Post by franklinmarsh on Jul 20, 2010 8:22:16 GMT
Kemble bit down hard on the end of his pen. The thin plastic cracked and ink ran into his mouth. He coughed , spluttered and looked down in horror at the blue-splattered sheets of paper on his desk.
“Shit!”
He ran to the laboratory sink and washed out his mouth, spitting and gargling. A cup of water from the cooler calmed his nerves, and he returned to the mess on top of his workstation.
He checked the results again. It couldn’t be! Could it?
Kemble was a very junior member of the team, and was understandably cautious about approaching Professor Hamilton. Especially with findings like these in his hand.
Kemble found himself wandering the corridors of the museum. He knew where he was heading. Hamilton’s pride and joy. The special exhibit. To be opened tomorrow in front of the great and the good. And the press. Romeo and Juliet, as the Professor had dubbed them. Exposed to the world on St Valentine’s day.
Kemble and the other lesser ranks referred to the couple as Posh and Becks. Not in Hamilton’s earshot. At least one of the museum staff had been fired for using the term in front of the Professor. Normally a mild-mannered man, Hamilton had been practically frothing at the mouth, and had to be restrained by a security guard. The museum lawyers were gloomily expecting a lawsuit.
All that would be forgotten tomorrow.
As Kemble approached the exhibition section of the museum, he saw Frank Malone, an ageing security operative, watching him.
‘Everything alright, Mr Kemble?’ enquired the uniformed man.
‘Er…fine, Frank, fine,’ replied Kemble, vaguely. ‘All quiet?’
Malone fell into step beside him.
‘Too quiet,’ replied Malone, with a chuckle. ‘It can get dead boring in the early hours. How come you’re working so late?’
‘I..er..I …just wanted to check some things, before tomorrow. You know what a stickler Hamilton is.’
‘Posh and Becks?’ grinned Malone. ‘The old boy’s gone doolally for them two. Never seen him so involved. And I’ve been here a while…’
Malone’s voice faded away as they turned a corner. Both men stopped and stared at an enormous glass cube, illuminated by yellow spotlights. It dominated the small room.
Inside were what appeared to be two human skeletons, crouching and embracing. Kemble and Malone edged quietly forward, eyes fixed on the tableau.
‘There’s something about them,’ whispered the security guard. ‘I can almost understand why the old man’s so gone on ‘em.’
Kemble didn’t really take in what Malone was saying, but was aware of the hushed and awed tone.
He thought back to the ink spattered dating tests on his desk. There was something very wrong about this couple. Something very wrong.
He moved closer to the glass. They should be horrible. Decayed corpses. But their entwined position spoke of love, even in death. Beyond death.
‘Don’t!’
Malone’s harsh bark brought Kemble round. His hand was stretching toward the glass case.
‘It’s alarmed!’ hissed Malone.
‘Of course,’ muttered the young scientist, arm falling to his side. He kept his eyes downcast as he turned and headed back to the lab.
Carson walked into the laboratory whistling Hello Young Lovers. This was it! The Big Day!
Well, OK, Hamilton’s big day, but Stewart Carson would be at his side. Might get in the papers. Or on the news. Who knew?
He found himself rubbing his hands. 7 am. Let’s get goi….what the hell?
The normally immaculate laboratory was ruined by the dishevelled form of Kemble slumped over his desk. The desk was covered in stained crumpled sheets of paper.
Carson was initially stunned. What was…Was Kemble alright?
He found himself tiptoeing toward the recumbent figure.
Kemble snored. Carson saw the pool of drool on the paper nearest his mouth.
‘KEMBLE!!’
The younger man jerked awake and slowly sat up, blinking myopically.
‘Wha…?’
‘Kemble,’ said Carson, through gritted teeth. ‘Why the FUCK have you chosen the most important day in this museum’s history, not to mention the most important day in most of our careers to play silly buggers?’
‘Mr. Carson…?’
