The Ice King

by Michael Scott Rohan

  ‘The dam? That’s half a mile of open water!’

  ‘ ’E’s done it once or twice, in good weather –’ Ridley’s brows rose sharply. ‘Now don’t get me wrong,’ Neville added hastily as Paul and the others glared at him. ‘Always in the daytime – nobody’d last at night, it’s bloody freezing! Even Colby’s not daft enough –’

  ‘So everybody keeps telling me,’ grunted Ridley. ‘But somebody else might, mightn’t they? If they’d seen him do it? Somebody with a wetsuit, maybe … Well, you tell Mr Colby I’d be obliged if he’d drop by the station for a little chat as soon as possible – maybe this evening. I’ll still be there – I’ve got to waste this morning helping the lads on crowd control for the Odd Dance. As if we hadn’t enough on our plates! Thanks for the coffee – and I’d sooner have your socks, Paul, than Neville’s here. Bye!’

  ‘Cheeky sod!’ said Neville, watching Ridley stump off down the hill.

  ‘Not a bad bloke for a cop!’ said Harry cheerfully. ‘Right stiff-necked booger ’e was when ’e came oop first, but ’e’s mellowed. Well, c’mon, folks – tender’ll be waitin’, and we’ll ’ave to fight our way through t’tourists if we ’ang around.’

  The streets were already filling up with gawkers and dawdlers as the little knot of diggers straggled down towards the quay. By the time they reached the boat the performance was just starting, with the usual quick lecture, squawked through a battery bullhorn, on the Dance’s history – how it was the most spectacular of Yorkshire’s traditional sword dances, took great skill and timing, and had been revived around the turn of the century but was probably a survival of some ancient sacrificial rite. They watched with varying degrees of boredom as the dancers lined up in their familiar Morris costumes, ribbons and bells shivering in the sea breeze, flexing their thin steel ‘swords’. The accordion wheezed, and the dancers hopped and skipped in shifting lines, then suddenly peeled off outwards and went bounding round in a wide ring. Every few steps each dancer turned to face his neighbour, and they clashed their swords in an X shape. Then the tune changed to a faster rhythm, and the circle split as the dancers went springing diagonally across it in pairs, clashing swords as they went. When it reformed the lead dancer was skipping in the centre of the circle; it closed around him, the swords flickered upward and then with a clatter and a shout they closed around his neck. The audience gasped – and then the circle broke, and the lead dancer was holding up the swords, blades interleaved in an intricate star-shaped knot. Applause scared the seagulls off the quay, and the tender’s helmsman seized the chance to start up the engine and move away from the jetty. Behind it the dancers were launching into the first interlude in the long Dance performance, a mummers’ play.

  ‘Could liven up the end a bit,’ suggested Neville, sitting in the stern with the others. ‘Sacrifice a tourist or three …’

  ‘More’n last year already,’ Harry observed. ‘Like a flamin’ antheap. They call ’em summat like that in Cornwall, don’t they – ants?’

  ‘Emmets,’ sighed Pru. ‘Pretty accurate, isn’t it? And you just wait till the temple site’s open next year. The town’ll be absolutely stiff with them.’

  ‘Shift the Dance out to the temple,’ suggested Paul. ‘Then the tourists won’t have to come into the town at all.’

  ‘Not a bad idea, lad,’ grinned Harry. ‘Let the nobs cope – it’s all a bloody middle-class thing anyway!’

  ‘Rubbish,’ sniffed Pru. ‘Most tourists aren’t middle-class – look at this lot, miners half of them with their huge cars. And anyway, it’s their money keeping workers here in jobs – all except you, that is –’

  ‘Aye, we all know what the tourists keep Hardwicke in,’ leered Neville. ‘The little female ones as don’t know any better, any’ow …’

  ‘Can I ’elp it if I’m irresistible?’

  ‘Ask me again when you are,’ said Pru, ‘if ever.’

  ‘Can tell they grew up together, can’t you?’ Neville remarked to Paul.

  ‘What as?’ laughed Paul. ‘Beauty and the Beast?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said Harry. ‘My old grandda’ were gardener up at Fern Farm – real old upper-class lackey.’

