Temple of the Winds

by James Follett

  Vikki and Sarah started cranking the outdoor pump. The makeshift feeder pipe -- a length of garden hose that snaked across the lawn to the radiator, stiffened. Anne adjusted her sweatband, stooped and listened to water gurgling into the radiator.

  `It's filling!' she announced. `Keep pumping. This thing probably holds about twenty gallons.'

  `Litres, mum! No one uses gallons anymore.'

  `I don't give a toss if my bath is filled with gallons or litres so long as they're hot,' Anne retorted.

  The two girls pumped energetically for another five minutes. A meagre dripple of water eventually trickled from the return hose into a zinc bath that was even older than the radiator. Jack Taylor's reluctance to throw anything away because it might come in useful, was coming in useful even though the bath had a small leak -- hence Anne's decision that they should bath outside.

  `It's coming through, mum!'

  `Is it hot?'

  Vikki held her left hand in the thin stream of rust-coloured water trickling from the return pipe. `Just a bit warm!'

  Sarah sucked in her breath. `I saw him first. He's mine,' she announced quietly.

  Vikki followed her friend's gaze and turned around as Malone jogged up the drive to them. He was wearing white shorts and a sweat-clinging T-shirt. He stopped and surveyed them, breathing easily. It seemed to Sarah that his wide-set eyes were swallowing them up. Her inclination was to do the same to him but not with her eyes.

  `Good morning, ladies. I'm looking for Victoria Taylor.'

  `Can I help?' Anne asked, approaching. `I'm Vikki's mother.'

  Malone produced his warrant card and introduced himself. He smiled at Vikki. `I saw you both outside Ellen Duncan's shop on Sunday, and I don't need to be much of a detective to deduce that you must be Victoria.'

  Anne looked worried. `What have you done, Vikki?'

  `She hasn't done anything, Mrs Taylor. I called at St Catherine's but the form mistress said that she'd been away.'

  `She's been ill,' said Anne severely. `But she's going back tomorrow.'

  `Mum...'

  `Tomorrow,' Anne repeated firmly. `What do you want with her, Mr Malone?'

  The police officer looked thoughtfully at Vikki. She stared boldly back at him, hands behind her back, like a defiant schoolgirl bracing herself for a showdown with a teacher.

  `Well, Vikki -- it seems that you're one of four witnesses who saw a crab-like device around the time the crisis started. It's possible that it was some sort of manifestation of the UFO that may or may not be in the plague swamp. All very speculative, of course, but I've been given the job of collecting statements.'

  The girl's relief was obvious. `Oh that. It was only a glimpse.'

  Anne gestured to a picnic table and benches near the radiator. `She told us about it. You'd better make yourselves comfortable. We've got some tea in a thermos jug, Mr Malone.'

  A few minutes later Malone was drinking a mug of stewed tea and wishing he wasn't while watching Vikki produce a rough sketch of the spyder. Her left hand stayed out of sight under the bench.

  `How many legs, Vikki?'

  `I didn't see it close enough for that. And it was for only about a second.'

  `Looks like a crab,' was Sarah's contribution, pressing her thigh against Malone as she leaned forward.

  `It was no crab,' said Malone. He took the sketch and glanced through the notes Vikki had dictated. `Is there anything else you want to add? It doesn't matter how unimportant it may seem.'

  `Well... I was daydreaming at the time. Does that matter do you think?'

  Malone pocketed his notebook and the sketch. `Probably not.' He rose. `Best be on my way. Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs Taylor.'

  Anne looked up from the kitchen door where she was holding the radiator's outlet hose. `That's all right, Mr Malone. Dammit -- I don't think this idea is going to work.'

  `It might be an idea to paint the radiator black, Mrs Taylor. Black absorbs the sun's heat more efficiently than white.' With that, Malone thanked Vikki, said his goodbyes, and jogged down the drive.

  `Wow,' Sarah murmured appreciatively. `He's a 10.'

  `Do you think he noticed anything?' Vikki asked anxiously.

  `What about?'

  `My left hand, stupid! I was using it when he turned up. He's sure to have noticed.'

  `Naw... You're barking up a dead horse. Typical thick plod. I was giving him the come on while you were talking and he never noticed a thing.'

