*
George had been walking along the Esplanade, watching the clouds break across Woolacombe, as he headed toward the hotel. A week had passed since he had dropped off the sack of tools, and the Cadens needed them back.
The Tide was in, covering Woolacombe Beach below. When the water receded there would be fewer bodies, and some covered deeper in the sand, sinking a little further each day into the shells and pebbles.
A mist had consumed the horizon out to sea, and through it protruded the grey and irregular wind-turbines and what remained of the fallen oil platform. Waves crashed against the rocks below the hotel savagely, and George could only imagine what the force of the current was doing to those bodies.
He turned away, not liking to be reminded of the corpses strewn down there, and looked instead to the curtains of rain sweeping across Woolacombe.
On the road up by the village he could see someone walking towards him, though George would veer off and enter the hotel before they met, and it was too bleak and hazy to identify them. He wondered who it was momentarily, then stepped lightly down a flight of mossy steps into the grounds of the hotel, unlocked the iron gate leading to the back door, and let himself in.
The interior seemed colder and more macabre than usual, and resounded with a hollowness that made him wonder if there was anyone in the cellar. A pigeon flapped its wings close by and made him jump. He remained by the doorway, his hand shielding his erratic heart as the pigeon perched on a high chandelier and regarded him stupidly.
He sighed and made his way into the kitchen and rapped on the cellar door before opening it. ‘It’s George,’ he called, though there came no reply.
He took the flight of stairs cautiously, though he supposed he only did so because his heart was still thumping and he was feeling skittish because of the weather.
At the foot of the stairs he tried again. ‘Hello?’ he said loudly, peering round the wall.
Christine was fumbling with a handkerchief and gave a sniff of composition. ‘Ah, hi George. I didn’t hear you.’
‘It’s alright. Are you ok though? You look like you’ve been crying.’
She blinked at him for a moment, the tears in her eyes glinting in the light. ‘I… It’s ma and pa, I haven’t heard from them for months. No-one has.’ She picked up her handkerchief again and held it over her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t mind but there’s been nothing, not even a stupid signal to let us know they’re well.’
‘There could be something wrong with their equipment.’ George offered, though he knew that Christine’s mother, Robyn, could keep any piece of machinery running blindfolded.
‘Ma could fix it if that were the case,’ Christina confirmed.
The door beside George opened and Helena Dekeyrel stepped through, and padded across the room to comfort Christina.
‘There, don’t pay it a thought,’ she cooed. ‘There’s likely a reasonable explanation.’
‘The only explanation I can think of,’ Christina replied, ‘the only one that makes any sense, is that they’ve been found out by the authorities for sending illegal broadcasts.’
‘If that were the case then the authorities would be here by now.’ Helena buffeted.
‘You know what?’ George added. ‘When Guliven and Sean left for Ballycotton, Semilion gave them orders to call your pa.’
‘What?’ Christina asked.
‘The day Guliven and Sean left for Ballycotton, I was there at the Waeshenbach’s place. Semilion asked them to call your pa. And, well, they’ll be back soon. They’ll be able to explain everything.’
‘See?’ Helena said, rubbing Christina’s back. ‘Semilion’s taking care of it. We’ll find out for sure when Guliven comes back. He’ll probably have a letter from your parents.’
There came a knock on the door at the top of the stairs and George stepped toward it to see who it was.
‘It should be Garth,’ Helena said as Christina sighed deeply and composed herself, somewhat appeased.
George peered around the corner and saw an old man, bow-backed and hesitant, descending the stairs. though he was shrouded in the gloom of the stairwell, George could see by the way he held his head that he was blind. It was the same person he had seen advancing in the rain from Woolacombe.
‘Garth.’ George stated in greeting.
‘Who’s that?’ Garth said wistfully, his pearlescent eyes searching.
‘George Porter.’ Helena answered quickly.
‘Ah, we’ve not had the pleasure. May I ask what you’re doing here?’
‘I’ve just come to pick up some tools to take back to the Cordens.’
‘You’re the fetcher. I see.’ Garth reached the bottom of the stairs and his old waxy hand found George’s shoulder. He tucked his cane under his armpit and with both hands quickly found George’s before shaking. ‘I’m Garth Pollman, and I’m the governor of this little place.
George looked into the old man’s creamy eyes and couldn’t fight off the shudder that quelled within him.
‘The hotel?’ He said dumbly.
‘What goes on beneath it.’ Garth smacked him on the shoulder.
‘Good afternoon, Garth,’ Helena said, followed by Christina.
‘A good afternoon it is not,’ he replied in jest. ‘In all my years I don’t recall being so caught out by the rain.’
‘We’ll make you a nice cup of tea and fetch a towel.’ Helena replied, leading him to a chair and gesturing for Christina to do the rest.
‘So shall we get started? What’s been happening in the last fortnight?’
‘Perhaps we should wait a while longer?’ Helena said, though trying to suggest to a blind man discreetly they wait until George had gone was beyond her skill.
‘Oh, don’t mind me.’ George said. ‘I’ll head off.’
‘In this?’ Garth shook his head. ‘It’s getting worse outside. Not known a downpour like that since before my ma died. He sounds like a trustworthy young lad? Am I wrong?’
‘You’re not.’ Helena replied, a pained look about her. She didn’t like the thought of someone outside the hotel to know their affairs. Their training was detached from Mortehoe and Woolacombe, and a deep division between them and the rest of the community had been rent.
‘And I’m sure he’ll not tell a soul, isn’t that right, boy?’
‘Oh… Yes. No, I won’t say a thing.’
‘There you have it. Do you know what we do here, lad?.’
‘Viruses and vaccinations.’
‘Brevity is the soul of wit, eh? Aye, we create viruses and vaccinations. Quite amazing things for the equipment we have, really. David… Dr. Camberwell tells me of the machines he has at his disposal in Belfast and it boggles the mind. Doesn’t it, Helena?
‘It does.’ Helena replied. Garth was always talkative, and though she wasn’t comfortable with it she didn’t have the nerve to resist it.
Christina returned with a cup of tea and laid a sheet across his shoulders, he patted her hand and returned to looking in George’s direction.
‘And here we have a few rooms with vacuum hoods, microscopes and incubators. Though for all our humble pieces of archaic equipment we have seen things that no other has ever wanted to witness. Isn’t that right, girls?’
‘Garth,’ Helena said politely. ‘I don’t think…’
‘Rapid animate necrosis. Absolutely amazing. Do you know what that is, George?’
‘No.’
‘Something a certain little virus does to ye.’ He grinned, displaying a mouthful of irregular, yellowing teeth. ‘Gets in your bones and acts like hydrofluoric acid. Know what I mean by that?’
Helena looked uncomfortably at Christina, who shrugged in reply. If Garth wanted to talk then it was his right.
‘I guess it does something pretty nasty?’ George guessed.
At this Garth chuckled. ‘Pretty nasty indeed. Liquefies bone, it does.’ He sighed then and blinked several times. ‘A good job it’s no more. Semilion was right to destroy
it. Makes me shudder to think what would happen if… Well, no use in worrying about things that don’t exist. And trust me, that little bastard don’t exist no more. Now, girls, what have you got for me?’
George sat and listened to Helena describe several experiments that were being conducted. It was dull and complicated, and he very quickly lost interest. If only Garth had continued talking, he thought, he had an air about him that spoke of storytelling and eccentricity.
After listening to them for several minutes he took the sack of tools and excused himself, heading out into the pelting rain.
Chapter Twenty-Nine.
Lundy.