"Omega" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farrar Stewart)

3

It was obvious from the London papers (there were no Manchester or Glasgow editions all day, till power had been restored) that the geologists and seismologists either could not or would not explain what had happened; and even those who were brave enough not to take refuge in incomprehensible jargon, contradicted each other. The disturbance, whatever it was, must lie deep; because a chain of shocks that ran from Merseyside into Wales, and then obliquely across the Cotswolds and Chilterns to the North Downs, made no kind of sense in terms of surface structure; any well-educated layman could see that. In Scotland, of course, the tremor that smashed the canal locks all along the Great Glen, and caused serious fires in Fort William, Invergarry, Fort Augustus and Inverness, was more understandable. On the subject of that ruler-straight primordial fracture, the nature of which was clear from any child's atlas, the experts pontificated at length to cover their vagueness over the rest.

Reports from the continent were equally puzzling. Most dramatic was the breach in Holland's Ijsselmeer dyke, through which the North Sea was pouring to inundate thousands of hectares of hard-won polder. But this, geologically speaking, was a mere incident in the strange network of tremors that stretched from Portugal to the Caspian, and south-west (more conventionally) into the Balkans and Turkey.

Deaths in the circumstances were remarkably few, in Britain at least. Fourteen people had died and six were missing in the collapse of a Salford block of flats; nine had drowned in a capsized pleasure craft on Loch Linnhe; and five had been killed by an exploding gas-main at Reading. Apart from these, no single British incident (the first day's reports suggested) had killed more than two. The total ranged from sixty-seven in The Times to 103 in the Sun. The continental figures were higher, though still very tentative; but in the trauma of home disaster, foreign deaths were statistics not people.

Disaster it was, of course – all the headlines said so. But as the hours passed and the fires were doused and the telephone panic by anxious relatives had abated a little, the usual defence mechanisms began to work. Those with problems were busy coping with them, those unaffected were busy congratulating themselves and a kind of eerie calm seemed to prevail. It was helped by the quite uncharacteristic promptness and efficiency of the emergency relief services – which aroused the curiosity of some of the more observant citizens, though this curiosity was for some reason not reflected by the media.

The media also avoided reporting the fact that three of Britain's eight Mohowatt electrodes were out of action, their conductors having been fractured by the tremors at a considerable depth. Fortunately two of the couples were still working and recently redundant conventional power stations could be brought back into service (again with uncharacteristic speed), so the Central Electricity Generating Board did not find it necessary to be publicly specific about the damage.

Practically the only reference (and that one indirect) to Mohowatt was in the Evening News's first leader in its 4.30 edition, which ran, after a platitudinous opening paragraph:

As the overall picture becomes clearer, the feeling must be acknowledged that Mother Earth has issued a warning. Never before in history has an earthquake struck, simultaneously, across the face of Europe. Yet no single incident was truly catastrophic, on the scale of such classic disasters as San Francisco, Agadir, or Skopje.

Why was the blow so widespread, yet so locally lenient? The experts cannot tell us. Whatever Mother Earth is up to, it is so deep in her womb that they fail to analyse it.

We have done many strange things to her in recent years – some perhaps with too hasty greed and too scanty knowledge. Is this her rap over the knuckles, to brace us for the real disaster?

If so, we must hope that our leaders and administrators are heeding her voice. She is not in the habit of warning twice.

The leader had disappeared from the 5.00 edition. Fleet Street rumour spoke of a phone call to the Editor from Downing Street and of the sudden relegation of a leader writer to the subs' desk.

The relegation, at least, was fact. The victim was a promising young journalist called George Barrett, who had only recently been given a chance to try leader-writing. Today, back on the desk as abruptly as he had left it, his first subbing chore was to tack a new head and intro on to the below-the-fold story on page 7: THREE DIE IN WITCH FESTIVAL RIOT. PA tape said that a fourth – a seven-year-old boy – had died in hospital. A dead child (especially a naked one) always enlivened a story lead, the professional half of his mind observed, while acknowledging that the flaxen-haired beauty impaled with a golden spear (and also naked) would have to retain pride of place. One motor-cyclist burned to death and two others hospitalized, plus one clothed woman demonstrator dead from multiple injuries, made a good second par. He typed the new intro with practised speed, while the human half of his mind felt slightly sick. Unreligious himself, he rather liked the witches… He told himself that on an ordinary day the story would have made the front page and possibly the splash. But this was no ordinary day. He wondered again why the Old Man had been so embarrassed about his demotion, wrapping it up with unconvincing flattery about the desk needing the best men in this crisis. Oh, well – easy come, easy go. He tossed the revised copy to the Chief Sub's tray, and reached for the next.

It was a phoned piece from their Bath stringer, reporting that the Cheddar caves had been closed to visitors, after the first morning tour had come up complaining of an irritant dust in the air of the lower chambers. The local Medical Officer of Health had ordered an inspection. Several of the party were in hospital with severe pulmonary symptoms.

The sub's professional instincts nudged at him, mysteriously. He frowned for a moment and then reached for the phone.

'But what's he done}' Betty Summers asked, helplessly aware that her voice was rising towards hysteria. The taller policeman (at least, Betty supposed they were policemen – she hadn't understood the identity cards they'd shown her) said soothingly: 'Your husband has done nothing, Mrs Summers. Please don't worry. Now why don't you just make yourself a cup of tea and we'll wait till he gets home?' His smile was bland, uninformative. 'You could make us one, too, if you like.' – 'But…' 'Just relax, Mrs Summers.'

She straightened a table-runner, unnecessarily, her hand shaking. She didn't believe a word of his reassurance. Phil must have been up to something – and now it was catching up on him. He'd been so preoccupied lately, not himself at all. There'd been no secrets between them in four years of marriage, till recently; the last four or five months, perhaps. Then he'd taken to brooding to himself at the oddest times – or worse, being falsely cheerful…

The phone rang and Betty jumped. She moved towards it but the second man reached it before her.

'Yes?… No, I'm afraid Mr and Mrs Summers are out this evening… Just a friend. I'll tell them you rang.'

Betty had wanted to call out but she had caught the taller man's warning eye and had been too afraid. Now she managed to ask: 'Who was it?'

'Somebody called Trevor. I'm sorry, Mrs Summers. It has to be this way.'

'Has to be what way? Why can't you tell me?'

'When your husband comes. He shouldn't be long now, should he?'

'I…'

'How about that tea? I'm sure you'd feel better.'

Perhaps he's right, she thought, a little desperately. She went to the kitchen, fighting back the tears that were trying to break out. This wouldn't do. If Phil was in trouble, he'd need her support, her help, not a weeping wife making things more difficult… If only…

She heard his key in the door, and Timmy's paws, scuffling at the woodwork as they always did. Oh, thank God… Or was it going to be even worse, now?

Betty ran to the hall but the two men were there as soon as she was. Timmy rushed in ahead of Phil, his tail wagging furiously, and stopped and growled when he saw the two strangers. Phil stopped too, questioningly.

She went to him, managing to keep her poise somehow. 'Darling – I think these gentlemen are police.'

'No,''Mr Summers. Not police. LB7.'

Phil seemed to pale a little. He said 'Oh', and shut the front door carefully. As soon as it was closed, the taller man showed Phil his identity card and then said: 'Beehive Amber, I'm afraid. Sorry about the short notice but you have an hour. I suggest you and your wife go and pack. You can explain to her now, of course.'

'Pack?' Betty croaked.

Phil put an arm round her. 'It's all right, darling. I wasn't allowed to tell even you… Oh Christ, I suppose I should have expected it, after last night… We're going away for a bit. An official job.'

'Arc you a secret agent or something?' She felt ridiculous as soon as she'd said it.

Phil sighed. 'Nothing so dramatic. Only a ventilation engineer.' He made an attempt at a laugh. 'They tell me it's a privilege to be on the list… Come on, I'll explain upstairs. Thank God I can get it off my chest at last.'

The taller man said: 'You didn't report the dog.'

'Nobody asked me,' Phil replied, looking suddenly alarmed. 'Christ, you don't have to…'

'We'll handle it.'

'Nobody asked me,' he repeated lamely.

