The room seemed a lot brighter. The naked girl was very real. He watched her as she soaped his sperm-drenched loins, washed him clean, dried him carefully. When she had finished, she straightened up, her dark, oil-slicked body gleaming, looking at him, at once nervous and questioning, her head bowed automatically. Wilson smiled at her and nodded, indicating that she could leave, so she pushed the console back into the cupboard, closed the doors and left the room.
Wilson put on his dark glasses, pressed a button and then stretched out; the glass panels in the ceiling slid apart to expose the solarium. Wilson lay there for some time, trying to relax, his eyes closed, but eventually his restless intellect forced him upright and made him start work again. He rolled off the bed, put on his dressing gown, then entered the study and sat down and turned on the tape-recorder. He spoke quietly, precisely, academically.
‘Dr George D. Schroeder of the American Institute of Orgonomy, Seattle, writing in the English magazine, New Scientist, has stated that orgone energy weather engineering techniques are an important new element in the environmental struggle. Schroeder has finally received government backing for a lengthy program of investigations into weather engineering possibilities. Already he has discovered that orgone energy exists as a mass-free energy in the soil, water and atmosphere of Earth, and that it is manipulable by mechanical cloudbusters, more commonly called CLBs. It is to be noted that so-called
tuned CLBs have proved their value not only in weather engineering, but in more than one UFO investigation. This has to be stopped.’
Wilson stopped talking, sat back, stroked his chin, his silvery-grey hair falling over his blue eyes, across that smooth, unlined forehead. He gazed at the opposite wall, at the banked monitors and videorecorders, and his bright, mathematical brain considered all of the options. He had once met Schroeder, had found him tough and intelligent, a possibility that might yet be tapped, a candidate for the future. It was a pity of lose Schroeder, but he didn’t have much choice: the good professor now had government backing and that smacked of progress. Wilson gazed across the room, pursed his lips, stroked his chin, then he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair and spoke quietly, implacably.
‘Eliminate Schroeder.’
Chapter Three
The Audi 100 GL, all white and polished and gleaming, came up over the top of the hill and rolled down through the narrow, gray street in no particular hurry. Richard stepped forward quickly, his thumb high in the air, but the gleaming white Audi purred past, splashing water across him.
‘Oh, shit,’ Richard murmured. He lowered his thumb and wiped rain from his forehead, glancing up to see the leaden gray sky and the dark, drifting clouds. At least the rain had stopped; there was that, if nothing else. Richard shivered, adjusted his knapsack, checked the camera strap around his neck, then, soaked to the bone, his hair samply plastered to his head, he turned and walked along the village street, past a row of semi-terraced houses.
The road opened out at the end of the village, curving uphill past a seventeenth-century church, dominated by green hills. The Audi had stopped in front of the church, its engine cutting in and out, the car jerking roughly as it misfired and tapered off into silence.
‘Good for you,’ Richard murmured. He wiped rain from his beard, adjusted the knapsack again, then sauntered in a deliberately casual manner toward the stalled car. An arm emerged from the driver’s window, suntanned, definitely feminine, the fingers fanning out to drop a cigaret in front of Richard’s feet.
‘Jesus!’ the woman softly exclaimed. Richard stopped immediately, looked down, saw her green eyes, a wave of shining red hair tumbling around pouting lips. The women clenched her right fist and lightly hammered the steering wheel, then licked her upper lip and glanced at Richard, her fine eyebrows raised. Richard smiled encouragingly at her, ran his fingers through his long hair, his blue denims and jacket still wet, the cold creeping into him.
‘Can I help?’ he asked. The woman studied him for a moment, gently biting her lower lip, then, satisfied that he looked sane, she shrugged her shoulders and nodded.
‘I haven’t a clue what happened,’ she said. ‘It just suddenly cut out.’
Richard shivered and glanced about him, saw the green hills of Devon, then he let the knapsack slide from his shoulders and fall to the ground.
