Guy N. Smith - The Wood

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PROLOGUE
Bertie Hass dosed his eyes, braced himself for the limb-wrenching jerk when
his parachute billowed out, tried to will it to open. The cold night air
rushed by him, tore at his heavy clothing. It won't open, Bertie, A jeering
whisper inside his head. You know it won't. Didn't that clairvoyant in
Stuttgart tell you it would happen like this?
Falling, faster and faster. And faster. Now he was preparing himself for the
crunching impact when he hit the ground far below. He could see it in the
faint moonlight reinforced by the flames from his crashed plane and the
inferno of a city way beyond the horizon. The night was burning like hell
itself, and there was only one place he was going. Down.
Mission accomplished, Herr Commandant, the city is destroyed, razed to the
ground. Pride, overwhelming satisfaction. You always lost men on raids, it was
inevitable. Soldiers, airmen were of necessity a dispensable commodity in war.
Secretly, selfishly, you hoped it would not be your turn, always somebody
else's.
Falling.
And then the cords jerked him, twisted him, tore at his arms as though they
sought to rip them from his body, bore him some grudge for his loyalty to the
Fatherland. He almost blacked out, had a blurred glimpse of Ingrid's face
again. Darkness and the torments of hell lie below you. Do you not see the
flames?
The night sky was a fiery glow now, so bright that he could not shut it out
even by closing his eyes. He felt the searing heat, heard the muffled
explosions; bombs still going off, incessant ack-ack fire, the drone of heavy
bombers, interspersed with the hornet-like whine of Spitfires.
But that was all behind him, ten, fifteen, even twenty miles away. His plane
had come down, the crew still inside it except for himself. A sense of guilt,
cowardice. No, it was every man for himself when you got hit, everybody
accepted that. Try and bale out, take your chance.
He was floating now, drifting steadily on a downward course, a sense of
euphoria overwhelming him. The bombing and gunfire were barely audible;
perhaps he had come even further than he had thought. Just a faint orange glow
over the horizon. He glanced down again, saw a mass of shadows, some darker
than others, a silvery sheen beyond that was undoubtedly the sea. He certainly
had lost his bearings.
Darkness and the torments of hell lie below you.
Bertie Hass tried to shrug off his uneasiness, attempted to shut out the voice
that undoubtedly belonged to Ingrid the clairvoyant. He had not visited her
only to learn his destiny; he had gone for other, more interesting reasons.
Like the other Luftwaffe pilots who had introduced him to her. No more than
thirty, long blonde hair and a shapely figure which you glimpsed through those
near-transparent garments she always wore, her fortune-telling was just a
blind. The tiny crystal ball in the front window of her dowdy house signified
other things than glimpses into the future. Not that Bertie had any proof of
that personally; perhaps you had to be a regular customer with several visits
behind you before Ingrid Bramer took you through into the other room. She had
warned him not to go on this raid. Perhaps" that was an invitation to stay
behind and visit her again. It would have meant going sick, convincingly.
There were ways, but Bertie Hass had never done anything like that in his
life. You had a duty to the Fuhrer.
He was much lower now, could make out silhouetted details of the land beneath
him. A wood, a big one bordering on a coastal marsh. His mouth went dry. He
might get caught up, break a leg, worse. If only he could make it to the
marsh; a concerted futile effort, treading air with his legs, trying to propel
himself along but all the time drifting lower. And lower. There was no doubt
in his mind that he would hit the wood.
The trees seemed to move, long thick branches outstretched like weird arms
trying to catch him. Lifting up his legs, dodging them, foliage rustling
against the soles of his heavy flying boots.
And then he was down. A soft squelching thud on boggy ground, his fall broken
by spongy marsh grass, the mud beneath it gurgling and sucking. For a few
moments Bertie Hass thought that he had made it to the marsh, had somehow
overshot the wood. He lay there in the darkness, then fought to extricate his
legs from the boggy ground, saw that he was surrounded by tall trees, macabre
caricatures with boles twisted into leering faces, lichen old men's beards.
Hissing ... it was the muddy water stirring and settling again. A patch of wan
moonlight defied the deep shadows, showed him everything he wanted to see and
a lot of things he didn't.