'D'you imagine there's room for them down there?…

Go on, lad, or you'll upset Mrs Summers more.'

Phil patted Timmy's head, turning his face away. The shorter man coughed. Then Phil took his wife upstairs. The two men could hear their voices from the bedroom – hers high-pitched and bewildered, his rumbling on and on and on.

The shorter man picked up the phone and dialled a number. 'It's the only thing that gets me, when there's pets,' he complained over his shoulder. 'Why the hell don't they brief these people properly?'

Miss Angela Smith, at fifty-three the elder stateswoman of the Borough Treasurer's Department, thanked the post girl with a motherly smile. The girl had been very jittery since yesterday morning's news; the nearest earth tremor had been thirty or forty kilometres away (London had been quite unscathed) but you'd think her own house had fallen down. Oh well; not surprising when you knew the girl's neurotic mother, which Miss Smith did. As, indeed, she knew most of the borough.

Miss Smith flicked through the routine bulk of the post to see what she had to deal with herself. The perforated edge of a telex sheet caught her eye and she pulled it out; they had a way of being urgent – or if not urgent, at least from someone high enough for them to be treated as urgent.

'She read it and pursed her lips in a silent whistle, an unladylike mannerism she was well aware of but could not cure.

After the address and priority coding, the text began:

FOLLOWING TO BE TRANSFERRED TO FILE LB 0806 WEF. 26/6/04. CROWTHER 102 HOLLY MANSIONS E17. SUMMERS 43 MANOR CRESCENT E10. BERNSTEIN 97 BOUNDARY PLACE E10…'

Eighteen names and addresses. Eighteen! There had never been more than two on a File LB 0806 instruction before.

File LB 0806 matters were always handled by Miss Smith, in liaison with the Borough Treasurer himself and with no one else. She had never been told the purpose of the drill; merely given it on a sheet which was to be kept locked in her desk and reminded her of her responsibilities under the Official Secrets Act which she had been required to sign.

But Miss Smith was not a fool.

The drill itself was uncomplicated (at least when there was only one name at a time) but it was a nuisance. First, inform the accounts department that until further notice rates demands were to be sent not to the ratepayer concerned but to Miss Smith's desk. Next, contact certain named officials at the local London Electricity Board, North Thames Gas, Thames Water Authority and East Telephone Area with the same instruction. Finally (and the cloak-and-dagger solemnity of this amused Miss Smith), go to the address concerned, where a note would be -always was – pinned to the front door, telling the milkman, newsagent and anyone else concerned not to make any more deliveries till further notice. This note would always name the dairy, the newsagent and so on, and since they were all on the same sheet, none of them would have removed it. Miss Smith, however, had to remove it and then go to each of the addresses and say that as a friend of Mr So-and-so she'd been asked to settle the outstanding account. She was going to look a right Charley, this time, she thought, turning up at (for instance) one of the three major dairies in the borough and claiming to be the personal friend of half a dozen customers who'd all gone on holiday without warning on the same day.

All the accounts and the retailers' receipts, Miss Smith would then address (personally sealing the envelope) to the Home Office, Department LB7. Payment always arrived by return of post and Miss Smith's final duty would be to reimburse the London Electricity Board and the others.

Miss Smith, as has been remarked, was not a fool. Nine ratepayers of the borough had so far disappeared into File LB 0806, over the past year, and so far none of them had returned home. But these homes, she had soon become aware, were also on a Metropolitan Police list for periodic checking to make sure no harm came to them, and the police had their own keys. She guessed that the Post Office had their instructions, too.

It was all so neat, so quiet. All the same, there had been whispers; and Miss Smith, who kept her ear to the ground, knew of worried relatives who had been visited by anonymous soothing officials, and who now wore a 'We could an if we would' air. It had also not escaped her attention that the names accumulating in File LB 0806 included a high proportion of technicians, as well as one nurse and one pest control officer.

And now eighteen of them in one day – immediately after a nation-wide chain of local disasters which some said were a portent of worse to come. Eighteen people, with their immediate families if any, from a single London borough.

Miss Smith had a strong instinct of survival and she had been thinking ahead for some time. She had converted all her savings into small valuables and rarities which she estimated had a good chance of retaining at-least a barter price in any circumstances. She also kept £800 in notes stitched into the lining of an anorak. It was a pity about her pension, but…

She finished her day's work meticulously, and a busy day it was; none of the eighteen names was missed, though it cost the Council a lot in taxi fares, for which (and for the milk and newsagents' payments) she took care to reimburse herself from Petty Cash immediately. She said good night to her colleagues in exactly her usual manner.

Then she caught a bus home, to her terraced house in Vicarage Road. She was as unobtrusive as possible about the final packing of her motor caravan which stood outside the front gate, but in fact there was little to do because she kept it always ready.

She rolled up a note to the milkman and put it in an empty bottle; the pound note pinned inside it would pay for this week's milk so far. No problems with the newsagent because she always bought her papers over the counter on her way to work. She checked again that the electricity and gas were turned off at the mains.

Everything ready. She picked up Ginger Lad under one arm, which started him purring. Thank God he hadn't been out courting, or she'd have had to wait for him. She'd never had the heart to have him doctored.

With her free hand, she put the milk bottle on the step and double-locked the front door. Then she climbed aboard.

She sat behind the wheel in a last moment of doubt, while Ginger Lad, quite undoubting, curled up on the seat beside her. Was she being too precipitate? It might be days, or it might be months

She braced herself. Days or months, she had no intention of being caught in a great city when it happened.

Miss Smith started the engine and drove off.

Suddenly she chuckled, remembering her secret parting joke. She had added her own name to File LB 0806. After all, the LEB might as well get its money.

'Your little "incident" rather missed the limelight, didn't it?' Jennings grinned.

There were times when Harley found his ironical manner exasperating but he was too aware of Jennings' quality, and of his importance to his own private plans, to react to it outwardly.

‘We'll see,' he smiled back. 'Its coincidence with the earth tremors may turn out to be to our advantage in the end.'

The four of them were meeting in very different surroundings from those of their last conference. This, too, was Harley's office; but here were no tall Whitehall windows, only grey concrete walls hung with maps and charts; no Adam fireplace, only an extractor grille through which the conditioned air whispered steadily. One feature alone echoed the Whitehall room, an Aubusson carpet. A little out of place two hundred metres below Primrose Hill, Harley realized, but he was, after all, the Permanent Secretary.

As yet they were still on Beehive Amber so he spent about half his time here and half in Whitehall. In the unpublicized hierarchy which had been set up for Beehive, Harley was Chief Administrator of the London hive, responsible to the Prime Minister alone and senior to all the regional Chief Administrators. With Beehive Amber, only certain key personnel of the Beehive establishment – just over twenty per cent – were already in full-time residence; another five per cent, either because they were top officials like himself or because of the nature of their work, still commuted with Surface. The remaining three-quarters were on standby, awaiting Beehive Red. When Red was ordered, all would come below; only law enforcement units, intelligence agents and certain specialists need come and go from Beehive by one of the thirty-seven airlocked exits which were concealed all over London, or their equivalents around the regional hives. In the case of real surface chaos (the situation defined by various criteria in the Beehive directives as 'Category Five Disorganization') even these would be withdrawn; the airlocks would be steel-shuttered and Beehive would settle down, secure, fed, immune and disciplined, till Surface life was so weakened and demoralized that Beehive could send out its forces and take control. (Half a dozen secret exits would remain available whatever the situation, but these – which emerged in such places as a grocer's shabby garage in Camden Town and the up platform of Brixton underground station – were known only to Harley and to a handful of others, most of them in Intelligence Section.)

Beehive, sealed off, could survive on normal rations and full establishment for two years and seven months. Power supplies would never run out, coming as they did from fourteen well-dispersed and interchangeable submarine-type nuclear reactors.

When the time came for Beehive Red (it could be days, it could be months) individual orders would be impracticable. So would watertight security. 'Beehive Red' would be announced without explanation on television and radio; whereupon the remaining three-quarters would make for their designated entrances without further notice. According to plan, twenty-four hours should see virtually all of them underground, out of reach of alerted popular interference or sabotage. Martial law would then be declared. But that part of the plan had to remain elastic; there were too many imponderable factors.

