Naturally, she chose carefully-no victim could ever be associated with the Temple, or traced back to it-be it a prime stud from Lafayette's black community, or a Bourbon Street whore. And she liked them young, young and tender, the men hard-fleshed where it mattered, the girls soft and fragile-boned. Each sex had its own delights and various ways of use. Mama was very inventive.
The man's head rolled to one side, and his eyelids were drooped with only white slivers where his pupils should have been.
Mama Pitie grunted and settled herself. Sweat ran between the gully of her naked breasts and trickled over the swell of her stomach. She regarded her unwitting lover and a pink tongue slid across her broad lips.
'You not done yet, boy,' she told him in a low rumble of a voice. 'Now come the real pain, the pain that bring you back to life'fo' you proply dead. The pain that make you wiggle and writhe and try to buck me. But that on'y make me feel good, boy, it on'y give me mo' pleasure. An' when you done, when yo' blood begins to cool, why that give me even mo' pleasure,'cos you one last scab on this good Earth, one mo' piece of excrement that don' trash on the Great Mama. That give me ecstasy, honey, that give me jubilation.'
Without losing him, she stretched over and lifted one of the lace drapes, reaching beyond to the bedside cabinet on which three candles glowed. She slid out a drawer and brought it into the bed, its metal contents clinking together as she laid it by her side.
Inside the drawer were ten rings, their bands wide enough to take Mama Pitie's stout fingers and thumbs up to the first knuckle; a long curved blade extended from every one of them so that when worn they appeared on the hands as talons. She took her time to fit them on her fingers and smiled when she had finished. It was a brutal smile.
Mama held her arms above her head, wrists bent, claws pointed downwards at her prey, a dramatic gesture incited by her own weary exhilaration and, as if sensing something worse was about to happen, the man straightened his head and opened his eyes. His mouth widened to scream, for even a drugged mind will recognize death's approach, but only a high wheezing sound issued from those parched lips, a muted squeal that held no vitality.
His recognition delighted Mama Pitie and she squeezed her haunches together, sucking him into her gross body, holding him there tightly lest his fear cause an unfortunate spasm. Her hands commenced their lethal descent.
His eyes closed again as the metal talons pierced his chest, sinking to the bone, the pain raging through the stultifying drug-haze. The claws were drawn downwards, over his ribcage and his stomach, towards his groin. There they stayed and blood spurted out, bubbling on to her wrists so that her brown skin was quickly concealed beneath a thin red coating. Her fingers dug deep.
But then her head jerked upwards and her eyes rolled from side to side, until her eyelids dropped just as suddenly and she became perfectly still, oblivious to the near-corpse that feebly struggled under her.
Voices, whisperings, inside her head. Images, vague shapes, unformed spectres floating by, gathering speed, spinning into whirlpools of light. All familiar, but this time… this time different. Stronger, yet more confused.
Unconsciously her claws sank deep into the meat before her. The victim's scream was almost soundless.
Children. She saw children. Many-hundreds, thousands! And they bleated at her, like sheep, afraid, cowering. They feared her, they all feared her. And others like her. She could feel the energy of those others, but they were not as powerful as her; they seemed to loiter in the shadow of her own presence.
There came a double image, a child's pallid, anxious face and its mirror-reflection. Dark, dark hair which on one tumbled over high cheekbones and down to curl around a delicate neck. That was its difference from the other and Mama realized it was two faces she could sense, two children with the brightest blue eyes that could only be dreamed of
Wrath began to replace the awe that had transfixed her so. Her fingers curled inside the body she had invaded and blood spilled over on to the sheets of the bed.
She felt them waver at her fury, these sensings, these cloudy images, felt them cringe from her displeasure as they had before when she'd sent the storm, these motherless beings… these motherless… Motherless…
Understanding of her own anger glimmered.
Mama had sensed them on other occasions. These things… were against the changes, resistant to what had to be. And slowly she was beginning to comprehend what it was that really had to be…
She, too, became frightened.