‘Yes, that’s me. Have a drink of water. Then I’d like an explanation. In my office.’
Carson spun on his heel and stalked away to his office.
Kemble rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired! What had happ…..
He stared at the mess on his desk. The results! He had to tell someone. Get it confirmed.
Kemble gathered the papers and loped towards Carson’s office.
The latter had just set his kettle to boil. He turned and arched an eyebrow as Kemble lurched into the office and dumped the screwed up, stained reports on his desk.
Carson frowned as he took in Kemble’s stentorian breathing and wild-eyed, bloodshot stare.
‘Calm down, man. Start at the beginning.’
Kemble gasped and slumped into the chair opposite his immediate superior.
‘Mr. Carson,’ he sobbed ‘Take a look at these. There’s an anomaly. Or well, there’s two. Two anomam..anol..’
Carson poured boiling water into a cup of coffee.
‘Have you been here all night, Kemble?’
‘Yes, yes. Fell asleep. Couldn’t….JUST LOOK AT THESE!!!’
Carson stepped back at the scream.
He reached for a paper. It was creased and had ink all over it.
‘What have you been do…’
‘Please,’ Kemble pleaded, searching among the pile, ‘Please…Here!’
A quivering hand offered another crumpled report to Carson.
The senior scientist took it, turned it the correct way up and ran his eyes down the words and figures. A slight frown appeared on his brow. He studied the report a second time. He looked at Kemble.
‘You see?’ The younger man appeared to have pulled himself together. His breathing was less strained, and the air of desperation had dissipated.
‘Does anyone else know about this?’ Now Carson sounded strained.
‘No,’ confirmed Kemble. ‘I discovered this late last night. I didn’t think I had the authority to…to…make a fuss.’
‘Good,’ said Carson, sipping his coffee.
‘What will we do?’ asked Kemble. ‘Professor Hamilton must be told.’
‘Not today.’
‘But..’
‘No buts.’
‘But Mr Carson. If the professor goes ahead with his launch, and then this comes out…’
‘What?’
‘He’ll…he’ll…be a laughing stock,’ finished Kemble lamely.
‘Don’t worry,’ placated Carson. ‘Nothing, but nothing, must interfere with the Professor’s plans for today. We’ll sort this,’ he brandished the paper,’ later.’
‘But..’
‘That’s final, Kemble. Now go home and get some sleep.’
Kemble stood up wearily. He’d been looking forward to the launch. There was to be a champagne reception, and a buffet lunch. But they could stick it, if that was Carson’s attitude.
Those crumpled, stained pieces of paper blew Professor Hamilton’s grandiose theories to smithereens.
Kemble thrust his hands into his lab coat pockets. He turned to leave the office, hiding a grin from Carson. Enjoy, boss, he thought. I haven’t even shown you my second discovery. That’ll put the cat among the pigeons.
As he left the office, he felt better. A few reputations would be ruined this week. But one might be made.
Kemble left by the museum’s rear entrance. A limousine containing Professor Hamilton and two very wealthy sponsors of the museum drew up at the front.
Carson was still shuffling through the mess of paper on his desk when he heard the laboratory door crash open, and the Professor bark his name.
He gulped the dregs of his coffee, stuffed the heap of paper under his desk and headed for his office door.
‘Carson!’ bellowed Hamilton. ‘Come on, come on!’
‘Everything’s fine, Professor’, gulped Carson. ‘I’m coming!’
Much to Carson’s surprise, everything was fine. The caterers were setting up. The press began to arrive. Carson was rather elated to find out that only the broadsheets, the minority television channels and various scientific magazines were represented . He’d had an uneasy feeling that a picture of the entwined couple would be splashed on the front page of a tabloid under the banner headline YE OLDE POSHE AND BECKS! Or some such nonsense.
Professor Hamilton was in fine form. Carson worried about the old man, but, although obviously excited, he seemed in perfect control and had reined in his enthusiasm.
