by Guy N Smith
“I’m all right.” No, I’m not, but not in the way you mean.
“Well, I suppose we’d better take a look,” his anger caused the clutch to jerk, the engine stalled. “But I’ve already explained about the walls, they’re eighteen inches thick, they’ll stand a lot of strain. We’re not going to reinforce them because in a few months the reservoir’s being drained.”
“A few months!”
“It’s no secret now,” a gloating stretching of those thick lips, “the plans were passed at a meeting this morning, it’ll all be in the Herald and the Mercury at the end of the week. The water authorities are merging, this reservoir will be superfluous to requirements. Permission has been granted for the pumping houses to be converted into apartments. There won’t be a manager’s job here any longer, Quiles.”
Phil’s feeling of sickness returned. He looked out the window so that Dalgety wouldn’t be able to see how his face drained of colour still further.
“You’ll be given an opportunity to buy your house, though. There might be an employee’s discount. There’ll be layoffs, naturally, mostly the existing jobs will be at headquarters. You might be lucky, who knows? But, as I said, are you really up to the job?”
The blockhouse seemed almost innocuous in the bright sunlight, like it already knew its death sentence had been passed and had succumbed to the inevitable. Woodpigeons crooned peacefully in the surrounding conifers; there was no sign of the crows that had been scavenging those dead rabbits. Probably they had picked the bones clean, there was nothing left here for them.
Phil shivered, everywhere was deceptively tranquil, like the evil here was bent on fooling Dalgety.
“I see you haven’t mended that hole!” The first reprimand came as they mounted the long flight of slab steps.
“Each time I fill it in, something pushes it out.” To hell with trying to pass it off as a defect in the walls.
“Now, where are these footprints you were rambling on about?”
They had disappeared as surely as if they had never existed.
Phil’s pointing hand fell limply to his side, he stared down at the concrete floor of the lobby. For some unaccountable reason, during the time he had been away, the floor had dried. Beyond, the permanent wetness obliterated any markings.
“They … were … here. All over the floor.”
“You don’t drink, do you?”
“No, I never touch alcohol.”
“I think the job’s getting on top of you. You need a long rest.” Like being laid off.
Phil unlocked the inner door, stood back for Dalgety to go on ahead. I don’t want to look, I might throw up again.
“Now, what’s all this nonsense about offal or tripe?”
“Down there, on the bottom two steps …” Phil’s voice trailed off. In the greenish glow he saw that the steps were empty, there was no trace of that revolting bloodied morass.
“There’s nothing there,” Dalgety did not affect surprise, just annoyance.
“There was … Look, you can see the slime I told you about shimmering in the light.”
There were traces of that slimy trail. And the distant light was flickering like it might go out at any second.
Dalgety heaved his bulk down the steps, leaned forward rather than crouched. A glance that was dismissive, then he turned back to his companion. “These are snail or slug trails, the place is probably full of them, they hide in any niche they can find. More have probably come in through that damned hole which you don’t make any effort to block up. I think your imagination’s been running wild. You really are in need of time off work!”
“Look at those walls, then!” Retaliatory, a sweeping movement of the hand. Whatever else had disappeared in here, there was no denying that the sides of the chamber had expanded outwards. New cracks had appeared, powdered cement floated on the surface like white pepper on a bowl of soup.
“There has been some movement,” a conciliatory tone almost, he drew in a long deep breath. “Nothing really significant, though. No way are these walls going to collapse, certainly not in the short time that is left to them.” The evil that inhabited this place had won the day, it had removed all evidence of its presence, had influenced the inspector’s ego to its own advantage.
“Two things,” Dalgety kept the engine running while Phil climbed down from the Discovery, “get that hole filled in and that bloody light fixed once and for all!”
He didn’t wait for a reply, revved the engine, squealed the tyres as he shot away.
Phil’s thoughts returned to those convex walls, there was no way they were going to hold out even for another month. Once they gave way, the water would come gushing down the hillside in a raging torrent, sweep away anything that was in its path.
