Veitch had selected the location after careful study of the maps, and they all had to agree it was so off the beaten track it was as good a hiding place as any. They plunged down into thick woodland where the dark lay heavy and cool and the only sound was the eerie soughing of the wind, like distant voices urging them to stray from the path. A mile later they emerged to a breathtaking sight: the Allen Gorge. Four miles long, its precipitously steep sides soared up two hundred and fifty feet, covered with so many trees it looked like an Alpine landscape. Secluded pathways wound along the riverside and away into the trees.
“We could hide here for weeks if we wanted.” Veitch’s voice held a note of pride that the reality matched up to his expectations.
They followed a path into the area with the thickest tree cover and then ploughed off into the wild. They finally halted when they couldn’t see the path clearly any longer. The tents went up quickly in a circle, and at the heart of it Veitch dug a pit for a fire.
In the early evening sun, Church and Shavi went exploring. They found an outcropping rock in a clearing on the side of the gorge where they had majestic views over the entire area. They were both instantly struck by the immaculate beauty of the place.
“You know, if we lose all the technology, maybe it won’t be so bad,” Church mused. “We’ll still have all this.”
Before Shavi could reply, the tranquillity was shattered by the roar of two jets burning through the sky in the direction of Newcastle. “I bet they’re not test flights,” Church said. “Looks like trouble.”
Fifteen minutes later another one followed, but before it had crossed the arc of the sky, the technology chose that moment to fail once more. They saw the jet plummet from the sky like a boulder, hitting the ground with an explosion that made their ears ring despite their distance from ground zero. They stood in silence for a long time, watching the black pall of smoke merge with the clouds. Wrapped up in that incident was the failure of everything they knew; Church found himself questioning his earlier statement. They couldn’t put it into any kind of perspective, and in the end, they didn’t even try. They wandered back to the camp, thinking about the poor pilot, wondering what was happening in Newcastle, glad they were hidden in their perfect isolation.
Dinner was beans and bread, and sausages for all except Laura and Shavi. They ate around the campfire in the balmy summer evening atmosphere, enjoying the fading light as it filtered down through the canopy. The crack and pop of the fire was relaxing as the night drew in. It was the first time in weeks they had been able to eat peacefully without a very real fear of pursuit or some other pervasive threat hanging over their heads; they found it hard to adjust.
After the meal, they sat drinking coffee for a while, listening to the sounds of the owls coming alive in the trees and then they broke up for some time to be alone with their thoughts. They agreed to meet up later in the evening to celebrate with the good supply of beer and whisky they’d brought with them.
Church was the first back to the camp after a quiet stroll among the trees, where he had forced himself not to think about anything too troubling. Ruth was still resting where they had left her, staring into the flames. She looked up and smiled when he approached.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Much better. My stump’s stopped aching and I feel quite rested-my energy’s coming back. Whatever Tom puts in those foul concoctions he makes up, he should sell it in bulk to the NHS.” She paused thoughtfully. “If there still is an NHS. Apart from that I’ve just got a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I’ve eaten sour apples. That’s the least I expected, to be honest. I could be up and about like normal in a couple of days.”
He dropped down next to her and slipped an arm around her shoulders. They had grown easy in their friendship since the night they had met under Albert Bridge, drawing comfort from the many similarities between them, enjoying the differences. They both felt that when the situation was at its worst, they could always turn to each other for support.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Church said matter-of-factly.
Ruth dropped her head on to his shoulder, remembering a similar scenario on Skye, not so long ago, but a world away in experience. “There was a time I thought I wasn’t going to make it back. I thought they were going to torture me and torture me until I died just because I couldn’t take it any more.”
“Ryan’s right, Ruth. You came through it. You’ve shown what huge reserves you’ve got inside you. It may seem like a nightmare now, but in the long term, that’s a good thing.”
One thing still troubled her, but she didn’t see any point in telling Church; it seemed so minor after everything else. Since she had left her cell there had been no sign of her owl, or whatever creature it was that took that form. She was surprised at how distressed that made her feel. It wasn’t just that it hadn’t found her yet; she felt instinctively that some deep bond had been broken.
What could have happened to cause that? The education she had been receiving in her cell still sang in her mind, so powerfully had it been learned. She had been rapidly growing closer to the way the familiar had wanted her to be.
One thought did worry her: that there had been no familiar; it was all a hallucination caused by her suffering, and the owl that had followed her for the last few weeks was simply a bird and nothing more.
Church lounged back on his elbows. “It feels good to know we’ve done something right for a change.” He glanced down at her hand and winced. “Even though we paid a big price for it.”
“What are we going to do now? We can’t call ourselves losers any more.” Ruth butted him gently with her head; their easy familiarity soothed her almost as much as Tom’s herbal remedies. “Don’t tell me you’ve finally shaken that mis- erabilist streak.”
“What, and change the habits of a lifetime? It’s just taking a few days off.” He laughed quietly. “And I’m certainly not going to let anything ruin the celebration tonight. After all the shit we’ve waded through over the last few weeks, this is going to be the party to end all parties.”
