Temple of the Winds

by James Follett

  Wonderful, thought Malone. Oh hell -- this woman is really getting to me.

  Prescott continued smiling blandly at Ellen but this time his eyes told her that he had filed that one away for future reference. `Let's take a vote on it,' he said affably.

  As before, one vote against.

  Prescott beamed. `Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. We've got through everything in seven hours. A most gruelling day. You're all entitled to 40 Euros each for today's work.'

  While Prescott wound-up the meeting and thanked everyone, David suffered another venomous curse whispered in his ear that, had Ellen the powers to make it work, would result in two important bits of him putrefying and dropping off.

  Chapter 55.

  OUTSIDE THE TOWN HALL Ellen went for David like an unleashed Rottweiler that had endured a month of insults from a loathed postman. `You stupid, stupid idiot!' she railed. `Do you have any idea what you've done? Do you? You and all the other sheep have given that shit unlimited powers! He can reorganize the police force how he sees fit. You've even given him a presidential office, and as for his dealing with day-to-day problems, who decides what are day-to-day problems? He does! Like this Mickey Mouse luncheon voucher money we're stuck with. Was that decided democratically by the council? Was it hell!'

  `It was something the banks--'

  `Miss Duncan.'

  Ellen spun around. Malone was looking down at her. He smiled at David, and said quietly in Ellen's ear, `Well done, Miss Duncan. If I had voting rights in there, they would've been for you.'

  Ellen's answer took even the phlegmatic Malone by surprise. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately, pressing her breasts against his chest and grinding her pelvis against him in a response-provoking and decidedly unladylike manner. Malone judged that Ellen wasn't given to such overt displays in public. Having missed nothing of the tension between her and David Weir in the council chamber, he decided that its purpose was to shock the farmer into an appreciation of her anger. Much as he disliked being used, he found this sort of abuse tolerable. Some nearby youths tending horses whistled and announced their availability for similar ill treatment.

  `Thank you, Mr Malone,' said Ellen stepping back and deriving satisfaction from David's surprised expression. `It's good to feel that there are some real men about.'

  `I'd be pleased to be of service to you at any time, Miss Duncan,' was Malone's bland reply.

  Ellen met his wide-set eyes and realized that he was in earnest. `Good,' she said lightly to cover her momentary confusion. `Then you'll join us for a beer in the Crown? David's paying. Mr Baldock!' Escape was useless; Ellen had grabbed the passing pig farmer by the arm. `Why, Mr Baldock?' she demanded.

  Her victim was expecting this and had his excuses ready. `Because it's been a long day. Because I was tired. Because the pain the arse from my chair was bigger than the pain in the arse in the other chair.'

  `Your comfort and convenience comes before the interests of those who elected you?' Ellen's tone was scathing.

  `Prescott has given himself a shitty job,' Baldock replied. `Who better than a shit to do it? He's too stupid to do it properly. There'll be a vote of confidence at the next meeting or the one after and he'll be out.'

  `And you'll be in. You're deputy chairman.'

  `Like hell I will,' Baldock growled.

  There was a sudden commotion behind. Prescott had emerged into the late afternoon sunlight to be greeted by his coterie of admirers. The reins of his horse were thrust into hands. He swung his heavy frame easily into the saddle and waved to his fans.

  `Lots of important matters thrashed out,' he boomed in answer to a barrage of questions. `I'll be talking to you all at nine o'clock tonight.' He rode off down the street, still fielding questions. `Dear God -- what the hell's got into everyone?' Ellen asked of no one in particular.

  `If you'll excuse me,' said Baldock. `I've got a lot to do before dark.' He made his escape.

  `So you'll have a jar with us, Mr Malone?' David offered.

  `I'd be delighted to, Mr Weir. Although the Crown have probably sold out of beer by now.'

  As it happened the low-ceilled former post house had not sold out of draught.

  `The voucher scheme seems to be working,' was David's comment as he set down the tankards on the table. `It's certainly stopped a run on everything. One of the better ideas the banks have come up with. Amazing that they should've been thought up, designed, and printed in a day.'

