The Festering

by Guy N Smith

  ‘Wait!’ Holly screamed after the departing Bill Cole. ‘Come back!’

  But he wasn’t stopping, she knew that. Some awful manifestation, the stench its forerunner, had come up out of the borehole, angry and lusting to kill. Just as it had killed Tommy Eaton and Jimmy Fitzpatrick.

  Holly Mannion was screaming hysterically now. Not just because of whatever had come up from out of the bowels of the foul earth but because she saw what was about to happen. She yelled a warning, knowing that it was futile, when she saw the speeding cement mixer coming down the road, unwieldy, top-heavy, its barrel churning the concrete inside it.

  Bill Cole had not seen the oncoming lorry, and he pulled right into its path, shooting forward into the road with surely no chance of avoiding a collision.

  For Holly everything had slowed down like an agonizing slow-motion film. She found herself hoping that the mixer might miss the Land Rover. Or be able to pull up in time. It was so slow now that even if they crashed the impact would surely only be minimal.

  The Land Rover had stalled, broadside across the lane; Bill Cole was frantically pumping the starter, totally oblivious of the onrushing wagon of death. The lorry driver was standing up in his cab, braking, wrenching at the steering wheel, shouting, cursing, screaming.

  Impact! Steel met steel, and buckled; two vehicles became one as the wreckage crumpled together. Metal screamed its anguish and became unrecognizable scrap even as it lost momentum, slewed to a smoking, grinding halt and slowly toppled over and down the steep bank on the opposite side of the lane.

  Sudden silence, and they were lost to view. It might never have happened. Holly tried to tell her tortured mind that it had not, that the Land Rover had surged on ahead of the braking lorry, that they were now out of sight, round the bend, continuing on their way, unscathed.

  She did not want to see; far better to go back to the cottage and dial 999. Again. She told herself that it might not be as bad as she thought, that both drivers were already clambering out of their respective mangled vehicles, cursing each other, taking details down on scraps of paper – insurance companies, registrations.

  She found herself listening, willing herself to hear voices, but there were none. Only silence, that same awful ominous stillness. She found her feet moving forward by themselves, defying her logical reaction to flee back to the cottage. Experiencing a kind of morbid fascination, she felt like a ghoul eager to view human carnage. Except that she did not want to look. But she had no choice.

  She had lost all conception of time; it might have taken her hours or merely minutes to pass through the damaged gateway and up on to the road. The empty lane was strewn with fragments of broken glass, a piece of torn material lying amid the shatterings. Nothing else. Nothing. They’ve gone on their way; it never really happened, she thought. I don’t need to look down that bank. You do!

  Shying away, then forcing her frightened eyes to peer over, she saw the mountain of twisted metal, the mixer tipped over, its concrete oozing out like … slurry from the borehole! Something else caught her eye. She stared, recognizing the features instantly: the pallid complexion, the orbs wide with terror, the lips still mouthing their warning to her. Run. Don’t go near the borehole!

  Bill Cole, Bennion’s labourer, his head upturned, was looking at her from out of the long sun-browned grass. And it was only when she moved forward to help him out of the ditch that Holly Mannion realized that there was no body attached to the ragged bloody neck!

  12

  That old film was still running for Holly Mannion, a sequence of events which she was aware of, yet it was divorced from her. She did not remember screaming, fainting, or being helped up by Mike. For her it began when she was being assisted back to Garth Cottage, leaning on her husband, knowing that without his support she would have fallen. Content to be led, she nodded in reply to his frequent enquiries if she was all right. The events that had gone before were like a dream, and she could barely recall them. Shocked, numbed, she did not want to think for herself.

  Mike took her into the kitchen, sat her gently on the settee and pushed her back into a lying position. He gave her a cup of tea, hot and strong, and two aspirins. She lay there wide-eyed, watching him as she drank the tea and swallowed the tablets with difficulty.

  ‘My poor darling.’ He sat beside her, his arm around her. From then onwards neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say.

