Water Rites
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 1996-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: IN THE VILLAGE OF HOPWAS, THERE IS A BARBED WIRE FENCE AROUND THE OLD RESERVOIR. An elderly derelict living in the Hopwas woods has seen them gather under the chill of the moon. He has heard the haunting echoes of their strange midnight chants. A reservoir inspector has seen the terrifying proof that they exist: the deep, damp footprints leading into the black, watery pit... BUT IT'S NOT MEANT TO KEEP SOMETHING OUT... Now, a wealthy man is being driven mad by a terrifying vision. A drowned corpse has been found in the middle of a dry, empty field. And suddenly, a child is gone. While a mother
Publisher: Zebra

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

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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 access 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.

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.

In reality, Maddox would have harmed none. He yearned for young company, any company, but others either fled at his approach or else refused to open their doors to his knock. Except when there was work that needed to be done.

He wasn’t angry, just hurt and confused.

The tumbledown shack in the midst of the rhododendron thicket was reached by following a narrow track that had been worn by badgers and foxes for half a century. Maddox had not widened it for it offered seclusion, and overhanging foliage that saturated his clothing in times of wet weather was a small price to pay for his privacy.

The basic structure of his primitive dwelling was pine trunks dragged under the cover of darkness from the felled area of woodland on the roadside. That was in the early seventies. A petition by angry villagers who feared for their environment had resulted in a prohibition of tree clearance and the forest had remained untouched since.

The rest of his “building materials” had been wheeled away in a battered, discarded pram from the unauthorized garbage dump in the disused quarry; some rusted corrugated tin sheeting, ripped tarpaulins, and discarded carpets.

The shack was not weatherproof but the surrounding rhododendrons provided an impenetrable barrier against the prevailing westerlies.

Maddox did not mind snow or rain, he had ample brushwood to kindle a fire to dry out the ragged garments which clung wetly to his wiry frame.

Some said that he was an itinerant vagrant who had chanced upon these beautiful woodlands and decided to make them his permanent home. There were rumours that he was a wealthy eccentric with a fortune banked somewhere and, frustrated by his disability and treatment by his fellow beings, he had opted for a basic existence. Or perhaps a broken romance or the deaths of doting parents had driven him to become a hermit.

The stories were many, guesswork that spawned romanticism. But none really knew whence he came, who he was, or why he was here. Or even his real name. In the early days the school children had nicknamed him “the Mad Ox.” Nowadays, he was known as just “Maddox.”

Maddox had a gun, an ancient double twelve-gauge hammer gun with wafer thin Damascus barrels pitted with rust. A weapon that was a tribute to its maker, for it had not only stood the test of time but had survived continual misuse and constant exposure to the elements, and it still functioned with unerring precision.

Maddox was a superb marksman, whether it was a rabbit bolting through dense bracken or a wild duck briefly silhouetted against a sliver of moon, he rarely missed his target. His skill was born of necessity, the outcome of his hunting determined whether or not he had meat upon his tin plate. Likewise, shells were not plentiful, he could not afford to waste them.

He grew a few potatoes in an area of rough ground which he had cleared at the rear of his shelter, but the soil was poor, shaded by the dense shrubs. The tubers were small, mostly he had to rely upon the pittance earned from casual chores to supplement his hunting.

But he had lived this way for twenty years, he would survive another twenty.

He was not lonely. These rhododendrons were a habitat for creatures of the wild, he would lie on his bed of blankets at night, and even though he could not hear them, he was aware of the comings and goings of woodland animals; the scuffling of badgers searching for mice and voles amidst the dead leaves, the dog fox prowling restlessly, awaiting the call of a vixen when the mating season was nigh. Timid rabbits grazed within feet of the man-made den, Maddox never killed them in the immediate vicinity of his home.

And in the dead of winter, a mighty horde of twittering starlings roosted here, flocks of several million aggressive, quarrelsome birds that came from as far afield as the steppes of Russia. They, like their human neighbour, recognized this place as an invincible sanctuary beyond the reach of Man. Maddox did not trouble them; in all probability they never even noticed his presence.

They coated the foliage white with their droppings, their foulings weighed the branches down, a stinking sediment several inches deep covered the ground beneath the bushes.

The pungent stench hung heavy in the atmosphere during the long winter months. Some years ago, when the starlings first made this place their migratory refuge, the water authority had feared for the purity of the nearby underground reservoir, that the rain would wash the droppings down through the soil. An attempt was made to drive away the seething flocks which darkened the late afternoon sky as they flew back to their roost.

An armament of shotguns was mustered, an unlimited supply of birdshot for those who accepted the invitation to join the battue. Military help was enlisted from the nearby barracks; exploding rockets and flares, blank machine gun fire. Anything that would bang or light up the sky, disturbance would be the main factor in deterring the offending birds from this place. They must be driven away to another roost where their foul habits would not be harmful to Man’s existence

The exercise failed miserably at an extortionate cost in ammunition. An incessant onslaught over three evenings resulted in the starlings crowding defiantly into their nocturnal bastion, chirping angrily until the winter dawn broke.

In spite of his deafness, Maddox had been aware of the mighty aerial barrage, standing in the entrance of his home and staring up at the illuminated dusk sky. The gunfire went unheard but he sensed the ferocity of the assault on the birds and it angered him. They never disturbed his sleep, he did not even notice their stench now, he had become used to it long ago. Starlings were inedible, so why kill them?

That was the beginning of his resentment towards his fellow men. After those three evenings of starling warfare, he became more of a recluse than before. Rarely was he seen mooching the village in search of menial tasks. He would manage, in his own way.

September came with a hint of early frosts. The fields outside the forest were golden with stubble awaiting the plough, the grain harvest was gathered. Flocks of wood pigeons gleaned them by day, by night came mallard with whispering wingbeats, witches silhouetted against a moonlit sky.

The old man’s muscles had stiffened over the months, his joints creaked when he rose from his bed at first light on a dewy morning. Yet the sweet aroma of overripe blackberries on cobweb festooned briars stirred an instinct that had lain dormant within him since last winter. The instinct of the hunter, for real.

Summer months, with unwary rabbits grazing on the outskirts of the wood and nesting pigeons in the tall pines offering an easy shot, were no challenge. Now the time of mystery and adventure, the thrill of the hunt, was nigh, the chance to bag a wild duck or a Canada goose that came here to feed from the distant river.

The hairy nostrils of his grotesque blackhead infested nose flared. He went back inside, found the polythene ice cream box in which he stored his shotshells to protect them from the damp. A few heavy loads rather than light birdshot, ancient buckshot cartridges which would fell a goose on the wing at long range.

This was the season for which he lived; the time of the hunter. Tonight he would go forth beneath the full moon.

Maddox was uneasy tonight, he did not know why. A tenseness that transcended his usual alertness, pausing every so often, pressing himself up against a tree to render himself invisible in the deep forest shadows. Had he been gifted with hearing, then he would have listened. Instead, he watched, straining his eyes beneath bushy hooded grey eyebrows, picking out an owl that perched silently on a branch above him.

The bird was watching him, too. Wary, poised to flap silently to safety if he made the slightest movement that alarmed it.

He ignored the owl because raptors, like the starlings in the rhododendrons, were inedible; its corpse was of no use to him. It was hunting mice and voles, a winged sentry patiently waiting to drop down on any unsuspecting small creature that moved beneath it. Man had never troubled this nocturnal hunter of the forest but his clumsy movements disturbed its prey. Which was why it regarded him balefully. Annoyance rather than anger; wariness, not fear.

Maddox relied upon a sense unknown to those who took hearing for granted. Others did not need it as he did; an inbuilt alarm system that warned him of the presence of others, whether it was humans or forest creatures. Perhaps a vibration that was detectable only to one who lived perpetually in a world of silence. The knowledge that something moved in the vicinity.

As it did now.

His keen eyes scanned the sky above, a moonlit background of cirrus clouds against which anything that moved would be clearly outlined. Searching for mallard arrowing their way to the stubble fields; circling, wary of danger, then losing height, paddles lowered in readiness for a landing. Or the heavier, slower movements of wild geese in a V formation.

Tonight the sky was devoid of movement. In all probability the ducks, or geese, had already arrived, were greedily devouring the spilled grain amidst the stubble. Their greed reduced their wariness, made a stalk much easier. Or if they had not yet arrived then Maddox would take up a position in the hawthorn hedge, ambush them clinically with the cunning born of a lifetime of hunting for food.

Something had impinged upon his hunting instinct, distracted him, made him uneasy, edgy. His nostrils dilated, sniffed for a scent; it wasn’t a fox prowling nearby, the creature had an unmistakable rancid odour that was easily identified even from a distance. Nor a badger. Badgers smelled earthy, blundered heavily through the undergrowth so that they were recognizable by their vibrations.

It wasn’t a rabbit, either. Neither stoat nor weasel. What then?

Maddox crouched down, a callused thumb rested on one of the gun hammers, ready to cock it instantly. Immobile, watching, alert in every sense except the one which had been denied him.

A movement atop the rise in front had him stiffening. It was far enough away for it to have been a fox without its sour stench wafting on the slight breeze towards him. Or a cumbersome badger. Even a deer, for occasionally they wandered this far from the military land on the other side of the fields.

Then he stared in disbelief to where the scrubland rose before it sloped away to the fields below, a vantage point which he had often used in the past for spying out the lower farmland, looking for feeding waterfowl.

Silhouettes emerged from the shelter of a clump of silver birch saplings. Shapes that were unfamiliar in this place for they were not of creatures of the woods.

They were humans.

Maddox tensed, his first thought was that it was a gang of night poachers from the city on a foray after roosting pheasants, armed with powerful lamps with which to see their prey, rifles to knock them from the high branches. But he knew before his eyes had finished scanning them that these strangers in the night were not hunters.

They did not move with stealth, instead they walked in single file with no thought for concealment. None of them carried guns, nor any other weapon of the chase.

Who were they? What were they doing here at this hour?

It was their posture which disturbed him most. They looked neither to the right nor the left, followed some well-worn animal track, arms hanging by their sides. Trancelike, robots which had been programmed to reach a particular destination and anything en route was no concern of theirs.

Maddox counted five of them; a tall, imposing figure in the lead, another close behind. The other three were female. The one bringing up the rear stumbled suddenly as if her foot had caught against a protruding root, fell headlong. Those in front appeared not to notice; she scrambled to her feet, hastened to catch up with them.

Then they were lost from view.

All thoughts of ducks and geese were gone from his mind. People were trespassing in his domain, he wanted to know why they were here, where they were going. They presented a threat to his lifestyle.

He straightened up, moved with the lope of a hunting timber wolf that had scented prey. Half crouching, shotgun cradled across his chest, he set off to follow them. Anger mingled with his curiosity and his gnarled thumb rested across the hammers of the ancient gun.

Again, Maddox used that inexplicable sense of his to track those ahead of him; in places the path forked, there were a couple of left turns. One trained in the art of pursuit might have put his ear to the ground, listened. The old man had no use for his ears, a palm placed flat upon the earth told him all that he needed to know, picked up the necessary vibrations.

Twice he had to hang back for those ahead of him moved with frustrating slowness as though time had no meaning for them. He did not want to catch up with them, reveal his presence.

They were heading deep into the woods. Moonlit landmarks were a guide to location, he wondered if the others might become lost. No, they seemed to know exactly where they were going. So they must have been here before.

They were up to no good, they would have come in the daylight otherwise. Maddox thought of reasons why they roamed the woods after dark, excluding poaching because the others had no guns. Gathering firewood was the only alternative that sprang to mind. It didn’t fit for the very reason that they wouldn’t find it in the dark, not even by moonlight.

A familiar square outline loomed up ahead, a raised plateau that was starkly in contrast to the hills and the trees, a symmetrical building that jutted up out of it, squat and ugly, like the conning tower of some gigantic dry land submarine.

The old reservoir!

Maddox hung back again, for the moment he could not see those he pursued, they were following a path through the pines. Either they would head straight on towards the larch plantation or …

They emerged into a patch of silvery moonlight, congregated alongside the sagging perimeter fence. Heads were thrust close together, the tall man was talking, the others listening. They nodded, agreed with whatever he said. He turned away, lifted a strand of barbed wire, held it whilst his companions squeezed through on to the other side. Then the other man held it so that their leader could join them.

What the hell was going on?

Maddox pressed himself back into the shadows. Where previously he had experienced curiosity, anger at this intrusion of his lands, now he felt a sense of unease. Not exactly fear, just a nagging insecurity. It would be unwise to let them see him, they obviously had nefarious business on water authority property. More than just a common trespass, they had a reason for being here.

Now they were mounting the wide mossy steps which led up to the blockhouse, the tall man in the lead, an arrogance in his step. They all halted, bunched in front of the heavy door.

Maddox sneered behind his unkempt beard. This lot were in for a surprise, there was no way they were going in there. He’d tried the door himself on more than one occasion, merely curious to know what lay behind it. Always it had been locked, so stout that you couldn’t even get it to rattle if you put your shoulder to it.

Once he had lain in a patch of wild willow herb and spied upon the man who had the keys to that door. Somebody in authority, obviously. The fellow had been inside for only a short time, and when he came out he locked the door behind him.

These night-time prowlers were wasting their time if they thought they were going in there …

They were filing through the doorway! Maddox strained his eyes but the entrance was in dark shadow. Then he heard the sound of a key grating in the lock. Those people had gained access, and then had locked themselves in.

Maybe they were water people, his limited intelligence struggled to find a solution to these strange goings on. If they were, then they would not have come at this hour. They didn’t look official, at least, four of them didn’t. The other was imposing, there was no doubting his leadership, the others had respect for him. But there was something … uncanny about him.

Maddox felt a shiver travel up his spine. He was glad that he had his gun with him.

He remembered the stubble fields, the possibility of mallard and Canada geese feeding there. He considered turning his back on this strange affair, going back to his hunting. No, the ducks would still be there tomorrow night, his inquisitiveness prompted him to stay. The waterworks man hadn’t been in the building many minutes on that occasion, these folks surely could not find anything in there to delay them for long.

The moon was well past its zenith by the time they emerged back into the open.

Maddox was stiff and cold, the hands holding the gun were numb. Everywhere glinted sparkling white with the frost that had covered the landscape during his long wait.

He counted the strangers as they filed down the steps, slid beneath the barbed wire strands. Still five; none had stayed. He felt his muscles crack as he eased his position. Well, he’d found out where they were going, now he’d discover whence they came.

He stalked them back along that winding track, knew that they would be returning to that rise above the farmlands. It was the trek from thereon that intrigued him. Probably they were villagers, they would walk back into Hopwas. He could not think of any other habitation within walking distance of here.

Down the long slope towards the fields, the path led through a patch of gorse where the wicked spines scratched your legs through your trousers. Maddox had an elevated view from here. Where the forest ended and the farmlands began there was a wide track, a route often used by horse riders. Lovers sometimes came here after dark in their cars; there were sandy places where wheels sank and sometimes the occupants had to get out and push their vehicles back on to firm terrain.

There was a car parked there now, backed up off the track so that it was partly concealed by bushes. A big car, Maddox noted, he was not familiar with makes and models. It gleamed in the wan moonlight, the doors opened and shut.

It moved back on to the track with grace and power. The headlights were not switched on, perhaps that was because the moon was bright enough for the driver to see by. Gliding away, its brake lights showed redly on a bend and then it was gone from Maddox’s view.

The unknown strangers had travelled by car, they might have come from many miles away. In all probability they would not return and the old man would never discover the purpose of their visit.

Out on the stubble fields he heard mallard quacking. He decided to leave them until tomorrow night.

Three

“It’s Dalgety!” There was a note of alarm in Kate Quiles’s voice as she stretched up to see out of the window.

Even with her long blond hair uncombed, her housecoat loosely belted around her slim figure, she was more attractive than most women in their early thirties, Phil thought. And that was after almost ten years of marriage.

He grunted, the toast and marmalade had suddenly lost its flavour. The mention of the water authority inspector’s name soured most things. Especially before eight in the morning.

“You don’t start work till eight-thirty,” there was a note of reproach in her tone. “And you haven’t even finished your breakfast.”

“I’ll have to go,” Phil scraped his chair back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Can I come, Daddy?” The small dark-haired boy, egg yolk smeared on his chin, waved a spoon aloft. “Please, Daddy.”

“No, Peter, you’ve got to go to school.”

“Not till nine o’clock.”

“Another time, darling,” Kate opted for a diplomatic denial. “When Mister Dalgety’s not here. You wouldn’t like Mister Dalgety.” Because nobody does and I don’t want you to.

“See you later,” Phil hastened towards the door.

Kate went back to the window and watched. Dalgety had arrived in a white BMW. Not his, she hastily reminded herself, a company car. Status on loan. The authority gave you power, you wielded it according to your ego. Dalgety had a big ego.

He was a big man, physically, too. Tall. A few inches shorter and he would have been fat. Height camouflaged overweight but it could not hide a fleshy neck. The ruddy complexion bespoke high blood pressure. His eyes were too close together and buried in podgy sockets; his heavy moustache hid a weak upper lip. An awful lot was covered up. Dalgety wasn’t a nice man in almost every aspect. She had long given up trying to find something about him that she liked.

She fondled her son’s curly dark hair in an attempt to distract him from his disappointment at not being allowed to accompany his father.

Aloud, she said, “Dalgety’s a nasty man.” She might just have been talking to herself, putting her thoughts into words. Because Peter wasn’t listening.

“Good morning, Mister Dalgety,” Peter Quiles forced the smile that was expected of him, winced inwardly.

“Reservoir check.” Brusque to the point of rudeness, the inspector exerted his authority in any and every way he could. He was already wearing green wellington boots in readiness, ostentatiously checked his wristwatch. “I have to be at Glascote by nine.” So get a bloody move on.

Phil led the way, fought off a feeling of inferiority as Dalgety followed him. It was akin to being herded, a booted foot might tread on your heels if you slowed your pace. No small talk, just an overpowering domination.

Thank Christ I checked everything yesterday. All the same, his stomach balled. Dalgety always found fault, he would do so again today, without any shadow of doubt.

Phil unlocked the gate, the key slipped from his fingers; he caught it. Damn him, he’s getting to me already. He might have lost it in the long grass, and had to search for it under the other’s scathing, contemptuous gaze. You’re an incompetent fool, Quiles, can’t you do anything properly?

In spite of his size, Dalgety wasn’t even breathing hard after the steep ascent. I wish he’d bloody well slip on the steps. No, I don’t, he’d blame me for not cleaning them off. I wish he’d have a fucking heart attack, then! But he wouldn’t, he was the kind who would survive in spite of everything just so that he could make life unpleasant for everybody else.

Inside the blockhouse Phil scarcely noticed the damp, stale smell. He wasn’t scared today. Only of Dalgety.

The inspector stood back, made no move to take the key to the control box like he usually did. Come on, Quiles, let’s see you balls it up again.

Phil’s hands were trembling, he fumbled for the small key, the heavy bunch on the ring made it difficult to manipulate. He pushed it in the hole, pulled, wriggled it one way, then the other. It was as if there was an obstruction in there, a particle of dirt, perhaps. He was sweating, he could smell his own body odours. The tumblers refused to drop. Damn!

“What’s the problem?” The man behind him spoke contemptuously, gave a sigh of impatience.

“There seems to be an obstruction in the lock,” Phil’s reply sounded weak. Worse, he gulped in his nervousness. The other knew that he was panicking him. The key seemed to have bent under the pressure, it might snap.

“Here, give it to me!” Dalgety’s bulk rudely shouldered Phil out of the way, his feet skidded on the slippery floor. Miraculously, he didn’t fall. Even as he regained his balance, he heard the lock click.

The inspector’s silence was far worse than any sarcasm he could have laid his tongue to. His expression, his lips stretching beneath his moustache, small eyes that mocked, gloated. You’re on the layoff list, Quiles. He turned his back, stooped his shoulders so that he could see the dials.

“Hmm.” A reluctant appraisal of the readings, looking for a fault but being unable to find one, sucking his lips. A schoolmaster scrutinising a piece of homework, deliberately taking his time in the knowledge that the pupil’s anxiety was increasing by the second. Psychological bullying. “Right, let’s go down and check the water level.”

Phil almost overbalanced as he donned those rubber boots. Dalgety would have enjoyed that, those piggy eyes were still gloating. He held out a flabby hand for the keys. “I’ll unlock, Quiles, I can’t hang around waiting for you, I have to be at Glascote by nine.”

“The far light isn’t working properly!” It was a sharp, guttural reprimand, full of elation from having at last found a complaint.

Rats, I should have fixed it yesterday. “It must’ve just blown. It probably just needs a replacement starter.”

“Hmm,” again. Liar! “Get it fixed today, don’t leave it till tomorrow.”

“Yes,” somehow Phil just managed to check the “sir,” Dalgety would’ve revelled in that. Not just respect, crawling.

“The level’s holding surprisingly well in spite of the drought.”

“Yes.”

A pregnant silence as the other took his time over a slow clockwise surveillance of the underground chamber, one that began and ended where they stood on the steps by the water’s edge. Then an anticlockwise recheck. “Looks okay. Apart from that light.” He turned away slowly, it was time to go back upstairs.

Phil stared back at the water. There should have been a reflection from the far light, a shimmering on the water like something moved below the surface. Like last time. There wasn’t.

“Something wrong, Quiles?” Dalgety had turned back and was following his companion’s gaze. “Apart from that light, that is?”

Phil hesitated, those icy prickles were starting to edge up from the base of his spine again. Maybe yesterday he had looked from a different angle. It had to be the light, it couldn’t be anything else. There wasn’t anything down there.

Was there?

“I … I’m a bit worried about the walls, sir.” It came out as a trembling afterthought, a swallow.

“What’s wrong with the walls?” Sharp, don’t waste my time.

“They … seem to be bowing a little over there. I noticed last week. Just thought I’d mention it.” Apologetic, wishing he hadn’t voiced a concern that was genuine. The walls were pushing outwards, only slightly. He needed to make his input, to say something constructive for the sake of his own self-respect.

“They look all right to me. They’ve bowed a little, I’ll grant you. I noticed it last time I was here.” Don’t try to be bloody clever with me. “They’re bound to after over half a century of holding in a million gallons of water, aren’t they? It’s only logical, if you stop to think about it. But they’ll last … as long as we need them. This setup could well be discontinued in the not-too-distant future but it’s not for me to say.”

Just a disturbing thought to keep you awake at night, Quiles. Doubtless, you’ve heard rumours. Your job’s on the line along with a good many others.

“I just thought I should mention it.”

But Dalgety wasn’t listening, heaving his hulk up the slippery steps, impatient to be on his way.

Phil glanced back as he reached the top, succumbed to an impulse, caught his breath. A luminous ripple, one that came and then was gone. It did not return as it should have done with a continually flickering light.

As if something had briefly surfaced, then dived back down into the depths.

In case it was seen.

Four

Ben Shannon was tall for his age; at eight years old he was mostly mistaken for eleven, much to his parents’ chagrin. An only child, the product of years of trying to conceive by Masie Shannon, she had finally given birth at forty. A difficult birth, she had almost lost him and for six years after, the sickly child contracted every imaginable ailment. After that he grew at an alarming rate. Soon the Shannons’ treasured son would be a child no more.

Frank Shannon was fifteen years older than his wife and a life of striving for success in commerce had taken its toll on him; he bounced back from a heart attack at fifty-eight but was forced to retire after a second a couple of years later. A third, his doctor warned him, would most certainly prove fatal.

Now was the time to relax and enjoy the small fortune which he had accumulated. He had everything, and more, which any man had any right to expect, and at last he had a son and heir. Which was why both he and Masie were overprotective towards their offspring.

Ben had just completed his first year at preparatory school, St. Chad’s Cathedral School, which had an enviable reputation both academically and in the sporting field, as well as boasting one of the finest cathedral choirs in the country. Ben had twice auditioned for the choir and been rejected. Next autumn he would try again.

Even at school he made few friends, already he had the hallmark of a loner.

“It’s no bad thing,” Frank attempted to convince his wife. “Close friendships can impair one’s judgement in business. You do a favour, try to help somebody, and it costs you. Far better to have acquaintances, you get an objective view of people that way, you learn to be a judge of character from a distance.”

“But Ben doesn’t even have acquaintances,” Masie had noted this last summer and how Frank was beginning to lose his greying hair and the lines on his features were more deeply etched. The age gap between them was widening fast. “He’s becoming a recluse. We’ll have to try and make friends locally for him. Goodness, during the school holidays he never sees anybody except ourselves. And did you notice how he avoided those boys at the next table in the hotel dining room, and refused to go and play on the beach with them? That’s not natural, Frank.”

“He’s got plenty of time to grow out of it,” Frank Shannon pulled down the brim of his panama hat to shade his face from the hot sun, letting his eyelids droop. “If he’s happy playing on his own, let him. Look at him now, he’s as happy as a sandboy.”

Masie looked where her husband pointed. Their son was sitting on a rocky outcrop on the edge of the crowded beach, staring out to sea, oblivious to the children and adults who splashed and squealed their delight in the sea a few yards from him. It reminded her of that famous painting of Sir Walter Raleigh. He, too, had looked old for his age. She shook her head despairingly. Lately, it seemed, Ben didn’t want to mix with anybody.

She said, “I hope he won’t go off on his own.”

“I thought you were worried because he never went anywhere,” Frank retorted drowsily.

“I meant I hope he doesn’t wander off. A lot of unpleasant things have happened to children lately. Nowhere’s safe these days.”

She sat there in the deckchair keeping a maternal eye on her son, until the warm sunshine had her dozing alongside her husband.

Ben Shannon was bored. People bored him mostly, all they seemed to want to do was to play aimless games. At school he was made to play cricket and football. He hated both. What was the point in chasing after a ball? You didn’t gain anything when you caught it and somebody always wanted to take it from you. Life was all about learning, history was his favourite subject, how things used to be. He enjoyed swimming, had an affinity with water, he loved the feel of it closing over him when he dived deep in the swimming pool. Perhaps, when the world was young, he had been a fish and the instinct was still there.

He was tempted to go in the sea but not while everybody else was around; they embarrassed him, inhibited him. He liked doing things best when he was all alone.

He stole a glance back in the direction of his parents. They were both asleep in their deckchairs. Good, it unnerved him the way his mother kept watching his every move.

She refused to buy him a pair of bathing trunks. She didn’t want him going into the sea in case he got swept away by the tide and drowned. It annoyed him, too, the way she always grabbed his hand when they crossed a road for fear that he might be stupid enough to run in front of a car. His school report had said that he was advanced for his age; his folks didn’t like that, they wanted to keep him as a little boy forever. Like Peter Pan in the story book.

The sea fascinated him, it seemed to be calling him. Come on in, it’s so cool in here. He looked round, the other bathers had moved further away; his parents were both soundly asleep. Ben was only wearing a pair of shorts, it wouldn’t matter if they got wet and, anyway, the hot sun would soon dry them.

Cautiously, guiltily, he slid off the rocks and into the sea.

It was deeper than he had envisaged, when his feet rested on the sandy bottom the water lapped his neck. He tasted salt on his lips, licked them. His whole body thrilled to the feel of the moving tide. He wondered what it was like to be a fish. The idea thrilled him.

He dived, touched the bottom, floated slowly upwards, broke the surface. It was then that he noticed a woman sitting on the rock which he had just vacated.

He almost dived again but curiosity overcame his shyness. He wasn’t interested in girls; in fact, he hated them because they always teased him. This was no girl, though, she was a young woman, her breasts were bared but he experienced no embarrassment. Why should he? Up until a year or two ago he used to go in the bath with his mother. He knew what a female body looked like.

She saw him and smiled. Long golden hair cascaded down past her shoulders; it seemed as though she had some kind of bathing towel draped around the lower half of her body.

“Hello,” her voice was lilting, “you’re Ben, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” he stared in amazement, “how do you know my name?”

“I just know,” she laughed, patted the rock by her side. ‘Come up and talk to me, Ben.”

He obeyed before he even thought about it, clambered up onto the rocks alongside her. It wasn’t a towel she had over her, it was some kind of fancy bathing costume in the shape of a fish’s tail. He thought it was rather cute.

“You like the sea, don’t you, Ben?”

“I love it.”

“I know,” her hand squeezed his, her touch was icy cold. Obviously, she had just been swimming. Deep down the water was cold, he had already discovered that. “Did you know that once the whole of the world was covered by the oceans, that there was no dry land at all?”

“I learned it in history at school,” he answered proudly. “There weren’t any people, just fishes and sea creatures. And when the oceans receded, those creatures came up on to dry land and learned to live there. Over millions of years they grew hands and feet.”

“You’re a very clever boy,” she wasn’t humouring him, he sensed that much. “Which is why I want to talk to you, Ben. You see, the People of the Water didn’t die off, they just changed. Some became fishes, others amphibious creatures. Only a few remained. Like me.”

“Gosh almighty!” He stared at her now, saw that the fish tail was actually part of her, it seemed to pulse and quiver with the rest of her body. “You’re a … a mermaid!”

“If you like,” she nodded, smiled again. “In those days, I was their queen. I still am.”

“You must be very old.”

“Very,” she agreed, “but water people don’t age like land people, you don’t notice the ageing process. As I said, our people changed, I remained constant. Waiting. You see, Ben, one day the waters will reclaim the earth, they almost did in the time of Noah. The floods will come again, the rivers will burst their banks, swell the seas. And the seas will sweep back over the land, taking what is rightly theirs. That is when the People of the Water will return to claim what is rightfully theirs.”

“And everybody will drown!” Ben Shannon tensed, it was a frightening thought. You couldn’t swim forever and there wouldn’t be enough boats to go round.

“Except a chosen few,” she was watching him intently. “Those who believe in the People of the Water will be saved. You love the water, Ben, wouldn’t you like to be like me?”

“Yes,” he blurted out his reply, he didn’t need to think about it. It would be much more interesting to live in the sea than with people he didn’t like. And he believed every word that she told him.

“Then you will be,” she lowered her voice, perhaps fearing lest holidaymakers on the sands behind the rocks might overhear, her. “You’ve seen me, you know that I exist, that I’m not some bedtime fairy-tale told to you by your folks. You believe, and that’s all that matters. But thousands, millions wouldn’t if you told them about me.”

“I won’t say a word,” he promised.

“Well, perhaps not right now,” she was thoughtful. “But when you’re older, and you’ve learned to judge people, then I want you to tell them all about the People of the Water. Folks you can trust, you’ll know them when you meet them. Gather them about you, share the secret. And when the floods come, I will return to greet you. We shall rise up out of the oceans and rule the world. And you and your friends will rule over it with me.”

“Gosh almighty!” Ben said again.

“In the meantime,” she seemed suddenly restless, glanced around her, looked out to sea, “just remember what you’ve seen today. Keep it as your secret, and wait patiently. Pray to me every night, I will be listening for you. Just because I don’t answer doesn’t mean that I haven’t heard. Live among your own kind, learn all you can, for knowledge is vital. It may be a long time, but I will come to you again.”

Suddenly, her hand had slipped from his own, and with a splash she was gone into the ebbing tide. He leaned forward, looked for her, but a wave obscured his view.

That was the last, and only, time Ben Shannon saw the queen of the People of the Water. He did not tell anybody, mostly because he seldom talked with other boys.

But he never forgot that summer’s day in his early boyhood when he had sat upon the rocks alongside her and she had held his hand, told him how one day the earth would be flooded and the fish people would rule over it.

He had believed her and he had prayed to her every night before he went to bed. That had been the most momentous day of his life. It had dominated his thinking, it had become his religion; every other belief was false.

Just one day had altered the course of his destiny. He had been waiting over forty years for the earth to flood and the queen of the People of the Water to return to him. If anything, the passing of time had strengthened Shannon’s belief.

His parents were long dead and he had changed his name from Ben to Royston; it sounded more important, more convincing, and he had never liked “Ben.” He wasn’t a boy any longer.

He had sought out other believers, vetted them carefully before taking them into his fold, his chosen few. A small gathering who believed as he did, who worshipped with him in secret and whose faith was unshakable. They waited together for the Promised Day.

And they were still waiting.

Five

Phil Quiles knew that he had to go back up to the reservoir again. Because he couldn’t leave that faulty light until tomorrow. He daren’t, it was on the cards that Dalgety would call back before the end of the day; the inspector had found a fault, he would dearly love to discover that the pumping station manager had disobeyed his orders to fix it immediately. Dalgety was that kind of man.

A negligence report against Phil would be to his detriment when the inevitable takeover came about and the authority needed to prune its workforce, compile a list of employees to lay off.

“What’s the matter, love?” Kate glanced at her husband as she put his plate on the table, it was always as if a kind of telepathy existed between them, if one was worried, the other sensed it.

“Nothing,” he smiled.

“Yes, there is,” an expression of mock disapproval. “For a guess, it’s Dalgety. Whenever that slob’s been here it takes you the best part of a day to get over it. What’s he complaining about this time?”

“One of the reservoir lights has gone on the blink,” Phil didn’t meet her gaze, it all sounded so trivial now. “Just needs a new tube. It’s easily fixed, I’ll do it this afternoon.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about, is there?” She sat down opposite him, watched him carefully. “Or is there?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“Yes, there is, I can tell. Come on, we’ve always shared our worries so you can tell me all about it.”

“All right,” he cut through a slice of meat, stared at it as if right then it was the most important thing in the world to him. “The reservoir bugs me. I don’t know why, I can’t explain it. Gives me the creeps when I’m down there like …” he smiled sheepishly, “like something nasty might come up out of the water and grab me.”

