Читать книгу Dark Ages - John Pritchard - Страница 10

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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.’

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.

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 to the fence had given her a chill. A brooding sense of threat hung all about them. Paul told her that the bombs were stored elsewhere, but it felt like one was ticking in each building.

The service, in their shadow, was more stirring than she’d dreamed. She’d listened to the speakers, and joined in with the songs; shared the Peace with total strangers; hugged Paul tight. As people breached the wire and got arrested, she’d clung to the fence and shouted her support.

It was a rainbow congregation, lively and colourful; but most of all she remembered the Dominicans, in their solemn cloaks, and their banner behind them: a black dog running, with a firebrand in its jaws.

Paul had led her on down the perimeter path; taught her the difference between Blazer patrol trucks and Hummvee armoured cars (while one of the latter paced them, like a hunchbacked iron toad). An impromptu Mass was being held near the Peace Camp. Paul, being a Methodist, hung back – but Fran went and knelt at the roadside, to take a torn-off piece of Tesco’s Sliced, and sip from the chipped cup of wine. And all the time, beyond the fence, the planes were prowling past, their tailfin beacons pulsing bloody red.

They’d hung around in the waning afternoon, until the people who’d been arrested were finally released. Then one of the Oxford groups invited them back for a social at someone’s house. It lasted late into the evening, and she’d loved it: food and drink and dry good humour, ending up with some decidedly secular songs. She sang along delightedly with those; but the melody that stayed in her buzzing head was one she’d heard at Heyford’s iron gates. The people who stumbled in darkness, their eyes have seen the light…

And those who sit in the deepest pit: on them has the day dawned bright.

She ran the lines through her mind again – worrying each word like a Rosary bead; but the gloom was deep and glutinous inside her. There was just that pale, thin gleam on the horizon.

‘How do you feel?’ Lyn asked her gently.

They’d adjourned to a pub in Somerton, north of the airbase. Such a pretty little village, so close to that desolate field. Fran had made for the dimmest corner of the room, well away from the golden sunshine. And still she hadn’t taken off her shades.

‘Glad I came,’ she murmured, staring down at her drink; fingers playing with the stem of her glass. ‘Well no, not glad … but no regrets. I needed to start here.’

‘You came out here with Paul before?’ Lyn said after a pause. Proceeding with exquisite caution.

‘Yeah,’ Fran said. ‘He brought me. And after what I saw that day, my perspectives were all different.’

Another silence, while she took a sip of wine, and set the glass down carefully. Then her shielded gaze rose back to Lyn.

‘I’d never had such a sense of pure evil. You could feel it, coming at you through the wire. You could feel how close the warheads were; their power. Like sleeping suns …’ She shook her head again; more like a shudder. ‘And meanwhile, Cruise was coming out of Greenham, once a month.’

Lyn waited with her own glass barely touched.

‘It scared me – so I had to get involved,’ Fran went on softly. ‘Every time those missiles moved, I had to witness them …’ Behind the shades, her eyes had lost their focus: but now she could see deep into the past. ‘That night, they were headed for the Imber firing range – the most restricted part of the whole Plain. We tried to take a short cut: get ahead of them again. We cut across a corner of Larkhill range, the next one to the east. And Larkhill range was where we came to grief …’ She bit down on the final word, and dropped her gaze once more.

Lyn shifted awkwardly. ‘And they never found that person in the road?’

Fran didn’t answer for a moment; then took a deep, slow breath, and shook her head.

‘Did you hear from Paul again?’

‘Not since he came out of hospital. He just withdrew from everything – like I did. Marie died, and Kate broke her back. He blamed himself for that.’

‘And you … Do you feel guilty – for surviving?’

Fran wavered; gave a shrug of her thin shoulders. ‘It was my fault, as much as his. I said to go for it.’

Lyn took her hand. ‘Oh Frannie, don’t you think that you’ve been punished enough? You were traumatized as well. That’s why you had your … er …’

‘My breakdown, Lyn. Just say it.’

‘Sorry. Your breakdown.’

‘I was in a psychie hospital for nearly a year,’ Fran said in a grim, steady tone. ‘Voluntary admission: clinically depressed. I didn’t mention that, did I?’

Lyn made a hurt little face. ‘Oh, Fran …’

‘It must have been … the shock, or the concussion, but I had a real panic attack out there. I thought that things were chasing after me … And months, and years later, I was still convinced they’d creep into my room …’ And as she voiced her dread at last, she felt the gooseflesh ripple up her arms. Just then, for just an instant, she was back on the Plain, and lost in its featureless dark.

