by Ian Watson
A thing, part skull, part waxy flesh, part polished black idol. She recognized the blood-red eyes from her dream, the equine teeth. Those eyes stared at her, to tell her something awful which she ought to know. Or remember, or anticipate. Something entirely awful.
Blackness closed around her.
Fourteen
Sunday morning. As Jeni sat in Meg’s passenger seat, Gareth steered the Mini back into Melfort. The bells of St Mary’s were calling Tories to the 11 a.m. service, and no doubt some disgruntled SDP sympathizers.
Off-the-peg suits of funeral charcoal, natty bespoke grey suits, ladies’ tweeds and flowery flocks plus woollies, some floral hats begotten at Ascot, boys in Fauntleroy gear, stout girls in white dresses with white cotton sashes and even straw boaters; that was the Sunday morning fashion scene. Home, afterwards, to a roast which was sizzling away even now in the oven – somebody had to be supporting the beef industry – or perhaps a cockerel.
Jeni hadn’t felt able to drive safely. Sleepless, wrung out and strung out, who knew what she might see darting across her field of vision or rising out of the road?
In the back seat Andy hunched wearily, nursing an ill-made roll-up, his duffle and sleeping-bag beside him. Their satirist had quit the peace camp. He couldn’t take another night, not after seeing … those things. The four horsemen. Of. An unimaginable apocalypse. Andy was taking events a few words at a time now. A bit, a puff, at a time. Otherwise the avalanche might bury his mind. Jeni had thought Mal would come unstuck, but it had been Andy instead. Maybe Mal would crack yet, and Andy was wisely getting out in time. Whereas Nell and Mitzi had become stubborn. Or were utterly brave. And Jack was gormlessly … enthusiastic.
“I think,” said Andy. (Puff.) “Last night. Maybe they tried. Hallucinogenic gas.” (Puff.) “Loony gas. Experimental. From Porton or Edgewood. Stuff like BZ, LSD. Turn us into mental cases.” (Puff. His roll-up had gone out.) “Scare us off.”
Jeni said nothing. Let Andy believe that if it helped. To bail the boat of his brain, the capsizing ship of his soul.
Of course there’d been no gas attack. Nor had those Americans over the way been exposed to some of their own loony gas, so that they emptied their M-16s into the generator and the Jeep’s fuel tank, causing unheard explosions which had wrecked the lights and the Jeep and torn two of those same guards apart … their screams had been noisy enough.
Nor had some ingenious terrorists or peace-commandos sneaked up in the night to project a horror movie on the fog….
“You saw what!” the MOD officer had bellowed at Mal and Jack.
Ambulance lights strobed the ruins of wire, Jeep, and generator. Two armoured cars were covering the gap. A truck had towed a replacement generator and spot-lights on site; suddenly these flooded the area brilliantly. There must have been a score of armed soldiers on alert, with officers.
“Wey, the four bloody pit-ponies of the Apocalypse, man, what de ye think?”
“Funny buggers!” The MOD man had come with a colleague and a black American guard; their faces were set grim. “There are two men dead, Geordie. Torn to shreds. So what was it, eh; grenades? A mortar shell?”
“Why not ask the other Yank?” growled Mal. “He’ll tell you.”
“He’s in shock,” purred the black. “He can’t talk.”
“More like catatonic,” muttered the other policeman.
“Shell-shocked,” his superior corrected him. “So what was it, then?”
“Spooks and ghoulies,” said Mal.
“Come off it! I know you. We’ve talked before. Do you want me to get unfriendly?”
No telling with police, Jeni had thought. Some were bastards. Others were very affable. Last year, at the Hiroshima Day vigil at the main gate with candles in coffee jars, some jars had got dropped in the road and the police said not to worry, they’d clear up the mess themselves afterwards. A young American with the procession was mind-blown. “Do you mean your police’ll bring out brushes and pans? And put aprons on?” Of course, there was always the old trick of the nice policeman and the nasty policeman. One to act as prisoner’s friend, the other as bullying interrogator.
“Wey man, what was it rived yor wire the forst time? Did ye find any bits o’ bomb?”
The MOD officer glared at Jack without comment.
