‘Chief, this is what came out of the sampling bit.’
Grainger stared at Furnoval in total disbelief. ‘You’re crazy!’
‘I tell you it did!’ cried Furnoval. ‘I got witnesses. And there’s more of the stuff back in the analysis hut. It all came out of the bit, I swear it!’
‘Let me see that!’ said Yates, grabbing the material out of Furnoval’s hand. He held it up and that.’s when Anne got her first clear look at it. It seemed to be a clump of fine, springy fibres coloured a sickly yellow.
‘Well, what the hell is it?’ demanded Grainger irritably.
Yates was wearing a perplexed frown. ‘I don’t . . . know . . . it’s kind of like hair . . .’ he muttered.
‘Maybe you’ve drilled into a fossil animal,’ suggested a voice from the crowd.
Grainger glared at Yates. ‘Is that possible? At nearly 500 feet?’
‘Yes, of course it is, but . . Yates was still staring at the material in his hand. ‘But hair doesn’t survive on a fossil ... it can’t be hair . . .’
As Anne gazed at the yellow, silky mass an old memory stirred. She was reminded of something from her childhood but, stubbornly, the memory refused to come all the way to the surface.
‘I’ll go check it out under the microscope,’ said Yates.
Grainger threw up his arms in disgust. ‘Do whatever you want. I’m starting up the rig again. We’ve wasted enough time.’
Yates looked unhappy. ‘Don’t you think we should wait until I’ve analysed this?’
‘What difference does it make?’ demanded Grainger. ‘If there’s a dead mammoth or something down there we’re sure not going to dig through 500 feet of rock to get it out. What I want to know is how far the cavity full of that stuff extends. So I’m starting up again . . .' He turned to the watching crowd. ‘We’re going to recommence drilling. You people are welcome to stay and watch if you can stand the racket.’ Then he signalled and almost immediately the drive machinery burst into life. The noise was deafening and Anne was obliged to clamp her hands over her ears. Several other people did the same, she noticed. Some even backed away.
Anne watched fascinated as the rotating drilling pipe sank rapidly into the well head. Then, less than a minute later, the movement slowed down abruptly and even to a layman like Anne it was clear that the drill had encountered another, harder, substance all those hundreds of feet below them. She glanced at Grainger. He was standing next to the drill operator, a grizzled, white-haired man. Both men were frowning at the gauges on the machinery.
Then she became aware of a slight tremble in the ground beneath her feet. At the same time she heard a deep, far-off rumble. It was as if a tube train was passing nearby.
The next thing she knew she was watching the section of drilling pipe hurtling upwards at great speed. It tore through the top of the wooden derrick with tremendous force, making a loud cracking sound, and continued to rise into the air.
Then, to her amazement, another section of pipe shot out the hole, and another . . .
She stood there transfixed even though Grainger was waving his arms frantically and bellowing, ‘Get back! Get away! Run, damn you, run . . .!’
But like her the bulk of the crowd just stood there watching, not comprehending what was happening. It was only when the first of the pipe sections came down like a javelin on top of a Land Rover parked at least fifty feet away, smashing through the vehicle’s roof and causing every window to explode into a shower of glass, that people began to wake up.
It was too late.
Immediately following the final section of pipe to be fired out of the well-head came a geyser of black fluid that rose some twenty feet into the air and then burst outwards in all directions.
Oil, thought Anne as she backed away. They’ve struck oil. How ironic . . .
But she soon saw that it wasn’t oil. Because those who were splattered with the stuff fell instantly to the ground and began to writhe about as if on fire. Their screams were horrible.
She was about to go to the aid of the nearest victim, a man whose head and shoulders were covered with the liquid, but before she could get to him someone else - a teenage girl - beat her to it. The girl flung her jacket over him, obviously trying to wipe the stuff off, but almost immediately started to scream. She held up her hands, which were beginning to smoke. Anne could see the flesh blistering and falling from the girl’s hands as she watched.