‘Shh,’ Lyn whispered, massaging her hand. ‘It’s over now. You’re safe.’

Fran swallowed back her tears again, and nodded. The flush of cold was fading, in the sunlight and Lyn’s love. Her memories were twisted up: her illness had done that. Her mental illness. The thought of it still shamed her, but she’d shared it. Like naming a demon to gain power over it. The past was the past. And here she was, objective: looking back.

It’s over now. You’re safe. Oh God, she hoped so.

‘Your parents must be so glad …’ Lyn said. ‘Seeing you able to come back here like this.’

Fran nodded again, and took her shades off – but only to wipe her eyes. ‘Yeah. They’ve put up with me a lot, these past few years …’

‘Your Geordie accent’s coming back, you know,’ Lyn said: a tentative attempt to tease.

‘Is it?’ Fran said wryly. ‘I can’t tell. We moved to Derbyshire ten years ago – that’s practically Down South!’

Silence settled between them. The ticking of a clock was quite distinct. Lyn moistened her lips.

‘Where was it you said you’d meet the man of your dreams?’

The gambit won a rueful smile. ‘Heaven’s Field.’ Fran murmured back. ‘Up north, on Hadrian’s Wall.’

‘So, did you ever take Craig there?’

Fran sniffed, and shook her head.

‘Are you going to see him?’

Fran shook her head again. Not negative this time; nonplussed. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly.

And she didn’t. Thinking of Craig sent a giddy ripple through her – a sense of need as physical as hunger. But this was four years later, and the world had changed around. To visit old haunts was one thing; to meet old ghosts was something else again.

The conflict of emotions filled her mind; but something more subliminal still lingered. The faintest, phantom echo of that moment on the Plain. As if those twisted memories were still alive behind her: more distant now, but following her trail. As relentless and black as a Dominican dog.

Lyn’s flat was in a quiet, leafy street off Iffley Road: part of the first floor of a conversion. Fran wandered through, admiring, as Lyn showed her around: a cheerfully self-deprecating hostess – but Fran’s small suitcase made her feel too much like what she was. A stranger, from the past, just passing through.

‘This’ll be yours,’ Lyn told her brightly, opening the door on her spare room. A futon was spread out, all ready; the pillowcase and quilt smelt freshly washed.

‘I’m not sure how long I’m staying …’ Fran murmured.

Lyn’s beaming face grew earnest. ‘You’re welcome for as long as you like – all right? As long as you need.’

‘I’m … not very good company at the moment. Need a lot of time to myself …’

‘I can understand that. You need a base, you need a bed … they’re yours. Other than that, you can come and go as you want.’ She hesitated, almost shyly. ‘But I’d be glad to keep you company, whenever that’s okay. I’ve really missed you, Fran …

‘Now,’ she went on quickly, before they both got embarrassed, ‘would you like some coffee?’

‘Oh, please.’ Fran put her case down on the bed, and went over to the window. The evening was warm and light: the air like honey. She peered across the rooftops for a minute, listening to the distant city sounds – and those that Lyn was making in the kitchen. Peace, domestic comfort, all around.

Her heart began to race then; before she even realized that she’d just made her decision. Biting her lip, she went through towards the sounds of brewing coffee.

Lyn looked round, smiling. Wiping down her breakfast plates, and putting them away.

Fran swallowed. ‘There’s something else. I need to tell you.’ But in the expectant pause that followed, she no longer thought she could.

‘No hurry,’ Lyn said gently. ‘We’ve plenty of time …’

Fran glanced aside. An itemized phone bill caught her eye: stuck to the freezer door with a cat-shaped magnet. Staring at it, she said: ‘When I was in hospital … it wasn’t just depression. I was hallucinating; hearing voices.’

Silence from Lyn.

‘And I never told them,’ Fran went on, with just a hint of tremble in her voice. ‘I never said a word. I thought that if I did, they wouldn’t let me out again.’

Another pause. She risked a look. Lyn’s eyes were wide, her air less certain. ‘Oh God, Fran …’

‘But I’m better now,’ Fran finished quickly. ‘They just went of their own accord. Not a whisper for six months …’ She took a shaky breath. ‘And I’ve told no one else about them. Not even Mum and Dad.’

