Others by James Herbert

swiftly deserted me? Had I only kidded myself that I’d adapted to all those jibes and kindnesses? Well no, because I knew I’d only ever placed a barrier between myself and the prejudices and good intentions of others. I suppose my surprise tonight was that the shield was gossamer-thin instead of cast-iron thick. Even the whisky and beer I’d consumed that night had failed to dull the senses, to thicken that self-preserving defence even more.
    An urge to be nearer the sea overcame me (because the sea was clean and as far away from people as I could get?) and I lurched from the railings, heading towards the ramp that led to the boulevard below. I was aware that my shambling walk was exaggerated by weariness - and yes, no excuses, by alcohol too - the limp now a parody of my normal gait, my hump even more rounded. Crouched and shuffling, I hastened down towards the beach, momentum increased by the slope’s angle.
    The ramp was wide enough for wheelchairs and delivery vans alike, but not user-friendly for hunchbacks of awkward stride, and I steered myself to one side so that I could slide my hand along its rail, steadying myself, occasionally gripping to control the descent. Near the bottom, customers were overflowing from the Zap club, milling around its door, spilling out on to the level boulevard. Getting in my way.
    Now I deliberately kept my head bowed, my one eye watching other people’s feet as the noise from the club’s open door became horrendous, the chatter of voices around me intimidating. I could tell by the shifting of legs that some of the crowd were anxious not to become an obstacle in my way; others failed to notice me though, only becoming aware when I tried desperately, solicitously, to nudge by without giving offence. A girl’s shriek was followed by laughter, a male’s derision followed by embarrassed shushes.
    At last I was through, but as I raised my head to see the way ahead I was confronted by the customers of the Cuba Bar, a large section of its patronage seated at tables arranged in an open area outside the bar itself. I slunk around them, regretting my impulse to reach the seashore, aware that not only did people en masse stare harder but that they felt anonymous enough to voice their humour or shock. Several of them pointed me out, and one or two shouted comments, and only when my feet crunched pebbles did I stop running.
    I sneaked away from the bright lights towards sweet covering darkness, away from mocking sounds and cries of pity, making my way diagonally across the beach so that I’d also be moving closer to home in my sea quest. Noise behind me became a general hum of voices and music, the stony shore grew dimmer with every shuffling pace, and I’d almost reached my tidal sanctuary when I heard the insult that was the worst of all, the one I dreaded because it was never the end of it, it was always the precursor to further torment.
    ‘Oi, fuckin Quasimodo!’
    They were sitting around in a circle on the stones, unnoticed in my rush, difficult to see in their mainly dark attire. They drank from cans of beer but the smell that drifted across our neutral ground was pure weed; their spliffs glowed in the gloom, bright one moment, a dull amber the next, each burning dot thick with Jamaican promise. I ignored the call, hurrying on, my feet sliding on the little pebble hills that spoiled any rhythm I could build, but something large and hard struck the hump of my back. The stone clunked on to the beach and I went on.
    ‘The bells, the bells!’ someone behind me wailed to much snickering.
    I stopped, hung my head, closed my eye for a moment, then turned to face them.
    I was between the group and the boulevard, between it and the broad stretch of light from the roadway above, so that as they collectively stood, some moving sluggishly as though heavy with dope and booze, one, the nearest to me, rising almost sprightly, fired by youth’s arrogance, I could see their shapes in the muted