“Ye won’t this time, neither! What’s rivin’ yor fence is somethin’ paranormal, man. It divvent like yor base no more than we do. But we divvent gan roond killin’ folk. How’ll ye like it when some enormities hoy theirsels at an eff-one-eleven as it’s takin’ off?”
“Is that a threat, Geordie?”
“Na it ain’t. This ain’t any ov wor doin’. If ye had any gumption ye’d be consultin’ an exorcist.”
Isn’t it any of our doing? thought Jeni. Isn’t it? Earlier she’d fainted at the end of the green lane. She’d fallen in the dirt. Nell helped her back to a seat in camp, and she still felt woozy. Jeni hadn’t said anything at first about her own vision of the ancient lane, degraded villagers, devilish monk – if the person was even human. No one else had mentioned seeing that.
After hunting through caravans and bus and VW and even shining a torch down the latrine pit at the rubbish bags and shit, the visitors departed, back to the confusion over the road.
“Aa’m not kiddin’, man, it’s paranormal,” she heard Jack telling Andy.
“Look, I’m sorry. But. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Bugger it, man, we’re winnin’.”
“We are? Something might be … doing things. It’s vile. Foul. It isn’t us.”
“Wey, so’s the base a clarty thing.”
“At least that’s natural – I can cope with it.”
“What’s natural aboot a nuclear war base? Was a hair of wor heeds harmed? Na! Somethin’s on wor side, for once.”
“Something ghastly, Jack. I feel contaminated.”
“Wey, it’s better than radioactivity. Maybe this is happenin’ on account of us. Wor hopes, wor passion. Maybe we’re on one of them ley lines Nell blethers aboot, an’ there’s a geat big power in the earth.”
With her pigtails like corn dollies and her ample harvest ripeness, Nell was a bit of an earth mother in appearance; but this was the first time that Jeni had heard Nell was interested in ley lines and all that nature-magic nonsense. Maybe Nell confided her beliefs only to her fellow campers because she was embarrassed, and could be wounded by scepticism or derision. The peace camp on this rural lane was a way for her to express such private feelings under a “sensible” banner, to fight for them under another flag.
Nell seemed too…healthy… to be responsible in any way for what was happening. Yet maybe she had noticed more than the others? And wouldn’t confide? It was Nell who had come to Jeni’s aid.
Jeni got up and walked over. Mitzi hurried to touch her supportively, and stroke Jeni’s cheek. The labrador’s wet nose nuzzled Jeni’s hand for reassurance. Momentarily Jeni recoiled as though a branding iron had touched her skin.
“I. … Did we see anything else apart from those … four beasts?”
Nobody admitted.
“Nell, did you?”
“Why me?”
“I just heard Jack mention how you’re interested in stuff like ley lines. Well, if you’re sensitive to … certain things … Personally I’m a political animal, but –”
“If you’re asking whether I’m psychic, the answer’s no. Sorry! Wouldn’t have minded being,” she conceded, “up until tonight. Oh no, I think what came through here is no friend of the earth. It isn’t to be courted.”
“Aa don’t knaa aboot that –”
“It isn’t, Jack. But we shouldn’t let it scare us, either. The goodness of the earth is stronger. Those Yanks were hyped up – for war. Servants of death, poor things. Maybe that’s what attracted … whatever. We mustn’t be like them. We mustn’t rejoice in what just happened. We must be ourselves, firmly and strongly, in key with …” – she gestured at the leafy lane – “�
� life.”
Impatiently Jeni said, “Well, I saw something more.” And she told then. She also repeated what Partridge had told her about the “evil” in the old Melfort. Yet she kept mum as to the reason why she hadn’t wanted to return to her own home that night; that seemed indescribable.
“The vicar put ideas in your head,” Andy said. “That’s why you saw –”
“It was real.”
“To you.”
“I saw the past.”
Mitzi cooed soothingly ; and Jeni thought of that opaque, confused moment in Oxford when … when what? When a force smashed Donna backwards.
A far stronger force had punched through the perimeter and ripped two living bodies limb from limb.
At that moment the main runway lights came on.
