Greg's door crashed upwards, quickly followed by Dan's, and Moira had the engine running before Dan jumped in beside her. She held Diana tightly as the car surged and swung to fit in behind the van. She could see the crowd reacting, spreading across the road to challenge them; sec Greg's momentary hesitation, and then his sudden acceleration as he drove full tilt at the mob. She wanted to shout encouragement, It's them or us, Greg, but she must not distract Dan, who was matching Greg's speed and might have to react quickly. In seconds they were ploughing through, people scattering to left and right – she didn't think anyone stayed long enough to be hit but she couldn't be sure… Faces, shouts of anger, the glint of a flaming torch, the rattle of flung stones on the roof, Diana screaming… Then they were away, free, circling round behind the estate to join the by-pass.
She had thought Diana's scream was of fright but now she was able to look at her. A stone must have found the open window because her forehead was bleeding and she was whimpering in Moira's arms, trying (as she usually did when she was hurt) not to cry. Moira said, 'Di's hit but keep going,' and started cleaning the wound with a tissue while she soothed her. Diana attempted a smile and said, 'Horrid people.'
'Yes, darling, horrid. But they can't catch us now… She's all right, Dan… Hold still, my love, while I stick a little plaster on it.'
They drove in silence for a while, out into the country, skirting Heathrow; they had agreed not to stop till they were well into the Chilterns and certain none of the mob had jumped into cars and followed.
Dan glanced down at Diana to make sure she had fallen asleep and said at last: 'I wonder when we'll be back.'
Sally leaned forward, her forearms on the tops of their scats, her head between theirs. 'I didn't tell you before, my loves, because of little ears. But I could see our houses as we came round the back road. That lot weren't carrying torches for nothing, you know. Our places were well alight already… Sorry, dears, but it's got to be forward, 'cos there's nowhere to go back to.'
11
They drove for about an hour before Greg pulled into a lonely woodland verge beyond Great Missenden, where they loaded the van roof-rack to clear the central gangway for domestic use. Rosemary made toast to go with the hot soup and they stood around sipping and nibbling and saying little. Now that the planned-for crisis had overtaken them, they all admitted to a sense of unreality; even the burning of their homes seemed a fact from another existence, and the brief drama of their escape a fictional episode. Too much had happened in a few hours; erstwhile friends had dragged witchcraft's name into the mire, psychic murder had triggered off mob violence, their religion and Craft had been declared criminal and now they were nomads in a land with too little open space where nomads might breathe. It was nearly midnight on a still August night, with nothing familiar around them but a van and a car crammed with all they possessed. Their minds needed a rest before they could take it all in. At this moment, all they felt (and they felt it unanimously) was the need to see tomorrow's dawn in a new landscape, a long way from the treachery of friends and the ashes of their homes. Physical distance seemed to have spiritual meaning; let them seize that distance and they would feel strong.
They decided to make for the Welsh mountains – a choice they had more or less finalized over the past week -but to reach them overnight, instead of taking the two or three days they had envisaged. There could be night-time violence in the big cities in reaction to the day's events, so they agreed upon as rural a route as possible, via Princes Risborough, Bicester, Chipping Norton, Evesham, Worcester (the biggest town on their route, but it could be bypassed, and it would be well into the small hours), Ludlow and Welshpool – in which area they could explore more slowly for somewhere to settle, at least temporarily. But tonight's objective was the Welsh Border and a reasonably secure spot for a few hours' rest and consideration.
They agreed to stop every hour to stretch legs and change drivers. Sally did not drive but by taking charge of Diana on the back seat with her, she could free Dan and Moira for alternate hours of dozing and driving.
They washed up the mugs and set off, the car taking its turn in the lead.
'All these practical arrangements may sound petty, the way things are,' Dan said to Moira as he settled back in the passenger seat. 'But you know what, darling missus? They help us keep sane.'
Moira smiled and let in the clutch, suddenly warmed by his use of their private-language title. 'That's right, darling mister,' she told him. 'Now you go to sleep and let me drive in peace.'
