Water Rites

by Guy N Smith

  “It smells bad in there,” she was leaning over his shoulder. “It’s quite put me off drinking water unless it’s boiled.”

  He wasn’t going to risk filling the hole right to its extremity, cement powdered as it dried, some might drop down into the water. A good dollop to fill the exterior should suffice. Whatever had done this had certainly worked from the inside, the rubble on the steps was proof of that; it had knocked it outwards as it worked.

  “Did you find the owner of that ring?”

  “Not yet. In fact, it’s still on the dresser at home, I haven’t been up to Glascote since. I’ll take it when I go, maybe tomorrow or the day after.”

  Phil hadn’t mentioned it to Kate, he didn’t want to alarm her. She knew as well as he did that nobody apart from himself and water authority employees went into the blockhouse. Those naked footprints were the most worrying factor. Along with the hole in the wall.

  “Well, I did some research!” A smugness in her voice she tapped him on the shoulder with a forefinger. “It was the symbol that intrigued me, the mermaid. I’m knowledgeable on both antiques and ancient history, you know, I’ve got a shelf of books on both. That ring, and it can’t possibly be genuine else it’d be worth thousands, is symbolic of Mukasa a water god of the Victoria Nyanza lake, worshipped by the Baganda. A similar symbol is used by the Akikuyu of Africa who worship a water snake god although theirs is slightly different, the female’s lower body is in the form of a reptile. Devilish sacrifices, they throw virgins into the water so that their god can marry them. Just different forms of an old religion, I guess, a female god that can be either fish or snake but you have to feed it humans to keep it happy. Which couldn’t possibly happen in twentieth-century Britain, could it, Mister Quiles?” She ended with a nervous laugh.

  “No, I guess not,” he halted his stirring, stiffened. God she was scaring him. It was all bloody rubbish but it was the last thing he needed to hear right now.

  “It puzzles me what made that hole,” she mused. “It has to be something very strong.”

  Phil didn’t reply. He finished smoothing the filled hole level with the wall, stood back to admire his work. The outside would set hard within a few hours, the interior might take longer because of the dampness from the reservoir. Nothing would get in or out of that, he almost convinced himself.

  “I’ve almost finished my picture,” Jocelyn Jackson stated, “do come and have a look.”

  “I’m sorry but …”

  “It won’t take a minute,” she turned, began to amble back across the tussocks of coarse grass. “Oh, by the way there’s some dead rabbits over there, just by that hatch.” She pointed.

  Some crows perching in the far larches cawed angrily. “Three or four, I didn’t go near enough to count them,” she exaggerated an expression of revulsion. “Maybe a fox killed them.”

  “More likely a stoat,” Phil wasn’t going across to investigate, the laws of Nature were not his concern.

  “Whatever killed them, those crows are pretty angry with it,” the other hastened her arthritic limbs, a private viewing had priority over everything else, “Now, what do you think, Mister Quiles? Superb, isn’t it?”

  Phil looked at the painting propped on the easel. He was no connoisseur of art, this painting might just have won a fifth form prize at the secondary school. So much detail; too much, no wonder it had taken her all this time to finish it. Every distant tree branch was painted in detail, every crack and patch of lichen and moss on the blockhouse. It was no masterpiece but there was no getting away from the fact that she had captured the atmosphere. He found himself stepping back a pace.

  “Well, Mister Quiles?”

  “It’s very good,” he leaned forward, peered, and what he saw close to the base of the building had his mouth go dry. “You’ve even painted in that … that hole!”

  “Of course,” She moved behind the easel, stood with a hand on it as if she posed for a photograph. “And why not? It’s a sinister place, I sensed that even before I went inside with you that day. Evil broods within, so why not depict how evil has broken out, a trapped force that has found a way to freedom, gone forth into the world?”

  He tried to jerk his gaze away from the picture; he found it impossible, as if the watercolour mesmerized him. A squat concrete monster that throbbed with evil life. Jocelyn’s artist’s license had allowed her to paint a lowering sky, whereas it had been blue and cloudless for weeks. The building was a shade of dirty grey, darker than in reality; the door was ajar, from within came a faint greenish light. She had mastered the trick of making it appear to flicker. “You like it then?”

