by Guy N Smith
The unknown strangers had travelled by car, they might have come from many miles away. In all probability they would not return and the old man would never discover the purpose of their visit.
Out on the stubble fields he heard mallard quacking. He decided to leave them until tomorrow night.
Three
“It’s Dalgety!” There was a note of alarm in Kate Quiles’s voice as she stretched up to see out of the window.
Even with her long blond hair uncombed, her housecoat loosely belted around her slim figure, she was more attractive than most women in their early thirties, Phil thought. And that was after almost ten years of marriage.
He grunted, the toast and marmalade had suddenly lost its flavour. The mention of the water authority inspector’s name soured most things. Especially before eight in the morning.
“You don’t start work till eight-thirty,” there was a note of reproach in her tone. “And you haven’t even finished your breakfast.”
“I’ll have to go,” Phil scraped his chair back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Can I come, Daddy?” The small dark-haired boy, egg yolk smeared on his chin, waved a spoon aloft. “Please, Daddy.”
“No, Peter, you’ve got to go to school.”
“Not till nine o’clock.”
“Another time, darling,” Kate opted for a diplomatic denial. “When Mister Dalgety’s not here. You wouldn’t like Mister Dalgety.” Because nobody does and I don’t want you to.
“See you later,” Phil hastened towards the door.
Kate went back to the window and watched. Dalgety had arrived in a white BMW. Not his, she hastily reminded herself, a company car. Status on loan. The authority gave you power, you wielded it according to your ego. Dalgety had a big ego.
He was a big man, physically, too. Tall. A few inches shorter and he would have been fat. Height camouflaged overweight but it could not hide a fleshy neck. The ruddy complexion bespoke high blood pressure. His eyes were too close together and buried in podgy sockets; his heavy moustache hid a weak upper lip. An awful lot was covered up. Dalgety wasn’t a nice man in almost every aspect. She had long given up trying to find something about him that she liked.
She fondled her son’s curly dark hair in an attempt to distract him from his disappointment at not being allowed to accompany his father.
Aloud, she said, “Dalgety’s a nasty man.” She might just have been talking to herself, putting her thoughts into words. Because Peter wasn’t listening.
“Good morning, Mister Dalgety,” Peter Quiles forced the smile that was expected of him, winced inwardly.
“Reservoir check.” Brusque to the point of rudeness, the inspector exerted his authority in any and every way he could. He was already wearing green wellington boots in readiness, ostentatiously checked his wristwatch. “I have to be at Glascote by nine.” So get a bloody move on.
Phil led the way, fought off a feeling of inferiority as Dalgety followed him. It was akin to being herded, a booted foot might tread on your heels if you slowed your pace. No small talk, just an overpowering domination.
Thank Christ I checked everything yesterday. All the same, his stomach balled. Dalgety always found fault, he would do so again today, without any shadow of doubt.
Phil unlocked the gate, the key slipped from his fingers; he caught it. Damn him, he’s getting to me already. He might have lost it in the long grass, and had to search for it under the other’s scathing, contemptuous gaze. You’re an incompetent fool, Quiles, can’t you do anything properly?
In spite of his size, Dalgety wasn’t even breathing hard after the steep ascent. I wish he’d bloody well slip on the steps. No, I don’t, he’d blame me for not cleaning them off. I wish he’d have a fucking heart attack, then! But he wouldn’t, he was the kind who would survive in spite of everything just so that he could make life unpleasant for everybody else.
Inside the blockhouse Phil scarcely noticed the damp, stale smell. He wasn’t scared today. Only of Dalgety.
The inspector stood back, made no move to take the key to the control box like he usually did. Come on, Quiles, let’s see you balls it up again.
Phil’s hands were trembling, he fumbled for the small key, the heavy bunch on the ring made it difficult to manipulate. He pushed it in the hole, pulled, wriggled it one way, then the other. It was as if there was an obstruction in there, a particle of dirt, perhaps. He was sweating, he could smell his own body odours. The tumblers refused to drop. Damn!