Harley was allergic to imponderable factors and worked round the clock to minimize them.

One thing worried him constantly. Three-quarters of eighteen thousand people meant altogether too many possible leaks, even allowing for the fact that half of them were Servicemen who needed to know very little till their officers told them to move. And one or two of the more sensational continental newspapers had carried stories… Most of Britain must have heard hints of Beehive, however distorted; and Beehive Amber must have spawned more hints which would fall on much more attentive ears in the aftermath of the earth tremors.

It was just as well, Harley thought, that the seismologists' reports were top secret (the real ones, of course, not the statements they were allowed to give to the media). These experts could not hide the inadequacy of their time-factor data but the secret reports showed their unanimous alarm. Harley had not only read the reports – he had cultivated the authors, with everything from flattery to alcohol. And with every day his conviction grew that Beehive Red was approaching rapidly.

With these thoughts, as ever, hovering about the threshold of his mind, Harley said: 'I'm sure I don't have to tell you that a scapegoat may at any moment become an urgent necessity.'

'You lost one of your men on Bell Beacon, didn't you?' General Mullard asked.

'Yes, that was unfortunate. One doesn't like identifiable bodies getting into the hands of unbriefed authorities. So was the death of the Hassell woman. We don't want to provide the witches with any martyrs, especially young and beautiful ones. But I think something can be made of Andrea Sutton, by way of compensation.'

'The leader of the banner lot?'

'Yes. I've seen the autopsy report. Multiple injuries -the burning motor-cycle ran over her and so did another that went out of control. But those injuries would be compatible with her already having been dead, considering how quickly it all happened.'

'I don't follow you.'

'Quite simple. There will be two witnesses at the inquest who will insist they saw a group of witches stab her in the heart, catch some of the blood in a bowl and run with it to their Great Altar.'

'Duty outweighing perjury,' Jennings murmured. Harley chose not to hear him.

'But the autopsy showed no stab wound?' the General asked.

'The rib-cage was crushed by the motor-cycle.'

'Any competent pathologist would still know.'

'Of course, but that doesn't matter. The suggestion will have been made and I can see to it that it is headlined. The pathologist's denial will be accepted by the coroner but ignored by the rumour-mongers. The blood-sacrifice theory will very quickly become "fact" – all the more effectively because it will be believed to have been officially suppressed. And fortunately, Andrea Sutton was President of the Anti-Pagan Crusade – a non-denominational group which has had little impact so far… She wasn't an agent of ours, by the way, though she was manoeuvred into this demonstration by – er – appropriate influences.' He gave his thin smile. 'And further appropriate influences have arranged that her Vice-President and successor will be the main attraction on BBC 1'S "Paul Grant Hour" the day after the inquest. He is Ben Stoddart, a quick-witted speaker of considerable personal magnetism. Grant himself has been briefed… I think, gentlemen, that a sacrificed Andrea Sutton will prove a much more effective martyr than a mere naked blonde.'

It was not easy to return to normal but they did their best, for Diana's sake in particular. Mercifully, the child had not seen Joy's murdered body; her face had been buried in Dan's shoulder and he had managed to keep it there. But the uproar, the violence, the thunderous motor-cycles, inexplicably shattering a treat which she had been promised for weeks, had terrified her. She had been sick twice on the way home to Staines, and had whimpered herself to sleep in Moira's arms. Moira had knelt by the small bed, cradling and soothing her, till her knees ached.

When Diana had finally dozed off through sheer exhaustion, Moira had joined the other three downstairs. They had talked for a while, disjointedly, and then had set up an altar in the living room and cast a Circle. The familiar ritual had calmed them a little, and when they were ready they had sat facing inwards, instinctively drawing closer to each other, linking hands, woman, man, woman, man, striving to harmonize and activate the group mind which they had spent the past three years building up. (They missed old Sally, but all her lights had been out when they reached home and they had decided against waking her up with their terrible news.) When Moira had felt the power rising in them, she had begun to speak quietly, invoking an image of peace, conquering and transcending all disaster; then projecting it outwards, to the child upstairs, to bereaved John whose torment they could fee! as though he were in the room with them, to Joy's astral consciousness brutally and prematurely torn from its lovely, and loved, physical vessel… They had all felt drained but at least, for an hour, enfolded by the peace which they had invoked.

Moira had banished the Circle and they put on their clothes again, speaking little and softly. With the habitual exchange of kisses, Rosemary and Greg had bid them 'blessed be' and gone to their own home next door.

Moira had pressed herself close against Dan in their bed, needing the contact, clasping his hand to her breasts with her own. They had lain like that for a while, drawing on each other's strength; then her need for him had pervaded all her levels and she had turned in his arms, fondling him and moaning. She had been ready for him and he for her, and foreplay was, for once, forgotten; they had merged compulsively, with a swift and urgent climax, and had flung their arms wide as though to push away the terror with their passion.

As the tide ebbed, a half-remembered couplet had slipped unbidden into Moira's mind:

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far

Ancestral voices prophesying war.

Dan had felt the tears suddenly on her checks and had held her close, murmuring to her wordlessly till they both slept.

Next morning, breakfast had been dominated unexpectedly by the eight o'clock radio news. Moira and Dan had listened to the headlines, wide-eyed; almost at once Rosemary and Greg, their coffee-mugs still in their hands, had run through the gap in the fence between their gardens, calling to them to switch on if they hadn't already. The four of them had stood round the set, stunned by the list of large and small disasters that had spanned Europe during the night. When it was over, Dan had switched off and they had stared at each other.

It had been Rosemary who finally broke the silence. 'For God's sake! Do you know – I'd forgotten that bloody earthquake! It was so much part of the whole thing that I'd forgotten it!'

So, it seemed, had they all. Now reminded and abruptly aware of the scale of it, they had all talked at once, trying to take it in, till Dan had noticed the clock. He had hurried off to his estate agency partnership, Greg to his motor repair shop, Rosemary to'her till in the supermarket. Moira had been left suddenly alone; Diana was still asleep upstairs (let her sleep, poor mite) and Sally next door was not yet about.

On an impulse, she had gone to her Tarot pack, shuffled and cut the major arcana and the four aces, and dealt them in a Tree of Life layout:

The Hanged Man

Ace of Pentacles reversed

The Hermit reversed

Death

Justice reversed

The Tower

The Moon reversed

The Devil

The Wheel of Fortune reversed

The Lovers

She had stared sombrely at the layout for a full ten minutes. If that's how our world stands, she had told herself, last night was only a beginning.

She had hardly dared to deal out the three qualifying cards, but knowing that she must not baulk at them, she had turned them face upwards firmly.

The High Priestess – the Chariot – the Star.

Moira had drawn a deep breath and then said out loud: 'So it's up to me, Lady, isn't it?'

Since then, a week had passed; a week of unnatural and uneasy calm throughout Europe. There were riots in Brussels, Athens, and Turin but in each of these places there had already been some explosive local controversy which natural disaster had merely detonated.

Where there had been damage, people were busy repairing it; where there had been none, they were busy discussing it. Opinions were bandied about and prophecies made, from ostrich-like to apocalyptic. But in fact there was nothing for the prophets to get their teeth into and everyone knew it. If there was real information available, the authorities were keeping it to themselves.

The Prime Minister appeared on television and said nothing with artfully homely eloquence.

In the Mackenzie household, Diana seemed to have forgotten Bell Beacon, though Moira and Dan watched her carefully for any recurrence of distress. Sally next door was splendid; she seemed to absorb the double shock of the earthquake news and the Bell Beacon shambles like a soldier to whom catastrophe was commonplace and concentrated on keeping Diana amused and on seeing that Moira was left alone as little as possible when Dan was at work.

'Don't brood, pet,' she had told Moira firmly on the first day. 'Gets you nowhere. Joy's dead, may the Goddess rest her, and you can't bring her back. Out of our hands. Our job's the living. Damn it, I'm out of tea. Make me a pot, there's a good girl.'

Moira had laughed, helplessly, for the first time in many hours. Sally had smiled, with a shrewd eye on her – for signs of hysteria, Moira knew; and the knowledge helped her to keep a grip on herself.

