Dark Ages

CHAPTER V

Heaven and Hell

1

Lyn had lent her a bathrobe, but Fran was dressed when she came on through for breakfast. Mucking in like a flatmate was all very well – but she still ventured round with a visitor’s reserve. Finding Lyn at the table in her dressing gown was vaguely embarrassing: like having her friend at some kind of disadvantage. But Lyn looked preoccupied, and pale: chewing mechanically on her toast. Her normally bright greeting was a wan, subdued hello. Being seen half-dressed was obviously the last thing on her mind.

Fran moved past her to the coffee pot and toaster, surreptitiously glancing at the tabletop. The paper was still folded; a couple of brown envelopes lay unopened. So what was up, she wondered?

Sitting down, she saw the shadows round Lyn’s eyes; the pinched look to her mouth. ‘Did you sleep all right?’ she asked.

Lyn shrugged, and shook her head. ‘Not really. Woke up about three, and couldn’t get off again. You know what it’s like.’

Fran knew, all right. She’d lain awake for ages, before snatching back a couple of hours’ sleep. She was just about to say so when Lyn breathed out and went on.

‘I was dreaming about Martin.’

There was a wistfulness in her voice that made Fran feel a little wary. She didn’t know much about Lyn’s brother; had only met him once, when he’d come visiting at Oxford. He had his sister’s dark, straight hair; her brown, expressive eyes. Caught unawares, his clean-cut face was serious, almost solemn. Then Lyn had introduced him, rather proudly, and he’d charmed her with a warm, engaging smile.

‘Oh,’ Fran said. Then: ‘What’s he doing now?’

A moment’s pause, Lyn staring at the table. Then she shook her head again. Said softly: ‘I don’t know.’

Fran put her coffee down, and waited.

‘He left home two years ago. Just chucked everything and went. I got a card from him at Christmas … but Mum and Dad heard nothing. Not a word. It worries them so much.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Don’t know. He didn’t say. I couldn’t even read the bloody postmark.’

Fran bit her lip. ‘God, Lyn. I didn’t know.’ She felt a stab of guilt. ‘You don’t need my troubles on top of yours …’

Lyn waved that off. ‘Don’t worry. Please don’t think that. He’s twenty, he can look after himself …’ She ran her hand back through her hair. ‘We were happy at home, the two of us. Really happy. But it was getting so that he felt cooped up there – always under our parents’ feet. He mucked his A-Levels up, you see. He couldn’t get a job.’

‘I remember him visiting you,’ Fran said carefully. ‘You got on well together, didn’t you.’

‘I think about him every day. I mean, I don’t just sit there moping, but … he’ll get into my head at some point. Just for a minute, maybe; but he’s there.’

Fran thought of them together, in the Christ Church staircase. No shadows there, no worries; just a handsome teenage boy with his big sister. The thought of that lost happiness made her ache on Lyn’s behalf. And how must their parents feel?

Maybe just the same as hers had, when their daughter withdrew into a world of her own: slamming the gates behind her.

‘Anyway …’ Lyn sighed, ‘there’s no point brooding. He’ll get in touch when he’s good and ready.’ She straightened her back, and summoned up a smile. ‘What are your plans for today? You’re seeing Craig again?’

Fran nodded. ‘I’m meeting him for lunch; and then we’ll go … wherever.’

‘Remember what I said about bringing him back. He’s welcome. I’ll cook you dinner, if you like.’

‘That’s an idea. That would be great, actually. When would be a good time?’

‘Well … Not tonight, I want to stay late at the library. How about tomorrow? Ask him.’

‘I will,’ Fran murmured, ‘thanks.’ And even as she smiled, an idea slipped into her head. A sudden thought that left her short of breath. She could bring him home this afternoon, if Lyn was working late. She could shag him on the futon, and her friend would never know.

She glanced down quickly; raised her mug and drank. Surely her guilt was showing on her face. But if it was, Lyn clearly hadn’t noticed. She was opening the paper in a listless sort of way.

Fran let her gaze drift off around the kitchen: a show of calm disinterest while she weighed the options up. She couldn’t take advantage, not like that. But then again … where was the harm? It wasn’t as if she’d lied to Lyn. She could just neglect to mention that she’d brought Craig back for tea. And let him screw her.

