The Festering

by Guy N Smith

  Then, as suddenly as the disturbance had begun, it subsided. The floor quivered, then became still; the trembling of walls and ceilings ceased. It was quiet – so quiet, she almost believed that it had been a dream. Except for the stench that still lingered, until finally that, too, was gone.

  ‘It was an earthquake.’ His voice was unsteady. ‘They get them occasionally in this part of the country. I remember reading about a fairly bad one they had around Newtown some years ago. But it’s finished now, and let’s hope that’s the end of it. I expect we’ll hear all about it on the radio tomorrow.’

  ‘What time is it, Mike?’

  He consulted the luminous dial of his wristwatch. ‘Three-thirty. Let’s get back to sleep. It’s still dark and there’s nothing we can do, anyway. At least the cottage is still standing!’

  Morning. Mike and Holly had slept late, the slumber of the mentally exhausted which only ended when the rays of the sun found a chink in the curtains and played on their faces, stirring them. Mike looked at his watch again. Nine o’clock. Christ alive!

  Holly struggled out of bed with him. Some ornaments on the dressing table had toppled over, a clothes brush shaped like a waddling duck had jettisoned its bristling underbelly on to the floor, and an ashtray loaded with trinkets had spilled its contents.

  They dressed quickly but did not pull the curtains open. Downstairs the kitchen was in disarray: a mug lay shattered on the tiled floor and the fire irons had tipped over and rolled in front of the stove.

  Mike was heading for the door, struggling with the key, Holly behind him, her pain temporarily forgotten. Pausing, their gaze met, then dropped. They were scared to go out there, but knew they had to.

  They stood on the sunlit patio and stared in disbelief. Holly choked back a scream and clung to her husband. For down there in the small hollow, where that unsightly concrete structure had poked its deformed head up out of the ground, it was just as it had been in her dream!

  A few fragments of concrete still remained; the rest had doubtless slid down into that wide gaping hole. A roughly circular black abyss yawned with a grotesque mouth. Only the length of blue waste pipe remained, clinging precariously to its fittings as it, too, threatened to slide from view, like the tongue of some fearsome underground reptilian monster in search of human prey. It was utter devastation, and all around was slurry which had been vomited from below, stinking and steaming in the warmth of the morning sun. Driving the two humans back indoors.

  Because this time there was no doubt in their minds that whatever had lurked deep in the bowels of the earth and slumbered for centuries awaiting its release, had finally escaped.

  13

  ‘It’s unbelievable!’ Frank Bennion stood on the edge of the crater-like well, peering down nervously into its dark depths. ‘Absolutely incredible!’

  ‘What do you think could have caused it?’ Mike asked nervously. ‘We thought at first it must have been an earthquake … but there hasn’t been one!’ He glanced back towards the cottage and caught a glimpse of Holly’s face at the window. The poor girl, he thought, she had been through hell whilst he was away in London. He winced as guilt flooded over him again. Holly was being subjected to sheer terror whilst he was copulating on a whore’s bed. But he had to put all that behind him, start afresh.

  ‘The rock fissure has split.’ Bennion sounded almost convincing. ‘Undoubtedly the drilling was responsible for cracking the rock, and this drought has helped it to expand. But your water’s all right now, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s fine, at long last.’ Mike stiffened. The implication was not lost on him. ‘But the job isn’t finished – it’s one hell of a mess. You can’t leave it like this even if there is drinkable water coming out of the taps!’

  He risked another look down the hole. The well liner reminded him of a drinking straw leaning in a large empty glass, just propped there, ready for anyone who wanted to suck the dregs up.

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t leave it like this!’ There was a note of indignation in Bennion’s voice, it will have to be put right. It’s a priority, obviously. I shall have to bring the tack back here and do it myself.’

  ‘Yourself!’ Mike could not imagine Bennion in any other role than that of the boss, the country gentleman.