By 1pm the press were beginning to pack up, the sponsors were very happy, the professor had delivered his eulogy to Romeo and Juliet to polite applause, and Carson felt he could relax and enjoy a glass of champagne.
As he made his way to the buffet table, he was disconcerted to spot Kemble, shaved and in a change of clothing, quaffing bubbly and wolfing down vol-au-vents.
‘Top spread, eh, Carson? The Prof’s done us proud.’
‘What are you doing here, Kemble? I thought you’d gone home to rest.’
‘Wouldn’t have missed this for the world. The Prof did a great job. Pity, really.’
‘What’s a pity?’ demanded Carson.
‘Didn’t you check those reports I gave you?’ queried Kemble, sampling a chicken drumstick.
‘They were an unholy mess, Kemble..’
‘Unholy,’ mused the younger scientist. ‘But you did notice something on the first sheet I gave you?’
‘Oh, there was a slight discrepancy in the dates…’
‘Slight?’ laughed Kemble. ‘If you call seven hundred years ‘slight’ .’
‘What?’ barked Carson.
‘Keep it down,’ smirked Kemble, replenishing his glass. ‘Young Posh is just that. Young. She’s only seventy if she’s a day. Although interestingly enough, she was only twenty-five when she…er..passed away. Whereas good old Becks is knocking on for seven hundred. How old’s Professor Hamilton by the way?’
Temporarily thrown by Kemble’s remarks, Carson shot back ‘He’s seventy-two. But what’s that got to do with anything? You don’t seriously expect me to believe that those two in a clinch are from different centuries?’
‘Not half,’ grinned Kemble. ‘They say age doesn’t matter. Where did the Prof pick them up?’
‘Central Mexico. You know that, Kem..’
‘His first trip there, was it?’ Kemble sipped the effervescent liquid, thoroughly enjoying himself.
‘Yes. Er…no.’ Carson racked his brains. The woman from The Times had made some connection about more than one trip, and Hamilton had glossed over it.
‘Really, Carson. You should do some research. Professor Lambert Hamilton first ventured into the jungles of Mexico in 1959. With his new wife. They married on February the 14th – the archaeologist and the historian. A honeymoon to be spent excavating Aztec temples. How romantic!’
‘What are you getting at, Kemble?’ Carson was fed up with the younger man’s smug game-playing.
‘Our Posh isn’t the really interesting one of the two, though. I mentioned two anomalies to you earlier. There are actually three. The ages of our loving couple was one. The second,’ Kemble glanced around to make sure no-one was following their conversation, ‘is that our friend Becks isn’t exactly human.’
‘Rot!’ ejaculated Carson.
‘Keep your voice down,’ whispered Kemble frantically. ‘But the real killer is…’
He leaned forward and whispered in Carson’s ear.
‘I think the fucking thing is actually alive.’
Kemble leaned back and studied Carson’s face. The older man was speechless. His mouth hung open.
Kemble picked up two glasses from the table.
‘More champagne?’
Frank Malone, Carson and Kemble stood in the deserted display hall in front of the glass cube. They watched Professor Hamilton, who was seated in front of them, tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘I couldn’t help it! I couldn’t !’ sobbed the elderly academic.
Kemble turned to the security guard.
‘What happened, Frank?’
Malone coughed in embarrassment.
‘Some idiot brought a couple of kids. They went up to the exhibit and said something or other. Whatever it was, it really upset the Prof. Erm, the Professor. So much that he…gave ‘em a couple a whacks. Went a bit mad, like. I couldn’t stop ‘im.’
‘Don’t worry, Frank . You did your best.’
‘Cheers, Mr K. Always try to.’
‘Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish,’ moaned Carson, hands thrust deep into trouser pockets. ‘No doubt the press will have a field day. And our sponsorship will be withdrawn.’
He kicked at a paper plate on the floor, then knelt in front of the Professor and asked gently ‘What happened, Lambert? What did the children say?’
Hamilton stopped crying. He looked at the display case, then stood up and stepped toward it.