Miraculously he had landed in some kind of a clearing, had barely jarred his
body on impact with the ground. The big wood, somewhere to hide. Safety. He
shuddered, a sudden pang of fear for no accountable reason. That smell . . .
not just the stagnant stench of foul water. Something else . . . something
evil!
Quickly, expertly, he freed himself of his parachute, and began splashing his
way out of this tract of bog, leaving a bubbling protesting trail of disturbed
mud in his wake. He grabbed at an overhanging branch, hauled himself up on to
a patch of solid ground. The shadows seemed to have spread, enveloping him in
a black shroud as though claiming him for their own.
He was aware that he was trembling, hated himself for it. Was not he a member
of the select Luftwaffe, one of the Fuhrer's chosen bomber pilots to whom fear
was unknown? This place was the same as any other, just somewhere to hide
until he worked out a plan to get himself back to the Fatherland. The mission
had been successful and he was alive; it was his duty to return as soon as
possible. The war would not last long now, France had fallen and Britain was
on her knees. The hour of glory was nigh.
He found himself listening intently. No longer could he hear the familiar
sounds of battle and neither was the sky still aglow with the fires of
destruction. Bertie Hass might as well have parachuted down into some country
where war was unknown, just the unbroken silence of a land at peace. It was
decidedly uncanny.
The mud was oozing and bubbling, settling back down beneath the thick grass. A
night bird called softly somewhere. He must remain here until daylight, when
he would try to get his bearings. After that it would be a question of
travelling by night, hiding by day, until he found an aerodrome. Stealth,
combined with a little bit of luck, was all he needed, A plane, any plane. And
once he got behind the controls they could not stop him.
He tried to dispel his feeling of unease but it would not go away. He was all
alone in a strange land. An enemy, a beast of the chase.
A sound; like a foot sinking into deep mud, remaining there because to have
extricated it would have made too much noise. Which all added up to stealth -
to being watched.
Shivers up his spine, goose-pimpling his flesh all the way up into his scalp.
Trembling fingers eased the push-stud of his leather holster open, drew out
the heavy Luger automatic. Show yourself, pig, and you die. You are facing one
of the Fuhrer's Luftwaffe.
Silence. Even the nightbird was not calling any more, just the almost
inaudible sound of trapped gases escaping from the bog. But Bertie Hass knew
without any doubt that there was somebody out there watching him.
Victor Amery had been up on the knoll since dusk. Three nights a week he was
assigned to his post throughout the hours of darkness, reclining in a
deckchair which he kept up there to make the long boring nights a little more
bearable. Fire-watching, it was termed, and somehow you had to try and
convince yourself that you were doing your bit for your country. That was what
the Home Guard was all about, a psychological boost both for the able who were
too old for active service and the population of a virtually unprepared
nation.
'Caught with our bleedin' trousers down,' was Victor's favourite phrase most
nights in the Dun Cow before he went on duty. 'Everybody could see it comin'
but they kept on sayin' "peace in our time" until bloody war broke out. Then
"who would've thought it?" So the best they can do is arm all the old fogies
with twelve-bores and say "give it the Hun good and proper up his arse if he
dares to come".' And he had come, all right, Victor reflected grimly. At fifty
life was becoming very tiresome. A clerk by day and a fire-watcher by night.
When the bloody hell did they think you were going to sleep? Fire-watching,
that was a bleedin' laugh.
Until tonight. Jesus Christ, he'd watched some fires, like a gigantic Guy
Fawkes' Night and still going on. The Jerries came in drove after drove, the
entire Luftwaffe, surely, concentrated on one target. The railway network
first, roads and bridges, then they just let all fuck loose on the city.
Victor saw the munitions factory go up, there was no mistaking it. Puny
retaliatory fire, the Jerries were having a field day. But they got one, oh
Christ, they got one big bugger! Good for our lads!
Vie saw the bomber coming his way, wondered what the hell they were up to. All
the others turned back once they had jettisoned their loads. But this one was
hit, losing height and then bursting into flames. Victor Amery saw it
nosedive, explode in a field of cut hay and catch fire, burning debris
everywhere setting the hay alight. Smoke billowed up, hung in the still
atmosphere like those fogs that came in from the sea at times. Had you
coughing, your eyes smarting.
Fire-watching.
