Gabrielle was doing her best to keep leaning into the rock face, hoping that friction would slow her fall, and stretched out her right arm to where the rope should be. Her scrabbling fingers found something solid, and she grasped it, but screamed as fingers snapped under her weight. It had done enough, though: she slowed, she slid more to her right, and she felt the rope slap her in the face. Reflexively, she made a grab at it with both hands. Friction stripped skin off both hands, and her broken fingers sent agony spiking up her arm, but she held on.
Mike threw away caution and was coming down the cliff in a series of barely-controlled slips, calling out Gabrielle's name as he descended. He finally stopped alongside her, in a shower of rock fragments and dust. "Gabby, talk to me," he said, near hysteria. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"
She looked in his direction, her eyes dazed and unfocussed. "Silly bugger," she said, slurring the words slightly. "Course I'm not all right. It hurts."
"What hurts?"
"Bloody everything. What happened?"
"The cliff was rotten. A big chunk just fell out. I think it might have hit you on the way down."
"Feels like I've been hit by a cliff," she confirmed. "Don't think I can hold on -" Her eyes flickered and closed, Mike grabbed her before she could move, and pinned her to the cliff face with his body. Blood was staring to flow freely down her face from more than one head wound. Mike hammered pitons into the rocks on either side of Gabrielle, and roped her in place. He pulled out a mobile phone, and called Stan's number to explain the situation. Then he leaned back to await rescue.
Mike and Gabrielle were helped off the cliff three hours later. The fog still clung to the lower cliff, preventing Mike from seeing that he and Gabrielle had come to a stop just a few metres above the transition to the scree slope.
Gabrielle regained consciousness as they were being brought down. She was facing up, where the thinning fog swirled in an eddy in front of the cliff. She briefly glimpsed movement above, near the point where the cliff had given way, but afterwards remembered nothing about it.
Chapter 8
Anifail Island, North Wales: 23 - 24 May Last Year
John Willems sipped his tea. He put down the cup, stretched his long legs out and wriggled a little to embed himself properly into the comfortable dents left in his armchair by countless evenings of doing exactly this. Relaxing after a hard day's work.
He had been working Clifftop Farm all his life bar the three-year gap he had spent in Nottingham earning a degree in animal husbandry. But since the objective of his study had been to take over and revolutionise the family farm, he supposed that counted as working for Clifftop Farm even if he was not working at the farm. His father had been deeply conservative and avoided change, so it was only after his passing that John was able to impose his ideas on the farm. But ironically by the time he was able to act, he had grown disinclined to do so. He had been a little surprised to discover that after thirty years, the extent of his ambition was to breed goats and make cheeses much as his father had. Between his kitchen garden, his hen-house and the modest income from the herd of goats, he was quite self-sufficient and - somewhat to his own surprise - content.
He woke suddenly, roused by the noise from the chicken run behind his cottage. He realised he had dozed off - something that was happening more frequently of late, he reflected, shaking his head in wonder. When had he grown old?
Then the noise of squawking chickens registered with him. What was disturbing them? He collected an electric lantern from the table by the front door as he stepped out to look. He walked quickly across the lawn behind the cottage, holding the lantern above his head to throw light on the chicken run. He could see no chickens - the squawking was coming from inside the hen house. Brown and white feathers were floating across the run and scattered both inside and outside the mesh fence. John reached the fence and stooped to look inside. By the lantern's light, he could see wet patches darkening the bare earth, and dark stains on the mesh. He stretched out a hand to touch the mesh, but hesitated, afraid for a reason he could not identify. "Don't be a stupid arse," he muttered aloud. Rather than touch it, though, he leant in close and sniffed. Blood. He stood back from the fence, and noticed for the first time that there were wet stains - more blood - on the ground outside the fence, as well as tiny pieces of pinkish-grey flesh, a few still with feathers embedded. "What the hell did this?" he asked himself.