‘They mocked Romeo and Juliet.’
Carson had to strain to hear him.
‘They mocked my Marcia.’
Hamilton reached toward the glass. Kemble gasped and lurched forward. Malone placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘The alarms are off, Mr K.’
‘Thank goodness.’
Carson looked at Kemble.
‘Marcia?’
‘Mrs Hamilton.’
‘I’ll be off now,’ supplied Malone. ‘I hope the Prof feels better later.’
‘I’m sure he will.’ Carson didn’t sound at all convinced.
Malone left the hall. Carson turned to Kemble.
‘I didn’t even know Hamilton had been married!’ he hissed. ‘What happened to his wife?’
Kemble watched the Professor as he pressed his hands and nose against the glass. He seemed to be crying again.
‘She didn’t come back from Mexico. Nor did the rest of the team. Hamilton wandered out of the jungle on his own. The British consul arranged for him to be flown back home. He spent a couple of years in a sanatorium, then resumed his career.’
‘You don’t think..’
‘IT’S HAPPENING!’
The professor began to hammer his fists on the glass.
‘IT’S HAPPENING!’
Carson and Kemble ran over to the exhibit. The male figure was covered in a yellow slime that seemed to be exuding from its bones. The slime began to harden, form muscles.
‘Gahgoonzah!’ declared the Professor, arms held wide.
‘Who?’ Carson turned to Kemble.
‘Gahgoonzah. Aztec god of evil and destruction,’ muttered Kemble, staring in disbelief.
The female figure was pushed aside and the male solidified and began to stand erect.
‘You bastard!’ screamed the Professor. ‘You won’t get away with it this time!’
The old man pulled an enormous black revolver from underneath his tweed jacket, and aimed it at the revolting figure in the case.
‘Fifty years!’ ranted Hamilton. ‘Fifty years I’ve waited for you! Eat lead, you scum!’
The ancient Webley roared. The glass cube shattered and Gahgoonzah growled at his nemesis. The bullet passed through him and took a chunk of plaster out of the back wall.
The recoil had thrown the professor to the floor where he lay, groaning and clutching his wrist.
‘What can we do?’ wailed Carson.
The creature stretched and growled again.
Kemble ran to the buffet table and grabbed an unopened bottle of champagne. He hurled it at the ancient monster and watched it shatter against the thing’s chest.
Gahgoonzah screamed as if in agony. It’s slowly forming skin bubbled and smoked.
Carson and Kemble looked at one another, then seized a bottle each. They popped their corks simultaneously (Kemble’s landing dead in one of the creature’s still-empty eye sockets) and sprayed as if they’d dead-heated in a Grand Prix.
The creature shrieked and writhed. A hideous smell filled the exhibition hall.
Kemble took a quick swig of the dregs of his bottle.
‘Stop boozing and keep squirting!’ bellowed Carson.
The two men rearmed themselves and continued to douse the rapidly diminishing god.
As the twin jets faltered, and Gahgoonzah dissolved into a lake of fizzing excrescence, Carson slumped back against the buffet table. Kemble picked up another bottle, but it was unnecessary. The horror was gone.
‘Marcia?’
The Professor’s voice roused the two adrenalin-drained scientists.
He was crawling across the broken glass of the shattered cube towards the female figure.
The skeleton was moving in the small pool of champagne held in the bottom of the case. Veins , muscles, tendons grew on her bare bones. She sat up. Hair sprouted from the skin forming on the bare skull.
‘Marcia!’
Raven hair, long, flowing. Ruby lips formed over the white teeth.
Kemble readied his bottle.
‘It would do no good,’ breathed Carson. ‘It’s the champagne that’s regenerating her.’
The cork crumbled between Kemble’s thumbs, and lukewarm, disappointingly flat champagne flowed over his hands.
Two white orbs emerged from the woman’s eye sockets. Two beautiful blue irises swept the room.
‘Marcia!’
The Professor, dying from a thousand cuts, stretched out his hand.
