The Jonah by James Herbert Read Free Book Online Page B

said nothing as he approached, but Trewick began to move sideways, out into the road. He raised a hand as though it would halt the man’s progress, but the gesture had no
effect. He saw the one who had been following him now, the one who had been waiting for him outside the pub, waiting for him to be flushed like a pheasant from the undergrowth.
    ‘Wait! Look . . .’ Trewick knew that words would not help him.
    ‘You were warned, Andy.’ The man’s voice was soft, almost regretful.
    Trewick turned away from the two men and ran, almost tripping over the kerb on the other side of the narrow road. He plunged into a small sidestreet, one hand scraping against the brickwork to
steady himself. Footsteps echoed behind him and a tight sob escaped his lips. He emerged from the sidestreet and knew there was only one way to go: away from the town and into the darkness beyond.
Into the marshes.
    The car park opened out to his left, a vast black pit, the waves pounding the beach on the other side of the sea wall. Gravel crunched beneath his feet and his body was already damp with sweat.
He took a swift, panic-stricken look over his shoulder and saw they were still following, their pace steady, unhurried, as if they knew he could not escape, that there was nowhere to run to.
    He was beyond the car park, nothing ahead but darkness and stars. If he could reach the marshes he had an advantage: he knew the paths, they didn’t. His feet slid from beneath him and he
went slithering downwards, his body rolling over as he tried to grab at earth to slow his descent. His hands only closed around loose shingle, though, and he cried out, confused by what was
happening. He came to an abrupt halt, soft mud cushioning the impact, and sat up almost at once. He quickly realized why he had fallen.
    The road from the town turned into a raised track that ran along the coastline, the sea wall and beach on one side, a steep embankment on the other. He had slipped down the embankment. At the
bottom of the slope on this side was a boatyard, beyond that the quay to the harbour. The river headed directly inland from that point, winding its way through the marshes. A minor avalanche of
shingle told him his pursuers had begun their descent, and once more he was on his feet, running, heading into the boatyard, hoping to lose them among the clutter of motor cruisers and sailing
boats.
    The two men steadied themselves at the bottom of the slope and watched him disappear into a channel created by two rows of boats. They glanced at each other, their eyes well-accustomed to the
darkness by now, then moved forward, splitting up, one man following the same channel as their prey, the other taking a parallel path.
    Trewick had a choice: hide in the yard itself, either beneath or inside one of the boats, or make his way into the marshes. His breathing was laboured, his throat becoming raw as though the air
he sucked in was full of grit. He stumbled on, afraid of running into something in the dark, but equally afraid of giving the two men the chance to catch up. And in his haste, he did trip.
    The grip end of the launching trolley had been carelessly left out of line with the boats it nestled between, and Trewick’s left foot made contact. He flew forward, his lumbering form
leaving the ground completely, and smashed into the earth with a force that jarred every bone in his body. He tried to stifle the cry that was squeezed from his chest, but was aware that the sound
of his falling alone would bring the two men to him. Ignoring the numbness in his arms and knees, he pushed himself between the mounts of a medium-sized ocean racer. His eyes were blurred with
tears of pain and fear, and he bit deep into his lower lip to stem the whimpers that rose like hiccups. He rolled himself up into a ball, keeping his face and hands tucked into his knees lest their
whiteness show up in the dark. He waited and tried to listen over the pounding of his own heart.
    Footsteps