He had expected her to laugh, maybe ridicule him. She didn’t, she just nodded. “I’m not surprised, actually. That time I came up with you, shortly after we moved in here, I didn’t like it at all. Peter was just a baby then, I was carrying him in a sling. He’d slept soundly all the way up there but the moment we got inside that building …”

“I remember only too well, love. He suddenly woke up, didn’t just cry, he screamed. It was dreadful, the enclosed space magnified it. You had to go back outside with him and the moment you went through the door, he stopped. In fact, he went back to sleep again. God, it was awful. After that, I’ve hated going in there. As if … Peter could see something which we couldn’t.”

“Maybe I’d better come up with you while you fix that light. It won’t take long and I’ll be back in plenty of time to walk down to the school and fetch Peter.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I’ve been checking the instruments and levels all this time so I’m not going to run scared now. Anyway, if the rumours are true, they’ll be draining it and filling it in soon. In their greed, they’ll sell the site for building, find a loophole in the Green Belt restrictions to enable them to build an upmarket woodland housing complex. It’s probably all in the mind, it’s such a dark, depressing place. I guess Dalgety got me nervous, everybody’s on edge when he’s around.”

Phil set off on the walk up to the reservoir. So peaceful, so warm, amid the evergreen conifers, he almost convinced himself that it was still summer, that the leaf fall was weeks away. Woodpigeons cooed in their daytime roost, a surprised rabbit leaped up, bounded away. Insects hummed, a cloud of gnats hovered in the still atmosphere. The creatures of the woodland were so lethargic, it started to ease his tension.

All you have to do is to go down below, walk around the ledge until you reach the light, take off the faulty tube, replace it with the new one. Two minutes at the most then you’ll be back outside where the sun’s shining.

That part of the reservoir will be in shadow until you’ve fitted the replacement fluorescent strip.

There’s something down in the water that moves and glows.

No!

You’ve seen it yourself.

It was a trick of the faulty flickering light.

Dalgety didn’t see it and he’s the shrewdest guy you’ll ever meet, looks for little things.

Phil began to sweat, told himself it was a combination of the warmth and the steep climb.

It will be cooler down there.

He shivered, his sweat cooled even in the direct sunshine.

You might lose your footing, fall in. You’d never get out. Whatever’s down there will take you for its own.

He even thought about chickening out, turning back. He wouldn’t because he still had a job.

The old sign warned, TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

And there was already a trespasser within the barbed wire enclosure.

Phil stared, rested both hands on the rotting wooden gate. It was a woman, she had climbed up onto the raised grassy mound, she had her back towards him, seated on a folding tubular chair. Before her was an easel and she was painting, each stroke of her brush a painstaking movement. She was using one of the concrete inspection hatches for a table, paints and brushes laid out, a thermos flask in readiness for when the heat made her thirsty.

She had bright chestnut hair but it was probably dyed because even from this distance he could tell that she was old, late seventies at a guess, from her posture. Arthritic limbs, a stiffness about her movements, wasted rather than slim.

She glanced round when she heard him unlocking the padlock, even at her age, she might have been attractive except that her expression of discontent had spoiled her features. Eyes that narrowed with defiance rather than curiosity, a mouth that had set into a disagreeable pout; a permanent bad-tempered disposition had lined her freckled features and pouched her cheeks long ago.

She watched his approach, challenged him with an outstretched, wrinkled neck. He saw how she tensed, almost as if she was eagerly anticipating a confrontation.

“Yes, I’m trespassing, and I did see the notice!” Her voice was harsh, an offensive croak.

He halted a couple of yards from her, felt uneasy in her presence. The villagers could be a nuisance at times, they considered these woodlands theirs by right, an inheritance from their ancestors who had been allowed to roam freely here, pick wild fruit and gather kindling. They had fought and won several battles against proposals to commercialize their considered domain. Forestry and water were no threat to the environment but still they resented an outside ownership.

“Help yourself, enjoy your painting,” Phil smiled disarmingly.

“Oh!” Disappointment because he wasn’t going to order her to leave. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” his gaze fell upon the watercolour, it had a lack of detail about it which could have been amateurish, it might have been stylistic. He shuddered.

“Good, isn’t it?” An arrogance that defied criticism. “I’ve only just started painting landscapes, I spent months at art class, just a waste of time. In the end the teacher admitted that, she said, ‘I can see that I can’t teach you anything, Mrs Jackson.’ My daughter paints, too, sometimes we go out together at weekends but Barbara has a full time job. She’s manager at Jones & Jimpson, the well-known estate agents. They’re considering appointing her to the board of directors after Christmas, and I should think so, too. But she’s got a lot to learn about painting. Not married yet, either, I’ve told her she’s got to wait until Mr Right comes along, and he’s got to be a millionaire and have a public school education. You don’t look for up-and-coming prospects, I tell her, find the finished product. She’s fifty next birthday. My husband was chief planning officer for the council, he’s been retired fifteen years and still knows more than the upstart who replaced him. He goes to writing classes, his teacher tells him he’s up to publishable standard. I told Barry he’d better get cracking and sell some of his short stories, even folks like us can use the money.”

Phil’s brain was spinning, it couldn’t cope with this woman’s family history and prospects without so much as a pause for breath. “Very creditable.”

“You know they’re going to build on this site, don’t you, Mister …”

“Quiles. There are always rumours. Once it was going to be a sand-and-gravel quarry …”

“Houses!” She snapped angrily. “Mock Georgian style. I know because Barry’s former colleagues at the council offices have seen the outline planning. Eight on this site alone, and once that’s approved the owners of the woods will be allowed to sell. A bit at a time, a few acres here and there. Then there’ll be a council estate, you mark my words. Corruption, backhanders, it’s a way of life but my Barry wouldn’t have any of that. They’ve been after doing it for years and now they’re going to get their way. It’ll bring down the price of property in the village, you mark my words. They’ll dispense with this reservoir, drain it and fill it in, you see if they don’t, Mister Quirms.”

“Quiles,” a shiver ran up Phil’s spine. “I only work for the water authority …”

“They’re going to merge, too, then there’ll be some layoffs and the water rates will double. Or treble. Is your job safe?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Anyway, I’d better get moving, I’ve got to fix a light down in the reservoir.”

“That’s somewhere I’ve never been,” her eyes narrowed. “All the years that I’ve lived in Hopwas and known this place, I’ve never even been inside there.” She pointed at the blockhouse. “That building’s always intrigued me. When Barbara was young I used to bring her up here for walks and that place fascinated her, too. I used to create fantasies for her, once I told her that it was a foreign legion outpost. It used to be clean in those days, Mr Quiles, shining white with a fresh coat of paint every few years. Now it’s a disgrace, green slime and lichen all over it, a dirty grey where it used to be white. You’ll notice in my painting that it’s like it used to be.”

Phil looked, nodded his agreement. The blockhouse didn’t look so sinister in this woman’s painting. Almost friendly, in fact.

“I’d love to see inside it.” There was no mistaking her hint, the way she wiped her paintbrush and laid it down.

“Water authority officials only are allowed through those doors,” he found himself echoing Dalgety’s tone. Suppose the inspector paid a surprise visit, found Mrs Jackson inside the enclosure. He half-turned, peered back down the track through the larches. There was nobody in sight.

“I’m trespassing already.” She rose unsteadily on to her feet. “One more quick trespass wouldn’t make any difference would it, Mister Quiles?”

A sudden idea, one that brought relief with it. He would not be down there alone during those few minutes which it took to swap over the fluorescent tubes. “I suppose not.”

“Thank you,” she grabbed his arm to steady herself. “We Jacksons are used to keeping secrets. We’ve known all about the corruption between the council and the builders and the water authority for years and kept it under wraps. My Barry is going to fight this latest move to build houses up here, tooth and nail.”

“Phew!” Her nose wrinkled as he opened the outer door. “It stinks in there, it can’t be healthy. No wonder the quality of our water’s deteriorated these last few months. You can even taste it in a cup of tea.”

“That’s the chlorine,” he supported her down the steps. “The water is up to EEC standards, so I’m informed.”

“No wonder it’s bad,” she coughed in the dank smelling atmosphere. “I said all along that we should never have had anything to do with the EEC and now I’ve been proved right. Mind I don’t slip, Mister Quiles.”

“There’s your reservoir, then,” he stood on the ledge, his back pressed against the damp, slimy wall. “Just a concrete pit filled with water.”

“Ugh!” He felt her shudder, shuddered with her. “What a horrid place, I’d hate to be down here in the pitch dark. I thought you’d got to mend a light, Mister Quiles, but they seem to be working all right.

The light on the far side of the water no longer flickered.

“So did I.” Phil’s shudder spread all over his body, he looked in disbelief.

“Perhaps one of your colleagues has been and mended it.”

No, Dalgety wouldn’t lower himself to menial tasks. In fact, he would ensure that his manager carried out the maintenance job himself.

“You ought to check it just to make sure that it’s all right.”

“No, it looks fine.” There’s no way I’m going over the other side unless I absolutely have to. “We’d better get back.”

He held on to her, supporting each other in case either of them slipped. He felt the goose pimpling of the wrinkled flesh on her arm.

“Whatever’s that?” For some reason his companion had turned, looked back.

“What?” He didn’t want to look, he tried not to, but somehow he could not stop his head from turning.

Back down the steps, almost on the opposite side of the reservoir, something glowed beneath the dark surface. A luminous streak that rippled, then seemed to vanish.

Phil stiffened, clutched at his aged companion.

“There’s something down there in the water, Mister Quiles!” A kind of whispered shriek of terror.

“I … didn’t see anything.”

“It’s gone now,” she was struggling to climb the wet steps, her head still turned. “It was like some kind of … fish that shone under the water.”

“It was a reflection from the far light.” Phil had almost managed to convince himself of that last time.

“It couldn’t be because the light wasn’t flickering like you said it would be, I looked specially. And there’s no current to ripple the water.”

Damn you, I wish I hadn’t brought you with me, then I wouldn’t have known anything about it.

The sunlight outside was dazzling after the gloom of the interior. While he locked the outer door Mrs Jackson was shuffling back to her easel with a haste that unnerved him.

As though she was afraid.

“I’ll leave you to your painting,” he called after her, “I must go and catch up on the work.”

“I wish I hadn’t gone down there.” She had turned around, a pathetic silhouette against the sunlight on the top of the bank. “I’d like to still think of it as Barbara’s foreign legion outpost, but that’s gone now. I got a kind of feeling while I was down there, Mister Quiles ...”

He tried not to hear but her words floated to him on the soft breeze, a frightened whisper from an old woman.

“I didn’t know what evil felt like before today, Mister Quiles. But I do now. I can’t explain it, but if ever I sensed evil, I did down in that reservoir.”

He hastened his step, almost ran. As he locked the padlock on the gate, the key slipped from his fingers, he had to search for it in the long grass. Mrs Jackson had climbed in uninvited, she could damned well climb out again. Sod her, like Dalgety, she unnerved him.

The woodpigeons were still crooing away in the firs, midges swarmed and hummed. Peace and tranquillity all around; if there was evil here then it confined itself to the depths of the underground reservoir.

That was a small consolation.

Six

“I find your theory absolutely fascinating,” Barbara Jackson felt slightly heady, it wasn’t just the wine, she had only drunk two glasses of the vintage claret; nor the meal, each course a seafood base that had a delightful freshness about it as if it was only hours out of the ocean. It was the atmosphere, the elaborately furnished dining room of Packington Hall which had once, it was reputed, graced Victorian aristocracy. It was rumoured that both Sir Robert Peel and Disraeli had dined here in their day.

Her companion had an almost hypnotic effect upon her, she was unable to take her eyes off him. A strangely handsome man with finely cut aquiline features, a goatee and dark hair that might have been thinning but it was impossible to tell because of the discreet way it was styled. His eyes glinted in the soft glow of the chandelier directly above the table and made her skin prickle.

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 blockhouse. “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 plastic 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.

He paused, picked an overripe blackberry from a heavily-laden, cobweb-festooned clump of briars, chewed and spat out the seeds. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of dying bracken and wild willow herb. It was unnaturally clammy and mild for the time of year.

He couldn’t see the cattle, they were probably congregated down by the stream, trying to get a decent drink out of the shallow trickle that remained. He came to the patch of gorse, it encroached year by year, ate up what might have been good grazing land in a temperate climate. Even its spikey foliage was wilting, some of it had browned and died off. Nick thought about setting fire to it, it was the easiest way to clear it, didn’t cost more than the price of a match. It was risky, though, the wood was too close for comfort, he might find himself faced with a compensation claim for a forest fire.

He decided to take the shortcut this morning rather than walk the perimeter of the gorse, a twisting track that the cattle had forged through the bushes. Your legs got scratched through your frayed denim trousers but what the hell.

He was about midway through the gorse thicket when he came upon a woman lying there. Instinctively, Nick backed off, principally because she was stark naked. One didn’t expect to find a nude in the gorse at eight o’clock on a foggy morning, lying there with her legs lewdly spread, showing you her privates in what could only be interpreted as an invitation to screw her.

Her head was hidden by a clump of grass, her arms were by her side. Nick Holcroft swallowed, deliberated what to do. It could well be that there was a feller around somewhere, maybe he’d broken off in the middle of shagging her to go for a pee, and she was lying there waiting for him to return and carry on where he’d left off.

Nick didn’t want any trouble, he wasn’t that kind of a guy. He debated retracing his steps, going the long way round, leaving them to it. On the other hand, he was the landowner, so why the hell should he put himself out for a couple who’d decided on his patch for a screw? He cleared his throat, waited. The woman never moved, she probably hadn’t heard him, she was too far gone.

He stared, felt the beginnings of an arousal. Her pubic hair was trimmed discreetly, just let you see enough of what lay beneath it to have you panting for more. Slim, wide hips, small tits with big nipples. Christ, he could enjoy himself with all that! Perhaps her man had deserted her for some reason and she’d welcome an instant replacement.

“Excuse me …”

Still she didn’t move, not even a twitch of a leg muscle, no sudden scurry to cover up what was on show. If she had heard him, then she was a brazen hussy waiting to be shagged.

He took a pace closer, cleared his throat. Another step and he was standing right over her, looking down upon pock-marked features that didn’t do justice to the rest of her body. Her eyes remained closed, she was obviously asleep.

His erection was trying to burrow its way out of his trousers. Another notion; she had come here with a bloke in the night, they’d screwed and then had a row. He’d walked out on her, and, not knowing the way back to the road, she’d remained here, fallen asleep. She had to be bloody cold, in that case.

She was cold. His outstretched hand touched her leg, it felt like a pork chop just out of a butcher’s cold room. A sudden awful thought, and when Nick stroked the insides of her open thighs, he snatched his hand away with the awful realization.

The woman was dead.

Nick was scared to hell. More scared even than that day when he’d heard his father scream but had been unable to stop the old man from going up the baler chute. Because his father had been a bastard.

Nick didn’t mind this woman being dead, that didn’t worry him one iota, his only regret in that respect was that he hadn’t been able to give her a good shafting before she’d gone.

His fear stemmed from the fact that these policemen were virtually accusing him of killing her.

He’d run all the way back to the farmhouse, phoned the cops. A couple of uniformed officers in a red-and-white patrol car had arrived within ten minutes. Then they’d had to wait for the CID.

“Show us the body, Mister Holcroft.”

They had followed him all the way up to the furthest field, he’d led the single file through the gorse, the detective inspector on his heels, urging him on the whole time, cursing the spines that tore viciously at them.

It wasn’t an easy place to examine a corpse. Detective Inspector Raymond Barr wore a Barbour over his sweater and cords, such a skimpy bloke for a copper, Nick thought. He didn’t like the guy, eyes that darted everywhere, missed nothing, a moustache that added awe to his thin lips. Humourless, he spoke in clipped tones, everybody jumped to obey his orders.

“Mind where you’re putting those clodhopper feet of yours, Mister Holcroft, you could be obliterating vital footprints. If there are any other than your own!”

The other policemen jumped to obey their superior’s commands, one returning to the vehicles to call up the forensic experts. Barr examined the body, fired his questions as he conducted his own post-mortem.

“Do you know this woman, Holcroft?” He dropped the “mister” now, he meant business, there was no time for formalities.

“No, sir.”

“I see. Where were you last evening?”

“At the pub, sir. Till ten-thirty. Then I came home, went straight to bed.”

“I see. We can check your movements out easily enough, I’ve no doubt.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rubber boots, diamond patterns, size nines, the size is even imprinted in the mark,” Barr chuckled his satisfaction. “What size do you wear, Holcroft?”

“Size ten … sir.”

“Hmm,” the detective leaned over the body, they all heard a belch of trapped wind released from the dead throat, a sound like the girl had vomited. Nick started, backed away, bumped into a uniformed constable.

“Steady, Mister Holcroft.”

“Tell me, Holcroft,” the inspector turned his head, his eyes were like chips of blue ice, “how far is the nearest water from here?”

“Water, sir?”

“Yes, water. Clear liquid. H_2O in technical terms.” Brusque, he did not suffer fools gladly and this farmer was certainly one. “A river. A stream. A lake. Even just a muddy pond in the corner of a field. Well?”

“There’s a stream down the bottom of this field, sir. You can’t see it from here for the mist, it’s about a couple of hundred yards but it’s virtually dried up. The river and the canal are a good mile, as the crow flies. There ain’t any thing else that I can think of.”

“Strange,” the inspector straightened up, turned to his plainclothes colleague. “Very strange, Eric. There’s no water worth talking about within a mile of here except a dried-up stream. We’ll have to check that out carefully, just to make sure there isn’t a pond somewhere around.” And to see if this farmer is talking the truth. “But we’ll probably do that after the PM, I’m just a layman in that field but even so, I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

“What’s the problem, Ray?” The sergeant glanced down at the body.

“No water,” Barr smiled humourlessly, “but unless I’m very much mistaken, this woman died from drowning!”

Nine

The stubble had all been ploughed in and the ducks and geese no longer flew in to feed on the fields beyond the Lady Walk. Apart from the occasional mallard to be found on the algae-covered pond in the deep woods, and a pheasant returning at dusk to roost in the thick pines, Maddox now hunted only rabbits and woodpigeons which were to be found in abundance. His meat larder was seldom empty.

With the absence of gleanings among the stubble, the rabbits also deserted the lower fields. Lately, they had been mostly feeding inside the reservoir enclosure; there was lush grass to graze here whereas in the woods, where they had their warrens, little undergrowth grew due to the lack of sunlight. Also, the elevated position enabled them to see if danger approached.

They would bolt for safety at the first sign of a predator, whether it was fox or Man. Only stoats were able to stalk them successfully, the fiercest creatures in the land, in spite of their smallness, crept upon an unwary rabbit. For some reason, known only to Nature, the victim seldom tried to escape. Terrified, hypnotized by an enemy only half its own size, the rabbit offered no resistance, squealed pitifully when the stoat bit the back of its neck and began to suck its blood. Its struggles were feeble, it was dead within a minute. Often a fox, upon hearing its death cries, hastened to the scene for stoats were only interested in the blood of their prey and there would be a freshly killed corpse there for the taking.

The rabbits mostly fed at night and were difficult to approach. On moonless nights, without the aid of a powerful lamp, which Maddox did not possess, it was impossible to see them. Even when the moon was full it was no easy accomplishment to creep within shotgun range for the surrounding woodland was littered with fallen branches and dead twigs.

Maddox had long mastered the art of stalking. The absence of his hearing had increased his other senses; his eyesight was second to none, he could scent almost as well as the beasts of the forest. Nostrils flared, he smelled both foxes and rabbits if they were upwind of him. And as he crept through the woods with the silence of a wraith, his outstretched booted feet warned him of obstacles that would make a noise, a twig that would snap loudly or a discarded can that would rattle and clink as it rolled. Each foot was lowered carefully, probing the dark track ahead of him, carefully brushing aside or stepping over anything which might give the alarm, before lowering his full weight.

Tonight there was a half moon, just enough light to discern silhouettes and movements, and that was all that Maddox asked or needed. His stealth and marksmanship would do for the rest.

He was running low on shells, the one commodity which was outside his field of self-sufficiency. Even money alone would not buy ammunition for his old gun; the gun shop in town insisted upon the production of a shotgun certificate before they even unlocked the steel cabinet which housed their stock of shells. A carton of twenty-five cost three pounds, more than his wages for a day’s log splitting.

There was a means, however, whereby the old hermit was able to procure cartridges. The butcher on the market stall on Wednesdays would generally do a deal for freshly killed rabbits; he preferred them trapped or snared rather than splattered with a charge of shot. He paid less for shot rabbits; a mere pittance where Maddox was concerned for the vagrant was in no position to negotiate. However, the stocky red-bearded man in his striped apron was always prepared to barter; many of his suppliers were poachers who had no certification for their weapons, so the butcher kept a stock of shells in his van. The price came down even lower for a swap deal; a box of shells for every ten rabbits. Take it or leave it, no bargaining. Maddox always took it because he would not have been able to survive without cartridges. Tigerish whiskered grins were exchanged; the rabbits were hung up on the front of the stall, Maddox was handed a plastic carrier bag with a cardboard box inside it. On one occasion there had only been twenty shells in the box, he had returned on the following Wednesday to complain; the butcher had shouted abuse, waved him away, pointed to a sign pinned to the trestle table. Had Maddox been able to read he would have seen, CHECK YOUR CHANGE. MISTAKES CANNOT BE RECTIFIED AFTERWARDS.

There was nobody else willing to exchange shells for rabbits so the market butcher had the monopoly. Tomorrow Maddox would take into town those which he shot tonight, and he would check that the box of cartridges given to him in exchange was full.

There were rabbits feeding inside the enclosure, he stood watching them from the larches on the upper slope of the wood above the reservoir. With the same difficulty with which he counted shells in a carton, he counted the dark blobs out there that moved as they grazed. Eighteen. Or thereabouts.

He eased back the hammers on the gun. But the range was too great, eighty, maybe ninety, yards. And the intervening ground between the larches and the reservoir was bare, littered with twigs which had been snapped from their branches by a devastating gale last winter, tinder dry after the drought. Just one loud crack and every rabbit on that raised mound would dart for cover.

An impossible stalk. For anybody other than Maddox the vagrant. Maddox, the hunter.

He dropped into a half crouch, a posture that looked ungainly, ridiculous, in the half moonlight. Yet he moved silently, slowly, when it seemed that he would overbalance his foot found a hold devoid of tree debris. The long barrelled gun was switched from hand to hand, balancing his lithe body as he navigated the many obstacles.

His experienced judgement estimated the range between himself and the nearest rabbit at fifty yards. He could have rolled it over but the others would have dispersed at the report. He wasn’t looking for singles, rather a cluster when one rabbit had found a particularly tasty clump of grass and been joined by three or four of its companions.

There was a trio beyond, he would need to be close to the barbed wire fence to take them. Another crouched stride, he averted his eyes from his chosen prey; long ago he had learned that some kind of telepathy existed between hunter and quarry, intense concentration by the former triggered off a warning to the latter.

Sweeping footsteps that avoided twigs; he had to make a detour to avoid a large branch. The nearest rabbit was still oblivious of danger.

Maddox was within a foot of the sagging barbed wire. He dropped to one knee, cautiously poked the twin barrels through the strands. The browning of Damascus barrels eliminated the tell-tale glint of bright light, no sudden shine would give away his presence.

It must have been an exceptionally luscious tussock of grass because another couple of rabbits had hopped across to join the others. The five bunched close, the old man’s breath clouded but his hands were steady, not so much as a tremor as he took a sighting. A knobbly finger took the first trigger pressure. Squeezed.

A stab of flame, the shotgun bucked, clinked on the wire. A melee of rabbits squirmed and rolled, caught by the full pattern of the shot blast; one jumped, dropped back. But Maddox ignored them, the wounded would not crawl far and it was open ground, anyway; there were no hiding places. The other rabbits were darting in all directions, white tails bobbing.

One panicked, headed for the topside of the enclosure, unaware from which direction sudden death had spat fire and lead. Maddox dropped it in mid-flight, it somersaulted twice, lay still, did not even twitch.

He grunted his satisfaction, used the gun to lift the barbed wire while he squeezed through. His long coat snagged but he ripped it free. Six rabbits at the onset of a moonlit foray was almost too good to be true.

He picked up the nearest rabbit, shook it and dropped it into the capacious pocket of his coat, quickened his walk to where the others lay. Two were stretched out motionless, another twitched. He caught one that tried to drag itself away on its forelegs; both its hind legs were smashed. He held it aloft, a swift downward blow with the flat of his land killed it instantly.

The last one was running and rolling, it dodged him the first time. He laid down his gun, and with an agility that defied both age and arthritis, dived on it. It squealed just once as he held its neck, jerked on its back legs, broke its vertebra.

Maddox lay on the spongy grass amidst the ugly lines of concrete inspection hatches. Elated, out of breath, he savoured a moment or two of euphoric satisfaction. The light was still young, with luck he might shoot another four rabbits if he huddled up against one of these squat pillars, bided his time. The creatures had a remarkably short memory, within half an hour they would venture out to feed again.

Another four would guarantee him a renewed supply of shells; five would be a bonus, a meal into the bargain. He gathered up the furry corpses, heaped them, settled down with his back against cold concrete, the reloaded gun across his bony knees. His sweat chilled. He would wait, patience was one of his few virtues.

Perhaps it was the pounding of his heart and temple that masked a faint vibration of the ground beneath him which otherwise he would surely have noticed. Or the distraction of a rare hunting success. A cloud passing across the face of the moon deprived him of a warning shadow that might have fallen across him.

A combination of factors temporarily dulled that wariness which had been the key to his survival in these woodlands. Maddox had no idea that anybody had crept upon him until strong hands seized him from behind.

An inarticulate roar of surprised anger was silenced as one of those hands clapped over his mouth. Strong arms lifted him, wrested the shotgun from his grasp, carried him.

He kicked out, twisted and struggled, had a terrifying glimpse of his attackers as the cloud drifted away from the moon. Men and women, as naked as the day they were born, their features enshrouded in shadow.

There was a frightening purposefulness as they bore him towards that squat building. No anger at having encountered a trespasser, one perhaps intent upon spying upon whatever they were doing; in his terror Maddox recalled those who had visited this same place earlier in the autumn when the wildfowl were fighting to feed on the stubble before it was ploughed.

His eyes rolled, he mumbled his terror into the cold suffocating hand that gagged him. His instinct was to bite the flesh with his blackened teeth but he feared retribution.

Darkness, a claustrophobic stench of dank wetness. He felt them carrying him down steps, a jerkiness, a slowing of their movements as they began to labour beneath his weight.

A soft light, but it wasn’t moonlight, more of a greenish glow. He smelled the water before he saw it shimmering beneath him, blackness streaked with a luminosity. Rippling.

Then, suddenly, his captors had released their hold upon him. He managed just one scream before the water closed over him, tugged at his clothing, dragged him down into its stygian depths.

Ten

O’Neal was Enforcement Officer to the planning department; it was a position that carried status, awe and fear if you happened to be in breach of any conditions laid down by the council.

Tall and taciturn, he had cultivated a military-style moustache that bespoke authority; he had no set routine, only the Planning Officer himself, who spent most of his time away from the office at meetings, or on the golf course had any knowledge of his schedule. Nobody else asked, they weren’t interested.

Rarely did O’Neal leave a telephone number at which he could be contacted. Several days of the week he never even went into the office, travelled from his home to his various assignments. He investigated complaints, typed up a meticulous and detailed report, and submitted it to the fortnightly meeting. He had no interest in the committee’s decision, his work was done, he could do no more. More often than not, though, his recommendations were used as a yardstick in decision making because he worked strictly to the book. Rules were rules, discretionary decisions were a rare exception.

O’Neal had been calling upon Maddox, the vagrant, at six monthly intervals for the last few years and still the planning department was in limbo over the hermit’s unauthorized dwelling. It contravened all the rules and guidelines but it was a complex situation. An eviction order could not be served upon the occupant of that ramshackle hut because he was camped illegally upon land belonging to the woodland’s owners; the owners had leased the growing timber to a syndicate who, once the trees had matured and were felled, planned to sell it to a quarrying firm, this being subject to a favourable decision by the planning department for a change of use of the land. Nobody really knew to whom a writ for evicting Maddox could be served and, in any case, the procedure was a lengthy and costly one.

It was doubtful whether Maddox would ever be evicted but regular visits and requests to leave were imperative should the loophole in the law ever be successfully plugged. In his own way, the Enforcement Officer enjoyed his visits; he always chose a fine day, a walk through beautiful countryside made a pleasant change from calling upon factory and building sites in the heart of the industrial Midlands. Which was why he decided to fulfil his legal requirement while the fine weather still held; it could not be left beyond the end of the year or else the continuity was broken.

In no way was he sympathetic towards Maddox, no more so than he would have been to hippies, vagrants or squatters. Always his recommendation was that the old man should be evicted as soon as possible; the case was always referred for future reports. Correspondence was entered into between the council and legal representatives of both timber and landowners. Nobody made any progress.

O’Neal always refused backup, it only served to undermine his own authority, damaged his personal image. There had been a case up north a few years back where some guy had built a bungalow without any planning permission at all. Notice was served, the fellow refused to budge. So, when all the legal formalities had been completed, the Enforcement Officer headed a fleet of bulldozers to effect demolition of the property.

The inhabitant emerged to confront the deputation. The officer in charge spouted legal jargon from the document in his hand. Press and television crews were in attendance for the issue was an important one that could well influence future cases. Then, without warning, the bearded offender who in some ways resembled Maddox in appearance, produced a wartime Webley .45 service revolver and shot the Enforcement Officer dead.

From that day on, Enforcement Officers were afforded backup if they felt that they needed it. O’Neal had never requested it, he had every confidence in his own forceful personality. Maddox was no problem, today was little more than a woodland stroll; it was pointless reading the Act to a deaf man, so he would pin it to the tarpaulin entrance flap. The fact that Maddox could neither read nor write was immaterial. You played it by the book, nobody could ask more.

There was no sign of Maddox. O’Neal pulled open the frayed entrance flap, stared inside. In the far corner was an old mattress with a pile of torn and filthy blankets piled in the middle. A trestle bench, which was remarkably similar to those in the village hall, served as a table, its surface littered with cracked and chipped unwashed crockery. Aplastic container of water and an assortment of rusted tools, probably only the hammer and the screwdriver worked. Underneath was a heap of empty fertilizer sacks, some second-hand plastic binder string.

O’Neal wrinkled his nose at the smell, stale cooking and unwashed odours which had become trapped inside the makeshift hut. It was as if they had been gathering force poised to escape the moment the flap was lifted. He recoiled from the sudden rush, let the flap fall back into place.

He fixed the notice to the tarpaulin, stood clear and carefully filled and lit his pipe. He was not obliged to hang around on the off-chance that the occupant might return. In fact, it was a lot easier calling when he was absent. Maddox would probably light his cooking fire with the notice. Or find another use for it.

O’Neal shrugged, moved away. While he was in the area he would take a look at the old reservoir site, there was an advance application in the office files for it to be sold for building land. No chance, this was Green Belt, building was only permitted in exceptional circumstances and then only on a very limited scale.

The Enforcement Officer felt decidedly uneasy, as if something was wrong and he had failed to spot it. Or else somebody was watching him; it was probably Maddox spying on him from the cover of the surrounding rhododendrons. His skin prickled briefly and then he was the archetypal planning department officer once again. He feared nobody.

Barry Jackson did not like driving after dark. Even with his thick-lensed glasses his ageing vision was not to be trusted. He was inclined to use the centre line of the road as a guide, once his side mirror had been clipped by an oncoming car which was being driven in a likewise fashion.

Approaching headlights dazzled him to the point of blindness, invariably he forgot to dip his own lights and was flashed angrily by oncoming drivers.

He gripped the steering wheel with grim intensity, clenched his teeth and hunched forward. He always had a headache by the time he arrived at his destination.

He had begun attending creative writing classes at the further education college for a number of reasons. It gave him a feeling of independence, an incentive that was lacking in his retirement. His wife, Jocelyn, was continually bragging about her amateur artistic achievements; Barry, secretly, didn’t think her work was up to standard but, nevertheless, two of her watercolours had been accepted for a local exhibition. Because, and he smiled to himself, the organizers had experienced difficulty in finding enough entries to make a show of respectability and cover the walls of the village hall.

Barry had decided that he needed a talent to rival Jocelyn’s self-importance within the bickering family. A published story or article would achieve that aim. Naturally, it would make her jealous but he derived further satisfaction from that prospect. His tutor had complimented him upon his last story and remarked that Barry, at eighty-one, had a gift for writing and had now reached a publishable standard. Next week, Barry decided, he would submit one of his pieces to a magazine.

Another reason for the twice-weekly evening classes was to get away from Jocelyn for a few hours. Her latest obsession with painting outdoors was a godsend, it gave him a few hours of daytime peace and quietness. But it wouldn’t last, Jocelyn would tire of it, find innumerable reasons to complain, and once this Indian summer gave way to autumn winds and rain, she would be back indoors every day and her incessant carping would start all over again.

At his age, and in good health, Barry sought the peace and tranquillity which had eluded him in over fifty years of marriage. With hindsight, he would have left his wife half a century ago when, too late, he became aware of her vile temperament, but the stigma of divorce in those days would have jeopardised his career in local government. So, he had stuck it out, his resilience had enabled him to survive.

