She’d wanted to stop looking, but she couldn’t. As if she had to know the very worst. She’d come to another fold-out page – and opened up the gateway into Hell.
A panoramic painting, full of horrid, screaming detail. A tide of naked people, flowing down into the Pit. Hideous monsters clutched at them, and beat them with spiked clubs. Real, despairing faces cried for help – but the devils overwhelmed them. They seemed to spring up everywhere, alive on the page: shaggy, scaly, homed and fanged. She’d sat there with wide eyes and soaked it up.
It had taken quite an effort to close the book again. The images stayed crowding in her head. Subdued, she’d put the book away, and crept out of the room. And Daddy had been right, of course. That night she’d had bad dreams.
CHAPTER VI
No Man’s Land
1
They’d walked for a while in Christ Church Meadow, then meandered into Oxford through the backstreets and the lanes. Sitting on the steps of the Martyrs’ Memorial, Fran reckoned she must still look like a student. Same gypsy clothes, same sturdy boots. Same undernourished look.
Craig’s arm was resting gently round her shoulders. He’d held on a little tighter as they’d walked past Christ Church College, as if afraid she’d break away and run towards the walls. But all she could do was turn her head, and watch it passing by. The citadel from which she’d been excluded.
The pavements here in front of her were thronged with real students. She wished she could slip through time again, and fall into step beside them. Being twenty-three had never felt so old. She rested her head against Craig’s shoulder, and smelled the musty leather of his coat.
‘You sure about this evening?’ he asked quietly.
She raised her head again. ‘Would I have asked you if I wasn’t?’
He conceded the point with an amiable shrug. ‘I wanted to be sure I wasn’t … rushing you too much.’
‘Don’t worry. If you do, I’ll let you know.’
She remembered the doubts she’d had, before the first time. They came from every side. She’d lost her virginity while still at school, but still felt inexperienced. Her religious instincts were none too keen on sex outside of marriage. And besides – above all else, in fact – the man was one of them.
Did that make her a hypocrite? A quisling? She’d agonized for hours, without an answer. She looked for deeper motives: was she trying to win him over? And was he trying to do the same to her?
Maybe all he wanted was her body. She wasn’t twenty yet, of course. Still a rather wide-eyed student, once the shades were taken off.
He hadn’t rushed her, though. He’d let her pick the pace. He fancied her a lot, that much was clear – but took each step as cautiously as she did. Two lovers, separated by a fence. Fumbling along till they came to the end of the wire.
‘Where will you be going next?’ Craig asked. He couldn’t cope with silences like she could.
‘Back to the Plain,’ she said, after a pause. ‘To see the place we crashed. Then I can get on with the rest of my life.’
Silence again; but she could tell what he was thinking. Was he included in that brave new future? She took his hand and squeezed it, just to tell him that he would be. But whether as a lover or a friend, she wasn’t sure.
‘You want to put some flowers where it happened?’ Craig asked gently.
She shrugged against him. ‘Maybe.’ And it seemed a good idea. But what she needed most of all was to go back there in daylight, and know what had been real, and what had not.
She thought about her dream last night. The faceless man on Imber – and the voice. The recollection filled her with a conflict of emotions, unsettling her, but haunting her as well. She knew it was a throwback to that night on Larkhill range. But his pleading tone still echoed in her head.
Perhaps she’d dream of him again – unless she went to Imber range as well. And walked along that empty road, to exorcize his ghost.
Anyway, with Imber, there were other factors counting. Another memory to draw her back.
2
MOD RANGES
This is a live firing area
and is closed to the public
KEEP OUT
Sod off, she’d thought, and kept on walking. Past the weathered crimson sign that marked the limit of the range, and down the grassy slope into the valley.
It took nerve to do a walk-on in broad daylight. An element of recklessness as well. She could feel the tension fizzing in her stomach – threatening to erupt into a fit of nervous giggles. She was committed now, no turning back; exhilaration lengthening her strides. Her long coat flapped and fluttered in the breeze. The heady sense of trespass made her giddy.
They’d catch her in the end, of course – and that was the whole point. The worry was, they’d cut her off before she reached the village. She needed to meet those airmen, face to face. Her one chance to appeal to them directly.