  ‘I don’t have a workforce any longer.’ There was a touch of bitterness in his voice, and his anger was reflected in the way he kicked a loose piece of shale and sent it spinning down into the shaft. It was some time before they heard a faint splash. ‘Three dead, and when I paid the wages last night my other two men asked for their cards. They’ve been talking amongst themselves, reckon there’s a hoodoo on the firm. Stupid bastards! The final straw was Cole – the fool pulled right out in front of that cement mixer without looking. I shouldn’t’ve trusted him on the job on his own. The fellow was a complete dolt, no more than a mindless labourer. Still, the fact remains that I don’t have anybody working for me, and until I can employ more men I’ve got to go out and do the jobs myself. Still, I did it single-handed in the beginning, and I’m as fit now as I was then. You can expect me at nine in the morning.’

  There was both pride and anger in Frank Bennion’s upright figure as he stalked back to where the BMW was parked in the entrance to the drive, where the tilted gatepost was a stark reminder of the most recent horror.

  ‘The old boy’s going to finish the job himself.’ Mike left the kitchen door open; that awful smell had evaporated at last. ‘He’s a stubborn bugger. Either that or he’s just plain greedy and wants my cheque at the earliest possible moment. Well, if he wants to give himself a heart attack struggling with heavy machinery, that’s up to him. He needn’t look to me to be his fetch and carry boy. I’ve got too much work to do.’

  ‘I suppose it’s all going to start again.’ Holly was exceptionally pale today, eyes black-ringed as though she had not slept the previous night. ‘The garden will be knee-deep in that dreadful sludge and the place will stink …’ She broke off, on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘Look, you ought to go away for a few days.’ He regarded her with an expression of concern. ‘And when you come back it will all be finished. And the moment that mess is cleared up I’m putting this place up for sale, and no arguments.’

  ‘I don’t want to go away!’ It was almost a shriek. ‘I won’t leave here until Garth Cottage is sold!’

  ‘All right, have it your own way.’ He checked his rising anger, ‘If I hadn’t got so much work on we’d both go away. But I can’t afford to lose many more days. I’m being pushed for the landscapes and I’ve also got to deliver the first book cover at the end of this month. In fact, I couldn’t give a toss what happens out there, to be perfectly candid. If bloody Bennion is writhing on the ground with a hernia, he can stop there – and it’s no good shouting for me!’ He stalked off, slamming the door behind him.

  Only then did Holly get up, and drag herself in a slow, painful shuffle across to the sink. She reached down for the small phial, shook two tablets into the palm of her hand and popped them into her mouth. She picked up a glass and was about to hold it under the tap when realization dawned upon her; instead, she eased her way to the refrigerator, pulled out a half-full carton of fruit juice. No way was she ever going to drink any water that had come from down there. Bathing in it was bad enough!

  The boil on her tail was not improved – if anything it was worse. She had looked at it again with the help of two mirrors this morning and it was now much bigger, starting to form a head. She tried not to think of Jim Fitzpatrick and those awful weeping ulcers on his mouth. If her boil was no better by tomorrow then she would go and see Doctor Williamson. She shuddered at the prospect of having it lanced but she couldn’t go on much longer like this.

  In spite of her perpetual discomfort, the urge was upon her again. She was tempted to go upstairs and lie on the bed. No, that would not solve anything; what she had in mind would only increase her craving for Nick Paton. Neither was it any good driving over to his place b
ecause he would not be there. She had a feeling of sheer frustration. She could not even finish off the decorating in the lounge, in her state. But it would have to be done before they put the cottage on the market. A couple of days and she might feel better, she consoled herself. She went back to the sofa, slid on to it, made sure that her posterior did not come into contact with any part of it, and lay on her side, staring at the wall.

  Mike had been with another woman. She knew that just as surely as if he had admitted it. Only a woman could tell – that intuition again; he was knotted up with guilt. Don’t be a bloody hypocrite, she told herself, and laughed out loud. Tit for tat, Holly, my girl, because whilst he’s been away you’ve been having your arse shagged off.

