But now Ben was extremely pale. His hand, which held his phone, and which was silent, was shaking. They stared at each other. Before they could speak, Squeezy crashed out of the same door. It was only then that Aleksey remembered when they’d found this entrance it had been down some steps.
Squeezy stopped only to point a finger accusingly at him and snarl, ‘You, matey, are not fucking funny,’ before he began to jog out of the courtyard.
Ben suddenly grabbed his arm and began to follow. Aleksey didn’t need the assistance. Together they made it to the place where the dogs had thrown their hissy fit, and all three stopped, hands on knees, breathing deeply.
‘I saw someone else in there through a window.’
Aleksey looked up at Ben’s comment. ‘A man? I saw him too.’
Squeezy was staring thoughtfully back at the granite building, his arms folded, his nostrils flared as he caught his breath. ‘Gas.’ Ben swivelled to him questioningly, and Squeezy added, ‘Funny smell in there? Some kinda gas. We all fucking just got gassed?’
Aleksey blew out his cheeks and turned to go. He wanted to put some more distance between them and the extremely unnerving building. ‘What the fuck?’
This was so unusual for him that Ben immediately whipped his head around and the crick of his neck was clearly audible.
The tide had come in and the causeway was gone.
Ben immediately checked his watch. ‘It’s two o’clock already! No way! No way we were in there three hours!’
Squeezy pursed his lips, glanced at Aleksey and said determinedly, ‘Seem to remember you can swim, boss.’
Aleksey nodded, shot a look to Ben for agreement, and all three waded into the sea.
They were a few feet out when they realised swimming wouldn’t actually be necessary. The smooth sand beneath their feet was only covered up to their thighs. It was cold though, and their boots slowed them down, their clothes dragging unpleasantly. Only a third of the way along, Aleksey hissed, ‘It’s getting deeper.’
The tide was coming in rapidly. He remembered a story of cockle pickers caught on such an incoming surge somewhere in the north. All twenty-one of them had drowned.
They came to the overturned tractor, the green strands of weed floating and swirling around it as the water rose. It looked like the hair of a sleeping monster. The waves were splashing onto the wooden cabin, but over half of it was still high and dry. There was no sign of the enormous wheel they’d dislodged.
He felt Ben’s hand on his arm, towing him faster. But then Ben swore and went down. He came back up, gasping and pulling at his leg. ‘I’m stuck. Fucking pull me.’ Both Squeezy and Aleksey took an arm and they heaved. The waves were well over Ben’s chest. Aleksey took a breath and dived beneath the water. It was the fucking wheel. Ben’s booted foot had wedged in between the tyre and the rim. He exploded up out of the water. Ben had his chin tipped back, waves splashing over his face. Together, he and Squeezy went under. Squeezy got his fingers beneath the rubber and heaved. Aleksey yanked Ben’s foot free.
They had to swim then.
They’d never seen Squeezy swim, but he could. He apparently had very good motivation.
When they emerged onto the shore of Benhar it was really just a nice, mid-autumn day with lapping waves on a sandy beach. Other than the sign saying Danger: Do Not Enter, everything was very calm and very normal.
Once more, they all three bent, hands on knees, panting. Ben examined his shin above his boot. It was scraped and bleeding. Squeezy was cursing colourfully at his phone, which was ruined. Theirs were waterproof now—they’d learned the lessons of Scilly.
Aleksey straightened. ‘Stop swearing. I’ll buy you a new one.’
‘Just as well it’s the old woman who takes all the photos, or I’d be a bit more fucking annoyed.’
As one, they turned to regard the asylum in the distance. It had chewed them up and spat them out—soaked, bleeding and pissed off. They turned their backs on it and began the trek back to town.
Another ten minutes and they came in sight of the pastel-coloured thatch cottages.
And cream teas. Tim was sitting in the weak sun at a little patio table with the half-eaten evidence of one of these spread around him, deep in concentration on his screen. Radulf and PB were snoozing at his feet, tied to a bollard on the harbour wall. He looked up from his phone when they appeared. ‘At last! I went ahead and got my tea. Did you enjoy it? I’ve had a great potter round the churchyard and the—why are you all?—no! I refuse to believe it. Don’t tell me! No! I don’t want to know!’ He tore his gaze off their soaking clothes (and possibly rather frazzled appearances) and went pointedly back to his scones.
They joined him at the table.
He ignored them and continued to spread jam with determined concentration.
Aleksey glanced at Radulf. One eye was open, fixed on him. He raised his lip at the traitor. Radulf showed him a canine in response. It could have been a smile, but Aleksey suspected it was more the equivalent oftold you so.
Ben wasn’t so frazzled or bloodied that he didn’t recover enough to order three more teas when a middle-aged woman in an apron came out of the café. That would be a very worrying day—Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen off his food.
Aleksey took the opportunity of her jotting the order down on her pad to ask, ‘We were thinking of visiting the old asylum. Is it open for tours, do you know?’
