Jago (19 page)

He cuddled her and kissed her neck, his hands stroking the small of her back and working down. Then, he looked out of the window as he opened his mouth to nibble her ear, and had a premonition his life was about to go to hell. A black cloud mushroomed over the horizon, hanging in the air like a Montgolfier balloon.

‘Shit,’ he said, pushing Hazel away.

‘What?’ She was startled, her eyes alive, suddenly shivering. She hugged her shoulders, crossing her arms over her breasts.

‘Look.’

She turned, and said in a whisper, ‘Fire.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Those kids and their camp. The arseholes.’

Another uprush of dark smoke joined the first, making an asymmetrical blot above the treeline.

‘I’ll go,’ he said, ‘you call the fire brigade.’

Still naked, Hazel dashed downstairs to the telephone. Paul stepped into the bedroom to pull on a pair of trousers. He heard her dialling the emergency number. She was talking with the operator as he shot through the back door. The lights of the house receded behind him as he jogged up through the garden towards the orchard. There were shadows all around.

He had never been to the top of the Bleach property. He’d meant to, but been busy. The hill was steeper than it looked. His lower legs hurt before he was even halfway up, and he had to slow down because he could not see far enough in front of him to keep out of potentially ankle-twisting depressions and thickets.

Among the trees it was darker than in the open garden. It was night here already. He couldn’t see flames ahead, but the tangy smell of wood smoke was all around. It had turned cold, and he had trouble drawing breath. There might be droplets of ice in his lungs.

He wasn’t at all aroused any more.

The local fire brigade had better be equipped for immediate action. Dead bushes and fallen twigs snapped under his feet like ancient bones. Alder was in the middle of twenty-five square miles of tinder. This could be the summer’s big forest fire.

He weaved in and out of the trees. Where was the fire? He’d thought it was fairly near, even on the property, but perhaps he’d misjudged distance. Suddenly he hit a pocket of warmth. Ashes crunched under his feet. He stumbled, and landed heavily on his hand and one knee. He pushed himself upright, his hand black and stinging. He wiped it on his robe.

He was near the edge of the orchard. Beyond the top fence, the woods were denser. If the fire had started among those close-packed trees, it would have caught. As it was, it appeared to be a false alarm. This wasn’t where the kids were camped out. He had no idea what could have caused the short-lived blaze.

A thick swirl of bitter smoke came at him from above, like a ghostly cloak. He inhaled a lungful and started choking. Surprisingly close, there was an answering cough. A mechanical rasp.

It was not a fire engine.

There was something large in the woods. Paul called out a hello. Something buzzed and screeched, like a chainsaw on rusty metal. He couldn’t see anything. He stood still.

None of this was right.

Then there was light. Lots of it, and concentrated. A searchlight beam flashed from treetop height, searing the ground. Bursts of orange flame rose from the earth. Something shone in the woods. Paul was blinking, dazzled by the sunburst, eyes streaming from thick smoke.

Whatever it was was just beyond the top fence. Another blast lit a patch of dry vegetation behind him and swept across the orchard as if following a thick gunpowder trail. A pile of chopped logs, supposedly too green to burn, exploded. Burning sap squirted. He brushed chips of fire from his hair.

He was racked with coughing, and almost blind. He wriggled out of his robe and started flogging the nearest patch of burning grass with it. It was easy to put the grass out, because there was so little to burn. None of the trees had gone up yet, but he knew he couldn’t fight the fire on his own. His robe was smouldering. He backed out of the fire zone, skipping over a blackened log, and retreated enough to be able to see the tops of the trees. Up there, something was shining.

A dinosaurian form reared out from the trees with an inhuman screech. A metal carapace bobbed slightly, reflected fires dancing in its coppery-red surfaces. Paul saw three powerful steel thighs and a cobra neck swivelling in search of him, its deadly eye winking. Unmistakably, it was a Martian war machine.

L
ytton had fallen asleep over a crossword. He woke up, head ringing, in darkness. He’d stretched out on the couch in the small front room of the Gate House before eight. By his digital watch, it was now past ten. He reached for the light switch. The ringing, he realized, was not in his head. He picked up the phone.

‘James,’ said a female voice. ‘It’s Susan.’

He was completely alert. The girl from
IPSIT
was not supposed to associate with him. This must be urgent.