  Outside in the lane there was the sound of approaching sirens, the screech of metal being cut, vehicles coming and going all the time. Holly had no idea how long it went on, only that the shadows of the latticed windows on the wall were elongated and bathed in a rosy hue when at last Doctor Williamson called. Nearing retirement, Williamson was stout, with a kindly smile; abrupt if he lost patience with you. He looked tired, his greying hair was ruffled, and there was no sign of his jacket – just trousers and braces failing to hide his protruding stomach.

  He nodded, smiled and went to the sink to wash his hands. Even then it was almost like a social call. He made small talk as he examined Holly, nodded, and opened up his black bag. ‘Nothing wrong with you that a good night’s sleep and a couple of these won’t put right.’ He shook some pink tablets out of a bottle and handed them to Mike. ‘And keep her off the whisky for twenty-four hours, old chap. Booze and these don’t mix.’

  Both men laughed, and Holly found herself laughing with them. That was what Williamson was like: practical, but knew how to get his patients to respond. She felt better already, and the pills had not yet had time to get into her system.

  After the doctor had gone, Mike deliberated whether or not to put Holly to bed. It might be easier now before she fell asleep. Before he made his decision there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Good evening, sir, I’m Detective Sergeant Lewis.’ The tall detective was unaccompanied. He had parked his unmarked van at the top of the drive. ‘Would it be convenient to have a word with you?’

  ‘Can we talk out here?’ Mike stepped out on to the patio and pulled the door shut behind him. ‘My wife’s under sedation, you see. She found the … the head!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The sympathy was routine, like telling a wife her husband has been killed in an accident. The policeman had just completed that duty, and left Mrs Cole in the care of her doctor. A lot of people were under sedation after road accidents. ‘You’ve been having a rough time of it.’

  ‘My wife has. I’ve been away in London. What’s going on, Sergeant?’

  ‘Just another road accident. Our chaps haven’t reached their conclusions yet, but it seems that the Land Rover pulled out in front of the cement mixer. The lorry driver was killed also.’

  ‘And what about this well?’ Mike gestured towards the borehole with its propped-up cover and blue pipe leading to the shrubbery. He heard water gushing out into the field beyond. Whatever else had happened, the well was still pumping.

  ‘The well, sir?’ He raised his eyebrows in astonishment.

  ‘That’s what’s causing all these deaths, one way or another. What about that … that disease which the workmen had?’

  The detective regarded him thoughtfully before replying. ‘The laboratories aren’t sure yet, so I can’t go into details. I’m sure you’ll understand. And I hope you’ll keep this to yourself, sir. A public announcement will be made shortly, but we have to be absolutely certain of our facts. Yes, those two fellows had got … a disease. What it is exactly, the experts aren’t sure, but it’s something that died out two centuries ago, just as smallpox is now extinct.’

  ‘A … plague?’ Mike felt his mouth go dry, and licked his lips.

  ‘I suppose you could call it that. We had to know some of the facts in case there was a necessity to … isolate Garth village. But I can assure you of one thing, sir, if it makes you feel any easier … this virus, and we don't know what it is, cannot be caught by drinking water. It’s contagious, which means you have to come into contact with a carrier in order to get it. That much they do know.
It’s not like Aids, where you can get it from contaminated blood or the like. Rest assured, sir, polluted your water supply may be, but you won’t catch this from it, I’m convinced of that. We checked specifically because the victims had been in contact with a polluted well.’

  Mike caught his breath and fear knotted his inside. Even if their water did not carry this unknown plague, then both he and Holly had been in contact with Eaton and Fitzpatrick. ‘And this latest workman who died, had he got it?’ Mike watched the policeman for a reaction to his direct question.

  ‘We’re awaiting the post mortem. As you know, there … wasn’t much left of Cole.’ Just his head, guillotined by the windscreen, ‘It’s probably come from some contaminated food in the first place, a freak outbreak. But that’s only my personal opinion, you understand.’