Lyn’s reassuring smile looked forced. ‘It might be … an idea to tell someone, though …’

‘I have,’ Fran came back evenly. ‘I’ve just told you. And believe me, it’s a load off my shoulders.’

Lyn nodded, looking doubtful, mechanically polishing a bowl. ‘But just to be sure …’

‘Oh Lyn, don’t worry: I’m not a bloody schizophrenic or something. It was just my mind getting straightened out. I’m all right now.’

Lyn put down the bowl, and came across and hugged her. A gesture worth a million words. I’m not unclean, Fran thought – and held on tight enough to hurt.

‘Sorry,’ Lyn said after a minute. ‘I know how hard that must have been to say. I’m really, really glad you told me first …’ When she eased away, her smile looked fresher: as if she’d shrugged a burden off as well. A weight of doubt and prudent disapproval. Fran grinned – and felt quite giddy with relief. Her leap of faith had landed on firm ground.

Oh Lyn, you angel. How ever did I find a friend like you?

With the subject safely broached, the rest came easier. She described the hospital, the staff, her fellow patients. Talking it out felt physical, a purging of her system. Like the tears that Lyn had won from her before; the rains that broke the drought of her depression …

‘What sort of things did these voices say?’ Lyn asked her after supper. Her tone still cautious, but curious too.

Fran hesitated. ‘I don’t know: that’s the really weird thing. It was a man’s voice, just a whisper … I’d look around, you know? – and the room would be empty. But it wasn’t English; more like Dutch or something.’

‘God, it must have frightened you.’

‘It did. You bet it did. And yet … the tone, it wasn’t really threatening. It sounded urgent. More like an appeal …’

She could analyse it calmly now; back then, she’d just been petrified with fear. The whispers had haunted her down the long, dingy corridors, insidious in their promise of madness. Perhaps finding a lump in your breast brought a stab of dread this sharp. Her voices seemed like symptoms of a tumour in her mind.

And if you ignored them, would they go away? A lump in her flesh would not. She’d heard of women losing precious time – too scared to see a doctor, till too late. And she’d been just as stymied: afraid to tell a soul about the voices in her head.

The world had closed down like a coffin-lid upon her; the voices were the hammer and the nails. Fragments of phrases, faint with distance; sometimes they’d fall silent for a week. The silences were worst of all. She’d sit and cringe for hours: just waiting for the words to come again.

But she’d kept them secret – and they’d gone away. The malignant lump had simply disappeared. A miracle cure must feel like this. She hardly dared believe it, even now.

‘Shall we do the washing up?’ she said, to change the subject.

‘Oh, shh, don’t worry about that …’

‘Don’t flatmates share their chores?’ Fran asked her drily. ‘I’d much prefer it that way. So come on, let’s get to it. And then I think I’ll have an early night. It’s been a tiring day …’

Fran

So much has changed. The whole world’s turned around. But I’ve not forgotten you. Can we meet someplace – and sometime soon? Lyn’s got my number. I really hope you’ll want to get in touch.

Still thinking of youCraig

Fran read the letter through again. Much more slowly: savouring each word. Her heart beat like a slow drum in her chest.

His face was very clear now; the years between had faded like a fog. She remembered every line of his rugged good looks. The short brown hair, brushed back; the deep-set eyes. The wry mouth, sometimes smiling; sometimes grim.

Still thinking of you – even four years down the road. She felt a pang of pleasure, a twinge of helpless pride. Like someone with a treasure, hidden secretly away. He’s mine, she thought: he still belongs to me.

She folded the letter carefully, and slid it back into the envelope. Laying it aside on the bookcase, she started to unpack. Nightie, towel, toilet bag … but then she let an impulse overcome her, and delved into a side-pocket instead. For a moment her fingers searched in vain; but then they found the badge, and drew it out.

She’d been wearing it the day they met. A rectangle of metal, with a sheen like bluish gold. The stern and haloed image of a saint. She ran her thumb across the rough, raised lettering. Cyrillic script: an alien language. Only the dates made sense.

988–1988. One thousand years. Stretching like a bridge from the Dark Age past to the year she’d come to Oxford.

She laid her head down cautiously. First night away from home for many months; her first night back in Oxford since her breakdown. For an hour or more she lingered on the very edge of sleep: afraid of what unconsciousness might bring. But the stresses of the day had worn her out. Oblivion pounced, and caught her unawares.

She didn’t dream.

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