  `The British flair for government and organization,' Malone observed. He smiled at Ellen's and David's surprised expressions. `Your incredulous looks underpin my theory. The British are good at organization and don't realize it even though it's a rare talent. In a major emergency, such as the Second World War, they organize for simplicity of social structure. A coalition government, a single supply ministry; a single fuel and power ministry -- that sort of thing. In prosperity and peace, they organize for complexity, as we saw back in the 1990s when thousands of messy little organizations with overlapping responsibilities -- quangoes -- were spawned.

  `The British like to reinvent and restructure everything to create a social order so complex that only they can operate it. Which is why the police have to complete about 20 forms to bring a shoplifter to book. Or rather, we did.'

  It was warm in the panelled saloon bar. Someone pushed a side door open and allowed in the smell of horse sweat and hay. After nearly a century as a car park, the Crown's yard was returning to its former function of stabling.

  `And now the pendulum is swinging the other way in Pentworth, Mr Malone?' David inquired. `That we're heading for simplicity?'

  `Perhaps it's too early to comment on Pentworth, but all dictators, even elective dictators, like simplicity. It makes for easier understanding and therefore control. The regulations such governments issue may be complex, but administrative lines are short and simple so that the sound of a cracking whip in the form of decrees reaches all ears quickly and effectively.'

  Ellen sipped her drink while regarding Malone. `Decrees about rationing, compulsory direction of labour -- that sort of thing?'

  `Yes. But they're usually called guidelines to start with,' said Malone.

  `What's the difference between government decrees and government guidelines?'

  Malone gave a faint smile. `None.'

  `They make for bad law,' said David, feeling that he was out of his depth in this conversation.

  `They're no law at all,' Malone replied. `But that doesn't stop them coming.'

  `You share my opinion that Prescott is likely to become an elective dictator unless he's stopped?' Ellen inquired.

  This time Ellen found the strange compulsion about Malone's inscrutable, wide-set eyes even more disturbing. She realized that she was attracted to this enigmatic man and wondered why. Her ego was such that she liked to be in control, which was why she was content with her relationship with David. He had just the right degree of malleability to allow her to have her own way most of the time without him being a wimp. But Malone, she sensed, could undermine her ego with little effort and manipulate her into agreeable submission. He frightened her.

  `I was talking in general terms, Miss Duncan,' he replied. `But Pentworth is being well-run largely due Diana Sheldon. She makes an effective head of the civil service provided she isn't overloaded. I don't think she's good at delegating. As town clerk of a small community, she didn't have to be.'

  `And Prescott's got her eating out of his hand,' Ellen snorted.

  `Until the novelty of having an attentive male hand to eat out of wears off,' Malone replied. `Which it will when her pride reasserts itself.'

  `Ah! There you all are.'

  The company looked up at Bob Harding. The scientist was clutching a litre glass of cider. They made room for him at the table which he paid for with several packets of peanuts. `Compliments of the landlord -- he thinks we're doing an excellent job and that Prescott is the right man in the right place at the right time. Just lik
e Churchill.'

  Ellen groaned. `I was enjoying this drink.'

  Harding chuckled. `That was funny what you said about his worth, Ellen. I won't forget that in a hurry, and I'm damn sure Prescott won't.' He became serious. `David -- I've heard that you've acquired some sort of steam-powered generator recently?'

  `That's right. A Charles Burrell showmans' engine.'

  `What exactly is a showmans' engine?'

  `What most people insist on calling a steamroller, but with a huge belt-driven generator mounted on the boiler. They provided electricity for travelling fairs in the days before the National Grid.'

  `Sounds interesting. Is it in working order?'

  `In about two to three weeks. Charlie Crittenden and his family have been working on her, but a whole load of other priorities have cropped up. Her name's Brenda. The road gear, boiler and steam mechanics seem sound. But we're not sure about the dynamo. We can't test it until the engine's running. It may be that the armature will need rewinding. That will involve stripping out the enamelled copper wire, reshellacing it, and rewinding. A big job.'