It was like the evil in there was almost ready to go forth into the outside world, and when the time came it was bent on destroying the lair that had spawned it.
Nineteen
Barbara found the light switches by groping her way along the walls, one hand outstretched in case she met with any obstacle. Each time she found another switch, she turned off the previous one; she had no wish to advertise her presence in Packington Hall.
She passed through the kitchen, opened the door to the corridor that led from it, bare walls and a sloping floor that went on down to …
Mukasa’s temple.
Her fear was gone, she felt at home in this awesome place, just her anger remained; a smouldering fury towards her mother. Perhaps only now she fully realized the damaging effect that Jocelyn Jackson had had on her life; the broken romances, the domination, her uncontrollable rages. Yet, Barbara thought, there was a consolation; the course of life is ordained by some deity, you just went along with it. By long and irksome paths, she had finally arrived at her destiny. Not just Royston Shannon, he merely fulfilled a role. The People of the Water. Had her mother allowed her to go her own way then Barbara would surely never have found this unforeseen Utopia. She would be married to some boring, conventional man, her duty in life to cook and wash, to bring up children. Nevertheless, even now, she regretted never having experienced pregnancy. She envied Janice. A sudden thought, one that might have accounted for why Royston had not awaited his neophyte’s arrival tonight; perhaps Janice had gone into labour and they had all gone with her to the maternity hospital.
The prospect brought on a feeling of jealousy. Barbara had read of women in their fifties giving birth; an exception but it wasn’t an impossibility. She hadn’t reached her menopause yet, she had taken no precautions when she copulated with Royston. The vain hope was enough to bring a tingling to her flesh.
She stood by the pool, gazed in wonder at the life that existed beneath its surface. Multicoloured plant life, a shoal of kaleidoscopic fish that darted beneath an overhanging shelf to hide from her. A bigger fish that swam with the ease and arrogance of a predator.
The water seemed to beckon her, an oasis in a burning desert calling the exhausted traveller. She knew that she could not ignore it, that fate had deliberately brought about a chain of events this night; they had begun with her mother’s jealousy at the prospect of losing a daughter in marriage. So the air had been let out of the Fiesta’s tyres; no transport meant a late arrival here, the others could not wait for her. So she had been left alone in the Hall. Instead of returning home, she had ventured within.
And here she was, by the sacred pool of the People of the Water, a place that was so much more beautiful than that dark temple, wherever it was. Royston ensured that his coven always travelled after dark when it was impossible to remember landmarks. Barbara had an idea that the temple of watery darkness might be inside the old reservoir; she had not ventured up there since childhood. Her mother had painted it recently, it wasn’t like it used to be, Barbara preferred her memories. And, anyway, she would not have risked a lone trek in the pine woods on the off chance that her hunch was right.
The others had doubtless taken their fish costumes with them, probably hers a
s well. It didn’t matter, she began to unfasten her clothing. The prospect of nudity all alone here was an exciting one. She bared her body, stood on the water’s edge, turned one way, then the other.
Look upon my nakedness, all of you creatures. My breasts are firm, they could still produce milk to feed a baby; my stomach is flat, even if a little wrinkled. My buttocks are shapely still, even if the flesh is crinkled. My womb is still fertile.
The mermaid on the rock was eyeing her quizzically, a half smile on her lips. Her eyes narrowed, was there a fleeting expression of jealousy in them? Barbara started, she could have sworn that the reclining tail moved, shifted position. No, it was a trick of the light.
Here there was no sudden depth, the bottom sloped gradually, a layer of sand to create the impression of a beach where you walked into the sea. Barbara stepped forward, the water came up to her ankles. It moved, a tide that ebbed and flowed, probably caused by a hidden pump.
Still deeper. Above the line of her pubic hair now, it seemed alive the way it touched her, explored her. A feeling that was far more sensuous than her earlier experience beneath the mundane shower at home. Like she felt and rubbed herself; she checked, saw that her hands were above the surface.