All thought of trying to help anyone fled from her mind. She continued to back away, too terrified to turn and run in case a glob of the liquid caught her unawares. Splashes of it had come down near her but so far she was untouched. She began to pray desperately to herself even though she’d considered herself to be an agnostic since adolescence.
She looked at the well-head. The geyser was getting smaller now but still periodically spattering outwards like an exploding bubble in a hot mud pool. Smoke was pouring from the derrick, which was making ominous creaking noises. Already weakened by the impacts from the pipe sections, it was near to collapse . . .
Then, through all the smoke and chaos, Anne thought she saw a thin, black shape rising up out of the shrinking geyser. It was like a huge snake or tentacle and for a brief moment it seemed to be suspended there, its tip moving back and forth as if it was looking around . . .
And then the derrick came crashing down and the shape vanished, leaving Anne unsure as to whether it was ever really there.
Someone came running straight towards Anne. She saw it was the PR woman, though she was now barely recognizable with her face pitted with craters. She ran blindly, her arms outstretched, and as Anne ducked out of the way she saw that the woman’s eyes had been burnt out.
The geyser had stopped now but Anne continued to back away - carefully and methodically as if frightened that any sudden movement on her part would provoke the geyser into action again. She couldn’t believe she’d been lucky enough to avoid being spattered with the stuff. But then she became aware that others had been equally lucky. Like her they were either retreating from the scene or standing helplessly among the victims.
Then she spotted the huge Grainger. Miraculously he appeared untouched as well despite being much closer to the eruption than she had been. He was moving among the writhing bodies, vainly trying to ease their agonies by scooping up soil and throwing it on their smouldering flesh. Then, stupidly, he bent down and picked up a woman in his arms . . .
Anne heard him scream. Then she saw the woman simply fall apart like a rotten vegetable. Grainger dropped the remains and began beating at his chest.
She turned her back on him and almost tripped over a body that had been lying directly in her path. From the waist up it was a charred, smoking mass - she could see ribs and part of the skull - but the pair of tight jeans, with the pink embroidery down the sides, on the lower half of the body were all too recognizable. As were the ridiculous shoes on the small feet. Poor Poppy, she thought, but without really feeling much of anything.
Another charred body lay near Poppy’s. Only the pair of rusting secateurs beside it provided a clue to its identity. Anne felt her heart swell as though it was going to explode and her skin tingled unpleasantly. For a moment she thought she had been spattered with the stuff after all but then the sensation passed and the numbness that replaced it was as welcome as a massive injection of morphine.
She walked on, ignoring the dying screams behind her, and wondered what she could serve the Fowlers for dinner next Saturday night. She would have to discuss it with Clive. After all the dinner party was his idea . . .
3
Wednesday, 9.40 a.m.
‘How’s Anne?’
Clive Thomas looked up from the eyepiece of the electron microscope and blinked. It was Professor Henry Mitchell, Head of Scientific Administration at the Central Public Health Laboratory. The suspected outbreak of Legionnaires’ Disease at the Heathrow Majestic would have to wait a few minutes.
‘Still in a state of mild shock, Henry, but
improving. Thanks for asking.’
Mitchell edged a large buttock onto the desk and leaned his substantial weight upon it. ‘Why don’t you take a couple of days off? I was surprised to hear you were in, all things considered.’
‘Anne made me come in. Said she doesn’t need me fussing about and making her endless cups of unwanted tea. I gave up arguing. She’s a pretty resilient woman anyway. The doctors have checked her over thoroughly and prescribed lots of rest. The phone is off the hook, the front door is locked and she’s got enough tranquillizers to dull the edge of even her worst memories of Monday.’ Mitchell nodded sympathetically. ‘Terrible business. Terrible . . .’ He paused. Thomas knew exactly what was coming next. It was perfectly understandable. He would probably do the same himself.
The expected question came. ‘Uh, has Anne told you in any detail what happened at the site?’
