Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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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