As the days went by, their life appeared to regain its normal rhythms. But Moira had a strong sense of foreboding which she could not shake off; nor could she be certain in her own mind how much of that foreboding was personal, on behalf of her family and her coven, and how much of it was on a larger scale altogether.

One anxiety was already personal; Dan's business became suddenly slack. Two years earlier, Dan and his friend Steve Gilchrist had bought up a near-moribund estate agency, with its few clients and tenuous goodwill, and had set about reviving it. Steve had put up two-thirds of the capital, but Dan had been the one with the drive and the ability to get on with clients. They had done well so far and the office on the High Street had become bright and busy. But after the tremors, day by day more of the country properties on their lists were withdrawn from the market. In most cases only vague reasons or none were given, but one client at least was frank.

'If we get more quakes I'll feel a dam' sight safer out there in the woods,' he told Dan. 'And if things break down and there's violence, who the hell wants to be in London?' Dan, who for all his energy was perhaps too honest to be a tycoon-class salesman, admitted that he had a point.

The partners knew that the trend was two-edged; prices of the country places which did remain on offer would rocket. But any benefit to them would be transient, because if the alarm continued the market would soon dry up altogether.

Moira thought about asking for her old job back, to bring more money into the house if Dan's business met with prolonged difficulties. She had been a fashion buyer at Debenhams, the big department store in Staines, and only recently they had asked her if she would return, but she and Dan were agreed that she should stay at home till Diana started school. They might have to reconsider this attitude if things got worse. She kept the thought in reserve for the moment, however; only extreme pessimism would make Dan accept it and she did not want to disturb him until she felt it was absolutely necessary. Besides, her intuition nagged at her with another thought: if things really got worse, would their problems in fact be one of money?

The implications of that disturbed her even more than the state of Dan's business but she could not dismiss it.

In contrast to Dan, Greg was working overtime. He was head mechanic in the workshop attached to a big filling-station on the Kingston Road.

'You wouldn't believe it,' he told them on the Sunday afternoon as they all sunbathed on the Bayneses' lawn. (In the near-communal life that had evolved between them,, Greg and Rosemary had the bigger lawn, and Dan and Moira the bigger vegetable garden, both families making use of both.) 'All of a sudden everyone wants to be road-worthy. You know how it is – not many people really get their periodic maintenance done when the ten thousand comes up, or whatever. Now they're bringing 'em in ahead of time. They're queuing up for decokes and God knows what, even old bangers with holes in their coachwork, as long as the mechanics are sound. We can't get new tyres fast enough – or light bulbs, everyone wants a spare set. Petrol cans, too. And on the forecourt they've sold more road maps in a week than they usually do all year.'

'Road maps of where, as a matter of interest?' Dan asked.

"Yes, I'd wondered that, too – I checked up. East Anglia, the Pennines, central Wales, the Highlands – all the least populated areas, the ones people usually buy only to go on holiday. The town ones too, of course – lots of people just buy complete sets and be done with it. But the country ones are the hot cakes.'

'That figures,' Rosemary said. 'I was in Debenhams yesterday and you couldn't get near the camping department. I doubt if they've got a tent or a camp cooker left in the place.'

'I'm glad we have,' Moira said suddenly.

Her remarked seemed to hang challengingly in the air, but for now, at least, nobody commented on it.

Dan was determined to attend the Bell Beacon inquest, so Moira left Diana with Sally and accompanied him. She felt no particular urge to be there, herself; her sense of outrage had been all-consuming at the time, while Dan had been absorbed in necessary action. As the days had passed, she had tended to put the irrevocable behind her while he had mulled over his memories, weighing and classifying them, assembling a case in his mind with a growing sense of indignation. This was typical of each of them as Moira well knew. But she also knew that such complementary attitudes were part of the strength of their partnership and she made no attempt to upset the balance by persuading him to forget before he was ready – any more than he would have belittled her on-the-spot reaction.

The coroner's court was packed and although Dan and Moira arrived in good time they only just got in. The proceedings were long and unpleasant. For the first hour, Dan and Moira learned nothing which they had not seen themselves or already gleaned from the newspapers. The dead motor-cyclist was Terence Watt, twenty-nine, of Raynes Park, newsagent; a surprising age and background for a leather-clad trouble-seeker, perhaps, but otherwise unremarkable. The seven-year-old boy, Bobby Thornley, was the child of a couple from Woking, who were with their solicitor in court, looking pale and ill. John Hassell was beside them with his own solicitor; his expressionless face had only softened once, as he caught Dan and Moira's eyes when they came in. Andrea Sutton, it appeared, only had relatives in Johannesburg, whom a third solicitor nominally represented, though he was in constant whispered discussion with a handsome man of about sixty who turned out to be Ben Stoddart, Vice-President of Andrea Sutton's Anti-Pagan Crusade.

There were no surprises to begin with, as a string of witnesses gave their various versions of the disturbance and a pathologist reported the causes of death. The latter amounted to massive haemorrhage in Joy's case, burning to death in Watt's and multiple injuries due to being run over in Andrea Sutton's and the boy's. Andrea Sutton had in fact been run over twice, and then hit by a falling machine; her rib-cage had been badly crushed.

The coroner impressed Moira; a shrewd man, quiet-spoken, but authoritative in spite of the deceptively casual way in which he put questions – as when he asked the senior police witness: 'Superintendent, why have none of the motorcylists been brought before me?'

'I regret to report, sir, that we have been unable to trace them. Apart from the deceased Watt, there were eleven of them, as witnesses have told the court. Nine of them rode away after the disturbance, my officers were told when they reached the scene; and we do not even have descriptions of them since they all apparently wore crash helmets and visors.'

'I see. But two others were admitted to hospital, were they not?'

'Yes, sir. They were in adjacent beds in Slough General Hospital until approximately eleven o'clock the following morning, one being treated for burns on his hands, the other awaiting the results of an X-ray for a suspected fracture of the right humerus. They were the only patients in a four-bed ward and while they were unattended for about half an hour they seem to have dressed themselves and disappeared.'

'Disappeared?'

‘Yes, sir. The Ward Sister is in court if you wish to question her.'

'But this is extraordinary, Superintendent. I may hear the Sister in due course but this is surely also a police matter. These two men were known to have taken an active part in a disturbance in which three people had already died. Why was there no police guard on them?'

The superintendent looked embarrassed. 'There appears to have been a breakdown of communication between the St John Ambulance, whose detachment transported them to hospital, and the police. The ambulance officer told the hospital casualty department that he had reported to us, via his own headquarters, but there is no record of the report having been received. We were unaware of the two men's admission till they had already discharged themselves – and it transpired that they had given false names and addresses on admission.'

' "Discharged themselves" strikes me as somewhat of a euphemism, in the circumstances… And what about their machines? Presumably they had registration numbers?'

'One or two witnesses did note down the registration numbers, sir, and their reports tallied. But all twelve -including the burnt-out machine which is in our possession – proved to be carrying false number-plates. And the engine number of the one we do have had been filed off, too deep for radiography.'

'What about the two abandoned by the riders who were taken to hospital?'

'They were removed by persons unknown immediately after the disturbance, sir. It was an estimated half-hour between the riot ending and the first police car reaching the scene, I regret to say. Our switchboards were swamped with earth tremor reports and our cars were busy – but all the same, we could have been called to Bell Beacon earlier if the St John Ambulance radio had been working. The ambulance officer will tell you that he suspects it had been sabotaged.'

'Superintendent, your quite remarkable evidence does not seem to me to point to an act of spontaneous hooliganism. It points to a carefully organized plot.'

'One cannot escape that conclusion, sir, I agree.'

'And I may not be able to escape the conclusion that this inquest should be adjourned to allow for further police inquiries… However, we shall at least continue until all the evidence which is so far available has been heard, before I decide whether an adjournment is advisable.'

'As the court pleases.'

'The court would also be pleased to know why no police were in attendance at this Festival. I understand that until this occasion, it has been the invariable practice for a suitable number of officers to be present.'

'My instructions were that since there had been no trouble at such events for many years, police presence was an unnecessary waste of manpower and should be discontinued – by our county force, at least.'

