Dark Ages. John Pritchard
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II
1
Lyn drove out of Oxford and northward through the countryside. The world through Fran’s shades had a monochrome look, but she could smell the breadth and texture of the fields: new-cut grass, and fresh manure, and fleeting wild flowers. Her heart throbbed hard, constricted. She felt a little sick.
Lunch was a welcome hiatus. Past a picturesque village, they found a shady spot above the road, and stopped to eat. Lyn had prepared a modest picnic: French bread sandwiches, fresh fruit, and cans of sparkling wine. Two glasses and a tablecloth as well: she’d always been an organized young lady.
‘Found yourself a man yet?’ Fran asked casually, between mouthfuls. She’d sneaked a glance at Lyn’s left hand soon after they’d met, and the ring finger was bare.
Lyn gave one of her shy smiles, and shook her head. ‘Not yet. Too busy. Too much work …’ She ducked a wasp, and swatted it away. ‘Besides … I’m not sure if I want a relationship right now …’
That last one really hurt you, didn’t it? Fran thought, but didn’t say so. Best to let that lie. Sitting back against the rough bark of the tree, she recalled how it had started. Lyn had been coy at first – Big Secret – but of course she’d had to share it in the end. He was from one of the other colleges: she’d met him at a lecture. The relationship had deepened during Hilary Term; Fran hardly met the bloke throughout, and saw Lyn less and less. She knew she’d been quite jealous at the time. Not that she didn’t have interests of her own. The day Lyn came to tell her how their Valentine’s date had gone, Fran had been prostrate with the after-effects of chasing Cruise missiles round Salisbury Plain until four in the morning. There Lyn had been, bright-faced and bursting to tell all, while her confidante was half-asleep and lolling in her chair …
She took another bite of bread: the taste as bland as cardboard in her mouth. She didn’t feel the least bit hungry. The countryside was peaceful in the sunshine; sheep and lambs were grazing in the field. But their destination – still miles distant – had already cast its aura this far out. She felt its chill and shadow on her heart.
And then there was Craig’s letter: folded and crammed, still sealed, into her bum-bag. Food for thought that overfilled her stomach.
Lyn sipped at her wine; hooked her hair behind her ear. She sensed Fran watching from behind her shades, and beamed encouragingly. Fran found the strength to smile faintly back.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. Let’s get it done.’
2
They came to the wire. It stretched and weaved away to right and left. Reinforced mesh, with razor coils on top.
Fran stood there on the footpath, staring blankly through the fence. There was an empty road beyond it; then a vast expanse of grass. In the hazy middle distance, a scattering of buildings basked – smooth-backed, like concrete whales.
Her fingers closed on Lyn’s: so tightly that she feared they might do damage. But the gesture was convulsive, and she couldn’t let them go. They’d linked hands coming up the hill from Heyford – Fran had wavered to a standstill when she saw the water-tower. It rose above the skyline like a scaffold.
‘Come on, now,’ Lyn had whispered. ‘You can do it.’
If she felt her knuckles popping now, her quiet voice didn’t show it. ‘Are those the hangars, then … ?’
Fran nodded once, like someone in a trance. The last time she’d been up here, the day had been as bright and hot as this one; but lamps had still been burning on those buildings – shimmering like day-stars through the haze. The quick reaction flight was lurking there: bombed-up, and ready to go.
Today, the lights were off again; the hangars seemed abandoned. An eerie silence hung across the base.
‘Ugly-looking things …’ Lyn murmured.
‘They called them TAB-Vees,’ Fran said; the term came back to her from nowhere. ‘Theatre Airbase Vulnerability Shelters.’ She nodded to herself; then pinched a smile. ‘I used to know all the jargon, you know. Proper little trainspotter, I was.’
‘But nothing’s in them now?’
Fran shook her head. ‘They’ve gone. They’ve all flown home …’ The hush was huge: unnatural. Her inner ear recalled that disembodied rumbling in the air, when the hangars had been open, the aircraft on the prowl. Turning, she studied the empty sky – half-expecting to see a light in the distance: a bright, approaching star. A roaring bomber coming in to land.
A cloud obscured the sun. Its shadow slid across them, the green fields greying out – and she found herself right back where she had started.
It had been an overcast day, that Saturday in autumn ’88. She could almost smell the damp October air; the thinning veil of mist along the fence-line. The bitter tang of jet-fuel as the planes came screaming in.
She watched them land, like hungry iron hawks. The camouflaged ones were bombers, she was told: F-IIIs that could carry nuclear loads. They were followed down by others, grey as ghosts. Those were the Ravens, someone said: the radar-jamming planes.
Ravens. It had struck her, though she couldn’t quite say why; the weirdness of the choice of name, perhaps. Sinister, portentous – but a raven’s coat was black. These grey things came like spirits: like pallid spectres of their former selves …
Her fingers loosened; Lyn’s hand slipped away. And Lyn could only hover, like an anxious hanger-on. Excluded by the memories of things she hadn’t shared.
‘What are you seeing, Fran … ?’ she almost whispered.
But Fran didn’t answer; her mind was too full of restless ghosts.
Of Ravens.
3
It had still been Freshers’ Week when Paul had knocked on her door; she hadn’t even got her posters up. The societies were recruiting fit to bust, of course; she’d seen the cross on his lapel, and guessed what he was selling.
‘Would I be right in thinking you’re a Christian?’ he’d said, after a brief, polite preamble.
‘Well …’ Fran said, and felt a bit evasive. It was true she’d shopped around at the Freshers’ Fair. The Student Christian Movement had intrigued her; she rather liked their radical approach. But the college branch of Greenpeace was the only one she’d joined. She classed herself as C of E, but hadn’t been to church for quite a while. A charismatic-slanted group at school had sucked her in, bolstering her final year with happy-clappy pap; but in pulling up her roots to come here, she’d set herself adrift on that score too. Simplicity had brought no satisfaction: If God gave me brains, why won’t you let me use them? Right now, she wasn’t sure what she believed.
And now this pleasant second-year was trying to tempt her back. Whichever group he spoke for, they were doubtless keen on choruses and earnest Bible study. She shifted with discomfort at the thought.
‘I’m still deciding at the moment,’ she said carefully.
Paul gestured, smiling. ‘Fair enough. But me and some friends are going on a sort of religious outing on Saturday, and I wondered if you’d maybe like to come … ?’
Fran hesitated. ‘Going where?’
‘To Upper Heyford airbase,’ Paul said softly. ‘A place that needs to hear the Word of Life.’
Now that, she’d told him afterwards, was what I call a religious outing.
The base had been the scene of a national demo; the Christian groups had gathered at Gate 8. Walking down the track towards it, the sight of those sombre, vaulted hangars so close