Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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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