If there was not that hope then what was left in its existence? Hope had become a greater stimulant to its life than any single realised joy which it had experienced before the long night of its loneliness descended.
In its hope was crystallised the vanity of the Saurian belief in its own immortality.
The intelligence knew that once it had been a common failing for Saurians to believe that all other beings were mortal but themselves. It was a syllogism: — other creatures die; but I am not as other creatures. Therefore, I do not die.
And when a Saurian did die, Saurian philosophers invented another world, a heaven or hell — another place — to explain away the death; the creature was dead but had not died. Its inner life force had merely travelled on, on to the new world.
But now, now when the last rites were being enacted for the death of its race, the intelligence knew that its mortal nature had only one way of perpetuating its life, of seeking immortality. Immortality could only be attained by a new generation sired from its loins, for the new is always left in place of the old.
It continues; it endures. Generation to generation.
The intelligence looked hard at the soft white skin of the alien creature and stifled a surge of revulsion; how ugly, how ugly and alien. How weak and puny the body. How unlike the gracious stately calm of a Saurian mate. And yet the alien had the right chemical mix of life by which to perpetuate part of the Saurian being, a being that would be part of its siring and its immortality.
Yes, the thing had to be done; for to have lived, to have suffered, to have loved, to have feared, to have cried, to have fought and to have had so much ambition … and then, simply, to pass down into the blackness, into forgetfulness, into oblivion as if it had never existed … how could such a thing be? The ego refused to accept the fate of its kind.
The puny white-skinned alien offered hope, at least …
What did it matter that other aliens had come before … other aliens, how many times before the intelligence no longer cared; they had been offered and had perished. All attempts to create a new generation of Saurian had failed. The intelligence dismissed that fact. It did not fit in with its hope.
This time it would succeed … it would … it would … it would …
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It was the cold that forced Tim into consciousness.
He was lying on his back on the ground, one leg tangled in some shrubs. He moved his head slightly and saw, a few yards away, the shattered hulk of his car, its bonnet stove in by a large spruce tree which had been bent backwards by the impact. He had obviously been thrown from the car at the same time. His head seemed as if a thousand steam hammers were thundering in unison against his temples. He raised a hand cautiously to feel his forehead. A large and tender bump greeted his questing fingers.
He groaned and levered himself into a sitting position, carefully examining himself to make sure no bones were broken. Apart from his aching head and a bruised back, he seemed to have escaped without serious hurt.
It was when he peered curiously at his wrecked car that full memory came flooding back into his bemused mind.
It was the last image which he had seen before the wreck which came first. Blurred, indistinct. He could not tell what it had been except that it was grotesque, terrifying. Had it even been real? Had it not been merely the lights of his car painting nightmare objects in the weird shapes of the forest? He could not even recall distinctly whether he had seen something tangible and solid or merely some strange vision which had been artificially created.
His next thought was of the girl.
‘Morag!’
Anxiety came to his mind with a sudden rush.
He stumbled towards the wreck and peered inside.
There was a smashed guitar in the front seat but no sign of the girl.
With his bruises causing him to limp slightly, he hobbled around the wreck. He could still see nothing.
Then a low moan caused him to wheel round. A dark shadow lay some yards away. He limped towards it. It was the girl, lying flat on her face, arms outstretched. It was as if she had climbed out of the car after the crash and started to walk away, only to collapse after a few yards.
Tim turned her over.
She, too, had some bruising on the forehead where it had banged against the windscreen but, thank God, had not smashed through it.
He examined her limbs but could find no evidence of broken bones.
‘Morag? Can you hear me?’ he whispered anxiously.
The girl must be severely concussed.
Through the dark waving branches of the surrounding woods, Tim could see a faint light flickering in the distance. He glanced at his watch. It was still working and its hands pointed to nearly six o’clock. They must have lain unconscious for some hours.
Breathing stertorously in his efforts, he bent down and picked up the girl and began to walk slowly towards the light. The pain in his leg began to increase and after a while he had to put down his burden and rest. He continued after a short pause but it took him half an hour to near the flickering light.
He found that he had come to the edge of the wood and burst onto a well-kept lawn which fronted a large house. The light came from a single bulb which shone over the porchway at the main door.
Tim made a final effort and managed to reach the porch before utter fatigue overtook him.
He had just placed his burden on a wooden porchway seat and jabbed viciously at the bell press when a wave of unconsciousness sent him reeling to the ground.
He came to after what seemed an eternity. Actually, it could have been no more than a passing second, because there was no movement within the house. He managed to haul himself to his feet and jab twice more at the bell before he heard a movement within. Lights suddenly blazed through the side windows, casting a blinding light over the lawns of the house.
There came the scraping sound of bolts being withdrawn.
A man peered out cautiously. He had a homely face and wore a heavy woollen dressing gown wrapped around his portly frame. In spite of this he carried himself with a bearing which registered, somewhere in Tim’s spinning mind, the idea that the man had been in the army. The man’s eyebrows rose slightly as his gaze fell on Tim and the girl.
‘Sorry … sorry to bother you,’ gasped Tim. ‘We’ve had an accident … our car … can I use your telephone?’