Jocelyn was a bitch, he braked as an oncoming truck came over the brow, shied from its lights. A bitch! She had ruined their only daughter’s life, dominated her in her prime and by the time Barbara was capable of standing up to her mother, eligible men were backing off. Who, for God’s sake, in their right mind would take on Jocelyn Jackson as a mother-in-law!

Barry was curious about his daughter’s latest boyfriend. Jocelyn was finding fault with the guy already and she hadn’t even met him yet! If Barbara had any sense she would keep the man well away from her mother. All the same, every parent worried about their offspring’s welfare and Barry just hoped that this fellow wasn’t stringing her along just for what he could get. He was confident that Barbara wouldn’t let him have that, she had been too well brought up. A nagging reminder that she had slept out that night when she’d gone to dinner at Packington Hall. Still, Royston Shannon was surely a gentleman and they had doubtless slept in separate bedrooms.

In any case, it was an honour that such a man had shown an interest in their daughter, Barry was proud of Barbara for that. If it came to marriage, and Barry had long learned to regard that as a remote possibility once Jocelyn began interfering in her daughter’s romances, then he feared for his own future. All too often Barbara had acted as a buffer between Jocelyn and himself when his wife flew into one of her tempers. When that day came he would have to fight a lone battle and he did not relish the prospect. When one was over eighty, one opted for the easy way out; which he had done right from the start and that was why he was still being dominated now.

The road narrowed as it approached the village of Hopwas, he slowed down to twenty-five miles per hour, anticipated the steep drop down to where the first of the houses began. An accident-prone spot, there had been three fatals in the last couple of years and still the police and the local authorities refused to take any decisive action; in fact, they had raised the speed limit from thirty to forty miles per hour, claimed that drivers didn’t observe it, anyway! And they hadn’t set up a radar trap here for months in spite of an outcry in the Herald.

It was a place where extreme caution was demanded. He took his foot from the gas pedal.

Next second he was braking sharply. His reactions were slow but his reduced speed was his salvation. The Rover’s wheels locked, the car slewed and came to a halt within a yard of the object that lay in the middle of the road.

Barry peered, tried to make out what it was. A bundle of wet rags, something which had fallen off the dustcart crusher, by the look of it. It reminded him of the days of the old “rag-and-bone man,” the horse-drawn cart loaded high with people’s throw-outs, anything from moth-eaten coats to holed socks.

Well, he couldn’t stop here, it only needed one of those regular maniac drivers to come zipping round the bend and there would be a major crash. Barry decided he could drive round the obstacle if he went on the verge.

The Rover had stalled, he fumbled to start it. The engine fired, he struggled to pull the steering wheel hard over, it wasn’t easy when one had an arthritic shoulder; he’d ensure that when he changed the car next time he’d go for a model with power steering.

Something about that heap in the road caught his attention, had him staring at it again in the beam of the headlights. And that was when he saw the crushed human head poking out of the frayed topcoat, sticky tyremarks showing up plainly on the dry road surface.

Oh, Lord, it’s a man and he’s been run over!

Barry sat there looking, immobile with shock, tasted bile in his throat. There was a body in the road, there was no doubt it was dead. The victim of a hit-and-run driver. He was the first at the scene, that placed a frightening responsibility upon himself.

Don’t bother getting out, there’s nothing you can do for him. That made sense, it was a relief, a let-out.

But you’ll have to go for help. He had already turned the wheels in preparation for mounting the grass verge, all he had to do was to drive the short distance home, call the emergency services.

Which service do you require, please?

Ambulance. And the police. There’s a body in the road on Hopwas Hill. Somebody’s run right over it. In all probability somebody else has done it again, splattered it all over the tarmac, you’ll need shovels and plastic bags and …

A sudden rush of headlights behind, a screech of brakes, tyres squealing. Barry tensed, anticipated the crunching impact, the Rover being shoved forward right onto …

Somehow the other driver had managed to stop, his car was at an angle, its engine still running. A door opened, Barry was aware that there was a face at the side window. A voice, coarse with anger, “What the hell are you playing, stopping on a bend …” the outburst died away, the other had seen what lay in the road.

Barry watched, saw a well-built track-suited man move in front of his car; stop, turn back.

“He’s … dead!” Mouthing at the window.

Slowly, movement returned to Barry’s limbs, he found the electronic switch that worked the window, lowered it. The stranger was fleshy, his hair lay flat and damp like he’d been playing squash or badminton.

“You’ve killed ’im, mate!”

Shock that was worse than previous, an awful realization that had had to be put into words because Barry had never thought of the implication. Until now. His lips moved, he tried to say “it wasn’t me” but the words would not come.

“We’ll have to call the police, I’ll do it on my car phone,” a status symbol, that was more important than the bloody corpse lying in the road. “You stay where you are, mate, I’ll back up to the bend, park with my warning lights on just in case another car comes.”

It was like a bad dream, a nightmare that you wanted to wake up from but couldn’t, no matter how hard you tried. Barry sat there, heard the other vehicle reversing. Then just the sound of engines ticking over. The other motorist was doubtless talking to the police now. “Yeah, that’s right, dead as they come, run right over ’is bleedin’ ’ead. An old chap that ’adn’t ought to be drivin’, certainly not at night because ’e can’t see properly.”

Barry began to tremble violently. He even wished that he was back home with Jocelyn. Doubtless, she’d blame him, too, because she always did.

The man was returning, he opened the passenger door of the Rover, slid into the seat. Barry could sense the other’s excitement, a buildup of self-importance. I’ll help because it looks good.

“You okay, mate?”

Barry nodded his lie.

“Been drinkin’?”

“No!” Somehow he managed indignation. “I never drink when I’m driving.”

“They’ll breath test you, just the same. They always do at accidents. How’d it happen?”

“I don’t know. I just came round the bend, fortunately I was only doing about twenty-five and …”

“Looks to me, by the look of ’im, you was doin’ a bit more’n that!”

“I … didn’t … run … over … him. Somebody else did.”

The other stared, disbelief on his features. “Oh, I see, it wasn’t you that knocked ’im down, then?” They always say that to begin with.

“I told you, I never touched him. I found him.”

After that they sat in an uneasy silence until the police car arrived, followed shortly afterwards by an ambulance.

As expected, Barry Jackson was breathalysed. The result was negative. An officer checked his tire tread, found that they did not match those which had gone over the victim, crushed his head and stomach.

Later, in the comfort of his own home, with frequent interruptions, contradictions and suggestions from his wife, Barry made a statement to the police.

In all probability, they would never trace the hit-and-run driver. The crime detection rate was currently lower than it had ever been. It was blamed on reduced manpower and an alarming increase in lawlessness.

Detective Inspector Raymond Barr’s investigations into the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of the woman found in Holcroft’s field were proving negative. Her identity had been established as that of Sharon Levy, a prostitute living and working in Lichfield. A known drug addict, she had wasted the taxpayers’ money on a fruitless rehabilitation course. She had twenty-two convictions for soliciting, three for being in possession of drugs.

The post-mortem had revealed that at the time of her death she had been on crack.

The detective studied the PM report; his only consolation was that it confirmed his initial suspicions. Death by drowning. Her intake of water had been pure, no trace of pollution. Which excluded streams, rivers, ponds. The outdoor possibilities were narrowed to reservoirs.

His unit had checked all reservoirs within a twenty-five mile radius. Two in Lichfield, Stowe and the Minster, the banks had been checked for any signs of a struggle but none were found; there were no markings on her flesh. Nobody would have had any reason other than murder to transport her body from the scene of her death to a wood-side field.

He was an experienced-enough officer not to jump to conclusions but the obvious motive could not be ignored. Sharon had been picked up by a client, they had gone back to his place. He had killed her, the possible reasons were many. Drowned in the bath, the body removed to a distant place. The murder need not necessarily be local, it was part of the procedure to check out pure-water sites; investigating every household bath was an impossibility.

Murder by a person or persons unknown. It would stay on file for perpetuity in case it needed to be compared with any future similar killings. It was probably a one-shot. The chances of the murderer being apprehended were slim but they had to work on it.

“I thought you ought to see this, sir,” the young DC entered the office, stood before the desk.

“What is it, constable?” Barr was still staring at the Levy file.

“You know Maddox, the deaf and dumb vagrant who lived in Hopwas Wood, sir?”

“Not personally,” the inspector looked up, “but I’ve heard of him. Who hasn’t? Dead, is he?” Because nobody will care if he is.

“A couple of nights ago his body was found on the main Lichfield-to-Tamworth road. A hit-and-run, so it seemed I’ve got the PM here, sir.” The other put a sheet of paper down on the desk.

Barr read it, the room seemed to go into orbit, he hoped the young detective didn’t notice his reaction. The corpse had been badly mutilated by having a vehicle driven over it but at that time the victim had been dead for several hours.

“God Almighty!” This time Barr did not attempt to conceal his reactions. “Cause of death …”

It was crazy, impossible except that it was true.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s fine, constable.”

Barr waited until the other had closed the door after him before he read the PM report again. Read it and reread it just to be sure that there was no mistake. There wasn’t.

Cause of death: drowning.

Eleven

Barbara felt a sense of pride that was only tempered by curiosity, maybe a hint of disappointment. She had not known quite what to expect at this supposedly informal gathering of the “chosen few” who revered the People of the Water. A cult of some kind, obviously; cults were commonplace in multi-religious Britain these days. Whatever, it was sure to be relatively harmless.

Maybe she had envisaged a learned gathering, college lecturers who had studied beyond the required curriculum, or even professors. Certainly people of Royston’s age group. And her own.

It wasn’t like that at all. Not one of those present was older than twenty-five. She glanced from one to the other of those who stood in a semicircle as if awed by Royston Shannon’s entry, counted them. Six. Just one face she recognized, Stogie who had waited at the table on her previous visit to Packington Hall, Short cut dark hair accentuated his pallid complexion, eyes that seemed to stare without seeing, an expression that was shared by all of those present, together with their strange all-in-one dark green costumes, like swim suits with fish scales embroidered on the material, right down to the feet where they formed into flippers in the style of fishes’ tails. Skintight, smooth and shiny, reflecting the hidden lighting in Royston Shannon’s ‘laboratory’.”

Barbara stared in undisguised amazement. The walls were covered with murals, underwater seascapes, plant life that trailed, provided cover for shoals of tiny fishes, each one painted meticulously. Larger creatures that had a prehistoric look about them; she followed the painting, it was a kind of pictorial history of evolution; the creatures took on a vague human shape, fins forming into arms and hands, human features. There was no mistaking their beauty as they evolved. Finally, there was land with subhuman forms crawling upon it. Then standing, walking. Gone were the fish bodies, replaced by claws, then feet.

“This is Barbara,” Shannon’s tone commanded instant attention, as one the gathering flinched, seemed to shake off their trance, glazed eyes cleared. Their expressions were of reverence. Of awe. “She has come to meet us tonight. Let us hope that she chooses to join us. Among us then is freedom, which cannot be said of the world above.”

Tables lined the walls below the murals, a series of water tanks that would have graced the finest of aquarium shops alive with darting movements, a kaleidoscope of colours unrivalled marine splendour both in plant and sub-aquatic life.

Royston wore a flowing green robe that swished as he moved towards a central dais, reminding Barbara of the sound of a distant incoming tide.

“Let us give thanks to Mukasa, propitiated by the Baganda, and to Akikuyu, the snake god of the water.” A silence, heads bowed, it seemed to Barbara that those in the fish costumes trembled as they closed their eyes and gave thanks to their strange deities. She noticed that Shannon’s eyes were closed, too. She was the only one in the room who showed no humility, but she was trembling with them. She wished that she hadn’t agreed to come here tonight. It was so strange, so frightening.

“We welcome a newcomer to our fold tonight,” Royston Shannon lifted his head, everybody was looking towards Barbara. It was like grace being said before a meal, she thought, the formalities were over, now everybody could relax. He waved a hand in the direction of their guest, “this is Barbara, she wishes to know more about our beliefs.”

Stares that were almost hostile. Stogie’s eyes had glazed over again. The short, fair-haired girl was almost certainly pregnant, Barbara decided. Well pregnant.

“Stogie,” Shannon stepped down, stood in front of the watchers, indicated the first in the line, “he lives here, works here. He has just been released from prison, served a sentence for something which is not an offence among us. Drugs have been taken ever since primitive man first learned about wild herbs and their uses. Society seeks to prohibit them. Stogie’s violence was merely in defence of our beliefs and rights, an injustice.”

The other showed no emotion, he may not even have been aware of his public exoneration.

“Janice’s husband left her in the final stages of her pregnancy,” the girl smiled benignly, proudly. “Our queen eagerly awaits the birth. And Elaine, overweight and in her late teens, the first disciple, the sole survivor of a pleasure boat tragedy, the fact that she was spared when others perished is, indeed, a sign from the People of the Water. They sent her back to spread the gospel of the deep. Heed her words carefully for she has crossed the divide and returned. And Sheila, Debbie, Lisa …’ Youngsters that were passed over almost indifferently, they were of no consequences in the power structure here.

Barbara nodded to each one, met their gaze, there were no welcoming smiles. It was as if she had to prove herself before they accepted her, that Shannon’s word was not good enough in itself. Barbara’s thoughts turned briefly to her father and his freemasonry, the secrecy. It was almost a threat.

“Bring her a change so that she may not be a stranger in our midst.”

It was one of the younger girls that stepped forward, Barbara couldn’t remember which one, it was all so confusing, plucked something from behind a screen. A fish skin like they all wore, the other thrust it forward. An order put it on!

Barbara took it, stood there holding it, glanced at Shannon. He smiled, nodded.

She glanced around her like she was in a clothes store, looked for a changing cubicle. There wasn’t one. She knew she was blushing with embarrassment, looked again to Royston Shannon.

“We have neither secrets nor inhibitions here,” his voice was kindly yet firm. “Clothes are an embarrassment, we merely conform to the society created by over-evolution. The waters of the oceans gave us our bodies initially, we should be proud of them, if we have any shame then it is because we have been changed into what we are. Cast aside your clothing, display your body and then change it to how it once was and how it will again be one day.”

It wasn’t easy undressing. Barbara fumbled fasteners and zips, if her unscheduled striptease was in any way erotic it was because she delayed removing the final flimsy garments until the last possible moment.

She knew that they watched her intently, that their eyes feasted on her nakedness. The younger women saw wrinkles where their own flesh was flat and smooth, they would not understand for youth was their temporary privilege. Breasts that were not as firm as they once had been. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw heads lowered, thrust forward, trying to view that which she had so far managed to screen from their voyeurism.

There was no way that she could step into the complete outfit without lifting one leg, standing on the other. She heard intakes of breath, almost overbalanced; then she was standing firm on the flippered feet, pulling the garment up over her body.

Skintight, sensuous, it felt like silk, a clinging dampness like a swim suit after one emerged from the water and began to dry in the hot sun. Barbara’s skin seemed to glow inside it, her breathing quickened. There were no fasteners, it was self-supporting without the need for elastic. A feeling of pride, she drew herself erect, turned to face them.

I am one of you now. I am a disciple of the People of the Water.

“Let us join our ancestors in the depths,” with a sweeping movement Royston headed for a door at the other end of the room. The others moved to follow him, fell into an orderly column; Stogie in the lead, followed by Janice and Elaine and the other three. Barbara moved to the end of the line, obviously this was the pecking order, her place was at the bottom.

Long narrow corridors sloped downwards, dim wall lighting created an eerie atmosphere, the only sound the flip-flop of those padded feet as if the wearers trod wet floors, yet the concrete was dry. It was the feet of the costumes that created a noise akin to wetness, it made her shiver. Barbara would have hung back had she not been afraid of finding herself lost; a right turn, then a left and up ahead she saw an open door, the last of the gathering just going through it. She hastened, fearful lest it might slam shut and abandon her in a maze of passages.

A smell that was familiar and yet not instantly recognizable assailed her nostrils. A dampness in the atmosphere. The odour brought with it a distant memory of childhood seaside holidays, the bracing atmosphere of a beach, the aroma of the tide and seaweed-draped rocks.

She emerged into a greenish light, looked up at a domed roof where the opaque glass had been tinted to give an oceanic glow. Barbara stared in astonishment, once this place had obviously been a large indoor swimming pool but its symmetry had been modified. There were no straight sides, they had been shaped in curves and outlets, it was like looking down upon a map of a rugged coastline.

The surface was covered with floating plant life, seaweed that trailed over jutting rocks, small trees grew and overhung the water, created mysterious shadowy inlets. The water was a greenish hue that obscured the bottom, hid its depth. She goose pimpled beneath her tight-fitting outfit her stomach muscles contracted. So beautiful, so sinister.

The focal point was the life-sized statue on a rocky outcrop. At first glance Barbara thought that it was yet another of this strange coven, a female of exquisite beauty who wore a half costume in the shape of a fish’s tail. Her top half was bare, breasts that were firm, alluringly half-hidden by her long trailing fair hair. Features that transcended loveliness, eyes that peered from behind golden strands and saw you, full red lips smiling a welcome.

Welcome to the depths where the People of the Water still live.

Royston Shannon stood on the edge of the pool, arms upraised, and when he spoke his voice echoed within the confines of this strange place. “O, Queen, we who are gathering your disciples in readiness for your coming again have brought a neophyte for you.”

Barbara trembled, had there been anywhere to run to she would have fled. All eyes were upon her, watching her closely. Shannon’s finger crooked, a summons which she dared not disobey.

“Barbara,” he smiled but there was no mirth in his eyes “go into the water and be baptized in the name of Mukasa.”

Intakes of breath from the watchers. Janice’s huge stomach seemed to vibrate as though even the foetus in the womb thrilled to the prospect.

Barbara looked down at the dark green water, its creeping plant life, thick plankton chowder extending downwards. A shoal of tiny fish, scintillating brilliant colours, vanished as quickly as they appeared. The surface rippled as if some creature was waiting beneath it for her.

She hesitated, the others moved forward, she read hate in their expressions, a seething jealousy, perhaps, because their high priest had dared to bring a stranger into their midst.

Throw her in, let the lurking water creatures feast on her flesh!

Shannon stepped between them, whatever their intention, it was halted.

“You will not be harmed,” he spoke in a whisper, “it is merely a baptism.”

Barbara had no recollection of stepping off the side; one moment she was looking up into his eyes, the next the greenish dark waters had closed over her head. She fought off her initial panic, she had always been a good swimmer, this was no different from any other swimming pool.

Was it?

Trailing creepers clutched at her as if their motive was to drag her down into the dark depths, to drown her. She struck out and they parted. Everywhere was green, becoming darker as she sank. She kicked out with her feet but she did not touch the bottom; it was obviously much deeper than an ordinary swimming pool.

A multicoloured fish swam into view, watched her with its goggle eyes. That same shoal, surely, which she had viewed from above, darted across her, streaks of red, blue, and golden, shimmering as they might have done in a tank with underwater lighting.

Barbara knew that she would have to surface for air soon; she could last maybe another thirty seconds.

A shadow fell across her, she sensed a movement close by, turned. It was one of the others, she recognized the costume, the unmistakable shape of the pregnant Janice.

Janice turned, swam towards her, mouthed something but Barbara did not understand. Janice trod water alongside, stroked her bulging figure proudly. A hand stretched out, smoothed across Barbara. A fondling of her breasts which elsewhere she might have rejected angrily; she did not even object when those same fingers explored between her thighs. The hand came back up, rested on her stomach. A smile, a question asked in body language.

Are you pregnant?

Barbara shook her head indignantly, on dry land she might have said, “I’m too old.”

It is our duty to provide offspring for the People of the Water.

Janice took her hand, led her upwards through water that lightened rapidly, trailing vegetation which made a token effort to pull them back; fish that darted away in alarm at this sudden intrusion.

They broke the surface, trod water. Barbara saw that the others stood watching, Royston Shannon towering like a giant on the waterside, watching intently. Perhaps he had been concerned that Barbara had been gone too long, sent one of the disciples to find her.

Barbara clutched at a rock for support, only then was she aware that a giant fishtail reclined within inches of her head. She raised her eyes, the Queen seemed to be looking down, their eyes met. The features smiled, it was probably a trick of the light.

Janice led her across to the other side where Shannon’s outstretched hand gripped her own, pulled her ashore.

“You are one of the Water People now,” his voice trembled with pride. “I built this place in the hope that when the time came our queen might choose to return here,” his features became solemn, “alas, she chose another place but it is not for me to question her wisdom. Consequently we have to pilgrimage there. She awaits our coming with an eagerness which rewards me for all the years I have served her. She demands sacrifices, we have provided them. But her needs are insatiable,” his gaze alighted on Janice her stomach distended by the child she carried, his eyes narrowed. “She awaits the birth, perhaps she will hasten it. Tomorrow night we must go and pay homage to she who will rule over the earth when once again the oceans over its surface.”

Barbara joined the column that threaded its way back up the long corridor and into the upper temple, for surely that was what it was. She was frightened yet thrilled, found herself wondering what kind of sacrifices the woman who was supposedly half-fish and half-human demanded. And she also regretted that she was not young enough to become pregnant.

If this was all some kind of weird game, then she was enjoying it. If it wasn’t … she eyed Shannon, knew that she would do whatever he asked. She had waited a lifetime to find the man of her dreams.

Twelve

Phil Quiles knew that mending the hole in the blockhouse wall was a priority; it was a health hazard, dirt could fall into the water supply, now that the inspection hatches had been secured it was the weak link in a possible deliberate pollution or poisoning. Also, if Dalgety saw it, there would be trouble. For himself.

Christ Almighty, that bloody woman was up here painting again! In a way Phil was relieved, at least he had human company in close proximity

“Good morning, Mister Quiles. The fine weather’s still going on but they do speak of the high pressure starting to move away by the end of next week.”

“Then the autumn rains will start,” he set his bucket of ready-mix cement down on the step. And when it rains you won’t come here anymore.

“Going to mend that hole, eh?”

“That’s right,” he began scraping the powdered concrete out with a trowel, taking care to ensure that none fell back into the water. He caught his breath, that awful smell wafted through the jagged outlet; staleness and damp.

And evil.

“What do you think made the hole?”

That damned woman questioned everything. “Dunno, for sure. I guess it’s because the walls are starting to bow, the pressure caused it to crack.” Now that was a plausible explanation. He tried to believe it.

“Bowing! They won’t collapse, will they? Because if all that water rushed straight downhill it would sweep the houses away at the bottom.”

“I don’t think it’d be that bad,” he scraped the last of the rubble out, began trowelling the mix in the bucket. “Probably ruin a few ground floor carpets.” He avoided scaremongering; if the worst happened, the released water would take the least line of resistance, follow the well-worn path down to the bottom of the hill; it would be like a raging river for a short while.

“Gracious! We’ve just had new fitted carpets in the lounge and hallway, cost over two thousand pounds. We only have the best, you know.”

The damage wasn’t caused by bowing or cracking, that much was evident. The hole through from the interior was a definite burrowing from within, like some animal had deliberately scratched and chipped its way out. That was an impossibility, the inside walls above the water were sheer, there was no foothold for a creature whilst it worked. The task was beyond rats. He couldn’t think of anything else, it sent little prickles all over him.

“It smells bad in there,” she was leaning over his shoulder. “It’s quite put me off drinking water unless it’s boiled.”

He wasn’t going to risk filling the hole right to its extremity, cement powdered as it dried, some might drop down into the water. A good dollop to fill the exterior should suffice. Whatever had done this had certainly worked from the inside, the rubble on the steps was proof of that; it had knocked it outwards as it worked.

“Did you find the owner of that ring?”

“Not yet. In fact, it’s still on the dresser at home, I haven’t been up to Glascote since. I’ll take it when I go, maybe tomorrow or the day after.”

Phil hadn’t mentioned it to Kate, he didn’t want to alarm her. She knew as well as he did that nobody apart from himself and water authority employees went into the blockhouse. Those naked footprints were the most worrying factor. Along with the hole in the wall.

“Well, I did some research!” A smugness in her voice she tapped him on the shoulder with a forefinger. “It was the symbol that intrigued me, the mermaid. I’m knowledgeable on both antiques and ancient history, you know, I’ve got a shelf of books on both. That ring, and it can’t possibly be genuine else it’d be worth thousands, is symbolic of Mukasa a water god of the Victoria Nyanza lake, worshipped by the Baganda. A similar symbol is used by the Akikuyu of Africa who worship a water snake god although theirs is slightly different, the female’s lower body is in the form of a reptile. Devilish sacrifices, they throw virgins into the water so that their god can marry them. Just different forms of an old religion, I guess, a female god that can be either fish or snake but you have to feed it humans to keep it happy. Which couldn’t possibly happen in twentieth-century Britain, could it, Mister Quiles?” She ended with a nervous laugh.

“No, I guess not,” he halted his stirring, stiffened. God she was scaring him. It was all bloody rubbish but it was the last thing he needed to hear right now.

“It puzzles me what made that hole,” she mused. “It has to be something very strong.”

Phil didn’t reply. He finished smoothing the filled hole level with the wall, stood back to admire his work. The outside would set hard within a few hours, the interior might take longer because of the dampness from the reservoir. Nothing would get in or out of that, he almost convinced himself.

“I’ve almost finished my picture,” Jocelyn Jackson stated, “do come and have a look.”

“I’m sorry but …”

“It won’t take a minute,” she turned, began to amble back across the tussocks of coarse grass. “Oh, by the way there’s some dead rabbits over there, just by that hatch.” She pointed.

Some crows perching in the far larches cawed angrily. “Three or four, I didn’t go near enough to count them,” she exaggerated an expression of revulsion. “Maybe a fox killed them.”

“More likely a stoat,” Phil wasn’t going across to investigate, the laws of Nature were not his concern.

“Whatever killed them, those crows are pretty angry with it,” the other hastened her arthritic limbs, a private viewing had priority over everything else, “Now, what do you think, Mister Quiles? Superb, isn’t it?”

Phil looked at the painting propped on the easel. He was no connoisseur of art, this painting might just have won a fifth form prize at the secondary school. So much detail; too much, no wonder it had taken her all this time to finish it. Every distant tree branch was painted in detail, every crack and patch of lichen and moss on the blockhouse. It was no masterpiece but there was no getting away from the fact that she had captured the atmosphere. He found himself stepping back a pace.

“Well, Mister Quiles?”

“It’s very good,” he leaned forward, peered, and what he saw close to the base of the building had his mouth go dry. “You’ve even painted in that … that hole!”

“Of course,” She moved behind the easel, stood with a hand on it as if she posed for a photograph. “And why not? It’s a sinister place, I sensed that even before I went inside with you that day. Evil broods within, so why not depict how evil has broken out, a trapped force that has found a way to freedom, gone forth into the world?”

He tried to jerk his gaze away from the picture; he found it impossible, as if the watercolour mesmerized him. A squat concrete monster that throbbed with evil life. Jocelyn’s artist’s license had allowed her to paint a lowering sky, whereas it had been blue and cloudless for weeks. The building was a shade of dirty grey, darker than in reality; the door was ajar, from within came a faint greenish light. She had mastered the trick of making it appear to flicker. “You like it then?”

No! “It’s … lifelike,” he breathed. “Too lifelike.”

“My teacher at college said that it was obvious that she couldn’t teach me anything,” Jocelyn Jackson echoed her favourite self-praise. “That’s how I see your reservoir, Mister Quiles, that’s what attracted me to paint it in the first place. It hadn’t used to be like this, not in the days when I walked Barbara up here. Then it was a foreign legion outpost, all shining white. Whiter than white, you almost felt you’d like to live there. But it’s changed, there’s something happened in there, you mark my words. It’s a foul place and it’s turned the water foul, no matter how much you chaps try to convince us of purity and EEC standards.”

Phil swallowed, he was chilled in spite of the warm autumn sunlight. He made no attempt to contradict her.

“I’m glad I’m almost finished, I don’t want to come back here after today. The feeling gets stronger each day, I don’t feel safe here. But do you know what I’m going to do next, Mister Quiles?”

Phil had no idea, he didn’t want to know but, like the wedding guests, he was compelled to listen to the Ancient Mariner.

“In the safety of my own home,” her voice was a whisper, she glanced back at the blockhouse apprehensively, “I’m going to paint that water down below. A dark, forbidding underground lake where something swims in the depths but all you see is a flicker of green light. And I’m going to call the picture Mukasa.”

“Dalgety’s here!” Kate stood up from the table, looked out the window. “Christ, why does he always come at mealtimes?”

“Maximum inconvenience,” Phil picked up his plate, “shove this in the microwave for me, love. It might only be a routine quickie.”

Today Dalgety had come in a Land Rover Discovery, a shining new bright yellow monster bearing the water authority’s logo on both front doors. He didn’t get out, just wound down the window.

“We’ll go up in this,” there was a faint odour of whisky on his breath, he had lunched at the Chequers en route. “Four-wheel drive, no problem on the steep tracks.”

He’s just called to show off his latest on-loan status, Phil thought. But it could have dangerous implications. Arrogance fired aggression. He climbed into the passenger seat.

“Fixed that light?”

“Yes.”

A grunt that threatened “if you’re lying, we’ll soon know and you’re in deep trouble.”

An affected casualness, I’ve driven one of these before, you know, it’s nothing new to me. I can handle anything on four wheels. The heavy tyres gripped the carpet of pine needles, left their imprint in their wake. Dalgety’s foot eased off the throttle, slowed as they approached the rickety gate and its threat to trespassers.

Phil glanced ahead apprehensively, feared lest there might be a familiar figure atop the mound, hunched over her easel. There wasn’t, he breathed a sigh of relief. Jocelyn Jackson was back home painting her underground lake with all the embellishments her imagination could conjure up. It was all in the mind, hers and his own. There was nothing amiss with an old reservoir that was nearing the end of its days.

Dalgety killed the engine, rasped the handbrake rachet. Phil eased the door catch, slid to the ground.

Up the first flight of slabs, like stepping stones on a raised lawn, slippery with moss. Now they were level with the top of the mound, the blockhouse a few yards in front of them.

“What’s that?” The inspector halted suddenly, pointed with a flabby hand.

“What?” It sounded weak.

“That bloody hole in the wall by the steps!”

Phil felt the cry rising in his throat, somehow strangled it. There, ahead of him, in exactly the same place as before, a jagged hole yawned in the concrete. Freshly crumbled cement had dried greyish in the early afternoon sun, cascaded down two levels. He was sure he could smell the foulness that exuded from that aperture even at this distance.

Dalgety lumbered forward, his cheeks puffed out, a red mass of burst blood vessels blotched the skin, his lungs protested at the sudden vigorous movements after the steep climb up the steps. His green synthetic wellingtons squeaked their newness.

“Bloody vandals!” He dropped to his knees, tried to peer into the hole but there was only impenetrable darkness beyond. His gaze returned to the mess of excavated mortar on the slab steps. “This has been chiselled out from the inside!”

Phil squatted, his legs were shaking. Exactly as before, the same exit, the same means of excavation. He felt suddenly dizzy, had to support his crouched form with a hand on the ground.

“What’s done this, Quiles?” An accusation, looking for a scapegoat. Have you done this?

“It’s probably the pressure on the walls,” echoing the same explanation he’d given to Jocelyn Jackson, hoping it might be believed. Because if it was, he’d feel better. He needed reassurance.

“Balls!” Dalgety was angry, he thought of water authority property in terms of his own, another way of borrowing status. “Somebody’s got inside the reservoir! They couldn’t have done that from the outside. Come on, we’d better take a look.”

The ground seemed to rise up, Phil clutched at a tuft of grass to keep his balance. Up, then back down. His vision blurred, cleared.

“Come on, Quiles, I haven’t got all day, and neither have you!” The other was already over by the door, impatient for to be unlocked.

Strangely for the first time in a long while, the keys appeared to work smoothly. Dalgety didn’t seem to notice the smell, he was in a hurry to get down below.

Phil found himself searching the concrete floor apprehensively, looking for wet naked footprints. There was no sign of any. If somebody had been in here before his last visit then they most certainly had not returned, thank God! “I’m meeting the superintendent of police at three o’clock in Lichfield,” a tone of importance. “These so-called drownings, doubtless you’ve read about them in the papers, hermit out of these woods, I never even knew one lived here. Supposedly run over on the road, they reckon he died from drowning. A similar case shortly before that, a prositute. The police are checking out all the reservoirs in the area, I’m responsible for sixteen!” Boasting, he wouldn’t have bothered to recount the recent events and his forthcoming appointment otherwise. “Damned good job this one’s locked up and underground. At least,” a laugh that sounded forced, “nobody could get in or out of that hole the wall!”

The water surface seemed much larger than before, like it had expanded back into the woodland beyond. Which was impossible, Phil told himself, it was a trick of the light. A light on the far side that flickered and threatened to extinguish at any second.

“What the bloody hell’s going on, Quiles!” Dalgety’s shout of anger echoed in the confined space, bounced back at them. Deafening in its intensity, the inspector’s fury magnified tenfold.

“I changed the tube, sir.” It came out as a whimper, pleading whine.

“It doesn’t have to be the tube, man,” a schoolteacher addressing a pupil whose intelligence was in question, forcing himself to explain the obvious. “It could be a loose connection, the fitting itself. Or the wiring. You’ll have to check the entire electrics, follow the wire right down from the fuse box up in the controls cupboard. Got it?”

“Hadn’t we better get an electrician out from Glascote,” a desperate plea. “The authority has a team of electricians. I’m only a layman, a pumping station manager.”