The woman’s mouth moved, her vocal cords forming.
‘L-L- Lambert?’
‘
END
“Shit!”
He ran to the laboratory sink and washed out his mouth, spitting and gargling. A cup of water from the cooler calmed his nerves, and he returned to the mess on top of his workstation.
He checked the results again. It couldn’t be! Could it?
Kemble was a very junior member of the team, and was understandably cautious about approaching Professor Hamilton. Especially with findings like these in his hand.
Kemble found himself wandering the corridors of the museum. He knew where he was heading. Hamilton’s pride and joy. The special exhibit. To be opened tomorrow in front of the great and the good. And the press. Romeo and Juliet, as the Professor had dubbed them. Exposed to the world on St Valentine’s day.
Kemble and the other lesser ranks referred to the couple as Posh and Becks. Not in Hamilton’s earshot. At least one of the museum staff had been fired for using the term in front of the Professor. Normally a mild-mannered man, Hamilton had been practically frothing at the mouth, and had to be restrained by a security guard. The museum lawyers were gloomily expecting a lawsuit.
All that would be forgotten tomorrow.
As Kemble approached the exhibition section of the museum, he saw Frank Malone, an ageing security operative, watching him.
‘Everything alright, Mr Kemble?’ enquired the uniformed man.
‘Er…fine, Frank, fine,’ replied Kemble, vaguely. ‘All quiet?’
Malone fell into step beside him.
‘Too quiet,’ replied Malone, with a chuckle. ‘It can get dead boring in the early hours. How come you’re working so late?’
‘I..er..I …just wanted to check some things, before tomorrow. You know what a stickler Hamilton is.’
‘Posh and Becks?’ grinned Malone. ‘The old boy’s gone doolally for them two. Never seen him so involved. And I’ve been here a while…’
Malone’s voice faded away as they turned a corner. Both men stopped and stared at an enormous glass cube, illuminated by yellow spotlights. It dominated the small room.
Inside were what appeared to be two human skeletons, crouching and embracing. Kemble and Malone edged quietly forward, eyes fixed on the tableau.
‘There’s something about them,’ whispered the security guard. ‘I can almost understand why the old man’s so gone on ‘em.’
Kemble didn’t really take in what Malone was saying, but was aware of the hushed and awed tone.
He thought back to the ink spattered dating tests on his desk. There was something very wrong about this couple. Something very wrong.
He moved closer to the glass. They should be horrible. Decayed corpses. But their entwined position spoke of love, even in death. Beyond death.
‘Don’t!’
Malone’s harsh bark brought Kemble round. His hand was stretching toward the glass case.
‘It’s alarmed!’ hissed Malone.
‘Of course,’ muttered the young scientist, arm falling to his side. He kept his eyes downcast as he turned and headed back to the lab.
Carson walked into the laboratory whistling Hello Young Lovers. This was it! The Big Day!
Well, OK, Hamilton’s big day, but Stewart Carson would be at his side. Might get in the papers. Or on the news. Who knew?
He found himself rubbing his hands. 7 am. Let’s get goi….what the hell?
The normally immaculate laboratory was ruined by the dishevelled form of Kemble slumped over his desk. The desk was covered in stained crumpled sheets of paper.
Carson was initially stunned. What was…Was Kemble alright?
He found himself tiptoeing toward the recumbent figure.
Kemble snored. Carson saw the pool of drool on the paper nearest his mouth.
‘KEMBLE!!’
The younger man jerked awake and slowly sat up, blinking myopically.
‘Wha…?’
‘Kemble,’ said Carson, through gritted teeth. ‘Why the FUCK have you chosen the most important day in this museum’s history, not to mention the most important day in most of our careers to play silly buggers?’
‘Mr. Carson…?’
‘Yes, that’s me. Have a drink of water. Then I’d like an explanation. In my office.’
Carson spun on his heel and stalked away to his office.
Kemble rubbed his eyes. God, he was tired! What had happ…..
