by Guy N Smith
Vic Jones slid off his machine. As his feet touched the ground he was aware of an unsteadiness, a weakness in his legs, a blurring of his vision and, above all, the dryness in his throat was restricting his vocal chords, making speech difficult. He remembered that he had not had so much as a drink of water all day.
‘I'm going down to the pub,’ he announced in a hoarse whisper which was barely audible.
Lewis and Price looked at each other, their puffed tongues licking at dry cracked lips. Suddenly the desire to quench the nagging thirst which had been with them these past few hours was paramount,
‘It's risky.’
‘Maybe we could find a stream somewhere.’
‘Why the hell should we? We've never gone without our beer before. Not any night.’
A common bond had quelled the rising quarrel. Thirst. It had to be slaked. Soon.
‘I don't feel so good.’ Reuben swayed and clutched at his bike for support.
‘Me, neither,’ Roddy Price thought for a moment that he was going to faint, but the sensation passed. ‘I guess we all need a drink.’
‘Where are we goin'?’
Another problem. The possibility of police road blocks loomed again. The gang's outlaw status, hitherto a fantasy of bravado, was becoming reality. And it frightened them.
‘Maybe … if …’ Jones had difficulty in getting the words out. ‘If … we … left the bikes … went on foot …’
‘Where to?’
‘Find a cottage somewhere … water will do …for now.’
The other two nodded. Their thirst was growing. Even water would be acceptable. The prospect of searching for streams or pools in the dark did not appeal to them. All three were aware that they were very, very frightened. But they would not admit it.
With difficulty they wheeled their heavy machines back towards the road, leaving them in a grove of silver birch trees just off the grass verge. Their strength was ebbing. They put it down to exhaustion, the result of a day on the run. Now they were outlaws for real.
They set off back towards Rhayader, keeping to the side of the road, dodging back into the undergrowth every time they saw the headlights of an approaching car. Although they were travelling downhill their legs seemed scarcely capable of the effort required.
Vic Jones stumbled and fell heavily. His face thudded into the gravel as he sprawled headlong. He swore and then he began to cry, choking sobs that increased the burning in his throat.
‘I'm … dying,’ he gasped as the others dragged him to his feet.
‘Bloody rubbish! Don't be stupid, Vic. We're just as knackered as you are.’
‘I . . . need a drink.’
‘And don't we all.’
Once on his feet again, Vic Jones staggered along with the rest of them. Their breathing was stentorian, wheezing.
Some time later they saw a light against the blackness of the towering forests, winking its welcome between the tree trunks.
‘Look.’ Roddy Price pulled up, drawing in breath noisily. ‘Over there. Must be a cottage. Look for a track leading off to the left.’
A hundred yards or so further on they found the rutted road, and changed direction through the overhanging trees. Pitch blackness all round, they clasped each other with damp sweaty hands. Somehow they managed to keep their balance with a combined effort, and within a few minutes they were staring at a small red-brick cottage set in a grassy clearing.
Pungent woodsmoke filled the air. They coughed, a rattling sound in parched throats; their eyes streamed. A typical rural dwelling: untidy but comfortable, a pile of newly cut kindling wood outside the door, latticed windows, the light coming from the lower one nearest to them.
With Reuben in the lead they advanced until they could see inside through the diamond-shaped panes. A man was seated before the smouldering fire, white haired, eyes closed, dozing. Somewhere between sixty and seventy, his weather-beaten features spoke of an outdoor life. A woodman, perhaps. The sparsely furnished room was untidy. Everything about it lacked a woman's touch. A widower, a man used to living on his own.
Vic tried the door. It was unlocked, and yielded with a creak. The three youths pushed inside, standing in that front room, looking down on the slumbering occupant.
Suddenly the old man was awake. Startled, he hissed:
‘What … who are you? What's the idea, just walking in here?’
‘We want a drink,’ Vic croaked.
The other stared, eyes wide, an expression of horror creeping over his wrinkled face.
‘What … what's the matter with you?’ he whispered. ‘Have you … been in an accident?’
