Of Lakes, Mysteries and the Odd Lunatic

Chapter I: In which Our Characters are Toss'd Upon a Stormy Sea

Chapter I

In which Our Characters are Toss’d Upon a Stormy Sea

A Ship is no place to be in a storm, but that was where Lawrence was, and there was not a thing he could do about it. The sky above broke afresh with lightning, and a few moments later the rumble of thunder buffeted the tilting and rocking boat. Dark waves with foamy heads reared up and over the side of the ship, then receded back into the mass of water, leaving the deck slick with liquid.

Lightning flashed again, and for a moment Lawrence could see the hills overlooking the edge of the lake where the harbour was. From under the hood of his thick yellow rain jacket, through the barrage of rain hurtling down in big fat drops, Lawrence could just see the lights of Little Vale twinkling on the shore below the hills. He wrenched the wheel round to port, aligning once more with the town, and called out into the howling wind.

“Lars!” His voice was hoarse already, and he wondered how much longer it would hold out for. “Lars! Get that bucket moving! She can’t withstand these waves much longer!” Lars’ white face had been tilted upwards, his wide eyes searching the spot of the sky where the Moon should have been, but it was covered by a thick layer of dark boiling clouds and was not visible. Lawrence’s voice broke through his glassy fixation, and he bent down and drew the bucket through the layer of water that had gathered below him.

All at once a mighty wave came crashing over the side of the boat, then drew back, sweeping coils of rope and barrels with it. One such barrel contained that day’s catch, a mixture of fish ranging from the fairly large to the rather small (but each fish was the result of it’s catcher’s best effort, and size did not come into consequence as Lawrence would add). As the wave returned to the sea, the barrel toppled over and spilled it’s contents across the deck, which tilted with the waves and sent the entire load into the sea.

But fish were almost the least of Lawrence’s worries (the least being the exact temperature it was at that moment in Oslo); he had the safety of his crew and boat to concentrate on.

“Where’s Sarah?” he cried.

“Here!” came an overly cheerful reply from behind Lawrence’s back. The man twisted around to see a bright-faced young woman with blonde hair plaited in a long strand behind her back. She wore wire-framed, round glasses and a minimal amount of makeup. She was also making a bad job of hiding a large kitchen knife behind her back.

“Sarah, where did you get that?”

“Oh, the kitchen.”

“But you know you’re not allowed in there! We don’t want another ‘accident’, do we?”

“No...well, kind of. Anyway, this weather’s just splendid, isn’t it?”

“Not at all, Sarah. It’s quite ghastly, actually.”

“Well, I think it’s just perfect. It’s like something from Agatha Christie. You can just imagine someone in one of those houses in the village there, doing the dishes or something, then his wife comes up behind him, holding a gun or a knife or a pan or something, lifts it over her head, and--”

“Yes, Sarah, that’s quite enough. Could you please make your way to the dining room, I do believe Michael is down there with blankets and such. It’s not safe up here.”

“That’s sounds splendid, Laurie. Thank-you!” Lawrence was just about to express his distaste at being called by that vulgar nickname when a particularly large bout of thunder rumbled across from the middle of the lake. By the time it had subsided, Sarah was already below.

He looked across the deck to check if there was anyone else who was up here when they shouldn’t be. It was clear, however, except for those of bailing duty. Lawrence wrenched the wheel round once more and pushed the engine to full power, their rumble vibrating the very floor he was standing on. All they needed to do was get to the harbour, and then he could get everyone back to the Institute and out of this wretched nightmare.