It looked as though in covering Prescott's hand with her own hand that Ellen was responding to the landowner's friendly gesture. In fact she was sinking her nails into the back of his wrist with all the strength she could muster. Prescott took the hint and released her -- slowly so that no-one would notice anything, but Malone, who missed nothing, saw the red marks before Prescott thrust his hand casually in his pocket. His estimation of Ellen went up another point.
`It's something I've never forgotten, Mr Prescott,' said Ellen innocently. `I never forget the important things.'
`Ah...'
`Because I've never learned such garbage in the first place. When sand and water are mixed together it becomes a thixotrophic fluid -- it possesses shear thickening -- when you deform such a liquid the viscosity actually increases with the deformation rate. It's the opposite of what happens in most fluids, which tend to be shear thinning -- such as non-drip emulsion paint. So, if you're stuck in quicksand, to avoid submerging, you need to move very carefully. Any upward motion has to be made slowly, and any downward motion made quickly. In theory, Mr Prescott, if you fell into a swamp and, as likely as not, there was no mad rush to pull you out, by keeping calm you should be able to climb out. And if you ever need to entertain your grandchildren at parties instead of indulging in other activities, all you have to do is mix cornstarch and water. It makes a hell of a thixotrophic fluid.'
A hard look came into Prescott's eyes as he stared at Ellen. A hand still smarting from her nails, her hostile tone and veiled hints confirmed his suspicions as to who had sabotaged his ambition of becoming the local member of parliament. Ellen turned pointedly away and helped the divers stow their gear in the pickup.
`All very interesting but it doesn't solve our immediate problem,' said Harvey Evans.
Malone made an excuse and joined Ellen at the pickup just as the Zodiac was being secured. `You lads had a spot of clutch trouble?' he asked.
The second diver looked surprised. `Can you smell it?'
`Burnt Ferrodo linings. Know the smell anywhere.'
`It started playing up a couple of miles south of Northchapel. No go in her for about a mile, and then it cleared up.'
`Odd,' said Malone. `I had clutch trouble south of Pentworth, and you had clutch trouble north of Pentworth.
`All these hills,' said Ellen.
`We were on the flat,' the first diver remarked, checking that the Zodiac's ropes were secure.
There was a flash of crimson waistcoat as Asquith Prescott got into his Range Rover. He look he gave Ellen before driving off was as cold as a ferryman's penny.
`Looks as if your dislike of the gentlemen has finally sunk in,' Malone observed quietly.
`Your perception always astonishes me, Mr Malone.'
`There's a lot to perceive, Miss Duncan.'
Harvey Evans stumped over. `Bang goes my morning golf,' he grumbled. `Any ideas on this mess, Malone?'
`Short term -- I think we'll have to keep a watching brief for at least another 48 hours, sir. Long term... I was going to suggest that Miss Duncan gives a talk to the local schools about the dangers of this lake, but that might be counter-productive -- we'd have a hundreds of kids swarming down here to learn about thixotrophic fluids.'
`It's only dangerous under certain conditions,' Ellen added.
`Like now?' said Evans.
`Like now,' Ellen agreed.
`I'll give it some careful thought over the weekend, Mr Evans,' Malone promised.
Evans grunted, levered his stocky figure behind the wheel of his car and started the engine. `Nice day for a spot of flying but I'd better get some sort of duty rota sorted. Damned nuisance. Grown men getting themselves drowned on my patch.' He suddenly thought of something. `Have you considered that position, sergeant?' `I have indeed, sir, and must respectfully decline. I don't think my ex will want to change our Sunday agreement for access to my kids.'
`Understood. Good day to you, Miss Duncan. Thank you for coming.' Malone was accorded a grunt and Harvey Evans drove off.
`My turn to do some perceiving,' said Ellen. `Inspector Evans is keen for you to join the Pentworth Morris Men side?'
`Spot on, Miss Duncan.'
`Your refusal is not a politically sound decision if you want to transfer out of this division.'
Malone grinned. `You're not thinking laterally. He'll want me off his sector in the hope that my replacement will be more compliant -- if he could get a replacement. But don't get him wrong -- he's a decent man who's kept morale high, and he's a good organizer.'