'And this was the first application of the new policy?'

'In Buckingham, yes, sir. I understand that other forces have continued the old practice.'

'An astonishingly unfortunate coincidence,' the coroner said quietly.

The superintendent reddened. 'I can only follow my instructions, sir.'

'Instructions from whom, in this case?'

The superintendent hesitated, then answered: 'From my Chief Constable, sir.'

'I see… And were those instructions in accordance with your own judgement, as an experienced officer?'

‘With respect, sir, I ask to be excused from answering that question.'

The coroner nodded several times, slowly, and the superintendent's face grew even redder.

The ambulance officer was next. He stuck firmly to his story that the ambulance radio had been sabotaged but he had no way of proving it. He also insisted that he had telephoned his HQ from the hospital, reporting the two casualties and requesting that his report be passed on to the police.

When the next witness was called, Moira hissed to Dan: 'Good God! Him!' 'What about him?' 'Mike Wharton. Renegade.'

'Black?'

'He hasn't got the guts. Just a rat.' 'Don't recognize him.' 'Shush. Tell you later.'

Andrea Sutton's solicitor was on his feet. 'I must apologize, sir, for asking the court to hear this witness, Mr Michael Wharton, virtually without notice. Mr Wharton came to me about twenty minutes before the court convened, with such an extraordinary story that had there been more time I would have accompanied him straight to the police, because it has a direct bearing on the murder of Miss Sutton.'

'Do not anticipate the verdict of this court, Mr James.'

'I was about to add, sir – "if murder it was, as Mr Wharton alleges".'

'I see. And Mr Wharton is a stranger, who came to you completely out of the blue?'

'I had not met him before, sir, personally, but I knew of him. He is a well-known and respected figure in the witchcraft movement…'

('Like hell!' Moira muttered.)

'… who has contributed many articles to the movement's periodicals. Recognizing him and knowing his standing within his own field, I knew his story could not be lightly dismissed. I saw no alternative, in view of the time factor, but to bring him before you, sir.'

The coroner studied the witness. 'Mr Wharton – before I hear what you have to say, I would like to ask one thing. If you have vital evidence on the death of Miss Sutton, why did you not go straight to the police with it? Why have you waited till now?'

Wharton peered back at him through tinted glasses, under carefully groomed black hair. 'I was afraid, sir. These people…"

'Which people?'

'The black element in the Craft, sir.'

' "Black" in this context of witchcraft and magic meaning malignant?'

'Yes, sir. And ruthless. I was afraid of what they might do if I told what I saw. I am still afraid, but… I felt, this morning, that if I didn't speak now it would be too late.'

'You are safe here,' the coroner told him, 'and if you do have cause to be afraid once you leave this court, the police will arrange for your protection. The court takes a very serious view of the intimidation of witnesses. I shall be better able to form a conclusion about that when I have heard your evidence.'

('Which'll be a load of lies,' Moira whispered.)

('Let's hear him, at least,' Dan whispered back, judicious as always.)

To begin with, Wharton's evidence differed little from everyone else's, or from Moira and Dan's memory. He said that he had been in a Circle in the direct path of the Crusade demonstrators, who had reached it just about the time when the dancers had converged on them and tried to stop them. He himself had offered no violence; he had merely attempted to argue with the leading demonstrators, who had included Miss Sutton, but they had gone on chanting and would have pushed him aside. But at that moment he had been caught between attackers and defenders near the Cauldron.

'I fell over, sir – most of us did, the demonstrators and the others, all mixed up together in a heap of people. Some were fighting, some trying to tear up the banner, and some – like me – just trying to break free. One is pretty vulnerable with no clothes on… But I was trapped under two or three people. Miss Sutton was about three metres away from me – she was on the ground, too, pinned down by the crowd. One man was hitting at her face, and she was protecting it with her hands… Then the earth tremor came and more people fell on top of me – I thought my back would break and I could hardly breathe. Then Miss Sutton managed to get to her feet and yelled out about the wrath of God smiting the witches. She was dragged down again, and then the fighting started again – only harder, as though the tremor had rattled people. I was still trapped. Then I saw two people – a man and a woman -pushing their way through the crowd towards Miss Sutton. They went down on their hands and knees as they reached her. They were skyclad – naked, that is – and he was carrying an athame and she a copper bowl. An athame is a witch's ritual black-handled knife, sir.'

The coroner nodded. 'Did you recognize these two people?'

'No, sir. Their backs were to me and they both had long hair falling forward, the way they were moving. His was black and hers light brown. I never saw his face and I only got a glimpse of hers in profile – round, with a big mouth and small nose. I'd say they were both about thirty. He was thin, a little tall as far as I could judge. She was on the plump side but small-breasted.' He paused.

'Go on, Mr Wharton.'

'By then, sir, Miss Sutton was still pinned down by the crowd, but no one was paying attention to her, if.you understand me. The man and woman wriggled between a lot of legs till they reached her, and then… It was horrible, sir. He pulled up her sweater and stabbed her in the ribs with his athame. I think I screamed – but there was so much noise and screaming no one would have heard. She must have died almost at once, there was so much blood. And the woman was catching as much of it as she could in the copper bowl… Then someone fell in front of me and I couldn't see them any more. The crowd moved and I managed to get up. The man and woman had gone. I looked around, I think I must have called out something, but no one listened – then I saw them running towards the Great Altar. She was holding the bowl up high as though she were carrying an offering, and he was running beside her holding his athame up like a salute. Four other people had joined them – two men and two women, like an escort… I never saw them reach the Altar; I was knocked over again. The Altar had been smashed up by then and the statue. I suppose they intended to pour the blood over it, as a sacrifice to avenge the sacrilege…'

'Do not suppose, Mr Wharton. Confine yourself to what you saw and heard.'

'Yes, sir. Actually I didn't see any more of them, because it was then that the motor-cyclists arrived and the crowd scattered. I managed to get outside the ring of cycles before it closed. I saw one of them run over Miss Sutton's body… I knew there was nothing I could do so I found my clothes and escaped down the hill to my car.'

'Being too afraid to inform the police,' the coroner said.

'Yes, sir, I was. I'm not proud of it but I've seen what these people can do.'

The coroner looked at him inscrutably for a moment, and then asked: 'The man's athame, Mr Wharton. Would you please describe it?'

'An ordinary sheath-knife, sir. About a twelve- or fifteen-centimetre blade. You know, sharp along one edge and thick along the other.'

Appalled and furious, Moira was gripping Dan's arm, unable even to whisper. She saw that one or two reporters were hurrying out of the press box. She was so angry that she hardly heard the coroner's questions, clarifying points in Wharton's story. Her attention was dragged back by a sudden cry of 'It's true!'from a woman who had jumped to her feet from the witnesses' seats.

The coroner restored order, and then asked: 'Miss Chalmers, isn't it?'

The woman, a frightened-looking creature with mousey hair, nodded as though she had lost her voice.

'Do I understand that you wish to add to, or amend, the evidence you gave earlier?'

Now the words came in a flood. 'Yes, sir, I do. I was afraid, like him. He's right about what they can do… But I saw those two stab Miss Sutton and her collecting the blood. Just like he said. It was awful…'

'Can you describe them?'

'No more than he did, sir. It was all that hair… Then I saw them running, and I did follow them, not too close, they still had their backs to me. And he's right, they did pour the blood on the ground, in front of where the Altar had been smashed up. I'm afraid I just turned and ran…'

('Oh, God,' Moira breathed. 'Dan, this stinks. But it'll stick! People'll believe it!1)

('I hope you're wrong, love.')

The coroner, at least, was not credulous. After he had questioned Miss Chalmers, he recalled the pathologist.

'Doctor, when you examined the body of Miss Sutton, did you find any evidence of a knife wound?'

'No, sir, I did not.'

'You gave evidence that the rib-cage was badly crushed. Is it possible that this damage could have concealed the fact that she had been stabbed, by such a weapon as Mr Wharton has described, deeply enough to cause the kind of bleeding he described?'

'No, sir. The wound would still have been detectable to a careful examination.'

'Which you carried out in this case?'