He stared at the mess on his desk. The results! He had to tell someone. Get it confirmed.
Kemble gathered the papers and loped towards Carson’s office.
The latter had just set his kettle to boil. He turned and arched an eyebrow as Kemble lurched into the office and dumped the screwed up, stained reports on his desk.
Carson frowned as he took in Kemble’s stentorian breathing and wild-eyed, bloodshot stare.
‘Calm down, man. Start at the beginning.’
Kemble gasped and slumped into the chair opposite his immediate superior.
‘Mr. Carson,’ he sobbed ‘Take a look at these. There’s an anomaly. Or well, there’s two. Two anomam..anol..’
Carson poured boiling water into a cup of coffee.
‘Have you been here all night, Kemble?’
‘Yes, yes. Fell asleep. Couldn’t….JUST LOOK AT THESE!!!’
Carson stepped back at the scream.
He reached for a paper. It was creased and had ink all over it.
‘What have you been do…’
‘Please,’ Kemble pleaded, searching among the pile, ‘Please…Here!’
A quivering hand offered another crumpled report to Carson.
The senior scientist took it, turned it the correct way up and ran his eyes down the words and figures. A slight frown appeared on his brow. He studied the report a second time. He looked at Kemble.
‘You see?’ The younger man appeared to have pulled himself together. His breathing was less strained, and the air of desperation had dissipated.
‘Does anyone else know about this?’ Now Carson sounded strained.
‘No,’ confirmed Kemble. ‘I discovered this late last night. I didn’t think I had the authority to…to…make a fuss.’
‘Good,’ said Carson, sipping his coffee.
‘What will we do?’ asked Kemble. ‘Professor Hamilton must be told.’
‘Not today.’
‘But..’
‘No buts.’
‘But Mr Carson. If the professor goes ahead with his launch, and then this comes out…’
‘What?’
‘He’ll…he’ll…be a laughing stock,’ finished Kemble lamely.
‘Don’t worry,’ placated Carson. ‘Nothing, but nothing, must interfere with the Professor’s plans for today. We’ll sort this,’ he brandished the paper,’ later.’
‘But..’
‘That’s final, Kemble. Now go home and get some sleep.’
Kemble stood up wearily. He’d been looking forward to the launch. There was to be a champagne reception, and a buffet lunch. But they could stick it, if that was Carson’s attitude.
Those crumpled, stained pieces of paper blew Professor Hamilton’s grandiose theories to smithereens.
Kemble thrust his hands into his lab coat pockets. He turned to leave the office, hiding a grin from Carson. Enjoy, boss, he thought. I haven’t even shown you my second discovery. That’ll put the cat among the pigeons.
As he left the office, he felt better. A few reputations would be ruined this week. But one might be made.
Kemble left by the museum’s rear entrance. A limousine containing Professor Hamilton and two very wealthy sponsors of the museum drew up at the front.
Carson was still shuffling through the mess of paper on his desk when he heard the laboratory door crash open, and the Professor bark his name.
He gulped the dregs of his coffee, stuffed the heap of paper under his desk and headed for his office door.
‘Carson!’ bellowed Hamilton. ‘Come on, come on!’
‘Everything’s fine, Professor’, gulped Carson. ‘I’m coming!’
Much to Carson’s surprise, everything was fine. The caterers were setting up. The press began to arrive. Carson was rather elated to find out that only the broadsheets, the minority television channels and various scientific magazines were represented . He’d had an uneasy feeling that a picture of the entwined couple would be splashed on the front page of a tabloid under the banner headline YE OLDE POSHE AND BECKS! Or some such nonsense.
Professor Hamilton was in fine form. Carson worried about the old man, but, although obviously excited, he seemed in perfect control and had reined in his enthusiasm.
By 1pm the press were beginning to pack up, the sponsors were very happy, the professor had delivered his eulogy to Romeo and Juliet to polite applause, and Carson felt he could relax and enjoy a glass of champagne.