  ‘He was sweet,’ said Pru. ‘Not like you at all. So we used to play together –’

  ‘Aye,’ breathed Harry, with a huge smack of his lips. ‘Doctors and Nurses, ah!’ Eyes closed in ecstasy, he shot out his feet, slipped and sat down hard in a frozen patch on the cockpit floor.

  ‘It’s a judgement,’ observed Pru, as he picked himself up, cursing fluently.

  ‘Ice!’ he growled. ‘Ice in friggin’ September –’

  ‘What’s so terrible about that?’ asked Paul. ‘You and the cop were getting quite steamed up about it – why?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Harry sagely. ‘Answer’s all around you, ain’t it? T’cliffs.’ He waved a large paw at them. ‘They Vikings were bloody awful town planners – stuck us down in this ditch. Okay if you’re goin’ by sea, but all t’roads coom in over t’cliffs, like, an’ they’re steep as ’ell, aren’t they? Bloody dangerous even in a heavy rain. Coom winter it only takes a bit of ice an’ snow, and you can’t get through ’em. Rest o’ country’s just sweepin’ their path, we’re bloody near cut off!’

  ‘Yes,’ Pru sighed. ‘Quite a few towns in the area are the same – Robin Hood’s Bay, for example. And if it’s freezing at night this early in the year we could be in for a hard winter.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t know what Harry’s worried about – he makes a fortune then, they’re always getting him in to drive extra relief lorries or snowfans; it’s about the only time of year he’s always holding down an honest job!’

  ‘Aye,’ said Neville. ‘That’s what’s really worrying him. It’s a terrible shock to ’is system.’

  Harry snorted. ‘I just don’t like it, way t’weather’s going.’ He cocked a poacher’s eye at the clouds, sniffed around in the clear fresh air. ‘And there’s more t’coom. Might look fine for t’bloody tourists now, but you mark my words! We’ll all be glad enough of our beds t’night.’

  A great surge of wind came howling landwards, whipping up the harbour to froth, bending the trees and the TV aerials, sending the tourists’ litter on a wild leaping dance through the narrow streets. It washed over the night-locked town like an invisible wave and welled up and over the cliffs on either side. Up by Fern Farm, parting the hedgerow, it caught Jess Thorne’s old trailer caravan in strong malicious fingers and heaved it so it rocked like the boats moored far below. The occupants hardly noticed, rocking in a rhythm of their own, crying out as harshly. The woman rode the man, her rigid arms on his chest the pivot for a sharp mechanical thresh and thrust of her haunches, heaved up, struck down with a brutal, aggressive emphasis. His hands, busy between her legs, moved out, slid up along her flanks to her small firm breasts, circling her nipples, then clutched quickly, urgently, back at her haunches, parting them, fingers digging in, adding their convulsive strength to the force of her thrusts. If they felt, then, the bed quiver and surge under them, it only echoed the intensity that linked their bodies, a harsh gust that arched and stiffened them like filled sails. Then it fell, the sails quivered, slackened, sagged. She tumbled down onto his chest and lay gasping.

  He stroked her back slowly for a moment, then ran his fingers through her black curls, dimly aware that at some time in the recent active past he had strained his arm, for the moment caring not a bit. He nuzzled at her face, and with a liquid little chuckle she pressed her lips gently against his. Her eyes fluttered open, and he caught a rare unguarded tenderness in her gaze. She reached out, stroked his chest, caught at the silver chain he still wore and toyed gently with the heavy silver pendant she had given him, replica of a Thor’s hammer amulet they had found together at Fern Farm. Then another sharp gust drummed on the metal wall, followed by a harsh rattle of raindrops; she looked up, startled, and rolled off him.

  ‘Oh wow,’ she sighed, ‘I keep thinking that’s somebody knocking –’ and then abruptly s
he shut up.

  He looked at her keenly. ‘Jess, I know normally you prefer to sleep alone – and of course I understand, I too like to be independent – but since the weather is so bad, I could stay just for tonight.’ She flashed him half a smile, ducked her head down into the pillow for a moment, didn’t answer. ‘It is not just on your account. After all, I am not overly anxious to drive back in all that – I’m very comfortable where I am.’

  ‘Mmh. Yeah … Oh Hal, I don’t know. I keep wanting to say yes, but – I don’t know. Maybe I’d get to like that too much – get too used to it – you’d get too used to me – I don’t know. Better not.’

