The Restless Dead

5

He was walking in the middle of the road with his back to me. I stamped on the brake and swerved, wrenching the wheel as hard as I could. There was a teeth-grating squeal as the side of the car scraped against the hedgerow, and the car juddered as the off-side went onto the grass verge. As the man flashed by my window there was a dull bump of impact. I felt a sick, hollow sensation in my chest as I fought the car, branches snapping as it skidded to a halt on the gravel.

I was flung against the seatbelt, my head jolting as I rocked back in my seat. Oh, God, I thought numbly, heart thumping as I twisted to look behind me.

The man was still standing in the middle of the road.

I’d expected to see a bloodied body lying there, or thrown into the hedgerow. The sight of him still upright and apparently unhurt washed through me like an unexpected reprieve. Unsteady myself, I opened the car door and got out.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

He looked at me blankly, protruding eyes blinking from a long, gaunt face. He was tall and cadaverously thin, wearing a greasy old brown raincoat and wellington boots. The greying hair was matted and a ratty beard sprouted unevenly from a pallid face. He held something clasped to his chest in both hands, and it was only when it cocked its head towards me that I realized it was a seagull.

‘Are you all right?’ I repeated, and took a step towards him. He backed away, a look of panic and confusion in his eyes. Tall as he was, there was something vulnerable about him. I stopped and held up my hands. ‘It’s OK, I just want to make sure you’re not hurt.’

His mouth worked as though he were going to say something, then his eyes slid away. Still hugging the seagull to him, he started walking along the road.

‘No, hang on…’ I began, but he took no notice. His wellingtons slapped loosely around the long stork-like legs as he trudged right past as though I weren’t there. Only the seagull he was carrying paid me any attention, blinking with one angry eye as it turned its head to keep me in view.

OK… I watched him go, still shaken by the near miss. If I’d taken the bend any faster I’d have hit him. It had been a stupid place for him to walk, but his ragged state and manner suggested serious mental health issues. Unsure what to do, I stared after him. It went against the grain to just drive away, but I didn’t see that I had much option. He wasn’t hurt, and while walking in the road made him a danger to himself as well as drivers, I couldn’t physically stop him. Besides, the stick-thin legs could cover a lot of ground: he was already out of sight around the next bend.

With a last glance at the empty road, I went back to my car. There was no serious damage, although the hawthorn branches scraped across the bodywork as I eased out of the hedgerow. I gritted my teeth at the sound, trying not to think about the paintwork.

I checked the dashboard clock as I pulled away. There was still time to get to the briefing, but I couldn’t afford any more delays. My headache had grown worse, not helped by the jolting from the emergency stop. Opening my window for fresh air, I kept my speed down in case the ragged man had decided to stop on another blind bend. But there was no sign of him around the next, or the one after that. I began to relax, thinking he’d cut across one of the fields, and then I rounded another bend and saw him.

Walking down the middle of the road, right in front of me.

Oh, for crying out loud… Slowing, I drew up behind him. He didn’t turn around or show any sign of getting out of the way. Just carried on walking at the same pace, arms cradling the seagull to his chest. My hand went instinctively to the horn, but I didn’t press it. He was obviously in a fragile state, and I didn’t want to frighten him.

Instead, with the car crawling along behind him, I wound the window the rest of the way down and called out.

‘Do you want a lift?’

Providing he didn’t live too far away I should have enough, time to drop him off. That would get him out of the way and ease my conscience at the same time. Very principled, a small voice mocked. I silenced it by telling myself that I could always contact social services later. Right now there was somewhere I needed to be.

But the man walking in front of the car gave no response. Wondering if he might be deaf, I called again. This time a slight sideways jerk of his head said he’d heard me.

He just wasn’t taking any notice.

Despite myself, I could feel my frustration growing. I tried a different tack. ‘Can you let me pass?’ I shouted.

Again, there was no response. I looked at the gap between him and the hedgerow, wondering if I could squeeze by, before abandoning the idea. The road was too narrow, and trying to push past a pedestrian with a car was never going to end well.

My car rumbled along in first gear behind the gangling figure in the filthy raincoat. He continued plodding along the road, still carrying the seagull. I considered getting out of the car and trying to persuade him to move, but I knew that would be asking for trouble. Although I’d only been a GP, not a psychiatrist, it was clear the man had problems. There was no telling how he’d react if he felt threatened, and I could already see signs that he was distressed. He’d started walking faster, his head twitching to the side as he cast glances over his shoulder. Whatever else might be wrong with him, he was vulnerable and scared, and right now I wasn’t helping.

With a sigh, I dropped back, letting the car coast almost to a stop so he could pull ahead. So now what? I gnawed my lip, feeling clammy and out of sorts as I fretted over the lost time. For all I knew he might carry on like this for miles, and wouldn’t that make a fine excuse when I showed up late for the briefing?

Or missed it altogether. The satnav had finally sorted itself out, the GPS kicking in to establish where I was. Lundy had warned against relying on it out here but I didn’t need an alternative route. Only a detour so I could get past the man in front of me. There was a turning coming up that seemed to connect back to this road after a mile or so. It would take me right into the saltmarshes of the Backwaters, but only for a short while. One thing was certain: if I didn’t do something I was going to be late.

The road ahead was clear. I set off again, watching the on-screen arrow marking my position draw closer to the turn-off. There was no sign of the walking man. I wondered again who he might be, what his story was. And why was he carrying a bloody seagull?

