Her face was warm and sticky. Reaching up, she touched her cheek, and felt the slime of blood.
She wavered, shivering with shock – and heard the whine of engines. Something moving slowly through the night. Distance and direction were impossible to judge. She looked ahead, along the road: hoping for the blessed flash of headlights. But the darkness of the skyline didn’t change.
Then she heard the scuff of footfalls, coming up the lane.
For a moment she stood petrified; then dodged towards the nearest gutted building. The way ahead was too exposed, wide open – he would catch her. She had to hide, and wait for him to pass.
Despite its gaping window holes, the hulk was dank and smelly. Animals had pissed in here – and maybe died, as well. She ducked into the doorway, and put her back against the crumbled bricks. Litter rustled underfoot. The grainy dimness clung to her like glue.
She froze, and strained her ears. The camp was silent.
Then she heard a scraping noise that made her hairs stand up.
A rusty and abrasive sound, from somewhere very close; perhaps the nearest empty house but one. She visualized an iron bar, being drawn along the brickwork. A hunter trying to winkle out his prey.
Oh God, help meeeeee! Oh God!
The silence settled down again. She swallowed, like a spasm. The pause went on for minutes. He must have gone inside the house, to search its filthy shadows. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to move: across the darkened shell, towards the window. Reaching it, she peered carefully out.
Nothing for a moment; then she glimpsed him – a blob of deeper darkness, moving back into the road. His shadow flickered on the barracks block – then peeled away, and struck off on its own.
It took another moment just to realize what she’d seen. A power-surge of fright blazed through her nerves. Two of them were searching for her now.
The first one started up the road. She recognized his shabby, muffled outline. The cowled head turned from side to side; the starlight winked off metal. It glinted on the bar or implement that he was holding. Fran just stared – then clasped her mouth, and slowly backed away. Oh Jesus, he was carrying a sword.
He struck the blade against the road: it rasped, and scattered sparks. The other shape was rooting through the long grass by the barracks. The stars reflected dully off a helmet of some kind. Fran was seized with disbelieving horror. They might have been two phantoms, from the ancient earthworks all around this place.
Except that they were real, and closing in. She dragged her gaze away, and tiptoed back towards the doorway.
Something furtive shifted in the corner.
It might have been a rat, but she just bolted anyway. Or tried to – but her joints had stiffened up. The minutes she’d spent standing still had almost crippled her. She pitched out through the doorway – then caught herself, and fled across the road. Trying to get clear of them, before they could react – but then another shape emerged, from one of the outbuildings. Squealing now, she veered around it, ducking as it aimed some kind of club. She heard it snarl behind her – and then her ears were full of her own heartbeat, as she struggled up the slope towards the crest.
She felt them scrambling after her, and whimpered with despair. The night ahead had neither depth nor distance. She staggered on, and seemed to make no progress.
Then she saw the vehicles – three moving sets of lights. They looked to be heading for Half-Moon Copse. She put on a spurt. All three were towing trailers, and their sidelights were bright orange. Cruise support – an ADVON unit, maybe. She never thought she’d look on them as saviours.
As she panted to catch up, they seemed to sink into the ground and vanish. Within moments she had lost her way – the darkness looked the same in all directions. But there was the Plough, rising clear of the gloom – so that way must be north …
Even as she wavered, she felt the shadows coming at her back.
She swung around and saw one: heading straight towards her, in a grim, relentless line. She turned to run – and heard a knocking sound, insistent as a knuckle on a buried coffin lid. A string of tracer bullets seemed to float across the range. And then they speeded up and hurtled past her, cracking and wailing blindly through the night. She threw herself forward, sobbing: hitting the dirt before she even saw it.
The shooting stopped abruptly, its echoes fading off towards the stars. The hiss of her ears filled the silence that followed. Until the blackness stirred again, just twenty yards away. Stirred – and then came scurrying towards her.
She gave a little shriek, and scrambled upright. Escape was all that mattered now – the live rounds as irrelevant as raindrops. Sobbing for breath, she kept on fleeing. Oh please, she thought, beside herself. Oh please …
The stutter of machine guns came again. Globules of coloured light went streaming through the darkness. Instinct tried – and failed – to change her course. Then she tripped, and plunged into the grass.
