Guy N. Smith - Night Of The Crabs 2 - Crabs Moon

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Chapter One

Friday-Shell Island

IREY WALL glanced at the stocky fair-haired man beside her, noted the way he

crouched over the steering wheel, a pose that was definitely intended to

impress. A show-off. She looked away, told herself that she was the biggest

bloody fool on earth. It wasn't too late, though. She could say 'I'm sorry,

Keith, but I've changed my mind. Take me back to the camp, please.' But that

needed courage, the kind she didn't have right now. He'd convince her

otherwise in that same persuasive tone that he had used last night as he had

shouted in her ear in an attempt to make himself heard above the grating sound

of the cheap dance band as they had smooched around the floor. She even knew

what he would say. 'Don't be bloody daft, Irey. We're only going for a ride

out to Shell Island, find ourselves a quiet stretch of beach for an hour or

two. There's no harm in that, is there? The break from the kids will do you

good, and they'll be fine with the Greencoats. They won't even miss you.

Christ, you can't stay in the camp all week, which you'd have to do without me

because you don't have a car. You'd go bloody crazy stopping in there the

whole time, a permanent stink of candyfloss and fish and chips, and those

bingo callers never letting up so that you go to sleep repeating numbers to

yourselves instead of counting sheep. Hell, you're safe enough with me and

nobody will give us a second glance. Then, before you know it, you'll be back

with the kids and today'll just be a memory.' Irey sighed, stared at the queue

of holiday traffic ahead of them. There was no point in starting an argument

with her companion. She didn't have the energy, anyway. It was too damned hot.

Whatever will be, will be.

The car slowed to a halt, its engine ticking over. She closed her eyes and her

mind went back to last night.

It had seemed so exciting then, just a harmless flirtation. The atmosphere and

a couple of gins had made it that way. She'd put her chalet on the patrol

rota, told the Greencoats they would find her in the Pearl dance hall if they

needed her. The kids were asleep when she'd left and in all probability they

would never even know she had been out. Good kids they were, Rodney, six and

Louise, four. Irey had had an urge to go out somewhere; maybe a quick drink or

some fish and chips would have been a better idea. It was difficult at times

like these being a woman. You weren't meant to go out on your own. If you

didn't have a man then you either stopped in or else you went out and found

yourself one. And when men saw you out on your own they automatically presumed

you were looking for one thing. It wasn't bloody well fair. Her fingernails

dug into the sweaty palms of her hands. The traffic edged forward a few yards

and then stopped again. Irey opened her eyes, closed them again.

Indirectly it was all Alan's fault. What husband and father with any sense of

love and responsibility shoved his wife and kids off to a holiday camp so that

he could have a fortnight's fishing with his mates from work? Well, Alan

fitted the bill: the classic male chauvinist pig. There was gossip, rumours

about him back home, but Irey had forced herself to shut her ears to them. She

didn't want to know. I don't want to bloody well hear 'erni There were

explanations (excuses?). He was out late frequently because he was in the

darts team, most of whom were in the fishing club also. Safety in numbers.

Ready alibis too. Deep down he loved his family best, just had a funny way of

showing it. He was too interested in darts and fishing to worry about other

women. Hadn't he admitted to her only the other week that he didn't find sex

exciting anymore and that she needn't. He couldn't understand it when she'd

burst into tears.

And now this guy Keith. She sneaked another glance at him, felt her skin

goosepimple a little in spite of the heat. A real hulk of man, so different

from Alan in almost every way. Last night she'd felt her stomach turn, her

heart miss a beat when he'd singled her out in the corner of the dance room.

'On your own, sweetheart?' Surprise that seemed genuine. Weren't there dozens

of younger girls here on the loose just with one thought in mind? But he'd

chosen her.

'I ... I just came in for an hour ... to listen to the music. I can't stop

longer because my kids are back at the chalet.'

He bought her a drink, didn't give her the opportunity to refuse. And somehow

her life story, her disappointments came spilling out.