‘There’s a fire up on the hill. We can see it from the main house.’

‘Have you called—’

‘Yes. They already knew. The couple at the Pottery phoned it in. The engines are on their way.’

He slipped his shoes on.

‘They’ll need help,’ Susan said.

‘Yes. Get Derek and whoever else is still capable of rational thought, and come over. I’ll break out some equipment and get the Land-Rover going.’

There was quiet at the end of the line.

‘Susan,’ he asked, ‘is this anything to do with our man?’

A pause, then quietly, ‘I don’t know. I think so. This could be the start of It.’

‘It?’

‘It.’

She hung up. He put the phone down. After a moment’s deliberation, he fished the keys out of his jeans and had the desk drawer open. The Browning FN High Power was in a chamois bag, tied with a drawstring. He pulled the bulky automatic out, briefly tasted the oil and steel smell of it, and dropped it into his enlarged inside jacket pocket. The gun hung cold against his heart. He left the cottage. The Land-Rover was parked by the gate. He saw red on the horizon.

* * *

In the hall, Susan put down the telephone and zipped up her anorak. She seemed to be the only person moving. A group stood watching her. She tried not to be angry. She’d have to conserve her strength.

‘Who were you speaking to?’ asked Mick.

‘James. We’re to go over.’

The chief disciple was displeased. He took his hands from the kangaroo pocket of his apostolic robe and spread them emptily. ‘It’s not our fire.’

‘No. But with this drought, it soon could be.’

Mick’s smile was smugness itself. Leaning in a shadow behind the disciple, Gerald Taine wasn’t moving either. Arms loosely folded, the big man was relaxed, a karate champion between the ceremonial bow and the first vicious kick. Susan had never been able to read Taine well, but now he was completely shadowed. Janet was there too, not liking Mick but ready to be in with his faction.

Derek barged into the hall. ‘Wendy’s on her way down,’ he said, ‘and some of the others.’ Several statues moved, joining Derek and Susan’s side. Mick still beamed inanely.

‘Come on, man,’ she said. ‘We’re not on an island.’

‘Have faith, Sister,’ said Mick. ‘Beloved will protect us.’

She stared into his vacant eyes, wondering how crazed or callous he really was. A little jolted by her eye contact, his long hair started to rise in a frizz as if he were next to a Van de Graaff generator. She snapped herself off before she started to enjoy it, and gave him a mean, knowing smile. Perhaps that would shake him up.

Mick made no motion towards joining the fire-fighting party. But he did nod to Taine, who pushed himself away from the wall, and left the hall. Taine was deferring to the chief disciple as if he were his master. So, Mick had been appointed, or appointed himself, Beloved’s Saint Peter. She knew who that made her.

The volunteer fire-fighters were gone. Susan was left with Mick, Janet watching. She tapped a mentacle to a spot between his eyes and gave a slight push. He flinched. That would give him a headache.

Janet stepped back, cautiously alarmed.

Susan left through the main door. As she stepped down to the drive, she heard Mick shout after her.

‘Some people are meant to burn!’

* * *

After talking to the fire chief in Somerton, Hazel went upstairs and was sick. She hunched naked over the toilet bowl for a minute, stomach spasming, wet hair in her face. When her insides calmed down and there was nothing left to come up, she went to the sink, gargled to get rid of the lumpy taste, scrubbed her teeth clean and washed her face. Then she got dressed in tomorrow’s clothes, dug out some thick wool socks she hadn’t needed so far this summer, and found the boots she’d brought for walking. Fifteen to twenty minutes, the fire chief had said. She looked out of the bathroom window; all of a sudden, it was too dark to see clearly up the hill. There were flames up there, but she had no idea how big they were. She couldn’t make out Paul or anyone else. She went downstairs and filled the kettle; everyone, she knew, would want tea.

* * *

‘Why d’you wrap a dead baby in clingfilm?’ asked the laddish young man whose friends called him Toad.

Teddy didn’t know why you wrapped a dead baby in clingfilm.

Toad exploded in a laugh that nearly prevented him from getting out his punch line. ‘So it won’t
burst,’
he gasped, ‘when you
fuck
it!’

Teddy didn’t think that was much of a funny—he’d had a stillborn sister, Samantha Rose—but Gary nearly pissed himself, doubling over and thumping the table, and Pam, the redhead everyone fancied, collapsed in giggles.