'Oh, Mama…' she moaned aloud.
The body on the bed quivered as life ebbed.
'Oh, Mama…'
Another presence imposed itself, something… someone… as powerful as her, perhaps more so. And familiar. She had known this one for some time, and its potency was intimidating. She mentally backed away, for the moment was not yet right; the confrontation would need stealth, cunning, it would need… thought.
Mama Pitie withdrew, closing her mind to the sensing, opening her eyes so that the visions' obscurations were aided by the reality of her sheltered resting place. The connection was swiftly and easily broken.
Her breasts heaved with exhaustion, for it had been a long night, though not one without interest. She pulled her hands from the corpse, the interior flesh squelchy, streaky slivers caught in the claws, and raised them over her head again. Blood trickled down her thick arms and small pieces of gummy matter fell into her bushy hair.
She stared solemnly at the glow from the candles beyond the veils, the mesh causing a ring of light around them, a dull ball of incandescence. She smiled, and this time it was almost sly.
For she realised that in her mind-and in their minds-a meeting had taken place. Introductions had been made.
15
It was with relief that they pulled into Hazelrod's courtyard, for the journey had been long and wearing. It seemed that all routes from the capital were jammed, the extra traffic caused by people anxious to leave a potential disaster area; the chaos was further augmented by those journeying in to view for themselves the damage already caused. Alternate travelling regulations were ignored. Once on the open road, however, the journey was easier, but two hours at least had been lost in just reaching the suburbs.
Throbbing pain in Rivers' leg indicated that a bruised stomach and bloody nose wasn't the only damage he'd sustained during the attack earlier; he must have knocked his old injury during the scuffle, although not hard enough to have noticed it at the time. He had swallowed a couple of dihydrocodeine to ease the discomfort, and the slight euphoric effect of the pills had made him more receptive to conversation. During the journey they had talked of consequential and inconsequential things and both had learned a little more about each other. Rivers decided he liked what he learned about Diane.
She appeared strong-willed, even tough in some ways, but there was an underlying and opposing gentleness about her, a sensitivity towards others, that rendered her susceptible to all kinds of concerns. It was obvious that Josh and Eva meant everything to her, and when she spoke of her failed and ultimately tragic marriage her prime regret was the effect it had had on the children rather than the hell her late husband had forced on her. Her bond with parents-in-law was firm-perhaps her strength compensated for their own son's failings; and of course, she had provided grandchildren, even though they were adopted. Oddly enough, Diane herself was an orphan, raised in a home in Springfield (whose only claim to fame, she told him with a wry smile, was that basketball was first played there), not far from Boston. She confided to Rivers that as a child she had often dreamed of her mother, but never her father, and once or twice recently those dreams had returned. On awaking, though, she couldn't remember her mother's face, only her eyes, soft and blue, paler images of Josh and Eva's. These new dreams left her quietly weeping, as they had when she was a young girl, and lonely and frightened for herself.
There was no such sadness in Rivers' background: his had been a standard middle-class English upbringing. The cor
rect but commonplace schools, a First at university, and a longish career with the Met. Pretty dull, he had all but apologized, the highlight being two years' travelling after university, across Europe first and then Australia. Since then it had been a steady career and a few broken love affairs until the last, more painful, one. Not very exciting, he admitted.
Several years investigating extreme weather and ecological phenomena, she reminded him. Flying through storms, visiting disaster areas, advancing the methods of climate prediction, and a near-fatal air crash. Not so humdrum, she suggested.
En route, and more than halfway to Hazelrod, they stopped at an inn for a short break and for Rivers to exercise his aching leg.
It was there, while she sipped orange juice and Rivers quaffed a pint of bitter, that Diane spoke of her few years as a nurse and how her experiences-for some time on a cancer ward-had taught her the real value of life, and even more, the value of living it while it was there for you. She talked of the inevitable goodness, as well as dignity, of the human heart when physical adversity became overwhelming, those qualities never more distinguished than when death was at its closest. That time working in hospitals had served to shape the rest of her life, for she had come to appreciate the precariousness of existence, the sheer- caprice of life itself, and that self-survival was never enough: the good of all was what mattered, and the well-being of the individual followed from that.
