The Gastropoda Imperative

By Peter Barns

Conal Mitchell, PA to one of the world's richest men - Lyra Harrison, a city girl tasked with looking after her aunt's smallholding - Piers Booth, set on revenging his mother's death - five teenagers searching for a party.
When they meet on Flat Rock Island, it becomes a race against time for survival.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Barns
• Release date: Mar 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301930456

Peter Barns

Author - Poet - VersifierBorn in Harlsden on the outskirts of London in 1943, Peter Barns spent his formative years living beside Regent's Park.Educated at a Secondary Modern school, he left with just one qualification in 'O' Level Art.Passing through a variety of occupations after leaving school, he finally ended up working in the construction industry as an electrician. After taking his City & Guilds, he became an electrical engineer and spent the next twenty years working on building sites. Somewhere in there he got married and divorced - a couple of times - and had two children.He moved to the Highlands of Scotland in the late 1980's along with his partner. With the move came a new occupation - counselling people with alcohol and drug problems - which he did for six years before managing a charitable company recycling redundant computers back into the community.Now retired he spends his time writing, and refurbishing houses.I love my mind: it takes me to fabulous places where strange creatures roam. A land unseen and unexplored. A visage reflecting the faces I've seen, the words I've heard and dreams yet to come.Peter Barns 2014

Book preview

Chapter 1

Conal Micthell, PA to Dermot Drewsbeck, multi-billionaire and sole owner of Tirolean Enterprises, was tense. Daylight was running out and it would soon be too dark to fly. If he didn't land the helicopter pretty soon, he stood a good chance of ending belly-up in the drink. He gave a small grin of satisfaction and relaxed. There it was, dead ahead, just off the Sussex coast, exactly where it should be — Flat Rock Island.

The island looked like an outsize scimitar had sliced the top off. Conal swung out from the coast and headed in over the tear-shaped landscape, searching in the dimming light for the helipad. It was a long time since he was last here. Worrying the setup might have changed, he kept an eye peeled for any obstructions. The project was in a natural indentation at the larger end of the island, buried deep underground.

As Conal approached the helipad, halogen lights burst into life, blinding him momentarily. Damn! Bloody idiots. What the hell do they think they're doing? he muttered.

Landing in the centre of the big white circle painted at one end of the enormous concrete slab, he turned off the engine, sitting quietly for a few moments while the rotors wound down, giving his eyes time to adjust. Jumping from the helicopter, he set off towards the entrance at a brisk pace, keen to find someone to bollock for nearly blinded him. As he strode across the concrete, a sudden thought struck him, and shook his head at his own stupidity, giving a wry smile. The outside lights came on automatically at dusk; just as he was setting down.

He couldn't make out much of the island through the haze of the lights blazing all round him, just the single, lonely structure that was the project's entrance block. Making his way towards the glass box stuck on the far side of the slab, he wiped a hand over his bald head, casting glances right and left as he went.

Conal was stocky, 1.7 metres and muscular. He always wore a black leather jacket over a white shirt and red tie, matched with grey slacks and highly polished shoes. His co-workers joked that he'd probably bought a job-lot years ago and hadn't worked his way through them yet. He'd been Dermot Drewsbeck's PA for the past five years. The Old Man — as he referred to him in private — head-hunted him after he left the Special Forces, making an offer so outrageous he couldn't turn him down. Over the years, he'd earned that money, saving the Old Man's neck more than once.

Conal was edgy, and with good reason. He was close enough to see into the glass walled building. The big curved desk facing the entrance doors was empty, as was the glass sided lift shaft, meaning the lift car was at the lower level. There was no sign of anybody anywhere, which worried him. Reaching the doors, he pushed the enter button, the harsh buzzer making itself heard through the reinforced glass. He knew a second buzzer would be sounding in the laboratory below, in case the security guard wasn't at the desk.

Getting no response, he punched the over-ride code into the entry pad, clicking impatient fingers as he waited for the glass doors to slide aside. A shiver touched the back of his neck when he entered. Glancing back over his shoulder, he shook his head at his uneasiness. Walking around the large desk, he sat, staring at the bank of CCTV screens set in a semi-circle. There were five, showing different views of the laboratory below; nothing moved in any of them.

Conal sat back in his seat, a puzzled frown on his face. Catching sight of something on Camera 5, he sat forward with a jerk. The screen showed 'The Pit', which was kept in perpetual darkness, so the camera was fitted with an infra-red filter, giving everything an ethereal glow. Just at the edge of the screen something white lay on the floor; something familiar. Grabbing the control stick, he moved the camera for a better view, zooming in. A long, sibilant hiss escaped his lips and his eyes widened. He zoomed in some more.