“What’s the problem?” The man behind him spoke contemptuously, gave a sigh of impatience.
“There seems to be an obstruction in the lock,” Phil’s reply sounded weak. Worse, he gulped in his nervousness. The other knew that he was panicking him. The key seemed to have bent under the pressure, it might snap.
“Here, give it to me!” Dalgety’s bulk rudely shouldered Phil out of the way, his feet skidded on the slippery floor. Miraculously, he didn’t fall. Even as he regained his balance, he heard the lock click.
The inspector’s silence was far worse than any sarcasm he could have laid his tongue to. His expression, his lips stretching beneath his moustache, small eyes that mocked, gloated. You’re on the layoff list, Quiles. He turned his back, stooped his shoulders so that he could see the dials.
“Hmm.” A reluctant appraisal of the readings, looking for a fault but being unable to find one, sucking his lips. A schoolmaster scrutinising a piece of homework, deliberately taking his time in the knowledge that the pupil’s anxiety was increasing by the second. Psychological bullying. “Right, let’s go down and check the water level.”
Phil almost overbalanced as he donned those rubber boots. Dalgety would have enjoyed that, those piggy eyes were still gloating. He held out a flabby hand for the keys. “I’ll unlock, Quiles, I can’t hang around waiting for you, I have to be at Glascote by nine.”
“The far light isn’t working properly!” It was a sharp, guttural reprimand, full of elation from having at last found a complaint.
Rats, I should have fixed it yesterday. “It must’ve just blown. It probably just needs a replacement starter.”
“Hmm,” again. Liar! “Get it fixed today, don’t leave it till tomorrow.”
“Yes,” somehow Phil just managed to check the “sir,” Dalgety would’ve revelled in that. Not just respect, crawling.
“The level’s holding surprisingly well in spite of the drought.”
“Yes.”
A pregnant silence as the other took his time over a slow clockwise surveillance of the underground chamber, one that began and ended where they stood on the steps by the water’s edge. Then an anticlockwise recheck. “Looks okay. Apart from that light.” He turned away slowly, it was time to go back upstairs.
Phil stared back at the water. There should have been a reflection from the far light, a shimmering on the water like something moved below the surface. Like last time. There wasn’t.
“Something wrong, Quiles?” Dalgety had turned back and was following his companion’s gaze. “Apart from that light, that is?”
Phil hesitated, those icy prickles were starting to edge up from the base of his spine again. Maybe yesterday he had looked from a different angle. It had to be the light, it couldn’t be anything else. There wasn’t anything down there.
Was there?
“I … I’m a bit worried about the walls, sir.” It came out as a trembling afterthought, a swallow.
“What’s wrong with the walls?” Sharp, don’t waste my time.
“They … seem to be bowing a little over there. I noticed last week. Just thought I’d mention it.” Apologetic, wishing he hadn’t voiced a concern that was genuine. The walls were pushing outwards, only slightly. He needed to make his input, to say something constructive for the sake of his own self-respect.
“They look all right to me. They’ve bowed a little, I’ll grant you. I noticed it last time I was here.” Don’t try to be bloody clever with me. “The
y’re bound to after over half a century of holding in a million gallons of water, aren’t they? It’s only logical, if you stop to think about it. But they’ll last … as long as we need them. This setup could well be discontinued in the not-too-distant future but it’s not for me to say.”
Just a disturbing thought to keep you awake at night, Quiles. Doubtless, you’ve heard rumours. Your job’s on the line along with a good many others.
“I just thought I should mention it.”
But Dalgety wasn’t listening, heaving his hulk up the slippery steps, impatient to be on his way.
Phil glanced back as he reached the top, succumbed to an impulse, caught his breath. A luminous ripple, one that came and then was gone. It did not return as it should have done with a continually flickering light.
As if something had briefly surfaced, then dived back down into the depths.
In case it was seen.
