Thirst (Thirst Series) Read online

  ‘Very well.’ Blythe glanced at Broadhurst, and then met the unfriendly stares of those seated opposite him. ‘Let me put it to you as simply as I can. Weedspray is the most advanced and deadly of all herbicidal poisons. By comparison you could serve paraquat up at a tea party. It comes in two forms, liquid and granules. The latter is designed for the small private user, for gardens. We recommend one sachet to two gallons of water. In actual fact, one quarter of a sachet would suffice.’

  He was aware of Ken Broadhurst sucking in his breath, a habit of his when he was embarrassed. The last statement was an admission of conning the public. But this was no time for cover-ups. All cards had to be laid on the table.

  ‘A quarter of a sachet, perhaps you could get away with even less,’ Blythe continued. ‘I am merely illustrating the strength of the granules. The liquid form is sold in five-litre containers. It has ten times the strength of the granules. A litre in twenty gallons of water will effectively clear an acre of ground of all living vegetation. One tenth of a litre would be just as effective.’

  ‘But all this is quite ridiculous,’ the Water Board official interrupted, annoyed. ‘We are talking here of a few thousand gallons to a ratio of millions of gallons of water in the Claerwen Reservoir. It would hardly be noticeable.’

  ‘I haven't finished.’ Blythe felt the urge to drive a clenched fist into the smirking face of the other. ‘We have not, obviously, been in a position to carry out tests of such immensity, but the strength of the weedkiller is not to be underestimated. We must bear one important factor in mind. Our instructions on both sachets and liquid containers stress the importance of ensuring that the weedkiller is properly mixed with the water. It has a reluctance to dissolve, in the case of the granules, whilst the other form is apt to remain in its own density unless stirred thoroughly. Hence, we could have a floating slick of the poison in the Claerwen Reservoir which might take weeks to break up! We just don't know!’

  ‘Hmm.’ The officials glanced at each other. Their former apathy was suddenly evaporating.

  ‘Furthermore -’ Blythe pressed home his advantage, aware that he had penetrated their former optimism ‘- we must not overlook the effects that Weedspray has on human beings.’

  ‘That boy who died recently …’ There was accusation behind the heavy lenses.

  ‘A tragedy.’ said Ron Blythe, with an effort concealing his true feelings, the rising nausea. ‘But this in no way demonstrates the full effects of the poison. The boy died quickly, fortunately with a minimum of suffering. We have, these past few months, carried out tests on animals …’

  Sheer malevolence in the stares now. Blythe dropped his gaze for a moment, sensing Broadhurst's guilt, the way the big man shuffled in his chair. Company secrets were being divulged, spilling out and gathering momentum with the force of a mountain avalanche. A child gets killed and there's a muted outcry, but where animals are involved half the population of the country want to lynch you, tear you limb from limb.

  ‘Animals, Mr Blythe? Mice and rats, I take it?’

  It's none of your bloody business. What the hell does it matter? Blythe drew a deep breath before replying, controlling his anger.

  ‘To begin with, yes.’ He was aware of a slight quiver in his voice and he hoped it wasn't noticeable. ‘But the smaller animals proved useless as far as our experiments were concerned. We tried it on something bigger: horses from the knacker yard. They would have died anyway.’

  A pregnant silence.

  ‘A cruel death.’ Five baleful glares.

  ‘There was no other way.’ Blythe shifted his position, aware of the animosity. He was a man on his own, out on a limb. Broadhurst would have something to say later about these disclosures. But there was no point in hiding the truth or attempting to gloss over relevant facts. These men had to be made to understand just how dangerous the chemical weedkiller was. Somebody would probably report the matter to the RSPCA before the day was out. That would mean another inquiry. Something else for the news hounds.

  ‘And what were your findings regarding these … er … experiments, Mr Blythe?’

  ‘They varied, according to the age, size, and physical condition of the horses. The small and the sick died quickly.’

  ‘Like the Larkin boy … madness?’

  ‘Yes. Frothed at the mouth, went crazy, and dropped dead.’

  ‘Hmm … and the fitter ones?’