'Of course, sir. When a cadaver has suffered multiple injuries, one always bears in mind that those injuries may conceal an earlier and significant injury. One is therefore particularly careful to search for such evidence.'

'Thank you, Doctor.'

Andrea Sutton's solicitor rose immediately. 'Doctor -in addition to being run over twice, Miss Sutton's body had also been hit by a falling motor-cycle, had it not?'

'That is so, yes.'

'And would not that machine have sharp projections?'

'Yes. There were several lacerations from such projections, but mostly on the legs and pelvis, across which the machine fell. There was one such wound in the chest, which would appear to have been inflicted by the clutch lever on the left handlebar. It had peneratred to about six centimetres.'

'You say "would appear to have been".'

'The machine is not available for examination. I was being careful to distinguish between deduction and hard fact.'

'I put it to you, Doctor, that the wound which you deduce was caused by a clutch lever could equally well have been caused by a sheath-knife.'

'It could not. The wound would be different.'

'And that difference could be detected after the rib-cage had been badly crushed?'

'This wound was in a part of the chest which was otherwise comparatively undamaged.'

'Ah. Then in the more damaged parts, the evidence would be more doubtful.'

'Not at all. It would merely require more careful examination – which, as I have said, I carried out. There was no knife-wound in the chest.'

'I suggest, Doctor, that you are being over-confident.'

'And I strongly resent that suggestion.'

The solicitor sat down, smiling.

The coroner lifted his hand to still the murmur that ran round the court. 'It is clear to me that further police investigation is necessary in this case, before a proper verdict can be arrived at. Among the aspects calling for investigation…' (he looked steadily at Wharton and then at Miss Chalmers)'… is the possibility that perjury has been committed. Superintendent, you will please speak with me in my office after the court has risen. This inquest stands adjourned sine die.'

'Sally, I've never been so angry in my life,' Moira said. 'God knows what Mike Wharton and that Chalmers woman are up to. But I didn't believe a bloody word of it.'

'Nor did the coroner,' Dan snorted. 'He made that pretty clear.'

'What frightens me is that I don't think they expected him to believe it. All that was for Joe Public'

'I hope Joe Public isn't that stupid,' Dan said.

Sally asked drily: 'Do you want to bet?'

'Oh, I know but… All right, people will read it but they'll also read that the coroner practically called them liars.'

'Do you want to bet on that, too?'

They were interrupted by the sound of the evening paper, falling on the front doormat. Dan went to fetch it. Moira and Sally heard him pick it up but his footsteps halted halfway down the hall.

'Come on,' Sally called. 'Let's know the worst.'

Dan came in and threw the paper down in front of them. The banner headline read:

'BLOOD SACRIFICE AT WITCH RIOT? Inquest Adjourned for Probe'.

They read the story through together. The main emphasis was on Wharton's and Miss Chalmers' evidence and on the solicitor's attack on the pathologist's evidence. The coroner's remarks on possible perjury were not quoted.

'The next stage,' Moira said bitterly, 'will be the bricks through our windows.’

Come Devil or Doomsday, Miss Smith was enjoying herself. It was high summer; she, the caravan, and Ginger Lad were all three in excellent health, and she was quite content to be a directionless nomad for a while. The crisis would erupt soon enough – of that she was still sure -but until she could see the shape of it, she was making no definite plan. It was enough to be mobile and free, and out of town.

She followed the news carefully on the radio and on her little fifteen-centimetre television and bought a different newspaper each day in the hope of getting a cross-section of what was being thought and said; though she had a growing feeling that the media were not being frank. There was no formal censorship as yet but a lifetime in local government had given Miss Smith a sensitive nose for the symptoms of back-door pressures and Establishment manipulation and that nose told her that such influences were increasingly active.

But sniffing the political wind was only a minor part of Miss Smith's new way of life. What she enjoyed most was exercising and perfecting her ability to live off the land.

She was quite skilled at it already; she had been an enthusiastic camper since she was a girl. Then, it had been a bicycle and a tent. In her twenties she had graduated to a Lambretta scooter, and in due course to her first motor caravan. With characteristic thoroughness, she had taught herself how to maintain it. Within a year she could, and did, dismantle and reassemble the engine. Her present caravan was her fourth and most luxurious; she had bought it brand-new two years ago, when her father had died and left her a few thousand in life insurance.

Camping and caravanning had become an addiction with her, as she cheerfully admitted. A boyfriend had once persuaded her to join him in a package-tour holiday in Greece; the boyfriend had been satisfactory, but the confinement of hotel life had been less so. Her eyes had always been on the olive-studded hills and the emptier beaches, while his had been on the bars and the concrete swimming pools. She had liked him but she had been only briefly upset when six months later he had transferred his affections to a night-club hostess in Chelsea.

The following year she had gone alone, in her caravan, to those same hills and beaches; her love affair with the man had been consummated, but her love affair with Greece had not and she had been aware of the frustration all winter. She had driven home to London happy and she had never taken another hotel holiday.

In nearly forty years of camping, Miss Smith had learned a good deal. She knew what she could eat from the fields and hedgerows and what she could not; when she toured abroad – as she had done in places as far apart as Finland and Morocco – part of the fun was seeing how much of the same lore she could acquire locally. It tickled her pride that she could identify at least three High Atlas cacti which would enhance a couscous and two Arctic mosses which gave a unique flavour to soups. Such knowledge was gratifying but of course exotic; the British Isles were hei real field of study and she could do well for herself anywhere from the Fens to the Burren, from the Hampshire woods to the Sutherland glens. She could light and maintain a fire in a snowstorm. She could pick herbs to staunch bleeding, soothe headaches or ease constipation. She was an accomplished (and so far uncaught) poacher; she owned a licensed.22 rifle but she could hunt silently when discretion dictated. She disliked snares but had taught herself to use them and she had even had passable success with a catapult.

She did not object on principle to technical aids; her methane cooker was a beauty and she had a well-equipped medical cupboard; but she was wary of becoming dependent on them. She liked to feel she could manage if the gas gave out or the drugs could not be bought. Her little caravan library was strictly practical: road atlases, Culpeper's Complete Herbal, Black's Medical Dictionary, the caravan workshop manual and so on.

When Miss Smith had driven out of London into Epping Forest a week ago, she was only doing what she had done on more summer weekends than she could count (winter ones, too, come to that). But this time, from the start, the feeling was different. It was one thing to set off on a holiday of two or three days or weeks, knowing that the little house in Vicarage Road lay at the end of it, that minor extravagances were permissible, that whatever was used up could be replaced. It was quite another to accept that this was no holiday but the start of a new life-style, an open-ended journey that might never lead back to Vicarage Road. There were moments, in those first few days, when she asked herself if she was crazy. But her instinct told her otherwise, and in any case it was not Miss Smith's habit to brood on a decision once taken. So she slipped quite naturally into altered ways of thinking.

She must be careful with money, but not miserly because she might as well make the best use of it while it retained its value; and if she was right about the approaching crisis, the time might come when it was so much waste paper. She must reckon on becoming immobile when petrol disappeared from the pumps; but a full tank, and the jerrycans padlocked on her roof-rack, would take her almost a thousand kilometres, so she topped up the tank regularly. She kept on thinking of simple things that might run out. For example, it would be a pity to be reduced to stick-rubbing through lack of lighter flints… So at the next tobacconist's she bought a dozen packets which should last for years as she was a non-smoker, and four lighter-gas canisters. (She had two lighters, which had belonged to her father; it was not till weeks later that she discovered that one could buy Aimless lighters, which annoyed her; such a silly thing not to know.)

She busied herself with such thoughts and preparations but she saw no reason to be tense or solemn about them. While petrol could be freely bought, she was determined to have fun wandering.

She had kept moving in short daily hops, circling London to pick up the Thames above Reading, and then on to Savernake Forest, Avebury, Frome and the Mendips. Her westward move was not entirely planless. For one thing, she felt that before too long she should be basing herself somewhere in the Pennine area, because if petrol suddenly became unobtainable, the nearer she was to the centre of the island the more scope would her thousand-kilometre reserve give her; the wider the geographical choice one had, once the crisis took shape, the better. So she wanted to visit some of her favourite southern places before she settled down.

