Except for one. And who’d have guessed it, back when they were freshers?
‘Come on,’ Lyn said, and took her elbow. ‘Remember Heroes? It’s still there. Let’s have coffee.’
2
She’d been down for her interview, and seen its winter colours; but it had taken that golden first weekend to really bring her under Oxford’s spell.
Michaelmas Term: even the name was strange and rich somehow. The city in the autumn sunlight had seemed part of a whole new world. After the rugged countryside of home, it might have been a magical realm. She could feel the age of things down here: the buildings, and the books. And though she’d grown up close to ancient places, they’d never had a hold on her like this.
The place was beautiful enough; she had watched the stone-work glowing in the amber setting sun. But for her, the fascination was its treasury of thought. That was why she’d worked to come to Oxford: to study there, and somehow soak it up. Those hoards of books; those centuries of learning. It wasn’t the prestige: that didn’t matter.
Well, not much.
She’d signed herself in at Christ Church, unable to stop smiling. The college had entranced her from the start: a citadel of honey-coloured stone. Exploring, she’d found shady cloisters, quiet little nooks. A maze of spires and ivy. It was like an old-world castle in some fantasy she’d read. But this time it was real, and she was here. Little Frannie Bennett, from Up North. Her accent was soft, but she’d broadened it when posher ones cropped up. I went to a comprehensive, but I’m just as good as you.
Her spacious study bedroom overlooked an inner quad. Halfway through unpacking, she’d sat on the bed, and started taking stock. Still high on her excitement, she felt a little awed as well: belittled by the splendour of the place. She was suddenly grown up, and on her own. In Oxford – hours from home. No turning back now. The thought upset her buoyancy somewhat.
The first thing you should unpack is your kettle, Mum had said. Fran did so – and her mug and coffee too.
Lynette, meanwhile, was moving in next door.
Fran’s mum and dad had seen her off at the station, but Lyn’s had driven down here. There was lots of to-ing and fro-ing; the mother sounding anxious, the father more laid-back. Fran had the impression they were pretty well-to-do.
‘Oh Mummy, please don’t fuss,’ was Lyn’s first plaintive contribution.
She was hovering in the corridor when Fran peered out: awkwardly aloof, as if watching someone else’s room being furnished. She looked tired and rather miserable already. Someone else whose heady day might yet end in tears.
‘Can I offer you a coffee?’ Fran asked.
The girl’s smile was so grateful that it forged a bond at once. Posh though she was, her face was naturally friendly; her toffee-coloured eyes were warm and soft. Fran beckoned her in, and made another mug.
They swapped details like the schoolgirls they’d so recently been: Fran sitting cross-legged on her strange new bed; her first guest perched politely on the chair. Lyn was from Coventry, and had come here to read History; her father was a professor in the subject. Fran, who lived in Derbyshire, was doing French and German. Listening to Lyn talk – each consonant impeccably pronounced – she couldn’t help but feel a little distanced. Yet the other’s well-bred poise offset a shyness that she warmed to; a niceness that she couldn’t help but like.
‘You’re sure you’ll be all right, Lyn, darling?’ her mother asked from the doorway. The smile she offered Fran was gracious enough, but Fran had felt herself assessed, the woman clearly wondering who her daughter would fall in with, once free of the parental gaze.
‘Quite sure, Mummy. Thanks ever so much for everything …’ On which sweet note she saw them firmly to the car.
‘Fancy a wander?’ Fran asked, when she came back; and out they’d gone together, looking round the mellow college buildings, before meandering down onto Christ Church Meadow. Back to the Hall for a welcoming communal dinner; then coffee in Lyn’s room, the window open wide on the Oxfordshire dusk. Their friendship put its roots into that balmy autumn evening, and blossomed through the busy weeks ahead. By the end of that first short term, they might have known each other years: sharing secrets, clothes and sound advice. Fran and Lyn, inseparable as sisters.
3
‘Remember that time we hired a punt?’ Lyn asked her, smiling: drawing her gently back towards the past.
