Kenny Pratt's stretcher took the place of Eddie's on the rack. He might have had something to say about that, but he didn't know until after the chopper had landed at its base, because he was unconscious when they strapped him on. That was the medic's doing. Kenny had insisted that his hands were just bruised and would be alright in a day or two. Jerry knew the bones were splintered to buggery, but he hadn't been able to convince the young diver. "Okay, you win," he'd said eventually. "I'll just give you something for the pain and if the bloody things drop off, don't come whingeing to me." Then he'd pumped Kenny so full of dope that he'd gone out like a light.
Jack Pierce had watched the helicopter until it was merely a pinprick. Nothing fell off that he could see, but he wouldn't be happy until he received a radio message to say that Kenny was safely in hospital. He went from the chopper pad straight to the rail and leaned on it, facing out to sea. It was getting to be his favourite pastime. He closed his eyes and realised almost immediately that it was the wrong thing to do - there were too many memories in darkness, and too much soul-searching. He re-opened them and found himself staring at a patch of water about forty metres out. It seemed to glow the same way the water by the bow had glowed before with just a hint of luminous violet.
He shook his head and turned away. He was obviously tired, and there had been so much talk of phosphorus in the water and glowing face-plates, it was no wonder he was seeing things. He took one last look back over his shoulder and the glow he thought he'd seen had gone. That confirmed it for him. His judgement was definitely failing. It had killed Eddie and that was enough. It really was time to get out of all this. What was the point in waiting until the end of his shift to resign? He might as well get it over with now or at least put it in writing. He pushed off the rail and headed for his room.
~o~o~o~o~
From where he had been floating just below the surface, Eddie had seen Jack looking, but he didn't feel the way he had in the past about the diving super, not the way he ought to, because he wasn't really Eddie any more. He only looked like Eddie; inside, he was now something else.
It remained beneath the surface and moved a little closer to the awful, floating thing called a rig. It knew what it was, the way it knew so much more of this other world, now that it could be a part of it, be one of them.
The view from inside this pathetic creature was very limiting, but there were advantages. It could draw on the human's memory, at least that part it had managed to glimpse before Eddie had stopped thinking. From these memories, it knew something of what these humans were and why they were here. And it knew quite intimate things about some of the other creatures this one had associated with.
It knew that the one who had been looking out at it was Jack Pierce, that he was something called a diving supervisor, and that Eddie had liked him. They were friends. It wasn't sure what a friend really was, having none of its own - It didn't think it had - but the feeling was warm and not unpleasant.
There was another thought - it wondered how Jack Pierce would react if, now that he was dead, Eddie came up to meet him and said: "I'll bet ye did nay think tay see me again, Jack?" That might be fun, but it was pretty sure that the time wasn't right. Later, maybe, when it was more used to this peculiar shell it now inhabited.
CHAPTER TWO
1
"Sounds nice." Del Presswood mumbled the response automatically, not meaning a word. What the hell did he care about the landscaping around a backyard swimming pool? Admittedly, the cab driver was just making pleasant conversation and it cost nothing to humour him, but if people didn't insist on bragging about what they had and how great it was, then maybe his own life would seem less like an object lesson in failure.
"Which way now?" The taxi coasted to a standstill at the T-intersection and the driver waited patiently.
Del tried to get his bearings. Everything appeared different at night and it was almost impossible to read street signs, if you could find them at all. "Left," he said. The cab pulled away again. After a short distance, Del realised that he should have said 'right'. It didn't matter: all roads led to Rome and he wasn't exactly looking forward to the reception when he got back.
He watched a couple of dogs getting it together on a front lawn and envied them for a moment. They seemed to be enjoying themselves with no thought for the consequences of their actions, or the future in general. Then he remembered how that same attitude had been responsible for the mess he was in now. It wouldn't have been quite so bad if he knew that he could go back and change it, but he was fairly sure that if he were able to re-live the past three years, he'd make the same mistakes all over again. He began to feel nauseous and said: "Drop me off on this next corner, will you?"
The driver pulled up and the two of them went through the usual ritual of payment and the exchange of polite courtesies. Then the cab was moving off, the driver waving, Del waving back, everything for the sake of appearances. One time, he ought to pay at the start of the journey, or say: "You're a lousy driver and I hope your cat dies," but whenever these rebellious notions came to mind it was always too late.
The wind was bitterly cold. He kind-of hitched his shoulders up the way people do and felt a warm buzz around his body. He didn't know why that should be. Perhaps it made the hairs stand on end. The sensation didn't last, however, so he quickened his pace, hoping to generate some heat that way. When he felt even colder, he began to wonder if it was retribution for being indecisive.
The walk wasn't helping the way he'd thought it might. It was the middle of the night. The streets were deserted. No-one with half a brain would be out, unless, of course, they needed space, like him. The solitude should have brought him back to reality when, in fact, it was driving him deeper into make-believe. He just kept picturing unlikely situations - he'd say: "Hi, hon, I'm back. I missed you." She'd run up, throw her arms around his neck and reply: "And I missed you, my darling." Now, that was about as far-removed from reality as you could get.
He would have to face the truth sometime - their marriage was on the rocks: when a woman started talking divorce instead of simply going home to mother, she expected more than an apology and a bunch of red roses. Not that he had given Sally either. Carnations, maybe, and a: "Surely to God we can work this out?" His only other contribution had been to watch her digging in her heels and then follow suit himself. That was how their last skirmish had ended, with neither of them prepared to give an inch to break the resulting stalemate. He'd appealed, of course: "Be reasonable, for Christ's sake!"
Sally probably figured she was: "Get a nine-to-five job like any normal person." It wasn't intended as a suggestion, and in case he was under the mistaken impression that she might not have been serious, she'd added: "Or find yourself another family!"
The ultimatum had been impeccably timed, delivered just as he was climbing into the cab to leave for his last shift. The driver hadn't helped matters any. "I always thought my missus was the only Godzilla." he'd commented after they'd pulled out of earshot. "I never realised two of them had escaped."
Del had managed to restrain his true feelings. At least, he didn't talk about it to anyone, but he'd gathered that something must have showed because after just one day back on the rig, the men began treating him like an unexploded bomb, and were probably glad to see the back of him. That wasn't good: the toolpusher of a drilling crew ought to command respect, not fear. Maybe the same thing was happening at home, he thought. Maybe Sally was retaliating because she was afraid of him. After a few more minutes of walking, the idea seemed ludicrous - Godzilla II was afraid of no man.
He reached the house, frozen to the marrow and stood by the gate looking along the path to the front door. It didn't seem like home, merely an expensive hobby he had neither the time nor the money to pursue with any conviction. Once, he'd thought of it as their love nest, Utopia - he was young and stupid three years ago - now he only stayed for the sake of his son, Danny. A boy needed his father, certainly better guidance than his mother was prepared to offer. There was never a more pertinent example than the child's bike which had been left neglected and rusting