by John Creasey
He said: “Must try to stop that hole.” He tried to free himself from René, but she wouldn’t let go, clutched him like a leech. “I must try!” he shouted. “ Stop that hole!”
He forced himself away from her – and as he did so, a roar louder than anything they had heard before made him stop, and made her scream – but he heard nothing but the roar. They saw the wall shake. In a moment, René was with him, her arms round him, her face buried against his shoulder – and he stared as the walls began to break up, water came through in a dozen places; in twenty; in a hundred. A granite block fell into the room, and water spurted through the hole. Almost before the block had fallen, another started, and the water gushed in.
They crouched together.
Charles’s hand was tight upon Rene’s head, he could feel the softness of her body against him.
He could see the swirling water and the crumbling walls, and the rain.
“René,” he shouted. “René, René, René!”
She didn’t answer; she didn’t hear. She was pressing tightly against him, her face still buried, as if to hide from death. Charles felt the water rising fast. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, terrified and yet helpless; despairing. There was nothing they could do to save themselves, there was no hope.
Then he heard another roaring, rumble of sound.
He screamed!
A mass of rock from the cliff fell upon the cottage, and demolished it, and buried the two bodies.
2
“What on earth’s happening over there?” said Bob Woburn, idly. “It looks like a cloudburst the wrong way up.”
“You get the oddest ideas,” said his sister. “Oh, my goodness, isn’t it hot?” She brushed her fair, fluffy hair back from her forehead, and blew at a few strands; her face was red and shiny. She wore a plastic apron over a gay cotton frock with short sleeves. The kitchen of this farmhouse was large, with a stone floor, and there was a long window, which stood wide open. The check curtains did not flutter. “Just let me pop these tarts in the oven,” she went on, “and I’ll see what nonsense you’re talking about.”
“Yes, sister,” Woburn said, with mock humility.
He stood by the window, looking across the surprisingly tidy farmyard, the duck pond, the two hayricks and the old plough with a wheel off, across moorland, two ploughed fields, and then the loch and, not far beyond, the great firth, with its countless islands and its beauty. The loch was visible only in places; the rocky sides guarded it at either end. It had the quietness that only the Western Highlands know and, on this autumn afternoon, the blue tranquillity of the Mediterranean.
As the crow flies, the Robertson farmhouse was about five miles from the nearest point of the loch – Wolf’s Head Rock. Beyond the rock was the village of Wolf, which stood two thousand feet above sea level, overlooking the loch and the distant firth and, beyond, the fair blue of the sea. Everywhere, above the Wolf’s Head Rock, and the bay, above the place where the village stood and above the stony farmland about it, the sky was a clear, friendly blue, the sun was hot but not hostile. The only living things in sight were sheep, two miles away, and the ‘cloudburst the wrong way up’.
Jenny Robertson closed the door of the big white Aga cooker with the stealth of a true cook, then straightened up, puffed the strands of hair away again, and crossed to her brother. Woburn was six feet tall, and broad; even standing still, he gave a rare impression of physical fitness and strength; that had something to do with the lift of his head and the sureness of his shoulders. He wore a pair of old flannels and a cellular shirt with short sleeves, his reddish, wiry hair glinted in a reflection of the sun from the window.
“Bob,” she said abruptly, “I wish you’d get married.”
“You were born into the wrong family,” he said lightly, “and you set my standards too high. None of the women I meet compare even slightly with you.”
“Don’t be sae daft. I’m just a simple farmer’s wife, and—”
“That’s it, I think,” said Woburn. “Simplicity. And honesty, too. Jenny, don’t blame me, you started this. I have a very high opinion of my only sister, even if she is nearly forty and will soon be an old hag.”
“Brute,” Jenny said, “you’re turned thirty, remember. If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss the boat.”
“I’m waiting for the age of discretion,” Woburn said. “Also, I’m puzzled about that over there. Look.”
