James Herbert

by Sepulchre

  'Can you feel the weight of the water beneath us?' Kline suddenly asked, still looking away from the other man. 'Can't you feel the pressure underneath these thin wooden boards, as if all that liquid down there, all the slime and murkiness that lies on the bottom of the lake, wants to break through and suck us down? Can you sense that, Halloran?' He almost said no, a total rejection of the notion. But then Halloran began to feel the potency beneath his feet, as if the water there really could exert itself upwards, could creep through those tight cracks between the boards like some glutinous absorbing substance.

  Kline's suggestion had somehow turned the lake into something less passive. Halloran shifted uncomfortably on the rowing bench.

  A ripple in the lake caused the boat to sway.

  Kline's attention was on him once more and his voice was low in pitch, less excitable, when he spoke.

  'Look over the side, look into the lake. Notice how silky is its skin beneath this mist, and how clear. But how far can you see into the denseness below? Come on, Halloran, take a peek.' Although reluctant, Halloran did so. No big deal, he told himself, no reason to be churlish. He saw his own shadow on the lake.

  'Keep watching the water,' came Kline's quiet voice. 'Watch how it swells and falls, as soft as anything you could ever wish to touch. Look into your own shadow; how dark it makes the water. Yet somehow the darkness allows you to see more. Arid what if the whole lake was shadowed? What depths could you perceive then?' Halloran was only aware of the blackness of his own reflection. But the blackness was spreading, widening in tranquil undulations, forcing away the mist as it grew. Kline's voice coaxed him to keep his eyes fixed on the lapping water, not even to blink lest that merest of movements disturb the placid surface, to stare into the darkness until his thoughts could be absorbed . . . absorbed . . .

  absorbed by the lake itself, drawn in so. that what was hidden before could now be viewed . . .

  . . . There are monsters beneath us, Halloran . . .' He could see the shapes moving around, sluggish, lumbering patches of greater darkness, and it seemed to him—it was insinuated to him—that these were grotesques who knew nothing of light, nothing of sun, creatures who slumbered in the depths, close to the earth's core. Among them were sleeker denizens, whose very tissue-like structures prevented pulverisation under such pressure; they glided between their cumbersome companions, two opposite natures co-existing in a nocturnal underworld. There were others with them, but these were less than fleeting shadows.

  Halloran sensed their yearning, the desire to ascend and make themselves known to the world above, weary of perpetual gloom but imprisoned by their own form. Yet if they could not rise, perhaps something of what they sought could be lured down to them . . .

  The boat tilted as Halloran leaned further over the side.

  'Touch the water,' he was softly urged. 'Feel its coldness . . .' Halloran stretched his hand towards the lake that had become a huge liquid umbra, and there was a stirring below at his approach, a kind of quivering expectancy.

  '. . . sink your fingers into it . . .

  He felt the wetness and its chill numbed more than his flesh .

  . . . deeper, let it taste you . . .

  The water was up to his wrist, soaking his shirtsleeve .

  . . . reach down, Halloran, reach down and . . .' He heard laughter.

  '. . . touch the nether-region . . .

  Halloran saw the shapes rising towards him, mutations that should only exist in the depths, mouths-were they mouths? They were openings, but were they mouths?—gaping, ready to swallow him in . . . to absorb him . . .

  The laughter was sharper, startling him to his senses. Halloran pulled his hand clear, standing in the boat as if to push himself as far away from those rearing, avaricious gullets as possible.

  Still they surged upwards, climbing as a single gusher, an almost solid stream of misshapen beings, terrible unearthly things without eyes but which had limbs that were stunted and as solid as their bodies, while others were only tenuous substances housed around jagged needle-teeth . . ~. coming closer, rushing as if to shoot above the surface itself . . .

  . . . Until they began to disintegrate, to shatter, to implode, for they were never meant for the fine atmosphere of the upper reaches.

  He heard their anguished screams though there were no sounds—their torment was in his mind only. All around the boat the water was bubbling, white foam spouting upwards as if the lake were boiling. Here and there geysers appeared, jetting into the air and carrying with them—or so Halloran imagined remnants of flesh, all that was left of the abyssal creatures.

