by Guy N Smith
Mischievously, she wondered if her mother would have approved. Royston Shannon was a millionaire, she knew that because she had handled the sale of this magnificent country mansion and its extensive well-tended grounds. He had paid cash for it, there was no mortgage involved. She thought that he might even have had a public school education, that was Mother’s second criteria.
But it was early days yet. Also, the night was still young, she would doubtless discover a lot more about him before she left.
“More than just a theory,” he had already asked her permission to smoke, a rare request from male companions on dinner dates these days; he took his time lighting his cigar, a connoisseur of best Havana tobacco, had it drawing to his satisfaction before he continued. “A lifetime of research-compiling the knowledge which has been denied others. I am engaged upon writing a book on the subject but it is so complex and lengthy that I fear it will take me several years. I have bridged the gap between mythology and facts that were hitherto unknown to civilization.”
Barbara felt a little frightened. “You think that the oceans will cover the dry land again in our lifetime?”
“Undoubtedly,” Royston Shannon made no attempt to hide his interest in his female companion, such beauty was rare at fifty years of age, a blend of maturity and sheer loveliness. Her shapely figure had not thickened with age, there wasn’t a fleck of grey in her short dark hair. Wide-eyed innocence that was virtually pleading for a man, he thought she might even be a virgin. An expensive two-piece but not overdressed. Tasteful. He wondered if the diamond ring on the third finger of her right hand signified a broken engagement at some stage of her life. In which case her virginity was almost certainly questionable.
“But we don’t have to drown,” he smiled reassuringly, “we merely have to adapt.”
“It sounds exciting,” she wondered if the young man called “Stogie,” who had waited upon them at the table, might return but she made no attempt to withdraw her hand from Royston’s which had reached across the table. “Life gets awfully monotonous even when the company has offered one a directorship.”
“Directorships will count for nothing when the People of the Water return,” his voice was almost dreamy, she could have listened to it all night. “Those who adapt will rule the world, have power unlimited.”
Anywhere else it would have sounded crazy but here in this candlelit dining room with its sculptured ceiling and oak panelling which reflected the discreet lighting, it was more than just a probability.
It would happen, and Barbara Jackson wanted to be part of it. Which was why she made no protest when, much later, Royston Shannon led her up the wide, thickly carpeted staircase.
Barbara had often fantasized about sleeping in a four-poster. Suddenly, fantasy had become reality. Again there was soft wall lighting, its seduction had added to the excitement of having her clothing removed. She had not made even a token protest, it seemed the natural thing to do as they lay on the quilt and talked.
“Evolution is but a lengthy process of reproduction,” his long slender fingers rubbed the softness between her thighs, “gradually changing over millions of years. It is such a pity, my dear, that you have not reproduced, that such beauty will not be continued in the next generation.”
“Every boyfriend I had met with the disapproval of my mother.” There was no bitterness in her tone, without Mother’s carping criticism she would not be lying here right now, at least she had something to be grateful to her for.
“Doubtless a vitriolic woman disillusioned with her own marriage.” His fingertips rubbed and stroked gently, his tongue flicked and circled her engorged nipples. “Marriage is a prohibitive convention, it restricts procreation,” he murmured, “marine creatures breed from innumerable matings, produce the best and the worst of their species. The weaklings die, the ugly fall prey to predators, thus only the finest specimens survive. Which is how it should be and will be again.”
Barbara felt every nerve in her body rising to a crescendo, many times had she effected her own orgasms but never before had the feeling been quite like this. Royston moved on top of her, penetrated deep into her at the very moment when she began to writhe and jerk.
His thrustings were deep and meaningful, fast but not with the desperation of uncontrolled lust. Her cries were muffled by the closed drapes of the bed, its creakings a symphony in keeping with their mating. She felt him stiffen, was aware of his warmth deep inside her, moaned aloud her regret that it was too late in her life to have his child.
Exhausted, she lay there, aware of his weight on top of her, his limpness like a marine creature swimming in a fissure beneath a coral reef, then stiffening again.
Morning only came when he drew back the curtains of their bed and permitted the daylight to enter. He was already fully dressed, she wondered how long he had been up.
“Breakfast is served in the dining room.” He helped her to dress, she was conscious of how her clothes were creased.
Again the meal was fish, a seafood starter followed by fresh herrings, a fitting climax to the evening and the night which had gone before.
Royston did not kiss her goodbye, no passionate embrace as they stood on the York stone terrace in the morning sunlight. Twice Barbara looked up at him, tried to will his lips down to her own but all she received was a parting smile, an expression that promised for the future.
“I do hope you’ll call again,” his words, his tone, were almost formal, their meeting might just have been the conclusion of a property purchase. Teasing without appearing to do so.
“I’d love to.” Waiting for a confirmation of continuity of a night of passion.
“I want you to meet some friends of mine as you are interested in my research,” a vague reference that others were involved.
She waited, her heartbeat quickened.
“We usually meet here on Wednesday evenings at nine,” so formal, her pulse rate slowed, her expression was one of disappointment. “If you’d like to come along, you’d be most welcome.”
