The Silent Vulcan

by James Follett

  "I don't understand," said David, looking at the three women in turn.

  "Think what Adrian Roscoe will make of this if it gets out," said Ellen. "Consorting with the devil... The seed of some Satanic messiah growing in her womb."

  "That's not true!" Vikki flared. "We made love because I wanted to!"

  "You made love because the Visitors forced you!"

  "No! They kept telling me that I didn't have to but I ignored them! It was my choice!"

  Ellen saw the intensity in Vikki's eyes and realised that she had made a mistake. "I'm sorry... I should not've put it like that. But that's how Adrian Roscoe will see it. This stupid amnesty won't be enough. It'll only be safe for us to come out when Adrian Roscoe is dead and his Bodian cult destroyed."

  Chapter 28.

  "WELL ALL I CAN SAY," SAID Andrew Dayton, as he stood with his arm around his wife, waving goodbye to the pony and trap that his father had hired, "is that the miserable old bugger must be mellowing in his old age."

  His wife laughed at the thought. Roger Dayton mellowing? It was a ridiculous notion. She tugged on her husband's arm. "Come on. A whole Saturday without the kids. Let's make the best of it."

  "Maybe he's finally accepted that his yachting days are over?" Andrew wondered.

  "Not the way he was moaning last week, he hasn't," said his wife. "And if he has finally taken a liking to his grandchildren, Allison will knock it out of him in an hour."

  She was wrong about her father-in-law. Any liking that Roger Dayton thought he might manage to muster for the shrieking 10-year-old was knocked out of him before they reached the end of the road. Peter, his younger grandchild, was quieter and therefore more tolerable, but the sad truth was that Dayton had much the same love of screaming children that he had for tropical force 12s.

  "Can't this thing go any faster, grandpa?" Allison demanded, banging the side of the trap and causing the pony's ears to twitch. "We'll never get there at this rate."

  "We're going fast enough," said Dayton morosely, wondering if he'd last the day.

  "Daddy's car could do a hundred miles an hour!"

  "Those days are over, aren't they, grandpa?" said Peter seriously.

  "They're gone for good, stupid!" Allison yelled.

  "You never know, Peter," Dayton replied. "They might come back."

  "Mummy said that she hopes they will never come back," Allison declared. "She said she likes the new life."

  "No she didn't," said Peter. "She said only if they could find a way of growing chocolate."

  "It doesn't grow, stupid!"

  "Yes it does, too!"

  The rest of the journey proceeded in that vein, with Dayton wishing he had the pony's ability to swivel his ears away from the uproar.

  "I can see the sea!" Peter yelled.

  "It's the lake, idiot!"

  Pentworth Lake's artificial beach was already dotted with family groups, bright parasols, and children splashing and shrieking around the water's edge under the watchful eye of a lifeguard perched on a high chair. Any bathers venturing beyond the line of brightly coloured floats that marked the shelf where the lake's bottom fell away into the depths earned angry blasts on his whistle.

  "Sorry, sir. No animals allowed on the beach," a beach marshal told Dayton.

  Peter pointed to the reeds at the far end of the beach near the tree line. "Could I use the pony to take the trap over there please? It'll be in the shade. I'm under strict instructions to keep my granddaughter out of the sun."

  "I go all blotchy and disgusting in the sun," said Allison proudly. "You're blotchy and disgusting without the sun."

  Peter's observation earned him a sisterly rebuke -- a hard punch on the nose. He started howling.

  "No problem, sir," said the marshal. "But please bring the pony back right away."

  Dayton thanked him. One problem out of the way. The pony plodded across the soft, dry sand, hauling the laden trap. The edge of the beach he selected was close to the reeds, in the shade, and therefore unpopular. The nearest family were some 50 metres away. Happy and excited, Peter and Allison unhitched the pony and led it to the pony park -- a grassy field provided with water troughs and rows of woven sunshades.