  It was going to be a long day and she was already dreading the thought of the morrow when Frank Bennion returned to fill that hole in. With fear, she remembered the way the whole house had shook and shuddered in the night. Just as though some long buried monster which had slumbered a hundred and thirty feet below ground had suddenly awoken and clawed its way to freedom. Awful as that nameless stinking horror had been below ground, the thought of it on the loose was a thousand times worse. What in the name of God could have been interred down there for two centuries that was now spreading this terrible plague?

  Frank Bennion arrived at eight-thirty. No longer was he the dapper overseer in smart clothes and green wellington boots; instead he wore a suit of overalls, but had not forsaken his tie. A cap replaced the usual floppy country-style hat, and his hands were encased in thick rubber gloves. The job would be a filthy one, but he obviously intended to keep as clean as possible.

  With deft skill he used an ancient Series 1 Land Rover to tow the heavy rig down to the scene of devastation, the old vehicle labouring under the strain, belching out thick clouds from its rusted upright exhaust. Somehow he got the drill across the open shaft, its wheels resting precariously on the brink. He got out and began busying himself with spanners, his every move positive. Obviously, the watching Holly thought, it had been no idle boast about completing the task himself.

  She closed the door and windows in anticipation of that nauseating stench of pumped-up sludge, but decided against closing the curtains. Darkness was not something she relished. She heard the compressor start up with a deafening roar, and eased her way back across the room to the sofa, again positioning herself delicately on her side. Jesus, she was going to have to see the doctor – that was becoming more inevitable by the hour. Evening surgery possibly, and Bennion could move his compressor truck out of the gateway so that she could get the car out.

  Mike tried to ignore the din outside. Previously he had surrendered to it. The excuse to leave had been too readily available in a trip to London; otherwise he would have stuck it out, just as he meant to do now. The studio floor was vibrating, which in turn had his easel quivering. With grim determination he continued to paint, needing every vestige of patience and concentration he could muster.

  By eleven o’clock the need for a cup of strong coffee was paramount. He paused, stood back to survey his work and realized how a council roadman operating a pneumatic drill must feel – every nerve in his body was trembling. Only then was he aware of a sensation of discomfort that seemed to be centred upon his navel. He touched it through his shirt, and almost cried out aloud. Bloody hell, it was as if he had a sharp splinter embedded in the flesh of his stomach.

  He pulled up his shirt, bent forward to see where the soreness was coming from and stared in horror at what he saw. A swelling approximately the size of a pea protruded from his stomach and seemed to fill his navel. Bloated, a pinpoint of a head filled with matter, it was begging to be squeezed. He touched it gently, then whipped his finger away. Blazes, it was painful!

  Now where the devil had he caught that? From a poxy whore! No, it couldn’t be. Frightened now, he almost dropped his trousers to check down there again. More likely from Holly, he decided; and that appeased his conscience. Boils were contagious, he seemed to remember reading somewhere. Holly had been lying on her side, facing away from him, in bed last night. They were both naked, and at some time during the nocturnal hours she had rubbed up against him and transferred the germs. So now they both had boils. He tucked his shirt back into his trousers and went through to the kitchen. The soreness didn’t seem so bad now.

  At first he thought Holly was asleep, but then her tired, distraught eyes flickered open and focused upon him with an expression of near hostility. She hated him for wanting to sell up, he decided. Stupid girl!

  ‘Coffee?’ He moved to the stove, where steam was puffing out of the kettle and rattling the lid, except that it was impossible to hear it above the roar of the compressor and the rig outside.

  She nodded unenthusiastically. ‘All right.’

  ‘By the way.’ He put her mug down on the small table by the sofa. ‘I think I’ve caught your complaint.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A boil.’

  ‘Might I ask where?’ It was an oblique accusation. You have been with a prostitute, she thought, and you’re trying to blame it on me. I’ve only been with Nick, and he’s guaranteed clean.

  Their gaze met and wavered. He said, it’s on my navel!’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Is that remedy you went to town for any good?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  An awkward silence ensued. Mike stood there, angry with her, childishly seeking some kind of revenge for her indifference towards him. He found it. He tugged his shirt up out of his waistband and afforded her a full view of his stomach. Look at that, then, he thought.