Jones felt at his face, running his fingertips slowly down his cheeks. The flesh was wet and soft, spongy. He jerked his hand away, staring in disbelief. His fingers were covered in thick yellow matter - repulsive. He could smell them, too - nauseating.
The other two were staring at each other, each seeing in the other's swollen face a reflection of his own: ulcers that weeped, puffed-up cracked lips.
‘What … what is it?’ Roddy Price stepped back. ‘Oh, Christ, what's happened to us?’
‘That bloke … by the lake …’ Reuben could not collate his words, but the meaning was only too clear. Whatever had happened to Paul Pritchard had happened to the Rhayader Gang. Disfiguration, burning pain, insatiable thirst.
The owner of the house cowered before them. He had no idea what was going on, but he was well aware that his safety was threatened. He knew he was faced with hooligans, or vandals, or muggers. His tired and dazed brain fought to cope with the situation, seeking some means of escape. There was none.
With horrific pus-covered features, swollen Adam's apples almost bursting their way out of constricted throats, and rasping breath, the three thugs had brought something worse than themselves into his house: the ultimate in living cancerous death.
Glazed eyes scanned the room; saw the sink in the adjoining kitchen. There was a stumbling rush for the taps. Hot and cold taps running, cupped ulcerated hands raised the water to crazed, greedily slurping mouths. Steam billowed up as the hot water came through. Cries of anguish came from the three dehumanized figures who pushed, swore and fought over the cold water.
Vic Jones slipped and fell. There was a sharp crack as his head struck the corner of the stone sink. He rolled over on the quarried floor and lay still. Nobody noticed the blood oozing from the deep crack in the skull. Water was everywhere, the blocked waste pipe creating a flood; but the two drinkers continued in their desperation to slake their thirsts.
The old man crept out into the night, glancing back, unable to believe that there was no pursuit. His worn slippers sank into the soft mud. Dragging his feet, and limping slightly, he began to run.
Roddy Price and Reuben Lewis drank like thirsty cattle from the overflowing sink. They submerged their faces, attempting to soothe the burning pain. But there was no way of easing it; it seemed to be eating deeper and deeper into flesh and bone.
They broke off, staring at each other. Their utterances were reduced to meaningless sounds. Vision was blurred, reasoning dulled. The instinct to survive was all that remained. They grappled with each other - enemies, each a threat to the other's personal survival.
Jagged dirty fingernails tore at cancerous flesh. The skin came away easily in ribbons, hanging down in yellow and scarlet strips, oozing and dripping.
Locked together they fell to the floor, their nostrils flared, their mouths frothed with spit. The damaged skull of Vic Jones cracked again beneath their weight. The two youths rolled over in the pool of blood. Roddy's hands were around Reuben's throat, the Adam's apple as hard and as big as a tennis ball. Roddy squeezed. His adversary vomited - mostly water, but yellowish pus tinged the spew. He tightened his grip, using every ounce of his remaining strength. He felt the other go limp; the bulging eyes no longer seeing. His enemy was dead.
Roddy relaxed his grip, and Reuben's body fell back. Roddy tried to struggle to his feet, but the effort wa
s too much for him. He swayed, and then pitched forward.
The sink continued to overflow, the water spreading across the kitchen, streaked with scarlet and yellow.
Maldwyn Evans stared around him in disbelief. Three dingy white walls; the wooden cot on which he sat; a small table; a grill door - nothing else except the single light bulb burning in the ceiling above.
His head ached unbearably. He knew that he had been unconscious. One of the policemen with whom he had struggled in the car on the way down to the station had hit him. He felt at the side of his face, feeling the sticky wetness. It had been some blow.
He could barely stand the brightness in here. But worst of all was the thirst. It burned, searing him from throat to stomach.
He tried to think, but his brain was fogged. They had arrested him - he knew that much. Charged him with the murder of Paul Pritchard and told him he would be appearing in court tomorrow. They'd wanted to know where the others were. Mal had told'em to fuck off. That was when the trouble had started. He too wondered where Roddy, Reuben and Vic were. Maybe they'd been roped in by now.