  While they were gone, Dayton checked his aluminium firkin depth-charge. It was wrapped in a travelling blanket under the trap's seat. It could stay there for the time-being. He laid a ground sheet on the sand and settled in a camping chair. A model yacht scudding across the lake caught his attention and his mind wandered to his own yacht, stranded in his paddock, 20 miles from the sea.

  Soon, he promised himself. Soon.

  The children were back. Laughing and whooping. They changed into swimming costumes and kept rushing in and out of the water, demanding that grandpa admire their swimming prowess or time them in races, their sibling rivalry forgotten during the hot, idyllic afternoon. They were particularly delighted with the secondhand inflatable boat in the shape of a duck that grandpa had bought for them at the Mothercare shop. It wasn't big enough for two children therefore its possession was the cause of so much renewed dispute that Dayton felt impelled to call them to order for lunch. They ate their picnic -- mustard and cress, and tomato sandwiches washed down with homemade fizzy apple juice.

  "Let's do something different," said Dayton.

  "Like what, grandpa?"

  "Well now, you two. How would you like to make a car?"

  "One that can do a hundred miles an hour?" asked Allison hopefully.

  "One that does nought miles an hour but is big enough for both of you to sit in."

  The notion appealed to the children's imagination.

  "Get the buckets and spades," Dayton ordered cheerfully. "And then cold water and plenty of it. We've got to make the sand wet so that it keeps its shape."

  Under their grandfather's guidance, the children damped the sand in area near the reeds and set to with trowels and toy spades to dig out the footwell.

  "It's got to be bigger and deeper," Dayton insisted. "This is going to be a low-slung racing car. You don't want it rolling over on bends, do you?"

  The children laughed delightedly and dug deep and wide. They were seeing a wholly unexpected side of their usually dour grandfather. Peter built up the bonnet, making it progressively longer as he learned the pleasure of moulding the damp sand while Allison produced four passible half wheels. Peter was proud of his headlamps.

  Once finished, they spent a happy two hours in their two-child imagination-powered car, roaring around Goodwood and arguing over taking turns to drive while Dayton read and dozed. At 5:00pm he announced that it was time to go.

  "You two go and fetch the pony," he ordered. "While I fill in the hole we've made. We don't want people falling in it, do we?" "Can't we take the car home, grandpa?" Peter wailed.

  "'Fraid not," said Dayton solemnly. "It's run out of petrol."

  This struck the brother and sister as hilarious. They ran off laughing to collect the pony.

  Dayton's movements were brisk but not overtly hurried. The nearest family had packed up and left. He deflated the toy boat, opened the trap's rear door and dragged the heavy keg from under the seat. It was a comfortable fit in the sand car's deep footwell. He tucked the folded boat down the side of the keg, and pushed in the car's sides and bonnet on top of the cache. He was levelling the area with his feet, having carefully memorised the spot, when the children returned leading the pony.

  "Where's the blow-up boat, grandpa?" Peter asked as they were packing the trap.

  "I've put it away for next time," Dayton replied absently. He was thinking that the biggest risk was discovery of his cache by hobbyists with metal detectors, although the use of batteries for such activities was now illegal. Besides, metal detector nerds concentrated on popular picnic spots on the main beach. "Best I look after it. That way it won't get torn to bits by you two fighting over it."

  During the ride home, Dayton reflected that only the final phase of the operation was left in his plan to destroy the S
ilent Vulcan -- the actual dropping of the depth-charge on the first moonless night. So far everything had gone much better than he had expected. He had been dreading this particular day and was somewhat surprised by the realisation that he had actually enjoyed himself.

  Chapter 29.

  THE CONVERSION OF THE SWIMMING pool filter into Bob Harding's bathyscaphe was progressing smoothly so Tony Selby ordered work on the raft to begin. There was a desperate shortage of wagons and horses now that the first of Pentworth's main crop vegetables were being gathered therefore dismantling the scaffolding that covered the facade of Government House and moving it to Pentworth Lake was a two day operation.