She knew she’d get arrested, and would probably be charged – which might cause complications back at College. She’d thought long and hard about crossing the line. It wasn’t really something she could talk about with Lyn; her friend regarded protest with suspicion. Two things had tipped the balance in the end. The urge to bridge the gulf between the missile crews and her; and a compulsion to confront her fear of Cruise.
The range was silent: brooding under clouds. Empty slopes, and straggling dark copses. On the dry floor of the valley, she felt hemmed in: overshadowed. Even with the sun still up, the place gave her the creeps. A void at night; a wilderness by day.
Two flights were out on exercise this month: four launchers up at Imber Firs, and four down in the village. Their presence only added to the ominous silence.
She came to the single metalled road, just east of Imber village. Pausing, she looked both ways; then ventured out. Across the road, a pillbox seemed to watch her. Overgrown and derelict; as empty as a skull.
Getting close, now. Very close. She cut away from the road again, and slipped into the undergrowth. There’d be sentries on patrol from here on in. She hesitated, listening. The distant whirr of a generator reached her ears, but nothing more. She could see the old church tower, rising up behind the trees.
She decided to skirt around to the north of the village: come down past Imber Court, and try and get among the vehicles. It was the first time she’d approached Cruise on deployment, but she knew there were two levels of defences. The outer and inner rings. Neither was apparent at the moment.
She was feeling quite keyed-up now; quite excited. Creeping through the wood, she got a glimpse of the first building: a weed-infested shell across the road. And still the ruined village kept its peace.
Again she stopped to listen, easing down on hands and knees – and heard a brittle twig snap right behind her.
Galvanized by shock, she twisted round. A bloke in US camouflage was standing there, half-smiling. His face looked quite familiar; she placed it just before she read the name-strip on his blouse. Master Sergeant FLAHERTY, again.
‘A man can’t even go for a pee these days without tripping over you guys.’
Fran let herself relax a bit: her heart still beating hard. ‘Your security is crap, I hope you know.’
He snorted. ‘Tell me about it.’
They looked each other over for a moment. He was wearing his cap, rather than the sinister ‘Fritz’ helmet of a trooper on patrol. She was relieved to see he didn’t have a gun.
Perhaps he drives a launcher, then. This amiable man.
‘You been down here all week?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘We came in last night … got porridge thrown all over us. And paint.’
Fran couldn’t help grinning. ‘Are you QRMT, then?’
‘Quick Response Maintenance, yeah …’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re pretty well clued-up, ain’t you?’
‘Oh, we are, we are.’ She let her grin grow teasing. ‘Know how we can tell a Convoy vehicle? It’s got no number plates, and it’s going the wrong way.’
He chuckled at that; then squinted at the sky. ‘Gonna rain soon. You want to stay out here and get wet, or are you coming in with me?’
Fran wavered for a moment; then shrugged. ‘Might as well get it over with.’
‘My name’s Craig,’ he said, as she got to her feet.
She nodded back. ‘I’m Frances.’
They started down the slope, between the trees. The contact that she’d come here for – and now her mind was blank. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘I kind of get the feeling we’re not welcome here,’ Craig said.
She gestured rather sullenly. ‘I’d rather you went home.’
‘Don’t like Yanks, huh?’
She stopped. ‘That isn’t true. Believe me it’s not. I think you’re quite nice people, actually. It’s your missiles I don’t want.’
‘Just keeping the peace – that’s all we do.’
‘I thought it was called Cold War.’
‘Making the world safe for McDonald’s, then.’
She gave him a half-suspicious glance. ‘You can’t be American … you’ve got a sense of irony.’
‘Oho,’ he grinned. ‘Unfair!’
‘No, but listen …’ They were nearly at the road, now, she had just a moment left. ‘I’ll be honest, I despair of you lot sometimes. Then I think of the Gettysburg Address, and Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men, and I feel a bit more hopeful.’
‘I like Fonda, too,’ he said.
‘But when you aim your missiles at civilians, you’re selling it all out. You shame your country, Craig.’
He looked at her more soberly. ‘I guess we’re not going to see eye to eye on this one.’
She shrugged. ‘Well, thanks for listening, anyway.’