'My name's Keith,' he said as he led her on to the floor, held her close to

him as somehow they found space amidst the other couples. The lights were

right down by now, just a kind of mauve glow. 'I had a wife once but one day I

got in from work and found she'd gone off with a contract gardener, a guy who

spent the summer months mowing people's lawns and the winter months having it

off with his customers' wives. I was real sick, I can tell you. But I got over

it. Maybe one day I'll settle down again if I can find the right woman, and if

I can find the courage to get married again.'

It was a kind of cue that brought her own fears spilling out. She'd never

spoken that way to anybody about Alan before; it all came out in a kind of

rush as though suddenly she was desperate to get it out of her system.

Which was why she was here now with Keith, and the Greencoats were looking

after Rodney and Louise for the day. Subconsciously last night she had gone

out to find herself a man. But it would only be a holiday friendship. She

wouldn't let him do anything. A bit of flirtation; the holiday was half over,

anyway.

'Seems everybody's got a mind to get out of the camp today,' his hand found

its way across to her knee, squeezed it so naturally as though he had known

her for years, as though he was her ... husband.

'They're probably all going to Shell Island,' A hint of reluctance, a final

resistance although she had resigned herself to her fate. 'It'll probably be

so crowded that we won't be able to get on anyway.'

'I doubt it. I'd lay a fiver that this lot's going into Barmouth today. The

Radio One Roadshow's there this morning and you know how half this population

of conditioned morons will virtually mob their favourite DJ. Me, I wouldn't

waste my time listening to their verbal garbage.'

'They're probably just glad to get away from the camp for the day,' her hand

seemed to find his of its own accord. 'The trouble is there's just too many

camps along this part of the Welsh coast. Butlin's, Pontin's, and now this new

one, the Blue Ocean Holiday Camp.'

'What made you go for Blue Ocean?'

'I suppose, I thought it might be something different.'

'Or cheaper.'

'Maybe,' she blushed faintly under her heat flush. 'Or rather, my husband

decided. He's paid the bill, you see. I didn't think it was worth arguing

about.

One camp's much the same as another when you're stuck there for a week with

the kids. All they think about are funfairs and amusements. I wouldn't've

thought a holiday camp was your style, Keith, More like the

Costa-something-or-other for you where you can take your pick of the

dark-skinned bathing beauties.'

'Not for me,' he let the clutch in again and the car rolled forward another

few yards. 'I thought maybe I could lose myself in a camp, better even than a

hotel or guest house, with every single thing laid on for you. And, anyway, I

was curious about this set-up after what I'd read about it. You got to hand it

to this guy, Miles Manning, having the nerve to set up a place tike this when

every other form of UK holiday entertainment is reporting bookings down each

year. I guess it was a kind of challenge, an opportunity for an eccentric

multi-millionaire to take on the might of the other two established camps. And

there's no getting away from it, the Blue Ocean is fully booked. Yesterday

afternoon they even had to close it to day-trippers.'

'And what do you think of the camp, Keith?'

'It's good, no two ways about that,' the car came to a halt again and he

pulled the handbrake on. They've got the edge on their competitors at the

moment because everything's new. The paint's all fresh and gaudy, it isn't the

same old amusement arcade which you got bored in last year. It's a novelty

which will reap its reward.'

The traffic began to move yet again, a jerky snaking line that disappeared

over the brow of the next hill and you wished you could see further. You

wouldn't be satisfied until you were up there yourself and saw at first hand

the state of the congestion. Irey felt sleepy. It was a good job she hadn't

got the children with her. They would have been bored and squabbling by now.

And it would be the first thing they would tell Alan as soon as they got home.

Which started her feeling guilty again. She wasn't cut out for affairs.

Irey Wall woke with a start, almost clawed her way panic-stricken out of that

hot sticky slumber, gasped with pain as the hairs on the back of her neck,

which had become stuck to the upholstery, were suddenly wrenched free. Guilt

and fear, clutching Keith's hand because it still happened to be resting on

her bare leg, possibly an inch or two higher than it had been when she had

last been aware of it.