Jesus Christ, he needed a drink. He lurched to his feet, staggered across to the door, and gripped the bars with sticky sweaty hands.
‘Hey!’ he tried to yell, but only a hoarse frog-like sound came from his lips. He had to muster up a deliberate effort to shout again.
‘Hey! Water. Drink.’
Water … drink … The words seemed to echo in the dim narrow passage outside, hollow and taunting.
Mal clutched at the bars, having difficulty in supporting his weight.
‘Water. Drink.’
Water …drink …water …drink … His words came back at him, leering.
Footsteps. Studded boots scraped on a concrete floor, and somewhere a door slammed. Light flooded the corridor: fluorescent strip lighting that had him clutching his hands over his eyes. He felt blinded, defenceless; brainwashed by the authorities.
‘What's the matter with you, kicking up all this fuss?’
Between the fingers of his hands he saw the big uniformed sergeant. The man looked tough, even merciless. His balding head glinted, his veins knotted angrily: a legitimate bully.
‘Water … drink.’
Silence. The policeman was staring at the prisoner. Anger changed to amazement and horror. His eyes widened, refusing to believe what they saw.
The prisoner's face had changed beyond recognition during the last three hours. Engorged features, eyes almost buried in bulbous cheeks, a weeping rash spreading upwards as far as the forehead gave the youth a completely contorted expression. The face was disfigured by pain and fear, and incorporated the worst of the human species. Raw hands gripped the bars, the knuckles buried deep in the swellings.
‘Christ!’ Sergeant Griffiths stepped back a pace, his abruptness disappearing, his confidence waning. ‘What the devil's happened to you?’
Maldwyn Evans shook the steel grill like a caged animal in a zoo, roaring his rage, the spittle running down his chin and dripping on the floor.
‘Water,’ he rasped. ‘Water … the thirst …’
Griffiths moved back. The rattling in the prisoner's throat - he knew it only too well: the death rattle. Mal Evans was going to die. Water would not help. Except to ease the suffering, although God only knew what was up with the fellow. A disease of some sort. Swift and deadly, eating the body away whilst the victim still lived. Better not get too close. It might be catching.
All the same the sergeant knew that he had to give him a drink. He turned and went into the toilet at the end of the corridor, found an enamel mug, and filled it from the cold tap.
He tensed. The insane ravings from the cell had ceased. Total silence. It was far more frightening than anything which had happened so far.
The policeman's hand shook as he stepped back into the narrow passage. Water slopped in the mug and spilled. He approached the cell door with trepidation, his back against the tar corridor walk trying to see inside without going closer than was absolutely necessary.
A huddled, denim-clad shape lay on the floor against the barred door.
A vile odour reached Griffiths and he had to make a conscious effort to stop himself from retching. He heaved two or three times. He'd smelled death before, that sharp peculiar nauseating smell that comes from corpses. He recognised it now, a thousand times stronger. Decaying flesh, putrification - as though decomposition had already started on Mal Evans.
Sergeant Griffiths turned and went back into the main office. He picked up the telephone receiver and began to dial with shaking fingers. As he waited for his call to be connected be prayed that someone else would remove the body from the cell. He tried not to think about the post-mortem.
Chapter 4
‘Well, gentlemen, it seems our very worst fears are realised. Half a dozen horrific deaths which we can only attribute to Weedspray. And this could be only the beginning.’
There was a moment of pregnant silence in the austere room situated high above the bustle of a Monday morning in Birmingham. A dozen men were seated around the high Victorian desk: Jackson, the head of the water authority, and four other officials; Ron Blythe; Ken Broadhurst; five police officers - all high ranking, the most senior being the Chief Constable himself, whose greying hair and sharp but dignified features wore a worried look. He finished speaking and looked expectantly across at the others. He needed their suggestions.
‘But they died in Rhayader.’ Jackson had a note of triumph in his voice. ‘Not in Birmingham.’