Conal's heart-rate increased and a patch of sweat broke out between his shoulder blades. There could be no mistaking what lay waiting for him down in the lab. Picking up the desk phone, he tapped in a number available to only a select few. Holding it to his ear, he continued staring at the CCTV screen. When his call went through, he uttered four words, his tone a dull monotone. Mizzle. The Island. Alone. Taking a few deep breaths, he placed the handset back on its cradle and stood, surprised at how unsteady his legs were. Making his way over to the lift, he pressed the call-button, tapping his finger-tips against his thigh as the car whirred its slow way up from the bottom of the shaft.

The lift took forever, and when it's doors finally opened, Conal hesitated, stopping them closing with an outstretched hand. Rubbing the back of his neck, he shrugged and stepped inside.

Chapter 2

Mizzle. The Island. Alone. When the flat voice spoke in his ear, the adrenaline flowed through Dermot Drewsbeck's body. The quiet words brought a chill to his heart.

Mizzle was his PA's 'code word', used on an open line when security was a concern; only employed in a dire emergency. It meant; act now, take this call extremely seriously, because something life-threatening was happening. In the five years his PA worked for him, Conal had never used the word. Drewsbeck pursed his lips, considering the phone call. It was pretty obvious something bad was going down out at Flat Rock Island. Something extremely bad if Conal had resorted to using the special code word.

Having spent all day with his Finance Director working out which tax haven to put his company profits in, had tired Drewsbeck. He'd also promised to take his wife out for the evening, but Conal's call put paid to that. Heading a global conglomerate whose turnover outstripped many a small country's national income was bad enough, without all this bloody cloak and dagger stuff. Damn the man.

The call unsettled Drewsbeck more than he'd admit. It mounted worries on stress and tiredness. This was the most exhausted he'd felt since building his enterprise — an undertaking spanning thirty-five years, thirty-three companies and twenty-two thousand employees in thirteen countries. He sighed loudly. Conal's call had ground him down just a little farther; just a little deeper.

Shouting for his wife, Drewsbeck waited until she appeared at the lounge door, then gave her his best, disarming smile. Something's come up, darling. I'm sorry, but I have to go back to the office.

But DermDerm, she said with a pout. You promised me you'd take the night off for once. We're supposed to be going to that opera I so wanted to see.

I know, darling. Sorry. I really am, but there's nothing I can do about it. Something important's come up.

It's always something important, DermDerm. Aren't I important too?

Drewsbeck may have been a short man, with a florid face, running to fat and well past the first flush of youth; but his wife was tall, slim, perfectly groomed, and twenty-five years his junior. She also had a temper to match her brilliant red hair and was looking at him now with an expression that said she was about to explode.

Have to go, darling. Practically running into the hall, Drewsbeck grabbed his coat and headed out the door at a fast pace.

*

Conal stepped from the lift into the corridor, looking down the length of the building. Doors led off both sides. They were all open. Even the one the staff had nicknamed, 'The Pit'. That wasn't good.

The lighting level in the corridor, designed to switch to quarter power whenever The Pit door opened, was dim. He stood outside the lift, listening, jumping when the doors closed behind him. Making little noise, he eased his way down the corridor, pushing each door fully open as he reached it.

Tea room; small laboratory; larger laboratory; Senior Technician; Male toilet — stalls, empty; Female Toilet — ditto; Computer Technician; Canteen; Department of Malacology; Senior Invertebrate Zoologist; Secretary. All the rooms were empty and ominously quiet.

Two to go; Electrical Intake & Ventilation on the left; The Pit on the right. Conal took the EI&V first; also empty. Leaning back against the corridor wall, he wet dry lips and stared at the partially open door in the opposite wall. He didn't want to enter. He knew what waited inside.

The staff gave the big recycling room it's name because that's what it was — a large two metre deep pit sunk into the middle of the floor with a knee-high wall round it. Even from where he stood in the corridor, Conal could feel the suck of the powerful ceiling fans extracting the foul air. He hadn't been in the Recycling Laboratory since it began operating, but knew — even with the big extractor fans going flat out — breathing in the putrid atmosphere for any length of time without an oxygen mask was impossible. Next to the extract vents in the ceiling, a chute led to the surface, ending in a circular metal cover cast into the concrete slab alongside the entrance block. It was here — at regular intervals — helicopters delivered the recyclates into The Pit.

Conal pushed the door back on its hinges, switching on the overhead lighting. As the room was bathed in bright light, a slopping noise came from the pit. He hesitated on the threshold, castigating himself for being so reluctant to enter. Taking a deep breath, he walked to the pit, staring down at the sludge. It was still rippling from the movements of the nocturnal creatures diving below the surface. Turning away in disgust, he grabbed another quick lungful of air from the corridor and squatted down in the corner, sorting through a tangled pile of bones.

Well, that's solved the problem of where the staff are, he muttered, eyes stinging at the stench in the room.