  The boat pitched in the ferment and Halloran quickly sat, both hands gripping the sides for support, staying that way until the turbulence began to subside, the lake becoming peaceful once more.

  The two men were in an area of clarity, for the mist had been driven back to form a wide circle around the boat. Everything was still within that clear area, the boat now barely drifting.

  The only sound was Kline's low chuckling.

  22 FOOD FOR DOGS

  Charles Mather was kneeling among his shrubs when his wife called him from the terrace steps. Always used to rising early, he had found the habit hard to break after leaving military service. So nowadays, rather than disturb Agnes, who did not share his fondness for early-morning activity, he would creep from their bedroom, dress in the bathroom, take tea in the kitchen, then wander out into the garden, which had become his second love (Agnes would always be his first). Whatever the season, there was always work to be done out there, and for him there was no better way to start the day than with lungs full of sharp—and at that time of the morning, reasonably untainted—air. The only negative factor was that the chill (always a chill first thing, be it winter, spring or summer) played silly-buggers with the metal in his leg.

  He looked up from the bed he had been turning over with a short fork. 'What's that, m' dear?'

  'The telephone, Charles. Mr Halloran is on the telephone. He says it's important that he speaks to you.'

  Agnes was a trifle irritated because she'd had to climb from a bath to answer the phone, knowing that her husband would never hear its ringing in the garden. Here she stood shivering with the morning freshness and catching pneumonia by the second.

  Mather pushed himself up from the padded kneeler and, the tip of his cane sinking into the soft earth. he hobbled towards the terrace.

  'I should get back inside if I were you, Aggie,' he said as he awkwardly climbed the steps. 'You'll catch your death of cold standing around like that.'

  'Thank you for your concern, Charles, but I'm sure poking around in the damp grass for a couple of hours hasn't done much for your leg either,' she replied more tartly than she felt. 'I think you'd better take a bath right after me.'

  'Mother knows best,' he agreed with a smile. 'Now you get yourself back indoors before I whip off your dressing-gown and chase you naked around the garden.' She quickly turned to hide her own smile and walked to the patio doors. 'That might give the neighbours a breakfast thrill,' she said over her shoulder.

  'Y'know,' he murmured, limping after her and admiring her rear with almost as much enthusiasm as when they were younger, 'I really believe it would.' He took the call in his study, settling down into an easy chair first and waiting for the click that signalled Agnes had replaced the upstairs receiver. 'Liam, Charles here. I hadn't expected to hear from you today.' There was no urgency in Halloran's voice. 'I've been trying to contact Dieter Stuhr since eight this morning, but had no luck.'

  'As we have an ongoing operation he'll be at Shield all weekend,' said Mather. 'I assume you've already tried to reach him there though.'

  'I thought I'd probably catch him at home earlier, then I< rang the office. No answer from there either.'

  Mather checked his wristwatch. 'H'mn, just after nine. He'd have one other coordinator with him today and she should have arrived by now.'

  'Only Stuhr would have a key.'

  'Then s
he might be waiting outside at this moment. It“s not like Dieter to be late, but perhaps he's on his way. That could be why you missed him.'

  'I rang his apartment over an hour ago.'

  'Well, he could have been delayed. Look, I'll get on to Snaith—don't see why his Saturday shouldn't be disrupted—and between us we'll see what we can find out. No doubt it'll prove to be something trivial—his car's probably had an upset.' With his free hand, Mather rubbed his aching knee. 'D'you have a problem there at Neatly Liam?'

  'I wanted to arrange for extra patrols outside, that's all. And I think our men should be armed. Security here is virtually nil.' There was a pause, but Mather sensed that Halloran wanted to say more. When no further words came, the older man spoke up: 'Anything else bothering you, Liam?' The question was put mildly, but Mather knew his operative well enough to understand something was wrong.

  More silence, then, 'No, nothing else. Our client is unusual, but he can be handled.'

  'If there's a problem between you two, we can switch. No need for added complications, y'know.'