They stood together, staring across the serene blue of the loch beyond Wolf’s Head and towards the ‘cloud’. It seemed to rise from the earth, a dark, stormy mass, thinning at the perimeter. The sky above it was clear, but spray – or what looked like spray – rose several hundred feet from the ground.
Jenny Robertson said: “It is funny, isn’t it? It looks... angry.”
“What odd ideas you get! Turbulent.”
Suddenly the stormy, angry cloud, with its black, turbulent centre, seemed to burst. It was as if a great sheet of water shot upwards and headed towards the loch, leapt over the Wolf’s Head, and went out of sight. For a few seconds the cloud seemed to boil and bubble; then it settled down again.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Woburn, “I’m going to have a look. Think Reg would mind if I borrowed his motor-bike?”
“No, he won’t mind, but be careful,” Jenny said that as firmly as she would to her nineteen-year-old son. “I’m terrified in case he has an accident one day. I—” she broke off, as her brother shot out a hand and grabbed a couple of small jam tarts and popped one into his mouth.
“Pig, I hope that jam’s hot enough to burn ye.”
“Just right,” declared Woburn. “Thanks.”
He went out, whistling. Jenny watched him cross the yard, and as he vanished round a corner, she shouted: “Bob!” A cock started crowing, and he didn’t hear. She ran out after him, and caught him up just round the comer, as he was straddling an old two-stroke motor-cycle.
“Bob, put on Reggie’s crash-helmet!”
Woburn grinned and got off the machine. The shiny white crash-helmet was hanging on a nail just inside an old stone-built stable which had been converted into a garage. He slipped it on and fastened it beneath his chin, straddled the machine again and a minute later turned the machine out of the farmyard gate on to a cart track which led towards the moors and then across country towards the Wolf’s Head and the loch. It was used by walkers as well as cyclists, even by the few motorists who came this way. The only other road to the village was nearly as bad, wide enough only for one car as it wound its way across the mountains.
The great ‘cloud’ which seemed to rise out of the ground grew larger. For the first time, Woburn fancied that he could hear a sound, a kind of rumbling.
The sun, striking it at a different angle from any he’d seen before, caused a vivid rainbow; and then sunlight sparkled, as on a cascade of water. It looked beautiful, but didn’t make any sense.
He put on speed again, until he reached a spot where he would have to hoist the machine over, but that wouldn’t give serious trouble. He stopped the engine – and immediately knew that he had been right. A roaring sound was coming from the cloud, reminding him of water rushing over a great fall; like Niagara.
“Nonsense!” he said aloud.
He lifted the motor-cycle over, climbed the rocks himself, and started off. The sound was still in his ears, above the pop-pop-pop of the two-stroke engine. As he drew nearer the Wolf’s Head itself, most of the ‘cloud’ was hidden from his sight, but he could still see the top of it, silvery more than dark, and caught by the sun’s rays.
The track rose sharply up the hill which led to Wolf’s Head. He ought to walk it. Instead, he put the nose of the machine towards it, and travelled fast. It was years since he had driven a motor-cycle, but he was as sure of himself as he would have been at the wheel of his car. He throttled down as he neared the top, feeling a sense of disquiet, almost of alarm. It was a kind of water-spout, of course; they trailed in the path of cyclones in dist
ant waters.
He reached the top – and for a moment, almost lost control of the machine. He braked too hard, and felt himself pitch forward. Water splashed. He let himself go. In that split second as he curved an arc over the handlebars, he was conscious of his own danger and of a sense of disbelief; for the cloud was over the village and the loch beyond; and the village was hidden from sight.
He crashed.
He felt a blow on the head, but it didn’t knock him out. He lay for a few seconds, and could see a pool of water at his feet; water soaked the ends of his trousers, too. He pulled himself together, slowly, staggering when he got to his feet, wishing there were something to hold on to. He could not understand why he should crash, but that was unimportant – the sight below thrust everything else out of his mind.