`He plays golf with Asquith Prescott.'
`Someone has to.'
Ellen smiled. `Thank you for arranging to have my shop front cleaned-up.'
`Tell me about this place. How is it possible to have a lake in the middle of Southern England and no one knows how deep it is?'
Ellen gazed across her lake. `This was karst country. Where acidic surface water leached down into the limestone and dissolved it away over thousands of years. If there's overlying stratum of more durable rock such as granite, you end up with a labrinyth of caverns such you have in Cheddar Gorge. But this part of Southern England doesn't have much igneous rock. So, huge caverns formed underground and eventually the land collapsed. You end up with sink holes and swallow holes all over the place. That's karst, Mr Malone.'
Ellen paused as she gazed across the glittering yellow lake, as always, trying to picture what this place must have like before recorded history.
`Water cascades in,' she continued. `Maybe for centuries. The water brings silt and loess with it, and, given a few more thousand years you end up with this... An innocent-looking and rather beautiful lake. Well -- beautiful when the bottom silt isn't stirred up.' She frowned at the expanse of mustard-coloured water. `But I've never seen it as bad as this -- not even after the floods of three years ago. The discolouration and agitation wasn't anything like this. Something's very different this time.’
Chapter 20.
THE SHOP BELL JANGLED.
Vikki swallowed down the last of her sandwich, hunger having driven her to an early start on her packed lunch, shooed Thomas off the kiln, and went into the shop to attend the customer. The tall, Dracula-like figure at the counter was a surprise -- he reminded her of the mysterious cloaked silhouette in the Sandiman Sherry advertisements. He was clad in beautifully tooled black leather from his turn-topped Cavalier boots to his hand-stitched trilby. Even his crimson-lined cloak, fastened with a gold chain at his neck, was fashioned from stretched and worked hide. It hung from his shoulders with the symmetric precision of a folded ink blot. With heels that added five centimetres to his already considerable height, Nelson Faraday was an impressive figure.
`Yes, sir?'
He gave an almost imperceptible start when he shifted his gaze from Vikki's breasts to her face, but recovered quickly. `Can I speak to the woman that owns this place, please.'
The voice and lean, hard features disconcerted and yet captivated Vikki. She could imagine him doing all manner of swashbuckling things: such as dangling from a helicopter to deliver boxes of chocolate to lovelorn damsels imprisoned in ivory towers. He was a man who knew how to exert power. Vikki prided herself on her ability to handle the self-conscious pimply youths who haunted the Green Dragon. She could always keep command of a situation, particularly when they got too adventurous with their hands during pulls, but this was a man who expected and got his own way as a matter of course. She felt that he wasn't merely stripping her naked with his brooding eyes, but forcing her to undress for him, slowly, and making her fold her clothes neatly.
`I'm very sorry, sir, but Miss Duncan is unavailable at the moment.'
`When will the woman be in?'
`I'm not sure, sir. Can I take a message?'
`Tell her that a cleaning company will be along on Monday morning to do her shop front.'
The way he referred to her employer irritated Vikki but she was careful not to show it. `Certainly, sir.'
He rega
rded her thoughtfully, making no attempt to conceal his interest in the swell of her breasts. `I'm Nelson Faraday.' He smiled unexpectedly and held out his hand.
Vikki took it with her right hand but he didn't let go after they had shaken. She tried to establish some sort of control. `Haven't I seen you driving a big camper through the town?'
He ignored the question and asked what her name was.
`Vikki... Vikki Taylor.' She was angry with herself for answering so promptly.
He stroked her hand. `St Catherine's?'
Vikki steeled herself to say nothing but his hard gaze extorted a nod.
`Well, Vikki -- we're having one of our weekend raves at the House...' He jerked his thumb in the direction of the wall on the opposite side of the street. `Starting tonight -- finishing tomorrow night. Tempus Fugit will be doing a gig at 2:00am.'
The news that the fabulous new band would be performing locally caused Vikki to forget her imprisoned hand. `Here? In Pentworth?' `How old are you?'