The prospect was as thrilling as their very first weekend. He’d taken some leave, collected her at Oxford, and driven them out to that posh country hotel. This wasn’t the place to think of that (though she wanted to, right now). But her appetite was back, and undiminished. Her feelings had lain dormant, like a seed in frozen ground; but now, at last, the thaw was setting in.

Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.

God, it was years since she’d sung that hymn. It made her think of Easter at Aldermaston. She felt a bit abashed about misusing it like that. But only a bit.

‘Any shopping you’d like some help with?’ she asked, as a salve for her conscience.

‘It’s all right, thanks. I’m going to take things easy this morning. You have a really good day.’

The churning in Fran’s belly quite belied her modest smile. I’m going to, she thought. She couldn’t wait.

2

When Fran had gone, Lyn dumped the breakfast dishes in the sink and let them soak. It normally went against the grain, to leave a chore for later; but this morning she just couldn’t be bothered. The apathy extended to her morning ablutions; she hadn’t had her shower yet, nor even cleaned her teeth. She was running on flat batteries – but going back to bed would do no good. It was more than simple lack of sleep that had left her feeling drained.

She walked through the flat, and found it looking duller. The carpet felt rough and fluffy under her bare feet. Bits of her thesis were still scattered round the living room. She went round picking them up, and took them over to the table.

Æthelgar. The name that had burned in her head last night seemed cold and lifeless now: like ashes in a grate. She gazed at the word with a vague sense of resentment – then dumped her notes on top, and crushed it flat.

She could remember the book quite clearly – tucked away at the end of a shelf. Myth and Magic in Medieval Europe. One of Daddy’s expensive books. One of the ones he’d told her not to touch.

She’d kept away at first, like a good little girl. But curiosity had got the better of her in the end. She could see herself now, nine or ten years old and sitting on the carpeted floorboards with an open book before her, the summer evening sunlight spread like syrup on the wall.

The first book was huge, too big for her to hold. Most of the pages were grey, and rough: a bit like paper towels. But some were smooth and shiny, with black and white photos – or paintings in glorious colour, like the sun breaking through clouds.

It was called The Flowering of the Middle Ages. She’d often seen Daddy browsing through it, sitting in his easy chair beside the window. There was a painting of a knight on the cover – a horseman with a dark, mysterious face. So this evening she’d come in, and hauled it down off its shelf, and slowly started leafing through the pages. The words were dull and difficult, but the pictures held her spellbound.

The second book had caught her eye as she’d put the first away. Magic was the word that had intrigued her. At her age, it meant mystery, romance – and something more: a cleverness she envied. She wasn’t quite sure what Medieval meant, but knew it was to do with the Middle Ages. ‘Evil’ was clearly a part of it, though. Perhaps it was because they’d been wickeder times …

She’d pulled the book out carefully. It was smaller than the other one, but thicker; it felt almost as heavy. Sitting herself down again, she started going through it. But this book, it turned out, was mostly words: page after page of them, densely packed. Only a handful of photos, and those were black and white. One shiny-looking page was folded over. She opened it out, and found the photo of an odd-looking drawing, covering both pages: a circle filled with scribbling and stars. She could see no pattern to them, but guessed they were arranged in constellations. Martin would know about those, of course. She wondered if he’d seen it.

The writing was difficult to read, like the place names on their shire-map in the hall. She looked for a caption. It was there at the foot of the facing page.

The enigmatic Malmesbury Star-Chart. Fourteenth century.

Enigmatic was a word she had recently learned. It meant ‘mysterious’, Mummy said. But surely the man who had written this book knew what constellations were. A map of the stars, with the names written in. So what made it mysterious?

Even as she frowned over the word, she felt a sort of shadow in the room. Not from the window, where the syrup of sunlight had turned into marmalade now. Nor from the open doorway, with the rattle of pans coming through it from downstairs. It came from the thought of the unknown in this picture. Something was here that even grown-ups didn’t understand. Something to do with magic, she supposed. If this had been a story, she would doubtless be the one to find its secret. But this was Daddy’s study, and she didn’t feel excited, but uneasy.

The enigmatic stars were like a hundred open eyes.

‘Lyn!’

She jumped, and twisted round: flushing with guilt as Daddy came in through the door. He crossed the room, snatched the book up from the carpet and folded the map away – so quickly that he creased it. Closing the book, he took it back to its shelf, while Lyn just sat and watched him, feeling very cold and small.

‘How many times?’ he snapped. ‘You’re not to touch these books. They’re very valuable, some of them, very expensive. I don’t want your sticky fingermarks all over them.’