As he made his way to the buffet table, he was disconcerted to spot Kemble, shaved and in a change of clothing, quaffing bubbly and wolfing down vol-au-vents.
‘Top spread, eh, Carson? The Prof’s done us proud.’
‘What are you doing here, Kemble? I thought you’d gone home to rest.’
‘Wouldn’t have missed this for the world. The Prof did a great job. Pity, really.’
‘What’s a pity?’ demanded Carson.
‘Didn’t you check those reports I gave you?’ queried Kemble, sampling a chicken drumstick.
‘They were an unholy mess, Kemble..’
‘Unholy,’ mused the younger scientist. ‘But you did notice something on the first sheet I gave you?’
‘Oh, there was a slight discrepancy in the dates…’
‘Slight?’ laughed Kemble. ‘If you call seven hundred years ‘slight’ .’
‘What?’ barked Carson.
‘Keep it down,’ smirked Kemble, replenishing his glass. ‘Young Posh is just that. Young. She’s only seventy if she’s a day. Although interestingly enough, she was only twenty-five when she…er..passed away. Whereas good old Becks is knocking on for seven hundred. How old’s Professor Hamilton by the way?’
Temporarily thrown by Kemble’s remarks, Carson shot back ‘He’s seventy-two. But what’s that got to do with anything? You don’t seriously expect me to believe that those two in a clinch are from different centuries?’
‘Not half,’ grinned Kemble. ‘They say age doesn’t matter. Where did the Prof pick them up?’
‘Central Mexico. You know that, Kem..’
‘His first trip there, was it?’ Kemble sipped the effervescent liquid, thoroughly enjoying himself.
‘Yes. Er…no.’ Carson racked his brains. The woman from The Times had made some connection about more than one trip, and Hamilton had glossed over it.
‘Really, Carson. You should do some research. Professor Lambert Hamilton first ventured into the jungles of Mexico in 1959. With his new wife. They married on February the 14th – the archaeologist and the historian. A honeymoon to be spent excavating Aztec temples. How romantic!’
‘What are you getting at, Kemble?’ Carson was fed up with the younger man’s smug game-playing.
‘Our Posh isn’t the really interesting one of the two, though. I mentioned two anomalies to you earlier. There are actually three. The ages of our loving couple was one. The second,’ Kemble glanced around to make sure no-one was following their conversation, ‘is that our friend Becks isn’t exactly human.’
‘Rot!’ ejaculated Carson.
‘Keep your voice down,’ whispered Kemble frantically. ‘But the real killer is…’
He leaned forward and whispered in Carson’s ear.
‘I think the fucking thing is actually alive.’
Kemble leaned back and studied Carson’s face. The older man was speechless. His mouth hung open.
Kemble picked up two glasses from the table.
‘More champagne?’
Frank Malone, Carson and Kemble stood in the deserted display hall in front of the glass cube. They watched Professor Hamilton, who was seated in front of them, tears streaming down his cheeks.
‘I couldn’t help it! I couldn’t !’ sobbed the elderly academic.
Kemble turned to the security guard.
‘What happened, Frank?’
Malone coughed in embarrassment.
‘Some idiot brought a couple of kids. They went up to the exhibit and said something or other. Whatever it was, it really upset the Prof. Erm, the Professor. So much that he…gave ‘em a couple a whacks. Went a bit mad, like. I couldn’t stop ‘im.’
‘Don’t worry, Frank . You did your best.’
‘Cheers, Mr K. Always try to.’
‘Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish,’ moaned Carson, hands thrust deep into trouser pockets. ‘No doubt the press will have a field day. And our sponsorship will be withdrawn.’
He kicked at a paper plate on the floor, then knelt in front of the Professor and asked gently ‘What happened, Lambert? What did the children say?’
Hamilton stopped crying. He looked at the display case, then stood up and stepped toward it.
‘They mocked Romeo and Juliet.’
Carson had to strain to hear him.
‘They mocked my Marcia.’