‘Maybe we should talk some more.’
Fran hesitated: not sure what he meant. He’d dropped his gaze, eyes shadowed by the peak of his cap.
‘You’re studying in Oxford, aren’t you?’
She nodded.
‘Maybe I could meet you there sometime.’
A heartbeat’s pause. ‘You serious?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, and looked at her. ‘I am.’
Fran stared back for a moment. Then: ‘Christ Church College. Write to me.’
She sensed his relief, though he masked it with a faint, ironic grin. ‘You won’t get tarred and feathered just for talking to me, will you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. Why, will you get shot?’
Touché. He let her go ahead of him, and out onto the road; falling behind as she walked into the village. She felt him in her footsteps, but she didn’t look back once.
A control vehicle was lurking at the roadside up ahead, its bulk draped in camouflage netting. The tactical ops truck was parked nearby; she could see the maps and clutter in the back. A burly, crop-haired officer was staring out at her, a white enamel mug still in his hand. His face was a sight: slack-jawed with disbelief. The flight commander, surely. She put on her sweetest smile, and walked towards him.
‘Hey! We’ve got another peacenik walking round out here!’
Some MoD police appeared from nowhere, and rushed across the road to intercept her. She recognized the bloke who took her elbow; she knew most of the Support Unit now, at least by sight. And they knew her, as well.
‘Gawd, Frances: you again? Come on …’
As they led her towards the transit van, she twisted round to look behind her. Craig Flaherty was standing by the TO truck. He waited till their eyes met; then dropped his gaze again, and turned away.
3
Fran opened Lyn’s front door a little warily – still composing an excuse inside her head. Lyn hadn’t looked too great this morning. Perhaps she’d stayed at home.
On up the stairs. She felt Craig’s presence climbing them behind her, his footsteps slow and patient on the treads. She gave him a nervous smile – he grinned easily back – and fumbled the key into the door of the flat.
Hush and stillness greeted them: each dust-mote hung suspended. Fran almost tiptoed through to check Lyn’s bedroom; then breathed a sigh, and shrugged out of her jacket.
‘What time will she be back?’ Craig asked her calmly.
‘Sometime after seven.’ Her mouth was dry.
They stood together awkwardly: like two kids not quite sure who should be making the first move. Then Craig sat on the sofa, and beckoned her to join him. She did so, snuggling close. They started kissing.
She hadn’t snogged like this for four whole years. Excitement surged inside her, sending thrills along her nerves. But when his hand began to fumble with the buttons of her top, she felt a plunge of doubt, and pulled away.
He managed a smile, and gently stroked her shoulder. ‘Second thoughts?’
She swallowed. ‘I’m not sure if we should. Behind Lyn’s back, I mean …’
‘I can wait for as long as you want, you know.’ His voice was slightly hoarse, but she believed him.
‘Can we … just sit for a bit?’
‘Sure.’
‘Sorry …’
‘Shh. No problem.’
Curling up, she let herself be cuddled. This was enough: to feel him there beside her. She couldn’t take it further, not right now.
They watched the room turn greyer as the dusk came creeping in. As if each mote of dust had multiplied a million times. From time to time he kissed her, very softly. She nuzzled him back, feeling cosseted and safe. No worries in the world, so long as they were here together.
At last she let him go, and straightened up. ‘Would you like a glass of wine, at least? Lyn’s got some in the fridge.’
‘Sure. I’d like that.’ She heard him settling back again as she went into the kitchen. A paranoid twinge made her wonder what expression he was wearing. Exasperation, maybe? Or resentment? She flicked the radio on, as if that would tame the situation. Make the place more like a flat just being visited by a friend.
Lyn usually had it tuned to Classic FM – but maybe she’d brushed the dial while she’d been dusting. All that came out was the empty, crackling ether. Fran thought she heard a burbling in the distance; but the voice, if voice it was, was too distorted to make sense. Ignoring it, she opened the fridge, letting yellow light spill out into the dimness. The wine-box was on the bottom shelf. She brought it out, and shut the glow away.
The tuned-out radio fizzed and crackled sharply. She guessed that meant a thunderstorm was close. Turning towards the cupboard where the glasses were kept, she glanced out of the window. Heavy cloud had crept across the city – but a stripe of crimson twilight formed a backdrop to the spires.
