Mark Chadbourn
Darkest hour

The wind blows harshly through the cloisters; to my fancy, it brings with it the distant cries of anguish and despair that echo now around our land. These are indeed dark times. Here, beneath the magnificent vaulted roof of Salisbury Cathedral, a few of us struggle to keep the candle of humanity's faith alight; the last outpost of Christianity in a world grown Godless through too many gods. Sometimes even my own faith grows dim, though I joined the church more than thirty years ago. The old certainties have been blown away by that cold wind. Simply to believe in the one, pure thing in a time of everyday wonders and miracles is almost too much. For why should anyone believe in one thing when it is possible to believe in everything? But I struggle and I strive, and I continue the ministry that I have held all my adult life. Now, more than ever, I have a purpose. The Lord, perhaps, will grant me the strength to see Him clearly once more and permit me to spread His word across the land as my antecedents did in the first Dark Age.

It seems that in my blackest moments I draw most comfort not from contemplation of the divine, but through an examination of humanity. And in those times I like to turn my thoughts to the five who set out to be the saviours of our race, not through any desire for glory, but simply to serve the greater good; in their example we see humanity in its most glorious essence, forged through hardship and conflict.

The first of the five was Jack Churchill, an archaeologist, known to his friends as Church. A good man in many ways, but one damaged by life. For two years he had struggled with the blackest of emotions that accompanied the suicide of his girlfriend Marianne: grief, certainly, but mainly guilt that he had somehow been complicit in his inability to recognize whatever internal turmoil she had been experiencing that had driven her to such a terrible act. The second of the five was Ruth Gallagher, a lawyer, introspective and intelligent, given to controlling her emotions. She felt trapped in a career she found soulless, but which had been the wish of her father who had died of a heart attack soon after his brother had been murdered.

The two of them met one misty February morning just before dawn, underneath Albert Bridge on the banks of the Thames in London, where they witnessed an act of terrible ferocity: the murder of Maurice Gibbons, a Ministry of Defence civil servant, by a giant of a man whose face seemed to melt and change. Whatever it became was too awful for their minds to comprehend and they both fell unconscious.

Over the following days, the repressed memory of the sight assailed their subconscious, driving them to the edge of despair, forcing them to join forces to uncover the truth of what they had seen. And what they found when they probed into the hidden areas of their minds was at first too much to believe: it appeared that the figure had transformed into a monstrous, demonic being. Yet when they encountered Kraicow, an elderly, bedridden artist, their worst fears were confirmed, for Kraicow, too, had seen the creature.

During this period of personal upheaval, the world seemed to have been turned on its head. From all over the country came reports of bizarre supernatural acts, spontaneous miracles, wonders and terrors, discounted or jeered at by the cynical media. If only we all could have recognized those first signs then, we might have been able to prepare ourselves for what was to come. The culmination of this outbreak of the unknown, for Church at least, was the manifestation late one night of his dead girlfriend's spirit.

It was a turning point for this young man who was filled with so much darkness: a chance, possibly, to find the answer to all the questions that had tormented him. When he received a message over the Internet with a cryptic comment about "Marianne" from a woman purporting to have an insight into the strange events, he felt driven to investigate further. And so the external crisis and his own personal troubles converged.

A meeting was arranged with the woman, Laura DuSantiago, in the west of the land, and Ruth accompanied him. Yet they had barely passed beyond London's city limits when the dark forces moved against them. At a service station an attempt was made to kidnap Ruth by another face-changing creature much like the one they had seen that night they came together. With the help of a mysterious, elderly wanderer named Tom, Ruth was rescued, but by then it was impossible to deny that they had become targets, although they knew not of whom-or what.

Tom joined them on their journey. He was a fellow who kept his secrets hard inside him, and although he was not one of the five, his role in the epochal events that were fast approaching was pivotal.

As night fell, the Evil abroad increased its attempt to prevent the five from coming together. While heading west along the M4, a Fabulous Beast soared down from the black sky, its scaled body glittering in the headlights, blasting fire from its mouth. The motorway became the scene of a terrible conflagration; many died. It was the first of the great slaughters. There was no Saint George to slay the creature; Church, Ruth, and Tom could only flee.

Tom, in his wisdom, took them to Stonehenge, which proved a remarkable sanctuary against the attack; there, Church and Ruth were initiated into the ancient mysteries. Tom told of the lifeblood of the earth, the blue fire, long dormant but slowly awakening after the great change that had overtaken us all. Rejuvenating, powerful, the source of all magic, it seared along the lines of force; the age-old sacred sited marked the areas where it was most intense. The Fabulous Beasts were both its symbols and its guardians; the one that attacked them had been briefly corrupted by the power of the forces raised against them. And there, too, Ruth and Church first began to learn of their true destiny as the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons, the spiritual bond that was linked to that earth energy.

They underwent a night of revelation as Tom told of the return of a race of tremendous power and evil which had terrorized the land in the near-forgotten past. The seasons had turned; dark days had come around again.

Deep in the night while they slumbered among those ancient stones, Church woke to discover the spirit of Marianne hovering in the shadows beyond the henge. Though terrible to look upon, she did not talk and she retreated when he approached, but she left behind a mysterious gift-a black rose, known by its Gaelic name, the Roisin Dubh. Church's decision to take it as a nieniento nmori would prove devastating.

In the light of their experiences, plans were changed and Laura DuSantiago agreed to meet them here, in Salisbury. While they waited for her arrival the great powers grew closer. In the cloisters of this very cathedral, Church encountered the demonic black dog known as Old Shuck; it heralded the unrelenting onset of the Wild Hunt. At the same time, Ruth was haunted by a figure which seemed to change from hag to middle-aged woman to young girl. Any student of folklore would have recognized the archetypes, the mother-maiden-crone of the old religion, but Ruth was unaware it was her destiny calling. And that night in a local pub they crossed paths with a seemingly harmless wanderer by the name of Callow. Loose lips ensured one of the companions would pay a terrible price for that fateful meeting.

The following day they were introduced to Laura DuSantiago, the third of the five, and a woman both secretive and deeply troubled. Scarred on the inside as much as her body was marked by a mother who used her religion to mask her madness, Laura still exhibited a remarkable tenacity and fire but the death of her mother, which she believed to have occurred by her own hand, was the defining aspect of her character.

Laura led the others to an industrial estate on the outskirts of the city where she had experienced something unbelievable. It was one of the fluid spots, as they have come to be known in these strange times; Church and Laura crossed over to the Watchtower which hung in the space between worlds, while Ruth and Tom were left behind to face an attack by the terrifying shape-shifting creatures. In the Watchtower, Church reeled under the onslaught of premonitionshis own death, a city burning-before he came face-to-face with a beautiful woman who had haunted his dreams since he was very young.