  ‘For a time, perhaps a couple of days, they showed no signs of any ill effects. There was one common factor, though, between all the horses, apart from the ultimate suffering: thirst! They couldn't get enough to drink. Some filled themselves up with water and died before the poison took its toll. Thirst, madness, and death. The strongest lasted about six days … and the dose was minimal.’

  Silence again, the five men looking at each other, expressions grave. Blythe avoided Broadhurst's stare. There would be harsh words later. But the research chemist had no regrets. It all had to be revealed sometime. Someone had to be put in the picture.

  ‘This throws a different light on the matter,’ the official in the centre of the desk said, removing his glasses. Beads of sweat glinted on his forehead in the harsh fluorescent light. ‘We must, in the interests of public safety, face up to the fact that a slick of deadly poison could be at this very moment drifting around, only partially dissolved, in the Claerwen Reservoir. And once it gets into the outlet pipes it will be on its way to Birmingham. We cannot, we dare not, estimate how long it will take to reach the consumer. But right now we are faced with the problem of what to do about it. If anybody has any suggestions …’

  ‘Perhaps we could fit extra filters,’ the balding man on the end of the group said hesitantly, knowing that his idea would be rejected, yet feeling that he was morally obliged to offer something.

  ‘Filters will only prevent solid matter leaving the reservoir.’ The chiefs reply was a reprimand as well as a rejection. ‘And, anyway, there isn't time. For all we know the weedkiller may be en route for Birmingham at this very moment.’

  ‘Suppose the water supply from the Claerwen Reservoir was cut off,’ Ken Broadhurst said. ‘Stop it now. Get the Birmingham water from somewhere else.’

  ‘Totally impracticable. Millions of householders are drawing it at this moment. It could be that some have already drunk the poison. But, in any case, there is no alternative supply. And it would be an impossibility to cart water into the city from elsewhere. And, to make matters worse -’ he fidgeted with a ballpoint pen, clicking the retractable cartridge to and fro ‘- I must point out, gentlemen, that we have had a dry summer. A few weeks of drought has meant that the water in the Claerwen Reservoir is several feet below its normal summer level. I can only quote Mr … er … Mr Blythe's example of the watering can. A sachet of Weedspray to approximately two gallons. We now have the equivalent of that sachet far more concentrated in about one and a half gallons. In other words, if the poison in the reservoir dissolves it will be that much stronger when it gets to Birmingham.’

  Hopelessness. Seven men had suddenly run out of ideas.

  ‘We are now faced with an unprecedented situation.’ The Water Board chief was still clicking his pen while he spoke. ‘I am afraid the decision must be out of our hands. It is a matter for the government to debate. Unfortunately, the Press are aware of the accident. We can expect gross exaggerations but they will not overlook the possible outcome. This city could be in a state of panic following tomorrow's editions of the dailies. Questions will be asked and we shall have no answers.’

  Broadhurst stood up. ‘I'll be in the office if you want me. Only, for Christ's sake, the people must be warned even if it does cause a panic. We can't just let them drink the stuff.’

  ‘That will be for the government to decide, Mr Broadhurst. Doubtless they will also apportion the blame for this disaster and …’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Ken Broadhurst was moving towards the door, Ron Blythe close behind him. ‘I'm fully aware it's our product which has
caused all this, but right now we've got to do everything we can to stop a whole lot of people from dying.’

  They were outside in the crowded street before he spoke again. His features were white with rage as he turned on Ron Blythe.

  ‘You are a fucking big mouth,’ he snarled. ‘There was no need to tell them everything. Christ, we'll have the RSPCA on our necks over those horses, and the Department of Fair Trading will want to know why we're selling sachets of Weedspray to the public, and liquid containers to farmers, when a quarter of the strength would do the job. Jesus, some heads are going to roll, yours included.’

  ‘Let's get things in perspective,’ Blythe replied. ‘We're all to blame. You, me, that driver, Timberley. The Press will pillory us for this lot, and if anybody dies as a result of drinking the water then, Christ, let's face it, we'll have it on our consciences for the rest of our lives … if we don't get lynched by some rampaging mob. We're nothing less than bloody murderers.’