Lyn felt her sobs come rising to the surface. She pinched her lips tight shut to keep them back, but they tried to get out through her eyes instead, and squeezed them full of tears.

‘Oh, don’t start crying,’ Daddy said, still looking tired and cross. But when Lyn couldn’t keep the flow in check, he sat down in his chair, and beckoned her over, and heaved her up to huddle on his knee.

‘Shh, now,’ he murmured, as she sniffled against his worn tweed jacket. ‘Shhh …’ He stroked her hair. ‘I’m sorry I was cross, all right? It’s just that I don’t like you looking at some of those books.’

‘I washed my hands,’ she whimpered. ‘Promise.’

‘It’s not just that. Shhh. Be a brave girl, now, and listen to me. Some of those books, you see, are about things you don’t need to know about, not yet. That one you were looking at … You know what magic is, don’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Well people used to believe there were different kinds of magic – good and bad magic. That book talks a lot about bad magic. You can read it when you’re older, but if you read it now you might get upset and have bad dreams. You don’t want to have bad dreams, now do you?’

Lyn shook her head in tearful mute agreement.

‘There’s a good girl …’ He fingered her fringe; then smiled at her. The fond, familiar smile she knew of old. ‘You really like reading, don’t you? Like to find things out. That’s good, Lyn. Very good. I shouldn’t blame you.’

‘Martin calls me Bookworm,’ she mumbled.

‘Never you mind what Martin says. You keep on reading. But remember that some things aren’t for you yet. Until I think you’re old enough, all right?’

She nodded again; then hesitated. ‘Daddy … will I need glasses?’

He gave a quizzical frown. ‘What makes you think you do?’

‘Martin says I’ll need glasses, ‘cos I read too much.’

‘Does he, indeed? Well I don’t need them, and look how much I’ve read. Don’t worry about your brother, he’s just a jealous little rascal.’ He jogged her on his knee. ‘What is he?’ She smiled tremulously. ‘A jealous little rascal.’

‘That’s more like it. Come on, now. Let’s see if Mummy wants some help with supper …’

Or something. He’d said something like that. It was curious how clearly she remembered. Most of the words had faded, but the pictures were still clear. Daddy’s hair had been mostly black – not silver-grey like now. And there she’d been, still small enough to sit on his knee. So different from her tall, slim self today.

Daddy’s grown-up daughter now; the clever girl he’d always been so proud of.

Lyn sat down on the sofa, and tucked her legs up under her. A dull weight of nostalgia filled her chest. She’d already written home this week – but when she got back tonight, she’d phone as well.

After more than a decade, she could still feel a twinge of guilt. He hadn’t made her promise not to read those books again – and so, one afternoon, she’d gone and done so.

It had taken her a while to work up the nerve. He’d told her not to do it, and by and large she did what she was told. But a strange, perverse attraction won her over in the end. The lure of the forbidden: sickly-sweet. An urge to peep at things that might upset her.

She remembered how her heart had thudded as she’d taken down the heavy book, and turned its dusty pages. The picture of the star-chart had stayed in her head; a shadow at the back of her mind. Enigmatic. Secret. Her lips felt as dry as the leaves of the book as she unfolded it again.

Memory had built it up; spread out, it looked much smaller. The words still made no sense. Not even the ones around the rim, which – though clearer – had been printed in some foreign-looking language.

She’d turned to the text: there had to be a reference in the chapter. Something to explain that troubling description. She’d found the passage, but could only remember fragments of it now. Fourteenth-century copy of an earlier work, now lost. The word had struck her, even as she kept on reading. With all these books around her, how could anything be lost? Surely it was hidden somewhere; forgotten, in an attic or a cellar. It bothered her to think that it had ceased to exist. If there hadn’t been a copy, all that work would just have vanished. As if it had never been.

The writing (she discovered) was Medieval Latin, with the constellations labelled in Old English. Hebrew characters as well. No wonder that she couldn’t understand it.

… Ursa Major is marked as ‘æelgar’ (a personal name), while ‘fluar’ (meaning unclear) denotes the constellation Draco …

There was more on the way the star-chart was set out; but though she strained her mind now, only those two names had stuck. She’d taken them phonetically back then: Edelgar, of course, not …

Athelgar.

She knew it was coincidence, the testament she’d found. So that was enigmatic, too. So what?