“You wouldn’t have got the job if you hadn’t got your certificate in electronics,” he sneered. “Our electricians are overstretched on a skeleton staff, three are on autumn leave. This reservoir is your baby, Quiles,” he added meaningfully, “for the moment, anyway. If that light’s still faulty on my next visit I shall have to put in a report of negligence and incompetence.”

Dalgety turned away, slapped his booted feet on the wet steps. Phil followed, clutched at the rail, the concrete was slippery.

Something made him look back, instinctive impulse, he did not know why. Maybe in his fear he was searching for a luminous rippling in the dark, deep water.

There wasn’t one. It could have been because the light across the water wasn’t flickering any longer. It did not cast a moving reflection on the surface.

Thirteen

Kate Quiles wasn’t feeling well. Nothing drastic, not even serious enough to phone the doctor’s office and book an early evening appointment.

It was probably due to her imminent period, a headache and tiredness. And Dalgety, of course. The water authority inspector’s frequent visits were almost certainly a contributory factor. They put Phil under stress and it had an effect on her, a kind of chain reaction; she became edgy, short-tempered with Peter. The boy was becoming a handful lately now that he had settled in at school and his confidence in himself was growing.

Today he had not been to school, some kind of staff training course that should have damned well been scheduled for a weekend or during the vacation. Instead, the education authority closed the schools for a day.

Peter had been restless all morning. He’d meddled with the phone, tapped the digits and left it ringing out somewhere while she was hanging out the washing. The receiver must have been dislodged for at least half an hour before she noticed it. The water authority paid the phone bill, scrutinized the itemized account and queried any call that wasn’t local.

She wouldn’t tell Phil. Not yet, anyway.

Dalgety had really shaken him today, her husband was pale and clearly ill-at-ease when he returned from that trip up to the reservoir. The inspector had driven straight off after dropping Phil, didn’t even go up to the pumping station to check on the antiquated machinery.

“Bastard!” She heard her husband mutter beneath his breath as he came through the door.

“I’ll get your dinner out of the microwave,” she got up out of the chair. “Warmed up, congealed food yet again!”

“Don’t bother, I have to go out.”

“Don’t be stupid!” she snapped, eyed him with concern. “You can always work half an hour over after tea if you have to.”

“I tell you, I’m not stopping.”

“Phil …”

“Daddy, can I go with you?” Peter scattered a box of Lego, jumped up off the floor.

“No!”

“Phil, this isn’t like you!” She was close to tears. “I wish they’d close this goddamned place down, I’d rather be in an apartment and on the dole than living like this!”

But Phil didn’t stop to argue. The door slammed and he was gone out across the yard. Kate heard the van start up. She only checked her flood of tears because of Peter.

“Mommy, can we go play in the garden?” He clutched at her hand, tried to drag her towards the door. “It’s sunny outside, like summer.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” she turned her head away. “I’m not feeling well, dear. I’m going to go and lie down on the bed. Why don’t you come upstairs and have a nice sleep with Mommy?”

“I’m not tired,” his mood transformed to one of petulance. “I want to play in the garden. With Rabbit.”

Kate sighed. The bright sunlight would probably bring on a migraine, she wouldn’t be able to sleep with Peter in his current mood. There was an alternative, she hesitated. It was a risk, the thought worried her.

“Peter.”

“Yes, Mommy?”

“How would you like to go play in the garden all on your own? I could fasten the roadside gate, you’d have the lawn to play on right up to the wood. And you could have Rabbit out of his hutch, he can’t go far because there’s a wire mesh fence all round the garden.”

“Ooooh, yes!” A shriek of surprise and joy, he had never been allowed to play all alone in the garden before, Mommy always kept coming out to check that he was okay. “You go and sleep, Mommy, I’ll be fine.”

Kate surveyed the garden, looked for possible dangers, there was no pond, Peter wouldn’t drown. A privet hedge on one side that was too thick for him to squeeze through, an eight-foot larchlap fence on the other, he certainly would not be able to climb that. Otherwise just a lawn that needed the last mowing before winter and stretched right the way up to the start of the big wood. There were some gaps in the wood boundary, hazel trees that had should have been pleached years ago, a rickety gate that even she had difficulty in unfastening on those occasions when she went for a walk in there. The boy wouldn’t go in the wood all alone. It was quite safe.

“Now, you go play with Rabbit and don’t get up to any mischief. Do you understand?”

He nodded vehemently.

“If you want anything, or you need me, come upstairs and wake me up at once.”

“I will.” He glanced eagerly in the direction of the hut. A black rabbit looked out through the mesh, pricked its ears up as though it had heard and understood the conversation. Playing out was fun, it would make sure that it wasn’t easily caught up again.

“Keep an eye on Rabbit, and when you get fed up with him, put him back in his hutch. Got it?”

“Why’s Mister Dalgety always make Daddy in a bad mood, Mommy?”

“Because Mister Dalgety’s a b … a bad man. Nobody likes him but he’s the boss and everybody has to do as he says.”

“I’ll go get Rabbit.”

Kate walked away, turned back at the door for one last look. Peter had opened the hutch door, the rabbit had jumped out, bounded away every time the boy was close enough to catch it. She smiled to herself, by the time Peter had finally caught his pet he would be so tired that he’d probably sit in the deckchair on the patio and doze off.

The thought made her even sleepier; she went indoors and upstairs. What she needed was a good long sleep. She’d feel better then and the future wouldn’t seem quite so bleak.

Peter gave up trying to catch Rabbit, squealed his rage at the creature which evaded him at every turn. He stamped his foot, kicked at the tufty lawn. It wasn’t fair, he only wanted to play with Rabbit.

“Bad Rabbit!” He screeched. “Mommy will soon catch you, and when she does, you’ll go right back in your hutch and you’ll never be allowed out again!”

He glanced back towards the red-bricked house, saw that the curtains of an upstairs window were closed. His mother was asleep. He thought about going up to wake her, changed his mind. He was bored, he wanted something to do and it was too warm and sunny to go indoors and build with Lego or play with his box of cars. Something outside …

He wandered up the hedgeside, pulling at browning leaves, snapping off twigs. He looked for a gap through which it might be possible to wriggle; on the other side were the filter beds, huge ponds with fountains squirting water all the time. They weren’t very deep, he could paddle in them and the water only came up to his knees. Water held a strange fascination for him.

But there was no way through, the privet grew close and thick.

The opposite side was all fence, so high that all he could see were the silver birch trees which the neighbours grew in their garden. But the straggling hedge bordering the pine forest was much more interesting …

A grey squirrel ran along the topmost bough of a nut tree, leaped for an overhanging pine branch, secured a hold. When Peter peered, the creature had gone. Or else it was lying so till in the dense foliage that he was unable to see it.

There were gaps between the hazel trees, Daddy couldn’t have squeezed through but he knew that he could. Hesitating, looking back down the garden in case his mother had come out to look for him. There was no sign of her. He wouldn’t be long, just a quick look the other side, he wouldn’t go far.

From the dense forest thicket a jay screeched a warning.

It was cool and shady in the forest, like he’d stepped into a different world. He had to wait while his eyesight adjusted to the gloom. Beyond, to his left, he saw a wide track, could just make out tyre marks that had churned up he pine needles. He knew that the ruts had been made by Mister Dalgety’s Land Rover a short time ago when the inspector and his father had gone up to the reservoir. The thought of water was inviting.

He began to follow the tracks.

Up ahead he could see bright sunlight where the trees ended, that had to be where the reservoir was. He walked faster.

A gate with a notice by it, he didn’t know what the words said, it was probably something boring, anyway. Steep grassy banks, a building to his right, half buried in the sloping ground; that would be the place where Daddy and Mister Dalgety had gone. Peter couldn’t understand why his father hated coming up here, it was secluded and sunny, so peaceful. The water had to be beyond the banks where they fell away on the other side, a shimmering blue lake like the brightly coloured picture in one of his reading books. Maybe boats even sailed on it.

He crawled beneath the barbed wire, scrambled up the slippery bank. And then he stared in amazement and disappointment. There was no expanse of blue water sparkling in the bright sunlight, just rough grass with concrete squares sticking up out of it at intervals.

He groaned his dismay aloud, stamped his frustration. And then he noticed that there was somebody sitting over by one of the hatches.

It had to be that lady that he’d heard Daddy telling Mommy about the other day at the tea table. Some woman who went up there painting every day, lived in a big posh house down the road from the waterworks.

She turned her head and he knew that she had heard him approach. Long fair hair fell about her shoulders, her face was young and beautiful, it reminded him of his mother.

Then he started, caught his breath. She wasn’t wearing any clothes, at least not on the top half of her body. Below her waist she wore some kind of green costume, or it might have been a towel wrapped around her like people on the beach wore when they’d just been for a swim in the sea. Except that there wasn’t any water here to swim in.

She looked at him, smiled. Suddenly, he became embarrassed; he hadn’t used to get that way, up until a short time ago he had always gone in the bath with Mommy. He hadn’t taken much notice of her body, he only knew that girls were different from boys. Then Daddy had said that he was too big now to get in with Mommy and he’d have to learn to have a bath on his own. So he had to play with his plastic duck and his rubber shark all on his own, and when his mother came in to dry him off she was always fully clothed.

It certainly wasn’t the woman whom Daddy had spoke of, Peter averted his eyes. If he wasn’t allowed to look upon his own mother unclothed then this lady might be cross because he had seen her. She wasn’t, though, because she had smiled at him. He decided to risk one more look.

But when he lifted his head back up, there was no sign of her. She had disappeared.

She couldn’t have gone far, there wasn’t time. He stared, perhaps she was hiding behind that concrete square, as embarrassed as he was.

His curiosity got the better of him, he walked a few paces sideways until he was beyond the line of hatches, looked again. She certainly wasn’t hiding. Then where had she gone?

He made his way over to where he had last seen her, looked around in bewilderment. And that was when he noticed the sheen on the rough grass. It glinted silvery in the bright sunlight, reminded him of the trails that nocturnal snails left on the outside patio at home where they had been crawling about in the night hours.

Except that this was much bigger, the width of a human body, and it headed towards that square building that was forbidding even on a sunlit afternoon.

He followed it apprehensively, saw how it snaked around thick tufts of grass, in places the sun was already drying it out. He came to the slabs that formed steps along the side of the blockhouse, saw how the trail had gone beneath the handrail, right up to the wall.

Where it ended, right outside a jagged hole in the concrete, the silvery slime already beginning to dry out on the scatterings of powdered mortar.

Well, there was no way she could have gone through there, he ran his fingers through his hair, checked the steps up and down. She hadn’t gone either way Rabbit might have squeezed through that hole and he was big as pet rabbits went.

That trail couldn’t have been left by that lady. No way. Something else had made it, he glanced behind him nervously, conjured up visions of giant snails or slimy black slugs. There was nothing in sight.

She must have ducked and ran while he wasn’t looking, maybe hid behind another of those hatches until he was out of sight, then slipped away into the woods.

It was a pity, she had smiled at him so sweetly that he was sure that she wasn’t cross with him because he had seen her without clothes on the top half of her body. Maybe, like himself, she was just embarrassed.

A nagging thought, he’d been gone a long time. Maybe Mommy had woken up and was looking for him in the garden, starting to panic the way she had that time when he’d got lost at the fairground. He broke into a run, slithered down the bank, snagged his jeans on the barbed wire as he wriggled beneath it.

He ran all the way back to the nut tree hedge, squeezed through; gasped his relief aloud because Mommy wasn’t out in the garden. The curtains on the upstairs window were still closed.

Kate awoke with a start, jumped up off the bed and reeled with a sudden spell of dizziness. God, it was after four-thirty and Peter was still out in the garden on his own! Barefooted, scarcely aware that her headache still lingered, she ran for the stairs.

Thank God, he was on the lawn, still chasing rabbit around, Phil would never forgive her for leaving him on his own that long.

“Are you all right, Peter?” She moved to intercept the bounding creature, luck was on her side and she grabbed a handful of fur, lifted the struggling rabbit aloft.

“Fine,” he was breathless, the rabbit had led him on a hard chase.

“Look, you’ve torn your jeans. Never mind, I’ll patch them, it’s time you had another pair, anyway.”

It wasn’t until teatime that Peter spilled out his story. He hadn’t meant to tell his parents, they might be angry with him for going into the wood on his own, but somehow it just came out in a rush.

Kate glanced across the table at Phil, raised her eyebrows, tried to hide a half smile. But her husband wasn’t smiling, his expression was one of concern.

“What on earth do you mean by going off into the wood alone?” He frowned at his son, incorporated his wife in his expression of disapproval. “I’ve told you before …”

“He hasn’t been in the wood,” Kate said, “goodness, Phil, surely you know that children have fantasies, don’t spoil it for him. He’s been really good all afternoon.”

“Mommy’s been to bed with a headache, she wouldn’t know whether I’d been in the wood or not!” Peter was indignant. “I tell you, I saw a lady who’d got nothing on except something wrapped around her middle and she left a trail like a snail on the grass, right up to a hole in the wall …”

“What hole?” Phil shouted, half rose from his chair.

“Th … the … one … one … in the wall,” Peter always stammered when he was nervous.

“Phil!” Kate snapped angrily. “Don’t talk to him like that, he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“He’s been in the wood on his own,” Phil’s cheeks were white with anger. “If he hadn’t, he wouldn’t know about the hole. And you’re as much to blame as him, I find it absolutely irresponsible of you to go off to bed for the afternoon and leave a six-year-old unsupervised! Don’t you ever do that again, either of you. And,” his voice dropped almost to a whisper, “don’t you ever go in the wood again without I’m with you. Understand?”

Peter was sobbing, Kate pulled him across on to her knee, comforted him. “Now look what you’ve done to him. He was fine before you started.”

“You … don’t realize” Phil sat down again, buried his face in his hands.

“Realize what?” Kate retorted.

“I can’t tell you,” he sounded as if he was close to tears, too.

“This is all from Dalgety’s visit. It’s time you packed the job in, we’d manage. I’ll go out to work, if necessary, there’s a couple of cleaning jobs being advertised in the village. That Mrs Jackson you’ve been on about, she wants somebody to clean three mornings a week.”

“We’ll be all right,” he looked up, “just don’t go in the wood, especially near the reservoir.”

“Why?” She looked him in the eye. “Come on, it seems that you can have your fantasies but Peter can’t have his!”

“I tell you there was a lady up there,” Peter rubbed at his eyes. “She didn’t have any clothes on except for something wrapped round her middle. She was only a bit rude.”

“What … what kind of thing did she have wrapped round her, Peter?”

“Like … like a fish,” he snuggled back against his mother, fearful of another reprimand.

“Jesus God!” Phil was shaking, stared at the remains of his pizza.

Then he got up, went over to the dresser, came back with something in his hand. He held it out for the boy to see, the ring with the mermaid emblem which Jocelyn Jackson had found amidst the naked footprints on the blockhouse floor. “Was she like that?”

“Yes,” Peter nodded, his anguish momentarily forgotten. He leaned closer, “just like that. Even her face was the same, smiling just like that.”

“I see,” Phil pocketed the ring, made an effort to finish his pizza. His knife and fork rattled on the plate because he was trembling.

“I think it’s time for bed, Peter,” Kate lifted up her son, carried him towards the doorway. “You just forget all about this but don’t ever go in the wood unless either Daddy or I are with you.”

“I won’t,” he buried his face against her bosom.

“Well, I just hope Peter doesn’t wake us up in the middle of the night screaming because he’s had a nightmare,” Kate came back into the room, pulled the curtains closed. Never before had she wanted so much to shut the night out. “I think you owe me an explanation, at the very least, Phil.”

He told her, kept his voice low in case Peter was still awake in the room immediately above. He told her about the light that flickered for no apparent reason, the ripples in the water; the foul stench, the naked footprints and how the ring had been found. About how something burrowed through concrete block walls from the inside. And that there was an evil in the blockhouse which he did not understand.

This time she didn’t ridicule him, her features were pale and drawn. She let him finish and only then did she ask, “what do you think Peter saw, then, Phil?”

“I think he saw Mukasa,” his whisper shook, he glanced across at the curtained window. “According to Mrs Jackson, Mukasa was some kind of water god. A mermaid, maybe. Natives used to sacrifice humans to their deity. Legend, of course. But we’ve found the ring, Peter’s seen something which resembled the emblem on it. What more can you say?”

“Just that it’s too incredible, too frightening,” Kate wrung her hands together. “Oh, Phil, whatever are we going to do?”

“Nothing much we can do,” he shrugged his shoulders, “except keep away from that place.”

“I don’t want you going up there any more to check the instruments,” there was pleading in her voice.

“I have to, unfortunately. Despite what you say, we have to keep the job and the house. For Peter’s sake, we don’t want him growing up in a council-flat ghetto, do we?”

“Maybe,” a sudden idea, put into words it sounded stupid, but if Phil believed Peter then surely he would take note of her. “Maybe this … this mermaid, whatever her name is, has got outside the reservoir because she’s lost her ring and is looking for it.”

He nodded, he didn’t laugh. “Could be.”

“Suppose … suppose you returned it, put it back in the blockhouse where she would find it. Maybe then she wouldn’t be seen again.”

“It’s an idea. Yes, we’ll give it a try. Tomorrow.” Because no way am I going up there in the dark.

It might work. But even if it did, and Mukasa no longer travelled outside the blockhouse in search of her lost ring, there was no disputing the fact that she would still be down there in the deep, dark water of that underground reservoir. Waiting.

Fourteen

The disciples of the People of the Water had their own quarters at the rear of Packington Hall, dowdy rooms that were in stark contrast to the luxurious lifestyle enjoyed by Royston Shannon.

Basic furnishings, second-hand tables and chairs, mattresses on the bare littered floors, heaps of unwashed blankets that stank of body odours; an old cooker, canned food on a shelf with brackets coming loose in the wall. The windows were kept shuttered, the only light, day and night, came from unshaded bulbs, dimmed by the dust that had gathered there.

Lately, Janice rested most of the time, slept or dozed on a mattress in a corner that smelled faintly of urine. She wore a crumpled nightdress, she didn’t possess a maternity dress and it was impossible to fasten her jeans any longer.

Her time was very close. Yesterday she was sure she was having a contraction but it had turned out to be a false alarm. Elaine had instructions to go and find Shannon if Janice went into labour; she presumed that he would phone for a doctor or a midwife. None of them were allowed to use the phone. She was looking forward to the cleanliness and comfort of a hospital maternity ward.

Her husband had tried to make her lose the baby before he finally walked out. She hadn’t altogether been against an abortion in the very early stages but at a counselling she’d been talked out of it. Subconsciously, she was only agreeing to please Alan.

It was probably the counsellor’s job to try to save the health service money; abortions were costly. Passing the buck, in fact, if you really thought about it. You saved them the cost of the termination but you became a single parent in a council flat if your husband left you. She’d warned them that he might. Maybe the System hoped that some other guy would come on the scene and relieve them of the responsibility of paying for mother and child.

Alan had flown into a rage and pushed her down the stairs. She’d only fallen six steps, thankfully. Then he’d left; she hadn’t heard from him since. He’d tried to exonerate himself by claiming that it had to be some other guy’s baby because he’d always taken precautions.

She had had an affair. With Brian. He’d given her that which, now, she most wanted in life but he hadn’t wanted to know, either. Her husband and her lover had left her but she was happy in the knowledge that she would bring up her child in the only way which offered it security for life. And beyond. Shannon had convinced her of that, now all she awaited was the birth of her baby. That would be worth all the trials and tribulations of the past nine months.

She divorced the child from both Alan and Brian, as surely as she would divorce her husband one day. In her mind she hadn’t conceived by Brian. Nor Shannon. Nor Stogie. Hers was a divine birth; not a ridiculous virgin birth but one that was blessed by the People of the Water who would safeguard her offspring throughout its life. NMI, she laughed to herself at her own terminology—No Male Involvement. Like AI. It was a great consolation to her that her son, she knew it would be a boy, would not be cast into today’s decadent society, this sect was a kind of cocoon that protected one from the evils of the world outside Packington Hall and its inner temple.

Her baby would be a privileged Child of the Water. Shannon had promised her that he would provide for it until such time as the floods came and covered the Earth.

Elaine, Lisa, Sheila and Debbie would all become pregnant in due course, Shannon and Stogie between them would see to that. The Queen demanded a new generation, children born of the water. Which was why the coven always copulated in the water.

A few weeks ago intercourse had been a pleasant experience. Not mind-blowing, just nice. Now Janice didn’t want to screw at all, the baby was close, sex might damage it. Shannon respected her wishes; she wasn’t sure about Stogie, he probably only held back because their high priest commanded him to. She didn’t trust Stogie. Anyway, the other four kept him fully satisfied.

Janice wished that she could attend a prenatal clinic, just to satisfy herself that everything was all right with her pregnancy. But Shannon said it wasn’t necessary. In fact, he forbade it. Their queen would ensure that everything was fine because the child belonged to the People of the Water from the foetus to the grave. Janice had divine help, what more could she ask?

Which was why Janice sensed that no medic would supervise the birth. She felt like the Virgin Mary in reverse, the anti-virgin. That was when it became a thousand times more frightening and she didn’t want to think about the future. Shannon only related the future to after the floods; the present was just an interim, a time of waiting.

But whatever Royston Shannon said, you ended up believing. In the beginning, she had questioned, doubted. She didn’t any longer because her world was within the confines of this place and its water temple. Nothing else existed, she had nowhere else to go. Indoctrination became blind faith.

She didn’t like it when they went to that other temple, that old dark underground lake. It scared her, even with Shannon to protect her. They always went there after dark, crammed into Shannon’s car. Janice had no knowledge of her surroundings, she had long ago lost all sense of direction.

Down in that awful place the water was icy cold. Things touched you when you submerged in it, invisible hands groped you obscenely, fingers probed all the way up into her womb as if they were checking on the unborn child. Once she had screamed out loud and Shannon had had to reassure her. He was a great comfort to her.

All the same, on those occasions when she thought about her predicament logically, she knew she had to be crazy. She had been vulnerable in those weeks after Alan had gone. Homeless, pregnant, no money, the city subways were her only refuge. She had been a dropout, she had even considered accepting a fix from one of the others in the hope that it would give her highs where there were only lows. Shannon had found her just in time.

Even now she could not imagine what he had been doing in that sleazy snack bar where the proprietor gave her a bacon sandwich and a mug of tea in return for the last of her change. It was as if Royston Shannon had known, he had manipulated her destiny.

By comparison, life was luxurious in the recesses of Packington Hall. Dressing up in fish-like costumes was fun, you screwed for your keep. Prostitution, but when you had a foetus in your womb, it was survival at any price. Sex was a cheap price to pay for your keep.

The others were druggies. Shannon had probably picked them up in circumstances similar to her own; who wouldn’t worship an unheard-of deity in return for everything he hadto offer?

He provided them with cannabis, rationed it, controlled highs to suit his own purposes.

Janice didn’t mix, she was a loner, used her condition as an excuse for keeping to herself. They didn’t bother her but she sensed their hostility towards her. Because she was pregnant; the other four girls were jealous of her, they had been conditioned to think in terms of pregnancy. Procreation for the People of the Water. They were frustrated, Shannon was starting to lose patience with them. Maybe their drugs had made them sterile.

An inflexible rule, you only mated in the water. Shannon had almost convinced her that she had conceived after her arrival here. Almost. Maybe eventually she would believe it, accept it.

She had lost all sense of time, days blended into weeks, into months when your only light was from an electric bulb and daylight was prohibited.

It was the sacrifices that scared her. Jesus, it was nothing short of murder!

That woman that Shannon had brought here, the one called Sharon. She was a hard bitch, you could tell by her expression that she wasn’t pandering to a fish god, just went along with it for what she could get out of it.

Shannon was shrewd, uncanny, he could read your mind, knew what you were thinking. He had seen through Sharon all right, and had brought her here for one purpose only.

Human sacrifice.

They always killed in that underground temple, never here. Here you were relatively safe.

Sharon had seemed to sense that they were going to do something to her. In the half-light of that cold and foul-smelling lake, she had hung back on the ledge, refused to get into the water. Maybe she would have tried to escape if Shannon hadn’t locked the door behind them like he always did. Once you were inside, you weren’t going anywhere without the high priest’s permission.

“Our queen awaits you,” Shannon had smiled with his thin lips, reached out for her. “We must not keep her waiting. See, even now the surface ripples!”

Janice had nearly screamed with Sharon, there was definitely something lurking down there, disturbing the water, casting a luminous glow.

Waiting.

Sharon fought him with a desperation born of fear for her life but her struggles were futile. He grabbed her, lifted her up with ease, carried her down the steps until the water lapped up to his waist.

A splash, the dark waters became a foaming, iridescent cauldron as he held her beneath the surface; held her there until her struggles grew feeble. Only when she was limp did he relinquish his hold on her, return to the shelf above.

The coven huddled together, watched and waited. Only Shannon seemed unmoved, stood there with arms aloft muttering some kind of incomprehensible incantation.

Something floated up to the surface.

It was Lisa who began to scream until Stogie, at a sign from Shannon, clapped a hand over her mouth and stifled her cries.

Sharon’s body bobbed and floated gently back to the steps. The soft light seemed to focus on her upturned face. It was all that Janice could do to stop herself from screaming. Sharon’s expression, the way her features were twisted into a mask of indescribable horror, the dead mouth still screaming mutely as it spewed black water.

Shannon and Stogie retrieved the corpse between them, carried it back upstairs and out into the open; a bizarre funeral cortege through the dark woods until they arrived back at the car where the body was deposited in the boot.

A short drive in silence and then Shannon pulled off the road, killed the engine and got out. Stogie followed him. Janice heard them at the rear of the vehicle, knew that they were lifting the corpse out. She listened to their receding footsteps, guessed by their lengthy absence that they had dumped it somewhere.

It had been much the same with the old man. Janice was fearful that night because Shannon had spoken of their queen demanding another sacrifice and there was no stranger in their midst. Maybe he planned to take one of them; it wouldn’t be herself because the Queen needed her child.

Then, as they stood there on the glistening wet shelf, his whispered chantings echoing eerily in that watery chamber, two muffled reports came from directly above them. Janice thought that maybe it was a thunderstorm. Shannon tensed, signalled to Stogie and the others. They followed him up above like silent water wraiths.

The old man fought them every inch of the way, his struggles only ceasing when they held him under the water. Then they loosed him, waited until the unholy one returned his corpse to the side.

This time it was far worse, sickening. Shannon stopped the car, the two men got the body out of the boot, sprawled it in the road in the beams of the headlights. Even then, the others had not the faintest idea what was about to happen until Shannon drove the car forward; they felt it lurch, jump, heard the cracking and squelching beneath the tyres.

Debbie clung to Sheila, Lisa threw up all down the front of her fish costume. Janice had had nightmares about it ever since.

They would sacrifice the latest initiate, Janice had no doubt about that. An aging but attractive spinster, she could not possibly be destined to play any other useful role in the preparations for the coming of the People of the Water. As with Sharon, Shannon had lured her here as a sacrificial victim. She would be drowned in the dark lake, Janice tried not to think what fate might be in store for Barbara’s corpse afterwards.

Barbara was joining them tomorrow night for their pilgrimage to that place which the Queen had chosen for her return to a watery earth. Barbara would be persuaded to enter the water, held down forcibly until she drowned, and her body left to that awful creature in the depths until it had done whatever it did to human corpses. Janice dared not even think what inhuman act took place below the surface.

Janice’s only consolation was that she, herself, was safe while she carried her baby. After she had given birth was too terrible a prospect to dwell upon. Surely, though, they would need her to care for the infant, none of the others would be capable. That was shallow reassurance.

Each hour brought her closer to giving birth. She was imagining contractions, it was probably nervous tension.

She panicked, writhed on her makeshift bed. She was an accessory to murder, there was no way she could delude herself otherwise.

“Close?”

She started back to reality, came out of her awful reverie she had not heard anybody enter the near-derelict room.

Stogie stood just inside the doorway, sucked on the dead and soggy cheroot stump which had earned him his name. She had never known him even attempt to light it, maybe he was addicted to cold black nicotine juice.

“I thought I was going into labour,” God, he was revolting, a lecherous ghoul who scavenged on Shannon’s sexual leftovers, screwed under the pretext of procreation in the name of an ancient cult. She noted with a feeling of unease that there was an unmistakable protrusion behind the zip of his filthy jeans. Surely he would not attempt to take her on dry land, not in her condition. Shannon’s wrath would be too terrible to contemplate. “It’s just a false alarm, it’s gone away now.”

“Tomorrow,” he sucked on his cheroot, spat a dark brown stream on to the uncarpeted floor boards. “Tomorrow night, I’d say. Just a feeling I get.”

She shuddered.

“Shannon’ll kill us all, you realize that, don’t you?” His eyes flickered in the direction of the open door, his hoarse whisper shook. “He’ll make sure there’s only himself left for the Coming. He won’t chance the Queen choosing any of us ahead of him. I’ve been thinkin’ a lot about it lately, talked it over with the others. They’ve a mind same as me. He won’t have no use left for you after the baby’s born.”

Janice felt the panic gathering inside her, another stab of pain that might just have been a contraction. Her own fears put into words by somebody else was terrifying.

“We gotta stop him,” Stogie spat again.

“How?” Her eyes widened.

“Kill the bastard!” He moved over to the door, looked up and down the corridor outside. “Sacrifice ’im, the same way ’e does others and how ’e’ll kill us when the time comes. The Queen’ll give us power then, for sure.”

Jesus, Stogie was crazy! Indoctrination had gone over the top, now a power struggle threatened a coup within the coven.

“It’s impossible, Stogie.”

“No, it ain’t,” he leered behind his dead smoke, sucked noisily on it. His hand delved into his pocket, came out clutching something. His grasp concealed whatever it was; another glance behind him, he bent forward, pushed it into her hand.

Janice felt its hardness in her sweaty palm, an elongated shape wrapped up in a greasy cloth. Her fingers traced its outline, the hilt and the short blade.

“No!” Janice held it out, thrust it back at him. “Not me!”

“Your only chance, our only chance,” there was a fanatical gleam in those eyes which were no longer glazed over. “We reckon he’ll take you one more time in the water. A final fertilization so that he can claim the baby for his own, a child of the water fathered by the high priest. Strike fast, we’ll push him under, hold him down. Tomorrow night. Hold back if you can, if the baby comes before then, our chance is gone.”

Janice was shaking uncontrollably, wanted to hurl the knife from her, have no part in yet another sacrificial slaying. But it seemed to have stuck to her sweaty flesh. Like this was meant to be.

Like the Queen herself had appointed her to kill Royston Shannon.

Which was maybe why Elaine had left sometime during the night hours. They never saw her again after that.

Fifteen

“Detective Inspector Barr,” the man’s movements were quick, an alertness as he climbed out of the charcoal-grey Escort, the handshake was firm and decisive. A forced charm because he needed the cooperation of the pumping station manager. “Lichfield CID.”

“Pleased to meet you. What can I do for you?” Phil Quiles was both surprised and uneasy, overawed but not in the same way that Dalgety overawed him, respect that was devoid of fear and hatred.

“I’d like to have a look at your underground reservoir,” Barr nudged the car door shut. “Just a routine check. In connection with the recent killings which you’ve probably read about in the papers.”

“Oh, I see,” Phil felt himself relax a little.

“I’ve cleared it with your head office,” a plastic identification card was produced, returned to its folder in the same sweeping movement. “I won’t take up any more of your time than is absolutely necessary.”

“It’s only a few minutes’ walk,” Phil’s thoughts switched to the previous afternoon when he’d gone up to the blockhouse to return that strange ring. He’d left it on the shelf right by the water. It was surely gone by now, disappeared as mysteriously as it had appeared in the first place, taken back by its rightful owner. Mukasa, goddess of the deep waters.

“What’s that hole in the wall over there?” The detective’s keen eyes missed nothing, queried everything. He pointed ahead as they mounted the steep rise leading to the block house.

“It’s caused by the concrete cracking due to the pressure of the water on the inside walls over the years,” Phil hoped that he sounded convincing.

“I’ll take a quick look,” Barr forged on ahead, mounted the second flight of slab steps.

“I’ve tried to mend it,” Phil watched his companion sifting through the scattered rubble. Some of the mortar was still damp. “It just won’t hold. I guess it’s the damp from the reservoir that won’t allow it to set firm.”

“So I see. Fresh cement. Hmm!” Just in case you thought I hadn’t noticed. “Mixed within the last few days at a rough guess. But this hole is definitely not caused by the outward bowing of the walls.”

Phil went cold, his skin started to prickle. Please, come up with a logical everyday, boring explanation. “Isn’t it?”

“No way. It’s a regular tunnel of some kind like foxes or badgers always use the same run. See that slime in the hole where it hasn’t dried because the sun doesn’t get in there, and the damp from the water has kept it from drying out? It’s like an army of slugs or snails has passed to and fro. But they wouldn’t have the strength to bulldoze their way through concrete, now would they?”

“I guess not,” Phil licked his lips.

“Something down in that reservoir of yours uses this as a regular throughfare,” Barr’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “Curious, but I guess it doesn’t have any bearing on what I’m looking for. Take a tip from me, Mister Quiles, if you want to find out what’s doing it, borrow one of those steel spring vermin traps from a gamekeeper, the kind they set in tunnels to trap stoats and weasels. You’d catch whatever it is that goes in and out of there, no trouble. It’d be interesting to find out what species it is.”

