Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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A sense of being needed – and adored.
Even then, she’d realized that it hadn’t been religious. The thrill was much too physical for that – tugging at the instincts that were stirred by boys and babies. She’d told Lyn so, years later, in an earnest heart-to-heart. It had felt more like the shadow of a lover; a presence in the marriage bed she hadn’t dreamed of yet. A closeness that was soul to soul, as well as skin to skin.
She’d hoped it was a foretaste of her knight in shining armour – something for the boys at school to match themselves against. But that was just an old, romantic notion; Craig was real.
And what she’d felt this afternoon was pretty much the same.
The sun was going down on Heaven’s Field. Bathing in the memory – its warmth, and rosy light – she let herself relax into oblivion.
By rights, she should have taken that bright image to her dreams. Yet what her mind threw up was something different. She found herself, in spirit, at an isolated junction, along a road she hadn’t walked for years. Not Heaven’s Field, but Salisbury Plain; a place where nothing moved. The bleak, deserted grassland of the Imber firing range.
Danger Area.
Nervously she looked around. Sullen hills rose up to left and right, cutting off the outside world. The public roads were miles away; no passer-by could see her. She was stuck here, in the middle, all alone.
The junction was smeared by tank-tracks, its approaches hedged with posts to shore it up. Set against the gloomy slopes, they made her think of First World War defences: the barbed wire stripped away to leave the pickets standing bare.
There were insects buzzing faintly in the grass – but the silence overwhelmed them. That huge, unnatural firing range silence: as pregnant with threat as the grey clouds overhead.
A wrecked tank sat atop the nearest hill: its turret painted orange, for the guns of other tanks to zero in on. She studied it uneasily; then looked away, along the eastbound road. Imber village lay in that direction – out of sight, but close enough to fill her with foreboding.
She glimpsed a moving figure then – away to the left, where the ground began to rise. It was casting round, as if in search of something. She saw that he was dressed in black. A long coat or a cloak flapped out around him.
The icy surge of panic should have shocked her awake. But something deep inside her was determined to hang on. Fascinated, petrified, she watched him scour the heath. He waded through the knee-high grass – then crouched to root around. His face was turned away from her. Despite the muffling garment, she could see his short fair hair.
He seemed to sense her presence, then – and swung around to look. He didn’t have a metal face. He had no face at all. There was just a patch of shadow, framed with gold. Fran recoiled in horror, still suspended in the dream. And then the mouthless figure spoke to her.
She didn’t understand a word – but recognized the voice. With a wail of fright, she came flailing to the surface, kicking back the duvet to sit upright on the bed. Her nightie and her briefs were damp; she was suddenly and wretchedly convinced she’d wet herself. Then realized it was only sticky sweat.
Oh God. She cupped her hands against her face.
It was the voice she’d heard in hospital; the harsh, corrupted language was the same. And so was its appealing tone: the note of desperation. She felt he’d meant to snatch at her, and drag her down with him.
But the room was silent now. She strained her ears against the hissing hush. It hadn’t really been the voice; just memory. An echo. Now that she had woken up, it wouldn’t come again. Not even if she waited until dawn.
Full of her fear, she hugged herself, and started counting minutes, one by one.
Lyn dreamed of Martin. He was waiting in the hall as she came downstairs. You look great, he said, and she could see how much he meant it in his face. The spiteful fights of growing-up were all forgotten now. Still fiddling with an earring, she let her smile grow wider. As she gave him a twirl to show off her dress, the house was spun away into oblivion.
She woke up awkwardly; her room felt unfamiliar and distorted in the dark. A piece of dream went scuttling away. Lyn recoiled, and shrank against the headboard. She felt a rush of dread from out of childhood – back in her old bedroom, with its imps and demons scurrying around. And the pale, grinning skeleton of Death behind the door.
Instinctively she turned her head – then sighed, and let her shoulders slump again. The door was safely closed, of course, her dressing gown a silky wraith against it. The demons melted back into the picture that they’d come from: the print in Daddy’s study that had scared her as a girl. Death of the Miser, by Hieronymus Bosch. It had figured in her nightmares more than once. But not for years …
Athelgar.
Sitting there, she realized where she’d seen the name before. She’d picked at it all evening, like a scab. Now, with the top knocked off at last, she was suddenly bled dry. She curled up, feeling miserable, and didn’t sleep again.
1
Lyn had lent her a bathrobe, but Fran was dressed when she came on through for breakfast. Mucking in like a flatmate was all very well – but she still ventured round with a visitor’s reserve. Finding Lyn at the table in her dressing gown was vaguely embarrassing: like having her friend at some kind of disadvantage. But Lyn looked preoccupied, and pale: chewing mechanically on her toast. Her normally bright greeting was a wan, subdued hello. Being seen half-dressed was obviously the last thing on her mind.
Fran moved past her to the coffee pot and toaster, surreptitiously glancing at the tabletop. The paper was still folded; a couple of brown envelopes lay unopened. So what was up, she wondered?
Sitting down, she saw the shadows round Lyn’s eyes; the pinched look to her mouth. ‘Did you sleep all right?’ she asked.
Lyn shrugged, and shook her head. ‘Not really. Woke up about three, and couldn’t get off again. You know what it’s like.’
Fran knew, all right. She’d lain awake for ages, before snatching back a couple of hours’ sleep. She was just about to say so when Lyn breathed out and went on.
‘I was dreaming about Martin.’
There was a wistfulness in her voice that made Fran feel a little wary. She didn’t know much about Lyn’s brother; had only met him once, when he’d come visiting at Oxford. He had his sister’s dark, straight hair; her brown, expressive eyes. Caught unawares, his clean-cut face was serious, almost solemn. Then Lyn had introduced him, rather proudly, and he’d charmed her with a warm, engaging smile.
‘Oh,’ Fran said. Then: ‘What’s he doing now?’
A moment’s pause, Lyn staring at the table. Then she shook her head again. Said softly: ‘I don’t know.’
Fran put her coffee down, and waited.
‘He left home two years ago. Just chucked everything and went. I got a card from him at Christmas … but Mum and Dad heard nothing. Not a word. It worries them so much.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Don’t know. He didn’t say. I couldn’t even read the bloody postmark.’
Fran bit her lip. ‘God, Lyn. I didn’t know.’ She felt a stab of guilt. ‘You don’t need my troubles on top of yours …’
Lyn waved that off. ‘Don’t worry. Please don’t think that. He’s twenty, he can look after himself …’ She ran her hand back through her hair. ‘We were happy at home, the two of us. Really happy. But