  `How much does Brenda weigh?'

  The question surprised David. `Well... I'm not sure. About 15 to 25 tonnes at a guess.'

  `Would it be okay if I came up and took a look at her tomorrow morning? About ten?'

  `That'll be fine.'

  Harding stood and picked up his drink. `Thanks, David. See you then. Good day all. Suzi's with me. Better not keep her waiting.'

  `Most odd,' Malone commented when the scientist had gone.

  `Why?' queried Ellen. `It's his job to round up gen on all electricity generators. The only reason David hasn't mentioned it so far is that we don't know for certain that the mechanics are okay.'

  `My point exactly,' said Malone. `It's his job to know about generators. But he wasn't interested in the engine's generating capacity -- only in its weight.’

  Chapter 56.

  MILLICENT VAUGHAN'S VIEWS on home visits were such that her patients required considerable courage to summons her if their condition wasn't terminal or if they hadn't made an appointment at least a week in advance to be an emergency.

  Normally icy silence on her part during a home visit was sufficient to convey her disapproval and ensure that the errant patient's condition got worse, but on this occasion, two weeks of unremitting frustration and exhaustion led to her expressing herself to Cathy Price in more direct terms.

  `We've been working 20 hours a day since the crisis began -- helping set up a hospital, training auxiliary staff, bullying retired staff back to work, rounding up drugs, dealing with a spate of injuries caused by people falling off or getting kicked by horses, or trying to burn themselves to death with candles, worrying ourselves sick about an epidemic. I'm having to cope with a trap pulled by the most bloody-minded pony on God's earth, and I've had hardly any sleep for two weeks. Your message said it was urgent and yet I find you looking fit, and you yourself said that you were okay. If it's another termination you want, you're out of luck -- we don't have the facilities set up yet, and even if we had, I'm damned if I'd sanction their use for your--'

  `If you would just listen--' Cathy began, having tried to interrupt the good doctor several times.

  `Listen?' Millicent snapped. `I don't have to listen! My eyes tell me that there's nothing wrong--'

  `For Chrissake will you please listen!' Cathy shouted.

  The doctor jumped to her feet and seized her bag. She yanked the living room door open. `I have work to do. If you want to change your doctor, that's fine by me.'

  `If you won't listen! Look!'

  Millicent was about to slam the door behind her. She glanced back at Cathy with the intention of treating her to one last paint-stripper glare but her patient had done two things to make the older woman stand transfixed in astonishment, the colour draining from her face.

  Cathy had stood and taken a few steps across the room towards her.

  For timeless seconds the two women stared at each other. Cathy was the first to speak. `It was two weeks ago,' she said quietly. `When the electricity went off. My wheelchair battery was flat. I tried to reach it and found I could walk.' She met Millicent's shocked gaze. `Well... sort of walk... It's getting a bit better each day. I can now manage ten or so turns around the room without having to grab something.'

  Millicent returned to the high-backed chair she had been sitting before she had torn into Cathy. She sat perfectly still, not taking her eyes off her patient for an instant. It was some seconds before she could bring herself to speak. `Do that again. Let me see you walk.'

  Cathy did a circuit of the room. There was a slight unsteadiness in her pace but she didn't need to touch any furniture or the gym equipment to maintain her balance. Her face was creased with pain or concentration when she finished --Millicent wasn't sure which.

  `Can you stand on one leg?'

  `Just about now.' Cathy wobbled a little but the demonstration showed that her balance was reasonable although not perfect.

  She shouldn't be able to balance at all!

  `I can even touch my toes. See?'

  Several seconds passed before Millicent could marshal a coherent sentence. `Please sit down, Miss Price.'

  Cathy returned to the settee and sat. Millicent's mind refocussed and she saw something that she hadn't noticed before, such was her preoccupation with her own problems. She had never particularly liked Cathy Price and her overt displays of flamboyance and sexuality -- driving around the town in that ridiculous Jaguar, hood always down, even in the winter, and wearing next to nothing. It had all started, if the rumours were true, when she had taken up with some Londoner. But the doctor accepted that the young woman had worked hard, learned to live life to the full and make light of her disability. But now that vivaciousness and bravura were gone. Her face was drawn, almost haggard, and there were dark shadows under her now lustreless eyes.