No, I don’t want to find out, I don’t want to set eye it, it can come and go as often as it likes, as far as I’m concerned. “Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind.”

“Lousy security,” Barr’s tone was scathing as he watched Phil unlocking the outer door of the building. “A heavy duty door and lock, but that barbed wire surround wouldn’t keep a child out. Anybody with any common sense would climb over the gate so that they didn’t snag their trousers. You don’t even have to get through this door to reach the water, just lift the lid of one of those inspection hatches and drop in whatever poison you’ve brought with you. Or, easier still, chuck it in through that hole in the wall. A terrorist’s or a madman’s dream come true.”

“I’ve told my bosses,” Phil pushed the door inwards. They don’t seem to think that there’s any risk, probably because they’ll be doing away with this reservoir before long, draining it.”

“The population of the village down below could get poisoned in the meantime. A guy who’s crazy enough to inject jars of babyfood on store shelves won’t think twice about contaminating a water supply.”

Phil moved inside. Thank God there weren’t naked footprints all over the floor!

“Christ, what a bloody stink!” Barr coughed, cleared his throat. “Like dead rats are decomposing.”

“It’s the damp and the fact that the place is shut up all the time.”

“Know anything about this fellow Maddox?” The question was fired with a suddenness that was meant to catch the other off-guard, a tactic which the detective employed frequently.

“No more than anybody else around here. Sometimes you wouldn’t see him for weeks, other times he’d be a nuisance hanging round looking for chores. He was harmless but he used to scare the village kids. My son was terrified of him.”

“No reason you know that anybody might want him dead?”

“None that I know.” Phil shrugged his shoulders.

“Drowning a guy and then amateurishly trying to make it look like a hit-and-run road accident is pretty extreme. The same goes for drowning a prostitute and then dumping her miles from the nearest water. Trying to throw us off the scent. How many other people besides yourself have got access to this reservoir, Mister Quiles?”

“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!”

Father and daughter stared at each other in disbelief. Silence because speech eluded them. Barbara remembered how her mother had thrown that talking doll in the dustbin because it got on her nerves; Barry recalled how his wife had thrown a pack of his cigarettes away because tobacco smoke irritated her. Father and daughter commiserated with each other because they both lived in this turbulent household.

“You’d better finish with that man, Barbara, he’s no good,” Jocelyn started to shake with the rage that had been building up inside her all day. “I know, I can judge folks without actually meeting them, a kind of instinct. Get your dinner and we’ll discuss this in a civilized fashion later.”

“Barbara can take the Rover, I’m really too tired to go class tonight and, anyway, I haven’t quite finished my short story,” Barry made it sound casual, it always hurt his wife more that way.

“She can’t!” Jocelyn gave a shriek of sadistic triumph, leered from one to the other. “Because I’ve got the keys to the Rover. And the duplicates!”

“You bitch!” Barbara might have struck her mother in that final flash of rage but somehow Barry found the speed and agility to come between them.

“Stop it, both of you!”

Barbara had never known her father to shout in anger before. It shocked her, she almost apologized. To him.

“You’re not going anywhere near that man again,” Jocelyn stood in defiance, her hands on her hips. “I don’t want you seeing him or phoning him again. He’s no good.”

“I’ll get you a taxi, Barbara,” Barry was composed again.

“The phone isn’t working, Dad.”

“I’ll go next door and phone.”

“They’re away,” Jocelyn screeched. “I checked.”

Another awful silence, a stalemate in which it appeared that Jocelyn Jackson had won.

“Give me the keys to the Rover, Jos,” Barry was calm his moment of fury had passed over.

“Certainly not. I’ll give them to you in the morning. And, anyway, I don’t want you to go to this ridiculous class again after all the trouble you caused last time. You can have the keys back tomorrow.”

“I’ll walk,” Barbara turned away, she heard her parent shouting after her as she slammed the door behind her. Then she was gone out into the night, forcing her trembling legs to quicken her pace.

Packington Hall was approximately two miles outside the village. A gravelled footpath skirted the main road, traffic passed her. If a car had stopped then she might have risked a lift, such was her desperation. But none even slowed. She checked her watch in the glare of passing headlights. Six thirty-five. She wouldn’t make it to the Hall before seven. Perhaps Royston would wait for her; she clung to that hope.

It was five past seven when she reached the imposing gateway to her destination. Her lungs felt as if they might burst, her heart was beating like a trip hammer. She wasn’t accustomed to physical exercise, she had ceased playing tennis a decade ago.

The long driveway was rutted, twice she stumbled. Away from the lights of passing cars, she staggered on in the pitch blackness, in places outstretched her arms to ward off overhanging laurel branches.

Despair brought a groan to her lips, there was a single light burning over the doorway, by its glow she could just make out the turreted structure, the weathered York stone edifice of a Victorian era. The rest of the mansion was in complete darkness.

Still she clung to that waning hope; maybe they were assembled downstairs in the temple. Or in the coven’s quarters, awaiting her arrival.

The windows bespoke a desolation, looked down on her like a corpse’s eyes, dull and lifeless. No vibes, no atmosphere emanated from within. The silence was complete. She stared around the semicircular driveway, there was no sign of Royston Shannon’s Mercedes.

He had abandoned her, deserted her in her troubled hour.

The man’s no good. I don’t want you to see him again. Ever.

Barbara tried the door. It was locked. She leaned against it, wanted to scream at her mother, wanted the night breeze to carry her curses right the way back to the village where a crazy, embittered old woman gloated over her cache of car keys and valve caps.

Instead, she whispered her vows into the silence of this place; to Royston, to the People of the Water and their Queen.

Take me for your own, do as you will with my body and soul Don’t ever let me go back.

That was when she discovered that the door wasn’t locked after all. It had probably just stuck, the woodwork warped. She pushed it and it creaked open.

She stepped inside, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Shannon and the others had left, she had no doubt about that. But the place wasn’t empty as she had thought at first.

There was something here, all right.

Seventeen

“Where is the ring?”

They all cringed, even Stogie who somehow managed to keep his dead cheroot stump between his trembling lips. Janice writhed on the stinking mattress, clutched at her extended stomach. This time it was a contraction, for sure. She bit her lip in case she screamed out loud and angered Royston Shannon even further.

Debbie, Sheila, and Lisa huddled in a corner, winced as the anger of their high priest; his vocal fury was like a hand slapping their pallid faces.

They were all more scared than they had ever been in their lives before.

“Well?” His features were dark, a shabby topcoat covered his silken robes in readiness for their departure. “One of you has stolen it, your only chance is to confess. Now!”

They looked at one another, accusing, frightened expressions. It’s not me, it has to be you. Or you. Somebody own up, for God’s sake.

Shannon watched them carefully, seeking that fine distinction between fear and guilt. They were all scared, trying to will somebody to admit to the theft. Anybody so long as it wasn’t themselves.

He waited. The ring was sacred; more sacred even than the temple and the altar which he had erected to the most powerful deity of all. It was always kept upon the altar along with the other artefacts. He had only ever taken it out of this temple once; on the night of the first sacrifice, that time when they had given Sharon Levy to the Queen. He hadn’t worn it, he didn’t want to reveal its true powers to his disciples yet. He had kept it in his pocket throughout, a kind of talisman.

Afterwards, he had returned it to the altar. He couldn’t exactly remember placing it on the drapes but he must have because it was his most important possession, he wouldn’t have put it anywhere else. Would he?

Tonight he needed it again. A special ceremony, and afterwards he would wear it on the third finger of his left hand permanently. Like a wedding ring, for he would be betrothed to the Queen, he would have given her that which she desired most, a Child of the Water. Surely he had fathered Janice’s baby, she had not really been pregnant when he had found her. The child was his, he was convinced of that, and when the Queen accepted it then that was, in effect, a marriage between them, in the same way that the Akikuyu of Africa married their women to the snake god of the water. A medicine man consummated the marriage with a virgin who was then sacrificed.

Barbara had been a virgin until Royston had taken her, he reminded himself. Perhaps he should have waited until tonight’s ceremony but it didn’t really matter. The timing was not important. He would give their Queen her child, consummate the marriage with Barbara, and then …

Tonight was the most important of his life.

“We haven’t much time,” Shannon looked at his watch. six-forty. They should have left ten minutes ago if they were to be at the reservoir in time to begin the ceremony at the rise of the new moon, for the moon controlled the tides and this would be the beginning of a new era. “Give me the ring, one of you.” He spoke softly, threateningly.

Shannon had come across the ring in a maritime antiques shop about ten years ago amidst a jumble of memorabilia in a trinket box; musket shot supposedly retrieved from shipwrecks, miniature brass anchors, a ship in a bottle. He had gone in there to browse to escape from a heavy downpour. Fate had surely guided him; another time he would have ignored the place for he had no time for souvenirs.

He might even have cast the ring back amongst the junk except for the lettering engraved upon it.

Mukasa.

He had known then beyond all doubt. It had seemed to vibrate between his fingers, transmitted tiny shockwaves up his arm. A moment of vertigo that passed as quickly as it had come. He had bought it for five pounds, its worth in silver to the vendor who, in his ignorance, mistook the engraving for a hallmark.

Shannon had not worn it, kept it until the time was right, revered it upon the altar. It was only fitting that it should accompany him upon the first sacrifice. The second was of no consequence. He had saved it for his betrothal.

And now his virgin had not arrived and the ring was nowhere to be found. He refused to accept it as a sign from the water god that tonight was not meant to be, he was too psyched up to believe otherwise.

Six-forty-five. Time was running out.

“Give … me … the … ring.”

“She’s stolen it,” Stogie’s voice shook, his words were scarcely audible.

“Who?” Shannon’s eyes burned from Lisa to Debbie, settled on Sheila. “Which of you?”

“The … neophyte. Barbara.”

Shannon’s breath seemed to check, a sudden slight purpling of his cheeks. Rage and disbelief, a niggling doubt which he forced from him with a supreme effort. “No, not her!” An insult, blasphemy, for Barbara was the virgin who had been sent to him to consummate his royal marriage. “Don’t lie to me, Stogie.”

Stogie gulped his apology, muttered, “It was only a thought. It wasn’t any of us. We didn’t know about the ring before.”

“It has to be one of you.” Now Shannon’s accusation lacked conviction, they would not dare to persist with their lying.

“Perhaps she has taken it.”

The idea had already occurred to Shannon, Stogie’s words merely confirmed it. It was a possibility, the Queen had taken it in readiness for tonight, proof of her existence yet again, a sign that she was ready.

“All right, it isn’t one of you, then.”

The sighs of relief came in unison. Only Janice cried out aloud, a half-scream as a contraction took her like a knife in her womb.

“She is very close,” Shannon’s forehead glistened with sweat as he bent over her. “Stogie, Lisa, lift her, carry her to the car. See if there is any sign of the neophyte.”

There was no sign of Barbara. They waited a couple of minutes with the engine ticking over then Shannon let out the clutch. A slow bumpy trundling up the uneven driveway, the headlights flicked on to full beam. Bushes leaned over, showed their subservience to one who was mightier than his fellow mortals, one who was already on the verge of immortality.

Shannon willed Barbara to appear at every twisting turn but there were no oncoming lights, no dust cloud heralding the approach of the one who figured in his plans for tonight.

Janice sprawled and groaned amidst her companions on the rear seat, her baby was very close to coming. She felt the slimy warmth of the first ooze from her distending womb.

But for the imminent birth, he might have waited for the next moon but the Queen demanded a newly born infant. It had to be tonight. With or without Barbara.

He had to wait for a gap in the passing traffic at the entrance to the main road but no car slowed and indicated that it was turning.

Barbara was not coming. Her role would have to wait.

“It’s starting to come, I can see the top of its head!” A cry that embodied panic as Royston pulled off the sand track of the Lady Walk.

“Hurry! Carry her, stifle her cries.”

They lifted her between them, an ungainly shape that writhed and pushed. Pray that it will not be stillborn!

Somehow they made it to the blockhouse, he pushed the door wide, closed it behind them before switching on the lights. The floor was wet, the stench was almost overpowering. A silvery sheen glinted on the steps down to the water’s edge.

The far light was flickering, created an illusion of ripple on the surface.

“Hold her!”

Janice was screaming, fighting them as she pushed. Rested and pushed again.

“It’s almost there!”

Debbie had sunk down, she was close to fainting.

Lisa and Sheila turned their heads. Stogie, still chewing on his soggy smoke, peered over the high priest’s shoulder.

The tall man lifted the infant clear, its cries were sacred music to his waiting ears.

“Male! A son for Mukasa!”

Afterbirth slimed on the steps, droplets of blood turned the dark water a deep crimson. Janice’s head came up, her expression was demoniac. “Give me my baby!”

“She is not yours,” Shannon’s cry was taunting, he held it up for her to see. “He belongs to the Queen. Mukasa awaits her first born!”

Janice struggled, it was as much as the others could do to hold her in her fit of maternal desperation.

The infant’s cries were silenced as Royston Shannon held it beneath the surface.

“I give myself to thee, O Queen, for I have begat your son and heir!”

Stogie glanced at Janice, nodded to the others. Loose her for she, too, has a sacrifice to make.

Shannon came to her, knelt between her bloodied thighs.

“Now go and join your child, let the Queen take you, too.”

The knife was in her closed hand, she only had to slip the blade from the sheath. A wave of dizziness came in the wake of her weakness, the greenish light was streaked with crimson. She felt the last of the afterbirth go.

She fought against unconsciousness, made one final effort, prayed for just a moment of strength. She felt the sheath go, the sharpness of the blade drew blood from her thumb. Her fingers flexed, she felt them go limp even before she blacked out.

The knife made scarcely a sound as it hit the water, its splash went unnoticed.

The disciples exchanged glances of dismay and then they were helping their high priest to drag the heavy, bleeding body down the steps.

They watched it slide into the water, sink below the surface. A rush of ripples and then it was lost from their view. Across on the opposite side, the light stopped flickering.

Eighteen

Phil Quiles was unable to stop himself from vomiting. His intestines balled with a force that jetted partially digested cereal and toast. Instinctively, he turned his head so that the spew did not spray into the water, heaved and retched until his guts were empty.

Jesus God!

He knelt there on the steps unable to flee this place because his strength was temporarily sapped. He was shaking, he fought against a feeling of faintness, tried to crawl up the steps away from that.

What in God’s name was it? A morass of bloody slime that oozed and dripped from the steps like some shapeless, nightmarish living entity. Its stench had him fighting for breath, it was like decomposing offal.

At least, the far light was working normally. Even had it not been, there was no way he was going to walk around the shelf to check it.

The naked footsteps up in the entrance lobby should have warned him, that trail of glistening silvery slime ought to have had him going for help. Dalgety, Barr, anybody. They’d best come and see for themselves, he had run out of lame excuses, they no longer kept his terror at bay.

Something had happened in here last night, he crawled up another couple of steps. Something so terrible that it was unwise to try to figure out what it might have been.

He made it to the top of the steps, he had stopped retching. He rose to his feet unsteadily, it was impossible not to look back one last time. Just to make sure that it wasn’t some trick of the imagination that would ridicule him in the eyes of authority.

He tensed, shied from what he saw. He had not noticed it on his arrival because that disgusting splodge of whatever it was had distracted him. Now he saw how the walls bowed, a definite convex. Even as he looked the concrete appeared to strain, the slight tremor he felt beneath his feet might have been his own shaking.

Decades of concrete were finally yielding to the strain of containing a million gallons of water. Water always took the least line of resistance, now the weakness was the reservoir walls.

Thank God Kate had taken the bus into town and Peter was at school, at least they didn’t have to see his state of terror. He made a phone call to the Glascote HQ, tried to stop his voice from shaking.

“There’s a crisis here, the reservoir walls are giving way!”

Kilcline, the deputy chief, didn’t seem concerned, a soft, almost lazy voice. He sounded like he was drinking coffee at his desk. “Dalgety’s out somewhere, I’ll have him radioed. Doubtless, he’ll be with you later on in the day. Or first thing in the morning.”

Bureaucracy never panicked, they just passed the buck.

It was early afternoon by the time the Discovery pulled into the pumping station yard. Dalgety didn’t get out, sat there behind the wheel, waiting. He wasn’t going to appear to be concerned over a subordinate’s panic. His cheeks were more flushed than usual, Phil smelled whisky in his breath.

“Well, what’s the problem now?” Irritated, he was already dismissing the call out as trivial. “I was only here a few days ago. Is that light working properly now?”

“Yes,” Phil swallowed, “but somebody’s been in there last night.”

“What!” The inspector’s cheeks puffed out, the red flush began to purple. “How? You left the door unlocked!”

“No,” Oh, Jesus, I don’t have anything to feel guilty about. “It was locked, I don’t know how they got in. There’s naked footsteps all over the floor, some kind of slime and what looks like offal on the steps down by the water.”

“You don’t look well, Quiles,” the other’s expression was contemptuous, not a hint of sympathy. “Are you sure you’re up to the job?”

“I’m all right.” No, I’m not, but not in the way you mean.

“Well, I suppose we’d better take a look,” his anger caused the clutch to jerk, the engine stalled. “But I’ve already explained about the walls, they’re eighteen inches thick, they’ll stand a lot of strain. We’re not going to reinforce them because in a few months the reservoir’s being drained.”

“A few months!”

“It’s no secret now,” a gloating stretching of those thick lips, “the plans were passed at a meeting this morning, it’ll all be in the Herald and the Mercury at the end of the week. The water authorities are merging, this reservoir will be superfluous to requirements. Permission has been granted for the pumping houses to be converted into apartments. There won’t be a manager’s job here any longer, Quiles.”

Phil’s feeling of sickness returned. He looked out the window so that Dalgety wouldn’t be able to see how his face drained of colour still further.

“You’ll be given an opportunity to buy your house, though. There might be an employee’s discount. There’ll be layoffs, naturally, mostly the existing jobs will be at headquarters. You might be lucky, who knows? But, as I said, are you really up to the job?”

The blockhouse seemed almost innocuous in the bright sunlight, like it already knew its death sentence had been passed and had succumbed to the inevitable. Woodpigeons crooned peacefully in the surrounding conifers; there was no sign of the crows that had been scavenging those dead rabbits. Probably they had picked the bones clean, there was nothing left here for them.

Phil shivered, everywhere was deceptively tranquil, like the evil here was bent on fooling Dalgety.

“I see you haven’t mended that hole!” The first reprimand came as they mounted the long flight of slab steps.

“Each time I fill it in, something pushes it out.” To hell with trying to pass it off as a defect in the walls.

“Now, where are these footprints you were rambling on about?”

They had disappeared as surely as if they had never existed.

Phil’s pointing hand fell limply to his side, he stared down at the concrete floor of the lobby. For some unaccountable reason, during the time he had been away, the floor had dried. Beyond, the permanent wetness obliterated any markings.

“They … were … here. All over the floor.”

“You don’t drink, do you?”

“No, I never touch alcohol.”

“I think the job’s getting on top of you. You need a long rest.” Like being laid off.

Phil unlocked the inner door, stood back for Dalgety to go on ahead. I don’t want to look, I might throw up again.

“Now, what’s all this nonsense about offal or tripe?”

“Down there, on the bottom two steps …” Phil’s voice trailed off. In the greenish glow he saw that the steps were empty, there was no trace of that revolting bloodied morass.

“There’s nothing there,” Dalgety did not affect surprise, just annoyance.

“There was … Look, you can see the slime I told you about shimmering in the light.”

There were traces of that slimy trail. And the distant light was flickering like it might go out at any second.

Dalgety heaved his bulk down the steps, leaned forward rather than crouched. A glance that was dismissive, then he turned back to his companion. “These are snail or slug trails, the place is probably full of them, they hide in any niche they can find. More have probably come in through that damned hole which you don’t make any effort to block up. I think your imagination’s been running wild. You really are in need of time off work!”

“Look at those walls, then!” Retaliatory, a sweeping movement of the hand. Whatever else had disappeared in here, there was no denying that the sides of the chamber had expanded outwards. New cracks had appeared, powdered cement floated on the surface like white pepper on a bowl of soup.

“There has been some movement,” a conciliatory tone almost, he drew in a long deep breath. “Nothing really significant, though. No way are these walls going to collapse, certainly not in the short time that is left to them.” The evil that inhabited this place had won the day, it had removed all evidence of its presence, had influenced the inspector’s ego to its own advantage.

“Two things,” Dalgety kept the engine running while Phil climbed down from the Discovery, “get that hole filled in and that bloody light fixed once and for all!”

He didn’t wait for a reply, revved the engine, squealed the tyres as he shot away.

Phil’s thoughts returned to those convex walls, there was no way they were going to hold out even for another month. Once they gave way, the water would come gushing down the hillside in a raging torrent, sweep away anything that was in its path.

It was like the evil in there was almost ready to go forth into the outside world, and when the time came it was bent on destroying the lair that had spawned it.

Nineteen

Barbara found the light switches by groping her way along the walls, one hand outstretched in case she met with any obstacle. Each time she found another switch, she turned off the previous one; she had no wish to advertise her presence in Packington Hall.

She passed through the kitchen, opened the door to the corridor that led from it, bare walls and a sloping floor that went on down to …

Mukasa’s temple.

Her fear was gone, she felt at home in this awesome place, just her anger remained; a smouldering fury towards her mother. Perhaps only now she fully realized the damaging effect that Jocelyn Jackson had had on her life; the broken romances, the domination, her uncontrollable rages. Yet, Barbara thought, there was a consolation; the course of life is ordained by some deity, you just went along with it. By long and irksome paths, she had finally arrived at her destiny. Not just Royston Shannon, he merely fulfilled a role. The People of the Water. Had her mother allowed her to go her own way then Barbara would surely never have found this unforeseen Utopia. She would be married to some boring, conventional man, her duty in life to cook and wash, to bring up children. Nevertheless, even now, she regretted never having experienced pregnancy. She envied Janice. A sudden thought, one that might have accounted for why Royston had not awaited his neophyte’s arrival tonight; perhaps Janice had gone into labour and they had all gone with her to the maternity hospital.

The prospect brought on a feeling of jealousy. Barbara had read of women in their fifties giving birth; an exception but it wasn’t an impossibility. She hadn’t reached her menopause yet, she had taken no precautions when she copulated with Royston. The vain hope was enough to bring a tingling to her flesh.

She stood by the pool, gazed in wonder at the life that existed beneath its surface. Multicoloured plant life, a shoal of kaleidoscopic fish that darted beneath an overhanging shelf to hide from her. A bigger fish that swam with the ease and arrogance of a predator.

The water seemed to beckon her, an oasis in a burning desert calling the exhausted traveller. She knew that she could not ignore it, that fate had deliberately brought about a chain of events this night; they had begun with her mother’s jealousy at the prospect of losing a daughter in marriage. So the air had been let out of the Fiesta’s tyres; no transport meant a late arrival here, the others could not wait for her. So she had been left alone in the Hall. Instead of returning home, she had ventured within.

And here she was, by the sacred pool of the People of the Water, a place that was so much more beautiful than that dark temple, wherever it was. Royston ensured that his coven always travelled after dark when it was impossible to remember landmarks. Barbara had an idea that the temple of watery darkness might be inside the old reservoir; she had not ventured up there since childhood. Her mother had painted it recently, it wasn’t like it used to be, Barbara preferred her memories. And, anyway, she would not have risked a lone trek in the pine woods on the off chance that her hunch was right.

The others had doubtless taken their fish costumes with them, probably hers as well. It didn’t matter, she began to unfasten her clothing. The prospect of nudity all alone here was an exciting one. She bared her body, stood on the water’s edge, turned one way, then the other.

Look upon my nakedness, all of you creatures. My breasts are firm, they could still produce milk to feed a baby; my stomach is flat, even if a little wrinkled. My buttocks are shapely still, even if the flesh is crinkled. My womb is still fertile.

The mermaid on the rock was eyeing her quizzically, a half smile on her lips. Her eyes narrowed, was there a fleeting expression of jealousy in them? Barbara started, she could have sworn that the reclining tail moved, shifted position. No, it was a trick of the light.

Here there was no sudden depth, the bottom sloped gradually, a layer of sand to create the impression of a beach where you walked into the sea. Barbara stepped forward, the water came up to her ankles. It moved, a tide that ebbed and flowed, probably caused by a hidden pump.

Still deeper. Above the line of her pubic hair now, it seemed alive the way it touched her, explored her. A feeling that was far more sensuous than her earlier experience beneath the mundane shower at home. Like she felt and rubbed herself; she checked, saw that her hands were above the surface.

The water was salty, invigorating yet soothing, her nipples hardened when it lapped against them. Things touched her legs, smoothed and stroked her flesh. She glanced down, had a distorted view of that shoal of tiny fish; they no longer feared her, it was as if they had come to welcome her.

Some darted on ahead, waited; others touched her calves, her buttocks. Follow us, Neophyte, do not be afraid.

Barbara took a deep breath before her head went underwater. A greenish glow lighted her progress, underwater coral reefs draped with seaweed, larger fish that stared and watched her progress. There was something strange about them, it took her some seconds to realize what it was.

Their expressions were almost human, only their bodies were unchanged. As if she had stepped back in time and was witnessing the early stages of evolution.

A cavern so dark that she was afraid but the miniature fish guided her until she emerged on to a rocky bed on the other side. Giant plants, some kind of marine cacti with threatening spikes, but the seascape was ever changing.

Barbara stared in amazement, would have drawn back but now the current seemed to be pushing her on. It was crazy, like a scene from a weird fantasy film. Houses and streets, windows that stared like corpse eyes, doorways that were open mouths screaming mutely because they were in an alien environment. Fishlike creatures darted in and out of them, bodies that had arms but no legs, tails that acted as rudders. Those were the living: the dead floated obscenely, drowned and bloated, caught up in tangled weed. Here and there a skeleton, bones picked clean by those predators which had not evolved.

Barbara experienced no terror, neither were her lungs bursting for air. She sensed a kind of superiority over the dead because she lived. She had survived because she had adapted.

Vehicles, cars, and trucks, abandoned and rusting, a boat that lay on its side with a holed bottom. Objects, debris, shifted and settled in a world that had died but was preparing to live again.

She broke surface, it seemed almost alien, for a moment the air she breathed seared her lungs. Then she adapted, clung to the side. The mermaid’s head had turned, was watching her intently.

Barbara clambered ashore, lay stretched out on the hard surface, closed her eyes. It had all been in her imagination, of course, fuelled by the stress and trauma of recent happenings. Or it was some kind of model world built by Royston Shannon, based on his faith and beliefs. She wouldn’t tell him that she had been down there, he might be angry with her. Although she had no fear of his wrath like the others appeared to have. He would show her when he was ready and she would feign surprise.

Her thigh itched, she rubbed it. The skin felt rough, like sunburn or some form of eczema. It was probably the salt in the water. She scratched, her fingernails snagged on something. She sat up, looked.

And almost screamed.

A patch, roughly the size of her hand, had a slight discoloration, like bruising. But, on peering closely, she saw a mass of tiny disfigurations.

Like scales, glinting in the hidden lighting, dulling as the flesh dried until they were almost invisible.

But still tangible.

Twenty

“Christ, he’s lit that bloody fire again!”

The normally placid Janie Smythe’s attractive features were flushed with anger as she burst into her husband’s small office extension.

Mark Smythe turned from his computer, dropped a printout into his pending tray. His dark eyes went heavenwards, he let out a loud sigh. “Not again.” He reached across for the cordless phone, extended the aerial. “This is the last straw, literally. I’m going to have a word with the environmental health department.”

Janie dashed outside, less than an hour ago she had pegged out a line of washing, already thick smoke swirled around it, charred fragments floating in the air settled on the suspended garments like butterflies laying their larvae on a cabbage patch. She tore at the pegs, dropped them onto the grass, threw the smoke-soiled items of clothing into a plastic washing basket. Bloody hell, this was all she needed!

The Smythes had moved from the city to this remote barn conversion a couple of years ago. In this age of modem technology Mark no longer needed to commute daily to his office; direct line computers, a fax, telex and telephone put him in touch with overseas clients in less time than it took to circulate a memo round the office.

Life seemed idyllic. Until Dick Bowman bought the old farmhouse next door.

Tall and rangy, with a flowing black beard, Bowman’s only interests in life were riding and drinking. Rumour had it that he had returned from working in the Middle East and had sunk his savings into the dilapidated farmhouse and a couple of horses; his only income was from part-time bar work at the Chequers.

The Smythes’ tranquillity was shattered within a matter of weeks, they realized that they had problems. One day a family arrived, with three dogs, in a rusted horse van, and moved in to share the house with Dick Bowman.

Within the hour the dogs were roaming freely, chasing the Smythes’ cat and, to add insult to injury, messing on the lawn. Mark had gone next door to complain, the Moretons seemed rather surprised that they should be asked to keep their dogs under control.

On Sundays, Mark and Julie usually slept late, rising about nine-thirty. On that particular morning their sleep was disturbed shortly before seven by a cranking and rattling, accompanied by a cloud of diesel fumes drifting into the bedroom through the open window. The Moretons’ horse truck had been started up. Accompanied by Dick Bowman, they were off to an equestrian event.

Mark complained again about the close proximity of the aging vehicle parked on the roadside verge. The Moretons promised to park it on the verge on the other side of their temporary home in the future. A couple of days later it was back in its former place, emitting clouds of exhaust fumes every time it was started up. Resigned to this frequent polluting of the atmosphere, and wishing to maintain some degree of neighbourly relationships, the Smythes resorted to keeping the windows of their barn conversion shut at all times.

The dogs continued to roam freely, leaving positive proof of their daily trespasses.

Then one day the Moretons loaded up their belongings into the van, together with their unruly dogs, and departed. It was obvious that they weren’t returning. That evening Mark took Janie out for a celebration dinner, Dick Bowman as their only neighbour posed few problems for the future; he would spend his days out riding, his evenings at the pub. And they could sleep with their bedroom window open without the danger of being awoken on Sunday mornings by pungent diesel fumes.

That first weekend without the Moretons was paradise itself; Mark and Janie slept late, awoke to the fresh aroma of a country garden, breathed it in deeply and relaxed. There was no dog dirt to be scooped off the lawn, no incessant barking every time they ventured outdoors.

The following Sunday everything changed.

Janie stirred, propped herself up on an elbow, sniffed the air and shook her husband awake. “Mark, I can smell smoke.”

“It’s a bonfire,” he stirred, “Jeez, look, it’s drifting in through the window!”

He leaped out of bed, drew back the curtains and stared out in disbelief at what appeared to be a thick November fog reducing visibility to a few yards at the beginning of June. Swirling pungent smoke enshrouded the house and yard.

“It’s Bowman,” he slammed the window shut. “For Christ’s sake, whatever’s he burning?”

Dick Bowman had fired the fifty-square-metre dung heap on the other side of his house; years of mucking out the stables by the previous owner had created a near mountain of manure. It had dried out in the drought, the new occupant had piled some straw up against it and lit it. Standing there, fork in hand, he seemed impervious to the clouds of smoke which enveloped him and filled his own living quarters. His expression was that of satisfaction at a job well done.

“It’s because there’s no wind, that’s why it’s hanging about,” he explained to the irate Mark. “There’s supposed to be a stiff westerly getting up later, it’ll take it up towards the forest.”

“Our house is full of stinking smoke, it’ll take weeks to get the smell out!” Mark fought to control his anger. “For God’s sake, man, put that bloody fire out!”

“There’s not enough water in the well,” Bowman shrugged his shoulders, “and, anyway, there’s rain forecast for Tuesday, that’ll put it out.”

The rain didn’t come until Thursday, reduced the mighty muck pile to a steaming, wisping blackened eyesore. A thunderstorm on the following Sunday extinguished it.

Dick Bowman lit his fire again a month later; it soiled a line of Janie’s washing but petered out later in the day. A further complaint postponed relighting until August. Another fortuitous thunderstorm doused it.

And now the dung heap was burning with a vengeance.

A huge pall of smoke hung in the sky, drifted up towards the forest, swirled down the fields below. A panoramic landscape was obliterated.

“I’ll come round next door with you this time,” Janie was flushed and shaking. “I’ll …”

“No, we’re just wasting our breath talking to Bowman,” Mark reached for the telephone directory, began flipping the pages. “Now, let me see … Environmental Health, Department of …” He began tapping in the number.

Mark had expected an archetypal bureaucrat representing the Department of Environmental Health, complete with clipboard and briefcase. Becky Watson was in her mid-twenties, relaxed and attractive, and carried a jotter in her handbag. She smiled and drank coffee, made a few notes.

No problem, Mister Bowman would have to extinguish his mammoth bonfire, he was contravening the law by lighting a fire within two hundred meters of a public road. Unless he complied with her requests, notice would be served on him and he would be prosecuted. One other point, she was clearly on the side of the Smythes, the manure heap was in close proximity to a stream, she would speak to the National Rivers Authority about it; if pollution of a waterway was taking place, not only would Mister Bowman be prosecuted on that count, too, but he would be ordered to move his one hundred tons of dung to a place of safety.

She would go and see Mister Bowman right now. She would telephone the Smythes later in the day, after she had collated her notes, and advise them of the outcome.

Becky Watson rang back at three-thirty.

No problem, it was all a mistake on Mister Bowman’s part. The last thing he wanted was for the manure to be burned; he wanted it to rot down and then he intended to sell it by the truckload as organic fertilizer. In fact, he had been forking it over in preparation for this when he’d dropped his cigarette. It had fallen amidst some dry, unrotted straw and before he could stamp it out the blaze was beyond his control. He wanted to extinguish it but he didn’t have sufficient water in his well, it would have to burn itself out. It meant a considerable loss to him in terms of supplementing his meagre income but he’d just have to grin and bear it.

