by Guy N Smith
She edged the curtain open an inch or two but the glass was opaque like the one in the tiny bathroom.
Whilst outside in the bright sunlight a group of children were playing football with a multi-coloured beachball.
Chapter Two
The casual observer might have presumed that the couple dancing on the crowded ballroom floor were father and daughter except that the man held the girl just that little too close to him, and the arm encircling her formed an embrace rather than leading her through a waltz. Cheeks that touched, eyes that sought out each other, lips that smiled knowingly but resisted the temptation to kiss in public.
Professor Anthony Morton looked a year or two older than fifty on account of his silver grey hair, six feet tall when he stood upright now he stooped so that his face was close to that of his partner, whispered something with his thin lips and she nodded and laughed. Somehow his expensively tailored grey suit seemed out of place in this holiday camp ballroom with its gaudy pseudo-Caribbean decor. He moved easily, his lithe body that of an accomplished dancer guiding a less experienced partner.
Ann Stackhouse moved with him, smiled again to cover up her embarrassment at missing a step. Long dark hair that was immaculately groomed swung with her, a shapely body that rippled inside the long evening dress. Glancing about her with a mixture of pride and guilt. Pride because this tall good-looking man was her lover, guilt because it might have been unwise to be seen together in public. Which was nonsense, she reminded herself, because none of these holidaymakers knew them. At the worst they would be mistaken for a sugar daddy and his dolly bird enjoying a dirty week together away from their middle-class surroundings where they might have been recognised. The fact that she was his personal assistant was nobody’s business except their own. A divorced man who had fallen for a younger single girl was perfectly in order, it wasn’t even as though he was cheating on a wife. And she knew she wouldn’t have given a damn if he was, except that there were no complications and there was the possibility of a future in their relationship.
The Paradise Holiday Camp had come to the Welsh coast in the wake of longer established camps and its backers were determined to compete. Gone was the old image of such places, and although there was ample family entertainment it made an attempt to cater for more discerning guests who might otherwise have opted for a holiday in the sun abroad.
Extensive solar emporiums gave the effect of bright sunshine on even the greyest day in the British climate, and incorporated swimming pools, bowling greens, croquet lawns and a cricket pitch. ‘Sunshine is guaranteed at Paradise’ was their slogan which was fast becoming a catchphrase with leading travel agents. Now in its third season the camp was showing signs of becoming a long-running success.
There was subtle class distinction within the camp. The self-catering chalets and car parks were situated well away from the deluxe cabin-type bungalows and luxury caravans. Whichever your status in life, there was a place here for you, conning you that the poor could mix with the rich in a specially created classless society, where it was hoped that you would be unaware of the devious segregation. So far it had worked; the camp was fully booked and nobody had lodged an official complaint.
Ann was relieved when Anthony led her from the dance floor; she was no dancer and the music was far too loud. She was aware of a slight headache, tried to ignore it. The queue at the bar was three deep, barmaids bewildered by a throng of impatient customers.
Morton shook his head, smiled an apology. We’ll drink back at my place; he would have had to shout to make himself heard.
Morton’s cabin-style accommodation was situated close to the large reception area, a luxurious small but well-planned chalet used by the company for visiting VIPs who opted to stay overnight. In a year or two it would be secluded when the newly-planted privet hedge had matured. Beneath the latticed window was a small patch of lawn, mowed twice-weekly by the gardening staff. A contrast to her own terraced chalet where she was staying under the guise of a catering supervisor. A role which bore the stamp of approval of both the camp administrators and the government. A legitimate deception covered by the Official Secrets Act so it had to be all above board, she kept telling herself. Her refusal to accept a post at an experimental laboratory, which involved the use of animals, could have damaged her career, she had been told. It obviously had not. Even so, she had her misgivings about this assignment and her conscience troubled her. Only Tony was holding her here, without him she would have handed in her resignation, she was sure. This whole business was devious, underhand, and as yet she only understood a fraction of it.
