Portent (7 page)

    The pain in Rivers' leg had subsided a little, but he relished the idea of painkillers and a quick, hot shower. He regretted having left the pulser back at home, but then he hadn't thought it necessary for the journey; besides, plugging in was a practice he was trying to ease out of. He climbed out into the rain.

    The downpour had weakened, but it still bounced off the cobblestones and the roof of the Previa with considerable force. Poggs' daughter scrambled out to join him, and he briefly wondered if he had mistaken her accent over the noise of the storm, for Poggs himself appeared to be the quintessential English gentleman, down to his tweed trousers, check Viyella shirt and woollen tie (no doubt the matching tweed jacket with leather elbow patches had been discarded in consideration of the heatwave) and the deep rich tones of his breathless voice. He wanted to thank her for her help, but she turned away as a child of about eight leapt out from the backseat and buried herself under her cape. He hadn't had time to notice the little girl before, and now he saw there was another child, this one a boy in T-shirt and shorts, clambering out the other side to be gathered up by the ponytailed woman and hurried around to the steps of the house. They disappeared through large porch doors with whoops of feigned panic.

    'Let's you and I follow at a more dignified pace,' suggested Poggs as he eased his portly figure from the vehicle.

    'I think I left my dignity back there in the mud,' Rivers replied.

    Together they headed up the steps, Rivers limping badly, Poggs seemingly impervious to the rain. Passing through the windowed porch where a rusting doll's pram and two child's bicycles competed with Wellington boots and a stack of dried-out fire logs for space, the climatologist found himself inside a spacious high-ceilinged hallway where a broad staircase led up to a first-floor balcony. There were open doorways on both sides of the hallway and through the nearest he glimpsed a large room, whose every inch seemed crammed with furniture and ornaments. Between sofas and armchairs lay scattered floor cushions, and in one comer he could see a tall fig plant. He looked around the hall for Poggs' daughter, but there was no sign of her. The two children, both around the same age and strikingly similar, were astride an old, paint-chipped rocking horse just by the inside front door. They had the blackest hair he had ever seen, almost gypsy-like with its twisted curls and depth; yet their skin was fair and their eyes a startling shade of blue. They rocked to and fro in perfect unison and with a quiet intensity, taking no notice whatsoever of the stranger in their midst.

    'Let's have you out of those wet things, Mr. Rivers.' The plump woman with the braided hair had appeared from a doorway on his left and was advancing on him carrying a large white towel. To his relief she dropped it over the heads of the two children and began to rub vigorously, ignoring their squealed protests.

    'I think it would be wise,' Poggs agreed. He pointed a pudgy finger upwards. 'Bathroom's third door along the landing. Shower's not the fiercest in the world, but it'll get rid of the muck. Leave your clothes outside the door and we'll supply you with some fresh ones.'

    'No, look, I'll be okay…'

    'Nonsense,' interjected the woman in a tone that brooked no dissension. 'Up you go and we'll see you in a little while. Plenty of time to talk later.' She continued to towel the squirming children.

    'My car…'

    'No one will run off with it,' assured Poggs. 'If you let me have the keys I'll have it brought up here. We'll soon get it out of the ditch once the rain stops.'

    There was no point in arguing, not that Rivers felt inclined to: he felt dirty and uncomfortable, and he had to do something about the pain. 'It's kind of you,' he said.

    Poggs shook his head and unexpectedly his demeanour seemed weary. 'It's entirely selfishness on our part.' He held up a hand to stay the question Rivers was about to ask. 'When you're in better shape, Mr. Rivers. If you don't mind my saying so, you look like something the cat dragged in and was in two minds whether to chuck out again.' He chortled at his own remark, while the woman gave him a scolding glare.

    Rivers climbed the stairs and on the turn he looked down to find the family watching him. Even the two children, whose eyes were so vividly blue they seemed blurred from that distance, were gazing up at him from the rocking horse. The adults quickly looked away and became active, the woman lifting the boy and girl in turn from the horse, Poggs wandering off into one of the side rooms. Puzzled, not just by their attention, but as to why he had been invited here in the first place, the climatologist made his way to the landing, then counted the doors until he reached the bathroom. Even more puzzling was why he had accepted the invitation.