‘It might be nothing,’ he said. ‘A bit of damp. Something jammed. It probably isn’t anything serious. I’ll look under the hood.’
The woman stared thoughtfully at him. Her gaze appeared to be unfocused. She had a thin, suntanned face, sophisticated, rather weary, fine eyebrows arching above the green eyes, lips unpainted and moist.
‘Get it started and I’ll give you a lift,’ she said. ‘Cars quite simply baffle me.’
‘It didn’t cut out gradually?’
‘No,’ the woman said. ‘I saw the lightning and then the engine cut out. Does that make any sense to you?’
Richard glanced at the gray sky. ‘Lightning?’ he said. ‘Are you sure? I didn’t see any lightning. I don’t think it was that.’
The woman shrugged again. ‘It looked like lightning. Anyway, that’s when the car cut out. I just don’t understand it.’
‘Not lightning,’ Richard said. ‘There was definitely no lightning. You probably saw the lights of a plane. Let me look at the engine.’
The woman shrugged a third time, then leaned across to her left, her hand reaching down to the floor. Richard shivered, feeling cold, hearing the snapping of the lock, then he walked to the front of the car and raised the wide, heavy hood. The engine appeared to be normal. He told the woman to try the ignition. When she did so, the car roared back into life and then ticked over smoothly.
Richard stepped back, surprised. He glanced past the raised hood. The woman was leaning out of the window, the wind blowing her red hair.
‘What did you do?’ she asked.
‘Nothing,’ Richard confessed.
‘You must have done something,’ the woman said.
‘I just looked at it,’ Richard said. He threw her a grin, slammed the hood down, then walked back and leaned toward the woman, his gaze fixed on the warning lights on the dashboard.
‘It looks okay,’ he said. ‘The battery light’s out. It must have been something pretty simple and it’s obviously cured itself.’
The woman smiled at him, her green eyes unfocused. ‘You just looked at it and it worked,’ she said. ‘You must be a charmer.’
Richard blushed and grinned shyly. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Anyway, it’s working again, so do I get that lift now?’
‘Where are you headed?’
‘St. Ives.’
‘You’ve got it,’ she said. ‘Put your knapsack in the boot. It’s not locked. Let’s go while the going’s good.’
Richard grinned with pleasure, a boyish grin, blue eyes brightening, then he picked up his knapsack, glanced briefly at the nearby church, and walked to the rear of the car, glad that it had stalled. He opened the trunk, heaved the knapsack in, closed the lid and then returned to the woman, looking down at her upturned face. She had lit another cigaret, her lips pouting, blowing smoke, and the green of her eyes was slightly bloodshot, her gaze still unfocused.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Get in.’
‘Front or rear?’ Richard asked.
‘I don’t like to talk over my shoulder, so get in beside me.’
Richard walked around the car, opened the door and slipped in, closed the door and sank into his seat, appreciating the luxury. The dashboard was polished wood, the seats a deep maroon velours, and the woman, in her knee-length dark dress, seemed to match it all perfectly. Her red hair was long and lustrous, tumbling down to her shoulders, emphasizing the shifting green of her eyes when she glanced briefly at him. She put her foot on the clutch, the dress tightening, drawing upward, and Richard glimpsed the shadowed outline of her thighs as she turned the ignition on.
‘It’s still working,’ she said.
Richard nodded his agreement, clasped his hands and unclasped them, as the woman pressed down on the accelerator and the car started moving. The sodden, green hills, the dripping trees, the brooding clouds above the unwinding road… Richard kept his gaze fixed on the scenery, feeling tired and unreal.
The woman drove in a careless manner, averaging fifty miles an hour, her right hand manipulating the steering wheel, her left holding the cigaret, the lips pouting when she exhaled the smoke, her breasts rising and falling. Richard kept glancing sideways, attracted to her, feeling furtive, surprised that he could harbour such notions for a woman so old. Well, not really so old: probably in her late thirties. Nevertheless, she was sexy, her legs long, her breasts firm, and Richard flushed when she suddenly stared at him with her slightly bloodshot, unfocused, cat-like green eyes.