  Millicent reached across and covered Cathy's wrist. The response was startling; the young woman grasped the doctor's hands as though she were drowning. `When was that scan I sent you for, Miss Price?'

  `Five years ago.'

  `As long as that? How time flies. I can't recall the details, but didn't the Atkinson Morley finally identify the damaged area of your brain that controlled balance?'

  `There was some technical jargon in the report which meant beyond repair,' said Cathy dully. `I remember one of the consultants explaining something about undamaged parts of the brain being able to take over the functions of damaged parts. But not in my case.'

  `So they were wrong.' Millicent paused and studied her patient. `Isn't that cause for rejoicing?'

  `Rejoicing! Not knowing if it's going to last? Not knowing if a fall, or a sneeze, cough, or getting drunk, or even having sex, is going to throw me right back? Not knowing when I go to bed if I'll still be able to walk when I wake up?' Cathy stopped, choking back tears and a mind-swamping terror. `I can cope with not being able to walk -- I've managed for years. It's the uncertainty... Not knowing... Not being able to pick up a phone and talk to someone...'

  `How have you been coping since the crisis started?'

  It was a deliberately prosaic question intended to shift Cathy's concentration. `The neighbours have been marvellous. They got permission for me to have my own chemical toilet, they installed it and look after it. Horrible thing but better than the public toilets I suppose.'

  `They're quite civilised now. So you haven't told anyone about this?'

  Cathy shook her head. And then she was close to tears again. `How could I? Not knowing if it's permanent? It's not as if I can walk properly. It hurts, doctor. It hurts like hell, even after two weeks. I keep feeling that it's going to go away at anytime -- that it'll go just as easily as it went before.'

  `How long is it since your accident? 20 years?'

  `22. When I was ten.'

  `Well there you are. You've spent two thirds of your life unable to walk. You're like a baby having to learn to walk without the
advantages of being a baby. You're over ten times heavier than a baby; three or four times the height. Your brain is having to learn...' Millicent nearly lost her thread in mid-sentence, suddenly remembering using virtually the same reassuring words to a terrified Vikki Taylor two weeks previously. `...is having to learn all over again, and all the dozens of tiny, complex muscles involved in walking are bound to have wasted over 22 years despite your exercising.' She gently lifted Cathy's chin and looked into her eyes. `It won't go away. In two weeks you'll be doing somersaults -- I guarantee it.'

  Cathy smiled. `Thank you, doctor. You've been very kind. I'm sorry to have dragged you here.'

  Millicent patted Cathy's hand. `I owe you an apology, Miss Price. My wretched mouth tends to fire from the hip. I shouldn't have gone off at you like that. I really am very sorry.'

  An apology from the ever-frosty Millicent Vaughan! Cathy's look of surprise gave way to an embarrassed, dismissive wave. `Will you do me a favour, doctor?'

  `If I can.'

  `Please call me Cathy.'

  It was as good an opening as any for Millicent. She smiled. `Very well, but in exchange for a small favour from you. Tell me about the time you saw this spyder thing, as you called it.'

  `I had to give a proper statement to Sergeant Malone. There's really nothing much to say. I saw it at night through my telescope. It seemed to be following him.'

  `And it never got very close to you?'

  `Good Lord, no. The nearest it came was about quarter of a mile. Why do you look so disappointed?'

  `Do I? Oh, nothing. Just curious.'

  `But I did dream that it got close.'

  Millicent looked sharply at Cathy. `How do you mean?'

  `Please don't laugh, but I actually dreamed that it was in my bedroom.'

  Millicent didn't laugh but her pulse quickened. `What happened in this dream, Cathy?'

  `It was only a dream. Well... I was in my bedroom and suddenly I felt a draught as if I'd left a window open -- which I never do. And there it was at the end of my bed. A giant metal spider. Well -- more like a crab really. It had manipulator things.'