She never told him her name, but she did finally shed light on the mysteries that had wrapped tightly around his life. It was an astounding tale of two fantastic races which first came to earth in the dim and distant past; almost too fantastic-their supernatural powers were at odds with every notion we had of rationality and logic, but it is a story which, for our sins, we have all since come to know is true. The Celts knew them as the Tuatha De Danann, also called the Golden Ones, and the Fomorii, the misshapen, evil Night Walkers. For a period, they opposed each other while the humans watched these gods with tremendous fear. Then, after one final, brutal battle which saw the Fomorii defeated, they and all other supernatural creatures departed the world for their homeland, the place the Celts called T'ir n'a n'Og. The barriers between here and there were supposedly sealed for all time, but some of them still managed to flit between, giving us our legends of fairies. No fairies from a storybook, these, though; they were so alien and unknowable we could never see their true shapes, just the simple forms our own minds projected onto them to maintain our sanity. They came from a place where everything was fluid in our terms-physical reality, time, and, I would aver, morals. They are so far beyond us we must seem like a bacterium to them. Is this a definition of godhood? That is the question that has troubled so many, and that is where I take refuge in my own Faith, for I cannot accept that power without morals is any justification. There must be some sense of right and wrong, good and evil. There must.

But I digress. Church was told the Fomorii had broken the old pact and returned to earth. The Tuatha De Danann, the only ones who could possibly oppose them, had been scattered by something called the Wish-Hex; some were trapped, others were temporarily corrupted by the Fomorii's power; a handful had escaped. The task bestowed upon Church and the other Brothers and Sisters of Dragons was to locate the four long-lost mystical items which once belonged to the Tuatha De Danann, and to use them to summon the race back from wherever they had been banished. Four talismans: a stone, a sword, a spear, and a cauldron, more archetypes branded on human consciousness. And it all had to be done by the feast of Beltane-May Day-or the Tuatha De Dannon would be lost forever.

Reluctantly, Church accepted and, with Laura, returned to earth. In the meantime, Ruth had escaped the attack of the Fomorii shapeshifters, but Tom was missing. The three remaining companions set off following the Wayfinder, another mystical artefact which resembled an old lantern lit by a flame of blue earth energy; the flickering light pointed them in the direction of the talismans.

Their first destination was Avebury and its awe-inspiring stone circle. Here they encountered a man known only as the Bone Inspector, an odd fellow who considered himself a guardian of the old sacred sites and keeper of ancient wisdom. His people had once administered their powerful lore to the Celts from the hawthorn groves before they had been driven underground by the invading Romans. The Bone Inspector showed them the secret entrance to the place that lies beneath Avebury, where the blue fire is at its most potent, guarded by the oldest of the Fabulous Beasts. And there Laura retrieved the first of the talismans, what had been known to the Celts as the Stone of Fal which supposedly screamed when touched by the true king of the land; much to his consternation, it cried out when it came into contact with Church.

Leaving the Bone Inspector behind, the three companions continued on their quest. It was at this time that we all became aware of the disruption of what we arrogantly believed were the only true rules of existence; technology began to fail intermittently, inexplicably. It was a sign that things truly had changed; nothing could be relied upon anymore.

When their car gave out, they set up camp in the countryside outside Bristol, and it was here that Church met a young girl, also called Marianne. For a man given to a brooding outlook, it was understandable that Church was charmed by her bright, optimistic personality, but for some reason that went beyond the concurrence of their names, he also made a psychological connection between this child and his much-missed girlfriend. She gave him her locket which contained a picture of Diana, the Princess of Wales, a tragic figure in whom Marianne had invested much belief and hope.

That night, Ruth also had an encounter which changed her life. In the dark of the woods, she once more came face to face with the triple goddess, the mother-maiden-crone, who called on her for help and gifted her a familiar, an owl which was more than an owl.

Church's plans to return the locket to Marianne the following day were thwarted when he found her on the brink of death from a blood clot which had been with her for many months. Church and the others rushed her to the hos pital in Bristol for an emergency lifesaving operation, but before it could be completed the technology failed once more. It was night, a storm was raging and the hospital was plunged into darkness. After briefly losing consciousness, Church was drawn through the confusion to mysterious bursts of a pure white light. And there he found the young Marianne, dead; but in her last dying moments she had found some power deep inside her that had cured an entire cancer ward. It was a sign that in those first days when everything seemed to be spiralling down into darkness and terror, there was a place for miracles too.

Taking her locket, Church, Ruth, and Laura followed the lantern south, pausing at a service station off the M5. Here they were once again terrorized by Old Shuck, and had their first warning that the Wild Hunt was close behind. Continuing on their way to Dartmoor, they sheltered in an isolated pub, a brief moment of calm when they all got to know each other a little better. But that night, led by the monstrous Erl-King, the Wild Hunt attacked in force, slaughtering many of the pub's customers. In desperation, the companions agreed to split up in the hope that one of them would lead the Hunt away so some could escape the carnage. While Ruth and Laura sped away to the east, Church scrambled across the moor on a motorbike, but it was not long before he hurtled into one of the abandoned mineshafts that littered the area.

On a deserted road, Ruth and Laura encountered the fourth of the five, Shavi, a young Asian man, kind, charming, good-looking, thoughtful, and intellectual, the epitome of that to which the five aspired. Like the others, he had been touched by death; a bisexual, he had seen his boyfriend murdered by a mysterious assailant in a London street. Since the change in the world he had discovered within him abilities which in earlier times would have led to him being considered a shaman.

They had barely exchanged greetings before the Wild Hunt was upon them. Through a desperate night flight, they evaded the Hunt's grasp only because dawn arose, the supernatural creatures bound by some unknown rules to retire at first light. And then they found themselves in Glastonbury, a site of such religious significance, both to my own beliefs and whatever spirit manifested itself in the earth energy (perhaps the same?), that it had become a mystical haven where the Fomorii could not exert their influence.

Church, meanwhile, awoke in chains, the prisoner of the Fomorii in an abandoned mine far beneath Dartmoor. With him in his cell was the fifth of the five, Ryan Veitch, a young, physically powerful man from South London who had been dragged into a life of petty crime from an early age. Witch's body was covered in tattoos, depicting many of the strange dreams which had troubled him all his life. But what distressed him the most was his accidental murder of a man in a building society robbery which went badly wrong, a man who, it later transpired, turned out to be Ruth Gallagher's uncle, thus throwing them into opposition.

