Water Rites

by Guy N Smith

  “Just the water authority. Mostly it’s Dalgety, the area inspector, who comes out to check on me.” It sounded degrading.

  “Is there no way anybody else could get in? Discounting this mysterious creature that goes in and out of the hole in the wall, that is.”

  A sudden thought hit Phil, brought with it a rush of guilt, something that had lain forgotten in the recesses of his mind now awoke and screamed accusingly at him.

  Weeks ago, it might have been months, he couldn’t be sure, he had come up here one afternoon on his weekly check of the instruments and levels. He’d hated going inside the place even then; the dull, overcast day, a brief lull in the scorching summer, had added to its depressing atmosphere. Maybe that was the occasion when his unease had become fear. He had rushed to complete his checks in the shortest possible time.

  In his haste Phil had left the key in the lock of the outer door, hadn’t missed it until bedtime when he’d emptied his pockets, put the contents on the dresser. Christ, he wasn’t going back up there in the dark! It’d be okay until morning. Wouldn’t it? Nobody went up there after dark. Did they?

  Nagging concern had dogged his sleep, he hadn’t told Kate, she would only have ridiculed him for worrying. Sometimes conscientiousness went too far, you became a slave to trivialities. Everybody made mistakes. Except Dalgety, because he was in a position to cover up, to find a scapegoat. You just made sure that you didn’t make the same mistake twice.

  The key had still been there the following morning. Except that it wasn’t in the lock, it was lying on the ground. It could have fallen out when he banged the door shut. That lock had its eccentricities, you had to push the key right in, wriggle it about until it seated firmly. Or else it slipped back out.

  Or … somebody might have borrowed it, made an impression and cut a duplicate before returning the original.

  Which would explain the naked footprints and the ring. Maybe even the hole knocked through the wall. Though, for Christ’s sake, who in their right mind would want to gain illegal entry to that dreadful place.

  “Are you all right, Mister Quiles?” The detective was watching him intently.

  “Oh … yes,” Phil shook himself out of his troubled reverie. “A headache, I felt a bit sick suddenly. It’s probably due to the stench in here.”

  “I was asking,” Barr’s eyes narrowed, looking for a reaction to his unanswered question, “if anybody else could possibly get inside this building?”

  “Oh, no!” A vehement denial, Phil thought it sounded convincing. Nobody had borrowed the key that time to cut duplicate, it had simply fallen out of the lock where it lay untouched until he returned the next morning. “No way. It’s impossible except by breaking down the door and that would leave evidence of a break-in.”

  “Let’s take a look at the water down below,” there was a new urgency about the policeman, his deceptive, relaxed posture was gone. A hound that had picked up a scent and was straining at its leash.

  “See how the walls are bowing,” Phil switched on the lights, illuminated the chamber with a dim greenish glow. “I’ve reported it on more than one occasion. I consider it a risk but the water authority, Mister Dalgety, are adamant it’s safe.” Talking for the sake of talking, creating a futile diversion. If there was anything to see, Barr would see it. Don’t blame me for the way things are down here, it’s not my fault. I’m only the manager.

  The far light was not flickering anymore. It glowed dull barely cast a reflection on the surface. The water was still, lifeless.

  From where they stood it was just possible to see a pin point of daylight where that jagged aperture in the wall was.

  It was as if whatever lived in these dark depths had ventured out into the open, was searching for something in the world above. But the evil that pulsed in the cold, damp atmosphere was stronger than ever.

  Phil clutched the handrail until his knuckles showed white in the eerie gloom. He fought against his panic, the overwhelming urge to run, to flee back outside into the bright sunlight.

  But Detective Inspector Barr seemed unmoved, impervious to the claustrophobic malevolence, standing there on the ledge surveying the watery scene.

  Suddenly, he stooped, a quick decisive movement plucked something up off the wet concrete, studied it the palm of his hand.

  “What’s this?” He held it aloft between forefinger and thumb, turned to face his companion. “How on earth did this get here?”