Fluthar was a nonsense-name. She couldn’t work it out. Scribal error, probably. The earlier work already being corrupted.

She lay there on the sofa, feeling listless. It must be the link with Martin that had got her down like this. Her jealous little rascal of a brother. She sniffed, and was surprised to find how close she was to tears.

She’d got what she deserved, that day; the thought was almost satisfying now. Growing bored with the so-called Magic book, she’d put it away, and returned to the big volume on the Middle Ages. One of the chapters was called King Death. Something had made her hesitate; and then she’d turned the page – and kept on turning.

Horrors swarmed towards her, almost boiling from the book. A painting from a manuscript showed knights being hacked to pieces, limb from limb. Statues carved on tombs were split and rotting, full of worms. A skeleton was riding down his victims, his eyeless horse as ghostly as an X-ray. And there he was, King Death himself: a gutted, grinning figure with a gold crown on his skull.

She’d wanted to stop looking, but she couldn’t. As if she had to know the very worst. She’d come to another fold-out page – and opened up the gateway into Hell.

A panoramic painting, full of horrid, screaming detail. A tide of naked people, flowing down into the Pit. Hideous monsters clutched at them, and beat them with spiked clubs. Real, despairing faces cried for help – but the devils overwhelmed them. They seemed to spring up everywhere, alive on the page: shaggy, scaly, homed and fanged. She’d sat there with wide eyes and soaked it up.

It had taken quite an effort to close the book again. The images stayed crowding in her head. Subdued, she’d put the book away, and crept out of the room. And Daddy had been right, of course. That night she’d had bad dreams.

CHAPTER VI

No Man’s Land

1

They’d walked for a while in Christ Church Meadow, then meandered into Oxford through the backstreets and the lanes. Sitting on the steps of the Martyrs’ Memorial, Fran reckoned she must still look like a student. Same gypsy clothes, same sturdy boots. Same undernourished look.

Craig’s arm was resting gently round her shoulders. He’d held on a little tighter as they’d walked past Christ Church College, as if afraid she’d break away and run towards the walls. But all she could do was turn her head, and watch it passing by. The citadel from which she’d been excluded.

The pavements here in front of her were thronged with real students. She wished she could slip through time again, and fall into step beside them. Being twenty-three had never felt so old. She rested her head against Craig’s shoulder, and smelled the musty leather of his coat.

‘You sure about this evening?’ he asked quietly.

She raised her head again. ‘Would I have asked you if I wasn’t?’

He conceded the point with an amiable shrug. ‘I wanted to be sure I wasn’t … rushing you too much.’

‘Don’t worry. If you do, I’ll let you know.’

She remembered the doubts she’d had, before the first time. They came from every side. She’d lost her virginity while still at school, but still felt inexperienced. Her religious instincts were none too keen on sex outside of marriage. And besides – above all else, in fact – the man was one of them.

Did that make her a hypocrite? A quisling? She’d agonized for hours, without an answer. She looked for deeper motives: was she trying to win him over? And was he trying to do the same to her?

Maybe all he wanted was her body. She wasn’t twenty yet, of course. Still a rather wide-eyed student, once the shades were taken off.

He hadn’t rushed her, though. He’d let her pick the pace. He fancied her a lot, that much was clear – but took each step as cautiously as she did. Two lovers, separated by a fence. Fumbling along till they came to the end of the wire.

‘Where will you be going next?’ Craig asked. He couldn’t cope with silences like she could.

‘Back to the Plain,’ she said, after a pause. ‘To see the place we crashed. Then I can get on with the rest of my life.’

Silence again; but she could tell what he was thinking. Was he included in that brave new future? She took his hand and squeezed it, just to tell him that he would be. But whether as a lover or a friend, she wasn’t sure.

‘You want to put some flowers where it happened?’ Craig asked gently.

She shrugged against him. ‘Maybe.’ And it seemed a good idea. But what she needed most of all was to go back there in daylight, and know what had been real, and what had not.

She thought about her dream last night. The faceless man on Imber – and the voice. The recollection filled her with a conflict of emotions, unsettling her, but haunting her as well. She knew it was a throwback to that night on Larkhill range. But his pleading tone still echoed in her head.

Perhaps she’d dream of him again – unless she went to Imber range as well. And walked along that empty road, to exorcize his ghost.

Anyway, with Imber, there were other factors counting. Another memory to draw her back.

