Bob Harding, a tall, stooping, permanently round-shouldered man, was a perfectionist which was why, ten years before at the age of 48, he had thrown up a fulltime career as a government scientific advisor, and turned down the chance of becoming the University of Surrey's youngest pro-chancellor. For Robert Harding the perfect life was one that allowed him to indulge in his interests of astronomy and electronics and get away from the heavy particles of city air which played hell with his asthma.
He had achieved this with two well-paid days per week in London as a consultant to several government committees that included the British Association for the Advancement of Science, and the rest of the time playing amateur astronomer and repairing electronic gadgets in the cleaner air of the country.
He had drifted into repair work as a result of fixing friends' TVs. The shop hardly paid its way but what the hell; he made enough for a comfortable living; enjoyed his work, and most of his customers were his friends. He was co-opted onto the town council when an uncontested seat fell vacant, and now he had a loving wife, Suzi, who had enough tricks up her divine sleeve to turn all his bachelor fantasies into realities. Not tonight though -- it was her `week off' therefore this week was his night time hobbies week: such as planet watching, playing amateur radio, or messing about with the various satellite receivers that were connected to a small battery of televisions mounted on steel racking around a third of his circular workshop.
He swung around on his swivel chair to confront his Newtonian telescope, bolted to its equatorial mounting post in the centre of the workshop. The instrument was his great pride. Building it had taken many hours, but that was before he had met and married his beloved Suzi: a lovely 20-year-old brunette and a former student at a college where he had lectured part time. Both had been disappointed by the lack of a scandal that their marriage had provoked -- they had expected better of Pentworth.
He looked through the eyepiece on the side of the tube and swore softly at the heavy film of condensation that covered the primary mirror. Damned storm! 50 millimetres of rain in 24-hours and a driving sou-westerly that had searched out every weakness in the roof. He had spent most of that day and the day before drying everything out, too concerned about his customers' repair work to worry about his own equipment. He considered cleaning the mirror, but his hygrometer was clocking 80 per cent relative humidity which meant that the mirror would be sure to cloud over again with the roof open.
No Jupiter watching tonight.
Harding coddled his telescope. He didn't even have a kettle in the workshop because it fogged the mirror. He closed the motorized roof and wondered what to do next.
It was coming up to the hour. Time for Sky News. Maybe a mention about the two inspectors. To his surprise the satellite TV picture had sparklies -- flashes of white light across the screen -- a sure indication of a weak signal. He flicked through all the Astra analogue channels: SAT1, Pro-7, QVC -- the signal strength was down on every one, and most of the digital channels were too weak for the picture to lock-up.
A check on the antenna connections showed that everything was as it should be. That meant water in the LNB. Damned storm!
He grabbed a torch and went into the back garden. His fixed Astra dishes were mounted on stubby poles and were easily accessible. The low noise blocks were protected by several layers of cling-film. Everything was dry underneath and the alignment of both dishes was also okay.
He returned to the workshop, switched to his steerable dish and was astonished to discover that the signal from the Eutelsat Hotbird was also down by at least five decibels. Hotbird blasted a powerful signal across most of Europe. It had a solid footprint. Atmospheric pressure was extremely high at 1030 millibars -- that had to be a record, but it wouldn't account for the weak TV reception.
It was the shrunken picture on an old Philips valve TV set that he kept for fast tuning into terrestrial TV DX from Europe that fingered the problem. The transformer power supplies in old TVs could not compensate for reduced voltages like modern sets. He checked the mains voltage with a multimeter, snatched up his telephone, and called Southern Electric's HQ in Basingstoke. A recorded announcement quoting another phone number eventually got him through to a duty engineer after he'd persuaded an intermediary that he knew what he was talking about.
`200 volts!' the engineer echoed in astonishment when Harding had explained the problem. `200.6 volts RMS to be precise,' said Harding. `That's on two properly-calibrated multimeters. And the peak-to-peak voltage tallies. You seem to have lost nearly 40 volts somewhere.'
`Hold on please, sir.'