  Basis of the raft were several wagon loads of empty liquid fertilizer drums and assorted oil drums. Each one had to be tested for leaks by the team of scaffold erectors who had volunteered for the job of assembling the raft while working waist deep off the beach. The drums were clamped in place by scaffold poles to form a pontoon that was ten metres square. Beach marshals were hard-pressed to keep children and their families away from the strange construction and were eventually forced to declare the beach and the lake closed to the public.

  Tony Selby arrived to inspect the pontoon towards the end of the first day's construction when the decking consisting of builders' scaffolding planks were being bolted into place. The team were resourceful and had devised solutions to many problems that had arisen.

  The engineer strode around the anchored raft, his keen eye missing nothing, and was pleased with the work. In the centre of the structure was a rectangular opening about three metres square which some of the hot, weary workers were using as a swimming pool. On each side of the hole were two securely braced towers, four metres high, fashioned from short lengths of scaffolding. The tops of the towers were spanned by a stout steel "I" beam that would be taking the weight of the bathyscaphe once the winch and pulley block were in place.

  Selby congratulated the team on their handiwork: the pontoon was sound and stable. He told them and a Radio Pentworth reporter that tomorrow the bathyscaphe and winching gear would brought down and that he hoped to complete the unmanned test dives that day.

  He returned to his pony and trap and was about to drive off when he thought he heard a once familiar sound: a sound that belonged to past winters.

  It was the distant baying of the local hunt's foxhounds.

  Chapter 30.

  DAVID WEIR CURSED ROUNDLY and began the long climb up the narrow path that led to the sandstone scarp of the Temple of the Winds. His sheepdog wagged its tail furiously as it trotted at his heel, pleased that it had finally persuaded its master where the missing sheep were. The sun was a bloated ripe fruit hanging above the western horizon. David would rather have left the search until morning but decided that he couldn't take chances having a dozen valuable ewes milling around on the dangerous sandstone scarp.

  He was sweating by the time he emerged onto the flat plateau and was immediately transported back to the night of the rescue of Ellen and Vikki from Adrian Roscoe's clutches at this very spot.

  His collie was right. The missing sheep were in a huddle near the sheer drop where Ellen and Vikki had nearly fallen to their deaths. The ewes started bleating the moment they saw David. Trust the stupid creatures to remain silent while he was searching for them below. He bade his dog to remain where it was and went cautiously forward, whistling. It only needed one sheep to start towards him and the rest would be certain to follow. Sure enough an older ewe responded. She trotted sheepishly towards David, bleating piteously, and the rest followed. God knows how long they had been up here where there was hardly any grass. On a signal, the dog circled around the flock, keeping low, and flattened itself to the ground near the edge in case the senseless creatures decided to double back. David herded them towards the path. Once the lead ewe picked up the path, the other sheep followed her without further encouragement from him or the dog.

  David was about to fall in behind them when he heard a sound that chilled his blood and had him reaching for his folding binoculars.

  It was the baying of foxhounds.

  He ran towards the wooded end of the plateau where the great slab protruded from the slope and scanned the backs of the row of distant houses and shops that fronted North Street. He tracked down the terraces where Ellen Duncan grew her crops of herbs and, with a sinking heart, found the foxhounds within 100 metres of the cave's concealed entrance. There were ten of them milling around in apparent confusion. One broke away, running furiously, and the rest followed. Then they all pulled up short and resumed their aimless milling, sniffing here and there, tails high, working overtime.

  David searched the lengthening shadows and found the horsemen. There were two of them. He doubted if the master of the hounds was one of them -- it was most likely a kennel lad. The local hunt had their kennels on the Pentworth Estate and paid a nominal rent to Adrian Roscoe. But there was no mistaking the figure on the second horse. His right arm was in a sling.

  It was Nelson Faraday.

  David nearly stampeded his sheep on the narrow path as he pushed hurriedly past them. His only thought was to contact Mike Malone as soon as possible.

  Having sent his collie home, it was 40 minutes later and nearly dark by the time he found a private house with a telephone that the owner allowed him to use to call the police station. "I'm very sorry, Mr Weir," said the duty officer, "but Mr Malone isn't available."