‘Of course, old man, of course.’
It was a second man who spoke. An elderly man, tall and erect in bearing, with a red face and a bristly grey moustache. He had materialised behind the first man’s elbow, clad in a red silk dressing gown.
‘Give’em a hand, Carson.’
Carson, who by his obsequiousness, was apparently a servant, moved forward and picked up the unconscious girl in his arms as if she weighed nothing.
‘Shall I take her into the library, colonel?’
The taller man, addressed as ‘colonel’ nodded and gripped Tim’s elbow.
‘This way, old chap,’ he said, encouragingly.
Tim found that he was conducted into a large oak-panelled room with towering floor-to-ceiling bookcases arranged at strategic places. The ‘colonel’ seated him on a couch in front of the remains of a fire which he now stirred so that sparks rose and crackled into the air and on which he then placed some twigs and logs. Soon a blaze had sprang up.
‘I should imagine a brandy would go down well with you?’ he observed going to a cabinet.
Tim nodded, rubbing the back of his head ruefully.
The man, Carson, had placed the girl on a chaise longue and had examined her with some evident expertise.
‘How’s the girl?’ asked Tim. ‘Can I use your telephone to get a doctor?’
Morag lay pale but breathing quietly.
‘She’ll come around in a moment or two, colonel,’ said the man Carson. ‘Just a bit of concussion, I ’spect. Give her a moment or two and she’ll be as right as ninepence, ’part from a headache.’
Tim swallowed the brandy that the colonel was offering.
‘I’d rather get a doctor, if you don’t mind. You can never tell with these things, colonel … er … ?’
The elderly man smiled.
‘Maitland, old boy, Philip Maitland. You’re quite right, old boy. Better to be safe than sorry. But you can trust Carson, here. Patched up half my regiment during the Korean show, you know. Have another brandy.’
‘As you say, better safe than sorry,’ insisted Tim.
‘Quite. Trouble is, old boy, our phone is out of order. Has been since earlier this evening. Still, you’re welcome to try. It might be repaired now.’
He nodded towards the instrument at Tim’s side.
‘Oh, Carson. See if you can rustle up some tea or something.’
The man, Carson, left the room with a nod.
The elderly man, Colonel Maitland, turned back to Tim with a smile.
‘I’m sure there’s no need to worry if Carson says so, Mr … ?’
‘Colbert, Timothy Colbert. The girl is Miss Morag Ross.’
‘Delighted,’ murmured the colonel.
Timothy picked up the receiver. There was a loud click and he stood listening to whispering static. There was no dialling tone. The colonel watched his expression and shrugged apologetically.
‘Still out of order, eh? Sorry, old boy. Damned nuisance. It means that Carson will have to run over to Foyers shortly. Well, don’t worry old boy … I think Carson knows his first aid.’
As if in confirmation the girl stirred on the chaise longue and uttered a low moan.
Tim went across to her.
‘Morag? Morag, are you all right?’
The girl’s eyes fluttered open and peered around uncomprehendingly.
‘It’s all right, Morag. We had a crash. We are in someone’s house. Everything’s fine.’
The girl frowned and focused her eyes on Tim’s face.
‘Got a rotten headache,’ she managed to say.
The colonel came forward smiling.
‘So you will have, Miss Ross. So you will. Nasty bump, that. Ah, now here’s Carson with the tea. A hot cup of tea with plenty of sugar is a great aid in cases of shock.’
The girl rose into a sitting position and sipped gratefully at the tea.
Carson withdrew again.
The colonel smiled benevolently.
‘There you are, young man. Nothing to worry about. Your friend is all right, aren’t you, Miss Ross?’
The girl gave a rueful smile.
‘I think so.’
‘Fine, fine. Now suppose you tell me how the accident happened?’
Exhausted, puzzled, Tim suddenly found himself with an overwhelming desire to confide in someone. This man, this colonel, represented some degree of law and stability — perhaps it was the old-fashioned image of authority and respectability — and almost without realising it, Tim found himself telling the man the whole story, right from the beginning with Jeannie’s almost hysterical telephone call to him in London.
Through Tim’s recital the colonel did not say one word but sat back, eyes half-closed, a neutral expression on his face.
At the end of the story, Tim leant forward, eager to be believed.
‘You do believe what I say … Miss Ross can vouch for it too, can’t you Morag?’
The young girl nodded.
‘I certainly overheard the man and woman talking which confirmed that they were holding Tim’s girlfriend.’
The colonel stood up and poured himself a drink.
‘While your story sounds wildly improbable, you have a ring of truth young man. What earthly reason would you have for making up such an implausible tale? No, I believe you.’
‘What should we do?’ It was the girl who asked the question.
The colonel stood as if pondering the matter.
‘The local procurator-fiscal is a friend of mine … ’
‘The what?’ Tim was puzzled.
‘The local crown prosecutor … a sort of local attorney-general. You don’t have them in England,’ explained the colonel. ‘Well, he has the ear of the local police and my suggestion is that you get a few hours’ sleep and then I can run you up to Inverness to see him later today. Tell him your story and see what his advice is.’
Tim nodded slowly.