“Thank you, so much,” she knew that he watched all the way to her parked car, she felt his eyes on her like laser beams.
For a fleeting moment she experienced a fear of Royston Shannon, then it was gone and she found herself eagerly anticipating Wednesday evening.
Seven
That woman, Phil had forgotten her name, was painting in the enclosure again. It had been a full week since he had last been up here and, as the weather had held fine since, he had the feeling that she had been here every day.
It was damned cheek! Not that he minded, but should Dalgety decide upon an impromptu visit, then there would undoubtedly be trouble. For himself. And, anyway, what the hell did she find worth painting up there?
“Good morning, Mister Quiles,” she heard him unlocking the gate, turned as quickly as her arthritic limbs would allow.
“Still here!” Surprise and veiled disapproval. But she wasn’t the type to take a hint.
“Barry thinks they’re getting close to putting in a full planning application before the merger, says it makes financial sense.” She laid down her paintbrush. “He thought it might be a good idea if I was up here, kept my eyes open to see if there was anything going on. You know, builders jumping the gun, coming to look.”
“I see.”
“Did you know that the water authority has submitted plans for converting the pumping station next to your house into luxury apartments?”
“There have been rumours for some time.” He concealed his surprise, it seemed that the merger was nearer than he’d thought. This whole business stank of corruption and somebody had leaked it. Barry Jackson had his mole in the planning office, his big mistake was letting his wife in on the other’s findings.
“Well, they’ve put the plans in!” Jocelyn Jackson smirked. “But it’s strictly between you and me, of course.”
“Of course.”
“That place inspires me,” she inclined her head in the direction of the blockhous
e. “From the outside, I mean. I wouldn’t go inside again if you paid me.”
“I’ve only come to check the instrument readings today, I’m not going down to the water. Just in case you might change your mind.”
“No fear!” She exaggerated a shudder this time. “My daughter’s found herself a new man.” There was a hint of a sneer in her tone.
“Oh, I see.” Phil edged away, he had no wish to go into details.
“He’s a millionaire.”
“I’m glad for her.”
“And, I would think, he’s had a public school education. I mean, a chap wouldn’t be living in Packington Hall if he hadn’t, now would he, Mister Quiles?”
“I suppose not,” Phil moved another yard, “but I really must be going.”
“I told Barbara, she must bring him home, let Barry and I have a look at him. I mean, you never can tell these days, it might be the butler working a con trick, taking her there when his master’s away. Such things do happen, you know.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“I’ve an idea she stayed the night there last week,” a confidential whisper. “I don’t agree with sex before marriage, I told Barry that we’d have to tackle her about it but Barry’s a bit of a weakling when it comes to family confrontations, between you and me. Oh, he can be nasty but not with our Barbara, she can twist him round her little finger. Oh, one other thing, Mister Quiles.”
Phil had begun to walk away, her shout stopped him in his tracks. “Yes?”
“What’s that hole in the wall over there for? It wasn’t there when I first began painting the blockhouse, I only noticed it this morning.”
Phil followed her pointing finger, saw a jagged hole almost at the base of the building, halfway up the slab steps that ran parallel with the west wall. Pieces of broken concrete and crumbled mortar littered the steps.
“It’s like somebody or something’s broken in. Or out. If you bend down you can just see the water level.”
Phil approached cautiously, mounted the slabs. The hole was about six inches in circumference; not big enough for a fox or badger to squeeze through, a rabbit might have made it. But rabbits didn’t and couldn’t scratch out holes in concrete walls. That-all-too-familiar shiver started at the base of his spine.
“What do you think’s done it, Mister Quiles?”
Sod her, she was coming across in spite of the uneven ground, she poked her nose into everything.
“I’ve no idea, village kids, probably. I’ll have to get it mended but first I have to check the readings.” He left her on the slope, went round and unlocked the outer door.
Jesus, the stench in here was stronger than he’d ever known it. It was as if it had been gathering force inside the doorway, awaiting his arrival. He coughed, felt its cold clamminess envelop him as it wafted out into the open.
He was trembling, it took him several attempts to get the instruments cupboard door to unlock, and when it finally creaked open cold sweat was streaming down his forehead. His eyes stung, he had to wipe them with the back of his hand in order to see the dials. Everything was fine, no problems. There was nothing to delay here another second for.
You really ought to check that light, just in case it’s gone on the blink again.
No way. He forced the door shut, was turning back towards the sunlit doorway when something caught his eye.
Footmarks.
They could have been his own tread, where he had entered after walking on grass that was still dewy in the perpetually shaded eastern wall of the building.
Except that they headed in the wrong direction, came from the locked door behind which lay the steps going down to the water. Also, they were naked.
Jesus God! He stared, tried to will the footprints to take on the shape and patterned imprint of soled shoes. Or else to disappear, because they had never existed; a trick of the half-light or else just to dry up so that he could pretend that he’d never seen them.
They remained, wetly clear on the concrete floor, toes and heels clearly defined. He thought they were female prints, so small and delicate.
Then he noticed the others, bigger and coarser. A man’s. Still more; women again, by the look of them. All going straight out through that door which had been locked at the time.