2

MOD RANGES

This is a live firing area

and is closed to the public

KEEP OUT

Sod off, she’d thought, and kept on walking. Past the weathered crimson sign that marked the limit of the range, and down the grassy slope into the valley.

It took nerve to do a walk-on in broad daylight. An element of recklessness as well. She could feel the tension fizzing in her stomach – threatening to erupt into a fit of nervous giggles. She was committed now, no turning back; exhilaration lengthening her strides. Her long coat flapped and fluttered in the breeze. The heady sense of trespass made her giddy.

They’d catch her in the end, of course – and that was the whole point. The worry was, they’d cut her off before she reached the village. She needed to meet those airmen, face to face. Her one chance to appeal to them directly.

She knew she’d get arrested, and would probably be charged – which might cause complications back at College. She’d thought long and hard about crossing the line. It wasn’t really something she could talk about with Lyn; her friend regarded protest with suspicion. Two things had tipped the balance in the end. The urge to bridge the gulf between the missile crews and her; and a compulsion to confront her fear of Cruise.

The range was silent: brooding under clouds. Empty slopes, and straggling dark copses. On the dry floor of the valley, she felt hemmed in: overshadowed. Even with the sun still up, the place gave her the creeps. A void at night; a wilderness by day.

Two flights were out on exercise this month: four launchers up at Imber Firs, and four down in the village. Their presence only added to the ominous silence.

She came to the single metalled road, just east of Imber village. Pausing, she looked both ways; then ventured out. Across the road, a pillbox seemed to watch her. Overgrown and derelict; as empty as a skull.

Getting close, now. Very close. She cut away from the road again, and slipped into the undergrowth. There’d be sentries on patrol from here on in. She hesitated, listening. The distant whirr of a generator reached her ears, but nothing more. She could see the old church tower, rising up behind the trees.

She decided to skirt around to the north of the village: come down past Imber Court, and try and get among the vehicles. It was the first time she’d approached Cruise on deployment, but she knew there were two levels of defences. The outer and inner rings. Neither was apparent at the moment.

She was feeling quite keyed-up now; quite excited. Creeping through the wood, she got a glimpse of the first building: a weed-infested shell across the road. And still the ruined village kept its peace.

Again she stopped to listen, easing down on hands and knees – and heard a brittle twig snap right behind her.

Galvanized by shock, she twisted round. A bloke in US camouflage was standing there, half-smiling. His face looked quite familiar; she placed it just before she read the name-strip on his blouse. Master Sergeant FLAHERTY, again.

‘A man can’t even go for a pee these days without tripping over you guys.’

Fran let herself relax a bit: her heart still beating hard. ‘Your security is crap, I hope you know.’

He snorted. ‘Tell me about it.’

They looked each other over for a moment. He was wearing his cap, rather than the sinister ‘Fritz’ helmet of a trooper on patrol. She was relieved to see he didn’t have a gun.

Perhaps he drives a launcher, then. This amiable man.

‘You been down here all week?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘We came in last night … got porridge thrown all over us. And paint.’

Fran couldn’t help grinning. ‘Are you QRMT, then?’

‘Quick Response Maintenance, yeah …’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re pretty well clued-up, ain’t you?’

‘Oh, we are, we are.’ She let her grin grow teasing. ‘Know how we can tell a Convoy vehicle? It’s got no number plates, and it’s going the wrong way.’

He chuckled at that; then squinted at the sky. ‘Gonna rain soon. You want to stay out here and get wet, or are you coming in with me?’

Fran wavered for a moment; then shrugged. ‘Might as well get it over with.’

‘My name’s Craig,’ he said, as she got to her feet.

She nodded back. ‘I’m Frances.’

They started down the slope, between the trees. The contact that she’d come here for – and now her mind was blank. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

‘I kind of get the feeling we’re not welcome here,’ Craig said.

She gestured rather sullenly. ‘I’d rather you went home.’

‘Don’t like Yanks, huh?’

She stopped. ‘That isn’t true. Believe me it’s not. I think you’re quite nice people, actually. It’s your missiles I don’t want.’

‘Just keeping the peace – that’s all we do.’

‘I thought it was called Cold War.’

‘Making the world safe for McDonald’s, then.’

She gave him a half-suspicious glance. ‘You can’t be American … you’ve got a sense of irony.’

‘Oho,’ he grinned. ‘Unfair!’

‘No, but listen …’ They were nearly at the road, now, she had just a moment left. ‘I’ll be honest, I despair of you lot sometimes. Then I think of the Gettysburg Address, and Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men, and I feel a bit more hopeful.’