  No! “It’s … lifelike,” he breathed. “Too lifelike.”

  “My teacher at college said that it was obvious that she couldn’t teach me anything,” Jocelyn Jackson echoed her favourite self-praise. “That’s how I see your reservoir, Mister Quiles, that’s what attracted me to paint it in the first place. It hadn’t used to be like this, not in the days when I walked Barbara up here. Then it was a foreign legion outpost, all shining white. Whiter than white, you almost felt you’d like to live there. But it’s changed, there’s something happened in there, you mark my words. It’s a foul place and it’s turned the water foul, no matter how much you chaps try to convince us of purity and EEC standards.”

  Phil swallowed, he was chilled in spite of the warm autumn sunlight. He made no attempt to contradict her.

  “I’m glad I’m almost finished, I don’t want to come back here after today. The feeling gets stronger each day, I don’t feel safe here. But do you know what I’m going to do next, Mister Quiles?”

  Phil had no idea, he didn’t want to know but, like the wedding guests, he was compelled to listen to the Ancient Mariner.

  “In the safety of my own home,” her voice was a whisper, she glanced back at the blockhouse apprehensively, “I’m going to paint that water down below. A dark, forbidding underground lake where something swims in the depths but all you see is a flicker of green light. And I’m going to call the picture Mukasa.”

  “Dalgety’s here!” Kate stood up from the table, looked out the window. “Christ, why does he always come at mealtimes?”

  “Maximum inconvenience,” Phil picked up his plate, “shove this in the microwave for me, love. It might only be a routine quickie.”

  Today Dalgety had come in a Land Rover Discovery, a shining new bright yellow monster bearing the water authority’s logo on both front doors. He didn’t get out, just wound down the window.

  “We’ll go up in this,” there was a faint odour of whisky on his breath, he had lunched at the Chequers en route. “Four-wheel drive, no problem on the steep tracks.”

  He’s just called to show off his latest on-loan status, Phil thought. But it could have dangerous implications. Arrogance fired aggression. He climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Fixed that light?”

  “Yes.”

  A grunt that threatened “if you’re lying, we’ll soon know and you’re in deep trouble.”

  An affected casualness, I’ve driven one of these before, you know, it’s nothing new to me. I can handle anything on four wheels. The heavy tyres gripped the carpet of pine needles, left their imprint in their wake. Dalgety’s foot eased off the throttle, slowed as they approached the rickety gate and its threat to trespassers.

  Phil glanced ahead apprehensively, feared lest there might be a familiar figure atop the mound, hunched over her easel. There wasn’t, he breathed a sigh of relief. Jocelyn Jackson was back home painting her underground lake with all the embellishments her imagination could conjure up. It was all in the mind, hers and his own. There was nothing amiss with an old reservoir that was nearing the end of its days.

  Dalgety killed the engine, rasped the handbrake rachet. Phil eased the door catch, slid to the ground.

  Up the first flight of slabs, like stepping stones on a raised lawn, slippery with moss. Now they were level with the top of the mound, the blockhouse a few yar
ds in front of them.

  “What’s that?” The inspector halted suddenly, pointed with a flabby hand.

  “What?” It sounded weak.

  “That bloody hole in the wall by the steps!”

  Phil felt the cry rising in his throat, somehow strangled it. There, ahead of him, in exactly the same place as before, a jagged hole yawned in the concrete. Freshly crumbled cement had dried greyish in the early afternoon sun, cascaded down two levels. He was sure he could smell the foulness that exuded from that aperture even at this distance.

  Dalgety lumbered forward, his cheeks puffed out, a red mass of burst blood vessels blotched the skin, his lungs protested at the sudden vigorous movements after the steep climb up the steps. His green synthetic wellingtons squeaked their newness.

  “Bloody vandals!” He dropped to his knees, tried to peer into the hole but there was only impenetrable darkness beyond. His gaze returned to the mess of excavated mortar on the slab steps. “This has been chiselled out from the inside!”