‘One thing about a place like this,’ Tony Morton smiled as he handed her a martini and lemonade, ‘is that gossip is virtually non-existent. Five thousand strangers herded together like cattle and apart from a few holiday friendships nobody knows anybody else. An association between a visiting camp director and a catering supervisor will pass virtually unnoticed, even if they discover that you were sleeping here instead of in your own chalet.’
Which, Ann concluded, was an invitation to stay the night. She sipped her drink. ‘All the same, I’d like to know more about this business. Slipping unknown drugs into selected guests’ food is hardly a reputable career for a biologist, is it?’
‘It’s a perfectly harmless government-funded experiment,’ his forehead furrowed, ‘which is of great importance to research into human and social behaviour. Indeed, it will have a bearing on the welfare of future generations and could save the government billions of pounds.’
‘All of which you’ve told me at least three times before.’ She met his gaze and held it. ‘I don’t trust governmental experiments, Tony. In fact, I don’t trust governments at all. This is a big cover-up, like hundreds before it, that cause a scandal when they come out.’
‘Only if they’re leaked!’ His eyes narrowed.
‘Like Watergate.’
He took a deep breath, held it, and then expelled it slowly. Suddenly a barrier had come between them, an issue was being forced. Tell me the truth or else. Or else what? He studied her carefully, saw her as a lovely young girl rather than an attractive PA. Which was dangerous. All the same she had signed secrecy papers. Nobody, not even the Minister of Health, had instructed that she was not to be told, Tony had just thought it better to let her find out in stages. Her one fault, and he hadn’t discovered any others yet, was standing on principle; don’t buy cosmetics that are manufactured by labs using animals, don’t touch goods manufactured in South Africa. Bloody stupid! But this experiment didn’t feature animals, only humans. She might even approve.
She was still watching him, waiting. He thought about tonight and came to a decision. Tell her a little and watch her reactions; he already had his cover-ups worked out if anybody pushed him into a corner.
‘I take it I’m being given an ultimatum?’ he asked, and laughed just to soften the question.
‘Blackmail,’ she parried, and smiled. ‘I think you owe it to me, Tony.’
‘Perhaps.’ He motioned her to the settee, lowered himself down beside her and slipped an arm around her. ‘I thought you’d ask me outright before long. Well, just take a look at a few of today’s social problems. Football hooligans, child molesters, shoplifters, mental hospitals overcrowded with innumerable patients which even psychologists don’t understand. They come up with answers which are pure guesswork half the time, and are no nearer a solution. We don’t know why people react to situations in a variety of different ways, that is what it all amounts to. There’s an old adage that prevention is better than cure and never was a truer word spoken. But it’s finding the prevention that is the difficult part. I’m talking about psychological problems, of course, not cures for cancer or Aids or whatever.’
‘Is this some kind of sociological lecture?’ She hoped it didn’t sound cynical even if it was.
‘We might be completely wasting our time and the state’s money,’ he went on as if he had not heard, ‘although judging from the Evans
es’ reaction I wouldn’t think so. That is, indeed, an encouraging start but there’s an awful long way to go yet.’
‘And what exactly has happened to the Evanses?’ She experienced a slight racing of her pulses, a quickening of her breathing.
‘They are undeniably convinced that the New Ice Age has arrived.’ There was an underlying smugness in his tone.
‘Christ, you have to be joking, Tony!’
‘I’m as serious about it as they are,’ he answered, ‘which serves to illustrate once again the complexity of the human mind. They are sitting in their chalet, wrapped in overcoats and sweaters, feeding the meter fifty pence pieces to keep the electric fire going and making decisive plans to join the Big Trek south.’
‘God, they must be roasting in this heat! But, surely, the moment they look out of the window and see the sun shining they’ll cotton on?’