Chapter 3

When Drewsbeck arrived at the quay, he pulled into the car park and quickly killed the engine. Getting out of his silver Mercedes, he looked around, worried about leaving his expensive car in such a deserted place.

It'll be okay there, guv, a lanky man shouted from the quayside.

The man, dressed in dirty orange overalls, bright yellow boots, and a rolled up woollen cap, smiled broadly. He was toothless, cheeks collapsed in on themselves. Over here, he called, waving a grubby hand. Your man there said for me to take you across to him. He was lucky he caught me in. I was just on my way out to the pub and all. Splendid things these mobiles, ain't they?

The ferryman kept up a steady patter as he helped Drewsbeck step across the gap onto the deck. Drewsbeck wrinkled his nose at the smell of fish pervading the vessel, surreptitiously wiping his hand down the side of his coat after the man released it. Making his way to the back of the vessel, he sat on the gunwale, trying to tune out his voice.

The boat's engine kicked into life with a cough and a burst of black, foul smelling smoke. It quickly settled down to a steady throb, which meant Drewsbeck didn't have to listen to any more inane chatter. The ferryman guided the chugging vessel out into the sound, his body swaying with the movement of the waves as he steadied the wheel.

How long is this going to take? Drewsbeck shouted above the rattling diesel engine.

About fifteen minutes, the boatman called back over his shoulder, wiping spittle from his chin with the back of his hand.

Drewsbeck settled into a contemplative mood. The throbbing engine and gently rolling waves combined to ease the tensions built up during the ninety minute drive from his mansion at Newton Abbot. He smiled, thinking about the pleasant evening awaiting him whan he got home. Maybe he should get his secretary to book a nice restaurant for later. His wife loved it when he took her where the celebrities went. Pulling out his mobile, he frowned. Damn it! No signal.

The boat powered out of a deep trough, allowing Drewsbeck a brief glimpse of the island in the distance. He'd first seen it from the air, when surveying the island with his architect four years earlier. Looking down, he spotted the large crater they'd chosen to build the laboritory in. Using it would save the builders a lot of deep digging, and the surrounding higher rocks would help keep the elements at bay. Instructing the pilot to put down in the centre of the crater, Drewsbeck climbed out to inspect the island he hoped would add a sizeable chunk to his already considerable fortune.

I think we've found it, Jimmy, he'd said, all smiles as he swept his thinning white hair back over his head, breathing in the sea air. Just listen to those waves. Wonderful.

If you can get whoever owns it to sell, his architect replied in a dubious tone.

Money talks better than words, he said with a chuckle. Or is that louder? Anyway, you get back to the office and move a team out here pronto. I'll take care of buying the island. You've got nine months to turn this place into a working laboratory. Think you can do it?

I wouldn't be here if Ididn't.

The work was difficult — given the terrain and location — but money was a wonderful motivator. Helicopters flew equipment and materials in; the workers lodged with locals, ferried back and forth daily. Drewsbeck wanted to keep the real reason for the construction work under wraps. Whoever succeeded in harnessing this particular idea would make themselves a fortune. As usual with his new undertakings, there were people already sniffing around — industrial spies were forever on the prowl — so he spread a rumour he was constructing a big underground oil storage depot.

Nearly there, guv. The ferryman's shout brought Drewsbeck out of his revelry. He focused on the pier coming up a few metres away. For all his sloppy looks, he was a superb sailor, kissing the boat against the tyres hanging from the pier as gently as a mother kissing her baby. Holding the vessel against the pier with the engine, he indicated Drewsbeck should jump off, adding: Do us a favour, mate, and drop this here rope over that there bollard when you get ashore.

Drewsbeck slipped the big loop over a rusty bollard and made his way towards the path leading up the side of the cliff. Intermittent lampposts cast deep shadows along the route, so he was careful where he stepped. After a ten-minute hike, he arrived ato the top, walking out onto the huge concrete slab that was the roof of the laboratory. He saw his PA sitting behind the desk in the entrance block, feet up, crossed at the ankles, drinking something from a plastic cup. Pulling his coat tighter against the wind, he glanced at his watch.

It was almost ten o'clock, and a storm was brewing. He hoped the weather would hold until they got off the island. It was too dark to fly back in the helicopter, and he didn't fancy sailing through a storm with the toothless ferryman in a gale.

Chapter 4

Conal caught sight of Drewsbeck through the glass and swung his feet off the desk. The Old Man looked tired. Worn out, in fact. Pressing the door release to let his boss in, Conal stood up.

Conal, Drewsbeck said, nodding a greeting.

Mr Drewsbeck.

That a coffee you got there?

Sure is. Want me to get you a cup? The machine's just over there.

Just need a slurp of yours, if you don't mind. That was some walk up from the pier.

Conal held out his plastic cup, noticing