And then he saw the parachutist out of the corner of his eye. At first he
thought it was a bird, so big and graceful, but eventually made out the shape
of a man, gliding. Heading towards the Droy Wood.
Victor cocked the hammers of his shotgun. A Boche, an enemy. A killer. Look
what the bastards had done to the city, an inferno that was even now cremating
its dead, hundreds, maybe thousands more trapped by the flames. He swung the
gun to his shoulder, his forefinger brushing the trigger. Too far; three,
maybe four hundred yards. Not even a WD-loaded SG would reach that distance.
Regretfully he lowered his gun, narrowed his smarting eyes. The bastard was
going to hit the wood all right, no doubt about that.
Victor Amery saw the parachutist clear a tall oak, then dip from sight,
swallowed up by the dark shape that was the outline of Droy Wood. Rather you
than me, mate. He shuddered, didn't want to think too much about the wood at
night. There were too many stories, going back far too long. Half of 'em were
probably fiction, village gossip. But there was no smoke without fire. He
coughed, wiped his smarting eyes.
Then he was hurrying back towards the village, his shout ready for when he got
within earshot,
'There's a Boche in the wood!'
The cordon was thrown around Droy Wood with an hour still to go to daylight, a
makeshift village posse. A dozen Home Guard, some youths who were on the verge
of being called up, and one or two old stagers who would act as lookouts .
Twenty in all, a sparse force when one viewed the wood from the hills above,
five hundred or so acres of swampy woodland. Patches of dense reed beds which
had infiltrated from the adjacent marsh like stonecrop spreading from a garden
rockery into a flowerbed. Trees that had died, rotted, but still stood firm. A
very old wood indeed.
But it was when the fogs came in from the marsh that you had to worry, Victor
Amery reflected grimly. There was no telling when they would come, winter or
summer. A bright May day would cloud over, turn sultry, hazy; then before you
knew it that vile opaque vapour was wisping up through the trees, blotting
everything out. And Jesus Christ help you if you were in Droy Wood when that
happened!
Dawn came, bringing with it clear skies, a glow that could have been from the
rising sun, or else a reflection from the city which still burned. You could
smell the smoke.
A dog barked. Brutus, the Alsatian that belonged to Owen, the gamekeeper. Owen
was somewhere abroad, nobody had heard from him for over two months, didn't
bloody well want to, either. Like a lot of others you knew the next time you
saw his name it would be on the War Memorial plaque in the church. Secretly,
selfishly, you hoped so if you'd lost one of your cats in his snares or traps.
That dog was a personification of its absent master; vicious. If anybody was
in the wood, and in all probability the German was lying low there, he'd find
the bugger. And if he didn't, then Tom Morris's Jack Russell would, a snappy
little creature that raced and barked all over the place, sniffed every clump
of grass in the hope of a scent; a bloody nuisance on any day except today.
Victor Amery could see the others spaced over half a mile in a half-moon
formation. Waiting. Captain Cartwright and old Emson would be at the far end
of the wood, the guns in a pheasant drive. Everybody else were the beaters.
Take your time, tap every tree and bush with your stick. An assorted armoury;
twelve-bores, a couple of .410s, air-rifles, pitchforks, pick-axe handles,
anything that could be used as a weapon.
A shrill whistle jerked Amery into action, had him moving forward with the
rest of them, thumb resting on the hammer of his gun. That Jerry was
undoubtedly armed, at bay. Nobody could blame you if you shot him.
Self-defence; and think of all those folks who got caught in the raid last
night. Women and kids. Anger: he would have walked with his shotgun cocked in
readiness if the ground had not been so uneven.
Twenty yards from the wood. The dogs had already gone in, the terrier yapping
incessantly. Even with the dogs, Victor decided, it was like looking for the
proverbial needle in the haystack. You needed a full pack of hounds, ten times
the number of searchers, and even then the German had a good chance of holing
up somewhere.
Amery's uneasiness grew once they were inside the wood. So dark, it was
incredible how the summer foliage shut out the light, gave everywhere a kind
of sinister green hue, the shade that film cameras exaggerated to produce an
everglades effect. Everything smelled damp and rotten, the black soil wet,
muddy. It had not dried out over the centuries. You got a sense of
timelessness in here, even to the extent of being unsure whether it was day or
night, kept glancing about you, expecting to see . . . you didn't know what
you expected to see and that was what made it a thousand times worse.
