Guy Smith: The Slime Beast

THE Wash. Miles of flat, dark green saltings, adjoining the mud-fiats which lie further out than the eye can see. Some has been reclaimed from the sea by man. Much is just the same as it has always been. Peaceful, friendly, and treacherous! Its moods change along with the shifting whispering quicksands. Safety here. Death there. No warning.

It was late October when the party set up camp along by Shep White's, a mile or so east of Sutton village. The old farmhouse on the other side of the big dyke was long gone, and just a crumbling ruin remained. Shep White wasn't around any more either. Desolation, utter and complete. The only company was the warbling curlews and the clamouring geese which flighted over the sea-wall night and morning.

The blockhouse was the obvious choice for a camp-site. It had weathered a quarter of a century of winters; built for a war in which it had played no part; solid to the last square of concrete. It needed little preparation. Sacking on the floor. Boards over the windows to keep the draught out It smelled of stale urine and excretion.

There were just the three of them. Professor Lowson was small and wiry, and it was hard to tell his age, for a bushy black beard flecked with grey hid the wrinkles in his face. In a month's time he would be 55, but he felt ten years younger.

Gavin Royle was in his mid-twenties. Handsome, smiling, well-built and with long dark hair of which the Professor was constantly disapproving. Royle's recent appointment as an assistant curator at the British Museum put him on an equal footing with the leader of this small expedition, but the Professor could not recognise equality.

Liz Beck, who completed the party, was the Professor's twenty-year-old niece. Ever since her parents had been killed in a road accident almost ten years ago she had had to rely upon this crusty old archaeologist for her needs. In his own way he was kindly enough even if he was lost in the past. She had graduated to university, under his guidance, and had consequently developed a strong interest in archaeology.

It was a shame she couldn't spend the vacation how she would have preferred: just lying on some beach allowing the sun to tan her beautifully proportioned body to a rich brown. Still, Uncle did need somebody to keep an eye on him when he set off on these expeditions. King John's treasure, indeed! Men had been searching for it ever since it had sunk into the briny! The most up-to-date equipment in the world had been employed and still it refused to yield its secret resting-place. And now one more search party...

Gavin carried the last carton across from the Land Rover beyond the sea-wall and set it down in the doorway of their chosen headquarters.

'Well, that's the lot!' he breathed. Somehow he had the feeling that he was just the work-horse of the party. The labourer. Brought along to do all the digging.

'Mind how you handle that metal-detector!' the Professor's voice whined from the interior of his own quarters. 'You're handling valuable equipment here, my boy. Not just provisions, you know.'

'I'm the only one who handles bloody anything around here,' Gavin thought, but aloud he said, 'All right, all right. Keep your hair on. I know what I'm doing.'

The muttered reply was incomprehensible.

'Don't be too hard on Uncle.'

Liz Beck appeared in the doorway of the 'room' which she had allocated herself. 'He's not a bad old stick really.'

'I suppose not,' Gavin eyed her appraisingly, noting her petite body with its curves in just the right places. Perfect features, long raven-black hair. He sighed. They had only known each other a few hours since they had set out from London and already his mind was spinning; he wondered if she was a virgin and then forced himself to think of other things. It wasn't any of his bloody business whether she was or not

'Give us a hand to unpack these few last things,' he said. 'A woman's always that much better at arranging a house than a man.'

'You think we're crazy coming here to look for a treasure which was lost seven hundred years ago and everybody's been looking for since, don't you?' he asked as they worked.

'Don't you!' she countered.

Tm being paid for it.' He tried to appear mercenary In an attempt to disguise his true feelings. 'Besides it's a break from the routine of the Museum. It gets pretty deadly there at times.'

'Same goes for me. Besides, Uncle Jack really is a bit of a daydream. He needs somebody around to keep reminding him that he's still living in the twentieth century.'

They worked in silence. Eventually she lit the primus-stove and placed a kettle of water on it.

'I suppose I'd better think about preparing some tea,' she said. 'No doubt Uncle will prefer to eat in his own little den. He never does like company at meal-times.'

Gavin Royle was relieved at this prospect but refrained 7

from saying so. The more time he had Liz to himself the better he would like it.

They washed up in silence. Apart from the clinking of crockery the only other sound was the constant scraping of matches on emery paper as Professor Lawson lit and relit his massive blackened briar pipe.

'It'll be light for another hour yet,' Gavin commented as he dried the last of the plates. 'What say we go for a stroll along the sea-wall? It's a nice evening. Too good to waste sitting in here.'

'Fine.' She smiled with enthusiasm. "There's no point in telling Uncle. He won't miss us anyway.'

The air was fresh and clean, spiced with the smell of the sea. For some time they walked in silence. High above them small skeins of wild geese honked as they headed back to their roosting grounds on the distant mud-flats.

'Do you really think there's any chance of ever finding this treasure?' Gavin shook his head.

'Who knows?' The Wash is an awfully big area. Half of it you can't get at anyway, shifting mud and tides can cover up things for centuries.'

The sun was dipping behind the horizon and suddenly it seemed much colder, reminding them that it wasn't summer any more. They began to retrace their steps.

Gavin glanced at Liz. He began thinking about her again. He wondered if she had a chap back at the university. Most girls there had, and for a variety of reasons.

He dropped his hand and felt for hers, closing his fingers over hers, gently, casually, as if it were the most natural thing to do. It was. His heart pounded. He half expected her to draw herself away, embarrassed, but she didn't. For some time she did nothing. Then, as if she had been deliberating on a course of action her small delicate fingers jostled for a position of more comfort and squeezed her reply. Two hundred yards further on he released his hold and slipped an arm about her waist Her body nestled against his. Neither of them spoke,

Dusk was falling when they arrived back at the blockhouse. They paused at the entrance facing each other. Neither of them could think of anything to say. Words seemed superfluous. Gavin drew her towards him and they kissed. Gently at first. Then more fiercely as they pressed their bodies together. Gavin thought about his hardness which was boring against her thighs. He longed to caress the curves beneath her sweater but managed to control himself. A step at a time. At the moment he was doing just fine.

'Liz!' Professor Lowson's voice caused them to spring apart. 'Liz! How about lighting these lamps?'

They sighed with sudden relief. The old boy had only just noticed that it was getting dark. He obviously had not even left his quarters during the whole time they had been away.

'Coming.' Liz called and went inside to look for the matches.

Gavin and Liz tried to read for a while, gave it up and made some coffee. Concentration seemed impossible, so they sat and talked.