  Phil Quiles’s stomach churned, his brain went into a crazy orbit. He clutched at the safety rail with both hands, wanted to throw up and empty his bowels all at the same time before he ran screaming up the steps behind him. A wave of dizziness came and went.

  For the tiny object which Detective Inspector Barr held up was the ring which Phil had left on the ledge in the hope that whatever evil inhabited this place would take it back and leave them in peace.

  The ring of Mukasa.

  His offering had been refused. Or else its owner, the mysterious fishwoman which Peter claimed to have seen, and which had left a silvery sheen of slime in its wake, had rejected its return and had gone in search of …

  “Well, what do you make of this, then?” Barr’s manner was brusque almost to the point of an accusation.

  “It … it’s a ring,” Phil swallowed, he had no talent for off-the-cuff explanations. “Maybe somebody threw it in rough the hole in the wall.” It was the best he could me up with on the spur of the moment.

  “In which case it would have fallen into the water,” the other’s expression, his tone, were scathing. “So, somebody has been in here, Mister Quiles!”

  “It might belong to … to one of the water authority officials. Or it could have lain here unnoticed for years, just come to light. Like things sometimes do. I remember once my wife lost her engagement ring, we hunted high and low for it …”

  “It hasn’t been here very long, the silver isn’t tarnished, it’s as clean as if it was polished only yesterday.”

  Phil considered confessing how Mrs Jackson had found it but that wouldn’t have solved anything, it wouldn’t have explained away the fact that somebody had gained illegal entry into here in order to lose it in the first place. His own reason for returning it would have invited an embarrassing interrogation. Logically, it sounded ridiculous. But there was nothing logical about this reservoir.

  “We have a lost property department at Glascote,” Phil held out a hand limply in the vain hope that the other would surrender his find.

  “So have we,” Barr tossed the ring in the air, caught it deftly and, in the same sweeping, arrogant movement, consigned it to his pocket. “It will be most interesting to see if its loss is reported. In the meantime, I’ll hang on to it. There are some strange aspects to this case which may, or may not, be related; drownings attempted to be covered up by road accidents and now a ring with a mermaid embossed on it found in a locked underground reservoir. All water related, if you think about it. Most intriguing, but doubtless all will come to light in due course.”

  Phil was shaken. Whatever lived in the old reservoir had gone out looking for something, he was sure of that. And two people had already died …

  No way must Kate or Peter ever venture into these woodlands again. Likewise, he dreaded the daunting prospect of having to go down into the very bowels of this evil to check the levels of its watery lair.

  BOOK 2

  THE PEOPLE OF THE WATER

  Sixteen

  “I don’t like it one little bit, I tell you!” Jocelyn Jackson had been disturbing her husband’s efforts to complete a short story in time for that evening’s creative writing class with an ongoing tirade for the past hour.

  He clicked his tongue in annoyance when she banged a painting on his desk, rattled the glass in the frame. Once again he lost the words in his head before they could be committed to paper.

  He looked up, said, “It looks all right to me, no different from anything else you’ve painted over the last ten years. Copied
it from a Christmas card, did you?”

  “I don’t mean the painting!” Her cheeks suffused with blood, brought a flush of freckles to the surface and her tinted chestnut hair appeared to take on a fiery shade. “For God’s sake, you never listen to anything I tell you. I’m talking about Barbara and this … man! We’ve never even seen him, she hasn’t brought him home to introduce him. She’s down there night after night and I suspect …’ she hesitated to emphasise her concern, “that there might be … something going on between them!”

  “Like what?” Barry deliberately did not meet her gaze, made a token effort to retrieve his lost sentence, scribbled something on his jotter that could be revised later.

  “Like . . . sex!” Indignation, embarrassment at having to put a taboo subject into words, her threatening posture was in itself a challenge to her husband.

