‘I didn’t know.’
The Hawaiian raised a knowing finger. ‘She gives us so much. Such a debt that we owe her!’
Rowley looked at him. ‘She?’
The engine thundered and the helicopter, vibrating furiously, lifted off. Rowley saw a faint trace of fear cross Sontaree’s face, then it was gone as they gained height and he appeared to relax.
Pele.’ The Hawaiian leaned across him and pointed to a plume of smoke in the distance. ‘See – she is greeting you.’
Rowley frowned. ‘I’m still not with you.’
‘Pele – it is her salute to you.’ His breath smelled of chicken that had gone off, and the patent lawyer averted his cheek as far as he could without seeming rude. But he received a further blast. ‘Pele! The goddess of our volcanoes.’
‘The smoke, right?’
‘Steam. She is venting sulphurous steam. It is her greeting to you, you see. Her way of saying: “Ohahu! Welcome to my island!”’
‘I’d prefer her to give me a gin and tonic.’
The Hawaiian looked momentarily puzzled, then roared with laughter. ‘Ah, you English! All the same. Your sense of humour! Gin and tonic! You want one now?’
‘I could murder one.’
The Hawaiian produced two glasses from a cocktail compartment, a bottle of Gordon’s, tonic and ice.
‘Cheers.’ Rowley sipped the sharp, fresh taste gratefully, then gaped as the ocean slid by beneath them, and the massive crater of the erupting volcano loomed closer.
‘Very important,’ the president said suddenly. ‘This trip is very important.’
‘You have a new discovery?’
Rowley had already decided he did not care for this character much; there was something sly, shifty about him; a wheeler dealer. He wondered how on earth such a man had achieved a position of power. Then he tried to rationalize it. Bendix Hilo was an important research and manufacturing plant for the company, but, so far as he knew, it was not a place where decision-making was done. Sontaree might have the grand title of ‘President’. But in effect he was probably a glorified factory manager; that was all.
‘New discovery?’ the man answered him. ‘Yes, all the time; every day we are making new extractions from flora and fauna species. Nature is incredible, don’t you think, Mr Rowley?’
‘Yup.’ Rowley was thinking he could have done with a slice of lemon in his drink.
‘Over ninety per cent of our flora and fauna is endemic, to be found nowhere else on earth. We have one hundred species of native land birds evolved from just twenty ancestors. One thousand flowering plants evolved from less than three hundred colonizers; and I could go on … Not bad for what was once just an atoll of volcanic rock rising out of the ocean?’
‘Incredible.’
‘Using every living organism on this island, we are now searching for – and sometimes finding – the raw materials to develop new pharmaceuticals for the benefit of mankind. All thanks to the munificence of our goddess Pele.’ His eyes widened into an expression of humbled beatitude.
You’re serious, Rowley thought with amazement. You really fucking believe in your fucking goddess!
The ocean had given way to black sand, then slippery lava cliffs. The centre of the island was a row of mountainous volcanoes; the south side, as far along the coast as Rowley could see, was a solid black desert of lava flows.
Bypassing the dense steam from the erupting volcano, they climbed above an erratic line of dormant volcanic craters. Then as the land fell away on the far side, the scenery changed dramatically to lush green rain forest. Tall, slender trees rose majestically from a green canopy; narrow waterfalls plunged into dense gorges.
When the helicopter began to lose height, the Hawaiian leaned over and pointed. They were descending towards a huge complex of buildings in an almost hidden valley. The complex consisted of one five-sided white central block, and a mass of long, narrow buildings laid out in neat geometric rows around it. The whole site was encircled by a hostile double-wall infilled with barbed wire.
All Bendix Schere laboratories were like fortresses; Rowley knew that. Pharmaceuticals were a sensitive subject the world over; you never knew what offence you were going to cause in your host country, whether you would upset the vivisectionists, the ecological pressure groups, or now, with genetics, fundamentalist religious groups.
‘Looks like the Pentagon down there!’ he commented.
‘Only one day, it will be much more powerful!’ Sontaree boasted.