“Are you still there, Mister Smythe?”

“I’m speechless,” Mark did not know whether to laugh or rage. “So he dropped three cigarettes accidentally, did he?”

“Three? I’m afraid I don’t understand you.”

“The heap had clearly been ignited at three separate points to create maximum burning.”

“Oh!” She hesitated a moment, then, “well, the priority is to get the fire put out and to ensure that it isn’t lit again. Consequently, I’ve requested the fire service to send a tender and crew first thing in the morning. If it hasn’t arrived by ten o’clock, let me know and I’ll get on to them.”

*  *  *

10:00 a.m. Mark and Janie watched from behind closed windows, squinted into the swirling greyness of restricted visibility. There was no sign of a fire tender.

“You’d better ring Becky Watson,” Janie entwined her fingers in her frustration. “I get the feeling everything is a stalling tactic.”

“I’ll ring emergency services direct!” Mark picked up the phone.

The fire tender roared out of the smoky fog fifteen minutes later, blue lights flashing, siren wailing, came to a halt on the roadside adjacent to the billowing muck heap.

There was no sign of Dick Bowman. Sometimes he stayed overnight at the Chequers to sleep off his mixture of work and pleasure. He wasn’t needed, anyway. But they would certainly need a second tender, the fire had secured a deep hold in the compressed horse manure.

Mark and Janie stood upwind to watch, there was something fascinating about fires and firefighters.

The second engine and crew was on the scene within twenty minutes. The smoke poured out faster as water was hosed onto the pile, hissed like a nest of burning snakes.

It was midday before the fire was out, just an odd wisp of smoke here and there. Dick Bowman still had not returned.

“Better fork the surface over,” the leading fireman instructed the crews, “dig down in case there’s a smouldering pocket left.”

The Smythes watched with a kind of bizarre fascination, a team of yellow cloaked and helmeted figures plunging their forks deep, lifting the charred manure, turning it over. Occasionally, one of them called out and a jet of water was directed onto a burning clod. Digging as if they were preparing a vegetable patch for planting.

“What a stink!” Janie coughed. “Burned straw and rotted dung, I think I’ve seen and smelled enough for one day. Come on, let’s go back indoors, Mark.”

“There’s something here,” one of the firefighters prodded with his fork, “like somebody’s buried something. Too small for a bloody ’orse, too big for a dog.”

“Chuck it up, let’s see,” the senior fire officer waded across the ashes. In a way you’re like a forensic expert, he always told his men, it’s your job to see what’s been burned.

“Roasted, whatever it is,” the other had impaled it on the spines of his fork, struggled to lift it clear. “There’s a little ’un with it, too.”

A sudden gust of wind took the smell towards the watchers on the road.

“Ugh!” Janie turned her head to one side. “Like … roasted pork. Maybe it’s a pig. Let’s go, Mark.”

“Hang on a minute,” his curiosity prevailed, he grabbed his wife’s hand, held her.

“Jesus Almighty!” The fireman’s voice reached them, there was no mistaking the shock and revulsion in it.

“What the bloody ’ell is it?” The others had clustered round him. They drew back from the charred remains, they didn’t need the chief to put it into words.

Men hardened to death by fire, every one of them had at some time brought a burned corpse out of an inferno. It was all part of the job. But they had not expected to find roasted human remains in the depths of a heap of horse manure.

“It’s a woman.” The chief’s voice was shrill with horror.

“And she’s got her baby with her!”

Twenty-one

“I wanna play outside, Mommy.”

Kate sighed, she had half expected Peter to voice his request. “In a few minutes, when I’ve finished washing the dishes.”

“I wanna go outside now, Mommy!” There was a petulance in his tone, he kicked a piece of Lego across the kitchen floor, it skated off the wall.

“Don’t do that!” She was edgy. God she hated these weekends when Phil’s extra duty rota came round; on-calls weren’t so bad, often he didn’t receive a single one but weekend duties were eight-till-eight at HQ.

“I’m bored, I wanna play in the garden.”

“Well, you can do that just as soon as I’m ready to go outside with you.”

“Why can’t I play on my own, Mommy?”

“Because last time you wandered off into the big forest. That was very naughty of you.”

“I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“Nevertheless, Daddy’s orders are that you’re not to be left alone outside.” Also, that neither of us are to go into the woods ever again. Because Phil was scared, more scared than she had ever known him. And that scared her.

“Aw, Mommy, I wanna play in the garden on my own”

For Christ’s sake! She gripped the sides of the sink, closed her eyes. If you don’t bloody well shut up, I’ll …

“Are you feeling poorly again today, Mommy?”

“No, I am not poorly. Neither am I tired. I don’t want to lie down and go to sleep.” Because that’s what you’re hoping for. “I just want to sit out there in a deckchair and read some magazines. You can do whatever you like, play with Rabbit. Or your Lego. But I’m going to relax out there because today might well be the last warm sunny day we’ll have until next Spring.”

“Why’s that, Mommy?”

“The weatherman on the TV says that there’s rain spreading across the whole country tomorrow afternoon. Rain and gales, and it’s going to become much colder. Which is only to be expected because it’s overdue, we’re well into the autumn, the cold and wet should have started three or four weeks ago. So, we’ll make the best of today, Peter, I’ll laze in the deckchair and you can play on the lawn. Right?”

“I s’pose so,” he kicked at another piece of Lego. “It’s not fair, I wanted to play on my own. I’m a big boy now.”

“And I’m a big girl,” she laughed, tried to relax. “But even I can’t go in the forest alone. Because Daddy says so, and he’s the boss.”

“Because of the lady up by the reservoir, the one who’s half like a fish?”

Kate tensed. “I expect he’s afraid of us meeting with a nasty man. A lot of women get beaten up these days and children are kidnapped and found dead. Remember what we’ve always told you, never talk to strangers.”

“It’s because of the fish lady, I know it is.”

Damn you, this business is getting on my nerves. I’ll be glad when they drain the reservoir even if it means us moving to Glascote.

“The lady’s nice,” he tapped her arm, an annoying habit he had when he thought she wasn’t paying attention to him and he wanted to attract her attention. “She only ran away from me because she wasn’t properly dressed.”

“She’s probably left, gone away for good, she was only visiting the reservoir.” Christ knows what for, though.

“No, she hasn’t!” Peter became indignant. “She got into the reservoir through a small hole in the wall. I know she did because she left a trail of slime right up to it. It looks too small for her to squeeze through but she managed it. She lives in there, you know.”

“Let’s go outside.” Kate shuddered, screwed the tea towel up into a ball and flung it on to the working surface. “Go get Rabbit or your Lego, or whatever you want.”

It was hard to believe that autumn was well advanced, leaves still clung stubbornly to the branches of the trees and the sun shone with an unnatural warmth. Lying back in the red, white, and blue canvas of the deckchair, Kate didn’t have the energy to read a magazine, just flicked the pages, gazed at pictures of bathroom and kitchen designs which would always be beyond their reach. A motoring supplement; the Motor Show was only a week away. Phil always went even though he would always drive the family round in a van. Somebody else’s van, in all probability belonging to the water authority. Like Dalgety’s Land Rover Discovery, a top of the range, borrowed status symbol.

Kate smiled wistfully to herself. She wouldn’t want her husband any other way, he was fine just as he was. All she asked was good health, a roof over their heads and food on the table. Any vehicle was a bonus, she didn’t care if they never went anywhere.

Her eyelids were heavy, they began to droop. The magazine slipped from her fingers, landed with a bump on the grass, its pages fluttered in the gentle breeze like a swatted night moth. She couldn’t be bothered to pick it up.

The sound of passing traffic on the main road out front was soothing, like a lullaby; folks rushing somewhere all the time, she was the lucky one because she didn’t even have to move out of this chair. It was a nice thought.

“Peter?”

“Yes?” The reply sounded sullen, he was in one of his moods because she had come out into the garden with him. “What are you doing?”

A pause, then, “Nothin’.”

“Peter, what are you doing?” She hadn’t the energy to make her tone sound authoritative.

“Somethin’.”

“What’s ‘something’?”

“I’m making a necklace out of daisies.” His answer was loaded with resentment at his mother’s persistence. “Miss Averill at school showed us how to do it. It’s easy. Then we put it over her head and it hung round her neck. Everybody said she looked like a queen.”

“Oh, I see, that must have looked beautiful,” Kate could not imagine anybody less regal than the plump Miss Averill. “Now, don’t get going off, will you?”

“’Course not, I’m a big boy now.”

He’d be okay, Kate reassured herself, he was often naughty but he never broke a promise, nor told a lie. Which was why his story about the fish lady was so chilling. Because Kate knew it was true.

She succumbed to her drowsiness, let her eyes close. She wouldn’t sleep, just doze. The way a cat does, alert even in semi-slumber, ears tuned to pick up the slightest sound of anything untoward.

“Peter, are you sure you’re okay?” She yawned with the repetitive question, it didn’t sound like her own voice, rather a dreamy echo of the last time she’d asked coming back at her.

“I’m okay, Mom.” So far away, but he was all right. He would probably get Rabbit out shortly, let the creature loose on the lawn and spend the rest of the afternoon trying to catch it. Then he’d wake her, ask her to help him. That way Peter wouldn’t go far.

Kate thought she heard the clink of the hook on the rabbit hutch door. She felt herself sliding into a deeper doze but it wouldn’t matter because Peter would yell her awake when he was tired of trying to catch Rabbit.

Kate awoke with a start, knew instantly that there was something wrong. It wasn’t her son’s expected shout that had awoken her, there was silence except for the continual drone of the nearby traffic.

Rabbit was still in his hutch, whiskered face pressed up against the wire mesh door, a kind of pleading expression to be let out for one last gambol round the lawn before the winter rains came.

The Lego was still in its cardboard box.

There was no sign of Peter.

Kate opened her mouth to scream, managed to stop it before the shriek reached her throat. Because, logically, there were a number of innocuous possibilities concerning her son’s whereabouts that had to be eliminated before she became hysterical.

He hadn’t gone out front onto the road because he couldn’t reach the latch on the yard door in the seven-foot-high red brick wall.

He might have gone back indoors. The warm sunshine told her that he hadn’t, he’d insist on staying outside until sundown. Maybe he’d had to visit the bathroom, he always used the downstairs one.

“Peter?”

No answer.

Kate moved into the coolness of the porch. From here she could see that the door of the lavatory was open, there was nobody inside. The cistern was silent, it hadn’t refilled lately. Peter always pulled the chain, ever since he’d been old enough to stand on the seat to reach it.

He’d probably gone upstairs to his room to fetch some more toys because he couldn’t be bothered to let Rabbit out and he was bored with Lego. Thunderbirds, maybe, that model island which Phil’s mother had bought her grandson last Christmas.

Kate ran up the stairs as fast as her weakening legs would allow. She burst into the small bedroom at the end of the landing. The island on the window ledge was bathed in bright sunshine, its assembled fighting force poised for take off.

Oh, please, find Peter for me.

The unmade bed was empty. She checked the fitted wardrobe, prayed that Peter might be playing a game of hide and seek. He wasn’t. Or if he was, he’d found a damned good hiding place.

“Peter!” There was the beginning of hysteria in her shout. Running back and forth across the landing, throwing open doors; the bedroom, the spare room.

Peter most definitely was not upstairs.

Downstairs; the lounge and dining room, the kitchen. All empty. There wasn’t anywhere else indoors where the boy might be.

Outside again; Peter hadn’t gone out front through the gate so there was only one direction left. She stared with frightened eyes at the straggling nut tree boundary between the yard and the wood, elevated her eyes to the tall pines. They looked dark and forbidding even in the bright sunshine.

Oh, no! Please, not in there!

Beyond the trees, hidden from her view, was the track that led steeply uphill until it ended right by the gateway to the reservoir compound.

A place of unspeakable evil.

Kate found the gap where Peter had squeezed through, broken twigs, a snapped lower branch that oozed sap.

Oh, God, please let him still be safe.

She tore her blouse as she forced her way between the saplings, a blue-and-white streamer trailing in her wake as she ran blindly through the trees. Gasping for breath, a stabbing pain in her side, stumbling and clutching at branches to keep her balance. A bough sprang back, whacked her across the face; she didn’t cry out, right now she was impervious to pain.

The reservoir seemed a million miles away this time. She wanted to shout and scream for Peter to come back but she hadn’t the breath in her lungs.

Finally, a glimmer of sunlight showed faintly through the trees up ahead. Kate gasped her temporary relief aloud but she didn’t slow her stumbling step.

She threw herself at the rickety gate. A bar snapped beneath her weight, a rusted strand of barbed wire raked her leg but she didn’t feel the pain, didn’t notice the trickle of blood. Atop the flimsy structure, she scanned the surrounding land, her long hair straggling, her contorted features shiny with sweat.

That was when she saw Peter.

He was over by one of the concrete inspection hatches, talking to somebody who lay full length on the ground. Kate saw that it was a woman, probably one of the villagers sneaked up here for a bit of nude sunbathing.

The dirty bitch was topless, Kate could see the other’s breasts, she had a towel or a rug draped around her lower half. At least she showed a little decency! Peter was leaning forward, stooped, he was clasping the stranger’s hand. They were moving slowly. Now they were clear of the obstructing Concrete, Kate saw with horror that the woman was …

… slithering over the rough surface, squirming her way along the ground, seeming to wriggle. And that was no towel that covered the lower half of her body, it was a giant fish’s tail and she was using it in the manner of a rudder to aid her progress.

Kate fell over the other side of the gate, the tussocky grass broke her fall. Winded, she picked herself up. Her son, and whoever was with him, were temporarily screened from her view by the high, sloping bank.

Kate ran at the slope, it was slippery after the drought and again she lost her footing. Scrabbling on all fours, tearing at every available handhold in sheer desperation; sliding back, pulling herself up.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she made it to the top, knelt there, again had to shade her eyes from the sun, was forced to wait while her vision adjusted to the bright light.

Peter and that awful creature, who was neither wholly human nor fish, were almost at the blockhouse. Even from this distance Kate could make out the jagged hole in the wall.

And that female monstrosity was leading the child towards it.

“Stop!” Somehow Kate found the breath in her tortured lungs to enable her to scream. “Don’t you dare take my child in there!”

Neither looked back, they did not appear to have heard.

Running again.

Kate’s eyes stung with sweat, distorted her vision. Creature and child appeared to have shrunk to miniature proportions, Tom Thumb puppets in a bizarre play, about to enter a cave, the black entrance of which yawned in front of them.

“Wait!” Kate’s foot slipped in some kind of slime which coated the grass, she skidded but somehow managed not to fall. If anything, the slip added impetus to her pursuit, she might just reach them in time.

Tiny heads turned, they saw her now. Peter shouted something but the reduced power of his voice was no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His expression told his mother that he had changed his mind, he didn’t want to go in there with the fish lady.

His companion’s smile faded, was replaced by a snarl of animal ferocity. The hand holding Peter’s tightened its grip, the boy was shrieking mutely with the pain.

“Let go of him!”

Kate advanced threateningly, her maternal instinct was uppermost, she had no fear for herself, only for her son. The grass was shiny with that slime, a hoar frost scintillating in early morning sunlight. Already it was starting to melt. Its stench was sickening, she almost retched. It reminded her of rotting fish.

The creature was standing at bay, Kate was barely a couple of yards from it. She experienced a weird sense of loss of proportion in relation to everything around her. That she was some kind of Gulliver confronting the inhabitants of Lilliput; or maybe it was she who had grown outsize and they were normal. It was frighteningly confusing.

She glanced about her in search of a weapon of some kind. A stick, maybe, or a fist-sized rock. A mother whose child was suddenly threatened by a poisonous reptile looking for something with which to beat the reptile to death or crush it into an unrecognizable mulch. There was nothing, just lumps of powdery mortar which would crumble to the touch.

If necessary she would grab it with her bare hands, swing it aloft by that hideous tail, batter it to death against the blockhouse wall. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath to steady herself, the thought of contact with that thing was repulsive. She would probably throw up. It didn’t matter.

“Mommy!” A cry that was piercing, one of jubilation rather than infant terror at the prospect of being dragged down into some dark, watery lair.

Kate’s eyes jerked open, she saw Peter standing before her. Then he flung himself at her, embraced her. He had grown back to normal size, his weight was crushing her.

Only then was she aware that she was back in the deckchair in the garden.

He hugged her, kissed her. Confused, she could barely speak coherently. “Peter … whatever … why … I thought you were …”

“You were shouting, screaming in your sleep, Mommy. It frightened me.”

The traffic out front on the road was still going by in a steady stream. Kate looked up, the sky had lost its blue, it was a kind of hazy grey. The predicted cloud formation was moving in ahead of schedule, it would probably rain before morning. The last of the summer was over.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?”

“Peter, you haven’t been away, have you?”

“No, I promise.” She could tell by his wide-eyed innocence that he was speaking the truth.

“I … I went to look for you …”

“No, you didn’t. At least, I don’t think you did. I got bored, so I lay down on the grass. I fell asleep. Then you woke me, shouting for me. I got frightened because I thought you were poorly again.”

“I must’ve had a bad dream,” she was sweating like she was starting a fever. Her head was aching, pounding. “It’s nothing, everything’s fine. We’d best go inside, it’s gone a lot cooler like they said it would, it’ll rain soon.”

Rabbit scratched at the mesh as if pleading for one last run on the lawn.

“Phew! Something smells, Mommy.”

“I expect Rabbit needs his hutch cleaning out …” The stench hit her, so pungent, overpowering, that she nearly retched.

So familiar, that she knew instantly that it wasn’t the rabbit.

“You stink, Mommy,” he sniffed at her, screwed his features up into an expression of disgust. “And so do I. It’s like those kippers that you put in the pantry the other week and forgot all about until they started to smell.”

Kate turned her head away, not just because of the stench but so that her son would not see the look of sheer terror on her face.

She and Peter both stank of rotting fish.

Twenty-two

The others had never seen Royston Shannon visibly shaken before. Sharon Levy’s corpse he had treated almost with contempt, dragging it through the gorse, heedless of the thorns which scratched and spiked her dead flesh. He had seemed to derive some sadistic delight from setting up her body in a lewd pose for the benefit of that unfortunate person who stumbled upon it.

There had not been a trace of emotion in his expression in the reflection of the headlights as he drove the car over the old man lying in the road.

Callous efficiency, the satisfaction of a job well done and the knowledge that he had served the Queen of the People of the Water.

But this time it was different. The sacrifice of Janice and her newborn child had most certainly had a profound effect upon Royston Shannon’s equanimity. Twice he had stalled the car as he drove slowly back up the Lady Walk. And as he and Stogie had interred the corpses of mother and child in the manure heap, he had worked with a fervour that bordered on panic. Almost as if their burial would erase the deed which he had committed.

The others had huddled in the rear seat of the car, frightened by what they had done, even more scared of what might happen to themselves. In the beginning it had been exciting fun, none of them really believed.

But there was no doubting the existence of something in the dark waters of that underground lake that defied the laws of Nature.

The attempt on Shannon’s life had failed miserably, it had never even been a real threat to their high priest. He had not even been aware that a coup was imminent. Thank God!

No woman was capable of carrying out an assassination in the throes of childbirth. In effect, the baby had saved Shannon’s life and its reward was being sacrificed to the Queen.

Next time there must be no mistake. Next time the sacrificial victim could well be one of themselves. Each of them wondered about the neophyte, the woman called Barbara. She had not shown up tonight. Was it because she guessed? They had kept the deaths from her on Shannon’s instructions but she might have become suspicious. She might even have gone to the police. It was a worrying thought, all of them might be arrested and charged with murder.

Shannon and Stogie smelled strongly of horse muck, the interior of the vehicle reeked of it by the time it glided to a halt on the forecourt of Packington Hall.

“Let us go and cleanse ourselves in the waters of the sacred pool,” Shannon led the way down the sloping corridors.

Shannon’s thoughts were on Barbara, she had never really been absent from them throughout the evening. Her failure to turn up both puzzled and worried him for she was a true believer. Not like Sharon Levy who had come along for whatever she could get out of it. He had only brought the prostitute here for one purpose and she had served it admirably.

The vagrant had been sheer opportunism, surely the Queen herself had summoned him that night because of her desperation for a human sacrifice.

But Barbara was different, Shannon had plans for her and at the moment they did not involve sacrifice.

The sacrifices, too, were strange. The corpses were returned to the surface for disposal, there was not a mark on them; no ravenous underwater creature had fed on their dead flesh.

It was undoubtedly some kind of bizarre mating ritual in the same way that the Akikuyu of Africa sacrificed their virgins to the snake god. The medicine men consummated the marriage; Shannon had done just that. Janice’s child was fathered by himself, he had convinced himself of that by now. Otherwise, the Queen might become angry.

Male or female sacrifices, it seemed not to matter which. Shannon took the women, committed their bodies to the deep. Yet she had undoubtedly summoned a male because she needed one; the thought of Mukasa mating with the corpse of the old man had bile burning Shannon’s throat.

She demanded children, offspring. Tonight he had given her a child yet she had returned it with the mother’s body. Because it was dead. A rejection? The thought was disturbing. Was a half human creature capable of conceiving by Man? The idea was both erotic and frightening.

Why had the Queen not shown herself to them yet? Because she wasn’t ready, that could be the only answer. All they had witnessed so far was a rippling of the water, a shapeless luminosity beneath the surface.

He knew that he must find her an infant, a living child that would go into the water squalling. In her omnipotence she would teach it to live in the depths, rear it as her own.

Where the hell had Barbara got to? Tomorrow he would call her at her office, demand an explanation. Perhaps she had been taken ill or an accident had befallen her. No, please, not that. Or the Queen was angry because of his affections for another woman, jealousy from the deep had exacted its revenge.

Tonight he must show penance and the sacred pool was a fitting place to ask her forgiveness. If I have erred, it is because of foolishness and naivety. Give me guidance, O Queen, for I am your servant and will obey your every command. If you desire a living child, I will bring you one. If you demand the body of the one called Barbara as an offering of appeasement, then I will sacrifice her to you. Ours was only an earthly relationship, my true devotion is to a higher deity.

He heard the others dragging their feet in his wake, an unwilling slouching. Rabble! One by one, he would sacrifice them, even Stogie, for such low intelligence had no place in a higher civilization.

There was something different about the pool, he could not work out quite what it was. The palm tree bowed its subservience on the far bank, shoals of fish darted to and fro. In the shallows a pair of annelids were duelling with their horny pincers; a sponge of dead men’s fingers clutched at a ten-inch Bahamas azure vase. Life throbbed beneath the surface more vibrantly than he had ever known before.

As if the pool was awakening from a long slumber, coming alive.

The coven crowded close, seeking safety in his presence. He sensed a new fear in them, they felt it, too. Like nothing would ever be the same as it had been, they were on the verge of a new era.

He picked up their vibes, tensed. Sullenness and terror, but something else which he had not been aware of until now. Hatred and jealousy. It was in their posture, their eyes.

He met their combined gaze. Lisa and Debbie turned their heads, Sheila followed. Cheeks flushed with guilt because they knew that he knew. Only Stogie maintained a stubborn defiance, arrogantly pouting his dead cigar stub. But not for long, even he wilted before his high priest’s searching look.

Shannon would feed them all to the Queen. In turn. Eventually. But at this very moment there were more pressing matters on hand.

“Let us bathe in the holy waters,” he discarded his robe, stood naked before them.

Their costumes still dripped reservoir water, fish that had been stranded temporarily on dry land and were now to be returned to their home.

Something was amiss, he paused with the water lapping his ankles. Something blatantly obvious and yet he was blinded to it. Again his eyes roved his surrounds, saw how the water rippled; it was probably a shoal of fish darting away in their natural fear of Man, the unnatural being. The pugnacious water worms still battled, he took care to step well to the side of them for they were capable of inflicting a sharp bite. The dead men’s fingers were erect, a sponge hand that warned of some lurking danger. Go back, before it is too late!

Then he saw. And knew. The effigy of their Queen, the mistress of the People of the Water, the statue which he had painstakingly sculptured with his own hands over a decade, had toppled from her rocky plinth.

The base had snapped, leaving a jagged fish’s tail still clinging to the rock, her body had plunged down into the water below, out of sight. It had probably smashed on the hard bottom.

The shock cramped his stomach, weakened his powerful legs. A sharp intake of breath, vainly praying that it was some kind of optical illusion.

Vandalism, a desecration, sacrilege within a holy temple. Who had been in here.

Who?

The surface still moved, ripples that spread outwards from the centre, growing until finally they met with the shores. As if Mukasa had slipped from her regal position only seconds before their entry and the turbulence still disturbed the depths.

Shannon’s head turned, again his accusing glare swept over his companions. But no, it could not possibly be any one of them for they had been within his view the whole time.

Somebody had trespassed in here. The vibes told him that the person was still here.

The others were mutely protesting their innocence, contradicting it with blushes of guilt. For, right or wrong, Shannon’s wrath was terrible to behold.

“Who has done this dreadful thing?” His words were addressed to everybody yet nobody in particular; to Stogie and Lisa, Debbie and Sheila, the fish which had swum back into view. Even the dead men’s fingers which might, somehow, have found the strength to dislodge their Queen.

Even as he finished speaking, the water stirred and the fish fled in terror once again. Something swam beneath the surface, the greenish background light reflected on a paleness and turned it luminous. A shape that was distorted by the waves it made and yet, even then, was vaguely human in shape.

It was Lisa who screamed, “The Queen has arrived, she has come down from the sacred pool underground!”

Royston Shannon backed away, almost turned and fled. For four decades, ever since he had first encountered the mermaid on that beach, he had lived for her coming. But now that the moment was nigh, it was the most frightening prospect of his whole life.

He cast a glance behind him, his companions had sunk down onto the floor, they were moaning softly amongst themselves, covering their faces with their hands. Except Stogie, who just stood there sucking on his soggy smoke as a baby might have sought solace in a pacifier. Expressionless, unmoved, eyes glazed from his last fix, maybe secretly hoping that whatever was down there in the water would succeed where Janice had failed. Death was but a dream when one was high on cannabis.

The creature surfaced, its hair was a cascading waterfall that hid its features. Breasts that were full, nipples aroused as though in readiness for a suckling infant.

Moving into the shallows so that it stood, thighs apart so that the pinkness of its vulva glistened through the mound of pubic hair. Only the feet were hidden, doubtless they were joined in the fashion of a Siamese twin to form the shape of a fishtail.

Royston Shannon had dropped to his knees in fear and reverence. He dared not lift up his face, scared to look upon those same features which he had last seen in boyhood. Trembling, his lips moved but no words came from them.

Have mercy upon us, O Queen, for we have served you faithfully, brought sacrifices which, in our ignorance, might not have been acceptable. Spare us, your disciples, so that we may continue to serve you now and after the waters cover the earth.

He stared at the lower half of her body from between half lowered eyelids. Her skin was not as smooth as he had imagined, more the flesh of a mature woman than that of a nymph.

A roughness, at first he thought it was abrasions, or maybe eczema. In a strange way it was erotic, the way it began on the insides of the thighs and travelled right up to … He caught his breath, they were miniature scales, when the light fell on them they glinted silvery.

She had feet, too, shapely ankles; she lifted one up out of the water as if to show him.

Mukasa, it could be none other, had evolved and was now regressing; she had walked amongst humans, now she was returning to the depths, gathering her disciples around her. Royston Shannon had shown faith, now he was about to be rewarded.

The Coming was reality.

Fearfully, he raised his eyes. The face on the statue, that graven image, he had fashioned it from a forty-year-old memory which was surely confirmed by the tiny features on that ring which had since gone missing. He would recognize her as surely as if he had seen her only yesterday.

He stared in amazement. She bore no resemblance to the facial image of his memory. And yet her features, her smile, were only too familiar.

Gone was the statue which they had worshipped, destroyed because it was a false idol. In its place, so divine even in ageing nudity, stood the goddess, the queen, whom they held sacred. Human in shape and form, Mukasa had arisen from the water in immortality. Physically, the change was beginning, they sensed her power, flung themselves prostrate before her. Even Stogie’s cheroot stub dropped from his trembling lips.

Barbara Jackson looked down on them and her expression hardened.

Twenty-three

Detective-Inspector Barr doubted his wisdom in returning to the reservoir tonight. Not that he was in any way afraid of this dark, depressing place; it was just cold and unpleasant. But that was a minor inconvenience where inexplicable murders were concerned.

It didn’t have to be tonight; tomorrow night or the one after would have sufficed. If anybody was using this place for illicit purposes then doubtless they had been doing so for some time and would continue to do so.

It was the discovery of those bodies in the burning manure heap that had fuelled an impatience within him. Sure, they might be totally unrelated to the other two killings, there was no way a pathologist was going to be able to prove that two corpses, charred beyond recognition, had died from drowning. At this very moment Dick Bowman was under intense interrogation by the CID, he could well be charged with murder before morning. The popular theory was that the woman, whoever she was, had had his baby and was seeking maintenance from him. In a drunken frenzy, he had killed her and the child and had attempted to remove all traces of his crime by cremating them in the manure. Still, one must disregard theories until the facts were proven.

Barr had few dislikes; rain was one of them, wind came a close second. Gales and lashing rain combined to make life intolerable.

The meteorological office had forecast a deepening area of low pressure moving in from the Atlantic to bring an end to the long spell of unseasonable autumnal weather. Storm force gales with structural damage were predicted across Wales and the Midlands by midday Sunday. The ground was baked hard after weeks of incessant drought, the forecasters warned of extensive flooding following the storms.

By dusk on Saturday the freshening wind had strengthened. Shortly after dark the first rainspots had splattered on the windows of the CID office. Within half an hour the rain was torrential and being driven horizontally by the wind.

Barr could have changed his plans, postponed them without any loss of face, for he had confided in nobody. Only his conscience would have troubled him for he was his greatest critic of his own standards. Backing down went against the grain; he had decided upon tonight and he would go tonight, whatever.

It was almost as if something was telling him that he must go to the reservoir tonight. In the past, hunches had, more often than not, paid off; you got a feeling and you played it, win or lose. He had everything to gain, nothing to lose, he decided.

Except a soaking below his thigh-length storm-proof jacket where the rain cascaded down. His corduroy trousers were saturated long before he reached the gate in the barbed wire compound.

One of the struts was broken, snapped since his last visit. He examined it briefly in the light of his flashlight. Somebody had climbed the gate, he noticed the flattened grass where they had fallen heavily on the other side. It could have been village kids trespassing for kicks. Anybody else would probably have crawled beneath the bottom strand of barbed wire, wouldn’t have risked the gate collapsing beneath their weight.

He squeezed under the wire, straightened up, doused the light. He had no wish to advertise his presence here.

The blackness was impenetrable, he proceeded cautiously, an arm held out ahead of him, an outstretched foot locating the first of the slab steps. The moss was slippery.

All around him trees creaked as they bent over in the gale. Branches cracked, snapped off; there was a soft thud as one hit the ground somewhere close by.

It was a wild night.

Quiles’s expression had pleaded “don’t make me go up there with you.” The guy was scared of the dark, the detective wondered how the other coped in an emergency when he was on night duty. He probably psyched himself through it because it was his job.

“I’ll drop the key back through the letter box when I’ve finished,” Barr had promised, hadn’t failed to notice the manager’s relief at not being asked to accompany his nocturnal caller. “I might be some time, don’t wait up for me.”

At least it wouldn’t be raining and blowing a gale down in the reservoir, that was some consolation. By comparison, it would be snug and dry.

Barr used his flashlight to unlock the door, locked it behind him. An unlocked door would arouse suspicion.

He remembered that strange business in these same woods, it must have been ten years ago, he’d read about it in the papers and it had stuck in his mind. NUDE WITCHES IN HOPWAS WOOD AT SUMMER SOLSTICE, the headlines of one of the popular tabloids had announced with every vestige of sensationalism they could muster.

In all probability it had just been an excuse for an orgy; there had been arrests, three people had been charged with being in possession of cannabis; the paper hadn’t missed an opportunity to link it with black magic.

There probably wasn’t any connection with whatever was going on in the reservoir. But you never overlooked a possibility, however slight. Barr filed it back in his memory just in case he should ever need it.

The damp, the cold, and that awful smell were waiting inside for him. Almost tangible. He only goose pimpled because of the cold, there was nothing in here to be afraid of. If anything lurked in the darkness then it had more reason to fear himself.

He used his flashlight, did not switch on the lights.

His hand went to his pocket, touched something round and hard. The ring, the one with the mermaid emblem and that strange inscription. That was his reason for coming back here tonight.

He should have handed it into Lost Property, arranged for an advertisement in the “found” columns of all the regional newspapers. He hadn’t; he had not even reported his find to his superiors. Again, it was a hunch. The owner could recover it by sending a third party to claim it, cover their tracks. It was a slender lead. But there was always the chance that, whoever used this place for secret purposes, might return. It was a long shot.

He went on down to the water’s edge; his light only reached a few yards, it was impossible to see across to the other side. There was nobody here, he was sure of that. When, and if, they arrived, they would enter by the outer door, the hole in the wall only offered access to a small creature. Barr was certain that it did not figure in his investigations.

He turned back to the steps when he noticed something on the concrete, a patch that was darker in colour than the rest. Any other time he would have ignored it, concrete weathered over the years, a discoloration was not in itself remarkable. Except that tonight he would not overlook the smallest of details. He knelt down.