‘No, it’s all in the mind, they see what they want to believe. Their chalet is bugged and I can assure you the conversation is most enlightening. It is obviously a hidden fear which they’ve harboured, probably subconsciously throughout these few severe winters we’ve had, and now they’re convinced that the country’s buried beneath snowdrifts which will never melt. They can’t remember where their home is, they’re convinced that they’ve lived in that chalet ever since Billy Evans was made redundant and they had to sell their home. It will be interesting to see whether or not they actually embark upon this trek south.’
‘But once they get outside and see the camp full of holidaymakers they’ll rumble it!’ Ann was incredulous. ‘They must, surely.’
‘That will be the most interesting part of this experiment.’ He laughed, held her close to him. ‘How far does it go? That is what we want to find out. I must admit that for our first attempt it has proved unique.’
‘And if they do embark upon this so-called trek, how far will you let them go?’
‘They are being monitored, don’t worry. They’ll either snap out of it, or not. If not, then we’ll have to administer the antidote. Mullins will see to that, your job is to slip them C-551 in their grub.’
‘They could sue,’ she retorted. ‘There’d be an outcry, the public wouldn’t stand for anything like this! Why couldn’t we use volunteers?’
‘Because,’ he took his time replying, ‘we should get the wrong people and they might just simulate reactions. We need your Mr Average, as in the case of the Evanses, a guy who thinks no further than going to the pub, and football on a Saturday afternoon.’
‘Tell me more about C-551.’ It was a demand that would not accept refusal.
‘It is an hallucinatory drug. Harmless, and I can assure you it hasn’t been tried on animals. It causes a temporary loss of memory and invokes fears and fantasies. What we need to know is what does a dropout, an unemployed person, virtually anybody, fantasize about, and how do they react when their dreams or nightmares become, to them, reality. It is an attempt to understand the human mind. If we knew why football hooligans went on the rampage, why meek and mild clerical workers become sadistic murderers, then we are half way to solving some of the problems prevalent in society today.’
‘I wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t already happened to the Evanses.’ She was trembling slightly. ‘Well, I suppose it’s high time we experimented on humans instead of rats or monkeys. But it is harmless, isn’t it, Tony? You can stop it if it gets out of hand?’
‘Of course.’ He spoke vehemently, but averted his gaze, reached for his whisky glass. ‘There will be absolutely no side effects. The period during which the … er, guinea pig is under the influence of C-551 will be a complete void in his or her memory. For example, if the Evanses do set out on their trek, then we shall stop them, return them to their chalet and administer the antidote. They will snap out of their hallucination and resume their holiday just as if nothing untoward had happened. But in all likelihood the effects will just wear off and they’ll wake up in bed and carry on with their holiday. He will go down to the bar and she will carry on dreaming about finding a lover. And that isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility.’ He laughed again. ‘A lot of men don’t realize just what a woman needs.’
His lips found hers and they both laughed this time.
Chapter Three
‘I’m not going to stay in this bloody place a second longer!’ The attractive red-haired girl stamped a foot petulantly on the chalet floor, swept a hand through the air which was meant to incorporate the entire holiday camp, then pointed again at the mass of insects which swarmed beneath the cheap kitchen fittings. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s ants! Ugh!’
The tall dark-haired man sighed, glanced heavenwards. Dressed in a checked shirt and faded jeans, there was little to distinguish him from the majority of other holidaymakers at the Paradise Holiday Camp, except perhaps his closely cropped beard which seemed out of character with his long hair. Features which had a stamp of kindliness about them, a ready smile and an eagerness to please. Jeff Beebee was long-suffering; this was just another of Gemma’s tantrums, it would blow over like a sudden sea squall, but in the meantime he had to ride it out. It was no good arguing with his girlfriend, that got you nowhere, but if you gave in she walked all over you. Compromise was the answer, and maybe he would have found one if it hadn’t been for those damned ants.
‘I’ll go up to the main office and ask the maintenance chaps to call and give ’em a squirt,’ he spoke softly, unruffled. ‘These modern ant-killers work wonders. Half an hour and the lot’ll be dead.’