None of your bloody business!
`Fifteen.'
He released her hand, unzipped a pocket, and laid two gilt-edged invitations on the counter. `A pen please, Vikki. These have to be endorsed.'
Intrigued, she gave him a pen. He signed both cards and pushed them across the counter. `Make yourself look eighteen plus. And your friend. Don't forget the message for the owner of this place.' He gave the surprised girl a friendly smile, turned away on his stylish heels, and left the shop without a backward glance.
It was some moments before Vikki could bring herself to pick up the prized invitations. She returned to the packing table and stared down at the cards. Pentworth House's weekend parties were well-known in the area although locals rarely received invitations, and certainly no-one under 18. And she had two! They had barcodes on the back. Security at Pentworth House was strict; none of the local youths had ever succeeded in gate-crashing their events.
She picked up the telephone, called a local number and asked for Sarah. The line was faint. She had to repeat her request to Mrs Gale several times.
`Hallo, Sarah. Vikki.'
The line was terrible. `Who?'
`I'll redial!' Vikki yelled. The result of the second attempt was no better. `Listen, Sarah! Can you hear me?'
`Just about.'
`What are we doing tonight?'
`Green Dragon, I suppose. The usual non-vocalized Saturday night House and Garage bang-bang crap tonight. Why?'
`I've got a better idea. How about the House party? I've got two invites.'
`What a fucking awful line!' Sarah shouted. `No, I'm not swearing, mum!' Despite the poor line Vikki could hear the normal hullabaloo of the permanent state of war that existed between all the members of the Gale household. Mother screaming at her lover; Sarah screaming at everyone to be quiet, and baby Simon screaming at no one in particular. The Gales were one big snappy family. `Hold the phone close,' Sarah yelled. `It sounded like you said something about two invites for the House party.'
`I have!'
`Bugger off! For fuck's sake, mum -- I'm not swearing!'
`I tell you I have! And they've got Tempus Fugit playing at 2:00am!'
`Hey -- cool! How'd you get them?'
Vikki described the visitor.
`Hey, man! Nelson Faraday! Isn't he well cool? Ten on the F scale. Are you at the shop?'
`Yes!'
The line got worse.
`Fuck. This is hopeless. They can all hear every word. I'll be round in 15 minutes!'
Sarah lived nearby and made it in 10 minutes. There were no customers, thus the two girls were able to hatch a parental suspicion-proof plot without interruption.
In his room in Pentworth House, Nelson Faraday was also making plans for that night. He sprawled on the bed and relaxed while two girls pulled his boots off and generally tended to his needs. One unwrapped a cigar and put it his mouth; the other lit it. He lay back and inhaled contentedly, an arm around each girl, a breast cupped in each hand under their T-shirts, absent-mindedly rolling a nipple in and out between each thumb and index finger. Thinking about Vikki was enough to cause the stirrings of an erection without the girls' administrations. His thoughts dwelt on her with suppressed savagery. He liked having two or more girls at the same time, but not tonight. Tonight was going to be different.
Roscoe could go and take a flying fuck at his stupid rules about no-one under 18. Tonight it was going to be just one girl. A sweet, virginal 15-year-old Catholic girl -- the dead spit of the bitch that had shopped him and his mates when he was 12 -- his first brush with the law. Fucking hell -- none of them had been able to get it up so they had used a Coke bottle on the stupid, hysterical cow. Should've used it sideways. No Coke bottle tonight, though.
Not tonight, my little Vikki -- for you the real thing. Not only will I have your blood and cozzie juice smeared all over my cock when I've finished with you, but I'll have you begging for more.
Chapter 21.
ELLEN'S NEAR SLEEPLESS NIGHT and lack of breakfast caught up with her as she was returning to her shop. She had passed the dig enclosure and was near the top of the bluff when her legs decided that enough was enough. The steep slope overlooking Pentworth Lake was as pleasant a place as any to rest so she sank gratefully to the ground, wriggled out her donkey jacket, and used it as a cushion for her back against an outcrop of limestone.