Water was spurting out of the ground to a height of fifty feet or more. As far as he could judge, it was the spot where the village had been; certainly there was no sign of buildings, of cottages, of the church with its slate spire. There was just that turbulent mass of water, sending spray hundreds of feet up, to catch the rays of the sun and sparkle; as if a million diamonds were being tossed into the air.
“Can’t – believe – it,” Woburn muttered.
He took a step forward, and something crunched under his foot; so sharply that he snatched his foot back hastily. A snail or a crab—
He didn’t see what he had trodden on, but a sheet of water spurted up at him, high above his head, drenching him completely. Some of it struck his knee with such startling, stinging force that he nearly lost his balance. The water splash died down, but where he had put his foot there was another large pool. He looked at this, stupidly. Two pools of water, on high land where there had been no rain for days. The heather and coarse grass on either side of the path was dusty brown from lack of water, and the path itself was dusty; but there were the pools.
He saw something crawl.
It was about the size of a tennis ball, with a shell rather like a crab, but it moved much more quickly than a crab. He stared at the muddy, grey shell, still half stupid. The roar of the water down in the valley was loud, and seemed to hold a note of menace. The sun shone on the two pools of water here; and on the crawling thing. It wasn’t a crab; in fact it looked more like a tiny tortoise, with that shell-like top, and tiny feet on which it moved with startling speed across the path.
Then, over the hill, came a sheep-dog – one belonging to the Robertsons.
It came trotting, tongue out as if it had been racing, and now and again it looked round, as if towards the cloud. Black and white, its long, shaggy coat looked groomed and glossy. It caught sight of Woburn, and stopped. Woburn was feeling better; not right, but not so helpless and dizzy as he had been. The noise didn’t stop for a minute.
The dog was standing and looking at him; suspiciously.
“Hallo, old chap,” Woburn said, “where are your sheep?”
Friendliness responded to friendliness, and the dog seemed really relieved. But not for long, for it caught sight of the scuttling thing on the ground. Its hackles rose, and it stood for a moment, then let out a yelp and leapt, as it might after a crab. It touched the thing with its teeth.
Woburn saw what followed.
The dog was flung back from the spot by a spurt of water which actually lifted it off its feet. It yelped and writhed in mid-air. Water poured from its mouth. It fell on its side, writhed for a few seconds, then jumped up, sprang past Woburn, and went racing across the wild moors.
Where it had bitten the crab-like thing, there was a rippling pool of water, already soaking into the dry earth.
Woburn did not speak or move; just looked about the grass, and saw that it was crawling with the creatures which spouted water.
3
Woburn turned round, stiffly, towards the motor-cycle. He scanned the ground behind him. Here and there he saw one of the little creatures, but there were not so many as he had seen on the other side. He picked up the machine, and wheeled it slowly and carefully back the way he had come. Now and again he twisted the wheel to avoid a ‘thing’. He could almost feel the crunching sound as he went over one, and the force of the water. He was so much better that he had almost forgotten the crash, but was suffering from a kind of shock.
Half-way down the hill which led to the Wolf’s Head, he mounted the machine again.
He turned along the track leading towards the road which led from Scourie to the village. Here, he felt the sense of loneliness acutely. He saw no more of the crawling things, but every time he went over a bump he winced.
At the road, he turned right, towards the village. He could see the great mass of spray two miles away, and could hear the roaring. He had a fear of disaster which he could not put into words. He drove fast on a tarred road, with fields on either side, and here and there patches of rocky land. A mile along were cross-roads and at the cross-roads an Automobile Association box.
No one else was there.
He used his own A. A. key, and stepped inside. His hands felt limp, but he spoke levelly enough when the operator answered him.
“Number, please.”
“Is that the Scourie exchange?”
“Yes, sir.” The Scottish voice was very clear.
“Give me—” he hesitated. “Give me the police headquarters, will you?”
“The police station?” She didn’t sound surprised. “Yes, if you’ll just hold on.”