  ‘You'd better stopover in Birmingham. No doubt I'll be needing you before long.’

  ‘I'll be at my brother's place in Erdington. Ring me there if you want me.’

  By the time he reached his parked car Ron Blythe's depression had deepened. There were a few other things which he had not told the men at the Water Department. Like the horse that had merely been splashed with Weedspray and had developed spreading cancerous sores that had eaten its flesh away - a living death. And that time when he had lit his pipe and dropped the burning match into a can of the diluted stuff. It had gone up like paraffin. The warning was on the containers: Danger, inflammable, keep away from naked flames. That was one hell of an understatement.

  Already - this very minute - fire, disease, and death in its most terrible form, might be gushing out of domestic taps in any part of this city.

  Chapter 3

  Paul Pritchard could not rid his mind of that underwater scene. Twice during the night his dreams had awoken him. Ghoulish nightmares had left his sweat-soaked pyjamas clinging to his skin.

  He saw the corpse more clearly now, the gruesome details indelibly imprinted before his eyes in the darkness of the small bedroom. Broken limbs lay horribly twisted into an unnatural posture: the head lolling back, the features frozen with death into an expression of horror, those last seconds of panic still reflected in the dead eyes. Something else, too: it was as though the open mouth had been trying to speak, to convey a warning of some kind.

  Pritchard saw it all again even in his waking moments. His head ached abominably. His mouth was dry and parched. He turned over and nestled against the sleeping form of his wife.

  Damn it, sleep was eluding him. He couldn't understand it. Corpses had never troubled him this way before - certainly not adult ones. Maybe it was time he gave up diving, or at least refused the requests for help in searching watery places for missing people. Chief Superintendent Williams had it all too easy. A frogman on call, buckshee. That little girl the previous year had upset him for weeks; she had been missing for days before Williams decided they ought to search the Pentre Pool. Some farmer, years ago, had pushed the hollow out with a front-end loader to make a cattle drink. Bloody dangerous, only yards from a public footpath. Pritchard couldn't understand why it hadn't been fenced; nor why the police hadn't looked there in the first place.

  He'd found her at the first dive. God, it was awful. She'd been the prettiest little five year old he'd ever seen. But not so when he located her body caught up in the weeds and hidden by floating algae. The rats had been at her. Filthy vermin. Eaten part of her face away.

  He'd brought her up. There had been screams from the watchers when they'd viewed her, dangling from his grasp like some ghastly doll, a macabre puppet.

  But this guy Timberley was worse. It should have been just a body, a bloke he'd never set eyes on before. It ought to have been just a routine job. But it wasn't. The trapped man had been frantically trying to escape, but his broken limbs had not permitted him more than the slightest movement. Suddenly, Pritchard realised what it was that was troubling about the corpse. That expression: guilt at what he'd done, and realisation of the possible consequences. In the final seconds left to him the driver must have become aware of the fact that he'd tipped a few thousand gallons of weedkiller into somebody's drinking water.

  Oh, Christ! Paul Pritchard sat up in bed suddenly as something else occurred to him.He had been down there in the contaminated water!

  Then he relaxed. He had been wearing protective clothing. He hadn't come into direct contact with it. Just a few splashes when he had changed.

  ‘What's the matter?’ his wife murmured sleepily. ‘Can't you sleep?’

  ‘Maybe I'm just overtired,’ he answered her. He glanced at the luminous dial of the alarm clock on the bedside table. 5.45 am. Another hour and it would be time to get up for work. Routine was the best remedy for depression, he decided. Doing exactly what you did every other day. Down at the farm by seven-thirty. Get the cows in for milking. There were still some bales to be fetched down from the top field. Sheep to be seen to. And if the cops came and wanted him to look for any more bodies then he would tell them to get stuffed. He almost hoped that they would come. He would enjoy telling them that. Get it out of his system.

  His head ached. He swayed uncertainly on his feet as he got out of bed and switched the alarm off. Lack of sleep, he told himself. A hangover. It could be the beer from last night. It had looked somewhat cloudy. And he'd had three pints more than usual. He'd needed them.