  Phil squatted, his legs were shaking. Exactly as before, the same exit, the same means of excavation. He felt suddenly dizzy, had to support his crouched form with a hand on the ground.

  “What’s done this, Quiles?” An accusation, looking for a scapegoat. Have you done this?

  “It’s probably the pressure on the walls,” echoing the same explanation he’d given to Jocelyn Jackson, hoping it might be believed. Because if it was, he’d feel better. He needed reassurance.

  “Balls!” Dalgety was angry, he thought of water authority property in terms of his own, another way of borrowing status. “Somebody’s got inside the reservoir! They couldn’t have done that from the outside. Come on, we’d better take a look.”

  The ground seemed to rise up, Phil clutched at a tuft of grass to keep his balance. Up, then back down. His vision blurred, cleared.

  “Come on, Quiles, I haven’t got all day, and neither have you!” The other was already over by the door, impatient for to be unlocked.

  Strangely for the first time in a long while, the keys appeared to work smoothly. Dalgety didn’t seem to notice the smell, he was in a hurry to get down below.

  Phil found himself searching the concrete floor apprehensively, looking for wet naked footprints. There was no sign of any. If somebody had been in here before his last visit then they most certainly had not returned, thank God! “I’m meeting the superintendent of police at three o’clock in Lichfield,” a tone of importance. “These so-called drownings, doubtless you’ve read about them in the papers, hermit out of these woods, I never even knew one lived here. Supposedly run over on the road, they reckon he died from drowning. A similar case shortly before that, a prositute. The police are checking out all the reservoirs in the area, I’m responsible for sixteen!” Boasting, he wouldn’t have bothered to recount the recent events and his forthcoming appointment otherwise. “Damned good job this one’s locked up and underground. At least,” a laugh that sounded forced, “nobody could get in or out of that hole the wall!”

  The water surface seemed much larger than before, like it had expanded back into the woodland beyond. Which was impossible, Phil told himself, it was a trick of the light. A light on the far side that flickered and threatened to extinguish at any second.

  “What the bloody hell’s going on, Quiles!” Dalgety’s shout of anger echoed in the confined space, bounced back at them. Deafening in its intensity, the inspector’s fury magnified tenfold.

  “I changed the tube, sir.” It came out as a whimper, pleading whine.

  “It doesn’t have to be the tube, man,” a schoolteacher addressing a pupil whose intelligence was in question, forcing himself to explain the obvious. “It could be a loose connection, the fitting itself. Or the wiring. You’ll have to check the entire electrics, follow the wire right down from the fuse box up in the controls cupboard. Got it?”

  “Hadn’t we better get an electrician out from Glascote,” a desperate plea. “The authority has a team of electricians. I’m only a layman, a pumping station manager.”

  “You wouldn’t have got the job if you hadn’t got your certificate in electronics,” he sneered. “Our electricians are overstretched on a skeleton staff, three are on autumn leave. This reservoir is your baby, Quiles,” he added meaningfully, “for the moment, anyway. If that light’s still faulty on my next visit I shall have to put in a report of negligence and incompetence.”

  Dalgety turned away, slapped his booted feet on the wet steps. Phil followed, clutched at the rail, the concrete was slippery.

  Something made him look back, instinctive impulse, he did not know why. Maybe in his fear he was searching for a luminous rippling in the dark, deep water.

  There wasn’t one. It could have been because the light across the water wasn’t flickering any longer. It did not cast a moving reflection on the surface.

  Thirteen

  Kate Quiles wasn’t feeling well. Nothing drastic, not even serious enough to phone the doctor’s office and book an early evening appointment.

  It was probably due to her imminent period, a headache and tiredness. And Dalgety, of course. The water authority inspector’s frequent visits were almost certainly a contributory factor. They put Phil under stress and it had an effect on her, a kind of chain reaction; she became edgy, short-tempered with Peter. The boy was becoming a handful lately now that he had settled in at school and his confidence in himself was growing.

  Today he had not been to school, some kind of staff training course that should have damned well been scheduled for a weekend or during the vacation. Instead, the education authority closed the schools for a day.