  'Uh, no. Leave things as they are. Let me know what's happened to the Organiser, will you?'

  'Surely. Soon as we know something ourselves. Perhaps Stuhr stayed somewhere else overnight—I understand it frequently happens to single men. Could be whoever he's with has found ways to detain him.'

  'It's not like him to be out of touch.'

  'I agree, particularly when there's an operation in progress.' Mather was frowning now. 'We'll keep you informed, Liam, and in the meanwhile we'll organise some extra cover for you. I assume last night went without incident?'

  'It was quiet. Anything more on the stolen Peugeot?'

  'Still drawn a blank there, I'm afraid. Police can't help. You're sure our client doesn't know more than he's telling'

  'I'm not sure of anything.' Mather stopped soothing the ache in his knee. Again he waited for Halloran to continue, but all that came through was atmospherics on the line. 'It might be an idea if I paid Neath a visit myself,' he suggested.

  'We'll be back in London on Monday. Let's you and I meet then.'

  'If you say so. Look, I'll get back to you as soon as I've got some news.'

  'Fine.' He heard the click as the line was disengaged and he held his own phone close to his ear for several seconds before putting it down. Mather was thoughtful for several more moments before he lifted the receiver again.

  Halloran stood by the telephone in the large open hallway, his hand still resting on the receiver. He was concerned about Dieter Stuhr's absence, well aware that it was out of character for the German to go missing during a major assignment (or even a minor one, for that matter). Maybe, as Mother had suggested, he was having problems getting into the office that morning. Less likely was that he'd been detained at some other address; the Organiser didn't run his life that way—he'd have at least let Shield know where he could he contacted no matter how impromptu the situation. Halloran ran his fingers across his as yet unshaven chin. Maybe Kline—and Neath itself—was getting to him. He was beginning to feel uneasy about everything.

  There were footsteps on the staircase behind him. He turned to find Cora approaching, her descent faltering momentarily when he looked into her eyes, her hand touching the wide balustrade for balance.

  'Good morning, Liam.' Her greeting was subdued, as if she were not sure how he would react towards her.

  'Cora,' he responded. He moved to the foot of the stairs and waited. Neither one smiled at the other and both were conscious that this was not the usual way for lovers to say hello after a night of intimacy.

  'Have you had breakfast?' she asked, the question put to break the awkwardness between them rather than out of any real interest.

  'I'm on my way in,' Halloran replied. He touched her arm to atop her from walking on. She looked up at him, startled. 'Cora, why didn't you warn me about Kline?' She could not conceal the tiny flicker of alarm that showed in her eyes.

  'Why didn't you tell me he had the—I suppose you'd call it “power”—to hypnotise? We took a little trip this morning, out on the lake. He made me see things there, things I never thought possible. Creatures Cora, monsters that seemed to be living in the slime beneath that water. I don't know whose imagination he dredged them from—his or mine—but they scared the hell out of me even though common sense told me they couldn't really exist. He froze me, and it's been a long time since anyone did that.'

  'lie was playing games with you.' She had mowed closer and her voice was quiet, almost mournful. 'It was Felix's way of showing you how manipulative his mind is, how sometimes he can direct images into the minds of others.' Halloran shook his head. 'Thought transference—it's the same as hypnosis.'

  'No. No it isn't. He can't make you do things, control your actions. He can only suggest images, make you feel something is happening.' Halloran thought back to the white room at the Magma building, remembering his first encounter with Kline, the finger prodding him in the darkness when no one was near, reaching out and touching withered skin when only he and Kline were in the room . . . 'At least it makes a kind of sense,' he said aloud, although it was more a rationale for himself.

  Her laugh was brittle. 'Don't look for sense in any of this,' she said. Cora slipped from his grip and made her way towards the dining room.

  A creak from the balcony above. He looked up sharply and was just in time to see the bulky shape of Monk stepping back out of sight. Halloran was sure the big man had been grinning.

  'Well, I can see your appetite hasn't been spoilt by this morning's little upset.' Kline waved away the Arab who had been pouring him more coffee.

