hard against it and he had to fight to stop himself being dragged over.
What was once Mary Morton was considerably the worst for wear but still instantly recognisable as the woman we had known. With one arm over the rail and the other clasped like a lover’s around Harry’s neck, she stared with sightless eyes into her husband’s terrified face while drawing him, slowly but surely, towards her. As he came she mouthed angry words and phrases at him but no sound came forth from the badly damaged throat.
Sensing the inevitable end to this unequal struggle, Harry recovered a modicum of self control and turned to face us:
‘Help me, please, she’s going to kill me!’
Mr Disvan stepped forward and shouted something that I either didn’t quite catch or that was in a language I didn’t understand. It seemed to have some effect because the monster woman turned to look at us for the first time.
Being under the relentless scrutiny of that dead, white face made me forget Harry’s plight for a moment and wish with all my heart that Disvan had not attracted her attention. Fortunately (for us) the experience was not prolonged, for she shook her green matted hair and with a controlled, almost languid, motion spat contemptuously at Disvan before returning to her grisly endeavours.
She tightened her embrace and drew Harry right up to her waterlogged, naked body. Then, with a final heave, our friend’s feet were lifted completely off the deck and the one-time husband and wife fell back into the water.
Even then, it seemed, the battle continued, for vigorous splashing noises could be heard interspersed with occasional desperate cries and, perhaps inspired or shamed by Morton’s tenacious fight for life, I shook off my paralysis and rushed to help.
Quite what I intended to do remains unclear to this day, but en route to the point of Harry’s departure I grabbed a boat hook, possibly with vain hopes of killing what was already dead.
Wielding this inadequate weapon I leaned, perhaps foolishly, over the side and instantly found myself face to face with the woman I’d seen buried a few months before. She was half raised out of the sea as, with both of her hands on the top of his head, she pushed her spouse beneath the waves. All that was visible of Harry was his pate and two wildly flailing arms. Realising that she was observed, the creature looked at me and grinned in triumph. For a mere second or so we exchanged glances as she went about her work. What Mary Morton saw in my face I cannot guess nor wish to speculate but for my part I recall only her white, water-filled eyeballs and the complete absence of earthly life behind them. It was a sight that will accompany me, ever fresh, till I at last reach my own grave.
Weakly and, I was later told, in a state of some shock, I fell back.
Our last sight of Harry Morton was of him being borne away, seemingly still alive, with his head clamped firmly under one of his wife’s arms while the other propelled them strongly out to sea. A final despairing yell wafted back to us and then the gloom swallowed them up.
For several long minutes silence reigned on the boat before the constable aboard felt it his duty to try and rally us.
‘He fell overboard,’ he stated authoritatively. ‘He accidentally fell overboard and for some inexplicable reason went down like a stone. That’s what we’ll say. What with both me and Mr Disvan testifying, no suspicion will fall upon us.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ I interjected rather loudly. ‘You saw what happened to Harry and you’ll just say he fell overboard?’
‘It’s for the best, Mr Oakley,’ said the landlord gently.
‘After all,’ agreed another, ‘in a manner of speaking, that’s what did happen. He did fall overboard. We don’t have to say how exactly, do we?’
‘Look at it this way, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan in as kindly a voice as I’d yet heard him use, ‘what else could you say? Nobody would believe you, and
What was once Mary Morton was considerably the worst for wear but still instantly recognisable as the woman we had known. With one arm over the rail and the other clasped like a lover’s around Harry’s neck, she stared with sightless eyes into her husband’s terrified face while drawing him, slowly but surely, towards her. As he came she mouthed angry words and phrases at him but no sound came forth from the badly damaged throat.
Sensing the inevitable end to this unequal struggle, Harry recovered a modicum of self control and turned to face us:
‘Help me, please, she’s going to kill me!’
Mr Disvan stepped forward and shouted something that I either didn’t quite catch or that was in a language I didn’t understand. It seemed to have some effect because the monster woman turned to look at us for the first time.
Being under the relentless scrutiny of that dead, white face made me forget Harry’s plight for a moment and wish with all my heart that Disvan had not attracted her attention. Fortunately (for us) the experience was not prolonged, for she shook her green matted hair and with a controlled, almost languid, motion spat contemptuously at Disvan before returning to her grisly endeavours.
She tightened her embrace and drew Harry right up to her waterlogged, naked body. Then, with a final heave, our friend’s feet were lifted completely off the deck and the one-time husband and wife fell back into the water.
Even then, it seemed, the battle continued, for vigorous splashing noises could be heard interspersed with occasional desperate cries and, perhaps inspired or shamed by Morton’s tenacious fight for life, I shook off my paralysis and rushed to help.
Quite what I intended to do remains unclear to this day, but en route to the point of Harry’s departure I grabbed a boat hook, possibly with vain hopes of killing what was already dead.
Wielding this inadequate weapon I leaned, perhaps foolishly, over the side and instantly found myself face to face with the woman I’d seen buried a few months before. She was half raised out of the sea as, with both of her hands on the top of his head, she pushed her spouse beneath the waves. All that was visible of Harry was his pate and two wildly flailing arms. Realising that she was observed, the creature looked at me and grinned in triumph. For a mere second or so we exchanged glances as she went about her work. What Mary Morton saw in my face I cannot guess nor wish to speculate but for my part I recall only her white, water-filled eyeballs and the complete absence of earthly life behind them. It was a sight that will accompany me, ever fresh, till I at last reach my own grave.
Weakly and, I was later told, in a state of some shock, I fell back.
Our last sight of Harry Morton was of him being borne away, seemingly still alive, with his head clamped firmly under one of his wife’s arms while the other propelled them strongly out to sea. A final despairing yell wafted back to us and then the gloom swallowed them up.
For several long minutes silence reigned on the boat before the constable aboard felt it his duty to try and rally us.
‘He fell overboard,’ he stated authoritatively. ‘He accidentally fell overboard and for some inexplicable reason went down like a stone. That’s what we’ll say. What with both me and Mr Disvan testifying, no suspicion will fall upon us.’
‘You can’t be serious!’ I interjected rather loudly. ‘You saw what happened to Harry and you’ll just say he fell overboard?’
‘It’s for the best, Mr Oakley,’ said the landlord gently.
‘After all,’ agreed another, ‘in a manner of speaking, that’s what did happen. He did fall overboard. We don’t have to say how exactly, do we?’
‘Look at it this way, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan in as kindly a voice as I’d yet heard him use, ‘what else could you say? Nobody would believe you, and
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