Photos of the underground reservoir copyright Lars Lambrecht

3/9 Free Chapters

Laughter cut into the silence and with it the wallowing of many wellies as people moved around to test the bricks.

Ike tuned them out and regarded the soft sediment that billowed from under her boots, obscuring the liquid. She could only hope this reservoir was genuinely unused. Otherwise, some hapless Germans would soon find sandy drinking water running from the tap. She couldn't resist, knelt down and ran her fingers through a liquid as cold as it felt smooth.

As glittery drops fell from her hands, the memories returned of that afternoon on the shores of Lake Windermere. Somehow, the gloomy cavern lightened, the musty smell faded away, and a breeze seemed to ruffle her hair, carrying with it the tangy scent of spring soil after rain. It also carried the strident tones of her mother's voice, who drip-fed disapproval even when she meant to console.

"But surely you can try one more time?"

"Mum, we've tried five times already. I'm sick and tired of the pain. I'm sick and tired of having to make love according to the clock. Of hoping and waiting. Every time. Until it all comes to nothing. Every time. I'm not a baby machine."

Mother had donned her hurt puppy look; she did that one all too well. "I thought you and Ben wanted a kid. I'd love a grandchild. You know that. At your age, you can't wait forever. If it's about money—"

Oh yes, the adage about the biological clock. She was sick of that as well. "It's not just money, Mum. I just told you. It's about me."

"And what about Ben? He would love to be a father. He told us so and not just once."

Love? Sure, he had been fixated on fatherhood, but occasionally Ike had wondered if Ben's child wish was genuinely powered by emotions or if the man was on another of his ego trips. Success was his due, failure unacceptable, and being a father might well just be another feather in a full body cap meant to hide his wounded pride. And somehow, her inability to conceive had given him something to prop himself up with, or why else did he become more cocky and spiteful after each failed attempt? As if his low sperm count had nothing to do with the matter.

No, the fissure had always been there, and it had widened until it swallowed their marriage. Everything she did seemed to be wrong these days. Her thriving home-sitting business. Her long hours. Her lack of interest in going to silly parties when she was dead on her feet. Everything was her fault. Never his. Ben had always been Mr Wonderful, even when his famous business ideas fizzled out like waterlogged firecrackers. She reckoned, at one point she had lost faith. One could only take so much.

She had never minded carrying the load, earning enough for both. Working hard while hubby was day-dreaming or whatever he was up to when she wasn't watching. But Ben's peevishness had become too much to bear. Her mother would never understand that. Ben was her golden boy, a substitute for her lost son. Ike's father had stayed neutral, but then he was a space engineer, not an aspiring poet well into her sixties, who had yet to publish a single stanza.

Love. Had their union ever been blessed with it? Well, at the beginning for sure. Though she never told him her secret. It hadn't felt right. A good job, too. Most likely, he would have had her locked up in a loonie bin when things went pear-shaped. When did that happen? So hard to point out a single incident, but she was convinced that somewhere during their doomed struggle for a baby, things had shifted. Had turned to indifference on her part and hatred on his. Or why else would Ben have gone as far with his lies as he had? He even had succeeded in court—blessed by the judges. Having to buy him out had cut the legs off her thriving business, had forced her to fail. God, had he smirked. Plus, he got the house. And Baba and Bingo with it. The thought of her furry babies, now at Ben's mercy, sent the angry sting of tears to her eyes. Life wasn't fair.

Not fair . . . Not fair . . .

The words seemed to echo in her head when in reality they came from behind the nearest pillar: Greg's latest escape attempt had been foiled by his watchful parents. But then the whole group was on their way back, heading for the staircase. Ike dabbed at her face, hoping the mascara hadn't run. Stupid of her to go maudlin when she had a job to do.

Things seemed to look up, though, for Evans, the Australian, gave her a thumbs-up. "That was great!" Enthusiastic consent from all sides convinced Ike that the ill-fated afternoon snack might be a thing of the past and her tourists were chipper again. Their next stop, a visit to the chapel of the murdered Romanov Zarewna was a sure winner, nothing to worry there. All she would have to do was ensure the group would get a decent dinner and she could put a lid on what had been a trying day.

"Great, glad you liked it. Now we'll make our way outside, and our guide will take us to the Russian chapel. Ladies and gentlemen, could you please leave your wellies behind? I promise the rest of the visit should be drier. There's another pool out there but you don't have to go in."

Good-natured laughter was the response to her feeble attempt at a light tone, and the group pulled off their giant wellies to change into their proper footwear. Drops were flying everywhere and laughter echoed through the cavern. Ike noticed the young British woman had come prepared—she was wearing a trendy pair of rubber boots in a Burberry pattern, something Ike wouldn't have minded to see in her own wardrobe. 

As the group filed out, the lips of the guide were moving together with her eyes. She frowned once, then the whole process started all over again while a furrow grew on her smooth forehead.

"Que-ce qu'il ya?" Brigitte asked, wringing out an oversized mauve sleeve that had somehow got into contact with the water. "Sorry, I mean what's up?"

"We're missing a pair of Wellington's."

"Oh cripes," Ike said. "I can't exactly ask around who's pilfered the footwear."

Brigitte gave up on her sleeve. "They're not very elegant."

The guide shook her head. "I'm sure they all returned the boots, I watched them. And nobody had any bags or anything big enough where they could hide them in."

"All of the luggage is in the coach," Brigitte said, dripping. "I better check if we had a visitor. If somebody bothers to steal a pair of ugly boots, a coach would be a logical next target, non?"

Ike felt a headache coming on. A normal one, not the other thing. "Are we sure everybody has returned from the reservoir? I mean, the wellies could still be on somebody's feet. It wouldn't be the first time today that somebody gets lost."

"'Ello-oh-oh?" Brigitte hollered into the depths but apart from the echo received no response, nor did the chorused hails from Ike and the guide draw a reply. The empty cavern remained empty. And ominously silent.

A wave of frustration washed over Ike. She would have to count her flock, but she knew, she just knew one of them was hiding in the murky depths of the reservoir. And the culprit could only be an academic. Nobody else had gone far enough to get lost.

Do let me know if you have questions or comments on my novel. Constructive suggestions and feedback are always welcome! And thank you for reading. In doing so, you give my writing a purpose.

Picture up top is another view of the underground cavern. This chapter is dedicated to my friend Shalon who I still hope to meet one day!