  Halloran glanced up from his plate and returned his client's smile. 'It takes a lot to do that.'

  'Oh yeah? For a moment there in the boat I thought you were going to puke. Couldn't figure it—there was hardly a ripple in the lake. Unless all that mist out there disorientated you that can often make you giddy, y'know, that and the drifting sensation. You had me worried.' He sipped from his cup. 'Youssef, give Miss Redmile some more coffee. She looks as if she needs it. Make it strong, leave the cream.

  Cora, you've got to eat more than you do, you're going to waste away otherwise. Don't you think she looks kinda drawn, Halloran? You not sleeping well, Cora?' Halloran had to agree: she looked pale, the dark smudges under her eyes even more pronounced.

  'I think that business yesterday is having some effect on me,' Cora said. 'Delayed reaction, I suppose.'

  'The attempted kidnapping?' The incident sounded pleasurable to Kline. 'There was no problem, not with our hero along to protect us. Those bastards didn't stand a chance, am I right, Halloran? Not with you around. I bet they couldn't believe their eyes when they saw our car reversing away like a bat outa

  . . .' He didn't complete the sentence, gulping coffee instead.

  'Hopefully your own driver, Palusinski, will have learned the technique by now. That and a few others to get away from a road-block fast.' Halloran continued eating, a surprisingly good English breakfast provided by the two Jordanians. He noticed that Kline, for all his jibes at the girl, hadn't eaten much either. Monk probably made up for the pair of them in the kitchen.

  'Were you an army man, Halloran?' The question from Kline was unexpected.

  'Most of your outfit are ex-military, aren't they?' Kline went on. 'You ever killed anybody? Shot them dead, knifed them? You ever done anything like that?' Cora was watching him, along with her employer.

  Halloran leaned back from the table. 'What makes you ask?' he said.

  'Oh, curiosity. Wondered if you had the capability. Can't be an easy thing taking someone else's life away. No, got to be the hardest thing in the world to do. Or is it? Maybe it's easy once you have the know-how, the experience. Have you had the experience? Could you do it?'

  'It would depend on the situation.'

  'Hah! Let me give you a situation then. Suppose those creeps yesterday had managed to stop our car.

  Suppose they ca
me at me with guns-which, presumably, given the chance they would have. Would you have used your own weapon'?'

  'That's why I'm here, Kline .'

  'Okay. Let's change the scenario a little. Say they held a gun at Cora's head and threatened to blow it off if you made a move towards them. You got your own gun in your hand and it's pointed in their direction.

  They're dragging me into their car and the guy with Cora is blocking your way. What would you do in that situation? Would you risk her life to protect me? I'd be interested to know.' He smiled at Cora. 'I'm sure she'd like to also.' Halloran looked from one to the other, Kline grinning, enjoying the moment, Cora uncertain, as though the question was more than academic.

  'I'd let them take you,' he replied.

  Kline's grin faded.

  'Then I'd negotiate the ransom for your release.' His client's fist hit the table. 'That's the wrong fucking answer! You're being paid to look after me, Halloran, nobody else! Not her, nobody!' Halloran kept his tone level. 'By shooting the one who held Cora—and I could probably do it without her being harmed—I'd be endangering your life. Everyone would get gun-happy, and undoubtedly you'd be the second target after me. It'd make sense to keep things peaceful, bargain for your release later.' Kline was noticeably quivering. 'Bargain far my release? You crazy fuck. They could take the money and then kill me.'

  'It doesn't work that way. These people are normally professional in what they do—to break a negotiated contract would mean they'd lose credibility next time.'

  'You talk as if the whole thing is nothing more than a business.'

  'That's just what it is, a multi-million pound business. Kidnap and ransom has become one of the world's few growth industries. Sure, every once in a while you get amateurs trying their hand, but they're few and far between, and generally frowned upon by their own but more competent kind—their bungling makes successful transactions more difficult for the professionals. It doesn't take organisations like mine, or the police, to discover which type we're dealing with, and I have to admit I prefer to be up against professionals -they're more predictable.'