  “Dear, Barbara is fifty years of age,” he sighed, leaned back in his chair, removed his spectacles. His tone was condescending, the only way in which he had learned to control his anger where his wife was concerned. “Most women her age are grandmothers. Thanks to your continual interference, Barbara doesn’t even have children. Neither is she married. You have deprived us of grandchildren. It’s too late now but, at least, she seems much happier than she has been for years. That, in itself, is a bonus, a small consolation. Whatever is between Barbara and Royston, and you’ve already established from your gossiping friends that he is a millionaire and that he has been educated at a public school. Repton, I think you told me, one of the top six. So, what on earth have you to carp about? Let’s hope he’ll marry her and that she’ll be happy even if it is to be a childless marriage.”

  “I think they’re sleeping together!” A shriek that was almost hysterical.

  “I expect they are. In fact, there would be something decidedly unnatural about them if they weren’t.”

  “Barry?” She banged the picture again, shouted. “We never had premarital sex.”

  “No, because you were so bloody frigid and scared of getting pregnant for fear of what your parents would say. Consequently, after Barbara was born you were so steeped in guilt that we rarely had sex again, and for the last twenty years we’ve been sleeping in separate bedrooms.”

  “Well, I’m going to put a stop to it!” The picture glass cracked, she ignored it.

  “I don’t think that I want to sleep with you again, Jos.”

  “I’m talking about Barbara and this man!” Her flush paled as her fury rose still further, her lips became thin bloodless lines, curled with rage. “I’m going to put a stop to this, I promise you that. She’s not going there again tonight. And, if you take a tip from me, you’ll stop home, too. Look at all the trouble you’ve caused since last week. A day hasn’t gone by without the police calling round to ask more questions about that vagrant you almost ran over. Goodness only knows what the neighbours think! And the police are still suspicious that it might have been you who knocked him down.”

  Barry sighed, his wife’s stormy exit and the banging of his study door came as a relief. With luck, he might just finish his story in time.

  But one thing was a foregone conclusion, tonight there was going to be an unprecedented row between Jocelyn and Barbara. Jocelyn was pushing just too far this time, going right over the top.

  He braced himself in readiness for the confrontation.

  Barbara arrived home later than she had intended. Roadworks on the outskirts of Lichfield had virtually brought the rush hour traffic to a standstill. Royston had instructed her to be at the Hall by six-thirty; tonight was special, they were going up to the underground temple in the woods. He had urged her not to be late.

  She contemplated not going home, instead driving direct to Packington Hall. No, she needed to change, a quick shower to wash the reminder of a conventional existence from her body, cleanse herself in preparation for the night ahead. Lately, showering had taken on a different meaning for her, water jetting on to her naked body was so sensuous, almost orgasmic.

  There would just be time to shower and change her clothes, Mother could leave her meal in the microwave. Or throw it out for the birds. Barbara didn’t care which, she wasn’t hungry, anyway. She was far too excited to care about food.

  She left her car parked in the driveway in readiness for a quick departure. As she entered the house she could hear voices in the dining room, the clink of cutlery. Barbara paused in midstride, her mother usually yelled out in those raucous tones of hers, “Your meal’s out, come and get it before it goes cold.” She didn’t today and that, in itself, was strange.

  Naked beneath the shower; in spite of her rush the jetting warm water was both relaxing and erotic. She allowed her fingers to stray to her erogenous zones, stroked them sensuously. Trembling, tensing at the feeling, had she had more time at her disposal she would almost certainly have indulged in those pleasures which had delighted her over the years when she did not have a man to satisfy her desires.

  She had to force herself to step from beneath the shower, she was late already. By foregoing her evening meal she might just make it to Packington Hall by six-thirty. Royston wasn’t the kind who tolerated lateness.

  Barbara wished that they weren’t going to the reservoir tonight. Exciting as the prospect was, it was so cold and dark in there. Far rather would she have enjoyed the luxury of that pool beneath the Hall.

  She towelled herself vigorously. Her sensations did not go away; if anything, they increased with the rubbing. She could easily have orgasmed but she resisted the temptation. That would undoubtedly happen later on tonight.

