Others by James Herbert Page A

illumination, could take in their leathers and amulets, their spiked collars, their freaked hair and high, laced boots. They were an unlovely bunch.
    I could just make out the peppy one’s leering grin, no mercy in that expression.
    ‘Going swimming, Quozzie? Only swim at night, do yer?’
    The others enjoyed the taunt, adding their own drolleries.
    ‘Didn’t know the freak show was in town.’ What yer do for sex, date a spazzie?’ ‘Didn’t know abortions could walk about.’ You know, remarks of that ilk, and others that were plain degenerate. Every one seemed to inspire the next, and the gang had great fun.
    ‘Oh shit,’ I said quietly to myself, then turned away and began moving again, not rushing, just taking it steady, not wanting them to see how much I was shaking. Shaking with rage, with fear, with impotence.
    A beer can hit me this time, half full so that liquid spilt into my hair, ran down the back of my neck.
    ‘Hey, we’re talkin to you, ‘umpback!’
    I didn’t reply. I kept going.
    Footsteps crunching after me.
    Knowing I couldn’t outrun them, I whirled around and it must have been my expression that stopped them dead, shadows formed by the dim light probably deepening my scowl, maybe even making me look fearsome.
    ‘Listen to me,’ I said, allowing anger to override my nervousness. ‘I’m not bothering you, so just leave me alone. Okay?’
    But the sprightly one, the arrogant one, the one I assumed was the leader, swaggered towards me, features screwed up into a grimace that was as ugly as mine.
    ‘You got it wrong, Quozzie. You are botherin us.’
    Another step closer allowed me to see a face so full of loathing and bigotry that it surely must have poisoned this one’s soul; it came in waves, a silent rant against everything this zealot thought of as abnormal and not up to the perceived order of things. Although my gaze never left those venomous eyes, I was aware that the others were outflanking me so that soon I was surrounded. I took a step back; my main tormentor took a step forward.
    I sensed no euphoria among them, no laid-back pleasantry that the fat Jamaicans and drink should have induced, and I began to suspect they had all been on something harder earlier that evening, maybe Ice, which was the drug of the moment in Brighton around that time, a street methamphet-amine, pure crystal shit that gave a big rush that ultimately and invariably fucked up the brain with its worsening withdrawals. Sometimes the tweakers freaked out with meth psychosis and hallucinations, and that was never a time to be around them.
    I consoled myself with the thought that this merry little band of junkheads could just as easily be on GHB, or Liquid Ecstasy, both popular drugs around the clubs, whose come-downs sometimes could be scary as well; then again, they could be on the nutter stuff, Special K. Whichever, I figured their smoking mixed with booze was their way of making the descent easy on themselves. Only it didn’t seem to be working: aggression was bristling from this mob.
    ‘Look,’ I said placatingly, hoping the tremble in my voice wasn’t too noticeable, ‘what d’you want from me? D’you want money? I’ve got money. I can give you some.’ I reached for my wallet, an action replay of a short time earlier when I’d willingly offered charity to the beggar. I wasn’t proud of myself at that moment, but if that was what it took to get me off the hook, then so be it.
    Yeah, we want money.’
    Eyes looked greedily at the notes in my hand. ‘But we don’t want some, we want all of it.’
    My wallet, as well as the notes, was snatched away and when I reacted, reflexively reaching out to grab it back (cash was one thing, credit cards and driving licence was another) something whacked against my head. I think it must have been another, even larger, stone from the beach, because I heard it crack as it struck my temple, and it hit me so hard I fell to my knees.
    My brain went numb for a second