A burst of shots stitched up the ground behind her. She heard a pig-like grunt and squeal. Squirming round, she realized her pursuer had been hit. He kicked and rolled; then started crawling forward. Relentless as a crippled dog. She hauled herself away on hands and knees.
The rounds were coming single-shot now. She recognized the crack of Armalites. Another vague shape foundered in the darkness.
And then the glare of headlights, right ahead.
‘Cease firing!’ someone yelled.
She risked another glance – still scrabbling forward. Beyond the spreading halo, the darkness of the range lay undisturbed. The shadows were still out there, she could sense them. But hanging back, now. Lurking in the gloom.
The vehicle’s lights approached her like two glowing pairs of eyes – the amber sidelights well outside the headlamps. Its width gave it away at once: a Hummvee armoured car. She watched it taking solid, crouching shape behind its stare. The gunner was a looming silhouette against the stars.
Running out of strength at last, she cowered like a rabbit in the lights. The Hummvee stopped, and men came stalking up on either side. She recognized their camouflage and German-looking helments, and almost started weeping with relief.
‘Jesus, it’s another goddamn peacenik,’ someone said.
‘Help me … please.’ She struggled to sit upright.
‘Back off. Get the cops to deal with her.’
‘Stupid bitch. You coulda got your stupid head blowed off.’
‘Hold it. Jesus, hold it. She’s been hurt.’
The man who’d spoken slung his Armalite and started forward. The others stood around her in the stagnant lake of light. A couple had their rifles still half-aimed.
‘Watch yourself.’
Ignoring that, he hunkered down and tried to check her head-wound. Despite herself, she wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened for a moment; then relaxed and hugged her back.
‘Shh, girl. It’s okay. Did you get hit?’
‘Someone chasing me …’ she sobbed.
‘Where? Back there?’ He looked over her shoulder. One of the others raised a torch, and shone it further out into the dark.
The American smelt earthy. The cowling of his gun was hair-dryer hot. Easing back, he tried a winning smile. ‘Target dummies – that was all you saw.’
‘Dummies? They were moving.’
‘Uh-uh,’ said another Yank, ‘there’s no one else out there.’ Fran looked round. The man was peering through binoculars of some kind.
‘That’s a thermal night-sight, hon,’ the first man told her wryly. ‘Sees body heat. Ain’t nobody can hide from one of those.’
Unless they’re dead already. Dead and cold …
‘You crazy, girl?’ a third man said. ‘This here’s a firing range.’
‘Our car crashed,’ she said brokenly. ‘Back down by Greenlands camp. My three friends need an ambulance … right now.’
They helped her to her feet, and led her past the ugly armoured car. The ‘Whiskers’ Blazer squatted there behind it, its pair of aerials bending like antennae in the breeze.
One of the riflemen glanced back. Fran twisted round as well – but everything behind them was a void. Black emptiness. And nothing to hear but the night wind hissing through acres of unseen grass.
The shakes had really started as the Whiskers drove her back to Westdown camp. She’d been sick soon after they arrived there: hunched miserably over the toilet bowl, while an MoD policewoman stood watching from the doorway. An army medic checked her up; and then she got to see the duty sergeant.
‘Your friends have been taken to Salisbury General,’ he told her as she sipped some tasteless tea. ‘We’ll get an army ambulance to take you down there too.’
She realized that she’d left them at the mercy of those things. ‘Are they all right?’ she mumbled guiltily.
He seemed to hesitate. ‘They’re in good hands. The medics over there can tell you more. You’ve been a very lucky girl. We won’t be charging you.’
Dawn was almost up by the time the ambulance arrived. Pallid light had bleached away the blackness, and the Plain looked dour and barren. A Hummvee was sitting just inside the Danger Area, its lights still on. The machine gunner slouched on his open hatch, watching her and chewing thoughtfully.
The camp lay in misty silence. She walked forlornly down between the rows of unlit huts, escorted by the WPC. Two of the troopers tagged along. The one who’d helped her still looked quite concerned. She felt a spark of gratitude – but one that grew no brighter than a glimmer. And nausea yawned beneath it like a bottomless pit.