Harding held on for several minutes and was on the point of hanging up, thinking he'd been forgotten, when the engineer came back. `Pentworth is supplied through an unmanned sub-station at Henkley Down. We're not getting any incorrect readings from it so it could be a fault on your local domestic voltage step-down trannie. There's a couple of spurs feeding Pentworth High Street. It could be storm damage that's only just shown up. Thanks for informing us, sir -- we'll look into it.'
Harding finished the call, locked the workshop and returned to the flat over the shop, moving quietly to avoid disturbing Suzi. He filled the kettle to make coffee and was surprised at the low water pressure. Normally the jet from the mono-bloc mixer tap was enough to splatter water all over the place if it was turned half on, but tonight all the tap could manage was a meagre stream. That meant yet another burst main somewhere.
Trouble comes in twos, thought Harding, placing the kettle quietly on the gas ring. First the electricity -- now the water.
He was wrong: trouble could come in threes, fours and even fives. He stared in astonishment at the insipid gas flame and double-checked to make sure he had turned the control full on. He removed the ring from the hob and flushed it under the hot water tap. A few flakes of scale came out but otherwise the burner was clean. He tried again but the ring of flames was still yellowish-blue and gutless. All four rings were the same so it couldn't be that all four supply jets were suddenly blocked.
Bob Harding had to wait longer than usual for the kettle to boil and had time to reflect on the strange things that were happening in Pentworth.
Chapter 13.
HUNGER WOKE VIKKI as the first flush of dawn stole across her bedroom ceiling. These were no ordinary early morning pangs triggered by the smells of coffee and toast that could be ignored by turning over and calling up another dream about Dario, but an insistent craving like phantom hands tying her stomach in knots.
She was up, down the stairs, and into kitchen before she was fully awake. She hadn't even bothered to slip her hand on; she didn't need two hands to rip open a fresh loaf and cram two slices of bread into her mouth. It was thick-sliced white bread that Vikki normally disliked except as toast, but this time the taste of the supermarket pap was bliss. She started stuffing another slice into her mouth and realized that she'd never swallow it without a drink.
She never drank milk. She loathed milk. Skimmed; semi-skimmed; full cream -- it was all disgusting. Freshly-squeezed orange juice was her favourite breakfast drink. The half-litre carton of Pentworth House Jersey full cream in the refrigerator didn't stand a chance. It was seized, its tab ripped off, and its contents squeezed down her throat. Its violation completed by her crushing it flat to extract the last drop. And then two more slices of bread bonded together by a thick mortar of peanut butter. The contents of an opened carton of semi-skimmed helped that little dessert down.
She felt good. The buzz of elation she was experiencing was so loud and insistent that she could almost hear it. Her whole being was tingling. And then she caught sight of herself in the kitchen mirror: peanut butter and breadcrumbs smeared around her mouth, and a milk-soaked nightie clinging to her breasts.
She cleaned herself and the kitchen quickly and returned to bed, wondering how she was going to explain the missing milk to her mother. Pentworth House milk was expensive. The sensation of heady euphoria made sleep impossible, she experienced the sensation
of left fingers and was even able to wriggle them.
Gosh -- phantom fingers. How long since I last felt those? Must be years. Be a busy day in the shop. Must get some sleep. Must. Must. Must.
She willed herself to doze off for a few minutes and then was suddenly wide awake again.
Ravenously hungry.
Chapter 14.
THE INSISTENT RINGING of the front door bell woke Ellen with what would have been a respectable guilty start had she been capable of using her neck muscles. Looking at her watch
8:00am. Oh shit
involved holding her wrist before eyes rather than risk moving her head. The sun hurt her eyes.
Falling asleep in a chair: damn, blast, and buggeration -- that meant she was going to feel like hell all day. She stumbled, ricked-neck and leaden-limbed down the stairs, and opened the door.
Vikki Taylor had turned up for her Saturday job. Infuriating pretty and button-neat in a short, pleated skirt and silk blouse, clutching her bicycle. The morning light making a sheen of halos around her long, blonde hair. Her green eyes beacon bright and alert. Ellen hated her.