‘And you think I’m going to sleep in here after that?’ She backed away as a lone ant broke from the seething regiment and came for a closer view of the humans. ‘They won’t kill them all, that’s for sure. One or two will survive and then when we’re asleep …’ She broke off and her angry flush paled at the thought of what might happen in the middle of the night.
‘All right, I’ll ask them to move us to another chalet.’ Compromise Number Two.
‘And how will we know there aren’t ants there, too?’ Her voice rose to a pitch. ‘If they’re in one chalet, they’re just as likely to be in another one. The whole camp is probably alive with them. And that patch of flooding hasn’t dried out properly either.’
Jeff groaned inwardly. There had been a freak thunderstorm on the night of their arrival, and the next morning a pool of water had formed on the linoleum floor of the lobby between the kitchen and bedroom. The wall was saturated and the rain had seeped in. That was the first fault Gemma had found with the camp; the maintenance men had come and laid out some old sacking to mop up the flood; it had worked but the wall was still soaking, it would take days for it to dry out. It would not really inconvenience them, though.
‘I’ll get us moved,’ he spoke quietly. ‘No problem.’
‘There’s sure to be a problem.’ Her soft red lips curled in a vicious sneer. ‘Aren’t they fully booked this fortnight, that was what the man in reception said when we arrived? So there won’t be a spare chalet to move us to? We’ve been here just three days and, Christ, there’s another eleven to go! Jesus, whatever were you thinking of coming to a holiday camp?’
‘It was your suggestion in the first place.’ He was still unruffled. ‘You don’t like hotels because you’re tied to fixed mealtimes, you don’t like holiday cottages because you have to get the breakfast, and we can’t afford to go abroad. So where do you want to go? Home? And then you’ll complain about either your mother or my mother.’
‘You’re impossible!’ She turned away, went through to the bedroom and slammed the door.
Jeff stood there undecided. There was no way you could ever snap Gemma out of one of her moods, it was a waiting game, and you didn’t wait around close to her. The best thing was to take a walk up to the main reception office, complain about the ants and they would either come and administer a swift insect euthanasia or else move Gemma and himself to another chalet. The options were left to the administrators; Gemma was his problem.
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It was three quarters of an hour before he returned to the chalet; the skeleton maintenance crew were out on another call and the receptionist had had difficulty in contacting them. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr Beebee, they’ll be right down to your chalet to deal with the ants. I’m afraid we can’t transfer you to another accommodation because we’re fully booked this week. I’m terribly sorry about all this.’
He let himself back into the chalet and stared in amazement. Gemma’s latest tantrum quite clearly wasn’t going to evaporate as swiftly as he had hoped. Two small bulging suitcases stood by the door, his girlfriend had changed back into a dress, and she was wearing the light suede jacket which was her favourite going-somewhere garment. Those freckles on her face had merged into an ugly dark splodge and judging from her red-rimmed eyes she had been crying. Tears of rage, she never cried for any other reason.
‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday.’ She was pulling on a pair of gloves, an even surer indication that she wasn’t staying here.
‘And just where are you going?’ He clicked the door shut behind him and leaned up against it.
‘That’s my business. Now, please move away from that door.’
‘Okay, we’ll leave. That’s a couple of hundred quid down the drain but if you’re not happy then we’ll have to move on.’ He despised himself for giving in to her but for the moment he had run out of options.
‘I don’t want you to come with me, Jeff. I’m leaving, and that’s that. Now, please let me through that door!’
‘Steady on, you can’t …’
‘I can’t what?’ Gemma picked up a case in either hand. ‘I can walk right out of here, Jeff, which is exactly what I’m going to do. If you don’t move I shall start screaming and then you’ll be in some trouble!’
‘How will you leave without the car? Where will you go?’ He was experiencing a sinking feeling, this was more than just a threat.