Russell checked the bar’s clock once again: eleven forty-six; that was close enough. Mr. Waterstone, beginning to resemble an Easter Island statue with that fixed and enigmatic stare into nothingness, was starting to grate on his nerves. He decided to rejoin Michael.
‘I’ll be out by the Bentley. Humanity’s fate will be revealed shortly, if you care to join me?’
The cat did not react.
‘Fine, suit yourself.’ Russell made a quick sweep of the hotel, including his room and a knock-on-the-door of Kerstin’s, but Ceres was nowhere to be seen, or heard.
He met Michael at the car.
The trapdoor vigorously rubbed a cloth over the front grill of the Bentley as Russell approached.
‘How’s the motor?’ Russell asked, casually.
‘Repairs have been affected,’ replied Michael, proudly, as he backed off to grant Russell a clear view the car. It looked immaculate.
‘Nice work! And very fast!!’
‘Thanks! I’m good with metal: my first manifestation in any reality is always a sword, or a chisel. Usually a sword.’
‘Hmm,’ nodded Russell, admiring the flawless car.
The baking midday heat created shimmering mirages but it felt easier, more comfortable somehow, compared to previous days, especially those in London, which had been oppressively muggy at times.
‘I think I’m finally starting to acclimatize to this weather,’ decided Russell.
‘It’s a dry heat,’ replied Michael: ‘The humidity has been dropping every day this week and now most of the moisture in the soil has been evaporated – hence the urgent requirement for harvesting.’
Russell nodded. ‘What time is it?’
‘Eleven fifty-seven. Ah, here comes ma’am,’ replied the spider.
Kerstin’s hire car pulled into the car park and Ceres jumped out. Kerstin waved at Russell and the car then swiftly departed.
‘Morning!’ said Ceres, breezily, ‘it is still morning, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, ma’am, Eleven fifty………….eight am, precisely,’ replied Michael.
‘And you managed to save Gerry’s pictogram?’
‘Indeed, ma’am. Turned out to be Gerry himself driving the combine harvester!’
‘Really!? What are the odds, eh?’
‘That’s what I said!’
Russell rolled his eyes.
‘And where’s Mr. Waterstone?’ enquired Ceres, idly perusing the car park.
‘He’s in the bar,’ replied Russell, ‘and he’s acting rather odd, I might add.’
‘Oh? I hope he’s not back on the scrumpy.’
‘I don’t think so, he wasn’t drinking anything at all while I was in there with him.’
‘Wouldn’t matter if he had been,’ replied Michael, ‘I took the liberty of chemically neutralizing the scrumpy’s wormwood last night. It should now just be hangover-juice. …Eleven fifty-nine.’
At that moment a cavalcade of three large black cars approached; they entered the car park and stopped near the entrance to the hotel. The occupants alighted and Russell was stunned to see a very recognizable face.
‘My god, that’s the Prime Minister, isn’t it?’
An obviously drunken man cavorted and shouted next to the PM. The sole woman of the party attempted to subdue him but with limited success.
‘Yep,’ replied Michael, ducking down to remain hidden.
‘Why are you hiding?’ asked Russell.
‘You should, too, Russell, and you, ma’am.’
Russell and Ceres joined Michael behind the Bentley, the three of them peered over the bonnet and quietly observed the PM’s party.
‘So why are we hiding?’ Russell tried again. He watched as the large group conferred outside the hotel. The PM and the woman next to him had clocked the Bentley and were pointing at it.
‘Take the drone out, Michael,’ ordered Ceres.
‘What!? Not yet!’ hissed Russell.
‘The MI6 surveillance drone.’
‘What!? We’ve been under surveillance!?’
‘Keep your voice down, Russell!’ whispered Michael. ‘I’ve already nobbled it, ma’am. It’s been pointed at the village for the past thirty minutes. You want it taken out completely?’
‘No, as long as we’re not being tracked, that’ll be fine. And as for the reason for remaining hidden, Mr. Tebb: don’t you recognize that drunken idiot, there?’
