Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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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