Ruth saw the anger flare in Church’s face and calmed him with a hand on his forearm. She turned round in her seat and stared at the hippie coldly. “You’ve been speaking like you know what’s happening. You’ve been acting like you were waiting for us, even though we didn’t even know we were going to stop here. I’ve just had the most frightening experience of my life. Don’t play games with us.”
Tom removed a small tin from his haversack and began to roll himself a thin cigarette. To Church’s irritation, he remained silent until the blue smoke clouded his face, and then he said, “The world you grew up in is dead. It simply doesn’t know it yet. This society is like some dumb animal that’s had its throat cut and is still wandering around as if nothing has happened. You see, the most enormous conceit of this time is that the rules of the game are known. The scientists have fooled the populace-and themselves-that the universe is like clockwork, and that grand lie will cost everyone dearly. The universe is not like clockwork. The universe is like stoats fighting in a sack, bloody and chaotic, and any rules there might be could never be glimpsed by you or I.”
He sucked on his cigarette, choked a cough in his throat. Church felt odd licks of anxiety, while Ruth waited for the punchline.
“The one true law of the universe is duality,” Tom continued. “You would think even the most confused of philosophers would see that, but it seems to have eluded all the apologists for this so-called Age of Reason. Hot and cold. Life and death. Good and evil. And what would be the flipside of science?”
He addressed the question to Ruth, but it was Church who answered: “Magic?”
Tom smiled slyly. “The seasons have turned. The Age of Reason has passed. We’re on the cusp of a new age.”
Church laughed dismissively. “I thought all that Age of Aquarius rubbish went out with flower children and love-ins.”
“The Age of Aquarius is one way of making sense of it, but it isn’t the whole of it. Yes, we are entering an era of spirituality, wisdom and magic. But there will also be blood and brutality. All I’m saying is you must let go of old certitudes, keep an open mind. That’s the only way you’ll be able to face the trials that lie ahead.”
“You’re not telling us anything,” Church protested.
“This isn’t the time or the place. We need to move quickly. What happened back there wasn’t the end of it. They won’t be happy till you’re both dead.”
When Church looked in the rearview mirror he could tell from Tom’s set face that he was not about to reveal any more. A small nugget of anger made him want to drop the man off at the next services in retaliation, but he knew he couldn’t dismiss the one person who seemed to know something about what was happening in his suddenly chaotic life. He glanced at Ruth, who smiled back as warmly as she could muster, but her eyes were still terribly scared.
They hadn’t gone much further when Ruth’s mobile phone rang. She answered it, then said to Church, “It’s someone called Dale for you.”
“He’s a friend. I gave him your number for emergencies.” He nursed the phone against his shoulder as he drove. “What’s wrong, Dale?”
“You tell me.” Dale’s voice was drawn and worried. There was a long pause, then he said, “You’ve had some trouble at your flat.”
“What do you mean?”
Dale sighed. “Well, there’s no easy way to say this … It’s been burnt out.”
“What?” Church almost dropped the phone.
“Someone broke down the door, then set fire to it. The fire brigade got there before it took out the rest of the house, but … well, I’m sorry, Church, everything’s a write-off.” Another pause. “That’s not all. I’ve had the cops round here asking after you. I don’t know how they found out where I worked, how they even knew we were friends …” Dale’s voice faded; he sounded disorientated, worried. “They wanted to know where you were. I got the feeling it was about more than the fire.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing, honest. Listen, if you’re in any trouble-“
“Don’t worry, Dale. It’s probably just a mix-up. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell them where we are.”
“I don’t know where you are!”
“Then you won’t have to lie.”
After he’d switched off the phone, he told Ruth what Dale had told him. “They have probably done the same to your home too,” Tom said to Ruth. “And if either of you had been there you would be lying in the ashes now.”
“Who are they?” Church snapped; he felt at breaking point.
Tom sniffed at Church’s tone, then lay across the seat and closed his eyes. “Later,” he said dismissively. However much Church protested, he wouldn’t respond, and in the end Church and Ruth were forced into a desperate silence as the sun slipped towards the horizon.
chapter four
the purifying fire
wilight was upon them. The traffic was growing heavier as the weekend rush from London to country homes in the west gathered force. The lights of Reading were now behind and the featureless landscape they had been passing through since they left the capital had given way to more wooded countryside, the trees eventually pressing in so that at times it was impossible to see beyond the edges of the motorway. Church adjusted the rearview mirror to check on Tom, who was still asleep on the back seat.
“Perfect. He sleeps, we worry.”
Ruth glanced at him askance. They had barely spoken since they had restarted the journey, lost in their own thoughts. “Patience is a virtue,” she said.
“I don’t trust him,” Church said quietly. “I don’t like being manipulated and that’s what he’s doing with all his talk that says nothing.” When he glanced at Ruth for a response, he saw how exhausted she looked; her experience at the service station was taking its toll. “Why don’t you close your eyes for a while?” he suggested.
She shook her head. “Every time I do that, all I can see is that bastard coming at me in the toilets.”
“You’ll get over it. I’ve seen you in action-you can cope with anything.”