As he waited, Woburn heard a different sound, one which came suddenly and from close by; the sound of a car engine. The roaring background of the water-spout was still there, so the car must be very close. Soon, it stopped. He fancied that he heard footsteps, and then a man said: “Police station, can I help you?”
“Yes,” said Woburn. He put a finger to his other ear, to keep out the sound. “I would like to speak to the Inspector.”
“Yes, sir. Who shall I say is speaking, sir?”
“You can tell him that I’m a friend of Mr. William Robertson, of Dogs’ Head Farm.”
“Friend of Mr. Robertson, yes, sir.”
Woburn held on. When he took his finger from his ear, the noise was louder than ever. He didn’t hear the car, or footsteps, but he turned round, so that he could see outside. A young woman was approaching from the corner, and he just saw the nose of a car – it looked like a big one. The woman was tall, she moved well, and she wore a linen suit, grey-green in colour. She had slim legs, and wore small pale green gloves, but her arms were bare from the elbow. Her hair was dark, glossy, sleek, and she was beautifully made up.
Woburn raised a hand. “Won’t be—” he began, but knew that he would have to shout before she heard him. “Won’t be long!” He heard a deep voice at the other end of the wire.
“Inspector Campbell here, sir.”
“Inspector,” said Woburn, and paused. He was going to have to explain something which was inexplicable unless one saw it. “I’m William Robertson’s brother-in-law, speaking from the A.A. box by the cross-roads near Wolf village,” he went on, at last. “Have you had any emergency call from the village?”
“No, sir.”
“Oh.” Be simple. “I think you ought to know what’s happening there,” Woburn said carefully. “It’s some kind of water-spout. The village is completely under water.”
“What did you say?”
“Yes, I know that it sounds crazy, but it’s happening,” Woburn said. “There’s a kind of water-spout or cloudburst, and I’m afraid the village will be severely damaged.
I think you ought to take emergency measures. If you—”
he hesitated, and then his eyes brightened. “Just a moment – now listen to the noise it’s making.”
Woburn held the mouthpiece nearer the door. The woman stood a few yards away, looking at him gravely.
“That’s the kind of roar it’s kicking up,” Woburn said, abruptly. “I’m quite sure you’ll need to send the kind of help you would for a bad flood.”
“Ye did say th
at you’re Mr. Robertson’s brother-in-law, sir, didn’t ye? Mr. Robertson isn’t with ye now, is he?”
“No, he’s not. But I’m quite sober and—”
Woburn saw the woman move towards him, quickly, purposefully. She gave him an unexpected smile, quite impersonal but good to see.
“Are you speaking to the police?”
“Yes,” Woburn answered.
“Let me try,” she said, and Woburn handed her the telephone. She stood outside, he inside the telephone kiosk, with its stable type door, the bottom half closed, the top open. He had to press to one side to let her speak into the mouthpiece, and she had to lean close to him. “Hallo,” she said crisply. “This is Miss Eve Davos speaking . . . .” There was a pause, before she went on: “Yes, it’s quite true. I should have called it a cloudburst, Mr. Campbell. . . . Frankly, I’m afraid that the village will be submerged. I saw it from the top of Red Deer Point.” She paused again. “Yes, I’ll go back there, and I’ve no doubt this gentleman will come with me. You will hurry, won’t you?”
She handed the instrument back to Woburn.
“I don’t think Mr. Campbell will be long,” she said, in a crisp, confident voice. “I suppose it was asking a lot for him to believe this of a stranger.” The impersonal smile came again, and she moved away from the kiosk. “I think the best place to go is Red Deer Point. Where did you see it from? Wolf’s Head?”
“Yes,” said Woburn. He went out, and slammed the door. Her car was a Rolls-Bentley, dark blue, sleek, superb: a millionaire’s car, and she looked as if she had been nurtured in money. It was far too big for these narrow roads, and ostentatious. Directly she had given her name, he had realised that he had heard of her, of her father and their fabulous home. But that didn’t matter, now; he was obsessed by the crab-like creatures. “Have you seen any—” he began, but broke off.
“Any what?”