`Good morning, Miss Duncan. You look a fright.'
Ellen hated her even more. `You're an hour early.'
`You phoned mum asking me to be early, Miss Duncan.'
`So I did. Why the hell can't you be unreliable like the last girl?'
`The overtime will be useful.'
`Overtime? Coming in early is undertime.'
`If it's time over my agreed hours then it's overtime,' said Vikki spiritedly. She looked at Ellen in concern. `Are you all right, Miss Duncan?'
`No,' said Ellen sourly, leading the way into the workroom at the back of the shop. `I am far from all right. I fell asleep in my chair. You can have half a dozen grudging apologies in advance for all the abuse I'll be giving you today.'
Vikki wheeled her bicycle into the back garden and returned a minute later. `You go and get some proper sleep, Miss Duncan. I can manage the shop and do the orders.'
Ellen had flopped into her chair at the workstation. `I've got to go and see the police down at the lake about those two men.'
`It was on the news last night,' said Vikki, holding the electric kettle under the tap and waiting for it to fill. `It's terrible. UFO watchers, were they?'
`Looking for the UFO in my lake or something,' Ellen replied, marvelling at the way Vikki's new hand could support the weight of a filling kettle.
Vikki gave an involuntary shudder. `I wouldn't go near the plague swamp for anything after heavy rain.'
`Its proper name is Pentworth Lake. No wonder I couldn't flog it.'
`Water pressure's low. You'd think it was mid-summer. What happened to the shop window?'
Ellen had no wish to discuss the matter. `Some graffiti yobbos used it for practice.'
`What did they draw? It's been painted over.'
`Vikki, angel. Do me a big favour. Make the tea and don't let's talk for at least five years.'
The schoolgirl had been working for Ellen Duncan for two months and was proving an excellent Saturday employee. She could process the week's mail orders quickly and efficiently, and had a pleasing manner in the shop and on the telephone. The earliest lesson she had learned was reading Ellen's danger signals although she had long-realised that most of her employer's starchy cuffs came straight from the irony board. She busied herself with address labels and Jiffy bags at the packing table.
`For Christ's sake!' Ellen exploded. `Where the hell's that tea? You must've over-filled the kettle.'
Vikki glanced at the electric kettle that was only just beginning to sing. `I didn't, Miss Duncan. It was the same at home. The coffee took an age to boil.'
Thomas jumped on Ellen's lap to register loud complaints about the non-appearance of his breakfast. She shoved him off, pulled herself up, and went upstairs, swearing at Thomas's attempts to trip her up. She returned an hour later wearing jeans, a shapeless pullover, a more relaxed expression, and still swearing at Thomas although not so vehemently. A long soak in the bath and she was feeling marginally more human. She owed Vikki an apology because the electric kettle in the kitchen upstairs had also taken a long time to boil and the bath's gas heater had been slow filling. The girl had opened the shop and was dealing with a difficult customer on the telephone. Ellen listened-in for a few moments and took over the call.
`That's right, Mrs Greaves. I stock aromatherepy snake oils in the shop but there're not in my mail order catalogue or on my website. The catalogue is a personal thing -- tried and tested remedies -- traditional herbal remedies that work and many new ones that have been thoroughly tested. It doesn't include voodoo dolls, copper bangles, smelly therapy oils or any other pseudo-scientific claptrap rubbish that seem to appeal to so many nerd-brained sad loonies these days. The self-service section of my shop is full of useless but harmless proprietary-branded quackery -- if that's what people, then they can pick it up for themselves, but it doesn't go in my catalogue, or receive advice on its use. I'm sorry we can't be of assistance. Try looking under witch doctors in Yellow Pages.'
Ellen hung-up and grinned at Vikki. `I feel better now. One advantage of living in a looney, politically correct world is that good, old-fashioned downright rudeness can now be passed off as integrity. Right -- I've got to go and see the law.' She pulled on an ancient donkey jacket and stuffed her feet into a well-worn pair of green wellingtons. `I'll be back about noon. Nice morning so I'll walk. Call me on my mobile if you have any problems. And don't let Thomas con you into letting him sleep on the kiln. Sure you can manage?'