“Is that what it looks like? In my head I feel like I’ve fought every step of the way through my life to keep it all from falling apart.” She watched the grey light disappearing over the horizon ahead. “My dad always expected great things from me. He was the one who pushed me into the law. I think he had this idea I’d be some bigshot barrister.”
“Don’t you like the job?”
“There were other things I could have done,” she said noncommittally. “But I suppose my dad’s attitude made me focused. Now I don’t think I could loosen up if I tried.”
“You can never shake off those chains that keep you tied to the past, can you?” He thought of Marianne and the night swept in.
The driving was hard. There were too many lorries winding their way to Bristol, too many coaches with weekend trippers, cars bumper-to-bumper, filled with anxious, irritable people desperate to get out of the city for a breath of fresh air, even though they were destroying it with each piston pump and exhaust belch. Drivers threw themselves in front of Church in suicidal bids to win the race, forcing him to slam on the brakes, cursing through gritted teeth. There were a thousand accidents waiting to happen in sleepy eye and stressed hand; the desire to escape was voracious, coloured by all sorts of ancient impulses. Church put on London Calling by The Clash to drown out the noise of the traffic, but Ruth had turned it down before Strummer had barely started to sing so as not to wake Tom; Church couldn’t tell if it was through kindness or because she was afraid of what their new companion might have to say.
Newbury and Hungerford were long gone and they were on the flat, unspoiled stretch of countryside somewhere near the Ridgway. Swindon’s lights burned orange in the sky ahead. Church flexed his aching fingers off the steering wheel. It would be late by the time they reached Bristol and they still had to find somewhere to stay. In the back seat, Tom stirred, mumbled something, then hauled himself upright to lean on Ch
urch and Ruth’s seats. “We need to find something to eat,” he said bluntly.
“Right away, Tom,” Church replied acidly. “Have to keep you well-fed after your long sleep.”
“Can we try to get along?” Ruth asked. “This is a very small car for-” She paused suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” Church asked.
Ruth leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” The traffic was too heavy for Church to take his eyes off the road.
“A flash of light in the sky over to the south-west.”
“A UFO? I can give you Barry Riggs’ number if you like. I’m sure he’d like to take you to his secret base.”
“Maybe it was lightning,” Ruth mused, still searching the skies.
“Actually, Salisbury Plain’s over there somewhere,” Church continued. “They had a big UFO flap down near Warminster in the sixties when all the believers and hippies used to gather on the hilltops to wait for the mothership to come.” He glanced in the mirror to see if Tom would rise to the bait, but the man ignored his gaze.
There was another flash and this time they all saw it: among the clouds, lighting them in an orange burst like a firework. “That’s not lightning,” Church said. “It’s more like a flare.” His attention had wavered from the road and he had to brake sharply to avoid hitting the car in front, which had slowed down as the driver also saw the lights.
“How long until you can get off this road?” Tom asked sharply.
“We don’t need to get off this road.”
“How long?”
The tone of his voice snapped Church alert. “Not long. I remember a junction somewhere on the outskirts of Swindon. Why?” Church glanced in the mirror, but Tom had his face pressed against the passenger window scanning the night sky.
There was another burst of light somewhere above them, so bright that Church saw the ruddy glare reflected on the roofs of the cars around. Ruth gasped in shock.
“What’s going on?” Church thumped the horn as another distracted driver strayed across the line into his lane. “There’s going to be a pile-up in a minute!”
Ruth tried to crane her neck to see upwards through the windscreen. “I think there’s something up there,” she said.
“Probably the army on helicopter manoeuvres with no thought for anyone else as usual,” Church said. “Jesus Christ!” He swung the wheel to avoid hitting a motorbike weaving in and out of the traffic. The rider kept glancing up at the sky in panic as he gunned the machine. Cold water washed up Church’s spine. The traffic had become more dense, with no space to overtake. He was glad he was in the slow lane, with the hard shoulder available for any drastic evasive action.
Tom was becoming more anxious by the second. “We must leave this traffic as soon as possible,” he stressed.
“I’m doing the best I can,” Church snapped. “Do you think I can pick up the car and run with it?”
Ahead of them something big swept across the motorway about thirty feet off the ground. It was just a blur, a block of darkness against the lighter night sky, but its size and speed made Church catch his breath.
“What the hell was that?” he exclaimed.
“My God,” Ruth whispered in awe. “Was that alive?”
The shock rippled back through the vehicles in a slewing of wheels and a sparking of brake lights. A red Fiesta gouged a furrow along the side of a Beetle before righting itself. There was a burst of exploding glass as a car in the centre lane clipped the one in front. Both cars fishtailed, but miraculously kept going.
Church was afraid to take his eyes off the road, but he had the awful feeling that something terrible was about to happen. He wound down the window; above the rumble of the traffic he could hear an odd noise, rhythmic, loud, like the rending of thick cloth. After a second or two he suddenly realised what it sounded like: the beating of enormous wings.
He shifted the rearview mirror. Reflected in it was Tom’s troubled face, his jaw set hard. “What’s going on?” Church barked. “You know, don’t you?”