It was a bloodstain, even in the dim light cast by his small flashlight he was certain of that. It had spread with the wet, seeped into the porous substance.

Only a forensic test would confirm his suspicions. Most certainly he would not be returning the key to Phil Quiles tonight. It wasn’t an emergency but first thing tomorrow morning the experts would be out here to make tests.

He debated whether or not to remain here. Again his fingers strayed to the ring in his pocket, toyed with it. Something inside him said to stay; tonight he would play all his hunches, there were just too many unexplained factors to this case and his intuition told him that they were all linked.

He decided to compromise, he would wait for a couple of hours. Upstairs. It was going to be a long, cold wait and the odds were that nothing would happen.

Outside, the wind buffeted the blockhouse as if it had some personal vendetta against it. The driving rain was seeping under the door and the stench seemed even stronger than when he had first arrived.

Detective Inspector Barr switched off his light and settled down.

Sounds were magnified within the confined space. The steady ticking from within the instruments box on the wall, a monotonous drip of water that you had to stop yourself from counting and waiting for the next, all against the incessant howling of the wind.

It was the kind of place in which a man could go mad.

Barr was experienced in long waits that were often fruitless. Mostly, patience was the only way to bring an unsolved case to a successful conclusion; you always convinced yourself that a suspect would show up, that the most tiresome and boring vigil would bear fruit.

Like tonight. He fidgeted with the ring.

He wondered how the Bowman interrogation was going; the man might have confessed, was right now making a statement. Yes, I killed the prostitute and the vagrant, dumped the bodies to try to throw you off the scent. Then my girlfriend had a baby, tried to blackmail me, so I killed her and the baby, burned them in the muckheap. Thought you’d never find them. That ring, it’s hers, we used to meet in the reservoir, cold and damp, but safe. She lost the ring there, I expect. Anything else you want to know?

Barr was tempted to abandon his vigil, in the cold and darkness the theory fitted. He was wasting his time here, nobody would come because Bowman was under arrest and the woman was dead.

He tensed, listened. A sound, he couldn’t identify it, then the wind outside howled and blew it away. The instruments ticked on, that drip had speeded up, it was probably the roof leaking.

A slight vibration, the concrete floor under his feet vibrated for a second or two. Like an earth tremor, it definitely came from somewhere below. He remembered what Quiles had said about the walls bowing. Christ, this bloody place would collapse if they gave way! It probably wasn’t that, it was maybe something to do with the pumping system, topping up another reservoir somewhere. The drought had been a long one.

He remembered an article he’d read about the drought in the paper last week. His favourite indulgence was the dailies. The Met guys reckoned that it needed to pour with rain every day from now until Christmas for the reservoir levels to revert to normal. Both the Minster and Stowe pools in the city were a foot below their normal level.

God, he loathed rain! It was beating on the door, the roof was leaking even faster. But we need the bloody rain, he got an urge to yell his frustration at it.

There was a lull in the wind as it gathered force for the next gust That sound came again.

Flip-flop.

Barr knew without any doubt that it came from down below, down the steps by the water. It was like something being slapped on wet concrete.

Or bare feet walking the ledge.

He strained his ears, then the wind blew again. A dilemma, it was maybe trying to make a fool of him. Sometimes your imagination fooled around with you in the dark. A process of logical elimination; there was nobody down there, nobody had come in while he was here. Conclusion, it couldn’t be anybody.

Something, then. What? A piece of plastic or PVC lying on the ledge had got caught by a funnel of wind finding its way in through that hole in the wall. Possible but improbable.

All right, a rat had found its way in, tried to scale the wall and fallen back. A flip or a flop but not both. Two rats, then. A slight possibility.

Flip-flop.

Louder this time, he even heard it above the wind. Puzzled but not scared. Every detective had an enquiring mind that became an obsession. Every question had to be answered.

He eased up from his crouched position against the wall. His job was watching the door, nobody could get in any other way. Abandoning your post was a disciplinary offence. He made the rules, the decisions, obeyed or disobeyed them.

Flop.

Just once this time, as if somebody had grown impatient of waiting and stamped a wet foot to attract attention.

All right, I’m coming! Fiddling with the ring in his pocket again, he managed to slip it onto his little finger. It was akin to doodling on a pad in the office. Boredom, the inability to relax. Barr never relaxed.

He moved stealthily, lowered each foot carefully. If it was a rat down there, he wanted to glimpse it before it bolted for cover. The object of the exercise was to satisfy his curiosity.

A puddle splashed up, soaked his socks and squelched in his shoes! Damn!

One groping hand found the hand rail, the other held the flashlight in readiness. He would flick it on when the sound came again.

A step at a time, stopping to listen on each one. He started. The wind had found the hole in the wall, hooted like a half-blown trumpet.

Down below you couldn’t hear the rain beating on the blockhouse walls. That, in itself, was a worthwhile diversion.

Except for the wind in that aperture, there was silence. Barr reached the bottom, edged out onto the narrow ledge.

A feeling, this time it had his scalp prickling. Like that time when he’d arrested the burglar at Mantons. A four-hour wait in the dark, like tonight except that it had been in a centrally heated office. A bona fide tip-off, the guy would show for certain. He had, but he’d moved so quietly that Barr hadn’t realized the other was on the premises until his scalp prickled. The way it was doing right now.

There was somebody down here.

This time there was no resounding smack from a bare foot being slapped on wet concrete. More of a slithering like whoever it was knew that he was here, too, and was maybe creeping up on him.

Christ, it was as if it had gone ten degrees colder, and the stench was like an abandoned fisherman’s catch on a quayside.

That was when Detective Inspector Barr flicked on the flashlight and what he saw in its beam had him almost screaming.

It was a woman who stood precariously on the edge of the ledge. She was stark naked.

At least, she was mostly woman. Mature beauty, she had to be approaching fifty, the curves were all in the right places but here and there her skin wrinkled like a winter apple. Barr’s eyes followed her body down; her breasts maybe sagged a little but they were full and the nipples stood out firmly.

Her hands had been clasped across her pubic area but they opened as if to let him see what lay beneath. He wondered why she stood with her feet pressed together yet splayed outwards like that, it detracted from the rest of her dignified posture. It reminded him of a shark hanging from the side of a fishing boat. Not just the tail but a combination of beauty and ferocity.

There was something strange about the texture of her skin, too. He played the narrow beam on it, saw how it glistened. That was probably because it was wet, but when you looked closely you saw a roughness; a coarseness that was uniform; maybe she had some kind of skin complaint or she had been sunbathing and her flesh had peeled.

She smiled, just a parting of her lips. Her eyes seemed to inflate, orbs that were grotesque amidst such finely cut features.

“What are you doing here?” The words didn’t come out with that ring of authority which the detective had intended.

“I live here,” her voice was husky, it reminded him of the time when he was a boy and he had put a giant seashell to his ear. A sound that was reminiscent of a distant ocean, a mystique which he had never forgotten.

“Oh, I see,” his brain had difficulty finding the intended words. Those large eyes had a repugnant fascination about them, like rock pools that hid a thousand secrets. Even when the tide ebbed, they never emptied and revealed their mystery.

She was staring at his hand, her expression changed, relief mingled with anger. “I’ve been looking for that.”

She meant the ring, of course. He experienced guilt, a shoplifter apprehended with stolen property. You offered to give it back, hoped that they wouldn’t prosecute you. “I found it, I’ve been looking for …”

“Give … it … to … me!”

Her outstretched hand touched his own. Any other time, any place else, he would have recoiled. Contact was like stroking ice-cold slime, disturbing its foulness so that it gave off an odour of putrefaction. He retched, cringed, but there was no way he could draw back from her.

“So beautiful,” she seemed engrossed in the ring, slid it on to the third finger of her left hand. “I knew I would find it again.”

The flashlight was starting to dim, yet he could see her more plainly in the waning light. It was as if her body had some kind of sheen that glowed in the darkness like luminous paint.

His confused brain tried to come up with explanations; those nude witches from a decade ago, they were still game-playing. They painted their bodies, pranced around in the nude, used the reservoir as a meeting place. They had a secret entrance somewhere. God, she was beautiful, though.

He wanted to say, “I’m a police officer, I’m arresting you on suspicion of entering private premises illegally. I must ask you to accompany me to the police station, but I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down and used in evidence against you.”

He didn’t say them, he made no attempt to arrest her. His mind was beginning to go blank.

He knew he was becoming aroused.

Suddenly, the slime and the smell, the cold and the darkness were gone. It was as if he and this ethereal female being were suspended in a void where they were the only two living entities. No other form of life existed; opposite sexes whose duty was to procreate. To breed their own life form.

Her body entwined with his, he experienced a sense of envelopment, knew that they were in water. Floating as one, twisting and turning, clutching at each other.

Beyond her was blackness. Nothing.

She pulled him towards it and with it came oblivion.

Twenty-four

“I’m going to call the police!” Jocelyn Jackson shrieked at her husband. “I’ll have that man arrested, thrown into prison …”

“Just calm down, Jos,” Barry turned away from the window where he had been engrossed in staring outside at the torrential rain. He seemed to have aged a decade overnight. “There is absolutely nothing we can do, distressing as the situation is. Thousands of women, most of them less than half Barbara’s age, just walk out through the front door of their homes and are never seen or heard of again. At least Barbara telephoned, and she isn’t going to be gone forever. She is merely going on a world cruise with Royston Shannon …”

“But they’re not even married!” Jocelyn yelled.

“For God’s sake.” He sank down into the armchair. “Don’t let’s go into all that again. She has every right to go off with him, and you can’t blame her after the way you behaved. No woman is going to stand for her tyres being deflated, the keys to the family car being hidden so that she can’t use it, along with the foot pump which might have enabled her to inflate her tyres again. You drove her straight into his arms. If anybody’s to blame for this business, it’s you!”

“I’m going to phone her boss at the office, see what he’s got to say about it. He won’t stand for her walking out like this.”

“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 his 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!”

Phil squeezed through the wire, ran up the steps against the flow of water which came up to his ankles, its opposite direction to his own brought on a feeling of vertigo.

The outer door was locked, he tested it with his weight. Thank God, at least Peter hadn’t found a way inside. Phil was afraid that the detective might have left it unlocked on his departure; it was locked and, like Kate had said, the other had simply forgotten to return the key. Right now, that was a minor concern.

“Well, Peter hasn’t come up here.” Relief again but they would not rest until they had located their missing son.

They sludged their way down the muddy watercourse until they arrived back home. Despair because there was nowhere else to look, they had eliminated every obvious possibility.

“I’ll phone the police,” Phil said in a voice that trembled.

“When was the last time you saw your son?” Detective Sergeant Webb had a reassuring manner, an important part of his job when somebody went missing was to be a calming influence on parents or relatives. In most cases missing children turned up unharmed; it was the isolated instance which you feared. This kid had probably wandered off down to the village, got up early to go and visit a school friend. The possibilities were innumerable. Right now all he wanted were basic facts.

“I looked in on him when we went to bed last night,” Kate wrung her hands in despair. “Sometime around eleven. He was asleep. We were later going to bed than usual, my husband was waiting for one of your colleagues to return the key to the reservoir.”

“Oh?” Webb’s eyebrows raised.

“Inspector Barr, he had some checking to do. He hasn’t returned the key yet. We’ve already been up to the reservoir. It’s locked but there’s no sign of him. Nor Peter.”

“The inspector has his reasons, it’s not for me to question them.” He jotted something down in his notebook. “Now, if you’ll give me a list of all your son’s school friends who live in the village, I’ll get them checked out first.”

It wasn’t easy, Kate could not think in terms of other children right now. Falteringly, fighting back her panic, she came up with names. She was sure to forget some, the school was sizeable, the village population was increasing since all those new houses had been built.

“Wait by the phone,” Webb smiled, buttoned his already saturated topcoat. “In all probability it’s something quite innocuous and you’ll get a phone call to go and collect him from somewhere. Kids are always going missing, we get calls most days. They always turn up. Certainly I’ve never known one that hasn’t. These terrible things you read in the papers are very rare happenings taking the child population of the country into consideration. The odds on anything having happened to your boy are about two million-to-one, maybe greater.”

Kate wasn’t reassured. Figures were no consolation if you happened to be the mother of that two million-to-one child.

Phil had checked the pump house buildings again, just in case. Waiting for news that might never come was the hardest part of all; between them they looked the house over once more. Just in case.

The telephone did not ring.

The police dog handlers arrived in their Land Rover shortly before 2 p.m. Daylight was a precious commodity with the onset of autumn, if Hopwas Wood had to be searched, better sooner than later.

A company of cadets from the nearby barracks arrived soon afterwards under the command of a lance corporal. They had been recalled from a survival course on the Staffordshire moors; the opportunity to put their basic training into practice was not to be missed.

A long line of searchers stretched from the roadside larches to the quagmire fields beyond the Lady Walk. Youths in camouflage, slashing at the sodden undergrowth with sticks like beaters on a pheasant hunt, flat-capped police officers in navy-blue waterproofs allowing their Alsatians a roving commission.

If there was a body in the woods, the dogs would find it.

A helicopter hovered above.

The search had begun as a routine procedure , by dusk it had intensified. The wind had dropped, the rain was now falling vertically, heavier than before.

The reservoir bank was bulging under the pressure of the escaping water.

Twenty-six

The water witch held the boy aloft, lifted him clear of the steadily rising water, perched him on her shoulder. His head lolled to one side, his eyes were closed. He had answered her call in his sleep; mercifully, he still slept.

She regarded the others with undisguised contempt, saw how they had retreated up the steps before the lapping water. Her eyes narrowed, she scrutinized them for signs of the Change; they were not ready yet and she knew from experience that the transformation was not instant.

Behind her the water gushed in through the hole in the wall. Another cracking sound, it would not be long before the structure collapsed beneath the pressure, released a mighty torrent to sweep down the wooded hillside to the rising floods below. Soon the whole landscape would be awash.

Detective Inspector Barr’s body bobbed in the swell. It rolled over, arms outstretched like a bizarre swimmer.

Peter stirred restlessly as if he was dreaming, Mukasa lowered him, cradled him to her bosom. His bare feet trailed in the water.

“The time is nigh, my little one,” a croon, she fondled his damp hair. “One day power infinite shall be yours.”

Her gaze shifted, settled on Shannon. She read fear in his eyes, something else; bitter disappointment. Because he should have been at her side in the water, a king with his queen. The expressions of the others conveyed their hate for their high priest, one whom they had trusted and who had betrayed them at the end. Fodder for his lust for power, sacrifices. Mukasa smiled knowingly.

Shannon was changing, the roughness on his flesh was spreading like a rash. It would take time but she would not give him that time. Because he was dangerous, even to the Queen of the People of the Water.

“False prophet,” her words were scathing, she saw him cringe. “A true follower and yet your motive was only power for yourself. You gave me sacrifices but they were merely victims of a species which usurped the domain that belongs to the Chosen. Then you tried to deceive me by giving me the woman and her child, foolishly thought that I would believe that it was a holy infant conceived by my disciple. A treacherous lie to further your own quest for power. You hoped that your power would be as mine, that you would become a ruler. Now you are undergoing the change,” her lips curled into a snarl and she shrieked, “but it is too late!”

“No, it isn’t true!” Shannon whined, glanced behind him, saw that Stogie and the others had risen to their feet, their expressions of hatred were no longer disguised.

“One final sacrifice, give it to me, and then the earth shall be ours!”

Shannon saw the knife in Stogie’s hand, the others were crowding behind him, treading water on the steps. Reaching out for him.

There was no way back, no escape.

“Traitors, false disciples!” He hissed at them.

Then he leaped, the twisting dive of a natural swimmer, hit the water with a splash and went under. Down, down into the dark depths. He touched the bottom, struck back up for the surface.

A hand grabbed for him, tried to pull him back. He struggled, struck out. A face floated close to his own.

The living dead features of Detective Inspector Barr.

A soft white hand groped him obscenely, he kicked it away. Fish-like eyes that bulged and saw, cavernous mouth agape, a predator that lusted for Shannon’s flesh.

Shapes everywhere, those familiar costumes like a shoal of giant piranhas hunting him in the murky depths. He caught a glimpse of a face as he dodged it; Debbie, expressionless, a water zombie obeying the commands of its deity.

Lisa, bubbling from her full red lips; her fingernails clawed him as he struck out at her.

Sheila, timid even in total obedience, backing off from him.

And Stogie.

Stogie grinned evilly, the extended knife was more than an empty threat; he slashed viciously but the water slowed his arm, enabled Shannon to dive beneath it, grip the other’s wrist. Face-to-face, straining for supremacy.

Shannon’s strength was greater, the weapon slipped from opened fingers. Perhaps Royston Shannon would have overcome his adversary but the others appeared out of the murkiness, sharks that had scented blood and had come for the kill.

Hands groped for a hold, the high priest kicked out at them but there were too many for him. His wrists were pulled behind his back, held; Debbie and Sheila had his ankles.

You cannot drown me because I am one of the People of the Water. You will drown first for your Change has barely begun.

They were laughing insanely. Stogie floated round, his expression was demoniacal.

And then another shape materialized out of the watery darkness, trod water and gazed with perplexity. Shannon thought that it was Mukasa, who had once been Barbara Jackson, but the other had the naked shapeliness of a younger woman. There was something frighteningly familiar about her, the way she hung back as if she was afraid of the others.

A luminous glow infiltrated the deep, spread softly. Shannon screamed within himself for there was no mistaking those dead-white features.

It was Sharon Levy.

Still holding on to their captive, the others made way for her. Come, Sharon, this is the one who lured you into sacrificial death.

She was smiling with the lust that had been her profession, struggling to position herself for the unholy mating which she had in mind.

No!

Yes! Her supple, icy fingers made him how she wanted him, she lowered herself down on to him, a nymph astride a giant sea horse. Cries of ecstasy came from beyond the grave, her corpse shook with a pleasure which she had long abandoned all hope of experiencing again. The delights of the flesh, the living and the dead.

Shannon prayed for death, gave up his struggles. But death was no release, in this temple of the undead, you died but to live again.

He writhed and she went with him, every turn and twist. Behind and around her, the voyeurs watched with undisguised lust.

Barr was there, floating above so that he had an overhead view, moving his head this way and that so that he might miss nothing. Something jostled him, a scrawny body whose tattered trousers revealed skeletal legs. A ribboned coat trailed, the crushed and blackheaded face was partly hidden behind a mangy beard.

Grunting his delight, trying to paw the policeman out of the way in order to obtain a better view. Gloating over the ultimate fate of the one who had sentenced his body and soul to the eternal sufferings of this dreadful place.

Maddox had been recalled from purgatory.

A scrawny hand reached out, blackened fingernails raked Shannon’s face, the cadaverous lips grunted their inarticulate hate.

Shannon gave up his struggles, he opened his mouth, prayed for death by drowning.

It was impossible, the Change had gone too far. Already he was an amphibious creature.

He sensed the vibrations of screamed underwater rage, cringed before yet another awful spectre from the shadows. This time the shape was so disfigured and blackened that it was scarcely recognizable, a hairless skeleton that clutched a charred infant where once her breasts had sagged, heavy with milk. A tiny, wriggling babe whose mouth sucked in vain, blew mucus bubbles, dribbled slime. Eye sockets that seemed to see, to understand, half turned in the direction of the prisoner of the dead.

You did this to us!

Sharon was lying across him, temporarily spent, her foul lips pressed against his own. A forest of fingers stroked him, mocked him. Trying to turn away as Maddox clawed for him again.

Hold him down, drown him.

Fools, you are too late to drown me. It is you who have barely begun the Change who will drown.

Shannon sensed a hand loosen its grip, he had an arm free; then another. He kicked out, freed his legs. A sudden turn dislodged Sharon Levy, she tumbled with flailing arms.

Debbie, Sheila and Lisa were churning the water to a foam, desperately trying to surface for air. Their efforts were in vain as skeletal and fire blackened hands grabbed for them. Maddox was pedalling water in his lust, Barr had a hold on one of them; Sharon had swum to join in the frenzy.

The dead were not going to allow the living to escape.

Shannon glided to a safe distance; it was impossible to see what was happening as shadow grappled with shadow. His confused brain realized that somehow the Change had saved him from the depredations of the cult. The dead recognized the futility of attempting to drown him, they had turned their attentions upon those who were still vulnerable.

Mukasa had ordered his sacrifice; instead, it was Shannon’s followers who would die. He checked his urge to surface for up above, protecting her adopted son and waiting for him to become a changeling, the terrible deity reclined upon the fast submerging steps. For the moment her own underwater domain was taboo, she was stranded.

Between himself and the only escape route.

He floated in a dark corner, knew by the turbulence of the water that the struggle between the dead and the living still raged. Suddenly, one who ruled over his followers had become a fugitive.

Something drifted into view, sank to the bottom. Shannon could tell by its shape that it was Stogie, his head lying at an unnatural angle. Bubbles came from the open mouth. Before long the corpse would float slowly up to the surface.

Shannon edged his way along the perimeter wall, in places it bulged alarmingly. Directly above him he felt the force of the inlet as the storm water poured in. It was like standing beneath a raging waterfall.

He moved on cautiously.

Lisa; drifting upwards, she passed within a yard of him. Ripped cheeks, bloody flesh trailing. Tufts of hair were gone from her head, there were bite marks on her abdomen where her attackers had briefly turned to cannibalism in their insatiable rage and hunger.

A dismembered limb lay on the floor, sinewy tentacles drifting like waterweed. He had no idea to whom it had once belonged.

Shadows that came and went, he cowered from them.

Time was meaningless, for Shannon it had ceased to exist. It might be seconds, hours since Mukasa had proclaimed his death sentence. A sudden thought crossed his mind; she had sought to kill him before he changed, but her mystic powers had failed her. For himself the Change had come fast, like it had for the one who had once been Barbara Jackson. Immortality had spread in the form of scales, the ability to survive below water. Regression.

She could not destroy him now that he had become one of the People of the Water. A feeling of invincibility, euphoria, engulfed him. At this very moment he was more powerful than the Queen whom he had worshipped since boyhood. She could not enter the water without abandoning her child, and that she would not do. Shannon was able to walk upon land, or exist below water, he was in a fortuitous amphibious state. How long it would last, he had no idea, before his new life form imprisoned him in the depths forever.

The old dead were gone back whence they came, the new dead floated or lay in the sacred pool of Mukasa. He was its only living occupant.

He would bide his time here until …

A sudden movement threw him, he clutched despairingly at the wall against which he leaned, felt it move outwards. The water swirled, rushed.

Suddenly, there was turmoil, gigantic waves pounding and foaming, a cauldron seething within the surrounds that had confined it for so long. An avalanche of steel girders and concrete, soil and grass, that had for so long been the roof of this underground reservoir. The bowing walls had finally collapsed.

Mukasa had destroyed her temple because she no longer had need of it.

Twenty-seven

“I can’t stand it, I can’t bloody stand it any longer!”

Kate Quiles finally snapped, flung herself face downwards on the couch, beat at the cushions with her fists.

Phil went to her, slipped an arm around her shaking body. He wasn’t far off his own breaking point, for her sake he had to cling on by his fingertips.

The search for their son had been abandoned at dusk. Maybe in better weather conditions police and army would have continued using artificial lighting. But there was no denying the futility, the impossibility of carrying on; if anything, the rain was even heavier than earlier in the day.

The reservoir was leaking, Phil had no doubt about that. The torrent that foamed on down past the house and out onto the road could only have come from one place. In any other circumstances Phil would have been on the phone to HQ Emergencies, right now he didn’t care. Maybe the reservoir would empty itself steadily instead of bursting, that way they would not have to go to the trouble of draining it.

The road was closed, anyway, because of the flooding down by the Fox. The water from the low-lying meadows had finally broken through the sandbagged barriers. There was a traffic diversion somewhere back towards the city, a wide detour that took vehicles well away from Hopwas. Now there was a possibility that that road might become flooded, too.

But none of these things mattered when your son had been missing for sixteen hours.

“He’s dead. I know he’s dead!” Kate sobbed uncontrollably.

Phil had run out of suggestions, consolations. Anywhere that Peter might have gone had been checked out hours ago. He recalled something that a leading policeman had said on television only a few weeks ago after a child missing for days had been found strangled in a ditch.

“You can hunt for days, it’s only the very lucky kids that are found alive. Mostly, they’re dead within an hour of being abducted.”

Phil had given up saying “I know they’ll find him alive” because he could no longer say it with conviction. The waiting was the worst part, in some ways terrible news would be a relief.

The phone rang, a harsh bleeping. Kate beat him to it, fumbled the receiver off its hook, almost dropped it. “Yes?” Please God that they’ve found him.

It was only Hazel, Kate’s sister, phoning for the fifth time since three o’clock. Hopwas had been on the evening television news; the floods mostly, just a mention that a six-year-old boy had gone missing.

“No, we’ve heard nothing, I’ll let you know as soon as we do.”

Kate leaned up against the wall, she looked as if she might faint. “There won’t be a call because nobody will be searching again until daylight.”

“It’s impossible out there,” he found himself listening to the rain on the window. The forecast was that the area of low pressure was deepening, there was a second one close on its tail out in the Atlantic. Flood warnings; the gales would return overnight.

“He’s out there somewhere,” her voice was a whisper.

Phil didn’t answer, the last thing she needed was for somebody to agree with her.

“Out there in this,” her expression changed, anger infiltrated her hopelessness. “All alone. Dead or alive, he’s out there in the woods. We can’t just leave him there, Phil.”

“We’ve done everything we can.” It sounded trite, a self-exoneration. Smug satisfaction.

“Have we?” Her tone was accusing, he wilted before her gaze.

“I’m still trying to think of something, somewhere Peter might’ve gone that we haven’t thought of. Maybe he’s got shut in somewhere …”

“Like a dog or a cat,” she was scathing. “You’re as bad as the rest of them, looking for excuses. Stalling, putting off the inevitable. I know where he is, Phil.”

He stared at her, she had flipped and it wasn’t any wonder.

“He’s up there,” she inclined her head, her red-rimmed eyes were done with crying because there weren’t any tears left, “in that bloody reservoir. With that fish woman. I know, because I saw her trying to drag him through that hole in the wall down into her foul lair.”

Christ, you’re crazy, I’d better try to get the doctor up here, you should have been sedated hours ago. No woman can stand …

“You think I’m crazy,” she didn’t laugh, her voice was almost normal. “Yes, I saw her. I thought it was a dream, I hoped it was. But Peter had sneaked off into the wood again while I was asleep in the deckchair. Or rather, his soul had. In some strange way my astral body followed him, a mother’s instinct that her child is in danger. Just like I know he is now if he isn’t already dead. I got him away from her, we both woke up on the lawn, maybe Peter thought it was a dream, too. But it wasn’t. That creature up there, that witch, she meant to have him, Phil. And now she’s got him!”

He was visibly shaken, he told her about the ring, how he’d found it, returned it to Mukasa, for that was the inscription on the ring and he presumed it was her name; that Mrs Jackson had said that Mukasa was some kind of water goddess. But Mukasa hadn’t taken her ring back, perhaps she couldn’t find it. Detective Inspector Barr had picked it up on his previous visit, that was maybe the reason he had returned last night.

And where was Barr right now? Why hadn’t he returned the reservoir keys? Surely he would have come back when it was known that Peter was missing, even if he was off duty.

“It all figures,” Kate seemed to pull herself together, suddenly there was a new determination about her. “That witch has not only got Peter, but she’s taken Barr, too, because he trespassed in her domain, maybe discovered something that she couldn’t afford to let the outside world know.”

“I’d better try to get hold of Inspector Barr.”

“You’re wasting your time, as well as valuable time that could mean the difference between life or death for Peter, if it isn’t already too late. Barr won’t come back, you can bet on that. But we have to go up there and look inside that reservoir. Christ, Phil, that’s the one place that nobody’s bothered to look. Just because it’s locked, they presume that our son can’t possibly be in there.”

“I don’t have a key,” he spread his hands hopelessly. “Barr’s got them, wherever he is.”

“Then we’d better break the door down.”

“With what, it’s a heavy duty …”

“There’s a pickaxe been propped up against one of the filter beds ever since those workmen finished putting in a land drain. It’ll do.” She turned to the row of coat hooks, reached down her Barbour thornproof.

“Kate, you don’t realize …”

“You don’t have to come with me,” there was contempt in her expression. “I can find that pickaxe, I’ll break down the door myself. Now, all I need is your rechargeable torch …”

“All right, we’ll go,” he reached for his stormproof jacket, it was still damp and stiff from a soaking earlier in the day.

Things added up but you still had difficulty believing them. In the end you believed them because there was no believable alternative.

She had the door open, there was maybe an inch of water covering the sunken blue brick patio right in the way to the yard gate. Beyond it they could hear the torrent where the water coming down from the wood rushed on its way to the road.

The night was murky, the beam of the powerful light was thrown back at them; a mistiness now that there was no wind to disperse it.

The absence of traffic on the nearby road created a sense of desolation. If you needed help, they wouldn’t be able to get to you. Even the helicopter was grounded until daylight.

Kate clicked the gate latch, half turned back in a listening posture. “The phone …”

It wasn’t the phone, or if it had been, it wasn’t ringing now. Maybe there was a cable fault suddenly because of the flooding.

Kate pulled the gate wide. The phone wouldn’t be any help now, anyway, because nobody would have any news of Peter. They couldn’t possibly have because he was up there in the reservoir.

There was no other place he could be.

Twenty-eight

A large section of the reservoir roof had collapsed, chunks of concrete and steel girders crashing into the water, creating a miniature tidal wave.

The water churned, Shannon was helpless against its force, hurled one way, then another. Miraculously, he wasn’t battered against the sides, debris avalanched all around him but it was as if he bore a charmed life.

There was total blackness, water rushed and pounded, he had the feeling that he might be swept away with the torrent on a River Styx, borne down to the bowels of hell. He had no choice other than to await his fate.

Then, gradually, that soft eerie glow returned, enough for him to be able to discern shapes, silhouettes. A girder was propped up at a crazy angle, it had to be resting against one of the walls; a body, all he could make out was that it was female, long hair that could only belong to Sheila, trailing like seaweed as she floated.

Another was trapped beneath a pile of rubble. Legs and arms were splayed as if whoever it was still lived and was struggling to free themself. Female again. Debbie or Lisa, it didn’t matter which. Doubtless the features were unrecognizable, the head crushed to pulp beneath the roof fall. Even had there still been life in the body, Shannon would not have offered assistance. They had planned to kill him, death must be their punishment, every one of them.

Shannon started when he saw Stogie. The other stood upright, swayed on his feet, arms raised in a threatening gesture, his thick lips drawn back to bare his nicotine-stained teeth in a bestial snarl.

Eyes that saw and hated the one whom he blamed for their destruction and the desecration of this shrine of evil.

Shannon tried to back away but the strength of the current pushed him forward. Somehow Stogie had survived, had undergone the Change and was now a repulsive subhuman species, a predator of the deep.

Shannon grabbed the arm that struck at him, felt its unbelievable strength as it forced him backwards; Stogie’s skin was slippery, it was impossible to maintain a hold. The slime-coated flesh would soon form scales and then the regression would be complete.

Face-to-face in unarmed combat, their features masks of malevolence; victory, itself, would not be sufficient, death as they knew it was impossible for both had stepped beyond mortal barriers.

Stogie had all the advantages; he was only half the age of the one who for so long had been his master and tyrant; his violent upbringing stood him in good stead. There were no rules to be observed, no honour. No prize for the victor. Only the loser; annihilation, the body mutilated to pulp so that it was no use to either mortal or the living dead.

A bite from those blackened teeth closed on Shannon’s slippery grip, had him relinquishing his precarious hold, mouthing a shout of pain. A kick took him in the groin, bent him double.

Dazed, he warded off a downward chop with his injured hand, experienced agony that could only have come from a broken bone.

Guts balling, he fought one-handed, defensive measures against kicks and punches, clawing nails. But he was tiring. He stumbled, lost his footing, fell onto his hands and knees. Head bowed, eyes closed, his strength had ebbed. He braced himself, awaited the coup de grâce.

Stogie’s foot kicked against a chunk of rock, he stooped to pick it up, moved in for the kill. His eyes filmed, he savoured a mental image of the high priest’s skull; matter oozing from out of the splintered bone, stringing through the water like spring frogspawn. Blood; like red wine spritzer as it diluted, turning the water pink.

Stogie was merciless and Shannon was at his mercy. Stogie strained to lift the concrete above his head, held it there, almost overbalanced beneath its weight. Still he gloated for the deed might prove to be an anticlimax, it would be over in seconds.

Shannon was pleading to be spared; Stogie was in no hurry.

That proved to be his downfall.

Something struck the surface above, the impact creating yet another turbulence; the levels gauge, riveted to an upright steel stanchion that had fallen with it, sixteen metres in height and weighing half a ton, had become loosened with the vibrations and the pounding of the water.

Stogie’s squat head disintegrated instantly, pulped in the same way in which he had envisaged crushing that of his adversary.

Decapitated.

A headless creature of the deep was held upright by the pressure of the swirling water, the jagged lump of concrete falling from his raised arms, seemed to float down to the floor. The empty hands appeared to wave in rage and frustration, a beheaded rooster whose nerves still controlled its body movements.

Instead of Shannon’s blood, it was Stogie’s that discoloured the water. He turned slowly as if walking away, humbled in defeat. A couple of bizarre steps and then he crumpled, sank down and lay still.