There was a sudden rattle and the familiar clap-clap of the top hinged flap that let the hens in and out of their house. John jumped back, his heart thumping. Once he had calmed a little, he quietly stepped forward and held the lantern high to take in the scene. The flap was still swinging to and fro. He saw that a trail of blood ran down the ramp and over to the fence to one side.
"Bastard fox!" he shouted. "C'mere and let me see what ye're at! Get off out o' here, you stinkin' vermin!" He strode round to the side, making no effort to be quiet, expecting to find a hole chewed in the fence and a fox running off. But there was no hole in the fence, and no sign of an animal running across the short grass. "What the hell -"
The noise in the hen house had stopped at some point. John opened the gate into the run, opened the door into the hen house, and held the lantern inside. The hen house had been transformed into a slaughterhouse with blood spattering the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling. Or a charnel house, he thought, pedantically and irrelevantly; some of his birds had been stripped down to the bone. He backed out, turned to one side, and threw up.
***
John Willems had a visitor, early next morning - old Innes, from the smallholding down slope.
At first light, when his neighbours would have been breaking their fasts, John had started calling round everyone that he knew of who kept poultry, spreading the warning that "foxes or summat" were on the prowl and had already slaughtered his birds. After a few minutes of consideration, he also - reluctantly - called the police station on the mainland. He didn't expect any action from the police; he was thinking that one of the questions his insurers would ask would be whether the police had been notified.
He had not called old Innes, but old Innes came to see him anyway. When John first knew him, he had been "young Innes", as his father held the title "old Innes". Having inherited the family farm, young Innes became simply "Innes", but only briefly: the sobriquet "old" had apparently been handed down along with the farm. Nobody knew how old old Innes was, but it was a long time since he had sold off most of the farmland and semi-retired to the cottage and remaining few acres. So, it was generally reckoned, old Innes was very old indeed. But he had taken the trouble to trudge up to Clifftop, so as soon as John heard his gravelly, "Hey, Willems," he stepped out through his front door to greet him.
"Innes," said John, respectfully.
"Aye," was the reply. Hill farmers use their words sparingly.
"Fine mornin'."
"Not for you, I hear."
"Aye."
"Birds all gone?"
"Aye."
Old Innes inclined his head towards the hen house, which John interpreted as "May I?"
John pointed with his chin, which Innes understood to mean, "Of course."
While Innes no longer kept poultry, John knew that his decades of experience meant that he might be able to offer some observations of value. He watched Innes from a distance, giving him a respectful space in which to study the problem. Innes walked around the fence, noting its height, its quality, its intact condition and its bloodstains. Innes then entered the run, and opened the hen house, noting everything, and missing nothing. Finally he straightened up, scratched his scarred neck, and cleared his throat. John, of course, understood his meaning and walked over.
"Not foxes," said Innes.
"Reckon not," said John. "Bit stumped, not anything I've seen." He hesitated, then added, "Never seen mink on the hunt, mind."
Innes grinned. "Ah, Willems, you know better."
John grinned back. "Not mink."
"Reckon not."
Innes pointed out a faint imprint on the ground. "You saw that, course."
"Aye. First thought was summat legless. But no snakes on the island far as I know. And no snakes in the whole country big enough to take down a flock o' chickens."
"Aye."
The two men pondered the problem in silence for a couple of minutes. Then Innes spoke again.
"Came in here. Squeezed under. Found the hatch. Now, how did it get it open?"
"I know it was bolted last night."
"So, a smart predator. Funny brown stain on the bolt, see?"
John peered closely. "So it is."
"So, it gets in, scares the crap out o' them birds, and some come this way. Kills everything in the run, then goes back into the coop and kills everything in there."
"Ate some on the spot." John grimaced. "Dragged the rest to the fence."
"Aye." Innes studied the mesh. "Don't know as I believe meself, now. But it stuffed chunks o' hen through the mesh, squeezed back out, collected it an' left."
"Twenty-six birds."