The water was salty, invigorating yet soothing, her nipples hardened when it lapped against them. Things touched her legs, smoothed and stroked her flesh. She glanced down, had a distorted view of that shoal of tiny fish; they no longer feared her, it was as if they had come to welcome her.
Some darted on ahead, waited; others touched her calves, her buttocks. Follow us, Neophyte, do not be afraid.
Barbara took a deep breath before her head went underwater. A greenish glow lighted her progress, underwater coral reefs draped with seaweed, larger fish that stared and watched her progress. There was something strange about them, it took her some seconds to realize what it was.
Their expressions were almost human, only their bodies were unchanged. As if she had stepped back in time and was witnessing the early stages of evolution.
A cavern so dark that she was afraid but the miniature fish guided her until she emerged on to a rocky bed on the other side. Giant plants, some kind of marine cacti with threatening spikes, but the seascape was ever changing.
Barbara stared in amazement, would have drawn back but now the current seemed to be pushing her on. It was crazy, like a scene from a weird fantasy film. Houses and streets, windows that stared like corpse eyes, doorways that were open mouths screaming mutely because they were in an alien environment. Fishlike creatures darted in and out of them, bodies that had arms but no legs, tails that acted as rudders. Those were the living: the dead floated obscenely, drowned and bloated, caught up in tangled weed. Here and there a skeleton, bones picked clean by those predators which had not evolved.
Barbara experienced no terror, neither were her lungs bursting for air. She sensed a kind of superiority over the dead because she lived. She had survived because she had adapted.
Vehicles, cars, and trucks, abandoned and rusting, a boat that lay on its side with a holed bottom. Objects, debris, shifted and settled in a world that had died but was preparing to live again.
She broke surface, it seemed almost alien, for a moment the air she breathed seared her lungs. Then she adapted, clung to the side. The mermaid’s head had turned, was watching her intently.
Barbara clambered ashore, lay stretched out on the hard surface, closed her eyes. It had all been in her imagination, of course, fuelled by the stress and trauma of recent happenings. Or it was some kind of model world built by Royston Shannon, based on his faith and beliefs. She wouldn’t tell him that she had been down there, he might be angry with her. Although she had no fear of his wrath like the others appeared to have. He would show her when he was ready and she would feign surprise.
Her thigh itched, she rubbed it. The skin felt rough, like sunburn or some form of eczema. It was probably the salt in the water. She scratched, her fingernails snagged on something. She sat up, looked.
And almost screamed.
A patch, roughly the size of her hand, had a slight discoloration, like bruising. But, on peering closely, she saw a mass of tiny disfigurations.
Like scales, glinting in the hidden lighting, dulling as the flesh dried until they were almost invisible.
But still tangible.
Twenty
“Christ, he’s lit that bloody fire again!”
The normally placid Janie Smythe’s attractive features were flushed with anger as she burst into her husband’s small office extension.
Mark Smythe turned from his computer, dropped a printout into his pending tray. His dark eyes went heavenwards, he let out a loud sigh. “Not again.” He reached across for the cordless phone, extended the aerial. “This is the last straw, literally. I’m going to have a word with the environmental health department.”
Janie dashed outside, less than an hour ago she had pegged out a line of washing, already thick smoke swirled around it, charred fragments floating in the air settled on the suspended garments like butterflies laying their larvae on a cabbage patch. She tore at the pegs, dropped them onto the grass, threw the smoke-soiled items of clothing into a plastic washing basket. Bloody hell, this was all she needed!
The Smythes had moved from the city to this remote barn conversion a couple of years ago. In this age of modem technology Mark no longer needed to commute daily to his office; direct line computers, a fax, telex and telephone put him in touch with overseas clients in less time than it took to circulate a memo round the office.
Life seemed idyllic. Until Dick Bowman bought the old farmhouse next door.