  He went downstairs and put the kettle on. The beginning of the routine. A cup of tea, one for Ruth upstairs, get his own breakfast - ugh! He grimaced as he pulled on his dungarees. He couldn't eat anything this morning. He'd be sick. He couldn't remember when he'd last gone without breakfast. Bacon, fried bread, and three eggs was a ritual, one of the pleasures of life, second only to his beer. Ugh!

  He took Ruth a mug of tea. She stirred and muttered something about drinking it in a minute. He went back downstairs. Tea. Oh, yes it was wonderful, better than beer. He drank a half-pint mugful and refilled it. Still his thirst wasn't quenched. Not even after the second one. He put the kettle back on the hob. Hell, he was too thirsty to wait for it to boil. Water! He held his mug under the cold tap and swigged.

  It took maybe four pints to quench his burning thirst. His head was a little clearer now. Time to go. He'd work off whatever it was in the fresh air.

  A cool morning greeted him as he stepped outside, the kind that blew away hangovers and muzzy heads. He always walked to work, a mile or so across the fields. But for once he did not relish the prospect. Nevertheless he forced himself to climb the stile behind his cottage, and set off.

  His stomach was sore. A kind of painful itching - he had not been aware of it when he had dressed. He scratched at himself through his clothing. Perhaps he was becoming allergic to rubber. That new diving suit … well, he wouldn't be needing it again just yet. Not even if all the occupants of Rhayader went missing.

  Away to his left was the Claerwen Reservoir, invisible beneath a sheet of low-lying autumnal mist. Cold and uninviting. He had never thought of it that way before. Often in his youth he had swum in it during the winter months. Getting nesh, he told himself. Old, too, at thirty-six. He scratched again, more violently now, seeking relief that did not come.

  He stopped, then pulled his thick woollen shirt free of his trousers, glancing down at the bare skin of his stomach.

  ‘Fucking hel1!’ He spoke aloud, recoiling at the sight which greeted him.

  The tanned flesh was no longer recognisable. Instead, he saw an area of dark red sores, a mass of ulcers which oozed thick yellow puss. He could smell them too, a revolting odour that was like a mixture of vomit and urine.

  Paul Pritchard stared in disbelief. Comprehension eluded him. His abdomen was a festering morass. He had once read an article on leprosy in a magazine, a plug for donations. But the disease did not exist in Britain.

  He leaned back against the hawthorn h
edge for support, oblivious of the wicked thorns which dug into him. His vision was blurred, and he thought for one moment that he was going to faint. The sensation passed, but the nausea remained. He leaned forward, heaved and tried to vomit, but all he threw up was liquid - tea and water.

  He attempted to reason, to determine on the best course of action. He needed to see a doctor, but he was afraid. Afraid of what they might do to him. He had had a fear of hospitals ever since boyhood when his appendix had been removed. He would rather die than go back inside one. Maybe it would be better not to know what was wrong with him …

  It was cancer, without a doubt. A growth so rapid that it defied the wildest imagination. Possibly previous cases had been kept quiet by the authorities for fear of alarming the public.

  Fearfully he looked down again. The itching was unbearable. He had to scratch, hard and deep. The white puss became tinged with crimson. Oh, Jesus Christ!

  Suddenly he tensed. Someone was coming - down the bridle path, heavy boots squelching in the soft mud.

  Paul Pritchard crouched, heart pounding. The icy fingers of fear clutched at him. Beneath an overhanging holly bush he could see the feet of the approaching man; leather boots, knee-length gaiters. A faint sigh of temporary relief escaped the farm worker's lips. It was only Ormerod, the old man who helped on the same farm as himself. And yet Pritchard still shrank back, unwilling to confront anybody, fearful of his own kind.

  ‘Late this mamin', ain't you, young Paul?’ Ormerod was short, thick set, untidy wisps of grey hair falling from beneath the battered old pork-pie hat. His grey eyes, alert and observing, had not aged with the wizened skin.

  ‘I … overslept.’

  ‘Well, well, that'll never do. And what comes you with your shirt all hangin' out?’

  Paul Pritchard stiffened. His vision blurred again. Every nerve in his body was taut. Fear merged into anger.