"So, what do have, Willems?"
"Built like a snake."
"Clever enough to work a bolt."
"Strong and quick. Very quick."
"Big enough to want twenty-six birds."
"Big enough to carry off most of twenty-six birds."
"More'n one?" Innes wondered.
"Reckon so," John replied. He thought for another minute. "And sneaky. No, that's not the right word..."
"Stealthy," offered Innes.
"Aye. What does that sound like to you?"
Innes thought for a long minute. "Nothin' I've seen or heard of."
"Aye, that's my worry. It ain't natural to these parts..."
"Or any other parts, come to that."
The two men looked at each other. Then old Innes scratched his chin, and muttered, "So I wonder … how big do these things get?"
Chapter 9
Near Arwensford, North Wales, 24 May Last Year
Maxwell Coupar's mobile phone rang again. He could tell who was calling by the ring-tone, so - again - he ignored it, leaving Ozzy Osbourne to sing, "Evil woman, don't you play your games with me," another twice, until the call bounced to voice mail. After a minute, Ozzy burst into song once more, and finally Tori laughed indulgently and said, "For goodness sake, Maxwell, will you answer that? You know perfectly well who's calling, and you can't keep avoiding her!"
With a sigh, Maxwell tapped the green button. "Hello, this is Professor Maxwell Coupar. How may I help you?"
"Max, darling, as if you didn't know, it's Amanda."
"Amanda!" he exclaimed, doing his best to sound pleasantly surprised. "How are you, my love? What can I do for you?"
"How I am, is pleased you've finally answered one of my calls, and what you can do for me, is let me know what progress you're making. You did promise weekly updates."
"Did I really? Are you sure? That doesn't sound like me at all."
"I'm sure. All I have are invoices when what I expect is progress. So spit it out, you're getting nowhere aren't you?"
Maxwell grinned to himself. "On the contrary, my dear Amanda, of course we're making progress. Want to hear about it?"
"Of course I want to hear about it, you ninny. As per all the messages I've been leaving for you."
"I must check my phone service ..."
"Cut the crap, darling. Just tell me what's going on. Where are you anyway?"
"We're camping out by the Roman Camp at Arwensford."
"And?"
"And..." He paused for effect. "We found the Iron Fort!"
"Nice pause for effect, darling. You've been at it - what - six weeks? I'd have expected you to pin it down in half that time."
"Ah, darling, you should realise that meticulous research takes time..."
"Did I not just suggest you cut the crap? Don't forget how well I know you, Max."
"Maxwell. Of course the real time-consumer is getting the right team together to do the field work."
"Let me see if I can translate that … it took a couple of weeks to persuade some bimbo student to share your tent. Who is it this time, and what trouble can she make for us?"
"Camper vans, dear, you know I dislike draughty canvas. My strong right hand..."
Amanda laughed. "You've had to resort to using your strong right hand? Would nobody come and diddle your joystick for you? You must be slipping!"
Maxwell talked over her, wishing he'd chosen a less ambiguous cliché. "...is a very talented research assistant, Victoria Bandra. She has been proving absolutely invaluable. We are accompanied by two grad students, Owain Baxter and Gilda Feinman. Our little team is working wonders together, believe me."
"So which one are you boinking? Victoria or Gilda? Both? Or Owain?"
Maxwell's voice dropped. "Not appropriate, darling."
"Okay, since you said Victoria is 'invaluable' but the others are only 'accompanying', I'll bank on her being your current tent-warmer. Keep her sweet, Max. No surprises when it comes time to dump her. At least until the film's in the can."
"Amanda, darling, this isn't my first game of tiddly-winks. Trust me."
"Trust you? Ha! All right. Let's move it along. I seem to be paying rental on a couple of camper vans and a small excavator. Cleary the Iron Fort is near Arwensford. How sure are you? I take it you've started digging?"
"I have permission to dig. The site is a roundish mound on the river bank just a little downstream from the Roman camp."