Four
Ben Shannon was tall for his age; at eight years old he was mostly mistaken for eleven, much to his parents’ chagrin. An only child, the product of years of trying to conceive by Masie Shannon, she had finally given birth at forty. A difficult birth, she had almost lost him and for six years after, the sickly child contracted every imaginable ailment. After that he grew at an alarming rate. Soon the Shannons’ treasured son would be a child no more.
Frank Shannon was fifteen years older than his wife and a life of striving for success in commerce had taken its toll on him; he bounced back from a heart attack at fifty-eight but was forced to retire after a second a couple of years later. A third, his doctor warned him, would most certainly prove fatal.
Now was the time to relax and enjoy the small fortune which he had accumulated. He had everything, and more, which any man had any right to expect, and at last he had a son and heir. Which was why both he and Masie were overprotective towards their offspring.
Ben had just completed his first year at preparatory school, St. Chad’s Cathedral School, which had an enviable reputation both academically and in the sporting field, as well as boasting one of the finest cathedral choirs in the country. Ben had twice auditioned for the choir and been rejected. Next autumn he would try again.
Even at school he made few friends, already he had the hallmark of a loner.
“It’s no bad thing,” Frank attempted to convince his wife. “Close friendships can impair one’s judgement in business. You do a favour, try to help somebody, and it costs you. Far better to have acquaintances, you get an objective view of people that way, you learn to be a judge of character from a distance.”
“But Ben doesn’t even have acquaintances,” Masie had noted this last summer and how Frank was beginning to lose his greying hair and the lines on his features were more deeply etched. The age gap between them was widening fast. “He’s becoming a recluse. We’ll have to try and make friends locally for him. Goodness, during the school holidays he never sees anybody except ourselves. And did you notice how he avoided those boys at the next table in the hotel dining room, and refused to go and play on the beach with them? That’s not natural, Frank.”
“He’s got plenty of time to grow out of it,” Frank Shannon pulled down the brim of his panama hat to shade his face from the hot sun, letting his eyelids droop. “If he’s happy playing on his own, let him. Look at him now, he’s as happy as a sandboy.”
Masie looked where her husband pointed. Their son was sitting on a rocky outcrop on the edge of the crowded beach, staring out to sea, oblivious to the children and adults who splashed and squealed their delight in the sea a few yards from him. It reminded her of that famous painting of Sir Walter Raleigh. He, too, had looked old for his age. She shook her head despairingly. Lately, it seemed, Ben didn’t want to mix with anybody.
She said, “I hope he won’t go off on his own.”
“I thought you were worried because he never went anywhere,” Frank retorted drowsily.
“I meant I hope he doesn’t wander off. A lot of unpleasant things have happened to children lately. Nowhere’s safe these days.”
She sat there in the deckchair keeping a maternal eye on her son, until the warm sunshine had her dozing alongside her husband.
Ben Shannon was bored. People bored him mostly, all they seemed to want to do was to play aimless games. At school he was made to play cricket and football. He hated both. What was the point in chasing after a ball? You didn’t gain anything when you caught it and somebody always wanted to take it from you. Life was all about learning, history was his favourite subject, how things used to be. He enjoyed swimming, had an affinity with water, he loved the feel of it closing over him when he dived deep in the swimming pool. Perhaps, when the world was young, he had been a fish and the instinct was still there.
He was tempted to go in the sea but not while everybody else was around; they embarrassed him, inhibited him. He liked doing things best when he was all alone.
He stole a glance back in the direction of his parents. They were both asleep in their deckchairs. Good, it unnerved him the way his mother kept watching his every move.
She refused to buy him a pair of bathing trunks. She didn’t want him going into the sea in case he got swept away by the tide and drowned. It annoyed him, too, the way she always grabbed his hand when they crossed a road for fear that he might be stupid enough to run in front of a car. His school report had said that he was advanced for his age; his folks didn’t like that, they wanted to keep him as a little boy forever. Like Peter Pan in the story book.
The sea fascinated him, it seemed to be calling him. Come on in, it’s so cool in here. He looked round, the other bathers had moved further away; his parents were both soundly asleep. Ben was only wearing a pair of shorts, it wouldn’t matter if they got wet and, anyway, the hot sun would soon dry them.
