Water Rites

by Guy N Smith

  Water Rites - Kindle Version 1.01

  (c) Guy N Smith 1997 - 2013

  Published by Black Hill Books, January 2013

  ISBN : 978-1-907846-63-2

  First Published by Zebra Books January 1997.

  Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise distributed without the publisher's prior consent in any form whatsoever. Mechanisms are employed to make each Ebook unique and traceable back to the original purchaser.

  For more information visit Guy's website at :www.guynsmith.com

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  Contents

  Title

  BOOK 1 - THE WORSHIPPERS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  BOOK 2 - THE PEOPLE OF THE WATER

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  The End

  For Pete and Kath Pilsworth—a big thank you.

  And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.

  —Genesis 1:2

  BOOK 1

  THE WORSHIPPERS

  One

  Phil Quiles hated the old underground reservoir. Its weekly inspection was the one duty in his job of waterworks manager which he would happily have delegated except that now, in this era of staff cutting, there was nobody to delegate to.

  It wasn’t time consuming, it wasn’t physically hard work, all you had to do was to check a few instruments and ascertain that the water level had not fallen below eight metres. Including the walk from his house up to that raised two-acre clearing in the pine forest, it took him twenty minutes, perhaps less. He filled in his log sheet from memory when he got home because he did not like staying in that dark sinister place, with its repertoire of echoes, a second longer than was absolutely necessary. The echoes even picked up your heavy breathing after the steep climb, made it sound like some snuffling beast was lurking in the shadows on the far ledge, waiting to leap out at you, drag you down into the water. Do unspeakable, obscene things to you.

  It wasn’t a nice place and he had to go there again today; he should have taken the readings yesterday but there had been a problem up at the Glascote depot which had taken all day to sort out.

  A check on the Hopwas reservoir was a “must” today; log sheets were not accepted more than twenty-four hours late without questions being asked. If the bosses thought you were shirking a routine duty they would order their inspectors to carry out unscheduled checks on you. They always found something wrong, however trivial. A water inspector had to justify his existence like everybody else who worked for the authority. Little things led to big things; they could set you up if they had a mind to. Scapegoats were always in demand for those occasions when something went seriously wrong. The authority liked to keep a few in reserve.

  Phil had every reason for keeping a clean sheet. A beautiful wife and a six-year-old son. And a house that was tied to the job. He could not afford to pander to personal phobias.

  There were big changes on the way and Phil was apprehensive. A merger, an amalgamation of district water authorities; a pooling of resources meant that less manpower would be required to run them.

  The Hopwas pumping station would be closed down, that was a foregone conclusion. Victorian, antiquated, it could not serve more than a local supply. The gleaming brass machinery of yesteryear would go into museums, he’d heard a rumour that planning permission was being sought to convert the massive red brick pump house, adjacent to his own cottage, into luxury woodside apartments with panoramic views over the surrounding, so far unspoiled, countryside. The authority would not be allowed to alter the austere historic exterior but that ruling would make the apartments all the more desirable to up-market buyers. They would purchase a slice of their national heritage.

  Doubtless, Phil’s own house would be offered to him at a slight employee’s discount that would be way beyond his pocket. The alternative was a move to an inferior rented accommodation, probably on the Glascote complex.

  It was a disturbing thought. The weekly visit up to the old reservoir was a minor inconvenience by comparison. And, anyway, his fears were all in his imagination.

  The forest air was heavy with the sickly sweet aroma of firs, the steep path thickly carpeted with fallen pine needles deadened his footfalls. He found himself glancing behind him; that was stupid, nobody was going to creep up on him.

  Were they?

  He had not liked the reservoir ever since he had taken the job three years ago but it hadn’t affected him before quite like this.

  Until today.

  He emerged from the long avenue of larches, paused in a patch of warm sunshine. He needed a breather after the steep climb. A delaying tactic because he was afraid again. I don’t have to go down in there this very second. Five minutes was neither here nor there, he could easily make up the lost time.

  Phil surveyed the scene in front of him, a huge clearing amidst the acres of water authority territory fringed by tall pines. A sagging barbed-wire fence cordoned off the grassy mound like a barbaric prison camp. The strands had lost their tension, sagged. An escapee could lift them, squeeze through, probably without even scratching himself. An intruder could do likewise.

  Except that there was no need to go through the fence. In spite of the formidable looking, yet vulnerable, security, a dilapidated five-barred gate offered easier access although there was every chance that it might collapse beneath the weight of anybody who climbed up on to it. The padlock and chain were a token resistance to the casual trespasser. Maybe the authority hoped that nobody would bother to straddle the frail bars. Anyway, there was nothing to see that could not be viewed from outside the compound.