Here Church and Veitch were tortured by a sickly, sadistic, half-breed Fomorii by the name of Calatin. Calatin was the leader of the main Fomorii tribe which achieved ascendancy after the long-ago destruction of the supreme, Evil power which had controlled and shaped their race. This power, as we all soon came to learn, had been known by the Celts as Balor, the one-eyed god of death, but even that description does not do justice to a force that epitomized the ultimate darkness, the ultimate evil, the end of everything. Yet Calatin's path was not clear; there was insurgency within the ranks, and another, smaller tribe, led by a Fomorii sorcerer named Mollecht, challenged for authority. Whichsoever of them destroyed the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons and gained the four talismans would have the upper hand.

In the cells, Church was reunited with Tom, who had been taken prisoner by the Fomorii after the events in Salisbury. With the help of the women from the Watchtower, the three prisoners escaped and continued on their quest.

In Glastonbury, Ruth, Laura, and Shavi followed a trail of clues which eventually brought them to my attention and the secret which I and my peers had guarded for so long: the hiding place of the cauldron talisman, which I knew as the Grail, deep within Glastonbury Tor. That brief meeting with them transformed my life and prepared me for the privations which were to lie ahead; it was obvious, even to me, that they were special, that they, perhaps, were our only hope. They left for the for with my prayers.

Church, Veitch, and Tom made their way slowly across Cornwall, where another manifestation of the dead Marianne made Church realize, for the first time, that she had not taken her own life; she had been murdered. That recognition was a turning point. Eventually they arrived at Tintagel, one of the legendary homes of King Arthur, and here Tom finally revealed Arthur was not a real person, but a symbol of something he called the Pendragon Spirit, the force that was encompassed by the blue fire and which bound the five of them together. The myths and legends were the secret history, he said; a code that was written large across the landscape.

From under Tintagel they took the second of the talismans, the sword. Barely had they held it in their hands than they fell under attack once more, this time from Mollecht, whose dabbling with the blackest magic had transformed him into a nexus of energy which could only be contained by a constantly swirling murder of crows. Cut off on the bleak promontory, they eventually found themselves tumbling into the raging sea.

It should have meant certain death, but they were reborn from the waves, the first of many resurrections which has served only to cement their reputation as their story became widely known. Their saviour on this occasion was Tom, a man who consistently claimed he could tell no lies, but who rarely volunteered the truth.

His reticence masked both his true worth as a person and his abilities; he had shown before that he was a font of wisdom, but they had no idea he had a smattering of what can only be called magic; an ability to control, if only in small ways, the blue fire. As they fell to the waves, he somehow focused his mind enough to move them along the lines of energy to another powerful node of the earth force.

And so, as Ruth, Laura, and Shavi sat atop Glastonbury Tor waiting to seek out the third talisman, they were shocked to see Church, Tom, and Veitch fall from the sky nearby, their lungs filled with sea water, on the highest point in the surrounding landlocked countryside.

Thus the five Brothers and Sisters of Dragons assembled for the first time; and after entering Glastonbury Tor, they made their initial crossing to the other place, T'ir n'a n'Og, the Land of Always Summer, home of the gods. The third talisman was deep inside a temple guarded by a strange hall of mirrors; the reflections cast by the glass tormented the five with their worst fears, but Church battled through and seized the cauldron. If only I could have been there when they returned to Glastonbury to see the Grail, the manifestation of God's love and power, for the first time in an age. Even though it harks back to a time before Christianity, thus disproving many of the apocryphal stories of the crucifixion, something so wonderful could only have come from God.

But the five were not concerned with such matters; to them it was a tool to save our world. From Glastonbury, the six companions traveled into South Wales to reclaim the final talisman, the Spear of Lugh. Part of it was held in a grove of severed heads on Caldey Island near the resort of Tenby, and the spearhead was hidden underneath Manorbier Castle, which lay on a nearby headland. Once the two were joined, the task appeared to be complete, but of course the Fomorii would not cede victory in that way.

That night the Wild Hunt attacked in earnest. The companions fought bravely, but their strength was nothing compared to the terrible supernatural power ranged against them. Finally, in a valiant act of sacrifice, Ruth launched herself at the Erl-King with the Spear of Lugh, ramming the weapon into his chest. When the two of them disappeared down a hillside into the night the others thought her dead, but Ruth had survived to witness an amazing transformation in the Erl-King. The monstrous form he had adopted as part of the Wild Hunt was just one of his aspects; he was a Golden One, one of the senior entities with an affinity for nature, whom the Celts had named Cernunnos, among many other shifting identities. He had been corrupted and controlled by the Fomorii Wish-Hex, but the Spear had freed him. In gratitude, he offered Ruth his patronage and branded her hand with his seal to mark his support.

With the Wild Hunt departed, the storm was over, and the companions were free to continue their mission, or so they thought. The next morning the others sought provisions, leaving Laura to guard the talismans. She was attacked and left for dead by Callow, whom they had not seen since that night in the Salisbury pub. He had accepted the patronage of the Fomorii; became a quisling, a betrayer of his entire race. He took the talismans and gifted Laura a face scarred by his razor.

Of all the players in this great game, Callow still haunts me the most. I often wonder what motivated him to throw in his lot with creatures so alien and powerful they could have crushed him in an instant. His life had been difficult, certainly, but was that justification enough for him to seek personal gratification at the expense of everyone else on the planet? It seems to me now that Callow was the antithesis of the five Brothers and Sisters of Dragons. Faced with hardship, they gave of themselves selflessly. Faced with the same choice, Callow simply did what he could for himself. There we have it, the best and worst of humanity given flesh.

With Laura on the brink of death, the others had no choice but to take her with them in pursuit of Callow. They raced across the country and prepared to head him off in the Lake District, where the first of the great betrayals took place. And of all people, the betrayer was Tom, although he was not truly to blame. While a prisoner of the Fomorii, they had inserted a Caraprix into his head; these, as we have all since become horribly aware, are small, shape-shifting creatures with which both the Fomorii and the Tuatha De Danann have some strange relationship. In Tom's case, it attached itself to his brain and controlled his actions, forcing him to lead the others into the hands of Calatin; all, that is, except Ruth, who escaped. Encountering a wise woman, she was shown her destiny as a controller of the powerful forces which came from the moonlit realm of the triple goddess. Within hours she had once more proved her remarkable worth by rescuing the others while Mollecht and Calatin's tribes foolishly fought over their prisoners. With the talismans once more in their possession, they fled for Scotland.