Rivers might have been embarrassed by this unabashed sentiment had not Diane uttered it with such pragmatic naturalness. She also grinned at him immediately afterwards, letting him know that she was well aware of how precious she had sounded. But, she went on to admit, that was why her work with Hugo was so important to her: she felt that she was playing some tiny part in helping the planet survive, seeking solutions that might ensure the continuance of the human race itself. 'Preoccupied, I may be. But not obsessed and certainly not deluded. We've already discovered so much.'
The rest of the journey had been easier, the mood between them comfortable and inquisitive. Although at first Rivers was reluctant to reveal too much of himself, Diane soon had him talking of matters he had never discussed with anyone before. The death of his lover years before had devastated him inwardly and for a while he thought he might go quietly crazy. Apart from grief, concentration was the main problem. Concentration on work, briefings, conversations, or even just reading the newspaper. Executing detailed reports was almost impossible and only his past reputation and the surreptitious help of colleagues enabled him to hang on to his job. But the time of mourning had eventually passed and then his work had taken on a new importance; in fact, it had become all that was important to him. He buried himself in it.
She understood completely, for the loss of her own husband, despite the circumstances, had a similar effect. Ecology and its many mysteries had become almost a calling to her, a pursuit rather than an interest. As it was for Hugo Poggs and many others who worked closely with him, although in their own situations. Odd, she reflected, how personal loss had driven both Rivers and herself towards a greater effort in their chosen agendas. And now they had joined-she hoped-together in a mutual quest for knowledge of the Earth's failing condition. (She thought it prudent not to mention this to him lest it arouse his natural cynicism.)
The first person they saw within the confines of Hazelrod's courtyard was Mack. He was pushing a wheelbarrow overloaded with roof-tiles across the cobbles and he stopped to give them a wave of welcome. His bare sun-browned arms were ridged with old muscle and the smile between his multi-toned beard was tinged yellow. Rivers took a moment to study him before climbing from the Escort, for the opportunity to appraise Hugo Poggs' helper had not presented itself on his first visit to the family.
Mack could have been in his late fifties or early sixties, the climatologist surmised, although his burly body gave this less credence: it appeared unshackled by the aches and slowness of age. No, it was the lines of his face and the worldliness in his eyes that reflected the passage of years; together, perhaps, with the calmness of his demeanour and the relaxed certainty of his movement. The man had an earthy stability about him that was reassuring. He appraised Rivers just as the climatologist appraised him.
'Good to see you back safely,' Mack said, addressing Diane. His mild West Country burr was as comforting as his presence. 'News yesterday were full of the earthquake.'
'We're fine, Mack.' Diane closed the car door and smiled back at him. 'We ran into a little trouble leaving London this morning, but that's all. Where is everybody?'
'Jus' finished lunch. The, er, the twins were a mite upset earlier.'
Diane's smile dropped away.
'Oh, they're all right, no need for you to be concerned, Missy. Mrs. Poggs took care of 'em. One of their funny little dreams, s'far as I can make out.' He eyed Rivers again. 'You look as though you been in the wars, Mr. Rivers.'
Rivers touched a hand to his nose, realizing it was swollen as well as sore. 'Rush hours are never much fun at the best of times.'
The other man did not pursue the matter. He lifted the handles of the wheelbarrow. 'Jus' replacing some of them roof-tiles we los'. Had most of the broken windows done yesterday and this morning. Glazier and his man could hardly believe it. Damn storm.' He meant the freak wind that had whipped around the house and shattered windows, Rivers assumed.
'Okay, Mack,' said Diane. 'Don't go falling off any ladders.'
He nodded at her, humour in his grey eyes. 'I'll watch meself, don't you worry. And don't you worry about them little ones -they're tougher than they seem.'