Phil Quiles nearly screamed as a shadow fell across him.
“Are you all right in there, Mister Quiles?”
It was Jocelyn Jackson standing in the sunlit doorway, shading her eyes as she peered inside.
“I’m … fine, thank you.” Christ, didn’t the cow ever mind her own bloody business!
“Have you discovered what made that hole in the wall?”
“No!” He had to control his anger. “No, I haven’t had a chance to look properly yet.”
“What’s that on the floor over there?”
Naked footprints and this time I have noticed them! “It’s just where I’ve been walking between taking off my Wellingtons and putting my shoes back on.” It sounded plausible.
“No, I don’t mean those, use your eyes. There’s something glinting over there, it could be a coin that you’ve dropped.”
Phil turned slowly, saw where a shaft of sunlight fell on something that shone and glinted. It might have been a coin, like she said. Or a sliver of glass that would cut a bare foot, teach these bloody trespassers a lesson.
“Pick it up, then, let’s see what it is!”
God, you’re as bad as Dalgety. Worse, in fact. He took a faltering step, stooped and stretched out a hand, suddenly scared of whatever it was.
It was a ring. He could tell by its weight that it was solid silver, he hefted it in the palm of his hand.
“Bring it out into the light, then, and let’s have a look.”
Phil took it outside, not because Mrs Jackson had ordered him to but because he could not stand being in that awful place a second longer. She was crowding him, he resisted the temptation to shove her roughly away.
“It’s got some kind of figure embossed on it. Here, let’s have a look.” Her wizened fingers moved quickly, suddenly she had it, was scrutinizing it.
You interfering bitch, no wonder your daughter never found herself a husband, no man would want to be related to you!
“It’s a …” Jocelyn Jackson screwed up her eyes, held the ring close, “a … mermaid! See for yourself.”
It was a perfect miniature mermaid. In spite of its tiny size, her features were plainly discernible. Phil caught his breath at their sheer beauty. The breasts, so perfectly formed, the fish tail in a relaxed posture.
“There’s some writing on it,” the other peered again, pouted her lips. “I can’t pronounce it, I’ll have to spell it out. M … U … K … A … S … A, Mukasa. What a funny name. If it is a name. What do you make of that, Mister Quiles?”
“I don’t know … yet.” He reached out, took the ring back. “I’ll have to try to locate the owner, we have a lost property department at Glascote. Visiting schoolkids often leave possessions behind. I’ll hand it in there.” He slipped it into his pocket.
“You tell them about that hole in the wall, too. Our water’s bad enough without vandals going and shoving things into it.”
“I’ll get it fixed, don’t you worry,” he turned away. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t go hanging around here too much.”
Jocelyn Jackson watched him until he was out of sight in the larches. She didn’t like anybody telling her to piss off, no matter how discreetly they put it, but on this occasion she might just take that young man’s advice. Because there were some strange and scary goings-on around this place and there was no mistaking the evil that exuded from that dark and watery building.
Eight
Nick Holcroft had farmed Chestnut Farm single-handed ever since his father’s untimely death four years ago; Charles Holcroft had been baling straw after the corn harvest when the baler had jammed. He should have switched it off while he cleared the blockage but he didn’t. His boot caught in a length of pla
stic twine as he kicked the offending bale in anger and frustration; the machine restarted suddenly, pulling him into the chute with the straw. The compressed body had been totally unrecognizable.
Nick’s mother had died when he was still a boy and now, at thirty-one, he still hadn’t got round to getting married. He’d had plenty of women, though, he hadn’t missed out on his share of “nooky,” he boasted, boring the regulars at the Chequers most evenings. He had neither the time nor the inclination for a permanent relationship.
Mostly the listeners yawned, occasionally they winked slyly at one another, hid their grins in a pint of beer.
“If’n young Nick took to washin’ hisself and his clothes,” one of the old-timers said through the stem of a burned out briar after the farmer had departed and the landlord had propped the door open after him, “and maybe lost a bit o’ weight, too, then Mary Ablett might consider a proposition. And she’s none too particular about herself, neither!”
Chestnut Farm was losing money, the bank manager pointed that out to Nick; land prices had fallen, interest rates had soared. He’d have to sell off half his herd of Herefords for whatever anybody would bid for them, and cut his losses on that fifteen-acre field up by Hopwas Woods which his father had bought just prior to his death.
The field was a loss maker from the very beginning even Nick was intelligent enough to realize that. The grass had burned off in last summer’s heatwave and hadn’t come back. Consequently, the cattle were having a hard time of it, and the stream which watered the land had all but dried up. If the autumn rains didn’t come within the next fortnight, he’d put both land and stock up for auction.
Nick prayed for rain. Not that he ever went to church, even for the harvest festival, but there came a time, surely when even God would listen to an agnostic if he promised to give his nonbeliefs further consideration.
Nick went to check on those Herefords first thing on that misty autumn morning. The mist would clear in a couple of hours and then it would be another warm, dry day. The weather forecasters did not even hint at any prospect of change, a huge area of high pressure was centred firm over the whole country and did not show any signs of moving. They called it an Indian summer, Nick spat his contempt on to the dewy ground.