PROSE: The Shining Man [Ch. 19]

Hawker hardly flinched and yet she was knocked off her feet, flying halfway towards the shallow end. She landed painfully, jolting her hip, her hat rolling away. What the hell had just happened? Had Hawker hit her, or shoved her aside in the heat of the moment? Either way, how strong was the guy?

[...]

He glanced towards Schofield, who was trying not to wince as she got back to her feet. 'You all right?'
She rubbed her throbbing leg, imagining the peach of a bruise she'd have in the morning. 'Nothing broken.'
'Nothing broken yet,' the Doctor corrected her, before he too was thrown back like a rag doll tossed across room by a tantruming child. But no one had been near him. Not Hawker. Not Turman. He crashed into the wall with enough force to crack the tiles, narrowly missing the metal ladder that led down to the deep end to slide down to the floor.
Schofield tried to limp towards him, but couldn't. It wasn't her leg that was slowing her down. She was fighting against a gust of wind that had blown up from nowhere.
When she was a kid, her grandparents had taken he to Blackpool for a weekend to give her mum and dad a break. It had been off-season, the beach a no-go, thanks to the weather which had bordered on apocalyptic. Her grandad had larked about on the prom, making her squeal with laughter as he battled to walk against the wind, her grandmother nagging him to be careful. At one point, he'd leant forward, the wind holding him at a 45-degree angle. He'd always been a clown
But there was nothing funny about this. It was like trying to shove herself through a brick wall. But they were inside. Where had the wind come from, and how could it be so strong?
She screwed her eyes tight against the grit that had been whipped up by the sudden storm. She heard Turman and Hawker cry out but couldn't see what had happened to them. She was pushed back and fell, rolling like tumbleweed to slam against the style. She scrabbled against the smooth porcelain tiles, trying desperately to find a grip, anything to hold on to. Her nails dug into the grout between the tiles, but it was no good. She was being dragged back towards the deep end, the wind forming a vortex inside the empty pool. There was a ripping sound from above. The plastic sheets had been torn from the windows, sucked into the whirling mass of air. They joined dirt, paper and fragments of broken tiles whipping around. She had builders sand in her mouth, grit in her eyes and nothing to hold on to. Her palms squeaked against the tiles as she was pulled back, the wind roaring in her ears. She cried out in gear, but couldn't hear herself. Instead, there were voices in the wind; howls both angry and sorrowful at the same time.
'Where is the Lost? Where is the Lost?'
She tumbled backwards, her head cracking against the wall. There was no way to stop, no way to anchor herself down. She mashed against the tiles, winding herself. What had the Doctor said? Nothing broken yet. Is that what would happen? Would the storm snap every bone in her body? She had no idea what was happening to the others; no idea which way was up or down. All she knew was that she was spinning, around and around, as if caught in a fairground ride from hell. Scream if you want to go faster. Scream if you're going to die.
Scream if you want the voices to stop.
'Where is the Lost? Where is the Lost?'
Fingers locked around her arm. She jolted to a halt, her eyes flicking open.
It was the Doctor! He'd caught hold of her wrist, his other arm hooked around the metal ladder, holding them both against the wind.
Pain was etched across his lined face, but he wouldn't let her go. She forced her other arm forward, grabbing hold of his wrist. He was yelling something, his words drowned out by the same question repeated over and over again on the wind:
'Where is the Lost? Where is the Lost?'
They jolted forwards. The ladder was coming away from the side of the pool. The metal bent out of shape, the Doctor's arm still looped around the twisted frame, and then it ripped loose. They flew into the wind, hanging on to each other, spinning around like a sycamore seed caught in a tornado.