But they had another problem. Only Tom knew how to use the talismans to summon the Tuatha De Danann and he was still under the control of the Caraprix. While Laura grew closer and closer to death, Tom still had enough free will to direct them to another fluid spot where they could cross over to the Far Lands, and there they met Ogma, keeper of wisdom, one of the few Golden Ones to escape the Wish-Hex. Using the medical lore he had learned from the god the Celts called Dian Cecht, he removed the Caraprix from Tom's head and cured Laura. Here the companions also learned of the Fomorii's true aim: to bring back Balor and thereby damn us all. Tom, too, had a revelation which shocked them all: his real identity was Thomas Learmont, a thirteenth-century landowner who became known as that famous figure of Scottish mythology, Thomas the Rhymer, after he fell through into the land of Faerie and was given mystical powers by the Queen of Faerie herself, or so the old legends said. Only the reality had been much harsher than the myth. After finding himself in T'ir n'a n'Og, Thomas had been subjected to the torments and wonders of the Tuatha De Danann, a race so far beyond us they barely noticed the suffering they were inflicting. What is understood is that he was significantly changed by his ordeal, both psychologically and physically. He received the gift of prophecy and his long life was attributable to his repeated stays in that other world where time does not flow constantly.

There was a brief time for refreshment and revitalization which also allowed Church and Laura to consummate their long-simmering affection and then the companions returned for the summoning, which was to take place at Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye.

By the strange warping of time which takes place in the Far Lands, they arrived back on the day of their deadline, the feast of Beltane. As they headed towards the Kyle of Lochalsh for the crossing to Skye, they passed what resembled a mediaeval battlefield, slick with blood where numerous soldiers had been butchered, obviously in final battle with the Fomorii. When they arrived at the Kyle of Lochalsh, the place was in flames, all the inhabitants dead. The Fomorii had massed just across the straits on the shores of Skye, an impenetrable barrier between the companions and Dunvegan.

The only option was to take a boat and attempt to sail around Skye to the castle on the northwest coast, but the waters were guarded by a ferocious sea serpent which could only be controlled by Shavi's shamanistic abilities; the effort, however, scarred his mind.

At Dunvegan, they left him in the boat while Ruth, Laura, and Tom went to summon the Tuatha De Danann. Church and Veitch were dispatched to another fluid place known as the Fairy Bridge to at least try to delay any Fomorii attack. None of the companions truly realized how devious the enemy were; they had sown the seeds of their plan long in advance. The Roisin Dubh given to Church by Marianne's spirit was Fomorii in origin; it was the Kiss of Frost, a subtle force which gradually corrupted the holder, and Marianne, his great love, had had her spirit imprisoned and tormented by the Fomorii and used by them to manipulate him. In a battle with Calatin, Church was slain, as had been foretold in the Watchtower.

But in this terrible new world, death was not the end. The others had succeeded in freeing the Tuatha De Danann who rushed to the bridge, driving the Fomorii away. The Cauldron of Dagda, the wondrous Grail, was brought to Church's lips and its tremendous power gave him back his life. Reborn into the world-I shy away from saying resurrected although I wonder in years to come how this event will be seen-Church was changed in a fundamental way; some essence of the Tuatha De Danann had been instilled in him by the contact with the Grail, but he also still bore the corruption of the Fomorii, the light and the dark fighting within him.

Then came the bitterest blow of all. Because of Church's own weakness in allowing the Fomorii corruption into his life, the Tuatha lle Danann refused to help. Worse, the companions discovered the ones they had counted on as saviours were as devious and amoral as the foe they faced. The Tuatha lle Danann revealed their own plans had been put into effect many years ago; the Brothers and Sisters of Dragons had been manipulated throughout their lives, secretly, from beyond the barrier. To bring the Pendragon Spirit to the fore in force enough for the companions to help the Tuatha lle Danann they all had to experience death. And so the Tuatha lle Danann had controlled an agent: to murder Marianne; to slay Shavi's boyfriend; to kill Laura's mother; and they manipulated Veitch into killing Ruth's uncle, which led to the death of her father. That their entire lives had been condemned at the whim of a higher power was a revelation of such abject heartlessness, it almost destroyed the five. The fact that they survived is a testament to their enduring spirit which gives me so much comfort and hope in these dark times.

And so the Tuatha De Danann were loose in the world, untrammeled by rules, free to torment and destroy creatures they considered less than nothing. And the companions, in their despair, feared they had helped bring about that which they had attempted to stop: the destruction of everything we had built here on Earth.

But life goes on, and hope always burns, and the companions, as we all know, did not give up. Forged by their experiences, they grew closer together, seeking strength in their very frail humanity.

Not even the radio announcement of martial law and the Government's tacit admission of impotence in the face of such unknown power could deter them. The Government, of course, had known all along what was happening; not exactly, I am sure, but certainly enough to convince them to stifle any media reports of the growing crisis. And so the people were left in the dark until the last, worst moment.

But I digress once again. This is not a story about politicians or soldiers, it is about everything that is good about the human soul. About hope, and faith, and a quest for meaning in a world floundering in darkness. Perhaps it will shine a light that illuminates the way ahead. New legends for a new age.

But now my eyes grow weak. Too much writing by flickering candle flame has taken its toll, and I dream of the time when we took for granted a burning lightbulb in every home. Yet there is much of the story still to tell: great battles, great loves, terror and wonder, intrigue and betrayal, sacrifice and death. But most of all, about what it means to be human.

James

Watchman

Salisbury Cathedral

Year One NDA (New Dark Age)

a prologue

life during wartime

May 2, 8 a.m.; above the English Channel:

"Somebody must have some idea what's going on." Justin Fallow fiddled uncomfortably with the miniature spirit bottles on his tray as he watched the dismal expressions sported by the air stewardesses. It was amazing how little fluctuations in the smooth-running of life were more disturbing than the big shocks. Those looks were enough to tell him something fundamental had changed; he had never seen any of them without those perfectly balanced smiles of pearly teeth contained by glossy red lipstick.

"I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. Everything will be back to normal in a few days." Colin Irvine stared vacuously out of the window at the fluffy white clouds. The reflection showed a craggy face and hollow cheeks that seemed older than his years. The trip to Paris had been better than expected; the business side tied up quickly, then two days of good food and fine wine, and one brisk night at a brothel. His head still felt fuzzy from the overindulgence and he would be happier if Justin shut up at least once before the plane landed.

"Well, I wish I had your optimism." Fallow's public school accent was blurred by the alcohol and he was talking too loudly. He flicked back the fringe that kept falling over his eyes and snapped his chubby fingers to attract the attention of one of the stewardesses. "Over here, please. Another vodka."

"I like a drink as much as the next man, but I don't know how you can get through that lot at breakfast," Irvine said, without taking his gaze away from the clouds.

Fallow slapped his belly. "Constitution of a horse, old chap." When the vodka arrived, he brushed the plastic glass to one side and gulped it straight from the bottle.

"Steady on, eh?" Irvine allowed himself a glance of distaste.