But a particular reason was that she wanted to go and see her only living relative, a young cousin who was a nurse in a hospital a few miles inland from Weston-super-Mare. Eileen was a sensible girl and Miss Smith felt that she, if no one else, should know what her eccentric middle-aged relative was up to.

It would be pleasant, Miss Smith thought as she came into Compton Martin, to go through Cheddar Gorge instead of taking the direct road. On this impulse, she swung south-west to cross the spine of the Mendips by the B 3371. It was a hot morning and Miss Smith sang to herself as the van climbed. She had happy memories of the Gorge and she wondered why she hadn't thought of this detour in the first place.

She might even put off visiting Eileen till tomorrow and spend the night near Cheddar. Yes, why not? She hadn't been down the Caves for years

She reached the junction with the B 3135 and saw the road block. It was manned by half a dozen soldiers and a sergeant was signalling to her to stop.

Miss Smith pulled-up, puzzled.

The sergeant asked politely: 'Where are you heading, ma'am?'

'Down the Gorge to Cheddar.'

'I'm sorry, ma'am – the Gorge is closed. You'll have to turn here and circle round through Draycott.' 'Oh, what a pity. Why?'

'A rock fall, after the tremors. It'll take some time to clear.'

'Well, I hope it's not near the Caves. You can reach them from the Cheddar end, I hope?'

'I'm afraid you can't, ma'am. The Caves are closed to the public. Routine precaution.'

The phrase 'routine precaution' aroused Miss Smith's suspicion at once. That old clichd… She said with deliberate innocence: 'Someone might have put up a warning notice at the crossroads back there, to save people wasting time.'

'I'll suggest it to my officer, ma'am,' the sergeant replied. Somehow Miss Smith felt that that was a cliche, too. She did not know why, but she sensed that the Gorge was being kept closed with the minimum of publicity… No, I'm being a suspicious old woman.

She smiled at the sergeant, and said, 'I think I'll turn back, then, and go on to Weston. No point in going to Cheddar if I can't see the Caves.'

The sergeant nodded and stepped aside. Miss Smith reversed into the fork, and swung round the way she had come, giving the sergeant a friendly wave as she left. He saluted her expressionlessly.

Am I being a suspicious old woman? she asked herself as she drove downhill again. Soldiers don't man road blocks. Police do… Though if there's been tremor damage round here (had the Mendips been mentioned? – she couldn't remember) perhaps the police are overworked and the Army's been giving a hand. Forget it. Enjoy the day.

But the question-mark stayed in the back of her mind all the way to Eileen's hospital.

She left the van in the car park and walked over to the main entrance. A red-haired young nurse grinned at her cheerfully from the admissions counter; Miss Smith had been going to enquire at the porter's lodge, but it was empty, so she crossed over to the nurse.

'Good morning. I wonder if I could see Nurse Eileen Roberts?'

'Eileen? Ooh, dear, you're out of luck. She's one of the ones who've been whipped off to the Banwell Emergency Unit.'

'Oh, that's a pity,' Miss Smith said for the second time this morning.

'Right nuisance to us, too, love. Five they've taken, and a doctor, and we're short-staffed already…'

'Nurse!' The sister had emerged suddenly from the door behind the counter, and her tone was sharp. 'I'll attend to this lady. You can go for your lunch-break.'

The nurse flushed and scuttled away.

'Yes?' the sister asked abruptly.

'I was asking for my cousin, Nurse Eileen Roberts. But I understand she's away.' 'I'm afraid so. She's been lent to another hospital.' ‘At Banwell?'

'The nurse was misinformed. Nurse Roberts went to Weston, yesterday, but she was due for two weeks' holiday first. So it'll be no use asking for her there for another fortnight.'

Miss Smith said 'Thank you, Sister' and left. When she was back in the van she looked at Ginger Lad curled up in his usual place on the passenger seat. 'You know what, my friend? There's something very odd going on. That sister was lying. And so was the sergeant, back there.'

Ginger Lad yawned.

'You're probably right,' Miss Smith told him. 'All the same, we're going to Banwell to have a look-see.'

She remembered passing through Banwell three or four kilometres back; just as well, because she had not known the name and if it hadn't been fresh in her visual memory she might not have caught what the nurse had said. As she drove towards it again, she wondered what she should do. She was obstinately determined to sec Eileen, quite apart from the fact that her curiosity (an active element in Miss Smith's make-up) had been aroused. But her experience with the sister warned her that there might be snags to simply asking for Banwell Emergency Unit. Miss Smith was not at all sure what she was up against, but she felt wary.

On the other hand, the young nurse had told her that1 Eileen was at Banwell Emergency Unit. Maybe she shouldn't have but that wasn't Miss Smith's fault. And Eileen was her cousin, which gave her every excuse for asking for her-

She decided to risk it.

As she came to the outskirts of Banwcll, she kept her eyes open for a suitable pedestrian – preferably someone a little naive and unsuspicious. She picked on a housewifely woman of about forty and pulled up beside her.

'Excuse me. Can you direct me to the Banwell Emergency Unit?'

The woman had smiled when Miss Smith leaned through the window to speak to her, but now the smile faded. She looked at Miss Smith nervously.

'You'd better ask at the police station,' she said, and turned away.

Miss Smith sat there for a moment, thinking. She decided she did not want to ask at the police station. She did not want her name noted down in the station book. Obviously, to ask for the Emergency Unit made one suspect; and if, somewhere along the official wires, that suspicion linked up with the disappearance of a local government officer and an unauthorized entry in File LB 0806… She was beginning to regret that little joke.

Oh well. One more 'innocent' try. She drove up to the post office and parked.

From the medical cupboard she took a cardboard carton of penicillin tablets which she had somewhat unofficially acquired as useful stores; it was still in its hospital wrapping. That would do. She could carry it into the post office and say she had orders to deliver it in person to the Unit; it might work, and if it didn't, she could say she was going on to the police station.

But Miss Smith was saved the trouble of finding out. As she opened the door of the van, a nurse walked out of the post office.

Miss Smith called, 'Eileen!'

The nurse spun round, startled. She gasped, 'Angie!' and then looked quickly up and down the street. No one was looking their way. Miss Smith jumped back into the van and opened the passenger door from inside.

'Move over, Ginger Lad. We've got a visitor.'

Eileen said, 'Drive straight on, Angie,' as soon as she was seated.

Miss Smith did as she was told, asking, 'Where are we going?'

'Towards the Unit, as long as anyone can see us. But not to it… How the hell did you find me? We're supposed to be top secret. We can't write or phone anyone.'

'Never mind that now – tell you later. What were you doing in the town, then?'

'Official errand. But if I'd tried to use the phone, the post office would have stopped me. They're under orders, too… Turn up here. We can keep out of sight for a while and talk.'

Miss Smith chose a spot to park and then turned and looked at her cousin. My God, she thought, she's been through the mill… Eileen Roberts was a pretty girl; twenty-three, with a sturdy little figure, a sunny face, rather high-coloured and framed with black curls. But now the face was pale and drawn and the curls seemed to have lost their sheen. And the eyes…

'Can you tell me?' Miss Smith asked gently.

'I don't know how much has leaked out,' Eileen said. 'Do you know anything about what's going on round here?'

'Only that the Gorge is closed. I was turned back by an Army road block, of all things. I smelt a rat then. I went on to look you up at the hospital and a little nurse let slip you were at Banwcll Emergency Unit, before a sister came and shut her up. The sister tried to put me off your scent with some yarn about your being on holiday.'

'The Gorge is closed, all right – and the Cave entrances sealed off with God knows how many tons of concrete. Ever since the first tour came up the day after the tremors. Those people are at the Unit, Angie. And a few others who caught it from fissures in the ground before those were sealed, too.'

'Caught what}'

'The Dust… That's what they call it but it's so fine it's more like a vapour. At least, that's how the… the patients described it, while they still could… First day, they were treated as acute bronchitis cases. Matron told me one story did reach a London evening paper but they rang back for more details and by that time the clamps were on. So it never appeared.'