  The radiator gave a sudden belch followed by an ominous gurgling rumble. Anne directed the hose into the zinc bath and gave a whoop of triumph: the water spraying from the nozzle was scalding hot.

  Chapter 52.

  EARLY ON FRIDAY MORNING, an hour before dawn, something happened that Harding had been worrying about.

  It rained.

  He heard the light drumming and rose without waking Suzi. Tonight there was no light ground fog as there had been for last two nights as a result of the high humidity and falling night time temperatures. With the sun's ground evaporation raising the humidity to such exceptional levels, he knew that rain was inevitable but it was a huge relief when it finally came. On several occasions during the last four days he had tramped towards the Pentworth Lake, estimating the daily drop in the volume of water flowing in the streams. More particularly he been watching the sky, noting the movement of smoke from the few licensed fires, to assess the convection currents within the dome. The smoke had always swung towards Pentworth Lake, where the dome was its highest, and then had been borne upwards. Sometimes the moisture-laden currents had surrendered their warmth to colder air causing sparse clouds to appear briefly, spreading outwards -- displaced by the rising air. He knew that the moisture had to go somewhere. Each day there had been more clouds.

  It was only a matter of time.

  And now it was raining.

  He stood in the middle of his lawn in his pyjamas, enjoying the sensation of the warm, soft splashes while holding up a sterilized flask to catch a sample. He returned to the kitchen and used a swimming pool test kit to measure the sample's pH. The mauve it turned matched the colour chart for a pH of 7.5 meaning that the rainwater was neutral -- neither acid nor alkaline. Nor did it leave a deposit when he dried a drop on a slide. He tasted the flask's contents -- nothing like taste buds to confirm a scientific finding.

  It was the purest water to have fallen on Pentworth for many years and its effect would be profound.

  Chapter 53.

  `ALL THIS TALK OF UFOS and mechanical crabs is nothing but a crude smokescreen, Asquith,' said Roscoe, staring across the candlelit table at his guest. He threw down the duplicated witness reports in contempt.

  `There were several witnesses who saw something lit up by lightning flashes just before the storm broke. They were reliable--' Prescott began but Roscoe interupted with a snort of contempt.

  `The police said that it was an aircraft going into Gatwick.'

  `And there're the four witnesses who claim to have seen a mechanical crab-like device, Adrian.' Prescott fiddled with his brandy balloon stem to avoid Roscoe's cobalt blue eyes which looked even more intimidating by candlelight. The two men were in the dining room of Roscoe's modest private apartment on the top floor of Pentworth House.

  `Witnesses! Mechanical crabs!' Roscoe snapped scathingly. He picked up the reports. `The Duncan woman -- a glimpse of something. The same for her apprentice, this Victoria Taylor. Malone says he saw something in the dark when he'd been running. He doesn't say that he had been on duty for 14-hours!'

  `14 hours?' Prescott queried. `How do you know?'

  `Ask him!' Roscoe snapped. `I went to the trouble of finding out. And as for the Price woman -- something she saw through her telescope, through glass, at night, at a distance of half a mile. What sort of evidence is that? And what is it that they all claim to have seen? A fleeting glimpse of something that sounds like a kid's radio-controlled toy.'

  `There is the evidence of the Wall.'

  Ro
scoe leaned forward, elbows on the table, the sleeves of his gown fell back to reveal his long, bony arms. He stared fixedly at Prescott, willing his guest to look up and succeeded. `Yes -- now that is evidence, Asquith. Evidence of God's work. A divine curse. We have been isolated as a punishment for permitting His enemies to practice their evil within our midst. There have been diabolical perversions going on. Of that I have irrefutable evidence.'

  `I don't follow you.'

  `The four witness who said they saw this crab. What do they all have in common?'

  Prescott tried to focus his mind on the problem.

  `Where is the centre of the Wall?' Roscoe demanded.

  `Pentworth Lake.'

  `Who owns it?'

  `Ellen Duncan.'

  `Exactly,' said Roscoe. `That the centre of the Wall's circle is on land owned by the Duncan woman is His way of pointing her out to us. Consider the facts: Malone is a friend of hers. He used his off-duty time to come around here making wild accusations on her behalf. Catherine Price is a regular customer, and the Victoria Taylor girl works for her as an apprentice in her witchcraft obscenities.'