    Rain squalls beat against the bathroom's tiny window as he closed the door behind him. There was no key in the lock and no catch, but Rivers was too tired and uncomfortable to care. He took out a small container of dihydrocodeine from his damp jacket pocket and went to the sink. He swallowed three with water from the tap, hoping the house had an effective purifier in its tank, then shed his clothes and ran the shower until it was lukewarm. He stepped in and closed his eyes, his face held up towards the jets.

    As he soaped his body, the flowing warmth, together with the tablets, began to ease the pain, and it was with some reluctance that minutes later he turned off the shower and grabbed a towel from a rail by the bath.

    Perhaps it was because of the rain drumming on the window that he didn't hear her knock; he was only aware of her presence when she spoke.

    'You didn't leave your clothes outside.'

    He had been drying his face, the long towel covering most of his body, and he froze in surprise. She was leaning round the partially opened door, a bundle of fresh clothes held on one arm.

    These should fit you,' she said with a pleasant, unembarrassed smile.

    Her gaze shifted to his scarred leg and he saw her flinch before quickly looking away. He moved the towel so that the injury was out of sight. 'Can I take them?' she asked.

    'Take them?'

    'Your wet clothes.'

    'Oh.' He nodded towards the bathroom stool where they were draped.

    She offered the clothes she was holding, then realized his awkwardness. There was amusement once more in those soft brown eyes. 'Sorry. You get used to immodesty around here, especially with the summer heat. Let me swap these for those.' She picked up the sodden clothes and left the dry ones on the stool. 'My name's Diane, by the way. I'm glad I saw the storm coming and decided to stroll down the track to look for you. It's so easy to pass by. If I'd known you were going to dump your car I'd have brought along another raincoat.'

    'So it wasn't by chance.'

    'We've been waiting for you all morning, Mr. Rivers. Poggsy took the tribe off to church and left me to keep an eye out for you.'

    'Poggsy?'

    'Hugo, my father-in-law.' She wondered why he made a small sound of understanding, but went on. 'Poggs is such a silly name, we decided to make it sillier. He pretends not to, but I think he enjoys it.' She stopped halfway out the door. 'Come down when you're ready. You look as if a stiff drink will do you the world of good, and knowing Poggsy, he'll be only too ready to join you.'

    He stopped her as she was about to go. 'Do you know why I'm here?'

    Her soft brown eyes fixed on his. 'I do. And I just hope you can help.'

    'Help? I don't understand.'

    'That's the problem. None of us understands. But you might be the link that enables us to.'

    As she closed the door a sudden fiercer gust of wind and rain shook the window behind him.

    

    

    The rain had ceased by the time he left the bathroom and the hall below was filled with sunlight, the glow from the polished wood floor almost dazzling. Rivers narrowed his eyes against it as he descended.

    He felt a lot better, his body freshened, the pain in his leg under control. The loose corduroy trousers and twill shirt he wore were comfortable, the shoes only one size too large; he wondered who they belonged to. Halfway down he noticed one of the children was astride the rocking horse again and watching his descent.

    It was the girl, the top of her dark hair blazed red by the sun through the porch windows, and even though her small face was in shadow, the extraordinary blueness of her eyes was still evident. 'Hello,' he called softly, smiling to show he was friendly enough.

    Without a word the girl slid from the horse and skipped into the room Rivers had caught a glimpse of earlier. There were voices coming from there, so he made towards it.

    Hugo Poggs was in one of the bulky but comfortable-looking armchairs, while the woman with the braided plait, whom by now Rivers assumed to be Poggs' wife, occupied a comer of the sofa with the little girl's brother snuggled up close to her. Diane sat in a stiff-backed chair with the black-haired girl settled at her feet. He guessed the burly man eyeing him suspiciously from a window seat behind the others was the one in the oilskin who had dashed across the yard when they had driven in. He was a thick-set, strong-looking individual, with a girth that threatened his shirt buttons. Rivers nodded at them all from the doorway.