Childhood bogey fears came flooding back; if they were reality then this was
their spawning ground.
Victor Amery stopped because Fred Ewart had stopped to light his foul-smelling
pipe, the flare of the match almost dazzling in the gloom. By its light you
saw his wizened features, the crop of blackheads which might have been taken
for a dark stubble of beard except that his drooping moustache was iron grey.
Pale blue eyes, alert, watching about him. Four-score years had not dulled his
brain, only stooped the shoulders beneath the navy blue knee-length mac which
he always wore, summer or winter.
The next man down was looking to Ewart too; he'd been around longer than most
of them. Ewart glanced one way, met Amery's gaze.
'We'll no' find him.' We're wasting our time but I've come along just for the
walk. 'They never find anybody in here. Remember Vallum? 1932. He killed his
wife and her lover, ran in here, left a trail of blood where he'd slashed his
wrists. A trail a child could follow but there was nothing at the end of it.
It just petered out. Nothing. They won't find the German.'
Victor Amery shivered. Damn Ewart and his tales of yesteryear. That was one of
the reasons why Victor had almost stopped going to the Dun Cow. Night after
night, it got on your nerves, stories you remembered when you put the light
out. Always Droy Wood figured in them. Maybe he made them up. Yes, that was
it, the silly old bugger took a delight in scaring folks. He was the source of
the legends, told 'em over and over again till people believed them and passed
them on. The wood was just like any other wood.
All lies. Fred Ewart's goddamned lies. But you never fully convinced yourself
of that.
A shout went up further down the line. They'd found the parachute. The terrier
was yapping and the Alsatian was barking fiercely. Now the animals had a
scent; the hunt was on.
Eager as the searchers were, somehow old Ewart dictated the pace as though he
was in charge of the whole operation; a slow gait, his ash stick prodding the
ground in front of him, forewarning him of soft squelchy patches. Flies
swarmed, buzzing black clouds in search of human prey.
Victor Amery came upon the old house suddenly, paused in amazement,
experienced a sense of revulsion. Once it had been a fine mansion set on firm
ground in the middle of a wide clearing. Stately gables had crumbled, there
were holes in the roof where slates had fallen and smashed. The glass had long
gone from the windows and they frowned down like eyeless sockets, the broken
doorway twisted into a snarl of malevolence. Go away, you have no business
here!
Somebody had to check the interior. The party had bunched together, looking at
one another, frightened glances, hanging back. Victor Amery almost cocked his
gun, his thumb beginning to pull the hammer back. Not me, no, not me!
As though in response to some mute order they all went, five of them, Ewart in
the lead, his ash stick tapping eerily, the strong smoke from his pipe wafting
back at them, thick twist fumes that reminded them of a city not so very far
away that still burned. And the dead whose flesh singed in the fire.
A ruin, nothing more. Stone floors where weeds struggled to sprout through the
cracks, broken doors leading from one large room to another; all the same,
empty and thick with the dust of ages, cobwebs strung between the beams, all
the furniture long gone. Silence except for their hollow footsteps and the
constant tapping of Ewart's stick. He was getting on all their nerves.
Upstairs, a precarious ascent, the timbers of the stairway groaning its
protest at their weight and their intrusion. Bedrooms; just one single
remaining item of furniture, a rusted iron bedstead. Once somebody had slept
in it, maybe copulated upon it. It had seen birth, possibly death. Now its
time had come and gone. It would remain here forever.
Nothing. An eager descent to the hallway, for once not waiting for the old man
to lead the way back out into the clearing where hazy sunlight greeted them.
Nobody spoke, there was nothing to say. We didn't find him. Nor we won't.
There's probably a cellar. If there is we're not going back in. You can tell
there's nobody in there - at least. . .not alive.
Fanning out into a ragged line once more, every one of them sensing the
deepening depression amongst them, the futility of it all. He's not here,
let's finish and be away from this godless place.
The dogs were silent, seemed to pick up the mood of their masters. It occurred
to Victor that the animals had not followed them into the house, had skulked
outside instead. Everybody was hurrying now, even Fred Ewart stumbling in his
haste to keep up with them. And what tales I'll have to tell in the safety of
the Dun Cow snug. Because I saw what you didn't see.