“Maybe they’re checkin’ it for monstrosities,” said Jack. “Ye knaa, Aa wes havin’ a crack wiv an electrician lad from Churtington. Met him in the Crown afore wor bit o’ trouble. Anyways, he wes once called in to do maintenance work on the cables for them roonway lights.” Jack told his story so as not to have to dwell on the recent horror. “So he got his pass with his photo on it, though they wouldn’t let him drive his own van. Ferried him oot there wiv his box o’ tricks, they did. They wouldn’t torn the power off either, an’ that’s twelve thoosand amps we’re talkin’ aboot. If ye touch the wrong bit you’re a gonner. So he’s workin’ doon this pit off the runway when he hears a click, an’ somethin’ hard gets jammed up his back. He torns roond slowly, an’ finds a couple o’ young Yankie soldier-boys coverin’ him. ‘Ye want te eat your rifle, sunshine?’ he asks. ‘Cos there’s twelve thoosand live amps doon here. If Aa even nudges this, yor gun’ll be rammed doon your gob.’ ”
But his story was interrupted. Wing and belly lights of an aircraft dipped from the eastwards…. With a roar and scream of throttling back, a giant transport jet came rolling along the runway.
“Grief, that’s a Galaxy” said Mal.
Scarcely had the great jet finished taxiing, than a companion plane touched down.
“They’re beefing up the base.” Mal’s voice was calm again. “They’re sneaking in stuff to control subversive Brits with. I feel it in my waters.”
Activity on base continued all night long, and Sunday morning too. It was a relief when Gareth eventually drove up in the Mini. A relief for Andy as well; he was jittering.
Jeni gestured at her sofa. “You can sleep on that tonight. Should I drive you into Churtington tomorrow? To the bus station? Shall I see if somebody in town has a spare room? You might want to go back to the camp.”
“I don’t know.” Andy relapsed on to the sofa, still clutching the Observer which he’d picked up from Jeni’s doormat. “I can’t decide. I feel. Like a coward. But.” Dropping the newspaper, he took out his Old Holborn tin and began, all thumbs, to make a cigarette. The Observer lay askew on the durrah rug. The main headline was: US WARNS SOVIET FLEET OFF SUEZ. A photo showed a sea streaked black, and for a moment Jeni thought she was seeing the aftermath of a naval battle; but those must be South African waters. The news seemed both urgent and out of date. She felt no desire to read it.
“I can’t take it.” He lit up.
“I’ll make us some coffee. Let’s go to the pub at lunch-time, hmm?”
Through in the kitchen she switched on Radio Four. Pick of the Week. Johnny Morris was telling faintly xenophobic anecdotes about funny Balkan foreigners. He faded in mid-flow.
A different, grim voice interrupted. “We break into this programme for an important newsflash. A nuclear weapon has exploded over Damascus, the capital of Syria –”
“Andy!” she screamed.
Fifteen
Gareth held Nancy’s hand as they watched Weekend World from noon on. News from the Near East was chaotic, save for the certain fact that Damascus had been annihilated and a fire-storm was raging. No pictures of this, not even satellite ones. Not yet. Parliament would meet in special session throughout the night to consider an Emergency Powers bill. Any MPs visiting their constituencies for the weekend would be hurrying back to Westminster.
“Do you think Jeni’s all right?” Nancy asked tonelessly.
“She has Andy with her.”
“What use is he? You said he’s having a breakdown. Maybe we should all get together.”
“I know it’s awful to say so,” Gareth murmured, “but this ghastly news could have one good side. America or Russia haven’t been hit directly. Syria, instead. That’s so terrible in itself that it might, well, haul everyone back from the brink. Scare them back to sanity. I’ve sometimes thought … maybe the world needed one new Hiroshima. One reminder, with today’s much more destructive nuke. As an object lesson. Since it’s only one bomb so far, it could save all our lives.”
On the screen journalists debated hotly, their comments interspersed by confusing updates, maps, and film footage – of Damascus before it died, the Knesset, the UN, the Soviet and American fleets.
“Yes it must have been the Israelis,” parroted Gareth. “Islamic Egypt and Syria were obviously planning a knockout blow. If the Yanks intervened, and the Russians took the Yanks on … well, the chaps in Jerusalem must have said to themselves, ‘It’s time. Take out Damascus, and the boat will rock like crazy but it probably won’t sink. We won’t all go down.’ Look you, nothing else has happened yet! If we can just last through today and tomorrow –”
“What’s this Emergency Powers bill? Why’s our government doing that? Jeni’ll know!”