  Hal shrugged, carefully nonchalant. ‘As you wish, kaereste. At least my bed in the pub will not blow away. It seemed to me you might need some extra weight to hold this rattletrap down.’

  She chuckled. ‘Guess what we were doing should’ve hammered it down nice and firm. I’ll be okay, Hal – honest.’

  ‘Of course you will. It is one of the reasons I love you.’

  She kissed him again, brushed the hair back off his forehead and smoothed down his beard. ‘Mmmh. And I love you too. You’re so goddam beautiful and patient and understanding and – and – you fuck like a gentleman!’ She gave a deep dirty giggle, then swung over suddenly. ‘And wow, you make a mess of me – I’d better straighten up …’

  Hal watched her disappear into the tiny shower cubicle, smiled a little sadly, and began collecting his scattered clothes. His arm hurt him as he dressed, and he winced. Patient! Understanding! Great, marvellous. It just got to be a strain now and then, that was all.

  When they were both dressed, him in his day clothes, Jess in the old trail shirt she slept in, they kissed again. She held him even tighter and longer than usual, as if trying to make something up to him. Or, he wondered, did she really want him to stay? Should he have tried harder? But that might have ruined everything, and he couldn’t risk that, not now. They said their goodbyes lightly. As he unlatched the rickety door the wind almost snatched it from his hand. With a last smile to Jess he tumbled out into the rain soaked grass and slammed it shut behind him. The wind was at his back as he tripped and stumbled through the showery darkness to the road and his car, half lifting him and frogmarching him along as if he was some kind of intruder here, being thrown out. He felt enough like that already. But as he reached the fence he turned and saw a patch of gold in the uniform grey. She was watching at the open upper half of the door, silhouetted against the yellowish battery light. She looked smaller somehow, lost and forlorn – or was that just his wishful thinking? He waved, and saw it returned; she’d blown him a kiss, something he’d always thought rather childish – it made him smile. Give it time – time. But at his age, how much could he waste? The pain in his arm struck as he slipped into gear, and he thought of Helga, and how she was always acquiring odd little aches and pains, as their marriage sailed closer and closer to its inescapable rocks. When the Range Rover’s high headlights swept across the flank of the van the door was closed.

  The drive back to town was better than he’d feared. The wind seemed worst at the clifftop itself, spending most of its force there. And at least it was blowing inland; it couldn’t bowl the van over the cliff – though it was well tethered down, and had a solid fence and hedge behind it too. The rain came and went in brief fusillades, heavy enough to make him drive carefully but no real problem. He had set out well after eleven, and heard the half-hour chime from St Hilda’s as he rounded the last corner before the pub. Just as well; it would be another long day –

  He stared, and slowed to a crawl. The blue light pulsed around the little square, flashing and flickering from rain-washed windows. The car beneath it was ghostly white in the shadow, and the arm that flagged him down looked disembodied and sinister. As he pulled in behind it the rain came hammering down with redoubled force. The other car’s passenger door was flung open, releasing a cold gleam of courtesy light; he pulled up his anorak collar, grabbed his keys, swung out, and ran for it. He piled in in a tangle of arms and legs.

  ‘High bloody time, too!’ said Ridley savagely. The car stank of tobacco and every kind of human odour, overlaid with cheap disinfectant. ‘I’d’ve had a patrol out on your tail if I could’ve spared one. What kind of director d’you call yourself when you can’t be found in an emergency?’

  ‘Emergency? What emergency? And surely Wilf Jackson –’

  Ridley snorted. ‘Mr Jackson’s got a cold, it seems. Isn’t stirring at this hour for anyone. Says he’s just the site director anyway, and the Museum’s your baby –’

  ‘Rubbish, I – the Museum? Has something happened there?’ He felt his face tighten. ‘The lab –’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ridley flatly. ‘A break-in – a smash-in, more like. Place turned upside down. Like the dam – only worse.’ His fingers writhed on the steering wheel. The rain drummed and danced like smoke on the white bonnet.

  ‘Worse? How?’

  ‘The nightwatchman. Like the dog.’

  ‘Gud i himmel –’ Hal sagged back in his seat, seeing a heap of ruin rise before him, bloody and nightmarish. The smell in the car was choking, sickening him, and he thrust open the door to the cold wind. ‘I must go there at once – see what –’

  Ridley reached across him and slammed the door shut. ‘Not without my say-so,’ he said, still tonelessly. ‘There’s a murder investigation going on – remember?’