They were bumping their way across a type of rough causeway and way to her

left were stretches of ominous steel mesh fencing topped with barbed wire.

Beyond that were a series of squat buildings with tiny windows. Some planes,

small ones, stood on a short tarmac runway.

'Where . . . where are we?' She glanced about her, fearful for one terrible

second that her eyes might rest upon the familiar outline of her own husband,

his finger pointing accusingly at her. Oh, for Christ's sake, Alan, just keep

out of this will you. Go catch yourself a big fish.

'Shell Island.' Keith Baxter sounded weary. 'As I said, the milling millions

didn't have it in mind to come here today. Apart from those half-dozen cars in

front of us they've all gone on down the road to Barmouth to pay homage to

their honey-voiced DJ. There'll be a few campers on the island, doubtless, but

I reckon we'll have all the peace we need. And it isn't midday yet.'

Irey automatically turned her head away when a youth selling tickets

approached them as they drove into the farmyard with its campers' shop and

toilets. God, just suppose she saw somebody she knew! A thousand-to-one chance

but you never knew.

Keith swung the car off to the left, followed the tarmac track up a steep bank

to where it levelled out. From here they had a view of the island itself,

acres of rough grass with surprisingly little litter in spite of the number of

gaily coloured tents which dotted the scene. The grass was already turning

brown after a month of prolonged sunshine, the snaking narrow tarmacadam

creating its own mirages.

'We'll go ...' an escalating whine reached a deafening peak and Irey clutched

at her companion in sudden terror. A diving plane, almost as though it was

bent on attacking them Kamikazi-style, suddenly turned off at the last moment,

arcing its way towards that sinister compound with its shimmering runway which

they had passed earlier. They followed its trail of smoke, saw it wheel,

check, then land with unerring precision. A smoking silent steel bird that had

hunted the skies and now returned to its eyrie.

'That pilot must have been crazy,' she whispered hoarsely. 'He was

deliberately trying to scare us. He might have misjudged and killed us and

himself.'

'I doubt there's a pilot in there,' he replied. That place you see there is a

top ministry research base, guarded day and night. Nobody really knows what

they're up to except that they're experimenting with low-flying fighter

aircraft to go in under enemy radar. That's the one fly in the ointment here,

aircraft back and forth all day long, but eventually you get so used to them

that you don't even notice them. I was saying, before we were so rudely

interrupted, that if we go to the other end of the island we can find

ourselves a nice little place in the dunes. We can bathe, swim, or just get a

nice tan.'

'You've been here before, then?'

'I used to come camping here a lot in my younger days. Sometimes it's nice to

go over old ground again, remember places as they were when life was fresh and

exciting.'

He turned the car off the track, let it bump its way gently across the uneven

grass, took a left-hand sweep to avoid some tents. An orange van and a Land

Rover were parked side by side a little further on and he eased up alongside

them, switched the engine off. Above them, all along the skyline, screening

them from Cardigan Bay, was an uneven line of sand-dunes, tall spiky grass

growing lushly in spite of the dry weather.

'Well, we're here.' Keith Baxter turned to his companion, his gaze taking in

her shapely figure beneath the sweat-stained red T-shirt and the crumpled

pleated skirt. Short dark hair and wide blue eyes, a distinctive Welsh

characteristic.

'I should've brought a picnic of some sort with us,' she struggled up into a

sitting position, smoothing her clothing as she did so. 'I don't know why I

never thought of it. This heat addles the brain.'

'I intended taking you for a meal later, anyway,' he got out, walked round the

car and opened the door for her. 'For a couple of hours or so let's not be the

conventional British holidaymaker with his packaged food. Let's enjoy life.

We'll do just anything we feel like doing.'

