Jago (20 page)

By himself, he had barbecued sausages from the cool box. After last night’s disaster, he was getting the hang of it. The hot dogs were the first real food he’d had since leaving London. It was quiet up on the hill. He was tired from his day working on the chain gang. They had all got into the festival free by volunteering to help out. Being Dolar’s roadies hadn’t been enough. He’d been putting up marquees all day, with a group of local lads who had daft accents but made fun of the way he talked. ‘Yoo facking cant,’ they all said, imitating his London vowels.

He’d decided he liked the country. When he was older, he’d like to get the flash together to buy a cottage somewhere round here. He’d grown some dope plants in his bedroom cupboard with lamps and fertilizer. If he rigged up a greenhouse, he could raise a cash crop and live off the profits. Maybe he could branch out and grow tomatoes and lettuce. He’d been thinking of becoming a vegetarian like his mum one day. With a couple of mates to kick in for their whack, he’d be able to set up a farm of his own. Maybe Jessica would be into moving down. It would do her good to ditch her parents.

Happy from the gear, he’d watched the sun go down. Now, he was searching the fire for new lights. It must be good gear; he’d never had this sensation before.

Then he heard noises. Somewhere nearby, trees were falling. Fuck, he thought, it’s the enemy! There was an explosion of light, too, dazzling him. The nearest trees stood out like the bars of a cage. Something was roaring, and someone was shouting.

Shit, he thought.

* * *

At Beloved’s side, Jenny stirred. She’d been lying with Him for a long time, and He had shared His dreams with her. In her heart, a new flame had been kindled. As she felt it burning, pleasure flooded through her.

T
he arm rose in a Fascist salute, heat ray angled down and swivelling like a security camera. Doomed insects spiralled above the carapace. Paul’s eyes were drawn to the heat ray, to the LED-like red light where the barrel of a conventional gun would be. As he looked up, he guessed it was looking down at him.

The war machine stepped forwards, body balanced as if fixed in the air, legs advancing in a strange rotary motion. It moved deliberately, assuming a succession of precise postures. It was alien, with a Ray Harryhausen touch. Its image never blurred. The Martians have landed, and their special effects are out of date.

A tree cracked and fell. The war machine stepped out of the woods and stood over him. There was a hiss of expelled steam as it settled, three knee joints telescoping in and locking. When still, it was as dead as a pylon. Except for the red dot.

The light blinked, covered sideways like a snake’s eye, and he instinctively threw himself forwards, hoping for shelter under the body of the machine. He crashed painfully into a solid metal leg, and fell. Behind him, there was a wall of instant, intense heat. He half turned, and was flattened by the blast. A flash blinded him, and he heard the crackling of new-started fires.

Flipping on to his back, he looked up and saw the black bulk moving away. He tried to stand, but something heavy and cool swiped him to the ground again. He twisted, and was dragged a few feet. Then he was free of the machine, his face pushed into the grass. A tree fell near him, and his upper body was covered with crumbling foliage. He fought the branches that pinned him down. There were fading sunbursts etched into his vision. He could see only light and dark. A Cinerama semicircle of fire burned in front. He rubbed his eyes, and stood unsteadily.

The worst migraine he had ever had expanded from the base of his brain, filling his head with pain. His chipped tooth exploded in an agony that picked out the nerves wired over his jaw and cheekbones. His head was an anatomical specimen, mapped with lines of pain.

He could see again, enough to keep away from the spreading flames. He had lost his slippers, and his bare feet were messed up. His trousers were ripped and his bare back felt as if it had been flayed. He had rolled over a patch of stinging nettles.

Where was the war machine?

He turned away from the fire and began to run, heading for the woods. He slammed full into someone alive, and felt arms go round his chest, then roughly push him away.

‘Fuck!’ said someone. Young. London accent.

Paul’s eyesight returned painfully. It was a kid, bald except for a central hedge of bright-red hair. He was shaking, staring over Paul’s head at something he did not believe.

Paul turned and saw fire through the trees. And the war machine, stepping back into the curtain of flame. It stood out as a monolithic black skeleton for a second, and was gone. Not burned, just gone.

‘Fuck!’ said the kid.

He had seen it too!

Paul clutched the kid’s torn T-shirt with both hands. ‘Did you see?’ he asked. ‘Did you see?’

