Island of Death Read Free

the house.

    * * *
One of the advantages of the temple room of the ashram...
    the commune... whatever... being on the second floor of the lofty terrace of houses that made up the north side of South Hill Park Square, was that there was a ledge, at least eighteen inches wide, between the little balconies outside the front windows. And until Sarah had got halfway to the window of the room with the locked door, she’d thought it would be a good idea to edge along it.
    Then she looked down.
    And froze.
    It was at that moment that it started to rain. And the low rumble of distant thunder promised a downpour. For a moment her nerve failed her and she was on the point of turning back. But whether it was her professional pride, or just the plain stubbornness of a true Liverpudlian, her curiosity had to be satisfied. She had to know what the locked door was hiding.
    Inch by inch, her fingertips clutching vainly at the smooth wet stone behind her, she made her way to the ornamental railing of the next balcony, and, after a few convulsive breaths, managed to loosen her grip and climb over.
    But the curtains were drawn. Utter frustration...
    Hang on! There was a crack between the curtains, and if she pushed her face really close to the glass she could just see enough to be able to scan the room from the double door on one side to the other door in the far wall. It was an ordinary room, with chairs and a big table. And there in the middle: the Skang!
    It was a shimmering bronze statue (an idol?) the height of a man and roughly of the same dimensions throughout, save for the head, which was at least twice as big, with great eyes.
    It patently represented the same being as the one in the painting. It was sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a large bowl in which the tip of its proboscis was resting.
    As detailed as a rococo carving, the thing seemed to be a cross between a reptile and a giant insect. But in spite of its grotesque features, there was something about it that Sarah found strangely beautiful.
    She pulled the Polaroid camera from her bag and, blinking the raindrops from her eyes, took as good a shot of it as she could manage. She’d just have to hope that the automatic flash would take care of the lack of light.
     
    She’d got what she wanted. This was going to be quite a story.
    But as she stuffed the camera back into her bag, ready for the terrifying journey back along the ledge, she heard a sound - and the curtains were flung back. She threw herself flat against the wall as the world was bleached by the first lightning flash of the coming storm.
    Whitbread! He must have still been in the room, and seen the flash!
    Not daring to move, Sarah held her breath, waiting for the window to open and the humiliating confrontation. But the thunder broke the heavens apart, the rain sheeted down, the lightning danced around the rooftops of South Hill Park Square - and the curtains were closed again.
    She’d got away with it.
     
    ‘No,’ said Clorinda.
    ‘But I’ve checked, and if I go by Garuda - that’s the Indonesian airline - it’ll only cost me... er, you... two hundred and fifty pounds return, and I -’
    ‘No,’ said Clorinda.
    ‘But if I join this Mother Hilda’s ashram -’
    ‘No,’ said Clorinda. She peered into a small mirror from her handbag. ‘India’s swarming with kids dressed up in white or orange or sky-blue-pink, thinking they’re going to save the world. One, the world probably isn’t worth saving, and two, they’re not going to do it with my money.’
    She sucked at her front teeth, but whether this was an expression of her contempt for Sarah’s project, or an attempt to remove a smear of lipstick, Sarah was uncertain.
    ‘And while we’re on the subject of what I’m paying for, where’s your think-piece on fish? It had better be good. I’ve waited long enough for it.’
    ‘Yes, well... It’s nearly finished. I’ve had to do a lot of research... Honestly, Clorinda love, this Skang