  The blockhouse stood on the right, a square structure built into the sloping bank. Once it had been dazzling white, resembling a foreign legion outpost on the edge of an oasis. Ten years ago, in the days when the waterworks committee took pride in their buildings, it had been repainted to smarten it up. Since then it had gathered lichen and slime, a dirty green colour that might one day camouflage it with the surrounding conifers.

  Phil shivered involuntarily. The place was sinister even in bright sunlight. Even before you went inside.

  Windowless, just a door at the top of the mossy steps, solid wood with a heavy security lock. And that was yet another farce.

  He squinted in the sunshine, counted the concrete inspection hatches set at intervals across the raised plateau. Twelve. He had never been able to fathom out their purpose, they were superfluous. Once he had asked Dalgety, the taciturn inspector from Glascote, and had received a noncommittal reply because Dalgety didn’t know either.

  The barbed wire perimeter fence was intended to deter any who might seek to contaminate the water supply. Neither barbed wire nor the rotting gate would hinder a determined intruder but ac
cess to the blockhouse was most certainly denied them.

  But if their intention was to poison the water below then they had no need to force an entry into the squat building. Instead, they had only to lift the lid of one of the hatches and they had unrestricted access to the reservoir below.

  Crazy!

  Phil’s critical surveillance of the sham precautions taken to present a façade of security, possibly to reassure the local community, had taken maybe five minutes. He drew a deep breath, let it out slowly. His brief period of procrastination was over, he could not extend it further. He had to go in there, go down below.

  He shivered again, felt his skin start to prickle. Today would be no different from any other day. His fingers shook slightly as he unlocked the padlock on the gate.

  The moss on the steps needed to be shovelled off, even in dry weather one risked a nasty fall. Phil could not afford to be absent from work, the management committee were looking for fall guys, there would be maybe a twenty per cent layoff when the threatened takeover bid was finalized.

  The heavy door creaked open, Phil gave it a push. The cold from within came out at him in a rush with a stench of slafe wetness. He leaned inside, he could just manage to reach the light switch with the fingertips of an outstretched hand. Pandering to his fears already, he wasn’t going in there in the dark. No way.

  White fluorescent lighting dazzled him, glinted on a wet concrete floor, walls that streamed with condensation. Stark emptiness. Hostility. A square room that exuded its displeasure at this sudden human intrusion.

  Almost as if he had disturbed it.

  He propped the door wide with a half brick which he had kept there for months for that very purpose, just in case it swung shut. It couldn’t lock, he had a key, anyway. But it might stick, it was so close fitting that there was barely room enough to insert a pocket knife in the groove to ease it back open.

  Trapped. In here.

  No!

  He waited whilst his eyesight adjusted to the artificial brightness. Its glare threatened to induce a migraine.

  Begone, intruder!

  His temples were pounding. He moved across to the box on the far wall which housed the controls and dials necessary for the weekly readings. His footsteps echoed, a flip-flop like wet plaice being slapped on a fishmonger’s slab.

  Flip … flop …

  Whirling around, ensuring that nobody, nothing, followed him, kept pace with him, reached out for him with icy fingers.

  There was nobody there.

  A smaller key unlocked the cabinet, he had to force the door open. An array of dials glared out from the recess like malevolent eyes.

  We’re watching you. Phil Quiles.

  He had to force his brain to work, to concentrate. Pressure; you always checked the pressure first. It was fine. The levels at Glascote, not here, everything depended upon them in case the parent supply dropped. If that happened, and occasionally it did, the press of a switch would divert the flow from here to top it up. The levels were spot on. Next year any surplus needed would be pumped from elsewhere, probably Kingsbury.

  Relief, because I won’t have to come here anymore.

  No, but you might not have a house. Nor a job.

  Phil memorized the pressures and levels for recording later. Now all that was left was to check on the depth here. Down below, beyond the second security door where the puddles began on the uneven steps.

  For Christ’s sake, in this age of computerization there should have been a dial with a reading inside the box, eliminating the necessity to make a physical check.

  There wasn’t, there never had been nor ever would be. Because we want you to go down into the watery bowels.

  Damn you! He forced the small door shut, had difficulty locking it.

  A sudden thought, one that tweaked his conscience, brought with it relief and guilt. There surely wasn’t any need to go down below, the levels would be fine. Suppose they weren’t … you have a wife and a kid, and a house.

  Take a chance. Go on, nobody will ever know. Unless, of course, the level had dropped. The weather had been dry for weeks, no rain at all. Folks watered their gardens in spite of the ban, washed their cars, too.

  He’d have to check, just to be on the safe side. Otherwise he would not sleep easy.

  You won’t sleep easy if you go down there, you know that.

  A pair of rubber boots stood in the corner. Size nines, average male. For the use of the manager and visiting inspectors. The insides would be damp and cold so you wet your socks anyway. The alternatives were sodden shoes or freezing bare feet.

  No, I wouldn’t go barefooted, something might touch me. Or bite me. Stupid, there’s nothing down there. Phil was unconvinced.