The kid’s pupils were shrunk to needle points. ‘Fuck,’ he repeated, eyes watering. ‘Fuck.’

Paul shook the kid, and the kid punched his shoulder, not hard, just to break away. He wore a studded leather wristlet. Right now, he looked fourteen years old.

Then the sirens shrilled, and jets of water burst through the flames. Suddenly, Paul was soaked and standing in leafy mud. There was a lot of shouting, and there were people everywhere.

He had never fainted before.

T
hey arrived before the fire brigade. Lytton took care to park on the road, not obstructing the driveway. When the fire engine turned up, he pegged the fire chief immediately and asked what he could do to help.

‘Tell you what,’ the man said, ‘you’re in charge of keeping everybody else out of our bloody way.’

‘Fine.’

The chief grinned carnivorously. ‘We’ll see.’

It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. People sprang from the ground all over the site like skeleton warriors from dragon’s teeth. There was no sense of organization anywhere.

The fire engine had to go slowly up the drive to squeeze past the house. Then it put on a burst of speed and lurched across the garden. It went destructively as far up the hill as it could, finally halting, jammed between two well-rooted trees.

Lytton waved people back, but it was impossible to keep unwanted volunteers and morbid sightseers away. There were several old people in pyjamas and dressing gowns, and as many teenagers as he’d had on his work gang this afternoon. He saw Teddy Gilpin with a mixed group of festival kids, and signed to the boy to come over.

‘Teddy,’ he said, ‘get your lot to form a chain across the top of the garden. Stop idiots from getting up into the orchard and messing the firemen about, okay?’

Teddy snapped off a military salute and went back to his friends, dishing out orders like a little Montgomery. That had probably been a very neat bit of strategy, Lytton thought. If anyone was going to get into trouble, it would be the kids; but, with a bit of authority to weigh them down, they might come through responsibly. Of course, they might also turn out to be disastrously inept.

Near the house, firemen wrenched iron covers off the drains and fed pump-driven hoses into them. Lytton overheard a hose-unspooling fireman complain about the drought. With the water table low, it was difficult to get enough pressure in the hoses.

There was only one engine for this call, and it was small by big-city standards. It was manned by four efficient part-timers, rugby-club types, and the chief. They appeared to know what they were doing, but they’d be outgunned if this turned into a full-scale forest fire.

Lytton saw flames at the top of the orchard, clawing the sky. He heard a rush of water, and jumped off a thick hose as it unflattened into a rigid tube. There was cheering as hoses started gushing.

‘Sir,’ said a girl, as if he were a teacher, ‘sir, my boyfriend’s up there.’

Lytton recognized Jessica. She had spent the afternoon sponging B stage. Miserable about something, she had still done a good job.

‘What’s that?’

‘Ferg. He was up at the camp.’

He couldn’t see Jessica’s face well in the dark, but knew from her voice she was upset.

‘There’s been no one hurt.’

‘Can we go up and look for him?’

‘Not yet. Wait ’til the fire’s out, eh? I’m sure he’ll be okay.’

She wasn’t happy about that, or particularly convinced. ‘Someone said a man went up there before the brigade came.’

Before he could think, another car turned up. Its headlights picked out the people standing in twos and threes in the garden. A rumpled man got out, clutching a black bag. The local doctor, Lytton hoped. The fire brigade must have called him in.

A rocket of flame shot into the sky above the hill and crashed down. There was more cheering. The blazes started to go out. It was like bonfire night.

* * *

James suggested Susan check out the house. She took Marie-Laure with her, because the sister would hardly be much use for anything else. The verandah lights were on, and there was someone in the kitchen. Susan rapped on the open back door, and stepped in. A pretty, youngish woman looked up from a tray of tea things, startled and fragile. Susan flinched at the woman’s poured-out fear, then realized Marie-Laure was standing beside her, hatchet up like a tomahawk. Susan touched Marie-Laure’s hand, and the axe slowly descended to hang at her side. ‘Hi, I’m Susan Ames. Can we help?’

‘H-H-H-Hazel,’ stuttered the woman. Hazel was, Susan realized, barely more than a girl. Probably not yet twenty.

‘The fire brigade are here,’ Susan said. ‘They’re doing everything that has to be done.’