Laura had found a boulder near to the river where she could sit and think. The sound of rushing water always calmed her. As a girl she’d dreamed of living near the coast and taken every opportunity to let her parents know how she felt. Her father had even agreed once, and they’d sat together looking at his AA Book of the Road, searching for the perfect home. If she remembered rightly, they’d decided on somewhere in South Devon. But that was before her mother had truly let God move her in mysterious ways-all the way from sanity to the other end of the scale. The failure to uproot, despite her father’s promises, was just the first and most minor of a lifetime of disappointments. Since then there had been so many she’d become inured to them; any happiness was an aberration to be questioned.
She’d never really thought her cynical outlook actually brought about her disappointments, but if it was the case, it was too late to change. After she’d met Church, it had seemed her life’s route had taken a sudden detour to the sunny side of the street and things really could work out as she hoped. But perhaps that had just been the desperation influencing her. She’d long ago learned wishing and hoping didn’t make things real, and now it all seemed to be slipping back to the old ways. Church didn’t love her, not the way she loved him. The others, she was sure, secretly hated her; she certainly hadn’t done anything to make them think otherwise, however much she secretly admired them. She was always screwing up, dragging them into bad situations.
And now there was the thing with her blood. What was happening to her? It terrified her to the core of her being and she desperately wished there was someone she could talk to about it. But there wasn’t, not even Church. Her thoughts and emotions had to stay locked up, same as they always had; it was the only true way to protect herself.
She would have expected a degree of bitterness, but now that she examined her state of mind she realised there was only a damp, grey acceptance. And wasn
’t that the most pathetic thing?
A vague movement among the trees caused her to turn suddenly. It was only Veitch, his face a curious mask that hinted at emotions but gave nothing away.
“I thought you were supposed to be the big warrior-strategist-whatever,” she sneered. “You couldn’t creep up on a deaf, blind person.”
“I wasn’t creeping.”
Now she thought she did see emotions: anger, suspicion, hatred, although that was perhaps too strong. Suddenly, inexplicably, she felt frightened. “Yeah, well, don’t try coming a-wooing. I’ve already told you where I stand on that front.”
“I wouldn’t dirty myself.”
“Ooh, bitchy. Well, you’re not exactly the catch of the century, believe me.”
He grabbed her arm so roughly she let out a sharp squeal.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” She shook him off angrily.
His eyes blazed coldly and suddenly she was aware of the hardness of his body, the tendons like steel wire. She jumped off the rock and began to march back in the direction of the camp. He made another lunge at her, but she anticipated it and dodged beyond his fingers.
“Don’t fucking walk away from me.”
“What’s the matter? Can’t get laid the normal way so you have to take it like some Neanderthal?” She fought to keep the tremor from her voice.
Her words, though, seemed to shock him. A puzzled expression crossed his features, as if he was struggling to understand her meaning. Then the anger returned harder than ever. “I’d never do anything like that!” The words hissed between his teeth like steam from a fractured pipe. “Is that what you think of me?”
“You’re not exactly acting like Prince Charming.” She couldn’t resist turning to face him, knowing she had a clear path to the camp if she needed to make a run for it.
“You’ve got a smart mouth.” He took a step forward, but he restrained himself from making another lunge for her.
“Come on then!” Suddenly it was impossible to control herself and all the pent-up rage, all the self-loathing and despair erupted. “Give it to me! What’s rubbing you up the wrong way?”
“You!” He jabbed a finger at her face. “You wander around throwing out smart comments, acting so cool and aloof like you’re better than everybody! But I’ve got you figured out! I know you had something to do with what happened to Ruth-“
She threw up her arms in amazement. “You are so off the fucking mark you’re on another planet!” She turned and set off through the trees, her head spinning from the rush of emotion.
The roar of breath expelled from Veitch’s mouth was animalistic, the sound of someone who couldn’t cope. And then she heard the crash of his feet on the ground as he set off after her. She didn’t wait any longer. She put her head down and ran, glad she was wearing boots and jeans, weaving through the trees as fast as she could go. But it was too dark. She slammed against a tree, winded herself, smashed a shin against an outcropping rock. Behind she could hear the grunts and yells of Witch’s angry pursuit; he was moving swiftly, avoiding all obstacles like some night-hunting panther. He’d be on her in a minute.
The fear sluiced all the hot emotions from her in a cold wash. And what would he do when he caught her? Her heart hammered as she leapt a fallen tree, ducked beneath a low branch.
“Bitch!” The word was low and hard.
In her rising panic, her thoughts flatlined. She made a move to jump a hollow, twisted her ankle, and then she was falling off-balance. She hit the ground hard, saw stars, slid through the undergrowth that tore at her face and hair, and came to a halt against a pile of rocks. Pain flared through her side and involuntary tears sprang to her eyes.
Veitch was over her a second later, rising up dark and empowered like some monstrous creature from a forties horror movie. His fists were bunched, raised to hit her. “I know you did Ruth somehow! Did it yourself, or fucking sold her down the river! You’re the traitor they told us about! But I’m fucking on to you!”
Something seemed to explode in his face and then the fist was swinging. Laura cried out, closed her eyes, threw her head to one side.