Shannon forced himself upright, gasped his surprise as his head broke the choppy surface. Instinctively, he drew breath.

And reeled from a sensation of suffocation.

Changed to exist below water, air was not conducive to his adapted lungs.

A fit of dizziness blurred his vision but it failed to hide from his frightened eyes the sight of the water witch upon the steps above, holding her adopted son and heir.

Her gaze was fixed upon him as if she had been expecting his reappearance, had perhaps even commanded him to surface before her. A goddess angered by her disciple. So evil. The beauty which had once been hers was lost beneath a veneer of malevolence. In a way, she reminded him of Stogie, the bared teeth and the hate-filled eyes. A hag ageing before her time.

The boy rested against her, appeared to be asleep, oblivious of all that had happened. From somewhere close by came a gurgling sound as the outlet pipe sucked greedily, thirstily; perhaps it, too, was angry because the water had burst out of its confinement.

Water still flowed in through the hole in the remaining section of wall but the level was dropping fast; it gushed out faster than it filled, was now only just above Shannon’s waist.

Something brushed against his thigh, instinctively he shied from it; a lifeless hand making one final futile assault upon the one whose treachery and obsession with the powers of darkness had destroyed the followers of the People of the Water.

Stogie’s corpse bobbed, floated away. Death was only a transition period, a time of waiting. Eventually, he would be reborn.

“The Floods have begun,” Mukasa bore no resemblance to the life form which she had inhabited prior to the Change. Barbara Jackson was gone as surely as if she had never existed.

Shannon trembled. Even now that his own regression had come about, he did not doubt her power to destroy him.

“Before long all the land will be gone, the oceans will reclaim that which is rightfully theirs!” Her shriek echoed in the fast draining underground chamber. “I have my son, another will be born to me soon.” Her scaly abdomen seemed to throb in the greenish glow which emanated from her. “Those who sought eternal life for power alone shall be destroyed!”

The ring glinted on her finger, seemed to mock him. She stroked the child lovingly.

“But I, too, have Changed!” He tried to summon defiance amidst his terror. “I have achieved immortality, I am one of the People of the Water.”

“No, you are too late. You are neither land creature nor water dweller. See how you gasp for air, struggle to breathe. Beneath the water, you will drown. Above it, you will suffocate. You are neither one form nor the other. You are trapped in mid-change!”

It was true. Shannon sank to his knees, submerged his head. After a few seconds, he surfaced for air. But he was unable to fill his lungs, his vision began to darken, streaked with crimson.

The creature on the steps was now a blurred, shimmering outline, a luminous fish shape that cradled her sleeping child to her, crooned over it.

Stogie returned like an alligator pretending to be a half-submerged log, entwined a dead arm around Shannon’s legs, defied the other’s weakening efforts to kick it away. Clutching fingers locked, pulled with the current.

Come on down into the water which you worshipped in life, Royston Shannon.

A shriek that might have been the storm howling in through the gaping roof. Or it could have Mukasa’s cry of triumph at her Coming.

Shannon tottered, lost his balance, fell headlong with a splash. Stogie rolled, surfaced on top of him, bore him down and pinned him to the floor. Headless, yet the corpse body pulsed with life, a burden that had the weight of an octopus and the strength of its tentacles.

Shannon’s struggles grew still weaker, his once noble features were bloated, mutely pleading with his deity and her living-dead servant for mercy and forgiveness.

Mukasa moved, a slithering that took her back up the wide steps, holding her child tightly in case he should wriggle from her slippery hold, fall back into the water and drown. She paused to check his skin texture, frowned. He was not Changing as she would have wished.

And that was, indeed, cause for concern.

Twenty-nine

“It’s coming in through the back door!” Jocelyn Jackson shrieked her alarm, found a mop and bucket in the cupboard, and began to swab at the encroaching trickle of water. Within seconds the seepage had become a steady flow. “Barry, where are you? Go get that pile of newspapers, anything to soak up the water.”

There was no reply. He was a lazy bugger, she muttered angrily beneath her breath, all he wanted to do these days was to write his silly stories which nobody would ever publish, anyway. Senile fantasies.

She squeezed out the mop again. She was definitely fighting a losing battle, before long the kitchen would be flooded, then the water would seep through into the hallway; that new carpet would be ruined. The insurance would pay out, no problem there, but no woman liked to stand by and watch her Axminster being ruined.

It was all Barbara’s fault. If she had been here, between the two of them they could have kept the water at bay. Barry wouldn’t be any use, not even if he showed up.

Something smelled bad, Jocelyn sniffed the air, almost retched. It was the water, it smelled just like it had that day when she had gone into the reservoir with Mister Quiles. It was polluted, not fit to drink, she made up her mind to write to the authority about it, her Member of Parliament if that didn’t do any good.

She stared at the encroaching, spreading pool inside the door. It was a strange colour. It had a greenish hue, muck and slime and some of that moss that grew on the patio outside that Barry had been too idle to clear. God, it stank!

Where the hell was Barry? She gave up calling for him, wasting her breath. She’d mop this lot up on her own.

At that moment the lights went out, plunged the house into darkness. They had been threatening to go off for the past hour, flickering. Once they had extinguished, come back on again within a few seconds. She knew that this time it was for real. A sort of dead feeling, a permanency about the blackness.

“Damnation! Bar … ry!” Jocelyn tried to find the bucket to squeeze her mop again, missed. It sounded like a fish flopping on the wet floor. The power was bound to fail, no way would it have survived the night in such atrocious conditions. There was probably a fault with the main transformer and it would take the emergency engineers hours to fix it. And they’d stop work for their tea breaks, too, like there wasn’t any hurry. Folks died during power failures for a lot of reasons and burglars capitalized on them. Jocelyn had a phobia about break-ins, there had been several in the village in recent months. It was eerie just thinking about intruders in your house. She shuddered.

“A damned good job I put some candles ready,” she talked aloud to herself as she groped her way across to the scrubbed pine table. A matchbox rattled to her touch. She scraped one, even the tiny flame was comforting.

The wick caught, spread a soft golden glow as it burned up; flickered and created shadows.

Jocelyn goose bumped. She had never liked the dark, right from childhood, but she had kept her fear to herself. Barbara hadn’t liked it, either, when she was small, but her mother had insisted that she sleep in an unlit room. Night lights and candles cost money, they also started fires if they tipped over.

Barbara had screamed her terror more than once in the dead of night but Jocelyn hadn’t gone to comfort her daughter. That was only pandering to childish fears. There were times when one had to be cruel in order to be kind. Eventually, Barbara had outgrown her fear. At least, Jocelyn thought she had.

“Barry, where the hell’ve you got to?” He couldn’t possibly be writing in the dark and his eyes weren’t good enough to see to work by candlelight. “The water’s coming into the kitchen fast, it’ll be through to the hallway soon.”

Ah! She could hear him now, slopping his feet through the water. Funny, she thought he was still upstairs but instead he was coming in from the flooded patio. He’d probably been out in the garage all the time, messing about with the Rover instead of doing what he should have been doing, helping to mop up this foul, stinking floodwater.

“There’s another mop in the cupboard. And get those newspapers …”

Jocelyn’s voice trailed away, she stared at the figure which had pushed open the back door, crawled inside.

“Who … who’re you?” She backed away, kicked over the bucket so that its filthy contents spilled back out.

Whoever it was, it most certainly wasn’t her husband. A burglar? She checked her scream, a thief in the night wouldn’t be entering on hands and knees. Somebody who was injured then, maybe a road casualty. I’ll phone for an ambulance but it won’t get through the floods. I won’t even attempt to bandage you up because I can’t stand the sight of blood, I’d faint.

“Ba … rry!” Jocelyn was close to hysteria.

She couldn’t see the intruder properly in the candlelight, only that it was a woman. The outline was female. Well, mostly. Except for the lower half of the other’s body which appeared to be wrapped up in a rug or a blanket. She was dragging herself through the spreading water, clutched a sleeping child in her arms.

That, in itself, was strange. But it wasn’t that which finally brought a scream to Jocelyn Jackson’s thin lips.

It was because she recognized her own daughter. An almost extinct maternal instinct that went way beyond physical features for there was little resemblance to Barbara in the face which moved out of the patch of shadow. But Jocelyn knew that it could not be anybody else.

Even though Barbara wasn’t Barbara any longer. And that which Jocelyn saw she tried to disbelieve for it was too awful to contemplate.

She screamed a second time.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Barbara’s words were the hiss of a deadly snake, taunting its intended victim, “even though that would be the kindest act I could bestow upon you. I’m going to let you suffer, watch your coveted possessions being sodden, ruined. Even the new bedroom suite in your room, because the floods will submerge the house. You’ll climb up on to the roof to try to escape, cling on to a chimney as the water rises right up to your sagging tits.”

“How dare you!”

“Up to your scrawny, wrinkled neck, over your puking mouth so you won’t be able to bitch and whine and complain about everybody and everything. In the end, you’ll drown. It won’t be quick.”

“Barbara!” A pleading whine, the mop fell to the floor, splashed foul-smelling water over Jocelyn. It tasted vile, she spat and retched. “Please. Barbara.”

“Too late,” a cracked laugh that sounded scarcely human. “I’ve only come because I wanted you to know before you died. Now, I must return with my son to the remnants of my temple to await my finest hour.”

“Your son? This is impossible!” Jocelyn leaned weakly against the table, oblivious of the water which now reached up to her ankles, was creeping through into the hallway. Barbara’s sanity was gone. Was it any wonder, mixed up with that dreadful man who had brainwashed her? There were rumours about Royston Shannon in the village recently, he was supposedly some kind of weird religious fanatic.

“He’s my son.”

The fish creature, maybe it was some kind of hallucination or a trick of the candlelight, was now only too familiar to Jocelyn. She remembered the mermaid on the ring which she had found down in the reservoir. “Barbara … wait!”

“No, I must hurry, the Floods are here, faster and deeper than even I anticipated.”

“Just … just talk to your father before you go. Please.”

“No,” the other swivelled her strange body around, held the boy clear of the rising water. “You go talk to him. At least he won’t die the way you’re going to die!”

Then the thing which had once been Barbara Jackson was gone out into the rain lashed night.

Jocelyn turned away, waded through to the hallway. The floods were already lapping over the bottom stair.

“Barry!” Her shout echoed eerily. “Barry, quick. Barbara’s come back. She’s left the back way, you’ll have to go after her.”

Still there was no answer. Barry had to be upstairs, he couldn’t be any place else. He was lazy, impossible, didn’t want to undertake the smallest chore. He had probably gone to bed, sought refuge in sleep.

Jocelyn held on to the banister, followed it across the landing, stubbed her toe on a footstool that her husband hadn’t bothered to put away. She kicked open the bedroom door.

“I thought so!” Relief and anger, she stood at the foot of the bed, there was just enough half-light coming in through the unclosed curtains for her to discern the only-too-familiar form beneath the crumpled blankets. “When there’s a crisis, you either make a recluse of yourself and write your childish stories or else you go and hide in bed. Now, you can damned well get up, get dressed and go after Barbara!” Her voice rose to a shriek.

She moved across, shook him roughly. He didn’t stir.

“Come on, it’s no good faking sleep.”

His head rolled to one side, his mouth was open but he wasn’t snoring the way he always did. Which meant he wasn’t really asleep. In her anger she slapped his cheek, a dull sound. He didn’t so much as flinch or groan a protest.

Realization that her husband had passed away peacefully in his sleep took several seconds to filter through to Jocelyn’s confused brain.

Her first reaction was revulsion, backing away because she had never encountered a corpse before. She had even refused to go and see her own parents in the Chapel of Rest because she feared death.

Because it was a reminder to her of the day when, inevitably, she, too, would die.

Barbara’s words came back to her, brought with them a nightmarish vision of herself clinging onto the chimney as the floodwater relentlessly rose up to drown her.

Barbara, and it surely was Barbara, had ensured that her father did not live to suffer the final ignominy.

Jocelyn rushed back to the head of the stairs, saw that the water was already half way up, down in the hallway a table and chair floated; the telephone was already underwater.

Outside, the wind had gathered force, drove the rain against the house, battered it mercilessly as though it had singled it out for destruction. Just as the elements had destroyed the temple of she who had returned to rule over a watery world, they seemed intent on demolishing the home of her parents who had spawned this terrible evil.

Mukasa’s revenge on her own mother was only just beginning.

Thirty

“It’s sheer madness!” Phil screamed into the rising wind. “We’ll never make it up there.”

“We have to!” Kate gripped the pickaxe, used it to keep her balance, in the manner of a skier in an attempt to negotiate the muddy, waterlogged slope. “Peter’s up there somewhere, we have to go to him.”

The forest floor was a foot deep in swirling, muddy water. The whole hillside was deluging, trees were crashing down as the torrent washed away the soil from around their roots. Now the wind was driving the rain horizontally again.

The beam from the powerful rechargeable torch reflected, dazzled. It was impossible to see further than a few yards.

“The reservoir must’ve burst,” Phil shouted in Kate’s ear. “Rain alone wouldn’t make a flood of this size. I tell you, we won’t get as far as the reservoir, the water’s getting deeper all the time. If we don’t turn back, we’ll be swept away. The entire village will be under water by morning!”

“What’s that?” Instinctively, Kate pulled at her husband, almost overbalanced him. “Oh, my God!”

Phil swung the light. “What?”

“Over there, caught up in that fallen tree.”

He looked where she pointed, tried to shield what he saw in the beam from her with his own body.

It was a human corpse, horribly mutilated, its disfigured features staring at them, a torn and open mouth screaming for help even in death.

There was something familiar about it that even its terrible injuries were unable to hide.

“It’s the detective!” he muttered.

“Then where’s Peter?” Kate would have gone forward but he held her back.

“If he is up here, and I very much doubt it,” he tried to sound convincing, “then we don’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of finding him.”

“I’m going to look, anyway,” she struggled.

A sudden rush of water hit them, Phil grabbed a low branch, hung onto Kate with his free hand. A pounding wave that would surely have swept them away had not its full force been broken by the trees up ahead. Water that foamed waist high, rushed onwards.

He swung the light back; there was no sign of the body. It must have been carried away in the raging current or else they had imagined it. Maybe Barr had been prowling around up by the reservoir again tonight, which was why he hadn’t returned the key, and he had been unfortunate enough to be washed away when those bowing walls finally yielded to the pressure. His broken body had been tossed through the wood, battered and torn by the trees.

“There’s no way we can go on,” Phil pulled Kate to him. His main concern was whether or not they would ever get back. If they did, then surely their home would have been swept away.

They clung onto the tree, it was as if they were trapped in a maelstrom; the pine shifted alarmingly, they felt the ground move beneath their feet. Somewhere behind them another tree fell, they heard it splash down amidst a cracking of branches.

“Surely the reservoir has to empty,” Kate was trembling. “A million gallons can’t flood forever.”

“It could be that the computer at HQ has registered it very low and some bloody fool has switched on the inlet so that there’s an emergency supply going into it,” he voiced his worst fears. “In which case, it’ll just go on pouring down the hillside. Christ, the whole countryside will be flooded by tomorrow, the river is already overflowed.”

“What’s that?” He felt her stiffen, look behind them.

There was a lull in the gale, all he could hear was the sound of roaring water.

“I heard something. Like somebody moving about, splashing.”

“A log, I expect, there’s trees down all over the place.”

“No. No, it wasn’t a log. It sounded like … like somebody swimming. Phil, shine the light back down the hillside.”

It wasn’t easy, a half turn while trying to hold onto the tree at the same time, the moving water gave him a sense of vertigo. He reminded himself to go easy with the torch, rechargeable lights weren’t like the regular torches that grew dim when the batteries were run down and gave you ample warning. One moment the light was fine, the next you were in pitch darkness. And this one hadn’t been charged up recently.

The circle of white light showed a swamp-like scene; the Everglades, the Okefenokee, you shied away in case you spied an alligator coming right for you.

And there was one only a couple of yards away, struggling amidst a mass of broken branches that had piled up between some trees, its scales glinting evilly in the sudden bright light, its tail swishing with anger and frustration at its plight.

“Jesus Alive!” Phil pulled Kate back, his first thought was to lift her up into the low branches of the giant Scots pine, clamber up after her. Maybe the creature had broken free from a menagerie sought its freedom in the fortuitous floods.

“Phil, it’s that fish creature, and she’s got Peter!”

It was crazy but it was true. His eyes followed on from the swishing tail, up beyond where the scaly skin ended. Human breasts, a face that was dark with fury, a thing that was half-woman, half-fish.

And in spite of her struggles, she held their son clear of the water. Unbelievably. Peter appeared to be fast asleep. Or dead.

Kate screamed, and this time there was no way that Phil could have restrained her. Her strength was fuelled by a maternal instinct that had no thought for the flood dangers nor some creature whose very existence was sufficient to blast one’s sanity into gibbering imbecility.

Kate waded forward, lifted up the heavy workman’s pickaxe, held it shoulder high in a menacing manner.

The other was dazzled, held up a hand in an attempt to shield her eyes. There were weals on her face where branches had sprung back on her, her body was streaked with mud.

“Give me my son!” Kate took another step forward, lifted her weapon higher.

“Fool!” The water witch spat, gave a bestial snarl. “This child is mine, one day he will rule the earth at my side.”

Kate shuddered, the woman was raving mad. But, when half of your body was like a fish, there was no way you could be normal. The figment of her nightmarish dream that afternoon had become awful reality in a flooded forest.

Peter stirred suddenly, his eyes flickered open. His expression changed from one of contented slumber to sheer terror.

“Mommy!” A shrill scream, he would have wriggled free had not Mukasa clutched him firmly to her. Her tail flicked, pulled at the entangling branches. The water swirling past her had a silvery sheen on it as though she bled her own kind of blood.

“Get him, Phil!” Kate heard her husband splashing at her side.

Mukasa was at bay, her slimy tail trapped in the driftwood. She hissed another warning, and then Phil was reaching over the obstruction for Peter’s outstretched hand.

“You shall not have him!”

Kate had never really lost her temper since her childhood tantrums, receded with adolescence. Controlled anger, her tongue could be sharp when the occasion demanded. But now she felt a sudden rush of fury, a tensing of every nerve and muscle in her body, a blind rage that seethed within her like the floodwater foamed around her.

Her arms responded, there was no way that she could have checked them; they went back and up, the pickaxe was suddenly a lightweight tool, no heavier than the feather duster which she used to reach the cobwebs on the ceilings at home.

Her muscles hardened, a momentary pause while she powered herself, targeted that repulsive tail. Then she struck, brought her weapon down with every vestige of force which she could muster, grunted aloud as the rusted prong thudded deep into that scaled inhuman limb.

Mukasa screamed, a sound that vibrated the stormy night, embodied every emotion known to Mankind and a few besides. Pain as the scaly flash was split asunder, the tail pinned down in the mud beneath the water. Anger because a mortal had defied her; worse, dared to strike a goddess of the deep, one who had known this earth when evolution began. Fury as the Chosen One was torn from her grasp, sobbing its relief at being returned to its human parents.

Kate’s strength was used up in that one devastating blow, she could not have extricated the pickaxe from her thrashing victim even had she wished to do so. Weakness came with relief, she leaned against her husband, her probing fingers exploring her son from head to foot, the way they had done when he was born, checking that there were no injuries, no deformities.

Peter was fine.

God, she didn’t want to look, she had no wish to see that awful creature thrashing as it was pinioned to the ground, bleeding its stinking, silvery slime. No remorse, no pity; not even anger right now. Kate had done what any mother would have done, whatever the mermaid’s fate, it would not weigh upon her conscience.

“Give me back my child!”

The screams grew more hysterical but there was no pleading in them. One whose every command had been obeyed since time immemorial, was not accustomed to being defied.

Phil cradled Peter to him, moved from tree to tree, branch to branch, headed back downhill, his only concern to keep his footing. Kate clung onto him from behind, her joy and relief at being reunited with her son rendering her oblivious to the raging torrent that threatened to take them, dash them against the trees, smash their bodies until they resembled the unfortunate Detective Inspector Barr.

Somehow they made it. The garden was under water, there was maybe six inches on the ground floor of the house but the main torrent had bypassed it and was raging down on to the main road.

Saturated, weak from exhaustion and their ordeal, they made their way upstairs. Peter was asleep again; for what remained of this night he would sleep in the bed between them where there was no chance of him going anywhere.

The storm battered the house with renewed vigour, windows rattled under the onslaught. They heard a bang outside, it sounded like the yard gate through to the pumping station had been torn from its hinges, washed away like the flimsy raft of a drowned mariner.

The wind howled, it was like the anguished screaming of a surrogate mother who had lost her beloved child. Shrieking her grief, howling for vengeance.

Phil and Kate huddled beneath the bedsheets, embraced the child whom, only hours ago, they were grieving for. And waited for daylight.

Thirty-one

On the third day the sun shone down weakly on a watery scene.

Joe Graham lived in one of the canal side cottages next to the Marina. Raw boned, with thinning grey hair, he kept the Narita, his twenty foot pride and joy, moored within a couple of yards of his front door. Since his wife’s death a couple of years ago, he spent more time on board than he did in the house.

During the summer months he spent weeks at a time cruising; he followed the canal network system north and south, east and west, tied up when he found a place he liked, moved on when he had grown tired of it.

He had considered selling the cottage. What use was it to him when he had a floating home, could go where he liked, when he liked, was answerable to nobody. Fully equipped, there was everything on board that he needed; it was easier and cheaper to heat than the cottage. He envied the now-extinct breed of bargees, lugging coal in their boats, day in, day out, no responsibilities, complete freedom.

Joe had made up his mind to become a bargee; a youthful fantasy that was on the verge of becoming reality. He would enjoy the best of both worlds; the life of a canal boatman but without the heavy physical work of loading and unloading cargoes.

With the coming of autumn he took to renovating the Narita in preparation for his new life the following spring. Some extensive interior work was necessary if the boat was to become his permanent home.

He now took to sleeping on board every night.

The prospect of flooding didn’t worry Joe Graham. Canal levels seldom rose noticeably; there was no current and, in any case, depth could always be regulated by the system of locks. A drought gave far more reason for concern when there wasn’t water available to release into the canals.

He slept on the boat on the night of the big storm. He saw no reason to stay in the house; the boat was snug and warm, it was protected from the gales by Hopwas Wood to the west, the sides were well buffered against the brick towpath. Sleep soundly and be damned, he smoked a last pipe of strong shag tobacco before retiring. They had ceased production of Bargee shag a quarter of a century ago but Joe had come across one of the original two ounce tins, well rusted and dented but all the more authentic for it, at an antique bazaar. He used it to keep his tobacco in.

His stubby, blackened pipe was the nearest he could find to the one smoked by the boatman in the picture on the tin. Sometimes Joe hand rolled cigarettes. The black tobacco had taken a lot of getting used to at first, but he had persevered and now he smoked a couple of ounces a week, he refused to acknowledge metric weights.

He even had a red-and-white polka-dot scarf which he knotted around his neck. It had taken him a lifetime to achieve the status of bargee, but now he was within weeks of achieving his ambition. Mabel wouldn’t have approved, God rest her soul, but surely, wherever she was, she would wish him well so long as she didn’t have to live on a boat.

He blew out the kerosene lamp and climbed into his bunk. The canal had a swell on it but that was an occupational hazard of barging.

He was asleep within minutes.

He slept late the following morning. He wasn’t a religious man, his only observance of the Sabbath was to lie in bed late on that day, a habit that came from a lifetime of working six days a week. Self-employment in light engineering had no time for holidays; Sundays were his only entitlement to laziness. He saw no reason to alter his routine now.

He lay there in his bunk, a bed would have been sacrilege, listening to the storm buffeting the small craft. The elements had not relented overnight but they would surely blow themselves out soon.

Something was different, he spent a long time in between drowsing trying to work out what it was. Then he realized; the Narita wasn’t bumping against the towpath the way it had been when he’d bunked. That was very strange, especially in this wind which shouldn’t have been as strong as it was in his sheltered mooring.

Joe climbed down, pulled one of the curtains and stared out through the window in amazement and disbelief.

His first thought was that somehow he had drifted on to the Norfolk Broads, those watery wastelands where boat leasing firms made a fortune in the holiday season. Joe had taken Mabel there once, they’d sailed for a whole week, putting ashore only twice. It was after that that she had voiced her dislike of vacations afloat.

No, it was impossible, there was no way he could have drifted all the way from the Marina to the Broads. Wooded hills rose on the western skyline, he recognized the turret of the Wood House. In the opposite direction, across the water, he spied the familiar tower of Tamworth church. Somewhere in between the river flowed; it had burst its banks, flooded all the low lying ground, joined up with the canal.

The Narita had somehow come adrift in the storm, floated away. The only reason it wasn’t moving now was because it was caught up in a patch of osiers. No problem, he had only to start up the engine and reverse out.

He decided to eat breakfast first.

He surveyed the waterscape as he drank his coffee. Some of the low lying houses were completely under water, a roof poking up here and there. The lower end of the village seemed to have fared worst, some of the dwellings were not visible at all. He fetched a pair of binoculars.

He couldn’t see the Jacksons’ house at all. He was only too familiar with Mrs Jackson and her painting sessions along the canal side, a bad-tempered, vitriolic woman. Once she had asked him to turn the Narita round so that she could paint a picture of it from the other side; he had suggested that she walk back to the footbridge, cross the waterway and paint from the opposite bank. She had become quite abusive at his refusal to concede to her demand; they hadn’t spoken since. Well, maybe she’d like to paint her own bloody house when the floods receded!

The wind had dropped and it had stopped raining. The clouds were broken, there might even be some sunshine later on. Joe decided he’d stay where he was for the time being, there was precious little to go back to the Marina for. Doubtless, his own cottage was flooded, pity it hadn’t been washed away then he could claim the insurance on it and not have to bother with selling it!

He thought he heard the sound of an approaching engine, went up on deck. It wouldn’t be a bloody car, for sure.

It was one of the boats from the Marina. Jim Sturgess, bald headed and wearing the same grey rolled-neck sweater that he’d worn ever since Joe had known him. The Canal Queen was the largest craft at the Marina, Jim was at the helm, there were three or four other men with him.

“Want a tow out, Joe?” Sturgess let the engine idle.

“Tow, be buggered! I can back out when I’ve a mind to.”

“We could use a hand, most of the boats are out. Rescue work, though mostly it’s bringing in dead bodies. The lower end of the village caught the brunt of the flooding. There’s about a dozen folks missing. The reservoir burst, came straight down the hillside.”

Joe licked his lips, saw a pair of feet sticking out from under a tarpaulin on the other boat.

“Take Frank on board to help you, Joe,” Sturgess eased nearer. “They’re sending out helicopters as spotters. Mind you, there’s parts of the country a lot worse off than us. We’re lucky.”

Joe didn’t like Frank Teale any more than he liked the brash Jim Sturgess. Teale was a technical nutcase, all he talked about was engine capacities and fuel consumption and the like, he wasn’t a true boatman. And damned if he was going to let the bugger take the helm, he could fish the corpses out. He’d need a hand, though, and that wasn’t a pleasant thought.

“There’s sommat over there!” Teale shouted. “Hard down to your left, Joe.”

A false alarm, Teale was miffed. Joe was relieved. He wished the other would stop giving a running commentary. Joe heard the helicopter long before his companion announced its arrival. And, anyway, they’d have to wait until the floods went down before they found most of the bodies. It was the sensible thing to do, Joe couldn’t understand the urgency. If you were bloody dead, a day or two didn’t make any difference.

“Hey, just a minute. Slow ’er.”

Christ, not again! Frank was seeing corpses every hundred yards, the last had turned out to be a piece of flotsam.

Nevertheless, Joe eased the throttle down, let the Narita drift.

“Circle round, Joe, come in a bit.”

Reluctantly, Sturgess did as he was told. It probably wasn’t anything. Thank God!

“There’s somethin’ down here,” Teale was leaning over the side.

“Like what?”

“Dunno, for sure. There it is, now it’s gone again. Keep yer eyes peeled, it comes and goes.”

Joe watched. Frank wanted them to find a corpse, he maybe felt cheated if they didn’t. It was ghoulish.

“It’s probably nothing, Frank.”

“I tell you it bloody is! Look, there it goes again!”

This time Joe saw it. A shape just below the surface, a head and shoulders, arms moving like whoever it was swam, deliberately didn’t come up. A weak ray of sunshine glinted on the water, something scintillated for perhaps a second. Like a big fish’s tail except that it was damaged and sort of trailed behind. It dived.

Then it was gone.

“Christ, what d’you make o’ that, Joe? Bloody strange. Watch carefully, it’ll come up close to the surface again. I’ve spotted it three times already.”

They waited. Watched. The helicopter came back, circled. Hovered. It went away again.

Frank Teale shook his head in bewilderment.

“Some kind o’ fish,” Joe returned to the helm. “Water can sometimes distort things, make ’em seem bigger than they really are. Or even look different.”

They waited another five minutes but there was no further sign of whatever they had glimpsed in the depths.

Whatever it was, it had gone.

Thirty-two

At least three hundred seventy-six people were feared dead on Sunday night and hundreds more injured after the most violent storm to hit the United States this century.

Hurricane force winds lashed the country leaving a vast trail of destruction.

All airports had been closed for more than twenty-four hours and a state of emergency was declared.

There was an extended news program for the benefit of those fortunate enough still to have television reception.

Reports of extensive flooding throughout the country were still coming in. The first storm had torn across from west to east, headed on across the Atlantic and battered Britain. Now a second, and larger, followed, completing the destruction. Flooding was widespread.

In Britain reports were still coming in, too. Mostly, though, the news program was devoted to the capital.

The Thames Barrier had collapsed, much of London was under water. At this stage it was impossible even to estimate the death toll. It would probably run into thousands nationwide.

There were weather updates every hour.

The 10:30 p.m. chart showed a series of sunshine and showers symbols. Mostly showers. Heavy ones.

“Temperatures will be average for the time of year,” the met office’s TV front man smiled weakly. A glimmer of consolation for those still mopping up or baling out. That was the good news; he took his time, made the most of it.

He tapped the map nervously in the Atlantic. “The systems which brought the recent torrential rain and gales are now affecting everyone, battering France and Belgium.” It’s always some consolation to know you aren’t the only country being flooded. So we’ve got rid of that lot, another piece of good news. He paused, smiled again.

The smile faded, his lower lip appeared to tremble slightly, it might have been the flickering of the screen.

“However,” and now comes the really bad news. He poked at a symbolic cloud mass in the Atlantic, “these systems …” a pause like he was scared of them. A nervous cough. “These systems are part of those which are currently affecting the United States. The first of them will move into Northern Ireland late tomorrow afternoon. Then into southwest Scotland, before moving south to spread across the whole country by Tuesday.”

He drew a deep breath, winced as though he sensed the anger of his viewers. The bearer of bad tidings is always the scapegoat. A squaring of his shoulders, there was still more to come.

“Now, look at these isobars, see how close they are together. That means more gales, even stronger than the last lot, storm force winds … structural damage is expected in exposed areas. And behind these systems, yet still more deepening areas of low pressure.”

He turned to face the cameras, his voice was scarcely audible as if he was afraid to read the words on the monitor in front of him.

“More severe flooding is expected.”

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.

This ebook is the sixty-fourth book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the mid 2013.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of the Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

9. Killer Crabs.

10. Bats Out of Hell.

11. The Son of the Werewolf.

12. Locusts.

13. The Origin of the Crabs.

14. Caracal.

15. Thirst.

16. Deathbell.

17. Satan's Snowdrop.

18. Doomflight.

19. Warhead.

20. Manitou Doll.

21. Wolfcurse.

22. Crabs On The Rampage.

23. The Pluto Pact.

24. Entombed.

25. The Lurkers.

26. Sabat 1: The Graveyard Vultures.

27. Sabat 2: The Blood Merchants.

28. Sabat 3: Cannibal Cult.

29. Blood Circuit.

30. Accursed.

31. Sabat 4: The Druid Connection.

32. The Undead.

33. Crabs' Moon.

34. The Walking Dead.

35. Throwback.

36. The Wood.

37. The Neophyte.

38. Abomination.

39. Snakes.

40. Cannibals.

41. Alligators.

42. Bloodshow.

43. Thirst II: The Plague.

44. Demons.

45. Crabs: The Human Sacrifice.

46. Fiend.

47. The Island.

48. Mania.

49. The Master.

50. The Camp.

51. The Festering.

52. Phobia.

53. The Unseen.

54. Carnivore.

55. The Black Fedora.

56. The Resurrected.

57. The Knighton Vampires.

58. Witch Spell.

59. The Plague Chronicles.

60. The Hangman.

61. The Dark One.

62. Dead End.

63. Dead Meat.

64. Water Rites.

The next book will be :

65. The Pony Riders.

"Among the unique breed of daring young men known as Pony Express riders was 18-year-old Ben Hollister. He'd come West with his family and a trade. A savage Indian attack changed all that. With his parents dead and his sisters abducted, Ben has become known to the Indians as Slayer Who Rides Like the Wind. Fired by recklessness and his skill with horses and guns, Ben allies himself with legendary Express boss - and killer - Joseph Slade. Now, as he rides closer to a final reckoning with the murderous Paiute, Blood Arrow, Ben is willing to sacrifice everything - including the woman he loves - for one perfect moment of revenge..."

Recently published (but not part of back catalogue conversion) :-

Night of the Werewolf

The Eighth Day.

Killer Crabs: The Return.

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.