greenish, marine-like luminescence, alongside a foul reek reminiscent of maggoty fish.
“ Quickly man!” Craddock shouted, hacking harder at the rope.
Its fibres began to fray, then Palmer’s weight took over. The next thing, he was loose in their arms, rangy and difficult to manage. They’d have lowered him to the ground, but that ground was tilting beneath their feet. With the constable slung between them, they staggered sideways. All across the floor of the hold rents were appearing, the entire chamber filling with the light, which had a rippling, shimmering quality.
“ This way,” Craddock panted, making for the door to the next section of hold.
He grabbed his lantern as he went, but like Munro, couldn’t resist a backwards glance. What he saw brought him to a stupefied standstill.
The ballast had finally fragmented, and an immense, gelatinous something was slowly writhing free of its clutches.
It would have been impossible for either man, given the brief time he stood there, to offer a complete description of the abomination they now beheld. But they caught fleeting glimpses of translucent, tentacle-like protuberances oozing up through the rubble, and in the central area – where Burnwood had drained his victims, and then died himself – a blob-like focal point, a quivering mound of vitreous flesh slowly forcing itself upwards, palpitating, glistening – and, at the same time, glowing , for it was from this very thing that the eerie, oceanic light seemed to emanate. Yet, phosphorescence wasn’t the only thing the monstrosity contained. In the very midst of it, in the thickest part, directly below the emergent point – the head, if such a thing could be called a ‘head’ – the two officers saw a human figure deeply embedded. Preposterous though it seemed, this figure appeared to be riding the creature, or at least controlling it; a demonic human agent safely encased at the globular core, issuing commands through malignant thought-impulses.
Of course all this was fantasy, and unhinged fantasy at that.
The enclosed figure was neither riding nor controlling anything. It wasn’t even moving – not of its own accord, for it was no longer sentient. It wasn’t just dead, it was long dead, little more than bones and carrion. Yet it struck the two officers with horror all the same, for though many of its clothes had faded and rotted away, they were still recognisable as the ragged remnants of a French naval uniform.
“ Holy Christ!” Munro screamed. “HOLY JESUS CHRIST!”
Craddock stared in mute disbelief. Even as they stood there, further sunken relics became visible: skulls, femurs, pelvises, and the shreds of common street-garb – a frilled bonnet, a streetwalker’s lace-up boot – scattered wide but lodged deep in the oily bulk.
Sick to their stomachs, the two policemen scrambled away across the next section of hold, half dragging-half carrying Palmer. He’d now become a dead weight, and getting him up to the Carpenter’s Walk was an onerous task. But with new shafts of green light shooting up all around them, they found strength they’d never previously imagined, and manhandled his inert form up the steep ladder with relative ease.
Craddock was the last of the trio to ascend. His was seething with sweat and wheezing painfully. Though a fit man, at fifty-seven he wasn’t the robust, front-line warrior he’d once been; but there was still no flight without fight in his book. The moment he was up, he turned and flung his lantern back down into the hold. There was a shatter of glass as it burst apart on the rungs, then a whoosh of flame as the fuel ignited.
Munro was appalled: “Sir, what the hell are you doing?”
“ A simple measure, to slow the thing down.”
“ Slow it down? You’ll burn us to death!”
“ I doubt it. This ship’s sodden through.”
Munro shook his head. “It’s not just timber, it’s hemp and canvas. It’s thick with tar. Sodden or not, it’ll go up
“ Quickly man!” Craddock shouted, hacking harder at the rope.
Its fibres began to fray, then Palmer’s weight took over. The next thing, he was loose in their arms, rangy and difficult to manage. They’d have lowered him to the ground, but that ground was tilting beneath their feet. With the constable slung between them, they staggered sideways. All across the floor of the hold rents were appearing, the entire chamber filling with the light, which had a rippling, shimmering quality.
“ This way,” Craddock panted, making for the door to the next section of hold.
He grabbed his lantern as he went, but like Munro, couldn’t resist a backwards glance. What he saw brought him to a stupefied standstill.
The ballast had finally fragmented, and an immense, gelatinous something was slowly writhing free of its clutches.
It would have been impossible for either man, given the brief time he stood there, to offer a complete description of the abomination they now beheld. But they caught fleeting glimpses of translucent, tentacle-like protuberances oozing up through the rubble, and in the central area – where Burnwood had drained his victims, and then died himself – a blob-like focal point, a quivering mound of vitreous flesh slowly forcing itself upwards, palpitating, glistening – and, at the same time, glowing , for it was from this very thing that the eerie, oceanic light seemed to emanate. Yet, phosphorescence wasn’t the only thing the monstrosity contained. In the very midst of it, in the thickest part, directly below the emergent point – the head, if such a thing could be called a ‘head’ – the two officers saw a human figure deeply embedded. Preposterous though it seemed, this figure appeared to be riding the creature, or at least controlling it; a demonic human agent safely encased at the globular core, issuing commands through malignant thought-impulses.
Of course all this was fantasy, and unhinged fantasy at that.
The enclosed figure was neither riding nor controlling anything. It wasn’t even moving – not of its own accord, for it was no longer sentient. It wasn’t just dead, it was long dead, little more than bones and carrion. Yet it struck the two officers with horror all the same, for though many of its clothes had faded and rotted away, they were still recognisable as the ragged remnants of a French naval uniform.
“ Holy Christ!” Munro screamed. “HOLY JESUS CHRIST!”
Craddock stared in mute disbelief. Even as they stood there, further sunken relics became visible: skulls, femurs, pelvises, and the shreds of common street-garb – a frilled bonnet, a streetwalker’s lace-up boot – scattered wide but lodged deep in the oily bulk.
Sick to their stomachs, the two policemen scrambled away across the next section of hold, half dragging-half carrying Palmer. He’d now become a dead weight, and getting him up to the Carpenter’s Walk was an onerous task. But with new shafts of green light shooting up all around them, they found strength they’d never previously imagined, and manhandled his inert form up the steep ladder with relative ease.
Craddock was the last of the trio to ascend. His was seething with sweat and wheezing painfully. Though a fit man, at fifty-seven he wasn’t the robust, front-line warrior he’d once been; but there was still no flight without fight in his book. The moment he was up, he turned and flung his lantern back down into the hold. There was a shatter of glass as it burst apart on the rungs, then a whoosh of flame as the fuel ignited.
Munro was appalled: “Sir, what the hell are you doing?”
“ A simple measure, to slow the thing down.”
“ Slow it down? You’ll burn us to death!”
“ I doubt it. This ship’s sodden through.”
Munro shook his head. “It’s not just timber, it’s hemp and canvas. It’s thick with tar. Sodden or not, it’ll go up
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