‘What’s your name?’ she asked.
‘Richard… Richard Watson.’
‘A student?’
‘Yes,’ Richard said. ‘I go to the Art College in Hornsey. I want to be a designer.’
‘Hornsey?’
‘London.’
‘Ah, yes,’ the woman said. ‘North London. I’m not keen on that area.’
She drove in silence for another minute, breathing deeply, exhaling smoke, and Richard shifted uneasily in his seat, trying to keep his eyes off her.
‘A designer,’ she said eventually. ‘What kind of designer?’
‘Magazines,’ Richard said. ‘That kind of thing. At least that’s what I’d like to start with.’
The woman looked at him and smiled, blinked her eyes, coughed a little. Richard glanced down to see her silken legs tapering into the high-heeled shoes.
‘Why are you going to St. Ives?’ she asked.
‘Just a holiday,’ Richard said. ‘A friend of mine owns a holiday cottage and he’s letting me use it.’
The woman smiled again, lips pouting, blowing smoke; the smoke swam in a haze around Richard, making him cough.
‘An art student,’ the woman said.
‘That’s right,’ Richard said.
‘All art students drink,’ the woman said. ‘At least that’s what I’ve heard.’ She put her cigaret in her mouth, inhaled, blew the smoke out, held the steering whee lightly in her free hand, the wet hills whipping past her. ‘Well?’ she asked abruptly.
‘What?’ Richard responded.
‘Is it true that most art students drink?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Richard said.
He coughed into his fist, slightly embarrassed by the drift of her conversation, and tried not to look at the breasts thrusting out from her tight dress. The woman was obviously well off, a bit jaded, worldly wise, but her strange, oblique statements filled him with a sense of foreboding. Thinking that she might be drunk, he glanced at her bloodshot eyes. Though she looked drawn and certainly tired, he still thought her sexy.
Richard shifted uneasily. A guilty flush burned his cheeks. He thought of Jenny back in London, of the two weeks ahead of him, and he silently cursed his primitive lust and wondered how men survived it.
‘Do you drink?’ the woman asked.
‘When I can afford it,’ Richard said.
‘Good,’ the woman said. ‘I’d rather not drink alone. You’ll find a flask of gin in the glove compartment. I think we should share it. Shake off the cold at least.’
Richard turned his head slightly, glanced at her, saw her eyes, twin pools of green flecked with red, and was convinced of her drunkenness. He turned away just as quickly, desiring her, feeling foolish, pulled the lid of the glove compartment down and found two hip flasks, one on top of the other.
‘The bottom flask,’ the woman said. ‘The one on top is empty. I get tired when I drive.’
Taking note of that odd remark, Richard removed the top flask, withdrew the one beneath it, unscrewed the cap and held the flask out to the women. She shook her head from side to side, her red hair like a flame.
‘You first,’ she said quietly.
Richard shrugged and drank some gin, felt it burning down inside him, warming him, making his head swim, alleviating his weariness. He wiped his lips and burped a little, passed the flask to the woman; she stubbed her cigaret out, took the flask, her other hand still on the steering wheel. Richard watched her drinking. The shining red hair framed her face. When she finished, she gave the flask back to him and placed her free hand on the steering wheel.
‘Have another,’ she said.
They both drank too quickly, passing the flask back and forth. The A30 ran past Dartmoor, through Featherford and Fowley, stretched ahead through the sodden hills and fields, climbing languidly and rolling downhill again. They saw little of all this, both involved in their drinking, time dissolving as the drink took command and made them feel even more unreal. Richard studied the woman. He thought of Jenny back in London. This thought, with its residue of guilt, crossed his mind and then passed on.
‘You didn’t see the lightning,’ the woman said obliquely. ‘I just don’t understand that.’