  `Oh, really, Adrian. The Taylors are a decent family. Jack Taylor bought a couple of cottages from me. The girl lost her hand in an accident in Spain when she was a toddler. Cathy Price does design work and printing -- she did an excellent job of printing the work vouchers. And Ellen Duncan is a herbalist -- nothing more.'

  `I seem to recollect you once telling me that you suspected the Duncan woman of being behind your being dropped as a parliamentary candidate.'

  Prescott remembered the incident at Pentworth Lake when his suspicion had crystallized into a certainty. `Well... Yes.'

  Roscoe's fist came down on the table. `She's a witch and I can prove it! The longer we procrastinate in dealing with her, the more terrible will be the wrath of the Almighty!' He tugged an old-fashioned bell pull and returned his gaze to Prescott, his anger seeming to have gone. He smiled. `I forgot to congratulate you on your excellent work during these difficult days, Asquith.'

  Prescott gave a disparaging wave. `Merely been doing my duty. Your own contribution has been remarkable. Your girls seem to have the milk and bread distribution down to a fine art.' He chuckled. `I think their uniforms have gladdened a few hearts in the mornings now that you're delivering to the elderly. Only wish I were old enough to qualify.'

  The two men laughed but there was no humour in Roscoe's eyes. The ice-blue chips remained cold and calculating. `I'm considering stepping up bread production in the next two or three days, Asquith. With your approval, of course.'

  Prescott helped himself to another brandy. `Of course. How much grain are you sitting on?'

  `Four hundred tonnes. And you?'

  `A thousand,' said Prescott, hiccupping. `Rented some silos on Greg Jonquil's Farm. Four thousand tonnes in the area altogether. No shortage of grain.' He raised his glass. `Here's to the EU's Common Agricultural Policy and their cheques for looking after their grain... What will you do? Build more ovens?'

  `We already have them. Disused. From the days when the estate baked all the bread for several miles around. We have more than enough methane from the pigs. We've even adapted our generators to run off it.'

  Prescott nodded. `Rather wish I'd thought to install digesters. Damned useful...'

  `With the party guests that didn't get away and the security men, I now have over 60 extra mouths to feed. But there's plenty of work for them all. The fine weather's helped. Grass is coming on early and fast.'

  Roscoe was about to say something but the door opened and Theta entered carrying a camcorder. She was wearing a provocative, low-cut cotton dress. Prescott's eyes dwelt on the sway of her breasts as she placed the camcorder on the table. His conversation had ceased each time she had appeared to serve the two men. She gave Prescott a dazzling smile and withdrew.

  `Damn pretty girl, Adrian.'

  `An accomplished masseuse,' Roscoe observed, pouring his guest some more brandy. He swung out the camcorder's large LCD monitor screen and started the tape. `Tell me what you make of that, Asquith.' He turned the device around.

  The colour picture stood out sharp and clear in the dimly-lit room. It showed Vikki and Sarah playing table tennis in the Taylors' garden. Out of focus foliage around the edge of the frame indicated that the shot had been taken surreptitiously.

  `Looks like my old cottages... Yes -- that's Vikki Taylor. Don't know who the other girl is.'

  `The Taylor girl didn't go back to school when it reopened,' said Roscoe, looking up at the ceiling as though he realized just how distracting his gaze could be. `Look carefully and you'll see why.'

  `Can't see anything--' Prescott broke off and stared at the picture as it zoomed in on Vikki and panned several times from hand to hand before loosening to a medium shot. `Good God!' he muttered. `She's got two hands!'

  `Precisely.'

  `But... But... Well -- it's amazing what they can do with artif--'

  `Keep watching!' Roscoe cut in, this time studying his guest carefully. Even by candlelight it was possible to discern the paling of his Prescott's expression when the picture showed Vikki jumping to catch a wide serve with her left hand. By way of celebration she bounced the ball on the table using each hand in turn like a table tennis bat.

  `My God... It's not possible. There must be some mistake. That can't be Vikki Taylor!'

  Roscoe rewound the tape. He plugged an earphone into a socket on the camcorder and offered it to Prescott who pressed it into his ear. Roscoe restarted the tape.