By the time she reached the ambulance, the tears were running freely down her face.
3
And her cheeks were dripping now – but she was safe here in the kitchen, holding on tight to her two friends’ hands. Craig hadn’t dropped his gaze for a moment; willing her on whenever she had stumbled. Towards the end, the room was losing focus: the past becoming solid in its place. The bare skin of her arms began to pimple with the chill. But Craig was always there, and hanging on. His eyes were mild blue steel, his face as steady as a rock.
Lyn was leaning close: she pressed Fran’s limp hand against her cheek. ‘Oh, Fran,’ she almost breathed. ‘You poor thing.’
Fran sniffed and swallowed. Lyn let her have her hand back, and she wiped her swollen eyes.
‘Jesus,’ Craig said softly. ‘No wonder you needed therapy. No wonder.’
She tried to smile, but the muscles wouldn’t work. All she could do was stare, and hope her eyes would say it for her. How much she’d needed him to hear that. How very glad she was that he was here.
Back then, there’d been no time for explanations. Numb with shock, she’d sunk into depression – the depths of bleak midwinter, while the autumn still blazed golden in the trees. She’d bitched at Lyn with real spite, and snapped at her concern. Craig she’d just ignored – until he’d driven up to see her. The row they’d had that afternoon had almost made her puke: but all her bitter prejudice came spewing up instead. Just doing your job, of course you are – just like the bloody SS. And Craig, being Craig, gave as good as he’d got. Grow up and get a life, you stupid bitch.
They’d parted on those hateful terms; she’d dropped out of college soon after. Crawled back home to Mum and Dad, and let the darkness take her. Just as it had almost managed on the Plain.
But Lyn, on top of all her work, had done her best to keep the flame alive. Keeping them linked up across the distance and the years – even when Craig’s tour ended and he flew back to the States. Lyn, whom she’d called a stuck-up cow, and told to go away …
‘Sorry,’ Fran said lamely, looking down at the tabletop: addressing them both.
Craig squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Fran. I didn’t know.’
She raised her eyes. His face looked almost haunted with concern.
Were you on Larkhill range that night? She’d never dared to ask him, and couldn’t now. Because the answer yes would beg the question: Did you see them too? And he couldn’t have, of course – because it had all been in her mind.
‘Another cup of coffee?’ Lyn asked gently. There was a hint of relief in her calming smile. Fran guessed she’d worked it out from her reserve of common sense: the obsession with Cruise had somehow caused a post-traumatic backlash. Craig had doubtless reached the same conclusion. They were probably right, as well; and yet …
Fran realized she was frowning very slightly.
‘So what happens now?’ Craig wondered, as Lyn got the kettle going.
‘Now I have to go back,’ Fran said. ‘You see why, don’t you?’
He didn’t look entirely convinced. ‘And what, retrace your steps?’
She nodded. ‘Right through Greenlands camp.’ A pause. ‘And I think I’ll take in Imber village, too – for old times’ sake.’
He acknowledged that with a wry smile of his own. ‘So when d’you want to go?’
‘Spring Bank Holiday’s coming up. The roads are open then.’ She hesitated. ‘But I want to go alone this time. You’ve had to carry me for long enough.’
‘It’s no problem—’ Craig began, and Lyn was turning round to say the same. Fran cut back in, eyes wide and earnest. ‘I mean it, Craig. It’s got to be that way. I was on my own the first time, after all.’
He shook his head, unhappy. ‘And what if you have a problem?’
‘I don’t think I will. Not in broad daylight. Just a stretch of open country, that’s all it’ll be …’
The kettle boiled in the background, and switched itself off. Craig looked at Lyn. She shrugged.
‘I’ll be all right,’ Fran murmured. ‘Really.’ A pause; and then she glanced at Lyn, and smiled a little wanly. ‘Would you mind if I have another cigarette?’
‘He’s quite a catch,’ Lyn said, when Craig had gone.
‘I know,’ Fran said. ‘I’m glad you like him too.’
She’d started going with Craig just as Lyn was breaking up with her new boyfriend. She remembered the heart-to-heart they’d had, one afternoon together: Lyn very delicate and weepy, while she herself was glowing with excitement. And marvelling at the irony, as well. A Yank from Greenham Common – of all people. Even Lyn had giggled tearfully at that.