  ‘So what do we do in the meantime, Sergeant?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The policeman smiled faintly as though to reassure himself as well as Mike Mannion. ‘There’s no point in isolating the village – these men came from outside. Catching or not, it would be like shutting the door after the horse had bolted. But I’d advise you to contact your doctor if you feel unwell in any way. I’m sorry, I can’t tell you more.’

  Mike went back indoors. Surprisingly, Holly was still awake. She seemed relaxed and the shock was gone. It was the sedatives, of course.

  ‘What did he want?’ She seemed rational, almost normal.

  He almost replied ‘nothing’, but knew she would not be fooled. ‘He says that the men died of a plague that hasn’t been heard of for two hundred years, and that in no way can the disease be caught from drinking polluted water.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  ‘Well, we can easily prove or disprove that, Holly.’

  ‘How?’ She was sitting up now.

  ‘The well has been flushed out with chlorine, which should kill any germs still in it. We’ll get it tested again. If it’s pure this time, then we’re all right. If not, then I’m going over Kemp’s head. I’ll write to our MP and demand an investigation. Even though the chlorine might have killed the deadly bugs and it’s too late to change what has already happened. An ancient plague unleashed on Britain!’ He tried to make a joke of it but his words had a sinister ring to them.

  Holly shifted her position and winced. She hadn’t made it to town to buy that homeopathic remedy. She turned on to her side.

  ‘What’s the matter, Holly?’ There was concern on his bearded features.

  ‘That blind boil I get from time to time in an embarrassing place.’ She could laugh now that her weight was no longer on it. ‘It’s coming again, but I'm not going to have it lanced this time. First thing tomorrow I’m going into town for some hepar sulph.’

  ‘Sounds like a witchdoctor’s cure.’ He regretted his sarcasm immediately.

  ‘It’s a homeopathic remedy, and I’ll see to it myself,’ she retorted. She leaned back, closed her eyes and succumbed to thinking about Nick Paton again. Maybe she would pay him a call on the way back.

  Holly had been to town, purchased her tablets and swallowed a couple in a cafe with a cup of tea. Then she was unable to resist a circuitous return which took her along by the plumber’s cottage. As she had feared, he was not at home. One was decidedly lucky to find Nick there before eleven at night. She sighed her disappointment, and the urge which had been dominating her for the past hour subsided. It was just an erotic thought; another time, perhaps.

  As she approached Garth Cottage she was surprised to see Bill Kemp’s Vauxhall Cavalier parked on the verge. The Environmental Health inspector had wasted no time in returning to test the water. Perhaps there was a concern amongst the arrogant, apathetic bureaucracy over the borehole, after all. It was somehow frightening.

  ‘I’ll get this tested right away.’ Kemp was just leaving, and he touched his cap in an old-fashioned gesture of courtesy to Holly. ‘With luck, I’ll be able to phone you in the morning. I must say, that awful smell isn’t hanging about now. Maybe we’ve cracked it at last!’

  ‘The smell isn’t around because whatever was down there has finally escaped,’ Holly muttered as she watched the water inspector stride back to his car.

  ‘Whatever are you talking about?’ Mike was abrupt, angry, ‘I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you. Okay, there might have been some awful disease down there, but there couldn’t possibly have been anything more than that.’ He looked at her carefully, wondering if he should give Doctor Williamson a call.

  ‘It was just a thought, that’s all.’ She turned away. She was still walking awkwardly, with a kind of shuffle which she tried to disguise, ‘I suppose we may as well try and get back to normal.’

  ‘All right,’ he called after her, ‘we’ll do just that. I’m going to try and get some painting done. You go and rest that sweet little bum of yours.’

  She said something beneath her breath but he did not catch it.

  It was towards late afternoon on the following day when the telephone rang. Holly had been dozing on the sofa in the kitchen but she responded instantly. She leapt up, then cursed because the boil tweaked her; the hepar sulph was certainly taking its time.

  ‘Hello.’ She knew it was Bill Kemp before he spoke.