‘God, yes. Frannie and Lyn Go Boating. And wasn’t that a bloody disaster … ?’ But she was smiling herself, recalling how that afternoon had gone: a piece of farce so perfect that they’d ended up quite helpless with the giggles (though without a pole). And underpinning it, the river’s calm, the spires that gleamed with sunlight on the skyline; a clocktower chiming three …
‘Why don’t you take those sunglasses off?’ Lyn said, making a mischievous face, in case Fran took it the wrong way. ‘People will think you’re a spy or something …’
Fran stared at her for a moment; sensed a flicker of unease behind her friend’s determined smile. Then, slowly, she reached up and took her shades off. They were the pair she’d always used to wear: cheap wraparound black plastic. Her mocking, mock defence against being photographed and filmed. No laughing matter now, though; she hardly ventured out without them. They filtered the day – made it colourless and safe. Their lenses were anonymous, a mask.
The coffee bar grew brighter; Lyn watched her, looking anxious. And how must I look? Fran thought. She knew how she felt: as if she’d pulled her knickers down in public. That helpless; that exposed.
But she placed them on the tabletop, beside her sipped-at cup, and clasped her hands upon them. She didn’t need a mirror to see the paleness of her face, the vulnerable depths of her wide green eyes. She could read all that from Lyn’s concerned expression.
Go on, she thought, just tell me I’ve lost weight. She’d always been a slender girl – a real Slim Susan, Mum said – but now she felt uncomfortable and scrawny. And while Lyn still wore her dark hair in a stylish, silky bob, she’d let her own grow shaggy: a malty mane that brushed against her shoulders.
But Lyn said nothing; just placed her hand on Fran’s, and gently squeezed.
‘You’re sure you want to do this today?’ she asked after a pause.
Fran nodded quickly: shaking off temptation before it really got a grip. ‘Have to start somewhere.’ Especially there … where it had all begun.
‘There’s no hurry. Plenty of time …’ From the look on Lyn’s face, she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea at all.
Fran drank some more cool coffee, and changed the subject. ‘How’s the thesis coming on?’
Lyn wavered, then went with the flow. Smiled modestly. ‘Oh … it’s coming.’
‘So, when’s it going to be Doctor Simmons, then?’
‘God, don’t ask …’ But she was beaming at the prospect, and Fran felt a little warmer, deep inside. It eased the guilt she felt for having missed Lyn’s graduation; she wouldn’t lose this coming second chance. Even as they chatted on, she searched Lyn’s smiley face. It sounded like her future was as clear as her complexion. No storms on her horizon; not a cloud in her blue sky …
‘You’re working, then?’ she asked her.
‘Mm,’ said Lyn, ‘but not this afternoon. It’s temping – just to pay the bills. I’m a bit of a church mouse at the moment …’ She flicked at the sleeve of her well-cut suit. Fran couldn’t help but smile to herself.
Lyn hadn’t noticed; her own gaze lingered on her cup. Carefully she set it down, and bit her lip; then took the plunge.
‘Craig’s been in touch,’ she said.
Fran’s chest grew hot and heavy in the silence that followed. She fiddled with her rings; then swallowed. ‘Is he here?’
Lyn nodded. ‘Staying with friends in London.’ Her eyes were down again, embarrassed. ‘He … never forgot you, Fran. All the time you were …’ Tailing off, she twisted round to unfasten her bag, and took an envelope out. After the briefest hesitation, she laid it on the tabletop between them.
Fran rested her mouth against her hands, staring at the neat white rectangle. No stamp on it, and no address; it had gone from hand to hand. Just one word, written with a flourish. Her own name.
‘He gave me that for you,’ Lyn said, unnecessarily. ‘He wants to see you.’
Oh, Jesus, Fran thought numbly. She felt empty inside: unable to react.
Lyn leaned forward. ‘Fran, we’re here,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t have to face anything alone. He really cares for you – believe me. Just … let us hold your hands; go through it with you.’
Fran felt a tear trickle down her cheek; like the first drop heralding a downpour. She fought to keep herself in check. Lyn took her hands and held them. The threatened cloudburst faded back to grumble gloomily on the horizon.
Fran took a shaky breath. ‘… Thanks.’ She sniffed, her eyes still shining wet; then managed a damp smile. ‘You’re an angel, Lyn. Friend in a million …’
‘Let’s leave it for today,’ suggested Lyn. ‘Come on: let’s just go and sit in the Meadow …’
‘I can’t,’ Fran said, and shook her head. ‘We’ll take it slowly … but I have to go back. I can’t go any further till I’ve laid the past to rest.’