‘Yes,’ Ron Blythe interrupted, leaning forward. ‘But they died because they had beenindirect contact with the weedkiller. Probably with the slick itself in the Claerwen Reservoir. Possibly Pritchard got some on his body when he took his wetsuit off. The youths had been attempting to haul in the dead fish. More than likely they stood in the water as well as handling the contaminated trout. An overdose, to put it in layman's terms. Highly concentrated. Consequently the effects were magnified. This raging thirst, madness, cancerous ulcers. They got the lot. A lesser dose would be slower.’
‘But the ultimate result would be the same?’
‘Yes. Sooner or later the victim ends up the same way. Sooner … or later. Depending on how concentrated the dose, and whether they took it internally or externally.’
‘And nothing in Birmingham.’
‘Not so far. It's early days yet.’
Silence again.
Blythe found himself thinking about Margaret. Thank God she was out of all this. He ought to have telephoned her. Maybe he would do so later in the day. It was something he kept putting off. He didn't know why. With luck he would be home again in a few days.
‘The Prime Minister has been informed,’ the Chief Constable said to break the awkward silence. ‘Naturally he is concerned. At the first hint of any contamination of the Birmingham water he has promised action.’
‘What sort of action?’ Blythe tried to keep the smirk off his face. An awkward question. But not as awkward as trying to find an answer to it.
‘He did not say.’ The Chief Constable's steely grey eyes bored into Blythe. ‘And naturally I did not ask, but doubtless the question has already been discussed at a Cabinet Meeting.’
Ron Blythe nodded. There was no point in saying any more at this stage. The test of the government's action would be when something happened in Birmingham.
‘So far we have experienced the symptoms at their very worst,’ Croxley, the Chief Constable continued. ‘This burning thirst accompanied by madness. But these victims have had excessive doses of Weedspray, hence the rapidity with which the cancerous growths on the skin took effect. Like burning caused by sulphuric acid …’
Only worse, Ron thought, barely listening to the drone of the other's voice. They just don't know what they're in for, poor sods.
‘I'd be grateful if both of you -’ Croxley looked directly at Blythe and Broadhurst, ‘- would remain in Birmingham, on call, until further notice.’
&n
bsp; The two men nodded their agreement.
‘We should know inside a fortnight whether or not there is any danger,’ the Chief Constable went on. ‘Fortunately, apart from the initial report of the accident, the Press have played the matter down. The prospects of what might happen are too incredible, even for them. The public just would not believe it. Should our worst fears be realised then it will be up to the Prime Minister to make an announcement.’
The meeting broke up. Ken Broadhurst followed Ron Blythe down into the busy street. The usual traffic queues; pedestrians milling on the pavements - not a hint of the disaster which might be imminent.
Blythe saw a newspaper placard, the bold lettering seeming to leap out at him. Accusing.
HORRIFIC WELSH DEATHS. MADNESS OF THE POISON VICTIMS.
Broadhurst fished some coins out of his pocket and bought a copy of the early lunch time edition. Blythe scanned the front page article with him. Some of the details, the most horrible, had been exaggerated. It was only to be expected.
He noticed other people reading their papers as they walked. Mostly they were engrossed in the back page. Even larger headlines:
CITY BID FOR ARGENTINIAN WORLD CUP STARS
He shook his head. The public didn't care. Possibly later the majority would digest the front page. But it didn't concern them. Wales was a foreign country. A million miles away. Probably a good many did not even know where their water supply came from. Their thinking went no further than the kitchen and bathroom taps. The necessary information was contained in the article - if they read that far. Most would not bother turning to page three for the conclusion.
Maybe it was best that way, Ron Blythe decided. There was no way they could avoid death if it was already in the pipes, except by a near-total abstinence from washing and drinking. That was impossible.
‘It's in the lap of the gods.’ Broadhurst folded up his copy of theMail, and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘We can only pray that the slick stops in the Claerwen Reservoir. Though it can't stay there for ever. If only there was some way of getting it out, or even dispersing it. Additional filters have been fitted to the outlet pipes, for all the good they'll do. Can't you think of something, Ron?’