Vikki nodded happily; she loved being left in charge. `There's a telephone message from a Sergeant Malone to say that a local resident will arrange for the shop front to be cleaned.'
`Really?'
Vikki caught the warning look in her employer's eye and added quickly: `I've downloaded the overnight email. A stack of orders have come in for the cat and dog allergy treatment. At least 20 from America. 58 altogether.'
`All for full course packs?'
`Yes.'
Ellen bent over the computer and checked her stock levels. `Bugger. We've only got enough quercetin for 20 packs and none made up. Okay, Vikki -- make up the full number of 3-day packs and put all the customers down for free post follow-ups. There's a macro somewhere for printing explanation slips. I'll put an order in for more of the stuff... Christ -- we're going to need at least another three kilos. Better make it six -- it seems to be taking off.'
Vikki wriggled her right hand into a disposable glove and lifted a sealed bin onto the packing table. She felt her left hand shift a little in its snug suction fit on her wrist. Odd --the bin wasn't that heavy. `What is quercetin made of, Miss Duncan?'
Ellen paused at the door. `One of the few things I can't grow here in sufficient quantity and it wouldn't be worthwhile if I could. Buckwheat.'
`How does it work?' Vikki had an eager, inquiring mind and liked to know about the various herbs and herbal products she handled. But this time she had a specific reason for asking. She had tried to make the question sound casual but her omission of the customary `Miss Duncan' betrayed her.
Ellen gave the girl an inquiring look but she was intent on weighing out sachet portions of the greyish powder. `Do you know what allergies are, Vikki?'
`When your body reacts badly to some things?'
`Roughly -- yes. Allergies occur when your immune system mistakes harmless substances for dangerous invaders and responds accordingly. With cats, most people react to Felis domesticus allergen 1, a glycoprotein that cats secrete through their skin, hair, and saliva. It gets spread all over the house. The particles are charged, so they stick easily to just about everything. Quercetin works well with hay fever, and cats and dogs, it seems. A dose between meals stabilizes the nasal membrane mast cells that release histamine. That's what gives you those allergy symptoms: running nose, sore throat, and so on. The first drug company to isolate and synthesise it will make a fortune. Now tell me why you ask
ed.'
`I always like to ask, Miss Duncan.'
`I know you do, Vikki. But this time I gave you an unusually detailed answer. I could almost hear your eyes glazing over. So what's the real reason?'
Vikki hesitated. She was unable to meet her employer's eye but her innate honesty led to her blurting out: `I just wondered if any of the materials I handle might effect me in some way.'
`It's more likely that you'd affect them, Vikki. That's why you have to wear the gloves -- sorry -- glove. Do you really think I would allow you to handle anything dangerous?'
`No, Miss Duncan.' Flat, monotone response. The girl could be infuriating at times.
`You're not growing a third breast, or a -- or anything... Er -- masculine?'
No trace of a smile to banish Vikki's serious expression. She merely shook her head.
Ellen sat in her swivel chair. `So what then?'
`I woke up really early ravenously hungry this morning and ate about ten slices of bread.'
Ellen didn't laugh. `You're worried about a larder raid?'
`My mother went ape.'
`You're still growing, Vikki. You don't grow evenly but in fits and starts. You put on a spurt and your brain sends out signals for more of this, or more of that. Larder raids are literally a part of growing up.' Ellen paused and looked speculatively at the girl. `There's something else, isn't there?'
`No, Miss Duncan.'
`You might as well tell me, Vikki, because I shall worm it out of you one way or the other. Look at me!'
Vikki looked up, worry clouding her green eyes as the memories of her Dario daydream came flooding back. `I had a bad trip yesterday, Miss Duncan.'
The older woman's first thought was the town's Green Dragon soft drink disco where, if the rumours were true, pretty girls like Vikki were plied with Ecstacy tablets by hopeful studs.
`What exactly do you mean by `trip'? Hallucinations?'
`Well, yes -- sort of.'
Temple of the Winds Page 9