It was another rowdy night in the Valiant Soldier. Kev came back to the table with his round, and doled out the drinks. The London kids wanted to try Somerset’s national drink, but didn’t know enough to tell Taunton cider from Calver’s scrumpy. Syreeta, the porky woman with the wispy folk singer, asked Teddy what they usually did for entertainment in these parts.

‘Drink and telly, mostly,’ he said. ‘Not like London.’

Then everybody was shouting. Teddy thought it was another fight starting, but it was news of a fire. Everybody was getting up, bumping into tables and each other, spilling drinks, suggesting courses of action, and mainly pushing for the door.

‘Ferg,’ said the quiet girl, Jessica. ‘Ferg’s up at the camp.’

* * *

In the back of the Land-Rover, Wendy prayed loudly, calling on Beloved to preserve his Chosen. Nobody joined with her, so she shut up and concentrated on silent appeal. She reached into herself and tried to
will
the fire out, as she had been taught. She pictured trees burning like fireworks, then ran the film backwards. Flames shrank, black branches unshrivelled green. A miracle was possible, of that she was sure. Her friends sat with her, tense like paratroops before a drop. Derek was leaning into the cab, talking to James as he drove, sorting out ways of helping the fire brigade. Taine was quiet and purposeful, as always. Woodland equipment shifted and clattered on the floor of the vehicle. Opposite, Marie-Laure smiled serenely, cradling a spike hatchet as if it were the Baby Jesus. Wendy looked down at her lap, and resumed her prayer.

* * *

Allison led Ben around the back of the tiny cottage. There was a lot of rubbish around, so she had to be careful not to trip over. She could hear the telly blaring. It was a quiz show, and a pensioner had just won a fridge. She peeked in the front-room window, but saw only two figures lit up by the coloured picture. She slid away, staying close to the wall.

She’d got used to creeping about in the dark during her cat-killing craze. She still had her cheesewire around her ankle, the two cork handles fastened together with a rubber band. Just in case.

She negotiated an obstacle and rounded the corner. Ben was being less careful, but most people didn’t notice him. They weren’t likely to get caught but, if they were, it’d be too bad for whoever did the catching. Ben was here to settle scores, but he might stay and be her boyfriend. She’d never had a boyfriend before who wasn’t scared of her.

Inside the house, a dog barked. Her hand went to the corks behind her ankle, but no one took any notice of the animal.

She’d spent the afternoon with Ben in one of Old Man Maskell’s barns, where Ben’s bike was hidden. They’d fucked like rabbits, nonstop and all over the place. She could still feel him inside, her jeans chafing where her thighs had been rubbed raw. She’d ripped half the skin off his back, and had grey rinds under her long fingernails. The taste of blood was in her mouth.

Now, they were out recruiting. Ben and Allison had many enemies, so they would take what friends they could get. Round the back of the house, she saw light in the first-floor room. Model aeroplanes poised in mid-dogfight in the window. She could hear metal music, good and loud. That would cover any noise they made. She hauled herself up a drainpipe, on to the sloping corrugated-iron roof of a tool shed. Ben stood in the open in the garden, face turned to a shaggy skull by shadows. Allison reached above her for the windowsill and got her fingers over it. With a soft grunt, she pulled herself up, belly muscles taut as catgut, toes jammed into crumbling dents in the brickwork.

The room was a tip, decorated with pin-ups of naked slags with their legs open and posters of fright-wigged rockers in black leather jockstraps. The boy was on one of the beds, a
Fiesta
magazine held up one-handed in front of his face, other hand working away like a milkmaid’s in his open jeans. Allison whistled sharply. The
Fiesta
dropped, and the boy stared in mixed terror and embarrassment at the window.

‘Terry,’ she said, ‘you’m with us.’

* * *

He had not fancied another evening in the pub, with Jessica sulking and the Toad pissing off the lynch mob. So he’d decided to stay at the camp with some gear and the cassette deck. He’d hoped Jessica would want to stay behind too so he could get some knobbing in, but she’d surprised him by voting for the pub. They did food, and she wanted a proper meal tonight. So he was left with the fire, which he had to keep going but under control, and the thick paperback of
Dune
Dad had given him last birthday. He’d tried the book several times, and not been able to get into it. He got a few pages further than usual, but still gave up.