Cautiously, guiltily, he slid off the rocks and into the sea.
It was deeper than he had envisaged, when his feet rested on the sandy bottom the water lapped his neck. He tasted salt on his lips, licked them. His whole body thrilled to the feel of the moving tide. He wondered what it was like to be a fish. The idea thrilled him.
He dived, touched the bottom, floated slowly upwards, broke the surface. It was then that he noticed a woman sitting on the rock which he had just vacated.
He almost dived again but curiosity overcame his shyness. He wasn’t interested in girls; in fact, he hated them because they always teased him. This was no girl, though, she was a young woman, her breasts were bared but he experienced no embarrassment. Why should he? Up until a year or two ago he used to go in the bath with his mother. He knew what a female body looked like.
She saw him and smiled. Long golden hair cascaded down past her shoulders; it seemed as though she had some kind of bathing towel draped around the lower half of her body.
“Hello,” her voice was lilting, “you’re Ben, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he stared in amazement, “how do you know my name?”
“I just know,” she laughed, patted the rock by her side. ‘Come up and talk to me, Ben.”
He obeyed before he even thought about it, clambered up onto the rocks alongside her. It wasn’t a towel she had over her, it was some kind of fancy bathing costume in the shape of a fish’s tail. He thought it was rather cute.
“You like the sea, don’t you, Ben?”
“I love it.”
“I know,” her hand squeezed his, her touch was icy cold. Obviously, she had just been swimming. Deep down the water was cold, he had already discovered that. “Did you know that once the whole of the world was covered by the oceans, that there was no dry land at all?”
“I learned it in history at school,” he answered proudly. “There weren’t any people, just fishes and sea creatures. And when the oceans receded, those creatures came up on to dry land and learned to live there. Over millions of years they grew hands and feet.”
“You’re a very clever boy,” she wasn’t humouring him, he sensed that much. “Which is
why I want to talk to you, Ben. You see, the People of the Water didn’t die off, they just changed. Some became fishes, others amphibious creatures. Only a few remained. Like me.”
“Gosh almighty!” He stared at her now, saw that the fish tail was actually part of her, it seemed to pulse and quiver with the rest of her body. “You’re a … a mermaid!”
“If you like,” she nodded, smiled again. “In those days, I was their queen. I still am.”
“You must be very old.”
“Very,” she agreed, “but water people don’t age like land people, you don’t notice the ageing process. As I said, our people changed, I remained constant. Waiting. You see, Ben, one day the waters will reclaim the earth, they almost did in the time of Noah. The floods will come again, the rivers will burst their banks, swell the seas. And the seas will sweep back over the land, taking what is rightly theirs. That is when the People of the Water will return to claim what is rightfully theirs.”
“And everybody will drown!” Ben Shannon tensed, it was a frightening thought. You couldn’t swim forever and there wouldn’t be enough boats to go round.
“Except a chosen few,” she was watching him intently. “Those who believe in the People of the Water will be saved. You love the water, Ben, wouldn’t you like to be like me?”
“Yes,” he blurted out his reply, he didn’t need to think about it. It would be much more interesting to live in the sea than with people he didn’t like. And he believed every word that she told him.
“Then you will be,” she lowered her voice, perhaps fearing lest holidaymakers on the sands behind the rocks might overhear, her. “You’ve seen me, you know that I exist, that I’m not some bedtime fairy-tale told to you by your folks. You believe, and that’s all that matters. But thousands, millions wouldn’t if you told them about me.”
“I won’t say a word,” he promised.
“Well, perhaps not right now,” she was thoughtful. “But when you’re older, and you’ve learned to judge people, then I want you to tell them all about the People of the Water. Folks you can trust, you’ll know them when you meet them. Gather them about you, share the secret. And when the floods come, I will return to greet you. We shall rise up out of the oceans and rule the world. And you and your friends will rule over it with me.”