‘But what about Jeannie? What if they harm her?’
‘I doubt it,’ rejoined the colonel. ‘Nothing will happen to her that has not happened already. If, as you say, these people at Balmacaan have kidnapped Miss Millbuie and mean her harm, then they have had two or three days in which to perpetrate that harm. Being logical, old chap, another few hours won’t matter, will it?’
Reluctantly, Tim saw the logic of what the colonel said. ‘Well,’ said Maitland looking up at the faint light that was filtering in through the blinds of the study window, ‘it’s near enough dawn. I suggest you have some breakfast and get rested. Then I’ll take you into Inverness.’
‘It’s very decent of you, colonel,’ said Tim.
‘Not at all, not at all. We can’t have these mysteries in Strath Errick. Deucedly weird, the whole business.’
He excused himself, saying that he was going to see about the breakfast, and left Tim and Morag alone.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ enquired Tim.
The girl smiled.
‘It’s only a wee bump on the head. I’ve had worse at student demos.’
A blue-red bruise had materialised on her forehead. ‘Anyway,’ Morag pointed out, ‘you don’t look so hot yourself.’
Tim frowned and Morag drew a mirror from her handbag and gave it to him. There were a number of minor lacerations on his head and a diagonal bluish bruise from his forehead across one eye to the cheekbone.
Tim handed back the mirror.
‘I suppose I do look like a refugee from a Boris Karloff movie,’ he smiled. ‘Anyway, it’s a damned lucky thing we stumbled on this colonel fellow.’
‘Tim.’
Tim looked anxiously at Morag, startled by her pensive tone.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just before the crash … Did you see what I saw?’
Tim exhaled slowly.
‘I thought I was seeing things,’ he replied slowly.
The girl bit her lip.
‘What was it?’
Tim shrugged.
‘A distorted image, light flickering through the trees … I don’t know.’
‘It was so … so real. It was like some weird creature from prehistory … some monster from … oh!’
The girl’s eyes went wide and she stopped abruptly. ‘What?’ demanded Tim.
‘The Loch Ness Monster!’
Tim looked at the girl incredulously.
‘Come off it, Morag. You don’t believe in that rubbish, do you?’
‘Then what was it that we saw?’ persisted the girl.
‘I don’t know, but I’ll want proof before I go around saying I’m seeing ghosties and ghoulies and long leggedy beasties. After the weird things that have happened since I came to Inverness I’m prepared to swallow pretty near everything but I am not losing all my critical faculties!’
The door of the study opened and the colonel returned.
‘Well,’ he said smiling, ‘things won’t be long now … how do you both feel?’
It was half an hour later when there came the sound of a car on the driveway. Within a few moments Carson, now completely dressed, opened the library door. There seemed something odd about him — the thought immediately registered in Tim’s mind as he looked up at the man. It was a split second before he realised that the former impassive servant was smiling mockingly at Tim and the girl.
‘Mrs Murdo and Mr Telstan are here, colonel.’
To Tim’s incredulity the gaunt housekeeper and the chubby-faced minister entered the room.
A moment later Tim sprang from his seat.
‘I would sit down if I were you, Mr Colbert,’ said a quiet voic
e.
Tim swung round.
The colonel was leaning against the mantelshelf over the fireplace. One hand was in the pocket of his dressing gown, the other was held close to his side. It was this hand that attracted Tim’s horrified gaze. It held a black stubby object and Tim had seen enough bad television movies to recognise a squat automatic pistol.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tim looked round the cell-like room and heaved a sigh of disgust.
Morag sat on a wooden chair and watched him with concern in her eyes.
‘It’s no use blaming yourself, Tim.’
Tim grimaced.
‘But I should have suspected something. The telephone business should have given me a clue. All Carson did was go out into the hall to the extension and take the receiver off the hook. No wonder the phone seemed out of order.’
‘Oh, come on now,’ retorted the girl, ‘you weren’t to know. Anyway, the most important thing now is to find out what these people want.’
Tim gave a bitter laugh.
‘That’s a million dollar question.’
All the colonel had said, as Tim and Morag were ushered back to Balmacaan Castle in the back of an old Morris saloon driven by Telstan, was that Jeannie was safe and that her safety was necessary to their plans. What plans? Why had they kidnapped Jeannie? A wall of silence met his questions. Now he shook his head in bewilderment. He had no understanding at all about the problem.
‘Well,’ Morag was saying, ‘at least they have given us food.’
She pointed to the tray set on a rough wooden bench.
Tim nodded absently. He was trying to work out exactly where they were. In the back of the Morris they had been blindfolded but it was obvious that they had been taken to Balmacaan. On entering the building they had been led almost immediately down some steps over cold stone floors which Tim guessed were cellars. They had been ushered along narrow passageways and then placed into this small room. A single candle lit it. It was about eight feet by six feet, its walls were of cold granite blocks that had a damp quality to them. The roof was ten feet from the floor and at roof level, in one corner, was a black hole covered by an iron grille from which Tim felt a draught of soft air. It carried with it the peculiar tang of salt water. Tim felt that this must be a ventilation hole which faced out towards the loch.
The Curse of Loch Ness Page 19