Dark Ages - John Pritchard

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have to walk to Warminster, and catch the train from there.’

      ‘Is it far?’

      ‘Not very.’ Though the way her swollen feet felt now, she’d have a job to manage half a mile.

      ‘So how did it go?’ Lyn asked, still sounding anxious.

      ‘Really well. I think I’ve worked it out.’ She peered out through the glass of the telephone box. Across the busy A-road, at the mouth of the lane, his figure was just visible: still watching.

      ‘I’m so glad, Fran. I’ve been thinking about you lots today.’ Fran could hear the relief in her friend’s soft voice, and picture it on her face. Her love for Lyn just added to the inner glow she felt. But her stare remained fixed on the dark shape in the lane.

      ‘I’ll tell you more about it when I get back,’ she promised. Though not everything, of course. Least of all the part that would make Lyn think she’d flipped her lid completely.

      She talked, and gazed at Athelgar – until he turned away. Back towards the range, and all its ghosts. With clouds now over everything, the evening had come early. The lane was full of shadows, and they sucked him in at once.

       SLEEPERS

      Do your nightmares tear you apart?

      Do you wake up screaming, shouting in the dark?

      Do the demons keep you awake?

      Does the clock tick more slowly with every breath you take?

      THE LEVELLERS

       Dear Craig

       Hellooooo, gorgeous! Sorry that I haven’t been in touch. I hope you had a good flight back. I’m really missing you.

      I know you’re wondering how things went, down on the Plain. Well, I walked across the Imber range, from Bratton down to Heytesbury. I took the ‘American Road’ (of course!) – right past the place where D-Flight got ambushed by their own blokes back in February 89. The mission when you asked me out, in case you don’t remember.

       I’m on a bit of a high at the moment (have you noticed?!). I’ve got things sorted out at last – more than I dared hope. Have you ever felt there’s more to life than any of us dreamed! I won’t go on about it, though. You’d really think I’d lost it if I did.

       Lynnie sends her love. She’s thinking a lot about her brother Martin at the moment. The family’s lost touch with him, and she just got a card at Christmas time. He didn’t give his address – nor a reason why he simply upped and went. The silence is the worst bit: the not knowing. I hope that I can cheer her up. She’s done so much for me.

       Write soon!

      Love,

       Your pinko commie peacenik girlfriend

       Frannie

       PS. What do you mean, the Air Force checks your mail??

       Fiends and Ashes

      1

      Martin woke abruptly, with the dusk.

      The gloom had seeped in silently, and caught him unawares. The bedroom was engulfed in it, the furniture submerged. The double bed, his life raft, was awash.

      Panic clenched his muscles; he almost struggled upright straight away. Then slumped, as he remembered where he was. The dull, familiar room took shape again. Gloom clung to the wallpaper like filth. Only the window showed some light – a segment of colourless sky. From where he lay, the rooftops almost masked it.

      Everything was in its place. The digits on the bedside clock were bright and reassuring. But the coldness in his limbs took several moments to recede. He felt as if he’d woken with a spider on his cheek.

      He sat up stiffly, swinging his legs off the bed. The change in equilibrium made his empty stomach churn; he waited with his head down while it settled. Muzzily he rubbed his face; felt bristles rasp and chafe against his palms.

      The flat was very quiet. The dusk had flowed right through it, soaking in. A couple more hours before Claire got back: sighing her way through the door and switching lights on. She’d find the place deserted, yet again. It would be full dark by then – and he’d be out there, in it.

      Martin stretched inside his slept-in clothes; then got to his feet, and walked through to the bathroom. The cold tap knocked and shuddered as he filled a glass and drank, rinsing out the fetid taste of sleep.

      A dim shape peered towards him from the mirror. He switched on the light and met it face to face. He was looking pale, his eyes half-sunk in shadow. They had a slightly mournful cast: it made his grin engaging, in a way that women liked. But when he was expressionless, like now, his stare was sombre.

      The beard was five days old. His fingers reached above it, brushed the small scar on his cheek. A tiny nick of callused skin. He realized it was itching.

      Still healing, after all these years.

      Lyn had done that. He’d just turned five, but remembered every detail. At seven she’d been insufferable, a spoilt little brat: always bossing him around, as if two years made any difference. They’d been fighting in the playroom and she’d thrown a building block. The gashing pain had made him cry; the blood had made him bawl. But even through his tears, he’d seen her horrified white face, and known he was the winner after all.

      He’d had to have a stitch, and been the centre of attention. Mum had fussed and held his hand, while Dad waited in the corridor with Lyn. She was going to get what for when they got home: that spiteful hope had kept his tears in check. But Dad had seemed to think that she’d already learned her lesson. And when Martin had emerged and seen her waiting – all big, scared eyes and tear-stained cheeks – he’d realized that he didn’t want to see her this upset. Her fear was there for him, he sensed, as much as for herself.

      Naturally, they’d fought again – but never quite as fiercely. From that day on, it sometimes seemed, they’d started drawing closer.

       Lyn.

      He savoured her name in silence – then swallowed it. A lump in his throat, then a dull ache in his stomach. But there was no point wondering what Lyn was doing now. Tonight, of all nights, he could do without the niggling dilemma: whether to get in touch, or keep his distance.

      He killed the light again. The dusk, already thicker, closed around him. He went back to the bedroom, and walked over to the window. His heart began to thud against his ribs.

      The sky was pale and clear outside. There would be stars tonight.

      2

      The house was on the corner, just down from the junior school. The orange streetlight bathed its bricks, which made it seem less menacing – at first. But even from across the road, he could see where smoke had blackened it: freakish shadows underneath the lamp. The chipboard in the windows stood out clearly.

      The Burnt House – that’s what everybody called it. The kids had told him so. On winter nights they hurried past it, straggling in groups. A ghost was boarded up inside, and that was gospel. A little boy’s ghost – burned black.

      Martin looked both ways. Nothing was coming; but still he hesitated.

      He’d been working as a cleaner when he picked the story up. Some of the kids had been talking in the corridor: clearly trying to

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