‘Err,’
‘It’s Marcus, the bum at St James’s Park who “saw” Michael, MI6 are obviously using him to sniff us out. And now is not the time!’
‘You mean there is a time?’
‘Assuming the human system opts for the resumption of the Sponsor programme, yes – your PM, and others, will be the ones overseeing the revised programme.’
‘Oh, I see. And what if it doesn’t opt for that?’ asked Russell.
The Prime Minister and one of the other men began cautiously walking over towards the Bentley.
‘Quick! Back behind that Citroën,’ urged Ceres, tugging at Russell’s collar. The three of them darted behind the neighbouring car.
‘The perception filter should handle this as long as Marcus doesn’t join them. Just as well, because we must have been seen!’ said Michael, breathlessly.
As they neared, the man accompanying the Prime Minister held his hand aloft and the PM stopped; he withdrew an automatic pistol and moved in to examine the Bentley closely. He inspected the front and back seats, checked to see if the boot and bonnet were secure, rummaged through the glove compartment, tried all of the door handles and scrutinized the underside of the car. Finally, he indicated that the PM could approach.
‘Anything?’ enquired the PM.
‘Nothing atypical, sir.’
Russell continued to watch as the PM studied the car. ‘What are they looking for?’ he asked.
‘Nothing in particular. The PM is just curious,’ Ceres whispered.
‘I could pick the boot if you want, sir,’ suggested the suit.
‘We don’t want them sticking their noses in the boot, do we?’ whispered Russell. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mr. Waterstone’s tube gun is in there.’
‘Leave it for now. But remain here,’ instructed the PM.
The Prime Minister left the unfortunate minion to bake by the car as he returned to the other members of his entourage who were observing closely from the front door of the hotel. After a brief deliberation, two men took up positions by the door and three other men returned to one of the cars. Only the PM, the woman and the drunk entered the Red Lion.
‘The time!’ Russell suddenly remembered.
‘Twelve o six. I’ve secured the image. Anyone care to take a look at the fully amalgamated pictogram?’ asked the spider.
‘Definitely!’ replied Ceres.
‘Err, just one problem – him!’ said Russell, pointing at the man, standing by the Bentley. ‘He’s not going anywhere, is he?’
‘He’s not a problem,’ replied Michael. ‘With Marcus inside it’s business as usual.’
Ceres stood and slowly walked over to the Bentley. Michael followed and Russell followed Michael. As Michael popped open the boot the man suddenly turned around and watched, but after a moment he seemed to lose interest and the focus of his attention returned to the hotel, and his colleagues patrolling by the entrance. Michael fiddled with the printer and a large glossy sheet began to emerge. Ceres pulled it free and placed it on the gravel:
‘Behold, Mr. Tebb – the reason we are here.’
‘Part three slots in perfectly, as expected,’ observed Michael.
The spider was correct. If not for some obvious discontinuities in the surrounding standing crops, this image would have been taken as a straightforward photograph of a single crop circle – one gigantic and extraordinarily detailed crop circle, the like of which had probably never before been seen. Unlike the “Third Eye” circle and many others, this one did not comprise simple geometric shapes. Nor was it a recognizable picture. It was ac
tually a bit of a noisy mess – like a dot-matrix image of... nothing in particular. Technically brilliant, without doubt. But hardly beautiful.
A car suddenly sped into the car park and stopped abruptly and haphazardly near the hotel entrance. Gerry bounded out, slammed the door loudly and strode purposefully towards the hotel door, but the PM’s suits, obviously agitated by Gerry’s aggressive arrival and manner, barred him from entering. Something of a scuffle developed.
‘Oh, god, here’s trouble,’ said Russell, viewing the scene with growing disquiet. ‘Gerry’s arrived! We had to trash his combine and he’s majorly pissed about it.’ He glanced at Ceres and Michael but they were ignoring the squabble at the hotel entrance; they were staring at the pictogram.
‘So, can you, or can you not, finally make sense of this?’ Russell demanded.
No one replied. Ceres was frowning, and not in a good way.
***