his way through the canteen. He looked smaller among the other diners than he did perched at his summit, his tan less golden and more rust-coloured; clearly not as immune to the ravages of the sun as Eamon had first thought.

The bronzed man walked past the laminated notice which banned swimwear from the dining hall, dressed only in yellow Lycra trunks. His flip-flops squeaked against the terracotta tiles as he approached Eamon, but no one seemed to notice; his attire seemingly less offensive than the presence of an iPhone displaying cartoons. Eamon sat upright, expecting a nod of acknowledgement, an exchange of words, but the bronzed man walked straight past and Eamon was left to observe the leathery quality of his flesh, the skin folded like vellum above the band of his swimming shorts.

The incident at the pool with the young father had left Eamon unsettled, along with the bronzed man’s uncharacteristic venture into the dining hall. But he was determined to have one last swim on this, the final day of the holiday, before he was expected to begin the tedious task of packing. But the twins were already stirring before Eamon was awake, as if they could sense the impending departure. Annabelle sat upright in her cot as Eamon dressed, reaching upwards to be released from her prison.

“You can’t leave me with both,” Sherry said, pulling the bed sheet around her tighter. “You’ll have to take one.”

Alex still squirmed under the weight of sleep, so Eamon reached for Annabelle, dressing her hastily, his morning solitude now shattered with the encumbrance of a toddler and changing bag. But he wasn’t about to forgo his swim and approaching the poolside he placed Annabelle in the crèche, scattering a selection of toys across the crash mats. He stepped into the kids’ side of the pool, realising how inferior it was for swimming, the waterfall partially obscuring his view of the bronzed man. Annabelle seemed content enough, so he swam beneath the cascade, a feat he wouldn’t have contemplated earlier in the week, and emerged in the deep end.

He was able to swim a couple of lengths, feeling the appraisal of the bronzed man as he moved through the water, before he heard Annabelle crying with the realisation she was abandoned and alone. Somehow, he knew it was a sound that would please the bronzed man.

The hotel was busier than normal with new arrivals, their body clocks out of kilter with the early hour. They gravitated to the pool, pale satellites encircling the radiance of the bronzed man. A group of teenagers ran beside the water, pretending to push one another in before disappearing out of sight, their voices carrying across the complex. Eamon plunged beneath the surface, imagining himself at the top beside the bronzed man, watching the suffusion of golden light drift down from the mountains.

When he resurfaced, he saw Annabelle toddling along the periphery of the pool. Had he not closed the gate of the crèche? Had it been opened? Her pace quickened when she saw him in the water, the tiles underfoot slippery from the splashing of the waterfall.

Stop , he said in his mind, but he continued to tread water, knowing the bronzed man was watching, knowing what he craved. And he saw Annabelle’s awkward gait, her mismatched clothes that he’d selected, as she made her way closer to the edge. Eamon found himself watching the situation as if from a height, as if through a bronze haze, all the while thinking how much easier it would all be with just one.

Amid the hum of cicadas, he hardly perceived Sherry emerging from the lift, Alex on her hip, the quickening patter of her flip-flops against the ground as she ran toward the pool. His name called in a vague, far-off way, but resounding through the complex, like a nagging light at the edge of slumber.

Suddenly, life starts up. Annabelle crouches to jump and spurred into action Eamon swims across the pool with uncharacteristic speed, as if he had been practising all week for such a moment. Between his strokes, he sees the fear in his daughter’s eyes as she leaps, as she begins to fall, the shock of the water against her chubby legs, replaced with a breathless smile as he manages, just in time, to reclaim her from the water. She squirms safely in her daddy’s arms. Again. Again. But Eamon clutches her tightly, rocks her gently and feels the cold breeze against his skin as a shadow passes overhead.

He would live that moment again and again as he lay alone, or in the arms of various girlfriends who came in and out of his life in the future, Sherry having filed for divorce a few years after the holiday, unable to forgive his negligence that day. The recollection resurfaced with increasing vibrancy the night Annabelle missed her curfew and he found her slumped outside a kebab house, one shoe lost to the gaiety of the night, and the time she broke her wrist playing basketball; these brushes with danger all lent a golden aura that he could see as clearly as his daughter’s younger self, hovering beside the water’s edge. He forgot all about the bronzed man, of how close he came to his sulphurous glow. All that endured was a dull patina that formed over the memory, reddish gold, like scales of rust.

Thursday 16th January 1964

So frightfully cold outside. Watkins says it’s going to snow overnight, and Watkins is usually right about such things. He has uncanny knowledge. Ask him about the Purley contract and he’ll chase his tail like a dog. Ask him about dowsing or the healing properties of certain minerals and he’ll talk for hours. A most peculiar individual.

I told the children to expect snow, and how their little faces glowed. Patricia danced up and down the hallway, and Christopher has already set aside his coat and gloves. They won’t sleep tonight, I’m sure. It warms me to see them so full of glee. After tea, Christopher asked if he could put a log on the fire and I permitted him, watching as he removed the guard from the hearth and gently laid the log amongst the flames. He gave it a couple of manly prods with the poker, then replaced the guard and turned to me with an expression of boundless pride. We then sat as a family and talked for a full hour, mostly nonsense, but with a measure of love and understanding I so miss when I’m not with them… and sometimes when I am. It was a precious moment, and it didn’t matter that the windows rattled in their draughty way, or that the chimney sometimes howled and made the single log hiss as if it were alive.