  Hal caught hard at his temper, and sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, God damn it. I liked old Grindrod. But it is everything I have been living for, for years –’

  Ridley nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll take you there in a minute. But you can help with some background first. You’ve been with Miss Thorne this evening? All evening?’

  ‘I suppose Wilf told you. Yes, since we left the dam – about six, half past.’

  Ridley clicked on the courtesy light and began to make notes. ‘And have you seen Mr Colby at any point –’

  ‘Inspector –’ Hal began angrily, and then stopped. ‘No, neither of us. I do not know where he would be. Out with his friends, perhaps –’

  ‘No, he isn’t; I’ve had a word with them. Some bloody friends! If that boy’s so bloody brilliant as you all say he is, what’s he want to hang around with a crew of no-hopers like that for? You’d have thought an educated type, an archaeologist –’

  ‘I am flattered,’ said Hal wryly. ‘But I could tell you a thing or two about archaeologists, even famous ones – Schliemann was a real bastard. Belzoni was a faker, an ex-circus strongman and a bit of a thug, Wheeler a womaniser and poseur, Carter … Well, we are not immune to human weaknesses, I have my share, and so has Jay – more than his share, perhaps. But never – never! – would he do anything like this! I am no psychologist, but I think he has a deep need to belong – and to dominate what he belongs to, to stand out; that is the sports star –’

  ‘Sounds like a teenager to me – immature.’

  ‘You may be right. He had the kind of hellish childhood only the rich seem to manage. It does him credit that he has come so far now – he has immense drive, almost fanaticism. A legacy of his Bible Belt background, perhaps – we have much trouble with fundamentalists at Rayner. He has escaped that, thankfully, but he still needs to believe in something. And when he does he takes it seriously, and tries to make others do the same. He has always been good at recruiting for our archaeology classes.’

  ‘I’m not impressed,’ grunted Ridley. ‘He’s got a violent streak – he brawls –’

  ‘But never badly. Believe you me, I have seen worse at Oxford rugby club dinners, and they are your future prime ministers, are they not?’

  ‘Not the way I vote. All these things you’ve been telling me – warp ’em a bit, and know who you end up with? Charlie bloody Manson, that’s who! Only with brains and money this time.’

  ‘Bullshit!’ said Hal forcefully. ‘That trick you could play with the normal faults of anyone! The fact remains that with that fanatical streak he would not – co
uld not – do that kind of damage to the dig! He practically worships archaeology! And he simply would not kill anybody –’

  ‘What about the fraternity –’

  ‘Because of that! All the more because of that!’ Hal’s face hardened. ‘How did you come to hear of that? Never mind, I can guess. But can you not see what I am getting at? That now, after that traumatic experience, he might still behave irresponsibly, yes. But he would take extra care nobody got hurt –’

  ‘Oh, I can see it all right. I just can’t afford to rely on it – wouldn’t be doing my job. He’s gone too far once – oh, I know it was an accident and everything, but you’d be surprised how often these accidents are really signs of underlying disorders –’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Beginnings of a breakdown, maybe? Been working hard, has he, Colby? Under a lot of emotional stress?’

  Hal flushed. ‘You seem to have done a thorough job of picking up gossip –’

  ‘My job.’

  ‘Maybe. But that could apply to any of us –’

  ‘D’you know the English saying about no smoke without fire? That fanatical streak you mentioned, isn’t that a bit odd to start with? Mightn’t it turn back on itself, turn to hatred –’

  ‘Every man a gutter psychologist!’ said Hal disgustedly. ‘Well, I am not. Anything is possible, madness makes its own rules. But I can tell you, if madness had gone that far we would surely have noticed. Satans, we know more of him than you –’

  ‘I wonder. And need it be madness?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ever hear of Angel Dust?’

  ‘The name only, perhaps.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you. It’s some kind of tranquilliser vets use on bulls, elephants, anything large. But it can send people clean bloody wild, raging mad – and aggressive. Like neat Navy rum – Portsmouth lads nicked a sailor on that, normal-sized bloke but he ripped the steel door right off his cell. Made a terrible mess of himself and never felt a thing. Angel Dust’s worse.’