“I suppose it’s a precaution.”
“But isn’t that preparing for worse?”
“‘That’s what a precaution is, Nance.”
“I wish we had a cellar. Why didn’t we buy a house with a cellar? Do you think we should close the curtains?”
He cuddled her. “They might set on fire. We can’t take any precautions that make sense.”
“I’m going to ask Jeni in. Why hasn’t she come round?”
“Let’s eat something hot.” Before the power supply goes off, he thought. And the TV, along with it. That might happen. Today. Next week. Today.
“Eat?” echoed Nancy.
“Do you suppose Jeni’s had a bean since last night? She’ll hardly be cooking now. Let’s stick something special in the microwave. How about those two moussakas?” Before the oven fails, before the freezer starts to thaw….
“You’re right. I’ll fetch her. And Andy.”
“Let me. You’ll start fretting, along with her.”
As Gareth stepped into Green Street a white VW cornered and raced past him to brake hard outside Jeni’s door. He recognized yellow pigtails, ginger hair and beard, a girl’s blonde crewcut. It was the peace campers. Nell, who’d been driving, and Jack scrambled out, followed by, what’s her name, Mitzi. Also, the fat black dog, which started barking at him. Nell was already banging Jeni’s horseshoe knocker.
“Hey there!”
“Gareth!” Jack stumbled towards him. “Mal’s dead – a Yank shot ’im! He bloody murdered him like vermin. They came boilin’ oot o’ the base in Jeeps an’ armoured cars an’ aal. One squad told us te boogar off immediately. Wivvin a minnit. Don’t stop te pack. Cos they’re shuttin’ off the main road – an’ getting’ rid o’ any folks they fancy for two miles roond, just like Jeni telt us. Hoying them oot o’ their hooses, Aa suppose.”
The door had opened, and Nell was telling Jeni.
“Wey, you knaa how Mal has a temper –’
“I didn’t know him very well.”
“He went berserk, man, an’ this Yank kid shot ’im lots o’ times. We just had to pile in Nell’s car and drive, or they’d ha’ shot us too. Mal’s bloody deed!” Jack cried to Jeni.
“Bastards, bastards,” swore Mitzi. “They were already starting on their road blocks, dumping sandbags round a machine gun.”
Jeni’s face was drained white.
“Come in, all of you.”
“No,” began Gareth. He was still on his appointe
d mission to invite Jeni, and Andy, for lunch; but then he counted heads. “No,” simply sounded like his own protest against an atrocious situation; and he crowded into the granny flat along with the others. At least he’d had no wall-to-wall carpets fitted to be soiled.
“Wey, wit a smashin’ home,” he heard Jack compliment Jeni briefly. Mitzi was busy spitting out their story to a stunned Andy.
“I don’t know if I can sleep four, and a dog,” Jeni said.
Gareth performed a lightning calculation.
“I’m sure Nance won’t mind Mitzi having our spare room.”
Mitzi was really too scrawny for his taste, an anorexic punky fifth-year type, and he recalled Jeni saying that the girl had been at Greenham, so she would be part of the women’s movement – of which he was all in favour so long as it wasn’t taken to extremes. Nancy shared this viewpoint, which was the reason why he and Nancy hadn’t entered into any domineering marriage bond complete with ring and ball and chain, but had become equal and friendly partners.
Nell, on the other hand, was well-fleshed; however he felt no gonadal response to her. Nell was too wholemeal, too bursting with bran, whereas he liked fluffy white bread.
Not that he visualized any hanky-panky with young Mitzi. Even so! She was a bit of a tearaway. Having her in the spare bed, and using the bathroom, should stimulate the old adrenalin and testosterone. In a time of crisis conventional behaviour often lapsed all round with nobody the wiser or culpable.
“You’ll only take Mitzi? That still leaves me three people, Gareth. Your place is bigger.”
“I don’t mind kipping on Mitzi’s floor,” offered Nell. “I’m better padded, aren’t I?”
“Or you could both take turns. Good, that’s settled.”
Settled by Jeni. Gareth pulled himself together. “Do you have enough food? There’ll be panic buying tomorrow. You should get on down to the shop first thing before everyone else thinks of it.” The larder in Old Roses was healthily full; Jeni’s was a different kettle of fish. Gareth was tempted to inspect it.