The sun was pleasantly warm, high above a skylark was celebrating the arrival of spring with its clear song, riding on a thermal of warm air rising from the Temple of the Winds. To her right the stream that David had rerouted tumbled contentedly down its series of waterfalls. It had widened during the winter and now looked quite natural. A few moments were spent indulging in her favourite pastime of imagining what this area must have looked like when it was a palaeolithic flint miners' camp. Weathered, rounded hills? Probably -- it was an ancient landscape even then. Her eyes closed. A few minutes doze wouldn't hurt. The pang of guilt at leaving Vikki alone in the shop didn't last -- the girl loved being left in charge. She was probably allowing Thomas to sleep on the kiln.
Later Ellen would go over those moments again and again in a futile attempt to pinpoint the exact moment when she had fallen asleep.
If, indeed, she had fallen asleep...
The song of the skylark faded and it was suddenly very hot --extraordinarily hot -- and there was a strange, menacing roar of water above the incessant buzz of insects. She sat upright, started yanking her pullover over her head and froze, her elbows twisted at an awkward angle and her expression of astonishment framed by the rough, homespun wool.
The familiar outline of the distant South Downs was no more. In place of the soft, rounded contours was a sawtooth line of harsh escarpments, chalk outcrops, ragged tors, and a sun beating down from a sky so clear and blue that it looked wrong. But it wasn't the sky that skewered Ellen's attention: below her was a scene so unreal that she rose to her feet without realising it and stared, awe-struck, at the spectacle. To the west was a broad, swift-flowing yellow river. The raging waters piled up against a steep ravine and changed course, eastward -- charging rapids in front of her plunging into a yawning, crater-like chasm that was at least a kilometre across where Pentworth Lake should have been. The spectacular waterfall was the cause of the roaring noise that had woken her. The mighty cascade fell in apparent slow motion out of sight below the rim of the chasm, creating a permanent halo of iridescent rainbow colours hovering over the scene in that impossible light.
Timeless moments passed as Ellen drank in the wondrous spectacle. She knew she was asleep. She knew that this was a dream. She didn't want to pinch herself or close her eyes for an instant, or make any move for fear that she would wake up. Suddenly reality was a feared enemy that would take this miracle away from her. It was imperative to fix every detail of the scene in her mind because the process of waking was a merciless memory-wiping function that swept through the brain's hippocampus, deleting short-term dream images because they weren't cons
idered essential for survival. She moved her eyes slowly, terrified to allow her gaze to flit about lest the delicate patterns of light and sound that were the very substance of this marvel became confused and blurred.
The almost total lack of trees, except in hollows and valleys where they grew in profusion, hinted at a latent vitality that was just waiting for the right conditions. The yellowing, wind-desiccated grasses covering a plain whose contours bore a faint resemblance to the plain she knew so well, but it was impossible to be certain for there were none of the familiar reference markers of hedgerows and field systems; nature had marked this landscape -- not Man.
She lowered her gaze to where the dig enclosure should be and her breath caught in her throat when she saw the flint mine as it had once been: a broad, crescent-shaped gash caused by centuries of bone and flint picks gnawing and gouging deep into the chalk where the precious nodules of the waxy-sheened, high-quality floor-stone chert were to be found. The working was about 200-metres wide and strewn with chalk and flint chippings, and there were even mammoth knee bones set into the ground as anvils.
Eddies of a strengthening north wind spilled over the sandstone buff behind her and struck with icy coldness on her back, and yet her chest was hot and sticky from the solar radiation that her dark pullover was absorbing. With the wind came a low moaning sound from behind. She turned very slowly, still terrified that movement would banish these wonders, and saw something that caused the freezing wind to spasm in her throat.
It was the Temple of Winds.
But the great sandstone outcrop was far larger than it should be and the features of the scowling gargoyle were sharper and more pronounced. The rising slope from which the great slab projected was bare of trees. And that wasn't all, for standing on the slab plateau was a huge, trumpet-like structure, breaking the bluff's once-wooded northern skyline where North Street with its slate-roofed huddled terraces ought to be.
A tentative step up the slope.
Nothing happened. The sun and wind were conflicting swords of hot and cold.
Temple of the Winds Page 12