CHAPTER II
Grey Ravens
1
Lyn drove out of Oxford and northward through the countryside. The world through Fran’s shades had a monochrome look, but she could smell the breadth and texture of the fields: new-cut grass, and fresh manure, and fleeting wild flowers. Her heart throbbed hard, constricted. She felt a little sick.
Lunch was a welcome hiatus. Past a picturesque village, they found a shady spot above the road, and stopped to eat. Lyn had prepared a modest picnic: French bread sandwiches, fresh fruit, and cans of sparkling wine. Two glasses and a tablecloth as well: she’d always been an organized young lady.
‘Found yourself a man yet?’ Fran asked casually, between mouthfuls. She’d sneaked a glance at Lyn’s left hand soon after they’d met, and the ring finger was bare.
Lyn gave one of her shy smiles, and shook her head. ‘Not yet. Too busy. Too much work …’ She ducked a wasp, and swatted it away. ‘Besides … I’m not sure if I want a relationship right now …’
That last one really hurt you, didn’t it? Fran thought, but didn’t say so. Best to let that lie. Sitting back against the rough bark of the tree, she recalled how it had started. Lyn had been coy at first – Big Secret – but of course she’d had to share it in the end. He was from one of the other colleges: she’d met him at a lecture. The relationship had deepened during Hilary Term; Fran hardly met the bloke throughout, and saw Lyn less and less. She knew she’d been quite jealous at the time. Not that she didn’t have interests of her own. The day Lyn came to tell her how their Valentine’s date had gone, Fran had been prostrate with the after-effects of chasing Cruise missiles round Salisbury Plain until four in the morning. There Lyn had been, bright-faced and bursting to tell all, while her confidante was half-asleep and lolling in her chair …
She took another bite of bread: the taste as bland as cardboard in her mouth. She didn’t feel the least bit hungry. The countryside was peaceful in the sunshine; sheep and lambs were grazing in the field. But their destination – still miles distant – had already cast its aura this far out. She felt its chill and shadow on her heart.
And then there was Craig’s letter: folded and crammed, still sealed, into her bum-bag. Food for thought that overfilled her stomach.
Lyn sipped at her wine; hooked her hair behind her ear. She sensed Fran watching from behind her shades, and beamed encouragingly. Fran found the strength to smile faintly back.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. Let’s get it done.’
2
They came to the wire. It stretched and weaved away to right and left. Reinforced mesh, with razor coils on top.
Fran stood there on the footpath, staring blankly through the fence. There was an empty road beyond it; then a vast expanse of grass. In the hazy middle distance, a scattering of buildings basked – smooth-backed, like concrete whales.
Her fingers closed on Lyn’s: so tightly that she feared they might do damage. But the gesture was convulsive, and she couldn’t let them go. They’d linked hands coming up the hill from Heyford – Fran had wavered to a standstill when she saw the water-tower. It rose above the skyline like a scaffold.
‘Come on, now,’ Lyn had whispered. ‘You can do it.’
If she felt her knuckles popping now, her quiet voice didn’t show it. ‘Are those the hangars, then … ?’
Fran nodded once, like someone in a trance. The last time she’d been up here, the day had been as bright and hot as this one; but lamps had still been burning on those buildings – shimmering like day-stars through the haze. The quick reaction flight was lurking there: bombed-up, and ready to go.
Today, the lights were off again; the hangars seemed abandoned. An eerie silence hung across the base.
‘Ugly-looking things …’ Lyn murmured.
‘They called them TAB-Vees,’ Fran said; the term came back to her from nowhere. ‘Theatre Airbase Vulnerability Shelters.’ She nodded to herself; then pinched a smile. ‘I used to know all the jargon, you know. Proper little trainspotter, I was.’
‘But nothing’s in them now?’
Fran shook her head. ‘They’ve gone. They’ve all flown home …’ The hush was huge: unnatural. Her inner ear recalled that disembodied rumbling in the air, when the hangars had been open, the aircraft on the prowl. Turning, she studied the empty sky – half-expecting to see a light in the distance: a bright, approaching star. A roaring bomber coming in to land.
A cloud obscured the sun. Its shadow slid across them, the green fields greying out – and she found herself right back where she had started.
It had been an overcast day, that Saturday in autumn ’88. She could almost smell the damp October air; the thinning veil of mist along the fence-line. The bitter tang of jet-fuel as the planes came screaming in.