When the blow didn’t come, the chaotic jumble of her thoughts fell quickly into place and she looked up. Veitch was sitting down, his head in his hands and when he looked up a few seconds later, his eyes shone with tears. “Fucking bitch! You’ve brought me to this!” His voice was a croak of repressed emotion. “I’d never hurt a woman. Never!”
“You have a good way of showing-” For the first time she managed to bite off her comment. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to Ruth. And I’m not a traitor.” She tried to keep her voice measured.
“I don’t believe you.” By the time he’d stood up and walked a few paces through the trees he’d composed himself. “I don’t believe you,” he repeated; the threat in his voice made her blood run cold. “I’ve been watching you. I’ll keep watching you. I’m not going to let the others get hurt. I’m going to make sure someone pays for Ruth. One sign, that’s all I need. One sign. And you’re dead.”
He disappeared into the gloom among the trees, silently, dangerously.
Once he was out of sight, Laura crumpled and all the tears she had held in for a lifetime came flooding out.
After she had managed to collect herself, the golden glow of the fire drew her back to the camp. But as the trees thinned towards the clearing her heart caught in her throat. There was Church, his arm around Ruth, her head on his shoulder. It wasn’t jealousy she felt; she could see there was nothing furtive about their body language. Instead she was hit by the aching revelation that she could never attain the depth of Church and Ruth’s relationship: the easy familiarity, the emotional honesty, the warmth were all apparent, even at a casual glance. And she could see there was love there, a kind she would have given anything to experience, so subtle Church and Ruth seemed oblivious to it themselves.
She couldn’t blame Church. The fault was within herself. Something had been broken during those lean years of childhood and early teens; however much she tried, she couldn’t give up her emotions honestly, and so she had consigned herself to a life of being shut in the prison of her body, feeling something keenly, hearing a corrupted version emerge from her lips; an emotional synaesthesia.
As she watched them, she hurt so profoundly she felt there was a physical pain deep inside; the hopelessness for herself was even more overwhelming than when she had realised she could never attain the loving family life of her school friends, so deep there was no point fighting it; acceptance was the only option.
She rubbed her face muscles, as if that would break up the desperate expression, fixed an ironic smile and stepped out from the shadows.
“Well, Siamese twins,” she said sharply. “You should get on the waiting list for the operation.”
Within the hour they were all sitting around the heartily blazing campfire. The night was balmy, dreamlike, alive with the crackle of the burning wood, the calls of hunting owls, the flitter of moths and crane-flies. It felt like a time of peace, a time when anything could happen.
Church lounged on his side and threw twigs into the flames. Next to him was Ruth, who seemed to be getting brighter with each passing moment, except for the occasional queasy expression. Laura and Veitch sat on opposite sides of the fire, never making eye contact, yet acutely aware of an atmosphere of suspicion and threat hanging over them like a poisonous cloud. They both knew, whatever happened, they would never overcome it.
Tom sat cross-legged, rolling a joint, alone with his thoughts. Shavi was beside him, handing out the cans of beer when needed, ensuring the bottle of whisky never stayed in one place too long. When he had first returned to the camp, his face was grey and haggard, as if he was suffering from some debilitating illness, but Laura recognised the truth instantly. She knew in the dark woods he had encountered the thing that would never leave him alone, and she knew how deeply it had affected him, yet he never complained to any of th
e others about his private burden. She wished she had some of the inner strength that saw him through it. When the others weren’t looking she gave his hand a secret squeeze; his smile made her night.
The drink flowed freely, the conversation ranged across a variety of subjects: archaeology, drugs, music, films, sex, football, but nothing dark or threatening; it was a celebration of all the things that made their lives worth living.
Shavi became animated when the talk drifted on to some of the places they had seen in their travels: the wonders of Stonehenge and Avebury, infused with history, meaning and mystery, the rugged beauty of Cornwall, the joys of little seaside towns, the majesty of the Lake District and the Scottish Highlands.
“There is nowhere in the world that is richer in natural beauty than Britain,” he said. “Stories of the people live on in the shape of the hedgerows, in the cut of fields, in the landscape itself. The place is a living mythology, constantly changing with the weather. The fens in a storm, Oxfordshire in winter, London on a summer night. Mountains and marches, beaches and flood plains, rivers and gorges and chalk downs. Where else can you find all those in a short drive of each other?” He sighed, tracing his fingers along the soil. “There is magic infused in the very fabric of the place.”
“The history adds to it for me,” Church noted. “It’s not just about the beauty of the landscape. It’s the places where humanity and nature have interacted.”
“Exactly,” Shavi said passionately. “Which is why an industrial landscape can be as exciting as a natural one. It all comes down to single images, frozen in time. Step back, look at them, and you can see the magic instantly. Power stations gushing white clouds at sunset. Wildfowl skimming the glassy surface of the Norfolk Broads. People trooping home from the tube after work on a cold winter night, smelling cooking food, hearing music and TV noise coming from a hundred windows. Tractors rolling down a snow-covered lane.” They drifted with his lyrical words, conjuring up the pictures he described. “And that,” he said firmly, “is what the blue fire represents.”
Darkest Hour (Age of Misrule, Book 2) Page 33