by Guy N Smith
“Actually, he telephoned while you were down at Packington Hall making a bloody spectacle of yourself, kicking and banging on doors. Apparently, Barbara’s called him, told him she won’t be going back to work.”
“She’s given up her job!” Jocelyn was aghast. “She’ll never find another one that pays that sort of salary!”
“She won’t need to,” he smiled ruefully, “not once she’s married a millionaire. You’ve got what you wanted, Jos, a husband for your daughter who’s a millionaire and has been educated at public school. What more d’you want? You can’t bloody complain unless it is that you didn’t want Barbara to get married at all.”
Jocelyn stormed out of the room, banged the door behind her. Barry went back to the window, stared out through the rain-lashed pane.
The driveway was already partially flooded, a huge puddle hid the flat tyres on Barbara’s car. Rain was forecast for the next couple of days. At least.
Already the river beyond the village had overflowed its banks.
The weather depressed him. It was as if the end of the long drought marked Barbara’s leaving, like a long awaited change had come over her. A thought crossed his mind, she had been acting strangely these last few weeks. Barry supposed that it was because of Royston Shannon.
Barry Jackson had an awful premonition that he would never see his daughter again.
Barbara had gone on ahead to the underground temple. Shannon had no idea how she travelled, that was something that was taken for granted where Mukasa was concerned. She came and went as she pleased, you didn’t question how.
The day for which he had lived his whole life had arrived. The Coming had happened.
He had prepared for a day of rejoicing. Instead, there was only terror. Mukasa’s spirit had chosen Barbara’s body in which to materialize; the woman he had fallen in love with, seduced into his coven, had risen up to rule over the world. Shannon had presumed power unlimited for himself; his role was to serve with humility.
The Floods were here; the river meadows were several feet under water, council workmen were frantically sandbagging the adjacent road but nothing would hold back the water. Soon the whole earth would be awash and only the chosen would survive.
This was only the beginning.
Shannon unlocked the outer door of the blockhouse, waited for the others to file inside before he closed it. This time he did not lock it behind him; deep inside, he experienced a trapped feeling. The place was icy cold, water was pouring in through a hole in the roof, the lobby floor was awash.
It was strange returning here for a second time in one night. He wondered why Mukasa had not appeared to them here earlier or remained in the sacred pool at the Hall. It was as if first she had to destroy that idol built in a false image before bringing them back here to the place of her rebirth.
She had been here all along, he knew that. A shapeless, luminous thing lurking beneath the surface, demanding human sacrifices as she evolved; first into human form, then the adaptation to a life in the water. Her scales were forming, her feet would become a tail. For soon those who survived would have no need for feet nor legs because there would be no land remaining to walk upon.
In the half-light he checked his own flesh; there was no indication of any change. But there would be, there had to be.
The others were terrified, even Stogie. He had lost his cigar stump, he did not appear to notice that it was gone. The three females kept close to him, seeking safety in numbers. It was like they had shunned their high priest.
Shannon glanced behind him, there was contempt in his expression. Fools, you are not fit to undergo the change, you will be but carrion for the predators when the oceans reclaim the land.
He descended the steps cautiously. The strip lighting above the ledges cast a weird glow, the water seemed threatening, no longer a place in which to immerse themselves.
Then he noticed the walls, and a half cry escaped his lips. They had been bowing outwards for some time. Now they were bulging, straining. Huge cracks had appeared above the waterline, that hole was gushing water like a burst main, pouring into the reservoir. The ledge was a couple of inches below the surface and the level of water was rising rapidly.
This Victorian man-made lake would not be able to stand the increased pressure. A jagged crack in the concrete just below the roof widened even as he looked.
We might drown here like rats in a trap! No, we shall not drown, we will evolve, adapt. He trembled, he was only partly convinced.
The surface stirred, foamed, and up out of the depths rose Mukasa, Queen of the People of the Water. Goddess of the Oceans. Witch Queen of the Mermaids.
Gasps of terror came from the coven, they bunched against the wall. Only Shannon stood firm and even he was shaking.
No, it could not be Barbara, it was impossible! Her features had not changed, that was the only reason he still clung to the belief that it was she who had been possessed, had become the Chosen One. But her flesh, her body, were scarcely recognizable. The woman who had shared his bed had changed beyond belief.
She squirmed up onto the submerged ledge, reclined. Her feet were already gone, in their place a tail that flicked threateningly, splashed droplets of water over them like some bizarre baptism. Her lower half was a mass of green scales that shone and scintillated. Gone were the wrinkles and lines that had been etched in her upper flesh, her neck was as smooth as that of a young woman. Her dark red nipples were engorged, waiting to be suckled by an infant.
Her eyes glinted green in the reflected light.
Shannon swallowed, almost dropped down into a posture of worship.
Her lips curled with contempt. “You gave me the dead, now I want only the living.”
Debbie sobbed with terror, the watchers pressed themselves back against the wet wall. Shannon’s head was bowed, his hands were clasped behind his back.
Something floated up to the surface beyond Mukasa, half submerged. From a distance its shape resembled a crocodile lying in wait for some unwary prey.