And Lyn, despite her tiredness, was smiling, teasing now. ‘You won’t let him get away this time?’
Fran shook her head. ‘Not on your life. Not this time.’ Once she’d put her past in order, she could think about the future; but the horizon was already looking bright.
But now it was well past bedtime. She gave the washed-up mugs a wipe, while Lyn went round locking up. Finished, she switched the light off and headed for the bathroom. Lyn passed her in the doorway, touched her arm. Her soft brown eyes were serious now. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’
Fran hugged her: held her close. ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure.’
Climbing into bed, she realized just how tired she was. The drain on her emotions had sapped her strength. But talking out her memories had purged her; she felt lighter than she had for many weeks.
Or months, perhaps. Or years.
The long dark was nearly over now. Just one more place to go. The night outside felt safe – its demons caged. She laid down her head, and realized she was smiling very faintly. Then closed her eyes, and slept.
‘This is Woodbine at Greenham … all vehicles now inside the gate.’
‘Thank you, Woodbine … Thanks to all Watchers along on this one … Goodnight …’
CHAPTER VIII
The Waste Down
1
She lingered for a long while in Edington church.
Weeks had passed. She’d nursed her sickly courage: felt it grow. But here, in the shadow of the Plain’s northern edge, she knew her nerve might fail her even now.
She’d got off the train at Westbury and walked – heading east out of town towards Bratton and White Horse Hill. The country road meandered round the foot of the scarp, with flat fields spread and drowsing to her left. The day had started sunnily enough; but now the wind had freshened, bringing clouds. Stray sheep across the field of blue at first; then slower, grazing groups with dirty fleeces. The warm air felt diluted as each shadow passed across. She had her sleeveless top and flowing skirt on. When the coolness started lingering, she slung her jacket loosely round her shoulders.
Not Lyn’s big comfy jacket, sad to say. This was an old denim one from home. She’d been back to see her parents; they were so pleased with her progress. Some doubts about the wisdom of what she’d wanted to do next – but her rising confidence had won them over. She’d bloomed in sunny Oxford; Lyn had fed her up a bit, and made her get her hair done. She liked the cut: it framed her pale complexion like a cowl. Her eyes seemed greener: fresh as spring. She’d left her shades behind.
It felt as if she’d been away from home for years, not two short weeks. She’d had to rediscover her own bedroom. Her books had still been there where she had left them. Old favourites like Rebecca and Jane Eyre, alongside Einstein’s Monsters and The Fate of the Earth. Stuff she’d read at school, as well. She’d fingered her way along the row: from Shakespeare to Milton and Paradise Lost.
Long is the road, and hard (she thought)
That out of Hell leads up to light …
Her mum had found her mulling that one over. Unable to contain herself, she’d hugged and kissed her daughter. ‘You’re looking so well, Fran. Pretty as a pixie – like I always used to say.’
‘Mum!’ she’d said, embarrassed and delighted. That was when she’d realized she was going to be all right.
Her confidence had faltered as she came to Bratton village, and reached the turning off that led to Imber. At this point it was nothing but a quiet country lane, curving off around the hill and out of sight. Yet it ended at that junction in the middle of the range. The fields in which the faceless man was searching.
Despite her resolve, she’d wavered at the prospect; stood staring up the lane – then walked on by. Oh, she was going back to Imber, right enough – and on to Larkhill range and Greenlands camp. This very afternoon. But not quite yet.
Edington was tiny; picture-pretty. She let its stillness soothe her. A glance at her watch gave her plenty of time. Lyn wasn’t expecting her back in Oxford until mid-evening. Exploring, in an aimless sort of way (distraction from the uplands right behind her), she found the church at the bottom of a lane. St Mary, St Katharine & All Saints. The place was surprisingly big – a priory church, built with medieval grandeur. Intrigued, she wandered down to take a look.
The interior was cool and dim; she kept her jacket slung around her shoulders. A woman was busy cleaning near the back. She looked up with a smile. Fran smiled shyly back, and hoped she wouldn’t want to talk.