The smell was stronger now, a cloying putrefying stench that they tasted, had
them spitting out saliva. Some of them recognised it only too well - the smell
of death. In all probability it had wafted on the wind from the bloody carnage
of last night's bombing.
Following tracks, forcing their way through clumps of reeds where there was no
path, wary of bogs that gurgled hungrily when they inadvertently stepped into
one. No longer searching, only wanting to be out of Droy Wood. If the German
was in here then he would surely remain there. There's more than one person
gone missing in the wood over the years. 1932. Oh Christ, shut up, damn you,
save your stories for the Dun Cow.
Finally they emerged into daylight, a boggy reed bed that led up to the
pastureland where Captain Cartwright and his companion awaited them, perched
on shooting sticks with all the arrogance of landed gentry. Relief on every
face, the terrier beginning to yelp and dash about excitedly again; old Ewart
cutting up another plug of twist.
Victor Amery glanced up. At first he thought there was a thunderstorm
threatening in the hazy sky, the sun a pale red ball that was fast becoming
obscured. But no, they were not clouds which were drifting across from the
marshes, rather ringers of white mist creeping over the land, spreading out,
billowing. Hiding every landmark.
'That damned mist's coming in off the coast,' Cartwright's voice was slightly
unsteady, a kind of Well, we've had it for today, chaps. 'Another hour and
it'll be like a November fog. I guess the Boche has given us the slip. That
damned wood's too big and thick. We'd need a whole army to search it
properly.'
'He'll no' trouble anybody again.' Ewart's features were pale, his eyes
gimlets that sent a chill through any who looked into them. 'Nobody gets out
of Droy Wood when the mist comes across. We were lucky, Captain.'
The atmosphere had suddenly gone much colder. And now they smelled the stench
of death even stronger than before.
ONE
It was a long time since Carol Embleton had last gone to a disco. She hated
it, she didn't have to be here; she could have been back in her parents' small
house on the edge of the village. Except that they would have asked questions
and right now she was in no mood to answer anybody's questions.
Her anger showed in her expression, her actions, as she took up the fast beat,
punched the air with vigour. Her auburn hair turned yellow, green, blue all in
a matter of a minute as the coloured lights flashed crazily; lit up her eyes,
a savage scintillating red glow in tune with her fury. Then the colours faded,
the bulbs dimmed and she was just a flitting shadow swaying venomously.
A bystander might have been forgiven for presuming in the half-darkness that
she was overweight. Five foot eight inches, big-boned, but her waistline
slimmed delicately between her full shapely breasts and her wide hips. Agile,
twirling, challenging the beat to go even faster, her wide mouth compressed
into a bloodless line of fury.
Damn Andy Dark! Yesterday she had loved him, today she hated him. She saw his
features before her eyes, couldn't get them out of her mind; that was what
being in love did to you. Handsome in a rugged kind of way, his long dark hair
was thinning at the crown and he would be balding by the time he was thirty,
but what the hell. Slim, always dressed in jeans and a rough plaid shirt, the
binoculars strung around his neck as much a part of him as that sailor's beard
which she had got to like so much after detesting it initially. A slow
deceptive drawl that rarely altered. 'Sorry I can't make it tonight, darling,
but there's a team of naturalists coming all the way up from Sussex to film
that colony of badgers I was telling you about the other day.' You didn't tell
me and even if you did I wasn't listening because I'm not bloody well
interested. Most chaps of twenty-eight finish work at five and take their
girlfriends out in the evening. Girlfriend, not fiancee, because I've taken
the ring off and left it at home. I'll post it back to you tomorrow. I won't
register it and if it gets lost in the post then that's your bloody hard luck!
Sweating, moving away a few paces in search of a vacant place. Those youths
who had just come in from the pub were edging their way on to the floor and no
way did she want to give them the impression that she was jiving with them. A
lot of girls danced on their own, preferred it that way. Certainly tonight
Carol Embleton wanted it that way. She had made a big mistake, ought to have
realised months ago that this was how it would be if you dated a nature
conservancy officer. They were all married to their bloody wildlife, you were
the 'other woman'. Sorry if I've come between you and your badgers, darling.
