Читать книгу Dark Ages - John Pritchard - Страница 11
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‘Is this seat taken?’
Fran studied her drink for a moment longer; then slowly, almost archly raised her head. After all the keyed-up waiting, she was suddenly so cool. She’d known it was him as he’d crossed the room towards her. She’d known it when he walked through the door.
Craig stood there, looking just a little awkward. She’d sensed him hesitating on the threshold; how long had he been standing just outside? But to judge by his face, his doubts had been won over. For all that he was ten years older than her, his smile was as engaging as an eager little boy’s.
She gestured. ‘Be my guest.’
He pulled out the stool, and sat. Still smiling; but his pale blue eyes were watchful. Their clearness – with his slightly scrappy haircut – helped preserve his boyish aspect; but that handsome face had harshness in its lines. Fran felt herself excited by the contrast – just like she’d been before.
He’d brought his bottle with him from the bar. A Budweiser, of course. He raised it to her – ‘Hi,’ – and took a pull.
She raised her glass in turn; then sat back, looking smug.
Craig cocked his head, enquiring. ‘What?’
‘I just love a man out of uniform.’
He gave a snort at that, amused. His coat was brown brushed leather, well worn-in. Fran, by contrast, was wearing Lyn’s best bomber jacket, complete with sheepskin lining. Which was quite ironic, really.
‘How have you been?’ Craig asked after a pause. His tone was quiet and calm, as always; the concern was in his eyes.
‘All right,’ Fran told him softly. ‘Coming on.’
‘You’re looking well.’
She shrugged.
The lunchtime buzz and bustle of The Grapes drew in around them.
Her hand was on the table; so was his. She felt his need to reach across and touch her – and knew he wasn’t sure how she’d react. He moistened his lips, his pale gaze still intent. ‘I’m glad you called me, Fran.’
‘I’m glad you waited, Craig. I mean that.’
He took her hand, and squeezed it. She squeezed back.
‘You’re sure about this afternoon?’ he asked, his voice a murmur.
‘Yes,’ she said, still holding on. ‘I’m sure.’
2
The first time she’d seen him, he was doing some repair work on a truck. Thinking back to that first moment, she knew she hadn’t dreamed where it would lead. All she’d done was stand there, feeling curious: wanting contact. Above all else, she’d wanted to get through.
He’d realized she was watching; turned and grinned. Encouraged, she’d smiled back. He’d wavered for a moment, then wiped his hands and slowly walked across. Right up to the high mesh fence that blocked his way.
‘Hello,’ Fran said politely.
He nodded amiably, tweaking the brim of his cap between finger and thumb. His camouflage fatigues – green, brown and black – bore a master sergeant’s stripes: she was getting good at recognizing ranks. FLAHERTY was the name stencilled over his breast pocket.
Fran hooked her fingers through the mesh, and leaned against the wire. She wondered if her shades made her look flirty. ‘How are you liking England, then?’ she asked.
‘It’s not so bad,’ he murmured. ‘Nice little place you’ve got here. Some of the natives aren’t too friendly … but there you go.’
She took that coyly; cocked her head. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to us.’ He’d caught sight of her Cruisewatch badge, of course.
His smile grew broader. ‘I’m a great believer in freedom of speech.’
‘Which is what you’re here defending?’
‘Surely. Yours and mine.’
‘When we put all our resources into preparing for war, humanity hangs from a cross of iron. You know who said that?’
He shook his head, still smiling.
‘Dwight D. Eisenhower.’
‘Yeah? I never heard that.’ He leaned forward for a better look at the other badge she wore. Fran eased herself away along the fence; he followed. She felt a sense of mischief, like playing hard to get. The barrier was frustrating. She clung to it, and kept him close.
‘Aha,’ he murmured drily, having seen the thing at last. ‘I knew you were a commie.’
‘No, I’m not,’ she told him. ‘That’s my icon.’
Intrigued, he studied it more closely. ‘What does it say?’
‘Russia Baptized: One Thousand Years.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You been over there?’
