VI: REVELATION
Mather was deep in thought when I joined him in the kitchen. He was washing the crockery, but doing so in a curiously slow manner. I was about to ask if anything was wrong when, on seeing me standing in the doorway, he started, almost dropping the cup he was holding.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean to creep up on you.’
‘No, it’s my fault really. I was preoccupied for a moment . . .’ He looked embarrassed, though I couldn’t think why. ‘Oh,’ he said, noticing that my bag was slung around my shoulder, ‘are you leaving already?’
‘In a short while, yes. So much work to do back at the office, you know. But I wouldn’t mind having another quick look around the island before I go.’
‘Oh, well, let me finish this and I’ll come with you.’
‘Oh no, that’s very kind of you, but I’d rather go alone if you don’t mind. I wanted to get some photographs of the house and the lake for the article – if that’s OK with you?’
‘Oh, well now, I don’t—’
‘Obviously I understand what you said earlier, about not wanting people coming to the island, but I’ll only use general shots of trees and the lake. Nothing revealing.’
‘You give me your word?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well . . . all right then. I’ll leave you to it. But remember, I don’t want any names mentioned in the article. I’m very sensitive about that sort of thing.’
‘No, I realize that. Don’t worry, I’ll be back in about half an hour or so. Then we can go, if that’s all right?’
‘That’s fine.’
‘Great.’ I smiled and turned while Mather remained by the sink as though waiting for me to leave. ‘Right, I’ll be off then. See you in a while.’
Just as I left Mather said, ‘Be careful not to go too far down the path – it’s not safe past the boathouse. All sorts of thorn bushes. I never go near that side of the island as a rule.’
‘Oh, right – OK, I’ll be careful.’
Outside, the air was fresh and pleasant. A movement caught my eye and on looking back at the house I saw the curtains at the living-room window twitch. Stepping back a few paces, almost to the tree line, I took the Nikon out of the bag and checked it was in working order. Everything was as it should be, so I took a few pictures of the house from various angles, then returned the camera to the bag. I wondered again how Mather survived on his own. There couldn’t be many people prepared to live in such isolation. Was his experience with Soames the sole reason for such a drastic decision? The mental aspect of his situation was intriguing. I could be a solitary person myself a lot of the time, but it was hard to imagine getting by without regular social interaction. I’d go insane. Maybe we don’t realize how dependent we are on others until we are truly detached. From what I had seen though, Mather seemed to cope with his detachment pretty well.
I walked towards the beach, then changed my mind. There was little more of interest in that direction, and I was sure there would be better views of the lake from elsewhere on the island. I set off along the path I’d discovered earlier. Luckily, many of the branches had been moved safely out of the way during my previous excursion, so my progress was easier. It didn’t take long to reach the rocks above the second beach. Taking out the camera and looping the strap over my neck, I looked through the viewfinder at the lake beyond. It was shaping up to be a really good day. There were a few puffs of cloud, but they were stretched thin across the sky. The surface of the lake glimmered brilliantly in the morning sun. There could be no starker contrast to the day before. I took a few exposures of the wide expanse, then moved on, this time leaving the camera hanging around my neck.
The path ended by the rocks. Beside the beach and the boathouse there was only dense undergrowth. However, while turning back down the path, I noticed a small gap in the trees. Mather had warned me about going in that direction, but perhaps he was being over-anxious. I walked up to the small gap and looked around. All that could be seen was nettles and branches. Tucking my hands into my pockets, I proceeded carefully forward.
I had to push with some force to begin with, but after shouldering aside several branches I found that the new path wasn’t too dissimilar from the previous one. It snaked towards the opposite end of the island so I started off eagerly.
There were birds in the trees around me, but I was unable to see them. So far, all the photos I’d taken were of the house and the lake. I wanted to get some of the local wildlife on film, in case I was ultimately unable to photograph the Ganges Red. Continuing down the path, I caught a glimpse of the back of Mather’s house. As I moved into the trees to find a better position, I was soon rewarded. There was a window at the end of the corridor which was curtained on the inside. Below this was a small wooden hut, a little bigger than a kennel, which must have housed the generator. Although Mather had said he didn’t use much electricity, the machine must have been important to him. I tried to imagine myself being stranded on the island at night with nothing but candles to get me around. It wasn’t a comforting thought.
The view of the house and generator was creepy enough to give the article the right atmosphere. I reeled off a few frames through the branches, the clicks disturbing some of the birds nearby. When I was happy, I returned to the path and continued walking.
The chirping of the birds soon grew distant, as though they weren’t interested in this part of the island any more. The path widened, narrowed and almost disappeared in places as I made my way along it, whistling the odd tune or just listening to the sound of the branches swaying in the wind. As I walked on, I wondered if there would be anything of interest at the end of the path.
LAKE LANGUOR RESEARCH CENTRE
ARIES ISLAND
NO TRESPASSING
The sign hung slightly askew on the gate that crossed the path, and despite the faded lettering it seized my attention. I was immediately faced by a rather worrying question. Why had Mather told me there were no other buildings? He’d said that he didn’t come to this side of the island much, but I found it hard to believe that he knew nothing of the research centre.
I stood staring at the sign for a while, momentarily unable to proceed. It was those two simple yet powerful words:
NO TRESPASSING.
I took a couple of photographs, then walked up to the gate. It seemed odd that a research centre should be at the end of such a rarely used trail. Even if it had been closed down for a while, I’d have expected more than just a rough path. Perhaps there was a second approach to the centre from another beach. I scanned the trees around me nervously for signs of movement, but didn’t really expect to see anyone watching. Climbing onto the gate, I swung my legs over and dropped to the ground on the other side. The path continued once more beyond the gate and round to the left.