  ‘At last I’ve got some good news for you, Mrs Mannion.’ He sounded euphoric. ‘Your water is pure!’ She nearly giggled in her ecstasy, but Kemp wasn’t the type to appreciate those kind of jokes. ‘Oh, that’s absolutely marvellous,’ she answered.

  ‘I’ll be confirming it in writing and enclosing a photostat of the laboratory’s report.’ He was the classic formal civil servant again. He was not obliged to notify them by telephone – his superiors might frown if they knew. He had had no business to show that glimmer of humanity amid the grey background of officialdom. Now he wanted to forget it because he needed the extra money which the job paid.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Mike poured boiling water on to a tea bag, then transferred the steaming spout of the kettle to the mug containing some strange herbal beverage which his wife seemed to enjoy. ‘No more time-wasting journeys to the garage to fetch water. Now we can put Garth Cottage on the market!’

  ‘If you’re really determined to, then go ahead.’ There was resentment in her tone.

  ‘I am!’ He was adamant. ‘And after all you’ve been through I should think you would be, too. We can’t stay here. At least, I can’t.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ She stirred her chamomile tea. ‘But I think you should phone Frank Bennion and let him know that the water’s okay.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ he smiled, ‘or perhaps the day after. The bugger will be round five minutes after I’ve phoned to collect his money. In this hard, realistic economic world, my dear, you learn to hang on to your money for as long as ever you can. Let’s make sure there are no more snags before we pay up, or we might not get them rectified quite so readily.’

  Holly tossed in an uneasy slumber. Figments of dreams came and went. Some were frightening, but they were gone before she was really afraid. Others were erotic, leaving her in a state of frustration. She was dimly conscious throughout that the base of her spine was smarting, and it hurt if she rolled over on to her back.

  The workmen were drilling again. Not Eaton, nor Fitzpatrick; she looked fearfully for them but they were thankfully nowhere to be seen. Strangers, men with caps pulled down so that their faces were hidden in shadow, were boring deep – in a new place this time. She stood watching them through the window, and wondered why they were so close to the cottage. Might their boring disturb the foundations? Why didn’t Mike go out and stop them? Why didn’t she? Because in dreams you never achieved what you wanted to.

  That foul sludge was spurting high into the air, spraying the surrounding ground with a thick, treacly layer. It didn’t appear to be oozing away, following the slope of the land this time, just lying there – stinking! Oh, Christ, that bloody stench again! She covered her face with her hands, pinched her nose and tried to hold her br
eath, but it made no difference. She still smelled the choking putrescence. Gasping for air, she could only draw that odour of rotting flesh down into her lungs. Retching, she thought she might vomit. For Christ’s sake, go out there and tell them to stop!

  The well shaft was wider this time, much wider: a gaping hole, roughly circular, surely several feet in diameter. Just looking at it gave her a sensation of giddiness, and a wave of vertigo forced her to hold on to the windowsill and leave her nostrils unprotected from the stench. The rig was tilted, the ground beneath it was beginning to crack. God, were they blind out there? Couldn’t they see what was happening?

  Then she felt the tremors as the caked surface split. Huge cracks suddenly appeared, and the rig was now wedged across one of them. It was still widening; she felt the cottage shudder, and started to scream for Mike.

  Now he was holding her, clutching her to him, and she cried her relief aloud even though the boil on her bottom was agonizing.

  ‘Holly!’ She heard his voice, tinged with fear, felt his strong arm crushing her, not just to protect her but because he was afraid also. ‘Holly, what’s happening?’

  ‘The ground’s opening up!’ she shouted. ‘The cottage will collapse. We’ll be buried …’

  And suddenly it was no longer a crazy, fragmented dream. It was reality!

  She wasn’t standing at the window watching the men drill another well; she was in bed with Mike. But the floorboards were heaving up, furniture was rattling, the whole house was vibrating!

  ‘Mike … what’s happening?’ She clung to him, buried her face in his hairy torso. But even that could not shut out the vile smell; that was real too. She tasted it, felt how it seared nostrils and throat, trying to suffocate her with its vileness.