The Power

7

Feeling dopey when she woke the following morning in her double bedroom, Paula bathed, dressed for the moor, fixed her face in two minutes and only then pulled back the curtains. She stared at the view in disbelief. Something very weird had happened overnight. The River Camel had disappeared!

She stared at the vast bed of sand, rippled in places, stretching from shore to shore. When she phoned Tweed he said he was just ready for breakfast, so why didn't she come down to the suite?

She was closing her door when another door opened and Pete Nield appeared. He fingered his moustache and grinned.

'Good morning. Just checking to make sure you're not wandering off on your own.'

'Makes me feel like a ruddy prisoner,' she mocked him. She liked Pete. 'I'm on my way to Tweed's suite. Come and join us.'

'What on earth has happened?' she asked as Tweed unlocked his door and ushered her inside. She went over to his extensive bay window which gave a better view. 'The river has vanished.'

'Leaving behind a vast sandbank,' he explained as he joined her. 'There's a very high tidal rise and fall here. The tide is out now.' He pointed to his left through a side window. 'That rocky cliff protruding at the edge of the town blots out a view of the open sea. Straight across from us is Porthilly Cove. No water there at all at the moment. There is a narrow channel which remains along the shore of that weird village over there.'

'Where is that?'

'Place called Rock. A small ferry shuttles back and forth between Padstow and Rock. At low tide – now – the ferry departs from a small cove at the base of the rocky cliff. When the tide rises it departs from the harbour.'

'What a strange place. This is my idea of Cornwall.'

She gazed to her left, beyond Rock towards the invisible Atlantic. The far shore was forbidding. Climbing up steeply was a wilderness of boulders, scrub and heathland. A sterile, inhospitable area. Yet further in past Rock there were green hill slopes undulating against the horizon as the sun shone out of a clear blue sky.

'You haven't heard that tape on the recorder I had hidden in my pocket when I talked to Cook,' Nield pointed out. 'It doesn't add much to what Buchanan later told us.'

'Let's hear it quickly, then get down to breakfast,' Tweed urged.

He stood with Paula staring out at the endless sandbank. Nield placed his small machine on a table, ran throug h the first part, then pressed the 'play' button.

'I spent time putting her at her ease,' Nield explained. 'Now, listen…

'Cook, can you tell me what you saw when the kitchen door was opened and closed again?' Nield's voice.

'It was an 'orrible shock, I can tell you…' Cook's voice quavered, then became firm. 'He was standin' there with this awful gun. A short wide barrel – bit like a piece of drainpipe. He aimed at the floor, something shot out and the place was full of a greyish sort of vapour.'

'The tear-gas,' Nield's voice broke in gently. 'But you probably had a good look at him?'

'Like a nightmare. That woollen hood over 'is 'ead with slits for the eyes. He moved gracefully, like a ballet dancer. But those eyes – without feeling, without any soul. A chill ran down my spine. Those eyes were blank – like a ghoul's eyes.'

'What happened next?' Nield pressed, still gently.

'We're all choking. Tears running down our faces. Then this beast walks straight up to me and 'its me on the 'ead with something. I just dropped to the floor and didn't know what was 'appenin' till I came round…'

'That's the relevant part,' Nield said. He switched off the recorder. 'There's more but nothing informative.'

'Interesting that reference to moving with the grace of a ballet dancer,' said Tweed. 'Time for breakfast.' He picked up a copy of the Daily Telegraph which had been slipped under his door. The late edition. They must fly them down.' He showed them the headline.