  She stared, and her expression changed to one of horror and revulsion. She pressed herself back into the sofa as though trying to shy away from him. Compelled to look, her eyes focused on that red swelling with its matter-filled head, an evil eye that watched her. ‘Oh, my God!’

  Her tone frightened him, sobered his petty anger. He had not seen her boil and presumed it to be the same. ‘Well, it’s like yours … isn’t it?’

  ‘Not … quite,’ she whispered. Her head was throbbing now – it was probably because of all the noise. ‘Mike, I think we both ought to go and see Doctor Williamson. There’s a surgery at six every evening. Tonight.’

  Her words had a chilling ring to them and he slopped some coffee on to the floor. His mouth was dry, and when he spoke his voice sounded far away, frightened, ‘It's … it’s not one of … those … is it?’

  ‘I … don’t … know.’ She was pale and trembling, a pathetic figure hunched up on the settee.

  ‘Oh, God above!’

  ‘Mike, I said I don’t know. I honestly don’t. Maybe it’s just an ordinary boil. Navels are a favourite place to get them. A blackhead gone septic, that’s all it is. Let’s face it, we haven’t had many baths for weeks, either of us, just strip washes in water brought up from the garage, used sparingly because we couldn’t afford to waste it. It’s probably that.’

  Probably. He felt a little easier, though. If it hadn’t been for recent events he would most likely have just bathed it with TCP and kept an eye on it. All the same, they should see a doctor. He thought about phoning Williamson but decided against it. That would provoke the old man’s caustic tongue.

  He said in a quavering voice, ‘All right, we’ll both go down to the surgery tonight.’ He sat down on a chair and sipped his drink. The urge to return to the studio was gone. If he managed to do any work then it would not be his best; he would, in all probability, scrap it tomorrow and start from scratch. Sitting there, barely aware of the roar of the machinery outside, he stared at the floor like a man who feared the worst and was waiting to have it confirmed.

  Two o’clock. For the first time he was aware that they had sat here for three hours, neither talking nor looking at each other. They would have eaten by now if they were hungry; food was furthest from their minds. Now Holly was speaking, her words penetrating his numbed brain.

  ‘Mike, I can smell tha
t stench again!’

  He looked up, then smelled it, a wafting rather than the overpowering, stifling, suffocating smell. Enough to make him catch his breath, then it was gone.

  ‘It's bound to smell.’ Now it was his turn to be reassuring. ‘Bennion’s drilling up all that foul muck again. I expect the garden’s waist-deep in it.’

  ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t knocked off for his lunch.’ Holly glanced in the direction of the window. ‘Come to think of it, he didn’t stop for elevenses, either. At least, he didn’t switch the machinery off and he surely would have done if he wasn’t using it.’

  ‘Probably knackering himself in order to finish the job so he can get his money.’ Mike stood up, but felt slightly weak. ‘I suppose I’d better have a look how he’s getting on, see how much longer he’s likely to be here.’ He walked towards the door, gasping under his breath as his belt caught the boil.

  He stopped, with the door half-open, and almost slammed it shut again in the hope that what he saw outside was some kind of macabre mirage brought on by this freak heatwave. He stood there, unable to speak, powerless to move. His tortured mind refused to accept what his eyes saw.

  ‘Mike, what is it?’

  He heard Holly easing herself off the sofa to join him. He would have stopped her if he could, or else slammed the door shut so that she might be spared the scene out there. But by the time he could move his limbs again it was too late. She had seen it, and was clinging to him, almost fainting.

  ‘Oh, my God, Mike! It’s got him, too!’

  As he had surmised, the garden area was thick with foul sludge which the rig had pumped up out of that bizarre hole in the ground, gallons of it steaming and stinking, and drying in the hot sunshine. That in itself was bad enough, the arcing fountain of slurry hitting the trees, then dripping off them, the machinery grinding and throbbing, bent on desecration of Nature’s beauty. Until you saw the still form lying close to the rig, those blue overalls now a muddy greyish brown, the soft hat gone, probably swept away on the slow-moving tide of filth.