It was a steep climb up to the summit of the dunes, Keith leading the way,

pulling Irey up behind him. Then they were standing surveying the deep blue

sea with scarcely a ripple in sight, wide golden sands that led on right up to

the rocky north end of the island, maybe thirty people in sight the whole way.

'See,' he laughed, 'we've virtually got the island to ourselves. All the silly

buggers have trekked off to see the Radio Roadshow. Let's find ourselves a

nice little shady spot somewhere in these dunes.'

There were plenty of shady places, well-used sandy indentations amidst the

coarse grass. Irey felt herself becoming tense again. God, Alan would kill her

if he got to know she'd been in here with a feller. Her flood of guilt

terminated in a lump in her throat as she noticed a small object half-buried

in the sand by her foot. There was no mistaking its identity - a used condom.

But you came across them everywhere these days, no place was sacred. And it

wasn't any of her business.

This is fine,' Keith was lowering himself down to the ground, pulling her with

him. 'It'll be nice to be out of the sun for a while.'

A moment's awkward silence. His hand was on her thigh again but suddenly it

was an exciting prospect. He obviously thought something of her or else he

wouldn't have brought her here; he could have had his pick of the tarts back

at the Blue Ocean Holiday Camp if it was sex he was after. And he wasn't

getting that. Surely he knew.

His face was close to hers, wafting some masculine odour, a strong aftershave.

She closed her eyes, shuddered as his lips found hers, felt a wave of

goose-pimples flooding her skin. Damn Alan, this served him right. She hadn't

been kissed like this for years.

Irey checked, stiffened, and had to stop herself from pushing Keith's fingers

away. He'd got a hand inside her T-shirt and was already making a nipple

stiffen. Schoolboy stuff! Fifteen years ago a girl would have been shocked;

nowadays she was shocked if it didn't happen.

'I fancy a swim,' he murmured in her ear. 'How about you?'

'I haven't brought a costume with me.'

'You don't need one here. I don't have one, anyway.'

'There was a sign back at the entrance forbidding nude bathing.'

'Sure, but nobody will bother us up this end. Not today, anyway. I noticed one

or two on the sands further up had stripped off.'

'I don't really know,' Irey wished she didn't blush so easily. 'I'll have to

think about it.' It sounded churlish.

Tell you what, Irey, suppose I go and have a dip first for a few minutes. Then

I'll come back and tell you how lovely and cool the water is and that there's

nobody about. Then we'll both go in, eh?'

'Oh, all right.' She knew she'd end up going in the sea whatever she said. The

idea was exciting. It was just that she needed time to think about it ... to

savour the prospect.

Through slitted eyes she watched her companion undress. She had been aware as

they kissed that he was aroused but the sudden exposure, the quivering length

of solid male flesh took her breath away. Suddenly this whole affair was for

real, a muscular lover whose intention was to take her here in the dunes.

Infidelity! She cringed, thought about leaping up and running. Don't be bloody

crazy, girl! It was a long walk back across the causeway and up to Llanbedr.

From there she would have to hitch-hike back to the camp. She tried telling

herself that Keith wouldn't do anything she really didn't want. He would just

be persuasive like most men were. She only had to say 'no'. It was as easy as

that.

She lay there trembling, aware of a moistness between her thighs which wasn't

just sweat. Her whole body was crying out for something she needed, something

she didn't get very often these days. Nobody would ever know. She wouldn't end

up with a baby because she was on the Pill.

So hot and stiff. Just the faint sound of the sea so far away and a thudding

like native tom-toms. It took her some time to realise that it was her own

heart thumping.

Sudden impetuosity. She sat up, tugged the damp T-shirt free of her body and

unclipped her bra in almost the same motion. Eagerly she wriggled out of her

crumpled skirt, threw it to one side. Her pants followed it.

She lay back with an audible sigh. Stark naked, God it felt good, like being

unshackled after years of incarceration in some dark dungeon. So relaxing, as

though the tension which had been building up inside her had suddenly been

released.

She wondered how long Keith would be. She couldn't wait to see his face when

he returned and found her like this.

