Black Tide by Del Stone Page A

rotting fish drifting by. His youth, his good looks, his relationship with Heather – none of that seemed to matter anymore. He opposed me. He opposed my knowledge, my experience, my authority – everything I was. I understood that all young people undergo a process of revision and discovery that distances them from their elders. It’s all part of the separation of psyches that allows kids to become independent adults. But this was more than a stage in the process of becoming an individual. Scotty was trying to dominate me. If we were to live, I couldn’t let that happen. The battle with DeVries had changed me somehow.
    So I did the forbidden thing. I asserted.
    â€˜I won’t let you go,’ I told him. ‘I can’t stop you from being stupid, but I can stop you from doing harm to yourself, and to us too.’
    His eyes narrowed and I could see a hardening there. It was the same brute anger I’d seen in him yesterday, just before we’d spotted the mist. I could feel my eyes starting to water, and I cursed my weakness.
    â€˜You’re not in charge of me,’ he answered quietly. ‘If I decide to swim ashore, you can’t stop me.’
    â€˜I’m in charge of this field study, and you’re a part of it.’
    â€˜I’m a gate crasher, a party pooper. Remember?’ and he winked slyly.
    â€˜What the devil are you talking about?’
    â€˜Yeah,’ Heather chimed in. ‘What are you talking about?’
    He snorted petulantly. ‘You think this was a damn expedition to study plankton?’ He stabbed a finger at me. ‘That’s bull. He wanted to have a secret weekend here alone with you, sweetheart.’
    My stomach seemed to drop entirely from my body. I blustered, ‘Excuse me …’
    â€˜You stupid old man. You’re so transparent.’ He paused for effect, and a look of pure malice crept into his expression. ‘As if any woman would give a paunchy old gasbag like you a second look. Hope you brought your stash of Viagra with all your test tubes and microscopes, buddy. Maybe you and Rosy will get lucky – Rosy Palm, that is.’
    He started up the beach, toward the opposite side of the island. My face was scalding with rage, and I didn’t dare look at Heather. I stood there, clenching and unclenching my fists, my breath coming in superheated, sawed-off gasps. Far away, I heard Heather mumble something to me, something about not overreacting, and I guess my expression must have revealed to her what I was thinking. I didn’t want to stop him from swimming across to the other side.
    I wanted to kill him.
    â€˜Fred. Take it easy,’ she said. All I heard was a dull ringing.
    â€˜Fred.’
    I scrambled after him, stumbling in the loose sand. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
    He struck me across the nose. It was not a punch – more of a slap – but it stopped me cold. I felt the impact surge through my body, down to my stomach, where a knot of nausea quickly unravelled and threatened to drop me to my knees in a fit of vomiting. Tears sprang to my eyes and blinded me for a moment. I wiped my face with my forearm and saw a bright streak of blood, almost black against my tanned flesh. I caught my breath and without thinking, lunged at him again.
    This time he gathered his hand into a fist and punched me hard in the stomach. The air gushed out of my lungs in a sickening exhalation and I fell to the sand, clutching my middle. Dimly I heard Heather let fly with a small gasp of horror. Then she screamed, ‘Stop it! You’re killing him!’ Again, I thought I’d throw up, but I couldn’t breathe and knew that if I began to retch I might suffocate on my own vomit. Spasms shook me, and the pain was indescribable – not the sharp, dazzling flare of a cut but a low, heavy, throbbing ache that seemed to radiate from my stomach and spread to all corners of my body. It paralysed