Jago by Kim Newman Page A

beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.’ Wells was the key, and no matter how many intriguingly obscure and unread contemporaries—Garrett P. Serviss, Grant Allen, Matthew Phipps Shiel—he exhumed, he still found himself drawn back to Herbert George. His short-sleeved shirt sweated through, he could not help but think he was living in the days of the comet.
    Hazel was struggling with the clay, more often than not mashing her finished work back into a lump and starting all over again. The board on the lawn was barely half-covered with drying bottles. She had been briefly enthused by the visit of the couple from the Agapemone, but now she was closed like a flower that shows itself only to the noonday sun.
    They had met on Easter Sunday, at the Brian-Alex-Eugene party, for which they’d coopted a large garden from a lecturer. The first weekend of the big heat. Sally and her new boyfriend had made an entrance, dressed like Betty Boop and Tin-Tin. Paul remembered people not much older than him, even a few of his university contemporaries, were being dragged around by small children, murderously intent on ferreting out hidden chocolate eggs. Vaguely fed up, he noticed Hazel, with a crying little girl who hadn’t found a single egg, and rescued her by pointing to a foil-wrapped sweetie lodged in a cracked plant pot. The child belonged to one of her tutors, and she’d been given charge of her. Hazel was doing ceramics part-time at the polytechnic. She wore a lavenderish dress that left her legs bare, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. They talked, or were together, for most of the rest of the afternoon. Of course, he noticed she was a pretty girl. She was also, apart from little Amanda, unattached. They kissed goodbye twice. The first time was politely passionless, at about six thirty. Then they found themselves not parting after all. A parent claimed Amanda, but suggested Hazel stay on for the slimmed-down evening version of the party. Brian found a piano and started being Hoagy Carmichael, while Eugene impersonated the Battle of Britain with vocal sound effects and Alex sang cricket statistics to hymn tunes. Hazel didn’t stay long—her parents lived in Hove, she was expected for a meal—but a difference was made. They exchanged telephone numbers. The second kiss was different, with a hint of moving tongue. She left him something to think about.
    Under a fortress of books, the remote phone buzzed. Paul sorted through the desk until he found the receiver.
    ‘Station Six Sahara,’ he answered, a giggle at the other end identifying the caller. ‘Hi, Patch.’
    ‘Yo, Paul.’
    ‘Haze,’ he shouted, ‘it’s your sister.’
    Hazel, having just let another bottle pass inspection, straightened up from the board and said, ‘I’ll just wash my hands.’
    Paul told Patch—Patricia—Hazel was on her way, and they chatted. Patch was the only other human being in the large Chapelet family. In the bad moments, he even wondered whether he had picked the right sister. Younger than Hazel by a year, she’d gone straight from school into a junior admin post at the Arts Centre, and gained a power base as their head of publicity and promotions. Since the AC was on campus, she sometimes joined Paul for lunch in term-time. He wondered if Hazel were jealous of her sister. In her position he thought he might be, but the girls seemed to have a good relationship.
    ‘Work going well?’ Patch asked.
    ‘Pass.’
    ‘How’s married life?’
    ‘Um,’ he thought aloud, ‘here’s Hazel now.’
    He heard Patch laugh as he handed over the mobile phone. Patch was sharp.
    Hazel wandered off into a corner of the garden, by the kiln shed, and talked quietly into the phone. Patch would not have called in the daytime, interrupting work, unless there was some problem.
    The week after the party, he had nearly phoned Hazel several times but