Eileen had not slept well. Last evening's news had depressed and confused her. Since their Suffolk experience a few days earlier, she and Angela had not knowingly met any more witches but had found themselves identifying with them more and more. They had liked the Coddenham group, shared their fury over the rape and humiliation of May Groombridge, and felt no unease about what had happened to the callous policeman – whether or not it was a coincidence. But the Angels of Lucifer and the death (again, coincidence or not) of Ben Stoddart, were a very different matter. The 'small isolation hospital' where the savage ritual had been enacted had not been named nor its location given, but Dr Friell and Nurse Parker had been named and their violent kidnapping reported, so Eileen had no doubt that the 'hospital' was the Banwell Emergency Unit. The knowledge had let loose a flood of conflicting emotions – reawakened guilt, outrage on behalf of former friends, curiosity (which she felt to be morbid but could not banish) about the actual details, paralysed inability to decide whether Ben Stoddart really had died from psychic attack or from auto-suggestion… Angela Smith had had to work very hard to soothe her young cousin and had lain anxiously awake till about two in the morning listening to her tossing and muttering in her sleep.
Eileen woke suddenly just after sunrise. She thought at first Angie had spoken and looked across at the other bunk, but Angie was still unconscious. Then the voice came again and Eileen realized it was outside the caravan. Two or three voices, men and women, and the clink and shuffle of movement. She must finally have exhausted herself into really deep sleep, she decided, because the layby had been empty except for themselves and she had been unaware of any other vehicles arriving.
A young child whimpered in pain and a worried woman's voice said: 'Dan, we'll have to get her to a doctor.' The man's reply was indistinguishable but the tone was equally worried.
Eileen unzipped her sleeping bag, pulled on slacks and sweater, and opened the caravan door and looked out.
'Did someone mention a doctor? I'm a nurse, if I can be any help.'
The young couple looked round, at first startled, then relieved; they seemed tired and nervous. 'Could you have a look at her?' the mother said. 'We'd be very grateful. We…' She broke off and lifted a little girl about four years old out of their heavily loaded station wagon. 'She had a bump on the head last night and it seemed all right -but I think she's a little feverish now.'
Eileen gave her attention to the child but was still aware of the atmosphere of nervousness; another couple had emerged from the second vehicle – a big Bedford van -and an elderly woman was hovering watchfully beside the car.
Angie had come out of their own caravan and on an impulse Eileen said: 'There's only the two of us.' She felt the strangers begin to relax. 'What's your name?' she asked the little girl.
'Diana.'
'Mine's Eileen and I'm going to see if I can make that bump better.'
'Some horrid people threw stones at us.'
Tension again. Eileen was getting impatient with it, wanting to concentrate on Diana, when Angie took the problem out of her hands. 'Look, everybody – if you're on the run, relax – so are we. And if you're witches, we don't give a damn; we're not bloody Crusaders. So while Eileen looks at the kid, why don't we all organize breakfast?'
The sun was well up by the time they had exchanged their stories. They had all been a little wary at first but as they got the measure of each other they became increasingly frank. A communal feast of bacon, eg
gs, toast, tea and coffee, plus Eileen's reassurance that there was nothing wrong with Diana that her professional dressing and a few hours' proper sleep wouldn't put right, encouraged mutual confidence.
Tell you the truth,' Eileen admitted, 'it's done me good to meet you lot. I'd always rather liked the witches but last night's news made me wonder just how many of them could be evil… You see, that place they raided – I used to work there, I know all about it and that made it sort of personal… I was pretty upset. But I can't imagine you being evil, somehow. So you've restored my belief that people like the Angels of Lucifer aren't typical witches. I'd like to think that you are.'
Moira smiled. 'Thanks… We're not saints, you know – and God knows what we may have to do to survive if things get worse. But we won't "go black", if you know what we mean by that.'
'I think I do… Did the Angels of Lucifer kill Ben Stoddart – by black magic, I mean?'
Moira did not feel ready, yet, to say that they knew the identity of the Angels, so she countered with: 'Do you believe it's possible?'