A corrupted voice behind her said: ‘… they’re coming …’
Her head snapped round. The words had come from the radio, suddenly clear; but now it was just hissing to itself. The noise jogged her memory – then jolted it. She could smell the stuffy confines of Paul’s car; feel the air of tense expectancy that filled it. Hear the CB radio hissing like a snake.
‘I see their lights …’ the kitchen radio said.
Then silence for a minute – maybe two. Fran stood there like a statue, her spine against the hard edge of the sink. Listening with her hand over her mouth. Her heart had started beating very fast.
Just isolated crackles, now; the sharper pops of static made her jump. She was just about to cross the room, and switch the damn thing off, when the voice, now more contorted, came again.
‘Elderflower, to Watchers at Gore Cross. First Dodge is now approaching the vedette …’
Oh no, Fran thought. Oh please.
She knew the words, she’d heard them all before. They dragged her back four years, to a night on the Plain. The scene was there before her; she could feel the winter chill. An unlit country crossroads, at the exit to the range. She was waiting with the others: the protestors, the police. Under a cloud-fogged moon.
One of the cars had driven up as far as the vedette. He was out of their sight up there, cut off – but still in touch by radio. How must it feel, she’d wondered, to be sitting there alone? As the snake of lights came creeping up towards him …
She remembered every detail, as fresh as if she’d been there yesterday. The convoy’s escort, parked along the farm-track: dim shapes of transit vans with engines running. Two Land-Rovers were sitting on their sidelights, up the hill. But the road to Imber village was still dark.
‘All vehicles now on the vedette …’
Fran felt herself go cold and faint. She slumped onto her haunches, sliding down. Still staring at the radio; but her eyes saw other things.
‘Eight launchers, four controls, two Rams, two wreckers. They’re coming through. They’re coming.’
And over the hill they came, in a serpent of slow headlights. From the black heart of the Plain; the ghostly wreck of Imber village. Fran cringed against the cupboard – gripped her head between her hands. The voice had fallen silent, but her mind filled in the rest. The whistles and shouts as the convoy came off, its escorts slotting in between the flights; then the scramble for the cars, and the pursuit into the night. The terrifying chase to Greenham Common …
She was still huddled there when Craig came through to see where she had got to. Jerkily she raised her face; he saw her tears glistening in the gloom. He knelt beside her, hugged her: held her close. Fran hung on tight for dear life – and sanity as well. But she couldn’t shake off that eerie voice. Those sombre words.
They’re coming.
CHAPTER VII
Running Blind
1
They sat in silence, round the kitchen table. Fran was halfway through another cigarette, eyes fixed on its smouldering tip. Lyn wasn’t a smoker, and clearly didn’t like it in the flat, but had made allowances tonight. Fran sensed her watching anxiously, hands clasped beneath her chin. A lukewarm pulse of sympathy went through her, just tingeing her self-pity. Poor Lyn had come in late, and looking knackered (not a word she’d use) – to find Fran on the sofa, as white as a sheet, and Craig with his arm around her. And now here they were, much later, with the second round of coffees still half-drunk. Just like bloody student days again.
‘I still think you’d be crazy to go back,’ Craig told her quietly.
Fran looked at him with narrowed eyes. The bright glare of the strip-light didn’t do him many favours: lining his face, and picking out grey hairs. What was he, thirty-five? Weathered and worn by the gap of years between them. His earnest, grim expression didn’t help; but those pale blue eyes of his were clean and sharp.
She hadn’t believed he’d wanted to pursue her. Too challenging; too risky. Waiting to be charged at West Down camp, she’d realized that he didn’t know her surname. Well, there was a test of his commitment – and he’d passed it. Made a few discreet enquiries of the MDP who’d nicked her …
‘I have to,’ she said flatly – taking a drag as if to set her seal on the matter. The ash flared: hot, defiant. She got a glimpse of Lyn’s discomfort from the corner of her eye, and turned her head aside to breathe the smoke.
‘Look at the effect it’s having,’ he persisted. ‘Even now. You go back there again, you’re gonna screw yourself up, Fran. Back into therapy. Is that what you want?’