She watched them land, like hungry iron hawks. The camouflaged ones were bombers, she was told: F-IIIs that could carry nuclear loads. They were followed down by others, grey as ghosts. Those were the Ravens, someone said: the radar-jamming planes.
Ravens. It had struck her, though she couldn’t quite say why; the weirdness of the choice of name, perhaps. Sinister, portentous – but a raven’s coat was black. These grey things came like spirits: like pallid spectres of their former selves …
Her fingers loosened; Lyn’s hand slipped away. And Lyn could only hover, like an anxious hanger-on. Excluded by the memories of things she hadn’t shared.
‘What are you seeing, Fran … ?’ she almost whispered.
But Fran didn’t answer; her mind was too full of restless ghosts.
Of Ravens.
3
It had still been Freshers’ Week when Paul had knocked on her door; she hadn’t even got her posters up. The societies were recruiting fit to bust, of course; she’d seen the cross on his lapel, and guessed what he was selling.
‘Would I be right in thinking you’re a Christian?’ he’d said, after a brief, polite preamble.
‘Well …’ Fran said, and felt a bit evasive. It was true she’d shopped around at the Freshers’ Fair. The Student Christian Movement had intrigued her; she rather liked their radical approach. But the college branch of Greenpeace was the only one she’d joined. She classed herself as C of E, but hadn’t been to church for quite a while. A charismatic-slanted group at school had sucked her in, bolstering her final year with happy-clappy pap; but in pulling up her roots to come here, she’d set herself adrift on that score too. Simplicity had brought no satisfaction: If God gave me brains, why won’t you let me use them? Right now, she wasn’t sure what she believed.
And now this pleasant second-year was trying to tempt her back. Whichever group he spoke for, they were doubtless keen on choruses and earnest Bible study. She shifted with discomfort at the thought.
‘I’m still deciding at the moment,’ she said carefully.
Paul gestured, smiling. ‘Fair enough. But me and some friends are going on a sort of religious outing on Saturday, and I wondered if you’d maybe like to come … ?’
Fran hesitated. ‘Going where?’
‘To Upper Heyford airbase,’ Paul said softly. ‘A place that needs to hear the Word of Life.’
Now that, she’d told him afterwards, was what I call a religious outing.
The base had been the scene of a national demo; the Christian groups had gathered at Gate 8. Walking down the track towards it, the sight of those sombre, vaulted hangars so close to the fence had given her a chill. A brooding sense of threat hung all about them. Paul told her that the bombs were stored elsewhere, but it felt like one was ticking in each building.
The service, in their shadow, was more stirring than she’d dreamed. She’d listened to the speakers, and joined in with the songs; shared the Peace with total strangers; hugged Paul tight. As people breached the wire and got arrested, she’d clung to the fence and shouted her support.
It was a rainbow congregation, lively and colourful; but most of all she remembered the Dominicans, in their solemn cloaks, and their banner behind them: a black dog running, with a firebrand in its jaws.
Paul had led her on down the perimeter path; taught her the difference between Blazer patrol trucks and Hummvee armoured cars (while one of the latter paced them, like a hunchbacked iron toad). An impromptu Mass was being held near the Peace Camp. Paul, being a Methodist, hung back – but Fran went and knelt at the roadside, to take a torn-off piece of Tesco’s Sliced, and sip from the chipped cup of wine. And all the time, beyond the fence, the planes were prowling past, their tailfin beacons pulsing bloody red.
They’d hung around in the waning afternoon, until the people who’d been arrested were finally released. Then one of the Oxford groups invited them back for a social at someone’s house. It lasted late into the evening, and she’d loved it: food and drink and dry good humour, ending up with some decidedly secular songs. She sang along delightedly with those; but the melody that stayed in her buzzing head was one she’d heard at Heyford’s iron gates. The people who stumbled in darkness, their eyes have seen the light…
4
And those who sit in the deepest pit: on them has the day dawned bright.
She ran the lines through her mind again – worrying each word like a Rosary bead; but the gloom was deep and glutinous inside her. There was just that pale, thin gleam on the horizon.
‘How do you feel?’ Lyn asked her gently.
They’d adjourned to a pub in Somerton, north of the airbase. Such a pretty little village, so close to that desolate field. Fran had made for the dimmest corner of the room, well away from the golden sunshine. And still she hadn’t taken off her shades.