"But what if it isn't going to be sorted out in a few days?" Fallow drummed his fingers anxiously on the tray. "You know, we have no idea what's going on, so how can we say? A sudden announcement that all air traffic is going to be grounded indefinitely doesn't exactly fill one with confidence, if you know what I mean. Now that sounds serious."

"We were lucky to get the last flight out."

"I mean, the country could be on its knees in days! How will business survive?" His startled expression suggested he had only just grasped the implications of his train of thought. "Never mind your bog-standard business traveller who has to get around for meetings-they can muddle through with a few netcasts and conference calls in the short term. But what about import-export? The whole of the global economy relies on-"

"You don't have to tell me, Justin."

"You can sit there being sniffy about it, but have you thought about what it means-?"

"It means we won't be able to get any bananas in the shops for a while and international mail will be a bastard. Thank God for the Internet."

"I still think there's more to it than you think. To take such a drastic step… Trouble is, you can't trust those bastards in the Government to tell you anything important, whatever political stripe they are. Look at the mad cow thing. It's a wonder we're not all running around goggle-eyed, slavering at the mouth."

"You obviously didn't look in the mirror last night-"

"This isn't funny. Go on, tell me why you're so calm. What could cause something like this?"

"Let me see, Justin." Irvine began counting off his fingers. "An impending strike by all international air traffic control which we haven't been told about for fear it causes a panic. You know how much pressure they've been under recently with the increase in the volume of flights. Or some virus has been loaded into the ATC system software. Or the Global Positioning Satellite has been hit by a meteorite so all the pilots are flying blind. Or all those intermittent power failures we've had recently have made it too risky until they find the cause. Or they've finally discovered that design glitch that's had planes dropping out of the skies like flies over the last few years."

"I'd rather we didn't talk about this now, Colin."

"Well, you started it."

Justin sucked on his lower lip like a petulant schoolboy and then began to line up the miniature bottles in opposing forces. "I suppose all the trolley dollies are worried they might be out of work," he mused.

A crackle over the Tannoy heralded an announcement. "This is your captain speaking. We anticipate arrival in Gatwick on schedule in twenty minutes. There may be a slight delay on the-" There was a sudden pause, a muffled voice in the background, and then the Tannoy snapped off.

Fallow looked up suspiciously. "Now what's going on?"

"Will you calm down? Just because you're afraid of the worst happening doesn't mean it's going to."

"And just because you're not afraid doesn't mean it isn't." Fallow shifted in his seat uncomfortably, then glanced up and down the aisle.

What he saw baffled him at first. It was as if a ripple was moving down the plane towards him. The faces of the passengers looking out of the starboard side were changing, the blank expressions of people watching nothing in particular shedding one after the other as if choreographed. In that first fleeting instant of confusion, Fallow tried to read those countenances: was it shock, dismay, wonder? Was it horror?

And then he abruptly thought he should be searching for the source of whatever emotion it was, but before he had time to look, the plane banked wildly and dropped; his stomach was left behind and for one moment he thought he was going to vomit. But then the fear took over and it was as if his body were locked in stasis as he gripped the armrests until his knuckles were white. He forced his head into his lap. Screams filled the air, but they were distant, as though coming at him through water, and then he was obliquely aware he was screaming himself.

The plane was plummeting down so sharply vibrations were juddering through the whole fuselage; when it banked again at the last minute, the evasive action was so extreme Fallow feared the wings would be torn off. Then, bizarrely, the plane was soaring up at an angle that was just as acute. Fallow was pressed back into his seat until he felt he was on the verge of blacking out.

"It can't take much more of this punishment," he choked.

Just as he was about to prepare himself for the whole plane coming apart in midair, it levelled off. Fallow burst out laughing in hysterical relief, then raged, "What the fuck was that all about?"

Irvine pitched forward and threw up over the back of the seat in front; he tried to get his hand up to his mouth, but that only splattered the vomit over a wider area. Fallow cursed in disgust, but the trembling that racked his body didn't allow him to say any more.

One of the stewardesses bolted from the cabin, leaving the door swinging so Fallow could see the array of instrumentation blinking away. She pushed her way up to a window, then exclaimed, "My God! He was right!"

The whole planeload turned as one. Fallow looked passed Irvine's white, shaking face into the vast expanse of blue sky. The snowy clouds rolled and fluffed like meringue, but beyond that he could see nothing. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a shadow moving across the field of white. At first he wondered if they had narrowly avoided a collision with another plane, but the shadow seemed too long and thin; it appeared to have a life of its own. There was a sound like a jet taking off and then the colour of the clouds transformed to red and gold. A belch of black smoke was driven past the window.

Fallow rammed Irvine back in his seat and craned his neck to search the sky. Beside and slightly below the plane, flying fast enough to pass it with apparent ease, was something which conjured images from books he had read in the nursery. Part of it resembed a bird and part a serpent: scales glinted like metal in the morning sun on a body that rippled with both power and sinuous agility, while enormous wings lazily stroked the air. Colours shimmered across its surface as the light danced: reds, golds and greens, so that it resembled some vast, brass robot imagined by a Victorian fantasist. Boned ridges and horns rimmed its skull above red eyes; one swivelled and fixed on Fallow. A second later the creature roared, its mouth wide, and belched fire; it seemed more a natural display, like a peacock's plumage, than an attack, but all the passengers drew back from the window as one. Then, with a twist that defied its size, it snaked up and over the top of the fuselage and down the other side.

Shock and fear swept through the plane, but it dissipated at speed. Instead, everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Fallow looked around and was astonished to see that faces that had earlier been scarred with cynicism or bland with dull routine were suddenly alight; to a man or woman, they all looked like children. Even the stewardesses were smiling.

Then the atmosphere was broken by a cry from the aft: "Look! There's another one!"

In the distance, Fallow saw a second creature dipping in and out of the clouds as if it were skimming the surface of the sea.

Fallow slumped back in his seat and looked at Irvine coldly. "Everything will be back to normal in a few days," he mocked in a singsong, playground voice.

May 2, 11 a.m.; Dounreay Nuclear Power Station, Scotland:

"I just don't know what they expect of us!" Dick McShay said frustratedly. He threw his pen at the desk, then realised how pathetic that was. At 41, he had expected a nice, easy career with BNFL, overseeing the decommissioning of the plant that would stretch long beyond his life span; a holding job, no pressures apart from preventing the media discovering information about the decades of contamination, leaks and near-disasters. Definitely no crises. He fixed his grey eyes on his second-in-command, Nelson, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I have no desire to shoot the messenger, William, but really, give me an answer."

