“Thanks,” said Jim, “thanks very much. Whose round is it?”
“Yours, I think,” said Old Pete.
23
Griffin Island had until the great flap of ’84 been known as the Brentford Ait; a picturesque parcel of land about one hundred yards in length standing about another fifty out from the Brentford shoreline of the River Thames. To its rear the glorious gardens of Kew, and before it the New Arts Centre, which it faced with apparent lack of concern. Prior to the Hitlerian war it had supported one of the last great boatyards nearabouts, but now the dry-dock was choked with weeds beneath the iron skeleton of the old glass roof. It was very much a wildlife sanctuary, given over to nesting herons, cormorants and black-necked geese. At the island’s heart was a natural grove of thirteen cedars wherein, local legend held, certain rites were performed in the days of yore, by wizards of the day. Now it was the haven of courting couples who, armed with Wellington boots and a tide-table, performed their own tantric rituals, with one eye open to the rising Thames.
At eleven-thirty upon this particular evening, a tiny coracle, built in the traditional manner from willow and hide, and one of several that Omally maintained at well-hidden moorings, slipped out silently from a dilapidated quayside and drifted downstream upon the night-time river. Pooley steered the circular craft with the single oar and John sat before, gazing out into the darkness.
Ahead, at the western tip of the island, the glass and chromium tower rose from the foreshore to lose itself in darkness. Above, the stars came and went at irregular intervals as airships drifted to and fro about their extraordinary business. The dull hum of their engines had an almost somnambulant quality and the light mist, hovering upon the water, added the final touch to what seemed a dream landscape. The beauty and feeling of it was not lost upon the two boatmen.
“There is a little bay upon the north shore,” Omally whispered, “we’ll beach there.” Pooley swivelled the oar and the current bore the little craft onward without effort.
They had not as yet formed a definite plan of campaign. So far, they were down to watching and listening and only to actually intervening should things look as if they were actually getting out of control. As to exactly what form their intervention might take, or what exactly might constitute “out of control”, these were matters as yet undecided upon.
The craft beached soundlessly and Omally drew it up beyond the tide mark, turned it over and secured it to a tree. On furtive feet, the two men slipped into the undergrowth, moving towards the grove. If ceremonies were to be performed, it seemed to them likely that it was there they would be done.
Ahead, through the darkness, Pooley espied a flicker of firelight. He placed his hand upon Omally’s arm and pointed. With a sobriety which was unnatural to them, the two crept nearer until they reached a suitable vantage point.
Five figures could be clearly seen, seated in a ring about a small fire of driftwood. In their duffle coats it was impossible to discern the sexes of the campfire sitters, but earlier observation suggested that they were the same five as seen in the Swan. Two young men and three women, each in their late teens or early twenties.
Omally uncorked his hip flask and pressed it to his lips. He took a slug. “Seems harmless enough so far,” he whispered. “A bit of a ging-gang-goolie.”
Jim accepted the proffered flask and drew upon it. “If the sausages on sticks come out then I suggest we join them.”
In the distance the Memorial Library clock did its duty, and struck the midnight hour. As its last chime faded into silence, the five figures climbed slowly to their feet and removed their duffle coats. The skulking duo pressed their faces forward in rapt attention. As the duffle coats dropped to the ground it was revealed that all five wore nothing whatever beneath. They were stark naked.
“Would you look at that?” said John Omally.
“Just try and stop me.”
The celebrants now kicked off their Wellington boots, linked hands and began a slow, clockwise perambulation about the fire, chanting softly.
“This has definitely got the edge on the boy scouts,” said Jim in a hushed voice. “I wonder how you join.”
The vigour of the dance increased, the chanting became more audible. Words reached the two voyeurs, words they neither knew nor understood: “SHADDAI EL CHAI ARARITA ADONAI TETRAGRAMMATON, SHADDAI EL CHAI ARARITA ADONAI TETRAGRAMMATON.” The words had a hypnotic quality and Pooley soon found his head bobbing to the rhythm as the naked bodies cavorted in the glow of the twinkling firelight. It was as if he had flown back through the ages and was witnessing some ancient fertility rite at a time when the earth was young and men and the elements were but a single body.
Omally, however, was made of sterner stuff. “This may not be too clever,” he croaked into Pooley’s mobile ear.
“Ssssh!” said Jim. “It’s just a singalong. Good clean fun.”
“It’s witchcraft,” said John, “witchcraft.”
“Really?” Jim looked on with renewed interest. “Orgies, do you mean?”
“We will have to stop it.”
“Are you mad? You don’t get this stuff on the telly.”
“We will have to stop it, Jim.” Omally rose to his feet, he made as if to cry out but the words, whatever they might have been, never left his throat.
With a sudden rush something swept down from above. It was large, dark and ferocious and it dropped directly into the fire with a great shriek, scattering the dancers to every side.
As the two men looked on in horrified fascination the thing drove down amidst the flames, extinguishing them.
And now the light was uncertain and the terror could only be glimpsed. Cries and screams rose in the darkness, above them horrible roars as of some jungle beast. Great wings buffeted the air and Omally saw a gigantic head, like an eagle’s, though grossly magnified, rise and fall, driving its cruel beak amongst the writhing bodies that tumbled and fled before it. Yet the thing was not altogether bird — it moved upon four feet and a hellish barbed tail whipped and dived.
Pooley and Omally, numb and speechless, fell back as a naked female plunged by them into the darkness beyond, crying and screaming. They saw a man lifted from his feet and wished to see no more. Turning tail they ran. The cove glowed silver-white in the moonlight, the naked woman was nowhere to be seen. In blind panic, knowing not what could or should be done, numb with fear and horror, they tore the coracle from its mooring, thrust it into the Thames and rowed away.
24
The french windows of Professor Slocombe’s study were, as ever, open. John and Jim tumbled through them, panting and wheezing. The old man sat at his desk, before him a galleried silver tray held three glasses and the inevitable whisky decanter.
The Professor raised his ice-blue eyes from his books as the two white-faced survivors blinked at him. Laying aside an ivory-handled magnifying glass, his gaze left his uninvited guests and came to rest upon the decanter. John did not require a verbal invitation. Grasping the thing by the neck he splashed Scotch into the three glasses. “No ape,” said he, “no ape, Professor.”
“No,” said the sage, “no ape. Now if you are able, contain your feelings and tell me what you have seen.”
With tumblers clutched in whitened knuckles the two took up fireside chairs. At Pooley’s prompting Omally recounted their tale of terror.
At length the Professor raised a slim forefinger. “This time I must telephone for the police,” he said. “You have no guilty secrets to hide and therefore nothing to fear. If people have died upon the island then it is a matter for the civil authorities. I will telephone at once.” Pooley and Omally shared wary glances, hunched over their drinks and said no more. The Professor made his call. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me?” he asked as he replaced the receiver.