He trundled his load away, leaving Diane and Rivers to glance across the car's rooftop at one another. 'You do look as if you've been in the wars,' she commented. 'Your nose must have swollen up during the last hour and the cut on your cheek from the other night still looks sore. Let's get inside and put something cold and wet on both.'
She led the way, and, taking his overnight bag from the car, Rivers limped after her, wearied by the journey and the sharp pain of his leg. Something cold and wet might do for his parched throat as well, he thought. The sun was still hidden behind the thick blanket of cloud, but the afternoon heat had increased uncomfortably.
As Diane turned in the doorway to wait for him to catch up, she saw him wince and his leg nearly give way under him. He seemed embarrassed by her attention and she quickly went through into the shade, leaving him to follow. They met Hugo Poggs in the hallway.
'Diane, James.' He gave his daughter-in-law a hug and stuck out a robust hand towards Rivers. 'We expected you before lunch. Did you have problems?' He wheezed in a breath while awaiting an answer.
Diane kissed his cheek. 'We ran into some hooligan trouble on the way out of London,' she explained.
'Hence the disrupted physiognomy. You really must put something on that, m'boy.'
'I'm just going to get an ice-pack,' Diane told him. 'Mack said there was a problem with Josh and Eva.'
'Oh, nothing to worry about. Bibby soon calmed them. She's upstairs with them now trying to get them to take a little nap. Now why don't you let me attend to our man here, while you go on up.'
'If you don't mind, Jim?' She looked askance at Rivers.
'Of course not. I'm fine, really.'
She took to the stairs, her ascent swift.
'Jim, is it, rather than James?' Poggs said. 'Good. Very stuffy name, James, I've always thought. Now look, I've still got half a bottle of Macallan left, so what say we treat ourselves to a stiff one? If I may say so, you look as if you need it.'
'A long drink would be more appreciated.'
'Both then. A whisky and a chaser. How's that?'
'It's a fine idea.'
The geophysicist harrumphed with satisfaction. 'Tell you what-you go through to the sitting room and pour us both a drop of the hard stuff and I'll fetch you a cold beer from the kitchen. Oh, and an ice-pack. I expect you're hungry too, but Bibby will arrange something shortly.'
He gave a wave towards the sitti
ng room door and disappeared into the kitchen. Rivers walked through taking a pack of cigarettes from his overnight bag as he did so. He paused to light up, then tucked the pack back into the side pocket of the leather bag. He found two tumblers and poured whisky into each, making Poggs' more generous than his own, then took his to the large window, whose glass was still smeared with fresh putty, overlooking the courtyard. He stared out while he drank.
The first sip and first few inhalations of nicotine soothed him a little, although the throbbing in his leg was not so easily pacified. 'Good health,' he toasted himself quietly, and took a longer drink.
Hugo Poggs soon appeared again, a glass of beer in one hand, a tea-towel wrapped around ice-cubes in the other. 'Here you are, m'boy. If you don't feel a lot better in five minutes, then there's not much hope for you.'
Rivers placed the tumbler on a side table and accepted the beer and ice-pack gratefully. He took a long swallow of beer, put the glass beside the tumbler, and sank down into the sofa, lifting the ice to his swollen nose as he did so. He winced, then let out a sigh.
'Feel good?' Poggs enquired.
'Feels cold,' Rivers replied.
Poggs brought his own whisky over to the armchair and sat, catching his breath before taking a drink.
'Bliss,' he said as he settled back. His tone, and his expression, became serious. 'How bad was the tremor? We had reports on TV last night, but today's reception is so bad with both television and radio we're not at all up to date.'
Rivers, his legs stretched out before him, shoulders sunk deep into the sofa's cushions, raised the ice-pack momentarily to look at the other man.
'You've had bad reception too?'
'Almost nil. Lots of static in the air.'
'We had the same problem in London. Later, too, on the way here.'
'Ah.' It was a non-statement from Poggs. He took another swallow of Macallan, his attention fixed on the carpet at his feet. 'Do you suppose this means something? Heavy atmospherics, and all that?'