Eileen paused, then said 'A couple of weeks ago I'd have doubted it. But this would make two coincidences, so I'm not sure any longer.'
'Two coincidences?'
Eileen told them the story of May Groombridge and the witches of Coddenham. 'That policeman deserved what he got – but if they did it – and I know they believe they did, and I think I do too… If they did it, they've only put him where he can't do any harm for a while. And after what he had done to May, that very day, I suppose they were pretty restrained. But killing someone, deliberately and impersonally…' She shuddered. 'No. That's different.'
'Quite apart from the morals of the thing, it was damn stupid,' Angie said briskly. 'All it did was make things worse for the rest of you. Like getting your houses burned… What are your plans, now?'
'Immediately?' Dan replied. 'Find somewhere isolated to rest up for a day or two. After that, with any luck, find somewhere where we can stay put… Something worse than Orders in Council's on the way. Some kind of breakdown – probably to do with these earthquakes and from what you were saying, you know more about that than we do. Whatever it is, we don't know if we can survive – but we're going to have a bloody good try.'
'And the Welsh mountains seemed a good place to do it,' Greg added.
'Why d'you think we are here?' Angie asked. 'Same guesswork and same reasoning – and same "bloody good try". So why don't we join forces?… No, don't answer right now – talk it over among yourselves. Eileen and I will, too – after all, I haven't asked her yet. Just my own idea but there's a lot to be said for it. Pooled resources give us a better chance. More people means division of labour, less wasted effort. Communal cooking and so on. Easier look-out roster, if it becomes necessary. We can contribute one trained nurse, and – if I may say so – one highly experienced camper; been my hobby all my life. You can contribute – among other things, I'm sure – two strong-armed men, one of 'em a professional mechanic…'
'And the liability of one eighty-year-old woman and one four-year-old child,' Sally pointed out.
'For Christ's sake,' Angie told her, 'a survival group's got to be a human family – a representative sample, if you like, something worth preserving in terms of human balance. You and little Di help to make it that. You're assets, not liabilities.'
Moira's mind had been made up before Angie had even put her suggestion, which she had sensed was coming; but with that last remark, she knew Angie had the others as well. She smiled and asked: 'Does anyone really want to talk it over privately?'
There was an immediate chorus of 'No', and Dan went on: 'It's a marvellous idea and it'll obviously improve our chances. We'll probably spit at each other sometimes but that's "human balance" too, isn't it?'
'Right, then,' Angie said. 'Practicalities; any of you know this area?'
'Where are we now, exactly? Our map-reading was getting a bit bleary-eyed. A few kilometres west of Llanfyllin, aren't we?'
'That's right.'
'Rosemary and I toured around here a year or two back,' Greg said. 'We seemed to remember some promising Forestry Commission land ahead, just south of Lake Vyrnwy. Thirty or forty square kilometres of it, by the map, nice and mountainous but with little valleys and streams and that, and it looks as if there might be clear patches hidden away here and there, where we could plant vegetables, if we stayed. And forestry plantations are marvellous to disappear into if you're attacked… All guesswork from map-reading, though. We visited Lake Vyrnwy on that tour but we didn't explore the forestry bits.'
Angie nodded. 'We had the same idea though I don't know it personally either. I think the plantations have been extended in the past few years which'll make it even better. Dyfnant Forest, it's called. Shall we take a look, when you've rested a bit?'
'I don't know about the others,' Moira said, 'but that breakfast's set mc up – and meeting you. I feel rested. Sally and Di could sleep on the way '
'Like hell I'll sleep,' Sally protested. 'I want to be in on this. I snored most of the night, didn't I?'