  Peter had been restless all morning. He’d meddled with the phone, tapped the digits and left it ringing out somewhere while she was hanging out the washing. The receiver must have been dislodged for at least half an hour before she noticed it. The water authority paid the phone bill, scrutinized the itemized account and queried any call that wasn’t local.

  She wouldn’t tell Phil. Not yet, anyway.

  Dalgety had really shaken him today, her husband was pale and clearly ill-at-ease when he returned from that trip up to the reservoir. The inspector had driven straight off after dropping Phil, didn’t even go up to the pumping station to check on the antiquated machinery.

  “Bastard!” She heard her husband mutter beneath his breath as he came through the door.

  “I’ll get your dinner out of the microwave,” she got up out of the chair. “Warmed up, congealed food yet again!”

  “Don’t bother, I have to go out.”

  “Don’t be stupid!” she snapped, eyed him with concern. “You can always work half an hour over after tea if you have to.”

  “I tell you, I’m not stopping.”

  “Phil …”

  “Daddy, can I go with you?” Peter scattered a box of Lego, jumped up off the floor.

  “No!”

  “Phil, this isn’t like you!” She was close to tears. “I wish they’d close this goddamned place down, I’d rather be in an apartment and on the dole than living like this!”

  But Phil didn’t stop to argue. The door slammed and he was gone out across the yard. Kate heard the van start up. She only checked her flood of tears because of Peter.

  “Mommy, can we go play in the garden?” He clutched at her hand, tried to drag her towards the door. “It’s sunny outside, like summer.”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” she turned her head away. “I’m not feeling well, dear. I’m going to go and lie down on the bed. Why don’t you come upstairs and have a nice sleep with Mommy?”

  “I’m not tired,” his mood transformed to one of petulance. “I want to play in the garden. With Rabbit.”

  Kate sighed. The bright sunlight would probably bring on a migraine, she wouldn’t be able to sleep with Peter in his current mood. There was an alternative, she hesitated. It was a risk, the thought worried her.

  “Peter.”

  “Yes, Mommy?”

&nbs
p; “How would you like to go play in the garden all on your own? I could fasten the roadside gate, you’d have the lawn to play on right up to the wood. And you could have Rabbit out of his hutch, he can’t go far because there’s a wire mesh fence all round the garden.”

  “Ooooh, yes!” A shriek of surprise and joy, he had never been allowed to play all alone in the garden before, Mommy always kept coming out to check that he was okay. “You go and sleep, Mommy, I’ll be fine.”

  Kate surveyed the garden, looked for possible dangers, there was no pond, Peter wouldn’t drown. A privet hedge on one side that was too thick for him to squeeze through, an eight-foot larchlap fence on the other, he certainly would not be able to climb that. Otherwise just a lawn that needed the last mowing before winter and stretched right the way up to the start of the big wood. There were some gaps in the wood boundary, hazel trees that had should have been pleached years ago, a rickety gate that even she had difficulty in unfastening on those occasions when she went for a walk in there. The boy wouldn’t go in the wood all alone. It was quite safe.

  “Now, you go play with Rabbit and don’t get up to any mischief. Do you understand?”

  He nodded vehemently.

  “If you want anything, or you need me, come upstairs and wake me up at once.”

  “I will.” He glanced eagerly in the direction of the hut. A black rabbit looked out through the mesh, pricked its ears up as though it had heard and understood the conversation. Playing out was fun, it would make sure that it wasn’t easily caught up again.

  “Keep an eye on Rabbit, and when you get fed up with him, put him back in his hutch. Got it?”

  “Why’s Mister Dalgety always make Daddy in a bad mood, Mommy?”

  “Because Mister Dalgety’s a b … a bad man. Nobody likes him but he’s the boss and everybody has to do as he says.”

  “I’ll go get Rabbit.”

  Kate walked away, turned back at the door for one last look. Peter had opened the hutch door, the rabbit had jumped out, bounded away every time the boy was close enough to catch it. She smiled to herself, by the time Peter had finally caught his pet he would be so tired that he’d probably sit in the deckchair on the patio and doze off.