Rowley looked at him oddly. ‘Oh yes?’
Forty minutes later, Sontaree accompanied Rowley to the reception desk of the Waikoloan Hilton and supervised the formalities, ensuring the hotel understood all bills were to be sent to Bendix Hilo. Then he shook Rowley’s hand. ‘You have time to check in and have a rest. This evening we are having a barbecue in your honour – we collect you at five-thirty.’
‘When do we start work?’
‘Monday’s plenty time enough. See you this evening. Half five!’
‘What should I wear?’
The Hawaiian hesitated, then said: ‘Beachwear. It will be very warm. Oh – and please be sure to bring a towel.’
A limousine was waiting outside at five-thirty sharp and the chauffeur opened the rear door. Rowley, dressed in a gaudy shirt and Bermuda shorts, carrying a beach towel, slipped into the chill of the air-conditioned interior.
They drove inland, turning on to an undulating road that ran through a volcanic valley surrounded by craters of varying size. It felt like being on the moon, Rowley imagined. The day was fading rapidly and it would be dark in an hour.
They passed a military air base, a surreal site within the lava landscape, and a few miles later the car suddenly turned in between two smart white gateposts and swept up a long drive. As they rounded a curve, Rowley could see an imposing ranch-style mansion ahead. To the left of it in the dusk, he could see the hull of the helicopter and its rotors. It looked, he thought, a little sinister.
Sontaree opened the front door himself and greeted him warmly. ‘Mr Rowley! You have had a pleasant rest?’
Rowley stifled a yawn. ‘Yes, thank you.’ There was a moist smell to the air that he found refreshing after the heat of the coast.
He was led through into a living room, furnished mostly in rattan, with dramatic views down to the coast, and handed a glass of champagne.
‘Your health.’ Rowley gulped the champagne greedily, feeling thirsty, and the Hawaiian refilled his glass immediately. The man seemed a little edgy, he thought, and conversation was strained. He peered through the window at the view.
‘That’s Waikoloa, down to the right – and Kona to the left,’ Sontaree said.
Rowley suddenly found he was having a problem focusing. He screwed up his eyes and tried again. The floor felt unstable beneath him. Drunk the champagne too fast, he thought, a little alarmed. Then the glass of the picture window rippled and it seemed as if he was looking at the view through a goldfish bowl.
He turned, startled. The president looked oddly distorted, as if he were melting. He sensed the glass being eased from his hand.
‘Need to sit down,’ he mumbled.
‘We go outside. You can sit in a minute.’
Feeling increasingly strange, Rowley allowed himself to be led out of the house and towards the helicopter, which seemed to be changing shape as he got nearer. The rear door swung open and steps dropped down; like a tongue sticking out, he thought, and was surprised when he stepped on the bottom rung to find it was firm, not squidgy.
He was even more surprised at the figures seated inside. About a dozen people, he guessed, hazily; all appeared to be wearing white robes, their faces obscured by cowled hoods; and there was a cloying smell of incense.
‘Didn’t realize it was a fancy dress party!’ Rowley said light-headedly, looking around, expecting everyone to share the joke with him. Instead there was silence.
As he watched, the white robes seemed to expand, slidi
ng into each other, as if they were dissolving into one amorphic mass. His brain felt as if it was gyrating inside his cranium. Hands guided him into a seat.
Noise exploded all around him. The roar of the engine starting. Vibration. The helicopter lifted off, tilted forward and began climbing. After a few moments it banked steeply. He peered down at the astronomy observatories on top of Mona Kea; in the final glow of the setting sun they reminded him of melting igloos.
They headed east and as the sun slipped behind the horizon they began a long circle around the crater of the erupting Mount Kilauea. At first all Rowley could see was the dense billowing cloud of sulphurous steam. Then as they climbed directly above the three-mile-wide rim, he could make out with increasing clarity the boiling red cauldron of the lava lake inside. It was like a livid, inflamed larynx inside vast jaws, he thought.
Then something closed over his eyes, plunging him into total darkness.