‘Of course I bloody don’t. And I’m not going to. I had a real shock down there: it screwed me up for years. I need to get my head round it. I’ll be all right then.’
‘So what about what happened here tonight?’ Lyn said – jumping quickly in between them, but the question was pertinent enough. ‘Was that just in your head?’
Fran sat back, glowering at Craig. ‘Of course it was.’
‘You were hearing voices again.’
Fran turned her head, and saw how pale Lyn looked. Not just from fatigue; her eyes were big with worry. With her hair tied back, not her usual style, she seemed younger and more vulnerable somehow.
Fran swallowed. ‘Not like before. No, really. This was just a memory. A flashback.’
Lyn moistened her lips. ‘Oh, Fran. Don’t you think it might be better if you saw someone?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m finished with that, all right? Going to Heyford and Greenham helped. I’m getting it all back into perspective now. And I know I can face up to the Plain. If I don’t, then those flashbacks, those whatever, will just keep coming.’
There was a pause. Fran drew determinedly on her cigarette. Craig tapped his fingers thoughtfully on the table, watching her from under his brows.
‘Would it help,’ Lyn ventured slowly, ‘if you told us what you thought you saw, that night?’
Fran focused again on the shrivelling ash, and felt her skin becoming cold and tight. A vacuum seemed to form inside her belly.
‘It might be an idea … Lyn faltered on. ‘You talked about … these things you thought were coming after you.’
Fran breathed slowly in; then out. She shook her head.
‘Oh, Frannie,’ whispered Lyn. ‘Please let us help.’
For a moment more she wavered. The memory was there at the back of her mind: a dense, amorphous shadow. To speak of it would give it shape – in all its ghastly detail. But the prospect before her was more frightening still: that her friends would take her at her word, and leave her to resist the thing alone.
Fran crushed her cigarette against the saucer, and looked up. Her expression made Craig reach across and take hold of her hand. Lyn followed suit: grasped Fran’s left hand in both her own and squeezed.
Just like a séance, Fran thought dimly. And that’s what they were doing, in the end. Summoning spirits. Raising ghosts.
She opened her mouth, and realized she was on the verge of tears. She sniffed, and swallowed thickly. Then looked from Craig’s set face to Lyn’s – and started talking.
2
She’d got as far as Greenlands camp before she paused for breath.
Her limbs were numb with shock, but they’d kept moving. Adrenaline sang madly through her veins. Her three friends were forgotten; the crash was like the fragment of a dream. The only thing that mattered was the shadow at her heels.
Glancing back, she’d glimpsed it moving – indistinct and blurred. It had left the road already, and was following her trail onto the range. She’d lost it for a moment, and looked round in utter panic. But then it passed in front of the car headlamps, quenching them like a cloud across the moon.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
The unseen ground was rough and treacherous. Brambles vied with thatchy tufts of grass to bring her down. A tank trail almost tripped her up: as lumpy as a ploughed field in the dark. Whimpering, she picked her way along it – then looked again, and found him gaining ground. Lurching but relentless, like a scarecrow in the starlight. She flailed back onto grass, and kept on running.
A red light glowed above the nearest trees – a warning beacon, mounted on a flagpole. She’d made for it instinctively, and stumbled on a narrow, northbound lane. Gasping, she had followed that, uphill and round a bend. And Greenlands had been waiting there: as silent as a village of the dead.
The old camp was disused, its buildings derelict and empty. The road led through the middle, and on up towards East Down. The night was brighter up ahead: the stars like waiting gems above the black lip of the earth. But safety seemed as far away as they did.
Breathless now, she came up short and forced herself to listen. There was no sound of her pursuer. She could just hear the range flagpole in the distance: its cable striking metal in the cool night breeze. Clink … clink … clink …
The ground rose up to left and right, and murk had settled thickly in the fold. The way she’d come was as black as the mouth of a tunnel.
She tried to fill her aching lungs; fighting back the sobs that would have emptied them again. Now that she’d stopped moving, a dozen cuts and bruises were competing for attention – engulfing her in pain and nausea. Her head had started throbbing; it felt like a drill-bit slowly grinding on the bone.