  David read that as police speak for Mr Malone isn't here. "Can you get a message to him please. He's always got a radio with him. Tell him that it's extremely urgent he meet me at..." He stopped himself.

  Where? For God's sake!

  "Ask him to please return to the police station and that I'll meet him there."

  "If you could tell me what it's all about, Mr Weir--"

  "I'm sorry, I can't," said David. "But if you tell him who called, he'll understand." David suddenly realised that he didn't have Malone's private telephone number. "If you give me his number, I'll call him direct."

  "I'm very sorry, sir. We can't give out that information, but I'll see that he gets your message."

  David hung up and waited a few seconds for the telephone operator to disconnect the line before turning the crank handle again.

  "This is David Weir," he told the operator. "Would you put me through to Mr Michael Malone, please."

  "I'll put you through to the police station, sir."

  "I've already been onto them. I need to call him at home."

  "Do you have his number?"

  "No," said David, guessing what was coming.

  "I'm very sorry, but I can't connect you unless you have his number."

  David wasted several minutes arguing and nearly ended the conversation by slamming down the receiver, but it wasn't his telephone and the papier mache handsets were not designed to withstand abuse. He thanked the householder and left.

  He was undecided for the moment. His instinct was to go to cave and make sure that the women were safe, but he realised that that might be what Faraday was hoping for. It would be best if he headed for the police station.

  It had been dark nearly two hours when he arrived at the police station, half running, out of breath, just as a police Range Rover pulled up outside and Mike Malone jumped out of the passenger seat. Malone explained that the last mile of his homeward jog took him through a radio dead spot and that he had called for a vehicle the moment he received David's message. His face was tense as he listened to the farmer's account.

  "You're sure the dogs didn't find the entrance?"

  "Not while I was watching. But they were milling about the area, so they obviously had picked up something. I didn't go to investigate in case that was what Faraday wanted."

  "Dogs," said Malone bitterly. "That's something I didn't think of."

  "It doesn't look like Roscoe has until now," David replied. "Actually, I don't think that foxhounds would be much use, even if Roscoe had articles of their clothing--"

  "W
hich he has," Malone interrupted. "And he'd certainly have stuff that belonged to Claire Lake."

  "Yes -- but the hounds are trained to go after fox or deer scent. It's not as if they're bloodhounds."

  "How sure can you be?"

  David shook his head. "Not very. I don't have anything to do with hunt."

  "We play safe," said Malone. "There's sure to be a hound in the pack that's smarter than the rest." Malone thought fast. His first inclination was to do nothing. But David's concern was infectious and Malone conceded that he too was too worried for the safety of the three fugitives for doing nothing to be considered as an option. Particularly Ellen's safety.

  "We'll take the Range Rover," Malone decided. He dismissed the driver and took the wheel. It was the same vehicle that Asquith Prescott had had armour-plated on the inside when he had been chairman. David jumped in beside him. To his frustration, Malone drove at a moderate speed and ignored his pleas to step it up. "We're just a routine patrol," he told his passenger. "This way we don't draw attention to ourselves."

  Using the vehicle meant taking a longer route in a wide circle around Pentworth town to reach the lower slopes near the foot of the Temple of the Winds but they got there quicker than they could've walked. Malone parked on a patch of hard standing that was often used by the pony and trap morris police patrols for rest breaks.

  Malone wound down his window and used a pair of Sussex Police-issue night vision binoculars to scan what he could see of the sensitive area in the proximity of the cave. Not getting out of the vehicle would make it difficult for a hidden watcher to make out where he was looking.

  "Nothing untoward," he said, handing the binoculars to David.

  The instrument out-performed David's own binoculars. After a careful search he conceded that everything looked normal.

  "Let's take a saunter," said Malone, climbing out of the Range Rover. He locked the vehicle and the two men set off unhurriedly up the slope towards Ellen's cave. After a few moments Malone's calming influence got to David so that he was able to keep step with the police officer and not try racing ahead.