Eventual sleep was marred for me by a dream of taking tea with the maggoty Flora Chaldean downstairs in the kitchen, tiny wriggling white things dropping from her leprous hand into the brew as she stirred it before passing me the cup.
Thank God I awoke before I drank, for the last nightmare image was of a decomposed, almost fleshless, finger floating on top of the green furry liquid.
MYCROFT
THE FOLLOWING Sunday we drove out to the Forest Inn for a snack lunch and a well-earned drink. What with the forthcoming recording session, set for the following Wednesday, and most of the tasks around the cottage now completed, we were in the mood for celebration.
I drank two pints of bitter with my lunch while Midge stuck to her customary orange juice; maybe it was because I was out of practice, but I felt fairly light-headed after I drained the last of the second pint, and more than ready for another. Midge had had enough of the pub, though, and in a way I couldn't blame her: after the tranquility of Gramarye, the crowd and the noise—this place was obviously a popular Sunday watering hole for both tourists and locals alike—was a little hard to take. The bustle and smoky atmosphere were in direct contrast to the peaceful and unpolluted existence we had quickly become used to (although I have to admit I quite enjoyed the change). Without too much protest from me, we left and walked arm in arm toward the Passat.
It was Midge's suggestion that we take a drive and explore some. We hadn't had much opportunity before, apart from walks into the woodland surrounding Gramarye and shopping trips into Cantrip and Bunbury, so it wasn't a bad idea providing we kept away from the mainroads which would be busy with day-trippers. I reversed the car from the parking space and headed away from the inn, breaking into loud song as we hit the road.
We soon turned off onto a quiet lane that snaked into a dense part of the forest, the twists and turns demanding all my concentration. The upper branches of trees formed a leafy tunnel, providing a pleasant relief from the hot sun. To be honest, I think we both had an idea where this road might lead, even though neither of us voiced an opinion: we were curious about the Synergists, our interest kindled by Sixsmythe's warning rather than cooled. Not that we wanted anything to do with them—in fact, it had been a relief that neither Kinsella nor the others had visited us since the blond bomber's departure the previous week. We only wanted to take a closer look at the gray house, the Temple itself. Nothing earnest, no deep motivation—only a destination for an afternoon drive. We'd discussed the Synergists, sure enough, and had easily come to the conclusion that they were no threat to mature and sensible people like us. Possibly Sixsmythe's stupid disclosure of Flora Chaldean's macabre death scenario hadn't exactly endeared him to us, so his views were not taken too seriously. Midge had been pensive for days afterward, but had eventually shed dark thoughts and relaxed in Gramarye's warm ambience once more. I'm sure the constant attention of birds and various animals around the place helped in this respect, bristling life banishing shadowy specters. The cottage would never be quite the same, but our peace of mind had been only slightly dented, not permanently damaged.
As you've already gathered, it had been an exceptionally glorious summer, and a small price had to be paid. The debt collector was about to rap on the windscreen as we sped down that secluded lane.
The Passat had spent weeks out under the boiling sun, used regularly and, to my discredit, rarely checked over. When I saw steam rising over the hood I tried to remember when I had last topped up the radiator. The temperature gauge was way up in the danger zone and a red light glared disgustedly at me.
"Shit!" I growled as clouds rose up in front.
Midge, who had never been machine-minded, said, "What's wrong with it, Mike?"
I could glare just as hard as that bloody red light, and Midge turned her head to the front once again.
"Sorry I asked," she said.
I brought the car to a halt and sat there, letting the engine and myself steam for a while.
"Can you fix it?" Midge ventured after a while, watching the billowing clouds as though they were part of the afternoon's entertainment.
Forcing myself to relax, I replied, "Only by spitting in the radiator." I studied the clouds too, but with less awe than Midge.
"Don't you think you should try and do something?"
I sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Maybe only the fan belt's gone. You wearing tights today?"
She gave me a quick flash and dashed my hopes. Groaning, I pushed open the door. "Pull that thing up, will you, Midge?" I pointed at a lever on the passenger side. She did so and the hood sprang open an inch.
I got out of the car and walked around to the front, muttering to myself as I slid my fingers through the gap and released the hood catch. Pushing the lid all the way up and turning my face away from the tumbling steam, I secured the hood with the retaining rod, then peered into the dragon's mouth. The fan belt was in good shape.
Maybe the demon drink had been enough to dull my senses, or I could have just had a mental relapse for a moment or two, because then I did something stupid, something that all motorists are warned against by those who know better: I took out my handkerchief, bunched it up over the radiator cap, and twisted.
The idea was to release the pressure, but of course once the cap was loosened, boiling water exploded upward like a thermal geyser. My left hand instinctively shot up to protect my eyes as I staggered backward and I howled—no, I screamed—when my skin was scalded by the fiery jet.
I fell, clutching at my arm and writhing with pain in the roadway. I was dimly aware of Midge kneeling beside me, trying to hold me still so that she could examine the burns. Some of my face and neck had been scalded, but the all-consuming pain was in my left hand and lower arm. My short-sleeved denim shirt was wet, but had at least provided a thin barrier against the boiling water for my chest.
I managed to sit, Midge supporting me with an arm around my back; my vision was too blurred with pain-squeezed tears for me to see the damage to my hand, but the agony was more than I'd ever felt in my life before.
Suddenly Midge was on her feet waving her arms frantically in the air. I was conscious of a red car drawing up, two figures getting out and hurrying over to me, one of them vaguely familiar. They knelt in the road and the mail—the other was a young girl—gently pulled at my injured arm.
"Oh dear, oh dear," I heard him mutter. Then he reached behind me and hauled me to my feet. "You'd better come along with us so we can quickly attend to that."
I looked down at my injured limb, blinking, away the dampness from my eyes, and saw that the skin was already beginning to bubble. Gritting my teeth, I allowed them to lead me to their car.
If anything, Midge was more distressed than me so, now I was over the initial shock, I did my best to grin reassuringly at her. It must have come out as an agonized grimace, because her mouth went down at the corners like a small child's and she fought back tears.
I was guided into the back seat of the couple's car, clutching my arm before me as if it were a freshly boiled lobster, and when the girl climbed into the driver's seat I recognized the braided hair, then the face as she turned anxiously toward me: it was Sandy, the girl I had rescued from the village punks the week before.
She said, "Mike, we're going to take you back with us to treat those burns. The Temple is less than a minute away."
"He needs a hospital," insisted Midge, next to me in the car.
The man had just opened the front passenger door and was leaning in. He was middle-aged, balding and very thin, his cheeks so sunken that the bones above cast shadows. "The nearest hospital is many miles away and he needs something done about the pain immediately. You can take him on to hospital afterward—if you think that's necessary." He sat and didn't speak again throughout the brief journey.