Nelson, who was four years McShay's junior, a little more stylish, but without any of his charisma, sucked on his bottom lip for a second; an irritating habit. "What they want to do," he began cautiously, "is make sure most of Scotland isn't irradiated in the next few weeks. I don't mean to sound glib," he added hastily, "but that's the bottom line. It's these power failures-"

McShay sighed, shook his head. "Not just power, William, technology. There's no point denying it. Mechanical processes have been hit just as much. I mean, who can explain something like that? If I were superstitious…" He paused. "… I'd still have a hard time explaining it. The near-misses we've had over the last few weeks…" He didn't need to go into detail; Nelson had been there too during the crazed panics when they all thought they were going to die, the cooling system shut-downs, the fail-safe failures that were beyond anyone's comprehension; yet every time it had stopped just before the whole place had gone sky-high. He couldn't tell if they were jinxed or lucky, but it was making an old man of him.

"So we shut down-"

"Yes, but don't they realise it's not like flicking off a switch? That schedule is just crazy. Even cutting corners, we couldn't do it."

"They're desperate."

"And I don't like them being around either." He glanced aggressively through the glass walls that surrounded his office. Positioned around the room beyond were Special Forces operatives, faces masked by smoked Plexiglas visors, guns held at the ready across their chests; their immobility and impersonality made them seem inhuman, mystical statues waiting to be brought to life by sorcery. They had arrived with the dawn, slipping into the vital areas as if they knew the station intimately-which, of course, they did, although they had never been there before. For support, they said. Not, To guard. Not, To enforce.

"All vital installations are under guard, Dick. So they say. It's all supposed to be hush-hush-"

"Then how do you know?"

Nelson smirked in reply. Then: "We might as well just ignore them. It's their job, all that Defence of the Realm stuff."

"What are they going to do if we don't meet the deadline? Shoot us?"

Nelson's expression suggested he thought this wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility.

"I just never expected to be doing my job at gunpoint. If the powers that be don't trust us, why should we trust them?"

"Desperate times, Dick."

McShay looked at Nelson suspiciously. "I hope you're on our side, William."

"There aren't any sides, are there?"

A rotating red light suddenly began whirling in the room outside, intermittently bathing them in a hellish glow. A droning alarm pitched at an irritating level filled the complex. The Special Forces troops were instantly on the move.

"Shit!" McShay closed his eyes in irritation; it was a breach of a security zone. "What the fuck is it now?"

Nelson was already on the phone. As he listened, McShay watched incomprehension flicker across his face.

"Give me the damage," McShay said wearily when Nelson replaced the phone.

Nelson stared at him blankly for a moment before he said, "There's an intruder-"

"I know! It's the fucking intruder alarm!"

"-in the reactor core."

McShay returned the blank stare and then replied, "You're insane." He picked up the phone and listened to the stuttering report before running out of the room, Nelson close behind him.

The inherent farcical nature of a group of over-armed troops pointing their guns at the door to an area where no human could possibly survive wasn't lost on McShay, but the techies remained convinced someone was inside. He pushed his way past the troops on the perimeter to the control array where Rex Moulding looked about as uncomfortable as any man could get.

Moulding motioned to the soldiers as McShay approached. "What are this lot doing here? This isn't a military establishment."

McShay brushed his question aside with an irritated flap of his hand. "You're a month late for practical jokes, Rex."

"It's no joke. Look here." Moulding pointed to the bank of monitors.

McShay examined each screen in turn. They showed various views of the most secure and dangerous areas around the reactor. "There's nothing there," he said eventually.

"Keep watching."

McShay sighed and attempted to maintain his vigilance. A second later a blur flashed across one of the screens. "What's that?"

The fogginess flickered on one of the other screens. "It's almost like the cameras can't get a lock on it," Moulding noted.

"What do you mean?"

There was a long pause. "I don't know what I mean."

"Is it a glitch?"

"No, there's definitely someone in there. You can hear the noises it makes through the walls."

McShay's expression dared Moulding not to say the wrong thing. "It?"

Moulding winced. "Bob Pruett claims to have seen it before it went in there-"

"Where is he?" McShay snapped.

As he glanced around, a thickset man in his fifties wearing a sheepish expression pushed his way through the military.

"Well?" McShay said uncompromisingly.

"I saw it," Pruett replied in a thick Scots drawl. He looked at Moulding for support.

"You better tell him," Moulding said.

"Look, I know this sounds bloody ridiculous, but it's what I saw. It had antlers coming out like this." He spread his fingers on either side of his head; McShay looked at him as if he had gone insane. "But it was a man. I mean, it walked like a man. It looked like a man-two arms, two legs. But its face didn't look human, know what I mean? It had red eyes. And fur, or leaves-"

"Which one?"

"What do you mean?"

"Fur, or leaves. Which one?"

"Well, both. They looked like they were growing out of each other, all over its body."

McShay searched Pruett's face, feeling uncomfortable when he saw no sign of contrition; in fact, there was shock and disbelief there, and that made him feel worse. Moulding suddenly grew tense, his gaze fixed on the monitors. "It's coming this way," he said quietly.

Unconsciously, McShay turned towards the security door. Through it he could hear a distant sound, growing louder, like the roaring of a beast, like a wind in the high trees.

"The temperature's rising in the reactor core," Nelson called out from the other side of the room. The second tonal emergency warning began, intermingling discordantly with the intruder alarm; McShay's head began to hurt. "The fail-safes haven't kicked in," Nelson continued. He pulled out his mobile phone and punched in a number; McShay wondered obliquely who he could be calling.

"It's nearly here," Moulding said. McShay couldn't take his eyes off the security door; he was paralysed by incomprehension. That horrible noise was louder now, reverberating even through the shielding. He couldn't understand how the troops could remain immobile with all the confusion raging around them; their guns were still raised to the door, barrels unwavering.

The one in charge glanced briefly at McShay, then said, "If it comes through, fire the moment you see it."

What's the point? McShay thought. It's been in the reactor core and its still alive! He was overcome with a terrible feeling of foreboding.

There was a sudden thundering at the door and it began to buckle like tinfoil; McShay thought he could see the imprints of hands in it. Despite their training, some of the troops took a step back. The roaring which sounded like nothing he had ever heard before was now drowning out the alarms.

"I don't wish to state the obvious, but if that door comes down, it will take more than a shower to decontaminate us," Moulding said in a quiet voice that crackled with tension.

McShay came out of his stupor in a flash; the thought that a security door designed to survive a direct nuclear strike might ever be breached was so impossible, his mind hadn't leapt to consider the consequences of what was happening.

"Everybody fall back!" he yelled. "We need to seal this area off-"

The next second the door exploded outwards. McShay had one brief instant when he glimpsed the shape that surged through and then the gunfire erupted in a storm of light and noise, and a second after that a wave of soft white light came rushing from the reactor core towards them all.