She yawned and her eyes threatened to close.

Keith Baxter padded on to the wet sand and glanced about him. Those other

bathers were nowhere to be seen; perhaps they had gone back to their tents or

else were sheltering from the sun in the dunes. He glanced down at himself,

grinned. It wouldn't do to be seen with an erection like he'd got. Some bloody

woman would probably start screaming blue murder and he'd either be thrown off

the island or else the police would come. They'd call it flashing and run him

in. Even on the bona-fide nudist beaches you weren't supposed to get a

hard-on. Nudism wasn't supposed to arouse the sexual urges. But it was

different when you had got a half-conquered bird lying in the dunes awaiting

your return.

He broke into a canter, the sand becoming very soft now. Hell, the tide was a

good way out and still ebbing. He half considered giving up and returning to

Irey but he had come too far. Just a quick dip, enough so that he could go

back to her, his body glistening with droplets of sea water.

The water was damnably cold in spite of the heat of the day. Baxter gasped

aloud, pushed further in. The first few seconds were always the worst. He

caught his breath, plunged forward unexpectedly as the ground beneath him

shelved sharply. For one moment he was totally submerged, then he was swimming

strongly, kicking and splashing, invigorated.

A natural swimmer, he turned on his back, floated, felt the slight pull of the

tide. From here he could make out the line of sand-dunes, the ragged

silhouette of the long grass against the deep blue sky. So remote, he might

have been swimming somewhere off a deserted Pacific island.

But he couldn't get his mind off Irey Wall. The quiet kind, all her sexual

urges bottled up inside her until she almost forgot she had them. Almost. He

laughed aloud, a guttural flat sound out here at sea. You pulled out the cork

and hey presto! - she was transformed into a raving little nympho who couldn't

get enough. The kind that became a nuisance sometimes because if you gave it

to them good enough they latched on to you like a limpet and swore they

weren't ever going back to hubby. But Keith Baxter would be on his bike long

before it reached that stage. He laughed again.

A peal of laughter that began in mirth and transcended into a shriek of pain.

Something had hold of his left foot, something that gripped and cut sharply!

He felt himself being dragged under, his screams cut off as he swallowed

water, kicking out wildly with his free leg, windmilling insanely with his

arms.

Out of his depth and then his back grazed the rough shingle of the bottom. He

tried to see but the murkiness of the water restricted his vision. His brain

screamed logic; he had caught his foot in something, probably the hull of some

old motorboat which had been lying just below the surface. It was . . . no, it

couldn't be!

A shape, one that moved and shifted for a grip on his other leg, a tiny face

embedded in the shell of a huge body, pincers the size of industrial acetylene

cutters, securing the hold they sought and closing viciously. Agony ripped up

into the man's guts, had him twisting and trying to scream so that he

swallowed more water. The foaming sea around him was turning from pink to

crimson, a watery hell in which the torment was only just beginning.

Baxter knew his foot was gone; he felt it go, the incision made by those

pincers so neat and efficient. A moment of freedom, panicking blindly and

striking upwards for the surface. He made it, gulped for air in the blinding

sunlight, trying to scream for help at the same time.

The crab, for surely that was what it was in spite of its colossal size, came

after him with unbelievable agility. A tearing and ripping, soft flesh this

time, crunched to a bloody pulp and then torn out by its roots, sheer agony

paralysing the threshing human, his hands clutching at the gaping wound where

only a short while previously flesh had swelled-proudly with thoughts of Irey

Wall.

Now he was beneath the surface again, convulsed and defeated, no longer trying

to escape but offering what was left of his body so that the end might be

quick.

That face, so close to his own, so malignant, blazing crustacean hate for a

mortal foe. Holding him firmly but gently, swivelling him around in the way a

killer cat plays with a half-mutilated captive vole. Look and see before you

die!

Not just one face, dozens of them, a ring of hateful countenances in a wide

circle just below the surface. Watching. Waiting. Gloating!