A sudden bolt of fear curdled inside him. ‘Hey!’ he exclaimed.
A soft object was slipped over his head. Cloth. It was being tightened below his chin. He was having difficulty breathing.
Pitch darkness.
He felt himself thrust face down on the floor; his hands being tied behind his back; then his ankles bound together. His face was sweltering hot; ripples of panic pulsed through him. ‘Hrrrgg! Hrrfggh!’ he grunted, trying desperately to comprehend, through his drugged haze, what on earth was happening.
The helicopter stayed high for safety, the experienced pilot well aware that an erupting volcano sucked up all the air in its path. It ceased circling and began to hover, the pilot holding it as steady as he could.
Then all the robed men and women began to chant the Lord’s Prayer in reverse, in Latin.
‘Nema. Olam a son arebil des
Menoitatnet ni sacudni son en te.
Sirtson subirotibed
Summittimid son te tucis
Artson atibed sibon ettimid te
Eidoh sibon ad
Munaiditouq murtson menap
Arret ni te oleac ni
Tucis aut satnulov taif
Muut munger tainevda
Muut nemon rutecifitcnas
Sileac ni se iuq
Retson retap.’
Charley Rowley could hear the sound. He wriggled, grunted, suffocating in the cloth hood. Then suddenly he heard the sliding of metal, the roaring of wind, and a blast of refreshing, icy air. His head cleared a little. Some kind of joke? This had to be some prank devised by that shifty little prat Sontaree. It was then that utter terror seized him.
He was being lifted; hands under his stomach, chest, legs. The roar of the wind was getting louder, tearing at his shirt, his shorts, the bare skin of his legs.
Suddenly, he felt himself roll over. The hands were no longer supporting him. He was falling. Going to hit the floor!
Except he carried on falling.
Icy air pressed the hood around his face like a second skin; stinking sulphur seared his lungs.
Dropping.
The red heat was coming up at him; searing, furnace heat; unbearable, blistering heat. He screamed, a brief, muffled cry before his vocal chords were burned away.
From the helicopter they could see the dark figure falling headfirst, like a bomb. It erupted briefly into a ball of smoke as it hit the 2000 degrees hot surface of molten lava, then was gone.
‘Take our gift, we pray thee!’ the people in the helicopter chanted. ‘Hail Satan. Hail goddess Pele!’
70
Berkshire, England. Saturday 26 November, 1994
‘We turn right in about a mile,’ Monty said, massaging her temples, trying to relieve the splitting headache she had woken with that morning.
As Conor slowed the BMW, she delved into her handbag, pulled out the packet of Nurolief they had just bought in a chemist’s and pushed two capsules out of the foil bubbles.
‘You reckon those are any good?’ Conor asked.
‘Best thing I’ve ever found for a hangover.’ She popped them in rapid succession into her mouth and swallowed, eyeing the entwined BS logo on the packet with unease. ‘Even if they are made by you know who.’
‘I might have a couple as well. Think I overdid the red wine last night.’
‘And the champagne and the brandy,’ she grinned, then leaned across and slipped a capsule into his mouth, waited for him to swallow, then slipped in the next.
‘Some night,’ he said. ‘It was some night.’
She gave his thigh a squeeze in acknowledgement and then she pointed, suddenly. ‘OK, that’s it, right here.’
They turned, past a battery of signs, into the campus of Berkshire University. Monty directed him to the far end of a large car park that was less than a quarter full.
They pulled up before a faded sign saying ‘Space Reserved For Bannerman Labs’, and climbed out of the car into the shadow of the massive concrete superstructure of the new science block that was under construction. A piece of loose scaffolding rattled in the wind and Monty turned warily, memories of Dr Corbin still all too vivid.
Weeds grew up through the concrete hard immediately in front of the redbrick building that housed Bannerman Genetic Research, and the window bars made the place look more like a disused prison than a laboratory.
Monty produced a suitably jailer-sized bunch of keys, unlocked the door and stepped in quickly to switch off the alarm. Conor followed and she locked the door again from the inside.