The first person to see what had happened to Dounreay Nuclear Power Station was a farmer trundling along the coast road in his tractor. The sight was so bizarre he had to pull over to the side to check it wasn't some illusion caused by the sea haze. The familiar modernist buildings had been lost behind an impenetrable wall of vegetation; mature trees sprouted through the concrete and tarmac, ivy swathed the perimeter fences and buildings, dog roses and clematis clambered up the side of the administration block, cars were lost beneath creepers; all around squirrels, rabbits and birds skittered through the greenery. And if anyone had decided, for whatever reason, to check for radiation, they would have found none, not even in what had been the reactor core. Nor would they have found any sign of human life.

May 2, 8 p.m.; News International: Wapping, London:

"There's no point in us being here." The accent was pure Mockney, hiding something from the Home Counties. Lucy Manning repeatedly punched the lift button, then shifted from foot to foot with irritation as she watched the lighted numbers' soporific descent. She was in her twenties, dyed-blonde hair framing a face that had the cold hardness of a frontline soldier.

Beside her, Kay Bliss could have been a mirror image or a copycat sister, but the look and the accent were all part of the office politics; a game they both knew how to play. "Oh, fuck it, Lucy, we're getting paid, aren't we? It's nice not to be out doorstepping some twat until the early hours for a change." Her voice had the hard vowels of a Geordie, though she could hide it when she had to.

"There's some idiot from Downing Street permanently in the newsroom," Lucy continued, "going over every piece of copy with a fine-tooth comb. DNotice on this, D-Notice on that. We'll be like some fucking cheap local rag soon. Golden wedding stories and photos from the Rotary lunch." Lucy strode into the lift the second the doors opened, then rattled her nails anxiously on the metal wall. "Come on. Why are these things so fucking slow? All the technology we've got in this place, you'd think they'd be able to get lifts that worked quickly."

"We're not even supposed to be using them. All those technology crashes-"

"Like we've got time to walk up and down flights of stairs all day."

Kay held her breath until the doors opened on the newsroom floor. She'd spent an hour stuck in it with three monkeys from the loading bay and it wasn't an episode she wanted to repeat.

Lucy was still talking as she dodged out between the opening doors, "It started with that terrorist strike on the M4-"

"Damon covered that." Kay looked puzzled for a second. "Terrorists?"

"It had to be terrorists. It wasn't that long before the Martial Law announcement."

"Someone said a Yank plane had gone down carrying nukes."

Lucy shrugged. "And there were all those phone calls from the great unwashed claiming they'd seen some fire-breathing monster." She flung open the swing doors. "Sometimes I wish I worked for the FT."

The newsroom was quiet now that all the dayshift had departed. The night news editor stared at the slowly scrolling Press Association newsfeed on his computer while lazily chewing on a cheese roll. One of the sports reporters whistled loudly.

Mello, darlin'," Kay shouted back with a cheery wave.

"It's all right for them," Lucy muttered moodily, "their Ludo tournaments never get censored."

"You're in a right mood, aren't you?"

They'd walked on a few paces before Lucy said, "I had the splash today and they pulled it."

"Oh, that explains it. Bitter and twisted at not getting any front page glory. What was the story?"

"A whole unit of Royal Marines slaughtered up in the Highlands. A hot tip from my man at Command Headquarters." She stuck out her bottom lip like a sulky child.

"Wow. A proper story. No EastEnders stud getting bladdered in that one," Kay said with what Lucy thought was an unreasonable amount of glee. "But you didn't really expect to get it through, did you?" Lucy shrugged. Kay's expression gradually became troubled. "Slaughtered? In Scotland?"

"Hey, it's the Barbie twins!" Kevin Smith, one of the sales managers, had been lurking around the news desk. The hacks hated him for his retro-yuppie look and his aftershave stink, but he insisted on pretending he was one of the boys.

"Fuck off, Kevin," Kay said with a mock-sweet smile.

"Careful you don't cut yourself with that." He patted the desk so they could both sit next to him, but they studiously went round to the other side where they could talk to the handful of freelancers doing the night shift.

"What's up?" Lucy perched on the edge of the desk so she could tease the newbies with a flash of her thigh.

"Don't bother the fresh meat!" the news editor barked. "Get over here!"

Kay was first over. "What is it, chief?"

He tapped the screen as he spoke through a mouthful of cheese roll. "PA says the PM's making an announcement at nine. Half the cabinet is getting the boot and they're setting up a coalition with the other parties. Government of National Unity or something."

"Good policy. Get all the losers in one place. It'll probably be as successful as their Martial Law that they haven't got enough manpower to enforce." Kevin had wandered over and was reading the newsfeed over the night news editor's shoulder.

"I'll take that one," Lucy called out.

"You're both working on it." The night news editor rammed his chair backwards into the sales manager's groin. Kevin exhaled sharply, but continued to force a smile.

Kay tore off a sheet of printer paper to make notes. "Blimey. Two proper stories in one day. It's a sign-the world really is coming to an end!"

They all stopped what they were doing as the night news editor leaned forward to peer at the screen, swearing under his breath. "Somebody must have rattled Downing Street's cage. There's a whole load of stuff coming up here. Flights grounded earlier, now we get `train services limited… No international calls… maybe extended disruption of the phone network… orders to shoot looters on sight…' What the fuck is going on?"

A middle-aged man in a smart dark suit moved slowly from the editor's office towards the news desk. He had a nondescript haircut and bland features and he carried himself with the stiff demeanour of a civil servant.

"When are you going to tell us what the fuck's going on?" the night news editor bellowed. "It's a fucking outrage! The people have a right to know-"

The dark-suited man dropped a sheet of paper on the desk. "This is tomorrow's page one story. `PM Launches Battle of Britain."'

They all looked at it, dumbfounded. "You can't do that!" Lucy could see another byline disappearing before her eyes.

The night news editor scanned the paper, then hammered it beneath the flat of his hand. "We can't print this! It doesn't fucking say anything! Just fucking PR guff? Nobody has any idea what's going on, they don't know who the fucking enemy is! It could be a fucking coup for all anyone knows! There'll be panic in the streets-"

"This has been carefully designed to prevent panic," the man said calmly. "The problem is internal, but not a coup. That is for your information only. The Government needs to act quickly and efficiently and that means the public must not get in the way-"

"It's like 1984!" The night news editor's face was flushed bright red.

The civil servant held up a hand to quieten him, which served only to irritate him more. "This is being done with the full approval of your editor-"

"Does he know what's happening?"

"He's been briefed by the PM personally, as have all media editors-"

"What's it got to do with all the technology blackouts?" Kevin interjected. "There's stuff happening there that makes no sense at all. And all those freak calls we've been flooded with… people claiming they've seen UFOs and God knows what. I mean, someone said their dead uncle had come back to haunt them. And some farmer said his cows were giving up vinegar instead of milk. I mean, what's that all about?" He looked from face to face; everyone was staring back at him as if they had a bad smell under their nose. "The switchboard keeps putting them through to my office."