Tall and rangy, with a flowing black beard, Bowman’s only interests in life were riding and drinking. Rumour had it that he had returned from working in the Middle East and had sunk his savings into the dilapidated farmhouse and a couple of horses; his only income was from part-time bar work at the Chequers.
The Smythes’ tranquillity was shattered within a matter of weeks, they realized that they had problems. One day a family arrived, with three dogs, in a rusted horse van, and moved in to share the house with Dick Bowman.
Within the hour the dogs were roaming freely, chasing the Smythes’ cat and, to add insult to injury, messing on the lawn. Mark had gone next door to complain, the Moretons seemed rather surprised that they should be asked to keep their dogs under control.
On Sundays, Mark and Julie usually slept late, rising about nine-thirty. On that particular morning their sleep was disturbed shortly before seven by a cranking and rattling, accompanied by a cloud of diesel fumes drifting into the bedroom through the open window. The Moretons’ horse truck had been started up. Accompanied by Dick Bowman, they were off to an equestrian event.
Mark complained again about the close proximity of the aging vehicle parked on the roadside verge. The Moretons promised to park it on the verge on the other side of their temporary home in the future. A couple of days later it was back in its former place, emitting clouds of exhaust fumes every time it was started up. Resigned to this frequent polluting of the atmosphere, and wishing to maintain some degree of neighbourly relationships, the Smythes resorted to keeping the windows of their barn conversion shut at all times.
The dogs continued to roam freely, leaving positive proof of their daily trespasses.
Then one day the Moretons loaded up their belongings into the van, together with their unruly dogs, and departed. It was obvious that they weren’t returning. That evening Mark took Janie out for a celebration dinner, Dick Bowman as their only neighbour posed few problems for the future; he would spend his days out riding, his evenings at the pub. And they could sleep with their bedroom window open without the danger of being awoken on Sunday mornings by pungent diesel fumes.
That first weekend without the Moretons was paradise itself; Mark and Janie slept late, awoke to the fresh aroma of a country garden, breathed it in deeply and relaxed. There was no dog dirt to be scooped off the lawn, no incess
ant barking every time they ventured outdoors.
The following Sunday everything changed.
Janie stirred, propped herself up on an elbow, sniffed the air and shook her husband awake. “Mark, I can smell smoke.”
“It’s a bonfire,” he stirred, “Jeez, look, it’s drifting in through the window!”
He leaped out of bed, drew back the curtains and stared out in disbelief at what appeared to be a thick November fog reducing visibility to a few yards at the beginning of June. Swirling pungent smoke enshrouded the house and yard.
“It’s Bowman,” he slammed the window shut. “For Christ’s sake, whatever’s he burning?”
Dick Bowman had fired the fifty-square-metre dung heap on the other side of his house; years of mucking out the stables by the previous owner had created a near mountain of manure. It had dried out in the drought, the new occupant had piled some straw up against it and lit it. Standing there, fork in hand, he seemed impervious to the clouds of smoke which enveloped him and filled his own living quarters. His expression was that of satisfaction at a job well done.
“It’s because there’s no wind, that’s why it’s hanging about,” he explained to the irate Mark. “There’s supposed to be a stiff westerly getting up later, it’ll take it up towards the forest.”
“Our house is full of stinking smoke, it’ll take weeks to get the smell out!” Mark fought to control his anger. “For God’s sake, man, put that bloody fire out!”
“There’s not enough water in the well,” Bowman shrugged his shoulders, “and, anyway, there’s rain forecast for Tuesday, that’ll put it out.”
The rain didn’t come until Thursday, reduced the mighty muck pile to a steaming, wisping blackened eyesore. A thunderstorm on the following Sunday extinguished it.
Dick Bowman lit his fire again a month later; it soiled a line of Janie’s washing but petered out later in the day. A further complaint postponed relighting until August. Another fortuitous thunderstorm doused it.
And now the dung heap was burning with a vengeance.