Hamilton reached toward the glass. Kemble gasped and lurched forward. Malone placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘The alarms are off, Mr K.’
‘Thank goodness.’
Carson looked at Kemble.
‘Marcia?’
‘Mrs Hamilton.’
‘I’ll be off now,’ supplied Malone. ‘I hope the Prof feels better later.’
‘I’m sure he will.’ Carson didn’t sound at all convinced.
Malone left the hall. Carson turned to Kemble.
‘I didn’t even know Hamilton had been married!’ he hissed. ‘What happened to his wife?’
Kemble watched the Professor as he pressed his hands and nose against the glass. He seemed to be crying again.
‘She didn’t come back from Mexico. Nor did the rest of the team. Hamilton wandered out of the jungle on his own. The British consul arranged for him to be flown back home. He spent a couple of years in a sanatorium, then resumed his career.’
‘You don’t think..’
‘IT’S HAPPENING!’
The professor began to hammer his fists on the glass.
‘IT’S HAPPENING!’
Carson and Kemble ran over to the exhibit. The male figure was covered in a yellow slime that seemed to be exuding from its bones. The slime began to harden, form muscles.
‘Gahgoonzah!’ declared the Professor, arms held wide.
‘Who?’ Carson turned to Kemble.
‘Gahgoonzah. Aztec god of evil and destruction,’ muttered Kemble, staring in disbelief.
The female figure was pushed aside and the male solidified and began to stand erect.
‘You bastard!’ screamed the Professor. ‘You won’t get away with it this time!’
The old man pulled an enormous black revolver from underneath his tweed jacket, and aimed it at the revolting figure in the case.
‘Fifty years!’ ranted Hamilton. ‘Fifty years I’ve waited for you! Eat lead, you scum!’
The ancient Webley roared. The glass cube shattered and Gahgoonzah growled at his nemesis. The bullet passed through him and took a chunk of plaster out of the back wall.
The recoil had thrown the professor to the floor where he lay, groaning and clutching his wrist.
‘What can we do?’ wailed Carson.
The creature stretched and growled again.
Kemble ran to the buffet table and grabbed an unopened bottle of champagne. He hurled it at the ancient monster and watched it shatter against the thing’s chest.
Gahgoonzah screamed as if in agony. It’s slowly forming skin bubbled and smoked.
Carson and Kemble looked at one another, then seized a bottle each. They popped their corks simultaneously (Kemble’s landing dead in one of the creature’s still-empty eye sockets) and sprayed as if they’d dead-heated in a Grand Prix.
The creature shrieked and writhed. A hideous smell filled the exhibition hall.
Kemble took a quick swig of the dregs of his bottle.
‘Stop boozing and keep squirting!’ bellowed Carson.
The two men rearmed themselves and continued to douse the rapidly diminishing god.
As the twin jets faltered, and Gahgoonzah dissolved into a lake of fizzing excrescence, Carson slumped back against the buffet table. Kemble picked up another bottle, but it was unnecessary. The horror was gone.
‘Marcia?’
The Professor’s voice roused the two adrenalin-drained scientists.
He was crawling across the broken glass of the shattered cube towards the female figure.
The skeleton was moving in the small pool of champagne held in the bottom of the case. Veins , muscles, tendons grew on her bare bones. She sat up. Hair sprouted from the skin forming on the bare skull.
‘Marcia!’
Raven hair, long, flowing. Ruby lips formed over the white teeth.
Kemble readied his bottle.
‘It would do no good,’ breathed Carson. ‘It’s the champagne that’s regenerating her.’
The cork crumbled between Kemble’s thumbs, and lukewarm, disappointingly flat champagne flowed over his hands.
Two white orbs emerged from the woman’s eye sockets. Two beautiful blue irises swept the room.
‘Marcia!’
The Professor, dying from a thousand cuts, stretched out his hand.
The woman’s mouth moved, her vocal cords forming.
‘L-L- Lambert?’
‘
END