For Christ's sake, kill me!

Click-click-clickety-click. A crab castanets sound, a symphony of death; slow

death.

For Baxter everything was suddenly happening in slow motion. He was being held

by a bloody stump of a thigh, a floating captor who no longer fought his

attackers. The physical agony was slowly being replaced by a numbness as

Nature's own anaesthetic relieved his mutilated body. Blood poured

relentlessly from his gory wounds, creating again that crimson underwater

hell.

It couldn't be happening, of course. Well, not like this. These monstrosities

were figments of his tortured mind. He had got caught up in something, his

original theory. Sharp rusting steel that had severed his limbs when he had

struggled. Of course, he was going to die. It didn't seem so bad once you were

faced with it; you spent your whole life being scared of dying but it really

wasn't so terrible after all.

A fleeting memory brought a twinge of regret to his brain that was having

difficulty functioning. That girl, damn it, he couldn't even remember her name

now. He wished he'd stopped in the dunes and screwed her. That had been his

big mistake, leaving her there and going for a swim in this God-awful crimson

sea. He gave a laugh-at least he meant to even if he didn't manage it-one

thing was for sure, he wouldn't be any fucking good to her now!

And for Keith Baxter the awful crimson around him darkened so that he neither

saw nor felt anything as the giant crabs closed in on him, ripping his torn

body apart with unprecedented fury, then crunching on his remains in a bloody

feast where sheer hunger predominated. Then the creatures moved away and the

water cleared again.

Chapter Two

Friday Evening - Shell Island

IREY WALL awoke with a start, clutching at her nakedness in an instinctive

action to cover it up until she had worked out exactly why she was lying here

with her clothes strewn all about her.

The events of the past few hours flipped back in a staccato-like

reconstruction of everything that had happened since she left the camp. Her

lover-no, her friend, because nothing had happened between them yet and maybe

it wouldn't anyway-had gone for a swim. She didn't know how long he had been

gone; it might have been a few minutes or it could have been an hour. There

was no way of telling because she wasn't wearing a watch.

Her emotions had cooled with sleep. She felt both guilty and foolish. Thank

God he had decided to go for a swim first otherwise she might have let him do

things she would have regretted later. She couldn't understand what had come

over her. She must've been crazy even agreeing to go out with him for the day.

Alan had his faults, and plenty of them, but she would never do a trick like

that across him. She'd better get dressed and when Keith came back she would

tell him that she'd changed her mind and would he please take her straight

back to the camp. She was sorry if she had let him down but . . .

A sudden noise like the snapping of a dry twig had her whirling around, her

pulses starting to race instantly. A movement, like a foot being lowered

gently on to a clump of dry grass. A faint cough.

Irey's mouth went instantly dry. She tried to tell herself that it was Keith

returning but he would have no need for stealth. Unless he was a secret voyeur

and hoped to catch her unawares, to study her from a secret vantage point. She

had heard about men like that, the sort of things they got up to. She went a

clammy cold in spite of the heat.

If Keith Baxter was intent on creeping up on her that was bad enough-but if it

was anybody else then that was a thousand times worse! She had to get dressed

whoever it was.

Her trembling fingers found a bra strap in the grass, lifted it; dropped it.

And at the very second she went to retrieve it she saw the face peering out of

the grass at her.

Irey Wall didn't scream. The sound somehow became stuck in her throat, died

away in an ignominious gurgle. Her muscles refused to function, became

jellified and useless. Only her eyes moved and saw, conveyed sheer terror to

her numbed brain.

It certainly wasn't Keith Baxter who crouched there watching her with grey

penetrating eyes. It was impossible even to guess at his age; he might have

been as old as sixty or he could have been a drop-out in his mid-twenties

whose body had aged prematurely. He seemed to be twisted from the waist

downwards, with thin wasted legs that were deformed through some disease;

perhaps he was a polio victim.