  `It's fantastic, Vikki!' Sarah cried in the closing shot. `It's a wonderful hand! So perfectly, wonderfully fantastic! Now you've got it, you've got to start using it more!'

  Roscoe stopped the tape. Prescott continued staring at the camcorder's blank screen.

  `Point One,' said Roscoe carefully. `That, as anyone can see, is not an artificial hand. Point Two: the other girl's words make it clear that the hand is new. Point Three: Victoria Taylor works for the Duncan woman -- she's her apprentice.'

  Prescott shook his head disbelievingly. `Seems extraordinary,' he muttered.

  Roscoe rose, tugged the bell pull and removed some press cuttings from a sideboard drawer which he placed before his guest and sat down, arms folded, his intense blue eyes cold, cold.

  `It's her!' said Prescott when he saw the photograph of Ellen Duncan. He read quickly through the columns. `Good heavens -- I don't believe it...'

  `Quite definitely a witch, wouldn't you say, Asquith?'

  `Was it in our local papers? I don't recall--'

  `Why should it be? A report on a case before a coroner's court in Yorkshire. It didn't even make the nationals. The question is, what do we do about her and her blasphemies?'

  The door opened and Theta entered again. This time Prescott was too engrossed in the Ellen Duncan story to respond to her presence until she moved behind him and began gently massaging his shoulders. He took his attention off the press cuttings and closed his eyes. `Oh yes... That's good... She is good, Adrian.'

  Roscoe smiled and nodded his approval to the girl. `Thirty minutes treatment by Theta is the ideal end to a hectic day. Something you deserve, Asquith. Why don't you try it?'

  Theta pulled Prescott to his feet and urged him towards the door. `Well,' he said uncertainly. The girl took his arm and put it around her waist so that his hand was almost cupping her breast.

  `I'll say goodnight now, Asquith. Theta will look after you. And thank you for your company. In view of this...' he gestured to the cuttings and the camcorder. `Perhaps you now understand why I won't attend the meeting. For me to be in the same room as a living blasphemy...'

  `Yes -- of course.' But Prescott wasn't taking much notice of his host as he allowed himself to be guided to the door. His hand had shifted and a plump, hard nipple was thrusting enticingly between his fingers.

  The moment he was alone, Roscoe produced a Handie-Com transceiver from a deep pocket in his gown.

  `
Nelson receiving?'

  `Copy, father.'

  `They're on their way.'

  `We're all set, father.'

  `Don't let me down.'

  Faraday promised that the pictures would be perfect.

  Chapter 54.

  PRESCOTT KEPT HIS WORD. In front of the entire Emergency Council, gathered in the town hall chamber for their second full meeting, he apologised to Diana and went on to praise her for the way she had organized her staff and recruited volunteers. He stated that thanks to the town clerk's hard work Pentworth was well on the way to having an effective administrative system. Diana stammered a grateful acceptance and subsided into her seat, touched and confused.

  Malone wondered if there was anything between them. Diana Sheldon was unmarried, in her mid-fifties. A shy, retiring woman. Greying, slim, attractive although she didn't make the best of herself. Her lack of confidence made her vulnerable and therefore likely to be an eager and easily-flattered victim of overtures from Asquith Prescott.

  Well done, Prescott, thought Malone. You've got the crowd outside on your side and your civil service's chief executive worshipping you.

  Before the meeting a small but eager group had been waiting outside the town hall to meet Prescott. They had shaken his hand, taken care of his horse, told him what a fine fellow he was and what a wonderful job he was doing. And Prescott had revelled in the adulation, clapping people on the back, his booming laugh making horses skittish, and his florid features flushed pink with pleasure.

  Malone turned his attention to Ellen Duncan. He was sitting at the far end of the table beside Harvey Evans and under orders from his superior not to speak unless spoken to. There was little for him to do so he contented himself with admiring Ellen's profile. She sensed his attention and looked up but he made no attempt to avoid eye contact. Ellen was the first to look away but Malone felt no sense of victory -- not with this woman. He cursed himself for his childish game play and studied the meeting's lengthy and detailed agenda. Pentworth was bracing itself for a long crisis. The second Sunday without him seeing his two daughters had come and gone, leaving a dull ache which was certain to get worse.