    'Ah, feeling better?' Poggs enquired cheerfully.

    'A lot better. You've been very kind.'

    'Nonsense. It's you who have been kind, making this long journey to see us on the strength of a phone call. Please come in and join us-we've saved a comfortable chair for you.' He indicated an empty armchair facing his own. As Rivers stepped over cushions to reach it, Poggs took out a pipe and tapped the contents of its bowl into an ashtray.

    The boy lifted his head from the ample bosom it rested against. 'Grandad…'

    Poggs scowled without rancour. 'Forgot,' he mumbled, slipping the pipe back into his breast pocket. He brightened. 'Sun's well over the yard-arm, Mr. Rivers, so how about a little something to fire your inners, torment your liver? Or as an alternative, you might try some of Mack's home brew. I can't be responsible for what that might do to your liver though. Send it into catatonic shock, I shouldn't wonder.'

    The man by the window grinned broadly, refusing to rise to the bait; he gave the impression of having heard the jibe many times before.

    'A whisky would suit me fine,' said Rivers, reaching the armchair.

    Poggs approved heartily. 'Good man! I have an excellent brand.' He struggled to the edge of his chair and for a moment it looked like the effort might defeat him.

    'Stay where you are, Poggsy, we don't want you busting something.' Diane was already heading for the sideboard at the other end of the room on which there was a silver tray filled with liquor bottles. The girl trailed after her, glancing round once on the way, presumably to make sure Rivers wasn't following.

    Poggs grunted appreciatively, winking at the climatologist as he settled back again. 'The Macallan, Diane. In honour of our guest.' The room was light and airy, with two floor-to-ceiling-length windows on one side, and another to his left overlooking the cobblestone yard. With the sun shining through and sitting among this family of friendly people, Rivers wondered at his own disquiet. After the sinister phone call, he had at least expected a serious, perhaps even traumatic, meeting with this man Poggs, with himself as the interrogator. Now he had been thrown-off course completely, the advantage all the other man's.

    'We need to talk,' he said to Poggs. 'Alone.'

    'Of course. But I want you to know us first.' Poggs fixed Rivers steadily with his somewhat rheumy eyes. 'I want to reassure you that we are all fairly normal.'

    Rivers shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'I…' He cleared his throat and started again. 'I don't have too much time. I'll have to get back soon.'

    'After you've travelled so far?' It was Poggs' wife who spoke. 'Surely not? Be a little patient with us, Mr. Rivers; you'll find it worth while, I promise.'

    This isn't quite what I expected.'

    Poggs laughed at that; but he was the only one to do so. 'I'm sure it isn't, my friend, and I'm sure I'm going about this in utterly the wrong way. However, I wonder how far your investigations into these freak weather conditions have progressed? Have you discovered any pattern, any conformity? Has the Met Office with its satellite observation capability and weather stations, with its COSMOS computing complex and worldwide climatological database, has it made any headway at all in discovering the real cause of our present extreme climate changes and the chaos they've brought about?' He leaned forward a little in his seat and, had his chin not been undermined by the flesh beneath it, it would have been jutting. 'After all, global warming cannot be blamed for everything, can it? So what theory has your own working group come up with, Mr. Rivers? Do you have any answers at all?'

    Diane stood in front of the climatologist, a tumbler of whisky held towards him. 'We're all very concerned,' she said, as if apologizing for Poggs' forthrightness. 'So much is happening so fast.'

    He took the drink. 'You're not alone in being worried. But I think I should tell you right here and now that I can't give you any information.'

    'I know you're bound by the Official Secrets Act, but any help will be mutual. You might find we have more to give you than you us,' said Poggs.

    After taking the second whisky over to Poggs, Diane perched on the arm of his chair. The little girl went round to the back of the armchair and leaned on it, her head resting on top of her joined hands. She continued to watch Rivers gravely.

    Poggs raised his glass and said, 'Slainthe.'