  His footfalls made a heavier sound now. Clump-clop. Splashing in the shallow pools. He fought against the urge to look behind him.

  The lock on the second door was always tricky, it was probably rusted by the constant damp atmosphere. It wasn’t the key because he had tried the duplicate. He had to push, wriggle the key, pull it back a fraction before forcing it to the right. One day it would snap off, they would blame him then. Dalgety always seemed to be able to unlock it without any problem.

  The lock grated, the door creaked open. Phil gave it a two handed push, sent it groaning to the full extent of its hinges. Beyond lay stygian blackness, the darkness reached out for him with icy fingers, stroked him all over.

  The light switch was close, this time he did not have to stretch for it. Thank God!

  A small fluorescent strip flickered, took its time igniting. The second, on the far wall beyond the water, continued to shimmer, didn’t come on. Shit, he’d have to fix it. Not now, but certainly before Dalgety came again. That could be anytime. Tomorrow. Or even later today. You never knew, they didn’t want you to know because they were trying to catch you out.

  Phil found himself holding on to the steel lintel. It was slippery like the floor and the steps, and the ledge that ran the full perimeter of the reservoir.

  Don’t slip. Because you can’t swim!

  A grim reminder of how the steps ended a few feet below the surface, left a sheer drop into the black depths. Eight metres. You could drown in a few inches of water, in the bath at home, even. But that was a much nicer place in which to die. By comparison, it made death almost cosy.

  Cold sweat trickled down his forehead, stung his eyes so that his vision blurred.

  One slip … his grip intensified on the wet upright.

  The level was fine, right up to the ledge, a motionless River Styx that might have stretched on beyond the distant flickering light, right down to Hades itself.

  You don’t have to stay here any longer. You needn’t have come, after all.

  He was scared to relinquish his hold in case the worn tread of his boots skidded beneath him, threw him forward.

  No!

  Turn slowly, hold on until you’re right round and facing back towards the steps. It was awkward, cumbersome in the heavy damp footwear. And all the time he watched the water out of the corners of his eyes.

  He started, almost lost his hold. A movement on the surface, a rippling that came and went.

  Phil Quiles nearly screamed. Then, at the peak of his terror, came realization. Relief merged with logic. It was the far light, its flickering reflection resembled a disturbance of the water. A luminosity that came and went. Came again.

  Thank Jesus!

  He made it back through the door, pulled it shut behind him, ran for the upper level.

  Clump-clop.

  There was nothing in here to be afraid of, his phobias had got the better of him.

  Except …

  He was outside in the sunlight, the exterior door locked behind him, when he knew, without any doubt, what had terrified him inside the blockhouse.

  Not the dark.

  Nor the damp and cold.

  Nor the emptiness.

  And it wasn’t just his imagination playing tricks on him.

&nbs
p; He had felt it, at the time failed to recognize it for what it was. Now he knew, without any shadow of doubt, that feeling that had goose pimpled his flesh, had him peering into every corner, backing off from the shadows.

  Had he realized then, he would have fled. Like driving on black ice, you were fine until you became aware of it. Blissful unawareness saved you. It had spared him, given him time to get back outside. To safety.

  He felt faint, squatted on the mossy steps in case he blacked out.

  The atmosphere in that underground place embodied an evil that defied human comprehension.

  There was something down there.

  Two

  If Maddox had a first name, then nobody knew it and most likely he didn’t, either. Mostly because he was a mute and partially deaf, making communication with others difficult.

  Small and lean with a straggling grey beard, his hair cascaded from beneath the battered old wide brimmed hat, which he was never seen without, down on to his stooped shoulders.

  Summer and winter he wore an old fawn coat that had once been rainproof; it had lost all its buttons and the huge rip in the back allowed the elements to saturate his grubby striped shirt.

  At sixty-five, a rough estimate by those who were familiar with his comings and goings, he had not changed in twenty years. The residents of Hopwas accepted him, ignored his existence except when there were menial tasks to be done.

  Maddox would chop and stack a pile of logs in return for a pound coin in his gnarled hand. You showed him a job, kept out of the way until he had finished it. On the following day he would return in search of more work; you didn’t answer the doorbell, kept out of sight and ignored his grunted, inarticulate shouts, and eventually he would shamble away disgruntled. He wouldn’t be seen for weeks after that.

  The village children, naturally, were frightened of him, an ogre who had stepped right out of the pages of their story books. His inarticulate vocal sounds were interpreted as roars of anger, his waving arms and shambling walk a threat to their safety. Well-meaning but misguided parental warnings about him, intended primarily to deter their offspring from going into the forest unaccompanied by an adult, only served to fuel the playground stories; if Maddox caught you, he would carry you off to his hut in the deep woods, cook you in the big iron pot outside his hovel, and eat you.