  She dressed in a blouse and denim skirt; they would be changing into those tightfitting costumes on arrival, anyway. They were so sensuous, rubbed softly on your body with every movement, a kind of constant foreplay to your climax. And tonight, Royston had promised, was going to be very special.

  As Barbara came down the stairs she heard her mother still pontificating in the dining room, extolling the virtues of her own artistic talents. Her father was silent, he had probably turned off the way he usually did. Barbara recalled that tonight was his writing class at college; he was doubtless relieved to be going out. She hoped that he didn’t come across any more hit-and-run victims.

  She found herself crossing the hallway stealthily, she had no wish to mar her anticipation of the night ahead by engaging in a shouting match with her mother.

  Jocelyn Jackson carried on talking with hardly a pause for breath. Barbara went outside, clicked the door carefully behind her.

  A sudden feeling of guilt, like when she was a teenager and used to sneak off on a date; her mother always waited up for her, her features contorted with smouldering fury, psyched up for a row. Christ, you’re fifty now, you can bloody well please yourself where you go, what time you come home. There would still be a confrontation, though.

  The Fiesta stood ready and waiting, a means of escape. A thought crossed her mind that she must take it to the car wash tomorrow, it was splattered with mud.

  She hesitated, stood looking at it in the light from the porch, had a nagging feeling that something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong. The car had a dead look about it. Like it was just a chassis and body, no engine; it would not go anywhere. That was stupid, it had only been serviced last week, the mechanic had commented upon its condition, it hadn’t wanted much doing to it, just an oil change, plugs and points and …

  The Fiesta had four flat tyres.

  She didn’t believe it, it had to be some awful hallucination. Vandalism was virtually unknown in Hopwas, you had to go into the city to encounter it. Not here, in their own driveway.

  She started, shied from a faint noise in the still autumn night; like an angry snake disturbed at the start of its hibernation. There were adders in the wood, reptiles were one of Barbara’s phobias. Staring at the car, at the tyres.

  The hissing came from one of the rear flats. She stooped, saw that the valve was missing. The noise slowed, stopped when there was no more air left in the
flattened inner tube.

  Barbara cried her frustration and anger aloud, somebody had deliberately loosed the air out of her tyres. Who, for God’s sake who? Village kids, probably, a sick joke fuelled by boredom.

  She ran back into the house. Her mother’s voice came from behind that closed door, harsh with self-motivated euphoria. “I think that painting I did last year is one of my best ever. They’re going to hang it in the exhibition, Mrs Stodart rang and told me this afternoon, congratulated me …”

  “Somebody’s let the air out of my tyres!” Barbara stood in the doorway, addressed her father. Because he would help her, he’d drive her to Packington Hall before he went off to his class. Or even lend her the Rover.

  “I think it’ll be snapped up,” Jocelyn Jackson did not even glance in her daughter’s direction, “all the pictures are for sale. I’m asking a hundred for the festive scene, a real bargain.”

  “Mother!”

  A cry of rage because Barbara had seen the four objects that lay on her mother’s side plate like fruit stones delicately removed from the dessert. Except that they were valve caps.

  “Your dinner’s in the oven, Barbara,” the lined features sneered her contempt, freckles blotched her crimson cheeks. “There’s gravy in the …”

  “How … dare … you!” Barbara bailed her fists until her long fingernails gouged her palms. She advanced into the room. “How dare you bloody well do that!”

  “What’s the problem?” Barry Jackson carefully wiped his lips with his napkin, looked up. He had to defuse this situation in his own way.

  “She,” Barbara stabbed an accusing finger towards her mother, “has let the air in my tyres out. She’s crazy, she should be locked away.”

  “I’m sure she hasn’t done any such thing,” he folded the napkin, laid it on the table. “Your mother wouldn’t …”

  “I have,” Jocelyn announced smugly, then her voice became shrill again, “and I’ve hidden the foot pump. And you can’t call the AA because I’ve pulled the plug on the phone!”