‘She hasn’t said anything you don’t already know,’ said Thomas, noting the almost imperceptible fall of Mitchell’s lace. ‘All she saw was an eruption of a black, oil-like liquid from the drill hole. Except that the stuff acted like acid instead of oil. Didn't look like oil, either, up close. Anne said it had a viscous quality to it. It hung from the victims in long, sticky threads . . .’
Mitchell sighed. ‘If only we had a sample of the material. I’m dying to know what it was.’
‘Whatever it was it was highly unstable,’ said Thomas, it broke down very quickly.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mitchell. ‘The small traces of residue contained nothing but a few harmless salts, potassium nitrate and the like.’
‘Which does suggest an acid.’
‘But what kind of acid could produce those effects?’ he asked. ‘And what kind of acid only works on organic substances? None of the metal surfaces in the vicinity of the eruption show the slightest sign of pitting.’ Mitchell shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Well, whatever it was we should have the answer soon.’
Thomas frowned. ‘How so?’
‘Haven’t you heard? The Department of the Environment is going to start drilling again in the same spot. Everyone will be fully protected, of course. The aim is to secure a sample of the substance for analysis. That way the witnesses’ story will be proved once and for all . . .’ Thomas winced.
Mitchell’s plump red cheeks went even redder. ‘Oh, I say, Clive, I didn’t mean to imply that Anne . . .’
‘It’s alright,’ said Thomas quickly. ‘I understand.’ But even so he still felt resentful at the initial reaction from the NIREX scientists and the Department of the Environment officials when the survivors, including Anne, began to tell their stories. It was one of blank disbelief. What they had described was simply impossible, said the scientists and government engineers. No such substance existed within the earth. And the fact that none of the oil-like liquid couid be found on the site added to the official scepticism.
An alternative explanation was put forward - that the protesters had tried to sabotage the drilling site and caused some sort of explosion, possibly by accident.
But the officials had soon been obliged, reluctantly, to abandon this idea when the few surviving members of the drilling team gave the same story. And then when the odd salt residue was found they had no choice but to admit that something had erupted out of the ground. But they obviously still had their doubts about the witnesses’ version of events.
Looking embarrassed, Mitchell eased himself from the desk and said, ‘These things do have an appalling tendency to drag on. But at least by the time the official inquiry rolls around Anne should be completely her old self again.’
‘Yes, I’m sure she will,’ said Thomas, wishing he’d hurry up and go.
As if reading his mind Mitchell then said, ‘Well, I must be going. Just tell me if there’s anything at all I can do. Don’t hesitate. And do wish Anne well for me.’
‘Thanks, Henry, I will,’ said Thomas and watched as he waddled off. He tried not to feel too annoyed with him. He knew that Mitchell’s cliched offer of help had at least been genuine. It was just that he found him so insufferably pompous - he was still acting as if he ran the place even though he was now nothing but a figurehead since Professor Renton had been transferred to Colindale from Porton Down.
Thomas reflected on Mitchell’s words. He had mixed feelings about the news that another hole was being drilled at the same spot. If it had been his choice he would have been more cautious. Until they had a better idea of exactly what it was they were dealing with there was always the possibility of sparking off an even bigger catastrophe.
Then again he would be happy to have the lingering clouds of suspicion that still hung over the heads of the protesters completely dispelled. He hadn’t enjoyed the visit yesterday to his home by the two Special Branch men. They had been scrupulously polite to both him and Anne and their questioning had been as delicate as the touch of a butterfly’s wing, but the experience had still upset him. The thought that anyone could even consider the idea that Anne - his wife - might have been involved in a plot to set off a deliberate explosion at the drilling site made him sick with anger.
He sighed, stretched his back then bent forward again over the microscope. As he peered into the eyepiece he remembered what Anne had told him last night, just before falling asleep. It was something she hadn’t told the Special Branch men, nor had he mentioned it to Mitchell. ‘Clive, you’re going to think I’m crazy,’ she had said, ‘but I’m sure I saw something just before the derrick collapsed . . . something alive.' She had then described the snake-like shape she had seen rising out of the hole. He had responded by gently telling her that it must have been an optical illusion - that her mind had played a trick on her as a result of all the shock and confusion.