‘I like Fonda, too,’ he said.

‘But when you aim your missiles at civilians, you’re selling it all out. You shame your country, Craig.’

He looked at her more soberly. ‘I guess we’re not going to see eye to eye on this one.’

She shrugged. ‘Well, thanks for listening, anyway.’

‘Maybe we should talk some more.’

Fran hesitated: not sure what he meant. He’d dropped his gaze, eyes shadowed by the peak of his cap.

‘You’re studying in Oxford, aren’t you?’

She nodded.

‘Maybe I could meet you there sometime.’

A heartbeat’s pause. ‘You serious?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, and looked at her. ‘I am.’

Fran stared back for a moment. Then: ‘Christ Church College. Write to me.’

She sensed his relief, though he masked it with a faint, ironic grin. ‘You won’t get tarred and feathered just for talking to me, will you?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. Why, will you get shot?’

Touché. He let her go ahead of him, and out onto the road; falling behind as she walked into the village. She felt him in her footsteps, but she didn’t look back once.

A control vehicle was lurking at the roadside up ahead, its bulk draped in camouflage netting. The tactical ops truck was parked nearby; she could see the maps and clutter in the back. A burly, crop-haired officer was staring out at her, a white enamel mug still in his hand. His face was a sight: slack-jawed with disbelief. The flight commander, surely. She put on her sweetest smile, and walked towards him.

‘Hey! We’ve got another peacenik walking round out here!’

Some MoD police appeared from nowhere, and rushed across the road to intercept her. She recognized the bloke who took her elbow; she knew most of the Support Unit now, at least by sight. And they knew her, as well.

‘Gawd, Frances: you again? Come on …’

As they led her towards the transit van, she twisted round to look behind her. Craig Flaherty was standing by the TO truck. He waited till their eyes met; then dropped his gaze again, and turned away.

3

Fran opened Lyn’s front door a little warily – still composing an excuse inside her head. Lyn hadn’t looked too great this morning. Perhaps she’d stayed at home.

On up the stairs. She felt Craig’s presence climbing them behind her, his footsteps slow and patient on the treads. She gave him a nervous smile – he grinned easily back – and fumbled the key into the door of the flat.

Hush and stillness greeted them: each dust-mote hung suspended. Fran almost tiptoed through to check Lyn’s bedroom; then breathed a sigh, and shrugged out of her jacket.

‘What time will she be back?’ Craig asked her calmly.

‘Sometime after seven.’ Her mouth was dry.

They stood together awkwardly: like two kids not quite sure who should be making the first move. Then Craig sat on the sofa, and beckoned her to join him. She did so, snuggling close. They started kissing.

She hadn’t snogged like this for four whole years. Excitement surged inside her, sending thrills along her nerves. But when his hand began to fumble with the buttons of her top, she felt a plunge of doubt, and pulled away.

He managed a smile, and gently stroked her shoulder. ‘Second thoughts?’

She swallowed. ‘I’m not sure if we should. Behind Lyn’s back, I mean …’

‘I can wait for as long as you want, you know.’ His voice was slightly hoarse, but she believed him.

‘Can we … just sit for a bit?’

‘Sure.’

‘Sorry …’

‘Shh. No problem.’

Curling up, she let herself be cuddled. This was enough: to feel him there beside her. She couldn’t take it further, not right now.

They watched the room turn greyer as the dusk came creeping in. As if each mote of dust had multiplied a million times. From time to time he kissed her, very softly. She nuzzled him back, feeling cosseted and safe. No worries in the world, so long as they were here together.

At last she let him go, and straightened up. ‘Would you like a glass of wine, at least? Lyn’s got some in the fridge.’

‘Sure. I’d like that.’ She heard him settling back again as she went into the kitchen. A paranoid twinge made her wonder what expression he was wearing. Exasperation, maybe? Or resentment? She flicked the radio on, as if that would tame the situation. Make the place more like a flat just being visited by a friend.

Lyn usually had it tuned to Classic FM – but maybe she’d brushed the dial while she’d been dusting. All that came out was the empty, crackling ether. Fran thought she heard a burbling in the distance; but the voice, if voice it was, was too distorted to make sense. Ignoring it, she opened the fridge, letting yellow light spill out into the dimness. The wine-box was on the bottom shelf. She brought it out, and shut the glow away.