Don't mind me, I'll stop at home and wait till you call me. I'll be a good
girl, I won't even look at other men. Like hell; but she wasn't going to let
those yobs pick her up. There was a limit.
Rocking all over the world. Legs apart, swinging her whole body from the waist
upwards from side to side, creating a sensation of dizziness as though your
scalp might slip right off.
Maybe Andy hadn't taken her seriously. Well, he soon would when that ring
arrived back. Posted tomorrow, first class, it might just get there on
Wednesday. Not an idle threat made in the heat of anger; she meant it. This
had happened just once too often. Andy didn't have to go filming badgers at
night with these nuts. He was always on about people trespassing, disturbing
the countryside, and if tramping through the woods at night with cameras and
dazzling lights wasn't creating a disturbance . . . . . . she winced as that
red disco light hit her full in the face again, knew just how those poor
badgers would feel . . . then she didn't know what disturbance was.
Hypocritical. OK, he was determined to go, and that was his decision. Likewise
she made her decision. We're through, Andy, don't pester me, please. There are
plenty of other girls, just like there are plenty of other chaps.
But not the yobbo breed. She moved her pitch again and just then the music
changed, a slower record, smoochy. Romantic. That was fine if you were feeling
romantic; if you weren't it grated.
She began to push her way off the floor, caught a glimpse of the clock at the
far end of the hall. Eleven-thirty. The disc-jockey would be folding it in
another half-hour. If she walked steadily back home her folks would have gone
to bed by the time she arrived. Christ, she couldn't face one of their
inquests, their patronising talk. 'It's only a lover's tiff. You go and sleep
on it and you'll feel altogether different in the morning. Andy's such a nice
lad, you don't realise how lucky you are, Carol.'
Maybe Andy was nice if you didn't mind sharing him with badgers and foxes and
any other species which happened to attract his interest at the time. The
cloakroom door was sticking and she had to force it with her shoulder. It had
been like that ever since she had come to her first disco here when she was
fourteen. The whole village was like that, didn't want to change anything,
good or bad. Andy, too. He'd still be going out filming something or other at
night when he was sixty. Which was a damned good reason for not marrying him.
The night was dry but cool as she shrugged on her sheepskin jacket, just a
hint of autumn in the air. Horse-chestnut leaves were already beginning to
fill the gutters, they were always the first to fall. Andy had taught her
that, damn him.
A sudden decision. She would walk home the long way, a circular detour
following the B-road that went north and then skirted the Droy Estate. There
was enough moon to see her way by and for sure then her parents would be in
bed when she got home. And I won't feel any different in the morning, I'll
make damned sure I don't.
She walked on through the deserted village, realised how it had suddenly lost
its appeal for her. Twenty years she had lived here, hardly spent a night away
except for boring old holidays with her parents and once she was sixteen she
had stopped going with them any longer. She'd got into a rut, hadn't bothered
with holidays at all. That was where she had made a big mistake. Then Andy
(damn it, she couldn't get him out of her system, it was something that would
take months) had come on the scene. A university education, travelled in
Africa and the Middle East, all on a government hand-out to watch something or
other in the wild which didn't want to be watched. And look what it had done
to him!
Ragged clouds scudded across the face of a near full moon, the silvery ghostly
light showing her glimpses of the surrounding countryside. Wild. Rolling
slopes that eventually made steep hillsides, and further on still became
mountains. Dark patches where forests grew, the terrain of the fox and the
deer. And the badger.
Sod Andy Dark, this whole place reeked of him like he had made it with his own
hands. She hadn't used to notice it much until she had started courting him.
Now there was no getting away from it. Or was there?
Elizabeth, her school-mate, had packed up and left the village when she was
seventeen, gone down to London, found herself a job; and a feller, one who
didn't know such a place as Droy existed. A sudden idea crossed Carol's mind.
There was nothing to stop her from going tomorrow. London sounded exciting,
she had only ever been there once, a day excursion by train while she was
staying with Uncle Don and Auntie Ellen in the Potteries. London was a big
place where you made your own life, didn't have it moulded for you by a petty
bird-watcher. She had no ties, apart from her parents, and they would have to
get used to life without her, give them something else to think about. She
didn't have a job, had been on the dole since the trouser factory closed down.