The interior smells had not changed in all the time she had known this building, and they brought a raft of memories back as the click of her heels echoed in the stillness. A calendar hung on the wall and there was a small hatch through to the accounts department, now stripped bare, which had doubled as reception. Bare old wooden desks, metal filing cabinets, mostly empty, peeling paint. She looked at Conor, wondering what he was thinking.
‘Lot of character, this place. Must be sad for you to see it go,’ he said.
‘A few months ago I couldn’t wait to get out,’ she told him. ‘Now I really miss it. I seem to have spent so much of my life here.’
She led him into the main laboratory, with its rows of wooden work benches still covered in the equipment and apparatus that Bendix Schere had not required, and the peeling Health and Safety warning notices Sellotaped to its walls. ‘Welcome to the hub of modern science!’ she said.
‘Love it! You ought to sell this place to the Science Museum! They could move it lock, stock and barrel into one of their floors as a tribute to your father.’
‘I wish,’ she said, hugging her chest with her arms against the cold. Her headache was starting to feel a little better already; it was too soon for the Nurolief to be working yet, she knew, probably just a psychological effect.
God, she had hit the booze last night. She had made Conor a meal at home and he had tried to cheer her up with champagne because she had been to Walter’s funeral.
She had been deeply depressed by the service. It had been surprisingly cheery beforehand, with many ex-employees there. But as the coffin had slid through the crematorium curtains, the weeping of Mrs Hoggin and her daughters had made the interior of the small chapel feel claustrophobic, and Monty had suffered intense guilt and remorse.
What if she had caused his death?
Ludicrous even to think it. It was a heart attack! Mrs Hoggin had told her at the funeral that Walter had a recent history of heart trouble, which he had been trying to keep secret, and was on a waiting list for a coronary bypass. And yet Monty could not shake off the feeling that poor old Walter had gone the same way as Zandra Wollerton and Jake Seals. Whatever way that was.
And in her darker moments, a question was beginning to grow in her mind as to whether she had somehow been the cause of Dr Corbin’s death. As well. She had read once, and it had always stuck in her mind, that there were certain people who were attractors; their mere presence drew things like poltergeists.
She shivered. Four deaths. Three freak accidents and a heart attac
k. She reached up and pressed a row of light switches, putting on the overhead fluorescents; the bright light they threw down felt as cold as frost.
She thought about Mrs Hoggin, who had greeted her so warmly at her front door nearly two weeks or so earlier. Monty had barely been able to face her outside the crematorium chapel. She had dumped on her, dumped on Walter. Dumped on everyone whom she had involved. And she felt a sudden irrational anger towards Hubert Wentworth. It was all his fault! If the stupid old fool had never come to see her none of it would have happened.
Monty showed him the cupboard where the requirements he had itemized for her were still stored, beside an empty flow-hood.
‘I thought we were coming into a derelict shell. This place is better equipped than a lot of places I’ve seen in the States.’ He hefted his briefcase on to the work surface beside a microscope.
‘Yes, and it all works, it’s just old.’
‘Shame you ever had to sell out.’
‘Research funding’s a constant nightmare. Scientists aren’t valued in this country.’
‘Except by commercial organizations.’
She followed him out of the darkroom as he walked round examining some of the other apparatus in the lab. ‘You didn’t have any computerized gene-sequencing machines?’
‘No – I – don’t think so.’
He shook his head. ‘Probably a couple of hundred thousand dollars’ more kit and you’d have been as up to date as any lab anywhere. You wouldn’t have needed Bendix Schere.’
‘Maybe if my father had patented some of his work we’d have had the money,’ she said ruefully.
‘You should have tried selling this stuff to a Third World dictator who wants to get into the cloning business. It’s amazing what can be done with a full-scale genetics lab.’
‘I remember when Bendix Schere sent a couple of lab technicians down they were almost laughing at us. They said most of our equipment looked like it had come out of the Ark.’
‘Well, that’s because Bendix don’t own anything that’s more than two years old.’ Conor went back into the darkroom and opened his briefcase.