The flagstones clicked beneath her boots as she slowly paced around. Down the high, vaulted nave, and back along the aisles. Stone figures lay on recessed slabs, disfigured by the years. She picked up a guide from the table by the door; flicked casually through it. The date of consecration was 1361. She felt a haunting sense of age – a link with the past. As if long-dead congregations might still linger here in spirit.
Those sleeping statues: all unknown. That faceless knight had come from Imber church. Was thought to be a Lord of Imber … She gave it a slightly wary glance; tried superimposing a fourteenth-century village on the ruined one today. The effect was disconcerting. She put the leaflet down again.
The sun emerged outside, spilling blocks of dusty light down through the windows: a sandstorm in suspended animation. Undaunted, the woman in the housecoat kept on polishing the woodwork. The sun went in again.
Fran sat herself in one of the pews, and waited while her instincts fought it out. She knew she couldn’t turn back now; but a part of her still dragged its feet, and looked for an excuse.
A gentle footfall in the aisle behind her. ‘Anything I can help with, dear?’ the woman asked.
Fran glanced back with a smile. ‘I’m all right, thanks. Just savouring the atmosphere.’
‘It’s peaceful, isn’t it? Very calming.’
Fran hesitated, hoping that she’d leave it at that. But the pause made her uncomfortable: aware that there was more she ought to say. The woman had a friendly face; it seemed unfair to turn her own away.
‘Do you get many visitors here?’
‘A few. There was someone here earlier, came for the quiet like you did. Young man; I think he was one of those travellers or some such. But he sat here for a long while.’
She nodded, half to herself; then smiled and moved away, clearly sensing that this visitor preferred to be alone. Fran glanced gratefully after her; then settled back again, and thought of Greenlands.
It had to be faced: got over with. Like a smear test, or a visit to the dentist. And once it was done, the way ahead would be clear for her and Craig.
She couldn’t help but smile as she remembered their first date: the terms that she’d laid down, across the table. Call me ‘honey’ and I’ll clobber you, all right?
‘Okay.’
Or ‘Sugar’ …
She’d been there for a drink, and that was all. Still wary; still confused. But as they’d talked, her sense of guilt had slowly started fading. She liked him – he was honest and direct (good-looking, too, she’d add, if she were honest). They’d agreed to meet again. And from such small beginnings …
‘Well, what do you make of this?’ the woman said.
She’d just unlocked the collection box to empty it, and was peering at a small coin in her palm. Fran could see from where she sat that it was badly discoloured; but a muted gleam of silver caught the light. Probably an old two-shilling piece – a change, at least, from bus tokens and coppers.
It was time to move on. She got to her feet.
The woman gave her a glance. ‘That young man must have left it, he put something in the box. It can’t be real, can it?’
Fran joined her on the way to the door, and saw for herself. The rough-edged coin was tarnished, almost black, but she could make out the small cross stamped into the metal. The woman turned it over, and they saw it had a bird on the back: one with a curved and cruel-looking beak. A circle of crude lettering surrounded it.
The woman shook her head. ‘I’ve not seen anything like that before, I must say.’
Fran was picking out the letters, but they didn’t make a word. Hard enough to tell where the sequence began, apart from a cramped initial cross – and the bird’s malicious beak that broke the circle.
A scavenger’s beak, Fran thought – and frowned. A carrion bird. A raven.
2
Up on the hill, she turned around, and saw the country spread out like a quilt.
The patchwork was uneven, mixing greens and browns and yellows; its hedgerows like rough stitching in between. Isolated farms stood out in tiny detail. And over it all, the shadows of clouds came creeping: as shapeless as amoebas, vast and dim.
Wiltshire, stretching off into the distance. She’d originally thought of the Plain as flat, but here it rose much higher: thrust upward from the lowland like a cliff. Edington was down there, to the right: the church peeping out between trees. It looked like a toy village from up here.
She’d taken the footpath up Edington Hill. The way was steep and hollow, worn into the chalky ground. Clearing the trees on the lower slopes, it rose towards the crest – then skirted round it. She’d cut away, and climbed up to the top. The breeze grew fresher, plucking at her jacket; she shrugged into its sleeves. Her icon badge was pinned to the lapel.