‘Glad I came,’ she murmured, staring down at her drink; fingers playing with the stem of her glass. ‘Well no, not glad … but no regrets. I needed to start here.’
‘You came out here with Paul before?’ Lyn said after a pause. Proceeding with exquisite caution.
‘Yeah,’ Fran said. ‘He brought me. And after what I saw that day, my perspectives were all different.’
Another silence, while she took a sip of wine, and set the glass down carefully. Then her shielded gaze rose back to Lyn.
‘I’d never had such a sense of pure evil. You could feel it, coming at you through the wire. You could feel how close the warheads were; their power. Like sleeping suns …’ She shook her head again; more like a shudder. ‘And meanwhile, Cruise was coming out of Greenham, once a month.’
Lyn waited with her own glass barely touched.
‘It scared me – so I had to get involved,’ Fran went on softly. ‘Every time those missiles moved, I had to witness them …’ Behind the shades, her eyes had lost their focus: but now she could see deep into the past. ‘That night, they were headed for the Imber firing range – the most restricted part of the whole Plain. We tried to take a short cut: get ahead of them again. We cut across a corner of Larkhill range, the next one to the east. And Larkhill range was where we came to grief …’ She bit down on the final word, and dropped her gaze once more.
Lyn shifted awkwardly. ‘And they never found that person in the road?’
Fran didn’t answer for a moment; then took a deep, slow breath, and shook her head.
‘Did you hear from Paul again?’
‘Not since he came out of hospital. He just withdrew from everything – like I did. Marie died, and Kate broke her back. He blamed himself for that.’
‘And you … Do you feel guilty – for surviving?’
Fran wavered; gave a shrug of her thin shoulders. ‘It was my fault, as much as his. I said to go for it.’
Lyn took her hand. ‘Oh Frannie, don’t you think that you’ve been punished enough? You were traumatized as well. That’s why you had your … er …’
‘My breakdown, Lyn. Just say it.’
‘Sorry. Your breakdown.’
‘I was in a psychie hospital for nearly a year,’ Fran said in a grim, steady tone. ‘Voluntary admission: clinically depressed. I didn’t mention that, did I?’
Lyn made a hurt little face. ‘Oh, Fran …’
‘It must have been … the shock, or the concussion, but I had a real panic attack out there. I thought that things were chasing after me … And months, and years later, I was still convinced they’d creep into my room …’ And as she voiced her dread at last, she felt the gooseflesh ripple up her arms. Just then, for just an instant, she was back on the Plain, and lost in its featureless dark.
‘Shh,’ Lyn whispered, massaging her hand. ‘It’s over now. You’re safe.’
Fran swallowed back her tears again, and nodded. The flush of cold was fading, in the sunlight and Lyn’s love. Her memories were twisted up: her illness had done that. Her mental illness. The thought of it still shamed her, but she’d shared it. Like naming a demon to gain power over it. The past was the past. And here she was, objective: looking back.
It’s over now. You’re safe. Oh God, she hoped so.
‘Your parents must be so glad …’ Lyn said. ‘Seeing you able to come back here like this.’
Fran nodded again, and took her shades off – but only to wipe her eyes. ‘Yeah. They’ve put up with me a lot, these past few years …’
‘Your Geordie accent’s coming back, you know,’ Lyn said: a tentative attempt to tease.
‘Is it?’ Fran said wryly. ‘I can’t tell. We moved to Derbyshire ten years ago – that’s practically Down South!’
Silence settled between them. The ticking of a clock was quite distinct. Lyn moistened her lips.
‘Where was it you said you’d meet the man of your dreams?’
The gambit won a rueful smile. ‘Heaven’s Field.’ Fran murmured back. ‘Up north, on Hadrian’s Wall.’
‘So, did you ever take Craig there?’
Fran sniffed, and shook her head.
‘Are you going to see him?’
Fran shook her head again. Not negative this time; nonplussed. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly.
And she didn’t. Thinking of Craig sent a giddy ripple through her – a sense of need as physical as hunger. But this was four years later, and the world had changed around. To visit old haunts was one thing; to meet old ghosts was something else again.
The conflict of emotions filled her mind; but something more subliminal still lingered. The faintest, phantom echo of that moment on the Plain. As if those twisted memories were still alive behind her: more distant now, but following her trail. As relentless and black as a Dominican dog.