Dyfnant Forest was dark, silent and reassuring, hugging the Afon Vyrnwy and Afon Cownwy rivers between precipitous ridges, and spreading out westwards into equally lofty but more gently sloping mountains. The little convoy wound upwards through a village called New Dyfnant, which Angic (comparing a recent map and an old gazetteer) decided must have been built about 1990. From there the road became a logging lane which they followed for four or five kilometres until they rounded a shoulder of the valley and suddenly found themselves in a little clearing, perhaps six hectares of natural meadow along the edge of which ran a trout-promising stream. It formed a perfect cul-de-sac, because the far end was a cliff with a waterfall tumbling down it; at the near end, where they had stopped, the logging lane elbowed sharply right to hairpin back up the mountainside above the way they had come. The stream lay to the left of the clearing, with steep and broken mountains rising from it – not quite cliff but too rough for plantation, so that a mixture of deciduous trees grew wild. The slope up from the right of the clearing was a little gentler and thick with ordered ranks of Norway spruce, their Christmas-tree fingers pointing to the sky.
Spontaneously, they all switched off their engines and climbed out to look.
'It looks so right,' Sally said after a few seconds, 'I'm almost suspicious of it.'
'Whatever for?' Angie demanded. 'It is right. Couldn't be better. What do you think, boys?'
'Looks good to me – provided that meadow's not boggy or liable to flooding,' Dan said.
'Not on your life – I know bog when I see it. And the stream'd have to rise a good metre and a half to top those banks… Look, the meadow slopes up to the right a little, too. Sort of flat shelf along the edge of the trees – make a good camp site.'
'No reason why we shouldn't camp here for a day or two, anyway,' Greg said. 'We can recce the place while we rest up.'
Diana had been asleep when the convoy stopped but now she suddenly said from behind them. 'Yes, do let's recce the place. It's ever so pretty.'
Everybody laughed and Angie asked: 'And what does "recce the place" mean, young lady?'
'Put the tents on it, of course.'
'Orders is orders,' Dan said. 'Come on, let's get cracking.'
They drove carefully along the edge of the trees for a couple of hundred metres, watching the surface but it remained good. Then they reached a feature that had been invisible from the logging lane – a re-entrant in the forest, a little bay in the treeline, that curved back in an approximate semicircle embracing about a hectare.
'Even better,' Greg said. 'Can't be seen from the lane. But I wonder why it's not planted?'
Examination of the ground answered him. The floor of the re-entrant was thin soil on a flat bed of rock which extended out into the edge of the meadow to form the shelf Angie had noticed; a freak of stratification unsuitable for tree-planting but ideal for a camp-site. They parked the vehicles by the trees at the mi
d-point of the semicircle and erected the two big frame-tents and the inflatable igloo tent, in front of them at either side, to form a C-shaped, inward-facing laager. The sun was higher now, the shadow of the opposite mountain moving away across the meadow like an ebbing tide. Dan and Greg went to erect the screen for the chemical closet, just out of sight in the trees, while the women furnished the tents, unpacked stores from a big plastic dustbin so that it could be used for rubbish, spread bedding to air, began to plan the midday meal and generally 'made the place like home' as Rosemary put it. Moira noticed, without comment but with a lifting of the spirit, that there was no hint of nostalgia in Rosemary's remark and that everyone – including herself – took it quite naturally. This isolated and beautiful spot had achieved, for the moment at least, what they had instinctively looked for; an immediate change of scene so complete that Staines, the witch-hunt, their burning homes, seemed distant and unreal. She noticed, too, that nobody had switched on the radio, or Angie's television, to keep track of the news – a rest, too, from that.
A shot rang out in the woods and they all froze in what they were doing, the talk and laughter cut off.
Dan and Greg ran back and fetched the pistol and the shotgun and stood looking around, wary and silent. Angie appeared in the door of her caravan, with the.22 rifle in her hands.
'For heaven's sake,' Sally cried. 'It's somebody hunting. What are we all scared of?'
They all relaxed a little. Sally was obviously right and the startling report became natural in retrospect.
'Lot of townies, aren't we?' Rosemary laughed, a little nervously.
Dan said: 'All the same, we might as well start as we mean to go on. Weapons handy but out of sight – and one of us always close to them. Angie, are you a good shot?'
'Very good,' Angie told him calmly, patting her telescopic sight.
'Right – stay in your caravan; you're our armed guard for the first stint. And at night, we'll always have one sentry awake – two hours each, on a roster.'
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