Richard reached into his pocket, withdrew a cigaret, lit it and then glanced at the woman, wondering what she was talking about. The woman returned his gaze, her green eyes bloodshot and unfocused, while the car, offering a smooth, rhythmic humming, rolled on through the desolate countryside.
‘Where are you going?’ Richard asked.
‘To Bodmin,’ the woman said. ‘I live in St. Nicholas. It’s a very small place, very quiet… Without London, I’d die.’
Richard didn’t reply. The woman seemed even more distracted. Richard scratched his forehead and glanced out the window and noted that the drifting clouds were thinning. A pearly gray haze broke through, striations of weak light beaming down, fanning out, fanning over the wet fields and the stark, Neolithic remains.
‘What time is it?’ the woman asked.
Richard checked his wristwatch. ‘Ten to six,’ he said. ‘Around that… give or take a few minutes.’
‘You didn’t see it,’ the woman said.
‘The lightning?’
‘The light. It was obviously some kind of bright light. I keep thinking about it.’
Richard shivered, feeling cold again. ‘There was no lightning,’ he insisted. ‘No thunder, no lightning – just the rain. You must have seen an airplane.’
‘With lights?’
‘With lights.’
‘In the daylight?’
‘That’s right.’ Richard drank some more gin and passed the flask to the woman. He saw the scepticism in her eyes and looked back at the onrushing road. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘So you saw a bright light. You saw a flash – a plane reflecting the sunlight. I think that’s what it was.’
He sighed – too loudly. The woman’s gaze turned toward him. She shrugged and put the flask to her lips while driving dangerously fast.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It was too quick for that. It just appeared in a flash and then disappeared.’
Richard shook his head wearily, feeling drunk, slightly disturbed, staring out at the cold, descending evening, at the vast, bloody sky. The sun was sinking beyond the moors, a fiery orb, large and luminous, melting slowly, spreading out along the low hills in two streams of pulsating flame.
‘Not possible,’ Richard murmured. ‘Just not possible. You must have imagined it.’
The woman didn’t reply. Her red hair reached her breasts. The car hummed and vibrated, an abstract, seductive rhythm, the bleak hills of the moors rolling past, the road unwinding in front of them. Richard looked and was held, saw the marshlands and quarries, the Neolithic stones silhouetted in that fierce, bloody sky. It was the landscape of a dream, serenely beautiful, yet ominous, and it made Richard shiver and lower his gaze, wondering why it disturbed him.
‘I think I’m drunk,’ he murmured.
‘Already?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have been tired,’ the woman said. ‘Lie back… Try to sleep.’
Richard stubbed his cigaret out, put his
head back on the seat, closed his eyes and felt the drowsiness creep over him, almost embalming him. His thoughts scattered and spun, became streaming stars, dark shapes, the past and present in one, as a shifting kaleidoscope: the cluttered rooms of the art college, a nude model in a chair, Jenny’s brown eyes, the woman’s flaming hair, the swirling mist over shadowed hills. He fell in and out of sleep, felt a langorous desire, saw the tight dress on the woman’s shapely thighs, Jenny’s steady, accusing gaze. Guilt and lust made him restless. His eyes fluttered and opened. He felt the woman’s fingers at his elbow, tugging sharply, incessantly.
‘There it is!’ she said. ‘Look!’
Richard shook himself awake. The car vibrated beneath him. He glanced briefly at the woman, saw her green eyes, the red hair, glimpsed the pink bud of her tongue between her teeth and then looked at the sky. The sun was sinking in the west, a crimson orb above the hills, the sky a molten stream of red and blue, the clouds drifting away from him. Richard looked all around him. He saw nothing unusual. He looked back at the woman, saw her bloodshot, glinting eyes, and wondered just how much she had drank before picking him up.
‘There’s what?’ he said.
The woman whispered something, shook her head and smacked the steering wheel. ‘Damn it,’ she said, ‘it was there. I just saw it! That light!’
Richard rolled his eyes mockingly. ‘The lightning?’ he said.
GENESIS (Projekt Saucer) Page 5