He wore a torn crimson shirt, the tails hanging loosely outside his faded

denim trousers. His feet were bare, the toes with their long broken black

nails all squashed together as though they were intent on defying their Maker

and forming into webbed limbs.

His face, oh God, his face was the most terrifying feature of all, partly

screened by creepers of long grey hair which fell forward as though intent on

hiding the horrific features from mankind. The eyes were large, bulging from

their sockets, set too close together so that surely his vision was impaired.

The nose was no more than twin nostrils in the centre, black encrusted minute

cavities that bubbled mucus as he breathed. And the mouth-a single slit in

which bobbed uneven lines of decayed tooth stumps, a sharp pointed central one

seeming to gouge the lip directly above it every time it moved.

'Who ... are you?' Irey marvelled at her own calm, the way she asked a

question instead of screaming hysterically.

'Bar-tholo-mew.' The name was strung out as though the other had difficulty in

pronouncing it. Perhaps nobody had ever asked him before.

'Bartholomew?'

He nodded. 'S'right. Everybody knows Bartholomew round here. I comes and goes

as I please. I sees things that other folks miss. You understand?'

Irey nodded and thought to herself, he's some local nutter. She eased her

thighs close together; he'd been staring in between them a few seconds ago. It

gave her a feeling of revulsion.

'Where's your man, lady?'

'He's . . . he's around.' At least I hope he is. Try and keep him talking and

get dressed at the same time. Maybe he's perfectly harmless but you can never

be sure.

'A lot o' young girls gets themselves fucked in these dunes,' he spoke

emotionlessly, a kind of recitation.

'Do they now?' She tried to sound haughty. 'Well, for your information, Mr

Bartholomew or whatever you call yourself, I was merely stripped off ready to

go for a swim. But I've changed my mind. I'm getting dressed and as soon as my

husband turns up we're going home. He should be here any second.'

'Don't you get goin' near the water, lady!' Suddenly his lisping voice took on

a new note, a low whisper broken only by the sound of loose phlegm in his

lungs. 'Whatever you do, don't go down to the sea. Not if you want to stay

alive!'

'I ... I beg your pardon.' Little icy ripples spread over her body, closed

over her heart. He's mad. Humour him.

'I seen 'em shortly after dawn this mornin', lady,' he leaned closer, his eyes

beginning to roll. 'A dozen of 'em, maybe more. I can't say 'cause I can't

count if there's more'n a few. But they came up out of the tide, lookin' for

food.'

'What came up out of the tide, Bartholomew?' Irey was feverishly trying to

fasten the clasp of her bra but it was proving an impossible task. 'Sharks,

like Jaws in the film?'

'Crabs!' Bartholomew spat the word out venomously.

'Crabs!' Irey repeated incredulously. 'But every stretch of coastline in

Britain has crabs.'

'Not the likes o' these,' there was an expression of terror on his hairy

features as he spread his arms wide, stretched to try and extend them even

further. 'Big 'uns. Bigger'n sheep. Big as cows.'

Something stopped her from contradicting him. Perhaps it was the look in his

eyes or maybe the way his voice died away to an unintelligible wheeze.

'I see,' was all she said and finding her T-shirt, pulled it on.

'I'm keepin' clear o' the tide,' he continued. 'And that ain't easy fer me,

'cause I'm a beachcomber.'

'Have you warned people?'

'Naw,' a contemptuous grunt. 'They wouldn'a listen if I did. They'll find out

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ChapterOneFriday-ShellIslandIREYWALLglancedatthestockyfair-hairedmanbesideher,notedthewayhecrouchedoverthesteeringwheel,aposethatwasdefinitelyintendedtoimpress.Ashow-off.Shelookedaway,toldherselfthatshewasthebiggestbloodyfoolonearth.Itwasn'ttoolate,though.Shecouldsay'I'msorry,Keith,butI'vechangedmym...

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Guy N. Smith - Night Of The Crabs 2 - Crabs Moon.pdf

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Guy N. Smith - Night Of The Crabs 2 - Crabs Moon

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