Before Tom could answer, a column of fire blazed from the black sky on to a blue Orion, shattering all the windows with one tremendous blast and, a split second later, igniting the petrol tank. The car went up like it had been bombed. And then all hell erupted.
A shockwave exploded out, driving chunks of twisted metal and burning plastic like guided missiles, shattering windscreens, careening off roofs and bonnets, imbedding in doors and wings. The vehicles closest to the blast were the first to go. Some were travelling too fast and simply ploughed into the inferno. Others, attempting to avoid it, swerved, clipped other vehicles and set off a complex pattern of ricochets that rippled across the motorway. A lorry, its windscreen a mass of frosted glass, crushed a Peugeot before slamming into the side of a coach. The coach driver fought with the wheel as his vehicle went over on two wheels, then back on the other two, before toppling over completely in a bone-juddering impact that crushed two more cars. Church caught sight of terrified white faces through glass and felt his stomach churn.
And then there was chaos as vehicles thundered into each other, smashing through the central reservation, piling up twisted wreckage in a deafening Wagnerian cacophony of exploding glass, screeching tires and rending metal, until it seemed all six lanes were filled with death and destruction. The flames leapt from collision to collision, feeding on ruptured petrol tanks, until a wall of fire blazed across the whole of the motorway. Another column of fire lanced down from the heavens, blowing up a living fountain of flame that soared high above their heads.
Their ears rang from the noise, and the sudden, awful smell of thick smoke and petrol engulfed them as Church threw the car on to the hard shoulder; the accident had happened too fast for the vehicles ahead to attempt the same route. Behind them and to the side, cars were still smashing into the carnage. Ruth thought she could hear terrible screams buried in the sounds of wreckage, but she convinced herself it was just an illusion. A juggernaut jackknifed and was lost to the fire. A motorcyclist skidded along at ground level, his arms raised in a futile attempt to ward off the inevitable. And more, and more, too much to bear. They turned their heads away as one, and Church hit the accelerator, launching the car forward. The nearside wheels churned up mud and grass on the bank; the rear end skidded wildly, but he kept his foot to the floor. As they approached the inferno at breakneck speed, Ruth screamed and threw her arms across her face, Tom dropped flat on the seat and Church closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.
The heat made his skin bloom and he half-expected the glass to implode, but then they were through it and racing across the empty motorway ahead.
“God,” Ruth said in shock. She clasped her hands together in her lap to stop them shaking.
Church slowed down and headed towards one of the emergency phones on the hard shoulder.
“Don’t stop!” Tom yelled. “The worm will still be here. It doesn’t give up easily!” Then he added with exasperation, “Don’t you see? It’s after us.”
Church swung the car in a wide arc until they faced the wall of fire. Vehicles had backed up on the other side of the central barrier. In the distance came the sound of sirens.
“What are you doing?” Tom snapped.
“I have to see for myself.” Church leaned forward over the wheel and searched the skies. He and Ruth saw it at the same moment, just a glimmer at first, high above the billowing grey smoke. But as it came lower it fell into focus and they both froze in their seats. They saw glints of copper and gold and green as the red glare of the fire burnished its scales. A scarlet eye as bright as a brake light. Enormous, leathery wings that beat the air with a slow, heavy rhythm, and a long tail that writhed and twisted behind it as if it had a separate existence. As it swooped low, it opened its mouth wide and belched a gush of golden-orange fire that sprayed into the inferno and sent another torrent of flames spouting high. Its movements were fluid as it soared on the air currents, te
rrifying and majestic at the same time.
“I don’t believe it,” Ruth said in hushed, incredulous tones. Church’s head was spinning.
“They have been away too long, excluded against their will. They miss their old places,” said Tom.
“I don’t believe it,” Church echoed in a mix of wonder and fear.
Tom rested a hand on his shoulder. “We have to be away. It will soon realise we’ve escaped its first strike.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Church spun round in a rage. “You know. Tell us!”
“I told you.” Tom’s tone was darker than he intended. “They’ve recognised you. They won’t let you live.”
“Stop procrastinating-“
Ruth caught his arm, signalling that it wasn’t the time or the place. “Where will we go?” she said in dismay. “Look at the speed of it. It won’t take long to catch us, however fast we’re driving.”
“There’s only one place we can be assured of safety until dawn comes,” Tom replied. “But it’s still a long journey from here. We have to get the wind behind us and pray to God we reach there first.”
Following Tom’s directions, Church put the pedal to the floor until they reached the next exit, where they took the A346 south. An oppressive silence lay on them as they each struggled with the terrible sights they had witnessed. Even with the window down, Church couldn’t clear the stink of burning from his nose, and when he glanced at Ruth, he saw in the flicker of the street lamps her cheeks were wet. Behind all the churning emotions was an incomprehension at how they had suddenly found themselves in a situation where terrible, unbelievable forces had emerged from the shadows to target them alone. There seemed no reason for the magnitude of the power ranged against them, or for the unflinching focus of its cold eye.
Tom barely removed his head from the rear window shelf, where he was pressing his face against the glass in numerous contortions to search the skies. The thick cloud cover made it impossible to get a clear view, but the wind had blown the rain away and the driving was easier.
World's End Page 8