“A male child!” Her shriek echoed in the chamber. “One to sit by my throne until my own is born.”
It had to be a trick of the light, Shannon decided, but her lower abdomen seemed to bulge. Barbara was too old to conceive.
But Mukasa’s body no longer belonged to Barbara, she had the power to use it as she wished.
“That child will come to me tonight,” she raised an arm as if to summon him from wherever he was. “Even now he stirs in his slumber, he yearns for me.”
Water poured in through the hole, foamed, created a current. The thing in the water bobbed, floated slowly out of the shadows. Submerged, surfaced, turned over so that the dull beam from the nearest light fell full on it.
Cadaverous features smiled almost blissfully, spewed water. Dead arms and legs splayed outwards. It drifted towards the figure on the shelf, a naked corpse that seemed to be revering its sub-humam mistress for the pleasures which she had given it in life.
Lisa was screaming, her companions silenced her for their goddess’s uplifted hand demanded silence. None dare disobey her.
Mukasa’s head was tilted to one side; she was listening, seemed oblivious of her audience.
A noise from upstairs, it was barely audible against the wind and the rain. A pattering as though somebody ran across the flooded lobby floor, footsteps that were light yet urgent. Pausing by the doorway that led down to the water.
A cry, unintelligible yet it had a pleading note, the desperation of a child who has suddenly realized that it has become parted from its parents.
Mukasa answered it, a command that was both reassuring and demanding obedience. “Your mother awaits you, Little One.”
The footsteps resumed, cautious now as they reached the top of the steps but there was no hesitation. Bare feet splashed in the wet, tiny hands clutched the rail tightly as the figure descended.
The coven uplifted their eyes, saw a small boy, his red-and-white pyjamas clinging wetly to hi
s body. The small overhead strip light bathed his features, they saw that his eyes were closed as though he sleepwalked.
There was an urgency about the way he ran along the ledge, flung himself into Mukasa’s outstretched arms, snuggled into her bosom.
They heard her murmuring, “My son, my son.”
Over on the far side there was a cracking sound as the gap in the concrete wall widened, split another few inches.
Twenty-five
Sleeping late on Sunday morning was a ritual in the Quiles household, except when Phil was on weekend duty at Glascote.
This morning Kate was determined that her husband was not going to get up before nine. It had been a traumatic week and he needed his rest. She felt him stir by her side.
“Go back to sleep, Phil,” a drowsy command. “There’s nothing to get up for.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s only seven-thirty,” she looked at the digital alarm by the side of the bed. “I’ll go make a drink in a bit.”
“No, I’ll go.”
“For Christ’s sake, relax!” She gripped his arm tightly. “You’re not going anywhere, and that’s an order.”
“All right.” There was no mistaking his reluctance. “When you go downstairs, check to make sure that policeman has dropped the reservoir keys back through the letter box.”
“Does it really matter if he hasn’t?”
“It will if Dalgety decides on a check.”
“Dalgety won’t do a check on a Sunday, you can safely count on that,” she sighed her impatience. “You can bet he’ll be in the pub most of the day. And even if he did turn up, what safer custody for the keys than with the police?”
He fell silent. She dozed but still kept a grip on his arm. She felt him fidgeting.
“Peter should have been in by now.” Their son never failed to join them in bed on Sunday mornings. And if you had any plans for sleeping on after that, you could forget ’em.
“I expect he’s still asleep, and for Christ’s sake don’t go waking him up.”
“He never sleeps after seven-thirty.”
“It’s not quarter to eight yet.” This was becoming ridiculous. “Just listen to that rain and wind. It hasn’t eased up all night.”
“We need it.”
“Don’t start talking shop, please!”
Phil was restless, it was probably the policeman’s visit last night that was troubling him. Phil liked an ordinary routine job, no dramas.
“I won’t be a minute,” he threw back the duvet, his feet slid off the bed.
“Where the hell d’you think you’re going, Phil?”
“To the bathroom.”
Oh, Jesus! She loosed her hold on him, she couldn’t deny him the call of nature.
“I’ll make a cup of tea while I’m up.” He was already at the door.
“Then make sure that you come right back with it and that you drink it in bed. Promise?”
“I promise.”
Kate heard the cistern emptying in the bathroom, then Phil’s footsteps on the stairs. Of course, his main purpose for going down was to check on those bloody keys. The sooner they closed this pumping station down, the better. But even then it wouldn’t make any difference to Phil, he wouldn’t alter wherever he was, whatever job he had. Conscientious to the point of obsessiveness, she’d have to learn to live with it. She should have learned by now, anyway.
“No keys.” There was a worried expression on his face as he set two mugs of tea down on the bedside table. “Maybe I should ring the police station.”
“Get back into bloody bed,” she lifted herself up on her elbows. “Maybe that cop’s still up there, fallen asleep because it’s so bloody cosy in there.” She shuddered at the very thought of the reservoir. “In all probability he’s gone off duty and still has the keys in his pocket. He’ll discover ’em later and come back with them. If not, then you can ring the police station, but leave it until this afternoon, at least.”
“I’ll just check that Peter’s all right.”
