Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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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