I almost missed the turning. It was little more than a gap in the tall hawthorn hedgerow, a single lane track that cut off at a right angle. Hoping I didn’t meet another car, I set off down it. The tarmac was broken and overgrown with weeds and grasses, except for two parallel ruts made by previous vehicles. The tall hedgerows funnelled me along, keeping me from seeing where I was going. I was forced to trust the satnav’s map, which showed a T-junction with another road coming up. All I had to do was turn on to it and follow it for about a mile, then I’d be able to cut back on to the route I’d just left. There was still enough time to make the briefing, I told myself, and then the hedgerows ended and I saw what lay ahead.

The road ran into a river.

A broad swathe of water lay in my path, cutting me off from the road on the far side. Not a river, I realized, a tidal creek. It must feed into the estuary, and now it was being flooded by the returning tide as well. It was taking longer this far inland, but water already covered most of the muddy creek bed. The road promised by the satnav was no more than a thin causeway, a rough finger of built-up shingle. Crossing it wouldn’t be a problem at low tide, but sections of it were already submerged and the rest soon would be.

I swore and stopped the car. There was no room to turn around, and I didn’t relish trying to reverse all the way back up the winding lane. I told myself to stay calm as I stared at the rapidly flooding causeway. The creek wasn’t very wide here, and over on its far side I could see the T-junction with the road I’d intended to take. It was agonizingly close. The water covering the causeway was still shallow, and I couldn’t see that it would be any different from driving along a flooded road. But it wouldn’t stay like that for long; if I was going to cross I’d have to go now.

So what’s it to be? Go or stay here? There wasn’t really any decision to make. Putting the car into gear, I drove down on to the causeway.

Shingle crunched under the tyres, then was muted by the hiss of spray. I kept my speed slow but steady, not taking my eyes off the barely visible strip in front of me. In places it disappeared altogether, and I had to keep the car straight and trust there were no bends. My knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as water sluiced up on either side like a bow wave. But the opposite bank was drawing closer, and as I passed halfway I allowed myself to relax. Almost there, I thought, and then the car jerked as a front wheel dropped into a submerged pothole.

It wasn’t very big, but it didn’t have to be. The car’s front end dipped down, slapping deeper into the water, and as quickly as that the engine cut out.

‘No!’ I said, hurriedly reaching to restart it. ‘No, no, no…’

The engine wheezed for long enough to give me hope, then died. I turned the key again, holding it as tight as I could as though that would make any difference.

‘Come on…!’

The engine whined before dying once more. I tried it again, and then again, but there wasn’t even a murmur. I sat in the sudden silence, stunned by this new disaster. The far bank couldn’t be more than a few car lengths away. I stared at it, and then flung open the car door and jumped out. The water was bitingly cold and came almost to my knees. It poured over the sill, soaking through my boots and trousers. The pull of it surprised me, and I recalled Lundy telling me the tide came in faster than a man could run.

Not that I was running anywhere. The driver’s window was still open, so I quickly closed the door on the water and reached inside to steer with one hand. Then, putting my shoulder into it, I began to push. The car shifted forward and then stopped. The wheel was still stuck in the pothole. Swearing, I dug my feet into the shingle and heaved against the car. Again, the wheel caught on the pothole, but this time I’d been expecting it. As the car rolled back I heaved again, using its own momentum to bump it free.

Yes! Sluggishly, the car began to move forward. I kept pushing, water sloshing up to my knees as I struggled to keep it going. The causeway was becoming difficult to see as the tide covered more and more of it, but I kept the bonnet aimed at where it emerged on to the far bank. The water tugged at my legs as the rising water flowed past. It was becoming harder to push the car as it deepened, but every yard I managed was that much closer to dry land. I was getting into a rhythm when the car suddenly lurched to a halt. I clutched on to it as I lost my balance, realizing straight away what had happened. The back wheel had caught in the same pothole.

‘Don’t do this,’ I breathed, trying to rock the car free again.

This time I wasn’t so lucky. I strained against the car, my feet skidding and sinking into the shingle, but it didn’t budge. Gasping, I abandoned the attempt. The car wasn’t going anywhere unless I could clear away some of the shingle. By now I was soaked to my thighs. Taking off my coat, I put it on the roof and pushed back my sleeves before reaching into the freezing water, groping for the hole the wheel had sunk into. Sharp stones and shells scratched at my hands, cutting into my bloodless fingers as I tried to scrabble them away.

It was a waste of time: the wheel was too firmly held. I banged the side of the car in frustration, trying to think of something in the boot I could use to dig with. The lid from the cool-box would make a poor shovel, but it was better than bare hands. Hugging the side of the car so as not to slip off the causeway, I splashed around to the back. But even as I did I knew it was no use. The water was rising too quickly. It was already so deep that I wasn’t sure I’d even be able to push the car through it. It wouldn’t be safe to stay out here much longer.

I wasn’t ready to give up just yet, though. The water hadn’t quite reached the boot. I opened it up, ignoring the bin bag containing the waders that I didn’t have time to put on, and pulled the cool-box towards me. I was about to take the lid off when I heard a noise. Faint, but unmistakable: the sound of an engine. Looking out from behind the boot, I saw a flash of grey streaking behind the hedgerow that ran along the creekside road.

A car was coming.