“You keep out of his room! Let him sleep on, there’ll be no peace for the rest of the day once he’s awake.”
“Oh, all right.” He climbed back into bed. “God, we’ve had some rain overnight. The yard’s like a river, a torrent going right down onto the road. The meadows down by the Fox are flooded, you can just see them in the distance. I’ve never known them to flood before, it’s incredible. It’ll close the road into Tamworth before long, I’ll warrant.”
“All the more reason for staying in bed an extra hour.”
They drank their tea in silence. He had made her tense otherwise her thoughts might have turned to the pleasurable things that most married couples did in bed on Sunday mornings. This morning would be a waste of time as far as that was concerned, they wouldn’t even manage to get started. And, anyway, Peter would be in any minute; they’d had a bonus so far.
“I hope Peter’s okay,” Phil put his empty mug down on the table.
“I’m sure he’s fine.”
“I think I’ll just go check.”
“Then don’t make a noise about it.” And as soon as Phil discovered that their son was fast asleep in bed, he’d find something else to go and check on.
Phil went out, left the door wide. The trouble with Phil, he always found something to do when there wasn’t anything to do. He’d …
“He’s not in his room!”
His words numbed Kate. She heard them but she didn’t believe them, rejected them. A flood of reasons for Peter’s absence from his room jammed her brain so that her words came out all mixed up.
“The spare room. Lego. In the lounge. Gone to get Rabbit. In the lavatory, the downstairs one.”
She heard Phil’s running footsteps, doors opening, being left open; back across the landing, stumbling on the stairs in his haste and just managing to grab the rail before he fell. Padding up the stone corridor that led off to the front room; back to the kitchen. The outer door was being unlocked, he was looking out into the yard.
She wanted to go and search, find that it was all a big mistake, panic over nothing. But for a full minute she was incapable of movement, just sat there, the bedsheets crunched into linen balls in her clenched hands.
He couldn’t be missing, it was impossible. There was nowhere for him to go. He was deliberately hiding somewhere, maybe in the cupboard beneath the stairs, a childish joke designed to scare his parents. Lots of kids did it.
She heard Phil coming back, running up the stairs. He’s found Peter, he’s rushing to tell me that everything’s fine. Convincing herself, not getting out of bed because there was no need. Peter had been in either the lavatory or under the stairs, in a minute he’d follow his father into the bedroom. He was okay.
“I can’t find him anywhere!”
Kate felt sick and faint. Her vision blurred, distorted her husband’s anguished expression. Her mouth opened, she mimed her disbelief. Then she was leaping out of bed, that moment of awful shock had been overcome, desperation pushed her into overdrive.
“Let me go and look. He has to be somewhere, he most certainly hasn’t gone outside the house.”
The gutter was overflowing, probably birds’ nests from last spring had clogged it, there was a virtual waterfall outside the kitchen window. Kate looked beneath the table, pulled the armchair out. Cupboards were opened, doors left wide.
Back upstairs, running, starting all over again. Phil followed her, they looked under the beds. Everywhere.
“He isn’t in the house!” She would give way to hysteria in a minute. “Phil, phone the police.”
“Hang on a minute,” he took her arm. “He can’t have gone far, it won’t be anything serious, I’m sure.” His voice shook.
“He’s gone off into the wood,” she was beginning to cry. “I know he has.”
“Not on a morning like this,” he crossed to the window. “Nobody would go out in this.”
“Peter has.”
“I’ll go
and look, he may be up by the pumping station.”
“No, the yard gate’s closed, he can’t reach the latch.” They stared at each other. The boy wasn’t in the house, he couldn’t get out the front. That only left the back and from here they could see every inch of the waterlogged garden right up to …
The wood.
“Phil, we have to check that reservoir!” She shuddered.
“We can’t, that policeman didn’t return the keys.”
“Then at least we can … go and look from the outside.”
“A lot of good that will do!”
“He might be playing round the blockhouse, you know how he’s fascinated by …”
The fish woman.
“All right, I’ll go and take a look.”
“I’m coming with you.”
It was almost impossible to stand upright in the lashing storm. They ducked behind the thick hedge, followed it right the way up to the top of the garden. Phil squeezed through a gap between the nut trees, Kate followed him.
It was dark beneath the trees, like a continuation of the previous night because dawn had given up its battle with the elements. Their feet sank into sodden pine needles, hindered their progress. Pines and larches leaned over, brushed one another; there was no cover from the deluge.
“My God, just look at that!”
Kate stared where her husband pointed. The compound gate had finally disintegrated, a heap of kindling that swung to and fro, held precariously by the single strand of barbed wire that had once topped it.
But it was not that which had him staring in shocked horror. Beyond it, where the steep banks of the underground reservoir rose to form a symmetrical skyline, water was bubbling up out of the coarse grass as though the tufts concealed a geyser.
Rivulets flowed down the incline, a winding watercourse that flowed onto the slabbed steps, created a series of miniature waterfalls.
“The walls have given under the pressure, they’re starting to collapse!”
“Damn the walls!” She yelled to make herself heard above the wind. “Find Peter, for Christ’s sake!”