Дэвид Уоллес - Island of Fog and Death

Peri started reading. It was mainly newspaper clippings and hard copies of Internet news pages, and between her speed-reading and remarkable memory, it took only a few minutes. She looked up at Tommy.

“I can see what caught his eye, I think. Odd weather and sudden changes in animal behaviour. Rumours of animal mutilation.” She drummed her fingers on the table briefly. “Aren’t these the sort of indicators we should be looking out for, Tommy? And by ‘we’, obviously I mean ‘you’.” She flashed him a smile to defuse the implied criticism.

“What can I say, love? I’m an event manager. I manage events when they happen. I don’t scan the horizon lookin’ for ’em.”

“Sorry, Tommy, but you’re sounding a tad defensive again. I’m not criticising, really. I’m just curious.”

He sighed. “Sorry, Peri. It’s just a bit frustratin’. We have some folks in the library that review open sources lookin’ out for the keywords and indicators that we don’t want to send outside to press clippin’ services. But Janice, she’s off on maternity leave, and Paula, she’s been on holiday this past three weeks. The team’s short-handed, and Buckthorn is a lower priority than you might like. So things get missed.”

“I get it, Tommy, really I do. So our Major Chen spotted something, did some research, and got it into his head to go and check it out for himself. He shouldn’t have, but he did. And he called in a Buckthorn, and then he died. Sounds like an event just might have occurred. Are you actively treating it as such?”

Tommy looked more comfortable with the slight change of subject. “It’s not an active event, because we don’t know what Chen was goin’ to say. Local police are lookin’ into it, so we’re waitin’ for their paperwork. To be on the safe side, I’ve got a UKSF observation team on site. But I can’t justify keepin’ them there for long, or Director Special Forces will be all over us about wastin’ his precious resources. Best I can do, until and unless somethin’ actually happens.”

“Fair enough,” she replied, and stifled a yawn.

Tommy grinned. “How long you been up, then?”

“Too bloody long. And I’m headed out West from here.”

“West as in…?”

“Arwensmouth. I’m going to see the scene for myself. If there’s anything amiss, you’ll be hearing about it, I promise. As UNTIE team lead, I’m not going to go off-piste.”

“And as Peri Carlton?”

“As UNTIE team lead, I’ll behave as UNTIE team lead should behave.”

He laughed. “Nicely evaded, Peri. Now I have to say, that’s pretty much what I expected.”

He gathered his things into his case, and carefully locked and padlocked it. “See you round, Peri.”

Peri, too, packed up her things, and went off to find the promised driver, to take her out west.

At about half past eight in the evening, having (in Tori’s mind) wasted hours messing about taking pictures in the Mithraeum, Maxwell decreed that the party should eat and get a good night’s sleep before getting ‘seriously stuck in’ – his exact words – in the morning.

He had looked expectantly at Gilda when he mentioned eating, prompting her to roll her eyes and ‘volunteer’ to do pasta and polpette , deliberately using the Italian word in in the hope that Tori would have to ask what it meant. She was disappointed.

When he mentioned ‘sleep’ his gaze had flicked over to Tori who responded to him with a wicked smile, a salacious mental nudge, and finger circling one of her nipples. Gilda did not miss the first and third, and rolled her eyes again. Tori did not miss the eye-roll, and smirked.

Owain just seemed oblivious to the cross-currents, and volunteered to sort out the lighting for the morning while dinner was cooking.

Maxwell and the two women left Owain running cables from the generator down to the Mithraeum to set up some additional work-lights, and headed back out to the campers. Gilda paused to ask Tori if she fancied giving her a hand. Tori just smiled at her, and said she had faith in Gilda’s ability to boil a meatball. She strolled off to the VW without a backward glance, but her keen hearing picked up Gilda’s muttered curses, which was quite satisfying.

Tori had intended to make a start on getting Maxwell thoroughly worked up, but he surprised and annoyed her by walking off towards the main road, intending to find what he described as ‘the elusive proprietor of this here farm’. She lingered in the VW just long enough – she hoped – to save a bit of face, then made for the Aero. “Hey Gilda,” she said with false cheerfulness. “I thought I’d set the table, doll.”

“Done,” replied Gilda with a smirk.

“Right, well done, doll,” said Tori. “How’s the sauce coming along? Anything I can help with?”

“I think I can boil a meatball on my own. What’s up? Maxwell not in the mood for a quickie, then?”

“He went to talk to the farmer.”

“And you got bored within, what? A minute of your own company?”

“More like two minutes, doll. To be honest, I sat down and pictured myself as Gilda. I asked myself, what would Gilda do? But that was so, soooooo, sad and depressing, and rather than top myself out of misery, I came over here.”

Gilda stood glaring at Tori, who could see she was trying to calm herself down. Finally, Gilda snapped, “You don’t like me much, do you?”

“And you’re not exactly my biggest fan, are you, doll?”

“You’re taking advantage of Maxwell…”

Tori laughed. “And you wish it was you, right?”

Gilda opened her mouth to answer, but stopped abruptly as the door opened.

Owain came in. “Hmm, something smells good,” he said. “Did I hear you say ‘ polpette’ ? Is that tiny octopuses? Or should I call them ‘octopi’?”

Gilda laughed, but it was Tori who answered him. “No, silly. You’re confusing it with ‘ polpo’ . That’s an octopus, all right, but little ones wold be ‘ polpini’ . A ‘ polpetta’ is a meatball.”

Tori suddenly realised that Gilda and Owain were both staring at her in surprise. She quickly added, “What? Am I not allowed to be able to speak Italian, or something? I’ll have you know, I’ve spent a lot of time in the Med, and all I have to say to you two is, ‘ Vaffancullo!’ Need me to translate?” She turned and walked out of the camper. When she reached the VW van, she leaned against it and murmured, “Oops. Slipped out of character, didn’t I?”

“What’s that? You’re not talking to yourself, are you sweetheart?” Maxwell was back.

“Blimey, that was quick,” she said with a laugh.

“Ah, I could see he wasn’t back. I left a note on the door, you see, and I could see it was still there. If he’d come back, he’d have moved it, don’t you think? Anyway, I couldn’t be bothered walking all the way to the house, when it was keeping me away from you, sweetie.”

“Aw, Maxwell, you are soooooo sweet!” giggled Tori, and she leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek. Maxwell responded by pulling her close to him, and kissing her lips. Passionately. She responded enthusiastically, with lips and tongue, tasting the sweet energy of his growing arousal.

“Mm, Tori,” he gasped between kisses. “You taste delicious!” His hands roved her body, uncertain where to linger, wanting to explore every curve.

“Later, babe,” she whispered into his ear. “Food first. You’re going to need all your strength tonight.” Despite her words, her fingers continued to roam across the back of his jeans and one hand slipped down the front, tracing the outline of his erection.