Turning the corner, I saw a brick building a short way in front of me. It was undoubtedly deserted. Time and the seasons had taken their toll on the place, and the thick foliage on all sides was slowly trying to smother it. I lifted the camera and moved back slightly to fit the building in the frame. Just then a small rabbit hopped out of the bushes some metres ahead and sat there, its head tilted quizzically towards me. I took the picture with the animal in the foreground. The rabbit, surprised at the sound the camera made, turned and hopped back into the trees. I lowered the Nikon and looked again at the building. It wasn’t even a mile from the house. How could Mather not know of its existence?
I could see no evidence from the outside of what research had been carried out in there. On approaching the porch, however, I saw a small plaque on the brickwork to the left of the door.
LAKE LANGUOR MARINE RESEARCH CENTRE
Thick, lustrous ivy twisted its way up the wooden pillars that supported the porch roof. The front door was glass from the middle up. This had browned from moisture and dirt that must have collected over several years. The lower part of the door was warped and rotting. Some white paint still remained in places, but most of it had flaked off long ago. I reached for the knob, which turned without protest. Pushing the door open and stepping inside, I was immediately assailed by the smell of perishing wood, damp vegetation and something else. It was like the terrible smell of spoiled food, only worse.
The room I entered was a small reception area that had been gutted. Where once a few chairs had been bolted to the ground, there were now just holes. To the right, on the floor, were the many shards of a broken vase, green now with filth. A page from a magazine, almost bleached white by time, had imprinted itself on the linoleum like an accidental tattoo.
I walked through the small foyer and into a large, light room that must once have been a laboratory. The smell was stronger now, and ignoring it was proving difficult. My shoes crunched on numerous pieces of broken glass. Green light from the leaves covering one window highlighted a number of large, aquarium-style tanks along the right wall, some intact, some in various stages of destruction. In front of these were high tables, covered in dirt and debris. I assumed that it was here that the staff had conducted their experiments. As I walked down the centre of the room, I saw that a stool had been smashed into one of the tanks. It had clearly been an act of vandalism, but who would do such a thing? And was it done before or after Mather came to the island?
At the end of the room were two doors. The first, on the left, led to an annexe, where I found what looked like a staffroom, toilets and a fair-sized storage cupboard. In the staffroom I noticed an old science magazine not unlike
Missing Link
lying on the floor, kicked into one corner. I stood over it and peered down. It lay open at a story on termite infestation, and rare breeds of so-called ‘super termites’. Someone was obviously interested in the authors of the article, Pat Harold and C. H. Peters, as they had circled the names with a marker pen. Leaving the filthy magazine where it was, I returned to the main room and tried the other door.
I turned the handle and pushed inwards, but the door budged only slightly. It seemed to be wedged against the frame. I had to give it a good strong kick to force a gap wide enough for me to squeeze through.
Finding myself at the top of some concrete steps, I looked around for a light switch, then realized that the generator, wherever it was, would probably be inactive. The smell was much worse now, and I felt I could almost touch it as it wafted up the stairs from below. Despite the possible dangers, the journalist in me was determined to discover what was down there in the gloom.
Not having a torch with me, I went back into the main room where there was natural light and took the camera flash out of the bag. Luckily, like the Nikon itself, it hadn’t been affected by the previous day’s soaking. I attached it to the flash housing and waited for it to warm up before taking a test shot. There were only two more exposures left on the film, so there seemed little point in removing it. I returned to the door and was able to descend half the staircase before needing to use the camera. Snapping off the first flash, I saw the lower half of the stairs, and made my way down in the darkness, retaining the after-image in my head.
I reached the foot of the stairs and set off another flash. This time the light revealed a small basement, with shelves and boxes stacked on top of each other. On a small table in one corner I was sure I’d glimpsed an oil lamp. Closing my eyes I studied the image burned onto my retinas. There was definitely something in that direction. I walked over and aimed the flash down at the spot in question. There was indeed an oil lamp, along with a large box of kitchen matches to one side of it.
‘Result,’ I muttered to myself. I felt for the box, struck a match and then picked up the lamp, unsure how to light the thing. The match had burned dangerously close to my fingers by the time it was lit. I held it up, illuminating the basement. The only thing I’d missed when I glimpsed it with the flash was the door by the bottom of the stairs. Pocketing the matches, I looked around the shelves and boxes for anything else of interest. Finding nothing, I turned my attention to the door.
There was no doorknob this time, so I just pushed the door and found that it opened inwards with little encouragement. Holding up the lamp, I found a slightly larger room than the one before. The floor was black: for some reason it seemed to have been painted, though clumsily, as some light patches showed through. Holes had been drilled in a number of locations, though for what purpose I couldn’t fathom. There was a large table in the middle of the room, also painted, something which struck me as particularly odd. Waving the lantern around the walls, I saw a couple of small shelves and a chest of drawers. I counted at least seven oil lamps, placed at various points around the room, no doubt in an attempt to illuminate the whole area for work of some kind. As well as the now diabolical smell of corruption there was a strange smell of rust coming from somewhere. I angled the lamp towards the floor. In some places the light penetrated part of the way through the strange paint, revealing its layers. I was beginning to feel ill, and not just from the smell. It felt as if my subconscious were trying to tell me something that I didn’t want to hear.
There was an open doorway at the opposite end of this room, and I decided to check it out before I was totally overcome by the foul air.