‘I hope so,' was the last thing she’d said before slipping off into her drug-induced sleep, but he had lain awake worrying that the trauma of Monday’s events had affected her more seriously than he’d first thought.
With an effort he cleared his mind of these worries and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. Then, just when he was beginning to make sense out of the chaotic microcosm he was surveying through the eyepiece his phone rang.
Swearing under his breath he snatched it up. ‘Thomas,’ he said irritably.
‘Doctor Clive Thomas?’ asked a female voice he didn't recognize.
‘Yes,’ he answered curtly.
‘My name’s Robin Carey of the Daily News. I . . .’ ‘You’re a reporter?’ he broke in.
‘Yes. I’d like to talk . . .’
He cut her off again, i’m sorry, Miss Carey, but I’ll have to put you through to the Press Office. They’ll give you a statement on the Majestic Hotel situation. I’m afraid I can’t talk to you direct.’
‘You don’t understand, doctor,’ she said hurriedly, it’s your wife I want to speak to. About the incident at the NIREX drilling site. I’ve been trying to get through to your home but the number’s constantly engaged. So I’m calling you to ask how I can get in touch with her . . .’ Thomas had felt his heart rate increase rapidly as she spoke. He gripped the receiver hard and his knuckles went white. ‘No. It’s out of the question,’ he said coldly, fighting to keep his voice calm and level. ‘You can’t talk to my wife.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line and then the woman said, ‘No offence, doctor, but surely that’s up to your wife, not you.’
‘Miss Carey, I assure you that under no circumstances would my wife agree to be questioned by you or any other journalistic vulture. She underwent a very horrific experience on Monday. Not only did she narrowly avoid being killed herself but saw two of her friends die in a very unpleasant way. I know you reporters have a total lack of imagination when it comes to understanding the feelings of others so let me spell it out for you that she needs a lot of peace and quiet right now. Understand?’ ‘Doctor Thomas - ’
‘Goodbye,’ he said and slammed the phone down. He took a deep breath and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal. He was already
feeling slightly embarrassed that the woman had provoked such a tirade from him but he hadn’t been able to help himself. If he had a pet hate it was journalists. He encountered them quite regularly in his job and so far every encounter had lowered his opinion of their profession still further. The thought of Anne being persecuted by one of their number in her present state was just too much to bear.
A quarter of an hour later he was interrupted yet again when Mitchell waddled back into the lab, an apologetic look on his face. Now what? wondered Thomas wearily.
‘Any luck with this Legionnaires’ business?’ Mitchell asked him as he came over to the desk.
Thomas shook his head. ‘I’ve checked all the samples from the air conditioning system and the water supply and there’s no trace of the Legionnaire bacterium. If it is an outbreak of Legionnaires’ Disease then the bacteria are circulating through the hotel by some entirely new means. Personally I’d say it’s a false alarm. All those convention members who’ve fallen ill at the hotel are probably suffering from food poisoning, or maybe they’re victims of a particularly tough flu bug . . .’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Mitchell, a shade distantly. His mind was obviously on something else. ‘After all, none of the victims has died so far and a few of them are actually showing signs of recovery already.’ i’ll write up my report immediately.’ it can wait. Your verbal assurance is good enough for the time being . . .’
Thomas frowned. This went against standard procedure at the lab, and usually Mitchell was a great stickler about obeying the rules. ‘What’s up?’ asked Thomas suspiciously.
‘Ah, I have another little job for you,’ said Mitchell with an embarrassed smile. ‘Police job. Something that has their forensic boys baffled. They think it’s one for us.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that.’ Whenever the police called on them for help it invariably meant they had a hell of a mess on their hands. ‘What’s it about?’
Again Mitchell gave his embarrassed smile. ‘I think it’s better if you see for yourself. First impressions and all that. Besides, it all sounds rather peculiar stated in plain and simple English . . .’He gave a nervous laugh.
Simon Ian Childer Page 2