Most of the younger generation of Droy had shared the same fate. There wasn't
much likelihood of finding employment so you just accepted your lot and found
something to occupy your time. Now Andy didn't really have a proper job.
Studying birds and animals in the hills wasn't work, it wasn't doing anything
useful. It was about on a par with young Roy Bean, the Droy gamekeeper. He was
worse, all he was bothered about was killing wildlife, setting traps and
snares all over the place, firing his gun at anything that flew. It... damn
it, it was starting to rain.
Cold rainspots gusted by the wind stung her face, had her turning up the
collar of her sheepskin, wishing she had brought her umbrella. More than that,
wishing that she had elected to go the short way home. It was too late now, to
retrace her steps would make the journey even longer. And to make matters
worse the moon was clouding over, leaving her with only a dim outline of the
road ahead. So dark, in fact, that there was a possibility that she might walk
right by the stile in the hedge up beyond Droy Wood and miss the short-cut
across the fields to the village.
A hint of panic but she pushed it away. She wouldn't miss the stile, she had
walked this way too many times, could almost tell it by the way the camber of
the road sloped. A favourite stroll on a fine evening. With Andy. I wish he
was here now. Liar, you don't, you never want to set eyes on him again. The
bastard!
Autumn rain; sudden, heavy and cold, a hint that winter was not far away even
though it was still only early October. Carol quickened her pace, felt her
jeans beginning to dampen around the lower half of her legs. There was at
least a mile and a half to go, she would be saturated by the time she got
home. She hoped to God Mother hadn't decided to wait up for her. 'Wherever
have you been to get soaked like that, Carol, and where's Andy?' Oh shut up,
Mother, I'm leaving home, going to live in London and nothing you or Dad can
say will stop me.
And then she heard the car approaching from behind, coming from the direction
of the village. It was still some way off, half a mile perhaps, the sound of
its engine a drone like an angry insect.
Carol Embleton hesitated, turned to face in the opposite direction. Now she
could see its headlights, twin white beams swinging over the tops of the
hedgerows like the searchlights of an anti-aircraft gun searching the night
sky for an enemy aircraft. She found herself stepping back into the
undergrowth, remembered those teenagers who had come into the hall after
closing time at the Dun Cow. They had had too much to drink, wouldn't have
passed a breathalyser test; except that in Droy you didn't get breathalysed,
not unless you had driven crazily down the main street and bumped into a dozen
parked cars. And even then it would depend upon PC Houliston being around.
It could be those yobbos. On the other hand it did not necessarily have to be.
And as if to aid her decision the rain suddenly increased almost to
thunderstorm force, a blinding downpour that had her stepping back on to the
edge of the road. Catchy strains of that disco music came back to her, a
'golden oldie' that the DJ had played, one that went back well before Carol
Embleton's time.
'A thumb goes up, a thumb goes down . . , hitchin' a ride . . .'
The headlights dazzled her, had her averting her eyes, temporarily blinded.
The tempo of the engine changed, slowing, braking, pulling up alongside her.
She heard the passenger door click open. A Mini. The driver was leaning
across, just an outline. Nobody else. It wasn't the yobs from the hall.
'Nasty night to be out for a stroll,' a friendly voice, an accent that she
could not quite place, certainly not the Droy border twang . . . 'Or do you do
this for exercise every night?'
'No,' She found herself stooping, sliding into the empty passenger seat,
glancing in the back as though she half expected to find those village louts
hiding on the floor. But there was nobody. The upholstery smelled as though it
had recently been polished, the kind of smell a meticulous car-owner might
take a pride in. A snug place on a wet autumn night. 'I've been to the disco
in the village. When I left it was a nice dry night and I felt like a good
walk home. The long way round,' she added and laughed. 'That'll teach me a
lesson.'
摘要：

PROLOGUEBertieHassdosedhiseyes,bracedhimselfforthelimb-wrenchingjerkwhenhisparachutebillowedout,triedtowillittoopen.Thecoldnightairrushedbyhim,toreathisheavyclothing.Itwon'topen,Bertie,Ajeeringwhisperinsidehishead.Youknowitwon't.Didn'tthatclairvoyantinStuttgarttellyouitwouldhappenlikethis?Falling,fa...

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