"Round? The Roman military loved their rectangles and standard castra layouts."
"Yes, round, dear. I thought that would intrigue you. My take on it is that Big Beardy was a Gaul, and the Gauls preferred to use the contours of the land, so of course he probably found a little hill and adapted to it rather than follow the usual Roman military pattern. Anyway, the sources all put it close to the fortlet, and if you look at detailed maps, then of course this is the only candidate. We've walked the terrain, and we're pretty sure of it. You can still see where the wall would have run, with a ditch outside it. It looks like they dug a bunch of trenches to divert water from the Arwen and some other streams to make a moat around the fort that drained into the river."
"Ah, so the latrines would drain that way. I know you love a good latrine. Have you told your little nocturnal companion yet? Does she know what she'll be digging through?"
"Tori will not be digging out the latrines, dear, that's a grad student's job." Maxwell let out a chuckle. "No, Tori is working with me on digging out the midden."
"So you still know how to show a girl a good time."
"Of course, I'm letting her drive the mini-digger!"
"And are you finding anything interesting among the rubbish?"
"We have already found some great stuff. Enough to know that both cavalry and infantry were here. I can hardly believe it, but we also dug out what looks like the regimental scribes' waste. There are wax tablets, styli, rotted sheets of papyrus, and a few worn seals. The tablets and papyri need specialist work to try to recover anything, but the seals look promising. I'm pretty sure all or part of three regiments were here - the first Thracian cavalry, the fourth Gaulish infantry and the first Batavian Equitata."
"Goodness," said Amanda, surprised. "That's getting on for eighteen hundred men, if they were all here. Roman Governors were usually wary of concentrating so many non-Romans in one place without a legion nearby."
Maxwell chuckled. "Especially in a fort that wasn't square."
"Right. Well then, it sounds like progress, even if you haven't been keeping me posted like you promised."
"Amanda, darling, I will try harder."
"Remember what I said about tangible progress? Now I know where you are, I'm coming out there to see for myself. You'd better have some decent footage, Max."
"Maxwell. When can we expect you, darling?"
"It'll be a surprise. No, I'm joking, I'll be with you tomorrow sometime. See you then."
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"Indeed, Amanda, I'll see you sometime tomorrow."
Maxwell thumbed the red button to end the call, and shouted, "Owain! Over here, mate, and bring the camera. We need to string something together to show our producer, tout de suite."
Tori stood and stretched. "While you're doing that, I need some fresh air," she said. "I'm going to stroll around the village."
Maxwell smiled up at her. "It's getting dark out there, so take a light and be careful, darling."
"I will".
***
Tori was hungry. Very hungry. Human food was OK as an experience, but she derived little nourishment from it. No, she needed to feed in a different way. Maxwell was off-limits because she needed him alert and vigorous to pursue his objectives. Owain was, too, for the same reason. Gilda - well, Gilda just was not to her taste, and besides she was not sure about the relationship between the two students, which was puzzling and unusual. If Gilda turned sickly, the effect on Owain would be unpredictable. She could snack from Maxwell during sex, but she was left unsatisfied by that. Maxwell was, frankly, too gentle and considerate; too cerebral a lover to generate a quantity of energy capable of satisfying her hunger. She wished he would just forget himself in lust; take her roughly in every way possible; lick, scratch and bite; and let his life's energy gush out in invisible billows that she could draw into herself. But he was just too nice for that.
She made her way through the camp site gates and headed for the village pub. She was going hunting, and experience said that a pub would be likely to yield some prey.
She could hardly believe her luck, because two young men were just leaving the pub as she drew near, and their gait indicated a level of intoxication that would make them easy targets. She stepped behind the shelter of a bus stop and waited for them to pass by, walking along the road away from the village. She followed, silently, alert to any sound or movement that might pose a threat. Satisfied that she would not be disturbed, she began to close the distance to the two men.
Island of Fog and Death: A sci-fi horror adventure Page 4