‘I know. I’ve made some tea.’

‘Good idea. Let me help.’

‘We’ll have to get cups from the pottery. Otherwise there won’t be enough to go round.’

She was trembling, near hysteria. Susan hugged her, and she responded instantly, gripping tight, fists fastened to the folds of Susan’s jacket. Susan felt the other woman’s heart beating near her own, smelled recent shampoo in her hair, and had to shut her mind against the confusion welling out of Hazel’s like tears.

‘Sh-sh-sh,’ she cooed, ‘it’ll be fine.’

* * *

Paul? What had happened to Paul?

Hazel clung tight to Susan Ames, but allowed herself to be led out of the kitchen. From the verandah, they could see the garden. Someone had turned on the lights in the showroom, and the place was like a well-lit playing field.

She felt weak at the knees. Mike and Mirrie would be furious. The fire engine had churned across their lawn, ploughing ruts, crushing completely a forsythia by the kiln shed. (The pots? Were her pots all right?) There was an unfamiliar squelch underfoot. Mud. She’d forgotten about mud. Water was streaming down the hill in rivulets, washing away bare soil and dead vegetation. A surge of earthy, lumpy water rose over her boots. Susan practically lifted her out of the way. And people. There were people all over the place. People she didn’t know.

She felt calming waves coming from Susan, and held her as a child holds her mother. Wendy from the Agapemone lunged enormously into view and talked at them both. Hazel shrank against Susan’s side. Lots of people were talking, but only Susan seemed to be speaking a language she understood. Wendy finished babbling and went away; Susan kept soothing her, telling her everything would be fine. As long as she listened only to the other woman’s voice, she could believe that.

The fire was out now. Smiling firemen were being clapped on the back and making jokes.

‘James,’ Susan called out to a tall, commanding man. ‘This is Hazel. She lives here. She’s worried. A friend of hers went up the hill.’

How did Susan know that? She hadn’t said anything about Paul. Just thought.

James looked up the hill, peering through invisible binoculars.

‘They’re bringing someone down now.’

Two black-uniformed firemen, faces camouflaged with soot, came into the light, supporting someone between them. It was Paul, dressing gown gone, head nodding unconscious.

‘Doctor,’ shouted James, ‘over here.’

James and another man went to the firemen and took Paul’s weight off them. They seemed glad to be rid of him. Susan left Hazel and helped James lay Paul on the grass. Alone and cold without Susan’s reassuring touch, Hazel struggled to keep calm.

‘He’s just fainted,’ said the doctor, his hand on Paul’s rising and falling chest. ‘No harm done, I think.’

She felt her knees going again, but caught herself in time. ‘I’ll get a blanket,’ she said.

* * *

Teddy thought he was doing a good job. He had spread his ‘men’—Kev, Dolar, Syreeta, Gary, Salim, Pam and the Toad—in a picket line between two of the Pottery buildings, and wasn’t letting anyone unofficial get by. He had particularly enjoyed telling Kev’s dad not to go up the hill, and was proud he’d recognized Dr Sweet and let him through unopposed. People were listening to him, following his suggestions, taking orders. Adults, grumpy farmers he’d known all his life, meekly stood back and did what he told them.

He hoped James would be pleased with him.

There were grumbles in the ranks: the Toad didn’t want to get his clothes messed up and was prissily jumping from side to side to avoid the streams of mud, and Dolar was too pissed on scrumpy to stand up straight. But mainly they kept together, and Teddy knew that was his doing. He wondered if he might have a chance with Pam. She didn’t have a pocket of fat under her chin like Sharon or eyes that glowed in the dark like Allison, and he got the idea she was on the way out with her darkie boyfriend. She’d smiled at him a couple of times; then again, she’d smiled a couple of times at everyone in trousers.

As the fire went out, it got more difficult to see his line of people. Dolar had definitely fallen over, and Syreeta was moaning at him rather than keeping a watch. He couldn’t see the Toad at all. Teddy supposed it didn’t matter if the line broke up now. The crisis was over.

This was it, he decided, he’d go over and chat up Pam. He was still a bit drunk, but that was probably a good thing. He talked better when he was drunk. Then his wrist was grabbed and his arm yanked up hard behind his back. He yelled as pain erupted under his shoulderblades.