‘’Fraid not. I got it at the Orthodox church in Oxford.’
‘Oxford, huh? That where you come from?’
‘It’s where I’m studying.’
‘Always wanted to visit Oxford …’ he said lightly, and would have said more, but a patrol truck was approaching: chugging up along the perimeter road. It came to a halt behind him, and the driver climbed out. Fran saw it was a woman, not much older than herself. Dressed in camouflage like Flaherty, but with a black beret – and a holstered pistol at her belt. MATTHEWS said the name-strip on her blouse.
‘Any problem, Sergeant?’
‘No problem.’ He held Fran’s gaze for a moment longer; then turned away. Fran stared at his retreating back, then looked across at Matthews. The other woman was eyeing her levelly. Her fresh-complexioned face was set and grim.
Fran tipped her head back: took it on the chin. Resentment twinged inside her, mixed with something more unsettling. She’d thought there’d be some fellow-feeling somewhere – one woman to another. But there wasn’t the slightest spark of it between them.
She’d shoot me, if she had to. Shoot me dead. The knowledge took the wind out of her sails.
Flaherty was back at his truck. He gave her a final, sidelong glance; no more. Matthews was still watching her. Dispirited, Fran turned and walked away.
But now she was here again, and reaching out to touch the fence. Curling her fingers round the cold green strands, and holding tight.
‘Looks different,’ Craig said softly; ‘from the wrong side of the wire.’
She glanced over her shoulder. He looked different: standing there behind her.
They’d driven up the road from the A339, Craig silent at the wheel of his rented car. The tunnel of trees had closed around them, channelling them through gloom until they were almost at the fence. They’d parked there and got out; Fran pausing with her hand on the open door. It had rained that afternoon, and the wood smelled damp and green, still dripping. The song of a blackbird came from somewhere close.
Greenham Common airbase lay in silence.
They were close to the silos here. The last time she’d ventured up this way, the MoD police had chased her off. A winter’s night, dark early – but the those sinister mounds had been brightly lit. They’d made her think of spiders’ lairs – nestled deep in their funnels of gleaming razor wire.
A ripple of cold went through her flesh. She shivered, and hunched her shoulders.
The webs were empty now, though; their spider-holes as derelict as Heyford’s silent hangars. Life had gone on while she’d lingered in the dark. The world had changed so much.
‘I heard they’re gonna turn it into a theme park,’ Craig said, with wry amusement. ‘Or something like that.’
She shook her head, bemused. The place had been an inspiration through her teens; had drawn her down from Oxford again and again. Now here it lay, forgotten. What was it they’d sung around the campfire? And we shall build Jerusalem in England’s Greenhorn pleasant land. Well the missiles were gone – but no sense of peace had come to take their place. The silos had a haunted feel; like burial mounds, robbed out.
The evening sky was overcast and low. Crimson light seeped through it here and there, staining the clouds like blackberry juice.
‘I didn’t like it here,’ Craig murmured.
Fran turned her head.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he went on drily. ‘I think we were right; I think we did some good. But we never fitted in. Just stuck in our own little world behind the wire. And so much hostility outside …’
‘Was that the only reason?’
He was silent for a minute. ‘I’d be lying if I said that sharing a base with ninety-six Cruise missiles didn’t give me the creeps sometimes.’
‘It wasn’t the nukes that scared me,’ Fran said slowly, looking back towards the row of gutted silos. ‘It was the fact that people were actually ready to use the bloody things.’
‘It wouldn’t have happened. That was the whole point.’
‘Maybe not. No, really … maybe not. But the readiness was there.’
A pause. Then he slid his arms around her waist. Fran stood there for a moment, not reacting; then let herself relax against his body. He squeezed her gently; touched his cheek to hers.
‘You know what it reminds me of ?’ he said after a while. ‘Cape Canaveral. You go there now, there’s just these burned-out shells of concrete, where the rockets blasted off. Dead silence. When the clouds are like this, and there’s a wind off the desert, it’s so damn’ eerie. It feels like the end of the world.’