She broke off, and was silent for some time before Miss Smith realized she was crying. Just sitting there, trembling, while the tears ran down her cheeks.

Miss Smith put an arm round her and Eileen clutched at her, sobbing now. 'Call myself a nurse! But oh, Angie – it's awful '

'There now, love.'

Eileen sat determinedly upright and managed to regain control of herself. 'But then, I'm not a nurse. I'm a bloody jailer. We all are… No, listen – I'll try to tell you. It starts off like acute bronchitis, but after a day that clears and they're breathing normally. For another couple of days they're just weak, like fever cases recovering. Then it starts. Out of the blue, fits of violence, lasting only a minute or two and then passing. The first patients smashed furniture and windows and one broke a nurse's arm – after that we were prepared for it. They get steadily worse till the fits are continuous. By about the fifth day, they're wild animals. They don't seem to be in pain – just stark, staring mad -and violent. In strait-jackets, round the clock. It takes two of us to feed one patient – a male nurse to hold him and a female nurse to spoon it into him. Or her. Otherwise the feeder may get bitten. One girl was; it fractured two of her fingers.' Eileen laughed, harshly. 'They gave her an anti-rabies course, to be on the safe side. But it doesn't seem to be infectious, or contagious. And that's about all we do know.… We've got experts with strings of letters after their names as long as your arm, up there at the Unit. They've been running tests and Christ knows what, and they haven't a clue. It's a week now since the first ones went mad and all we've learned so far is how not to get ourselves hurt… Angie, I wouldn't confess this to anyone else, but… Look, I'm a nurse. I've got my reasonable share of compassion; you must have in my job or it gets impossible. But these… They're so awful, so far away from being human, I can't even feel sorry for them. I'm afraid of them and I hate them. I hate them for not being human and for keeping me away from being a nurse… I said I was a jailer but I'm not even that. I'm a keeper of wild beasts which haven't even got the nobility of real beasts… I know some of the others feel the same. One day soon, one of us is going to kill one of them. And what that would trigger off, I daren't think… Angie, it's like the end of my world.'

'Oh, my God,' Miss Smith said.

'I might just be able to ride it out,' Eileen went on, 'if I thought that it… Angie, I discovered something two days ago, by accident. One of the doctors let it drop without realizing what he'd said. He'd only just joined us, and he was discussing a symptom with another doctor – and he said "We found at Corwen it only occurs in the women". He'd forgotten I was in the room and I slipped out… You see what it means? Corwen's in North Wales, isn't it?

– and that was on the tremor line. So this isn't the only place… Angie, what the hell are we sitting on top of? And what happens if that little earthquake was only a starter?'

Miss Smith thought for a moment, and then asked: 'Eileen, are you being useful there? In any way, as a nurse?'

'In no way. My job could be done far better by an all-in wrestler.'

'Are you prepared to desert, then?'

'What?'

'Drive away with me. Now.' 'Angie, I'm a nurse’

'Precisely. And in normal times that means taking orders – though even then, you can give notice. I'm just asking you to leave without notice, because the way things are developing, I think your knowledge is going to be valuable to real people not wild animals beyond help. And I think you may find yourself having to use it on your own initiative without a nation-wide organization to work in and take orders from… I was a public servant, too. But I smelt the way the wind was blowing and prepared accordingly. This caravan's a carefully planned survival base, if that doesn't sound too melodramatic… I'm not on holiday,

Eileen. I walked out last week, without telling anybody. That's why I came looking for you; I'm all the family you've got, for what I'm worth, so I thought you'd a right to know what I was up to… I made my decision but since I started out I've wondered sometimes if I was over-dramatizing. Not any more, I don't. Not since I heard your story… There's room for you.' She waved at the two bunks behind them.

'But, Angie – we'd never get away with it. Did you say you were my cousin, at the hospital?'

'Yes.'

'Then if I disappear, the same day, from a top-secret place… By this time tomorrow all the police in Britain would be on the look-out for this caravan.'

'I said the caravan was planned. I have back there the number plates, registration book, and tax disc to next March of a bashed-in van of the same make which I bought for £50 in notes from a scrap dealer. I didn't give my name and he didn't ask for it. It would just go, and I drove it on to the Corporation dump of a borough which I happen to know doesn't bother to check up on dumped wrecks. There are some advantages to being a well-informed Council employee… We'll change the plates and disc today, and we'll be OK for anything short of a chassis number examination. And by this time tomorrow we could be in the Lake District or somewhere.'

'Angie, you're an old crook.' Miss Smith could see that her cousin was brightening already.

'A survivor has to be, within reason. And I blush to admit to one more James Bond touch; I've got a couple of wigs in one of those drawers, and your head's about the same size as mine. How d'you fancy yourself as a blonde?… I'd better find it for you right away. And a sweater and slacks, though you'll have to pull the waist in a few inches. Have to get you out of that uniform now.'

"You've made up your mind about it, haven't you?'

‘Yes.'

Eileen said: 'I can change on the floor while you drive. Let's get moving.'

They found a wood a few miles away towards Chew Magna where they changed the plates, and Eileen made a slightly more satisfactory job of re-clothing herself by moving the buttons on a wrap-around skirt of Miss Smiths. By mid-afternoon they were in Cheltenham, where Miss Smith insisted that Eileen bought herself some clothes in her own size ('Get a bikini and some shorts and a couple of sun-tops too, love – we ought to look and behave like holidaymakers'), and by taking it in turns to drive, before sunset they reached a quiet river-bank in Northamptonshire where they settled to cook a meal and spend the night.

Over a tin of pineapple (and how long would they be available?) Miss Smith casually switched to BBC 1on the little television. The chronically surprised face of Paul Grant was asking: 'But are you seriously suggesting, Mr Stoddart, that the earth tremors were an expression of the wrath of God against resurgent paganism?'

Ben Stoddart's voice was as charming and reasonable as his smile. 'I wouldn't dream of suggesting any such thing. God works in mysterious ways and it's not for me to attempt to oversimplify them.'

'Isn't your slogan "Goddess worship is Satan worship" an oversimplification?'

'Essentially, no; it puts truth in a nutshell – and it concerns human activity, not Divine. One may – indeed one should – be categorical about human error. But one must bow to the mystery of God's intervention and accept that it is a mystery.'

'A mystery which may, or may not, include earth tremors to punish witches – and to punish the rest of us for tolerating them?'

'Let us put it this way, Paul. Andrea Sutton's last words, before she was martyred on Bell Beacon – or worse than martyred, if the blood sacrifice account by two independent witnesses is substantiated…'

'That is sub judice, so we can't discuss it,' Grant interrupted.

'Of course, of course. Please ignore my remark about blood sacrifice. But our dear friend Andrea's last words were: "It's the wrath of God, smiting the witches!" Now whatever the geologists may say (and heaven knows they say little that is comprehensible), it may be that millions of people will feel that, in extremis, Andrea expressed a profound spiritual truth. And millions may wonder if those words should go unheeded…'

Miss Smith reached out and turned him off. 'I can't stand that man,' she told Eileen. ‘Unctuous, dangerous bastard. They're the worst rabble-rousers, the smooth and reasonable ones.'

'Are you a witch, Angie?'

'Me? I'm nothing in particular. Agnostic, I suppose. I just loath heresy-hunters. And at a time like this, they're dynamite.'

'Or a damp squib. He'll be forgotten in a week.' 'Maybe… Are you a witch?'

'I went to one of their festivals once, at Glastonbury -a friend invited me.' She laughed. 'I took off my clothes and danced round the bonfire with the rest. Tell you the truth, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Not just the dancing – the ritual too. I think they've got something.… I've been

meaning to look into it a bit more but I've been too busy yet.'

They took their cups of tea and sat on the river-bank as the stars came out. Eileen leaned back against a tree-trunk and sighed happily.

'Thank you for bringing me with you, Angie. I couldn't have taken that much longer.'

'Quite right too… Glad to have you along, love. So's Ginger Lad – look.'

Ginger Lad had strolled across from the van to butt his head against Eileen's hand, demanding to be stroked. She laughed and rubbed behind his ears while he snaked his neck ecstatically.

‘Where shall we find ourselves tomorrow, Ginger Lad?'