Pestilence by Ken McClure Read Free Book Online

completely deserted but then, as Saracen reasoned, it was really still in hibernation. It would be another couple of months before hustle and bustle returned to the streets and blinds were raised, shutters flung back and baskets of coloured beach toys would tumble out on to the pavements. The Punch and Judy tent would be erected on the promenade at 3 pm precisely every day and ice cream vendors would parade slowly up and down. Menus of the day would be chalked up on black-boards outside cafes and deck chairs would be stacked at the head of the beach steps. Then the whole town would hold its breath as it waited to see if the value of sterling against the Spanish peseta and the fickle English weather would let them survive through one more season.
    Several of the beach cafes and shops had already conceded the battle to Majorca and the Costas but Saracen, in spite of everything, was still optimistic that places like Gerham might still yet win the war and ‘Jimar’ might once again proudly display its ‘No vacancies’ sign in its front bay window.
    Saracen pulled up the collar of his jerkin as he left the shelter of the narrow cobbled streets and crossed the promenade to negotiate the steps down to the beach. A cold wind, full of salt and the tang of sea weed was whipping along the shore but the sky was bright and a watery sunshine caught the tops of the waves as they dashed themselves against the sand. He crossed the soft sand and began to walk along the firm, wet plateau that the receding tide had created.
    Saracen was glad that the tide was out for he liked the feeling of space and freedom that the wide beach gave him. To his right he could see half a mile of unbroken water line, to the left, the entire sea front of Gerham.
    At intervals, Saracen would pick up a pebble and throw it into the water. Distance was the only relevant criterion, direction was unimportant. He had to keep reminding himself that 45 degrees was the correct angle for achieving maximum distance but, like a Wittgenstein example, it seemed wrong. He doggedly went for the satisfaction of a steeper trajectory.
    Saracen left the sands when he drew level with Jacob’s ladder, a meandering path that traversed to and fro across the face of the cliffs which, at this point, rose some two hundred feet above the shore. He paused half way up to lean on the guard rail and look out to sea while he recovered his breath. The water turned a cold, grey colour as a cloud drifted across the sun.
    The wind was much stronger at the top of the cliffs but Saracen did not mind for it was going to be behind him as he walked back to the town and lunch at the Ship Inn. Gulls screamed overhead as they caught the up-draught from the cliff face and wheeled to keep their motionless wings at the correct angle to the wind. They looked fat and well fed, the bully boys of the air, scavengers and thieves. Saracen wondered if they would be so kindly regarded if evolution had decreed them to be black instead of pristine white.
    He suddenly became aware that he was no longer alone on the landscape, there was a man sitting in the Victorian gazebo rain shelter at the intersection where three paths merged. As he passed Saracen looked towards him and said, “Good morning.”
    The man, who sat with arms resting on his knees, looked up and moved his lips slightly without saying anything.
    In the brief glimpse that Saracen had got of the man he had taken in that he looked prosperous, neatly clipped hair, immaculate suit and a deep tan that said he had recently been abroad. But one thing had made a bigger impression than anything else; it was the look in his eyes. Saracen recognised it as despair. He slowed his pace as he wrestled with his conscience over whether or not he should interfere. The fact that the man was sitting near to the edge of a cliff decided the issue. He turned and started to walk back to the gazebo. As he walked he unfastened his wrist watch and slipped it into his