Dark Ages. John Pritchard

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 Craig’s tour ended and he flew back to the States. Lyn, whom she’d called a stuck-up cow, and told to go away …

      ‘Sorry,’ Fran said lamely, looking down at the tabletop: addressing them both.

      Craig squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Fran. I didn’t know.’

      She raised her eyes. His face looked almost haunted with concern.

      Were you on Larkhill range that night? She’d never dared to ask him, and couldn’t now. Because the answer yes would beg the question: Did you see them too? And he couldn’t have, of course – because it had all been in her mind.

      ‘Another cup of coffee?’ Lyn asked gently. There was a hint of relief in her calming smile. Fran guessed she’d worked it out from her reserve of common sense: the obsession with Cruise had somehow caused a post-traumatic backlash. Craig had doubtless reached the same conclusion. They were probably right, as well; and yet …

      Fran realized she was frowning very slightly.

      ‘So what happens now?’ Craig wondered, as Lyn got the kettle going.

      ‘Now I have to go back,’ Fran said. ‘You see why, don’t you?’

      He didn’t look entirely convinced. ‘And what, retrace your steps?’

      She nodded. ‘Right through Greenlands camp.’ A pause. ‘And I think I’ll take in Imber village, too – for old times’ sake.’

      He acknowledged that with a wry smile of his own. ‘So when d’you want to go?’

      ‘Spring Bank Holiday’s coming up. The roads are open then.’ She hesitated. ‘But I want to go alone this time. You’ve had to carry me for long enough.’

      ‘It’s no problem—’ Craig began, and Lyn was turning round to say the same. Fran cut back in, eyes wide and earnest. ‘I mean it, Craig. It’s got to be that way. I was on my own the first time, after all.’

      He shook his head, unhappy. ‘And what if you have a problem?’

      ‘I don’t think I will. Not in broad daylight. Just a stretch of open country, that’s all it’ll be …’

      The kettle boiled in the background, and switched itself off. Craig looked at Lyn. She shrugged.

      ‘I’ll be all right,’ Fran murmured. ‘Really.’ A pause; and then she glanced at Lyn, and smiled a little wanly. ‘Would you mind if I have another cigarette?’

      ‘He’s quite a catch,’ Lyn said, when Craig had gone.

      ‘I know,’ Fran said. ‘I’m glad you like him too.’

      She’d started going with Craig just as Lyn was breaking up with her new boyfriend. She remembered the heart-to-heart they’d had, one afternoon together: Lyn very delicate and weepy, while she herself was glowing with excitement. And marvelling at the irony, as well. A Yank from Greenham Common – of all people. Even Lyn had giggled tearfully at that.

      And Lyn, despite her tiredness, was smiling, teasing now. ‘You won’t let him get away this time?’

      Fran shook her head. ‘Not on your life. Not this time.’ Once she’d put her past in order, she could think about the future; but the horizon was already looking bright.

      But now it was well past bedtime. She gave the washed-up mugs a wipe, while Lyn went round locking up. Finished, she switched the light off and headed for the bathroom. Lyn passed her in the doorway, touched her arm. Her soft brown eyes were serious now. ‘You’re sure you’ll be all right?’

      Fran hugged her: held her close. ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure.’

      Climbing into bed, she realized just how tired she was. The drain on her emotions had sapped her strength. But talking out her memories had purged her; she felt lighter than she had for many weeks.

      Or months, perhaps. Or years.

      The long dark was nearly over now. Just one more place to go. The night outside felt safe – its demons caged. She laid down her head, and realized she was smiling very faintly. Then closed her eyes, and slept.

      ‘This is Woodbine at Greenham … all vehicles now inside the gate.’

      ‘Thank you, Woodbine … Thanks to all Watchers along on this one … Goodnight …’

CHAPTER VIII