half of her body up, a kind of wheelbarrow stance that facilitated the backward and forward movements of his filthy thighs. Slamming faster and faster, rotted lungs wheezing loudly under the strain. Oh you filthy fucking bastard, you've no right to exist! Maybe you don't and it's another trick of this bloody fog, but whether it is or not the girl is going to die if I don't do something fast. Lee balanced himself, took a deep breath. Don't think about it or else you'll chicken out. You're demonstrating a life-saving exercise to a bunch of rookies at the baths. You're on the high springboard. Nothing to it, just don't look down. Fill your lungs, relax your muscles as you go; go right down and come up fast.
Airborne, somersaulting once, judging the distance in his own mind. Lukewarm chlorinated water that'll make your eyes smart. Impact!
A soft landing that threw him flat, reality coming back as he wallowed in the mud, clawed himself up to the surface. It sucked viciously and he knew he had gone in above his knees, was temporarily trapped in the morass. Take it easy, struggle too hard and you'll sink deeper. Move the right leg a few inches, now the left, work your way steadily upwards. Then lie flat and ease yourself out; training instructions for rescuing people trapped in quick sands, as per manual.
The thing in the pit was aware of his presence, turned slowly, released the girl and she flopped back down into the water, lay partly submerged, face downwards. Not moving, half-floating. Oh Jesus, I'm too late, — she's already dead!
Stupefaction bordering on hypnosis as Detective-Constable Alan Lee stared up into the malevolent features of a behemoth in human form. A vile stinking body, from the pelvis downwards just skeletal; that inhuman sex act had been a pointless simulation then, a last blasphemous attempt at procreation. Symbolic rape.
Bubbles formed and burst on nose and mouth cavities, eye sockets pouring watery filth like acute conjunctivitis, that wheezing now a liquid sound. Advancing unsteadily, arms stretched out towards the man helplessly trapped in the mud.
The policeman knew that his brain had to snap, that it had reached the limit of human endurance, could not accept what it saw. Lying forward, the way the manual taught you, but his legs still wouldn't come free. Laughter somewhere reminding him of the taped mirth producers use to boost unfunny comedy films on TV. Laugh or we'll laugh for you. Foster, of course, up there savouring every second. Just remember you're a murderer, copper. She's dead and you killed her.
Lee closed his eyes for a second, one last try, and then he opened them again.
'I'm a police officer.'
The other took another step, coughed up a solid lump of slime that plopped into the water.
'D'you hear me, I'm a police officer! You're under arrest, for rape and murder.' Stop that fucking laughing up there, I'm serious.' Anything you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.'
It towered over him now, Christ it had to be well over six feet tall, a colossus that pissed stagnant water all over you. Cold stinking water, the stench making you retch. Lee pulled for all he was worth, got his right leg almost free; the mud beneath him shifted, started to suck it back down again. A noise to his left; Thelma had submerged, rolled over, surfaced again, was floating free on her back, arms stretched right out over her head as though she was doing the backstroke, staring vacantly up at the lowering grey sky above the pit. A rush of trapped air made bubbles on the water, big ones that burst slowly one at a time. She might not be dead yet, very close but not quite. I've got to give her artificial respiration, it's my duty. Get out of the way, you bugger, let me go to her.
'You're bloody well under arrest.''
Crying hysterically now, not caring for himself when a huge hand reached out, caught him by the hair and jerked his head back, almost dislocating his vertebrae. Hair came out by the roots, floated on the surface like the feathers of a mallard in moult. Still telling the fucker he was under arrest, that he had to accompany him to the station where he would be required to make a statement. Some bugger was still laughing, jeering. Their mates always acted up when you arrested one of them. Ignore it, get on with your job. Fingers prised his mouth open; he tried to bite on them but it didn't seem to make any difference. A sudden snap, instant pain and his jaw wasn't working any more, a ventriloquist's dummy that had bust a spring. But the show went on.
The creature was bending down, scooping up handfuls of cold black mud, feeding them into that open limp mouth, stuffing the morass in with its fingers, shoving it right down the back of its victim's throat. Handful after handful, poking it up the nostrils, a macabre nose-pick in reverse. The policeman was not struggling any longer, gasping one last time for breath and then giving up, accepting that he was going to suffocate. With bulging eyes that threatened to pop at any second he studied the limp floating figure of the girl. She had touched the far wall of the pit and it had swung her round; she was coming back this way. Almost doing the splits, letting him feast his eyes on her ravaged flesh, a final act of revenge even after death. Take a good look, Constable. I'm all torn about, still bleeding. You did that to me. Not him, because he doesn't have anything left to do it with. You tricked me, took advantage of your position and the situation. Now I'm dead and you're not far off. I'll give you another thirty seconds at the most. Neither of us will be leaving here. We'll be down here for ever with that, and eventually we'll become like him. Just waiting for somebody else to fall in here and then we'll fight like hell over them. Bye for now, copper, you dirty bastard. See you soon.
Alan Lee tried to scream one last yell of remorse, wanted her to understand how it had all come about, but the effort was too much for him. And even after the constable died, foul mud was still being crammed into his mouth, slipping steadily down his throat and into his lungs.
Up above, the man who had once been James Foster turned away and walked off into the dense fog, idly fingering at the open bloodless wound in his throat, a subconscious action which was fast becoming a habit with him.
Eleven
Andy Dark eyed the German with both fear and amazement, watched the steady, gloating descent down the stairs. The conservation officer glanced once behind him towards the open door. If it had not been for that menacing Luger in the other's hand he would have grabbed Carol and taken pot luck on a dash for freedom. But for her sake he dared not chance it.
'So, my prison cannot hold you.' Bertie Hass reached the bottom step, advancing slowly on them. 'You British are all the same, you will never accept the inevitable. Even now in the face of defeat you fight on, risk annihilation. A mad race of people.'
'You're crazy,' Andy snapped, pulling Carol behind him. 'The war's been over nearly forty years. Germany was beaten. Your beloved Fuhrer made one big mistake, he chose to go for Russia before Britain and underestimated the winter. Just like Napoleon did.'
'Silence!' For a second that forefinger threatened to tighten on the trigger.
'How dare you speak of the Fuhrer with such lies. No decision has yet been made concerning an assault on Stalin… at least, if it has, then the details have not been released.' A flicker of uncertainty in those pale blue eyes but it went as quickly as it came.
'Ail right, have it your own way,' Andy sighed, shrugging his shoulders with a casualness which he certainly did not feel. 'Britain is facing defeat, you've caught us escaping from your own private POW camp, so what now?'
'You are spies.' The Luftwaffe pilot's gaze flicked over the cowering girl.
'And most fortunately for myself the Gestapo will be arriving here shortly. They are experts at dealing with your kind, breaking your stubborn spirit. In the meantime let us go into the room behind you, it will be more comfortable than standing out here in the hall.'
The room leading off the hall was some kind of library, Andy Dark noted with surprise, oak-panelled walls that had the appearance of having been recently polished, floor to ceiling shelves lined with leather-bound, gold- tooled books. You saw the spines, had a feeling that that was all they were; a facade, a pseudo accumulation of literary works that a stage hand might stack in a dusty storeroom after the last performance. A wide latticed window behind the roll-top desk. And a musty smell as though this place had been shut up for years.
'Listen,' Bertie Hass held up a hand, 'can you not hear it?'
Carol Embleton thought at first that thunder was rumbling somewhere, a distant electric storm beyond Droy