"I wonder who arranged that?" Kay eyed the night news editor, who gave nothing away.

"We will be making a full and clear statement as soon as the situation demands it," the civil servant said blandly. "We have no intention of a cover-up. There is a state of emergency for a very good reason and our primary directive has to be to deal with that. It is taking all our resources. You have to believe me on this. Keeping everyone informed comes a very distant second."

The night news editor read the replacement story one more time, then lounged back in his chair with his hands over his face. "I don't know why I'm even bothering. We might as well all go down the pub-"

"You can't go out," the civil servant said. "There's a curfew once the sun goes down."

"And you're going to stop me personally, are you, you cunt?" The night news editor glared at him venomously. Kay noticed a strange note in her boss's voice, something that was a little afraid; a suspicion of how bad things really were.

She glanced back to the civil servant who sported a curious expression; it reminded Kay of the look some older people, burdened by life's problems, gave to teenagers acting stupid and frivolous; a one day you're going to have a rude awakening look. He masked it quickly with expert precision, shrugged as if everything were beneath his notice, then sauntered slowly back to the editor's office.

Kay shrugged too. What did he know? Boring, jumped-up twat.

Once the office door had been closed the night news editor said, "I think I might have to kill the bastard."

"I'm getting a bit worried about this." Kevin chewed his lip, his gaze still fixed on the office door. "It seems really bad."

"If it's a war I could be a war correspondent." Lucy made a paper aeroplane, but it died midflight.

"Aren't you worried?" Kevin asked.

She eyed him contemptuously. "What's to worry about? You want to try getting a drink up the road when all the circulation twats are in trying to pinch your arse. That's dangerous."

"Hang on." The night news editor was staring intently at his terminal.

"Not more bad news," Kevin said.

The PA newsfeed seemed to be melting, the letters sliding down the screen into a mass at the bottom. Eventually the whole screen was clear. A second later a single word appeared in the top lefthand corner: WARE.

"What does that mean?" Kay asked. "Software?"

The word began to repeat until it filled the whole screen.

"It might mean Be-WARE," Kevin said. "Some kind of warn-"

"Lucy, get on to Systems." The night news editor threw the phone across the desk. "This fucking thing isn't much use to us at the moment, but at least I can see what PA are doing."

Lucy picked up the phone and instantly dropped it as ear-piercing laughter shrieked from the receiver. "Fuck! What was that!" She stared at the phone as if it were alive.

"Interference," Kay said wearily. "Try the other one."

The same inhuman laughter burst from that one too. They had an instant to look at each other in puzzlement and then all the lights and the computer screens winked out, plunging the entire windowless office into total darkness.

There was a long period of deep, worrying silence until everyone heard Kay say, "Fuck off, Kevin."

May 2, 11 p.m.; Balsall Heath, Birmingham:

"What did your dad say?" Sunita chewed on a strand of her long, black hair while she watched Lee's face. The night was uncomfortably muggy against the background stink of traffic fumes drifting in from the city centre.

Lee shifted uncomfortably as he scrubbed a hand across his skinhead crop. "What do you think he said?"

The glare from the streetlamp over their heads seemed to draw out the sadness in her delicate features; her large eyes became dark, reflecting pools. "That he doesn't want his son going out with some Paki."

"He's not my dad anyway," Lee said defensively. "Stepdad."

They both subconsciously bowed their heads as across the road a crowd of youths making their way back from the pub made loud kissing noises. Once they'd passed, Lee slipped his arms around her back; she felt so fragile against the hardness of his worked-out muscles that he just wanted to protect her.

"Why do we get all this shit?" She rested her head on his chest. "I'm not even twenty yet! We should be having a good time, enjoying it all. Sometimes I feel like an old woman."

He knew how she felt. When they'd first started seeing each other a year ago he had been almost overwhelmed by the frisson of doing something wrong, at turns both exciting and deeply disconcerting. And the fact that he did feel that way made him queasy because he knew how much his stepfather had corrupted his thought processes. There was nothing wrong with their relationship, but he'd had to keep it secret from his stepfather through what seemed like a million minor deceptions and big lies. It had cast a shadow over everything, when they should have been revelling in the feeling of falling in love; that pure sensation had been lost to them and he hated his stepfather for that loss. There was relief when he finally discovered who Lee was seeing after spotting them holding hands on New Street, but that had brought with it a whole different set of problems, the most worrying of which was that Sunita might no longer be safe. His stepfather's associates from his weekly meetings were brutal men with a harsh view of life that didn't allow such weak concepts as love the slightest foothold, and they were relentlessly unforgiving.

Sunita knew all this, and she knew it would be safer for her to leave Lee well alone, but how could she? The choices had been made and imprinted on their souls; they had to live with the consequences. "What are we going to do? Carry on as normal, just… going to different places?"

"You know we can't do that. They know where you live." He took a deep breath. "We're getting out of Birmingham." He paused while he watched her expression. "Least, that's what I think. I know it'll be hard with your family-"

"It'll be a nightmare! My dad'11 go crazy, my mum… all that wailing!"

"You're old enough-"

"That's not the point."

He winced at being so insensitive, but he found it hard to see anything from the perspective of a loving, caring family. "I'm sorry, Sunny, but, you know, we've got to do something-"

"Where were you thinking of going?"

"Down south somewhere. Just hit the motorway and see where we end up. They'll never be able to track us."

She sighed. "It's not just your dad. It'll be good to get out of this city. Sometimes it seems like it's choking the life out of me. There's something… a meanness… it just gets me down."

"I know what you mean." He listened to the drone of city centre traffic drifting over the wasteland and abandoned houses waiting for demolition. "It'll be good, a fresh start."

"Do you think it will work out?"

"I know it will." He wondered if he could tell her why he was so sure; saying it out loud made even him feel like he was crazy; and he'd been through it. "Come on, let's walk." He took her hand and began to lead her in the direction of the house.

She looked uncomfortable. "Your dad-"

"He's at one of his meetings, wishing we still had an empire."

The familiar streets were thankfully empty, adding to the wonderful illusion that they were the only people left in the world. Away from the wasteland the air was a little fresher. They turned down the hill from the imposing big houses towards the line of pokey semis where Lee had lived all his life. It felt odd to think he might not walk down there again. He'd miss his mum, and Kelly, but not Mick; he'd be happy if he never heard Mick's voice again.

"When are you thinking of going?" Sunita asked.

"Now. Tonight."

"Oh."

He couldn't tell her that his stepdad's beetle-browed cronies might act after they'd finished their rebel-rousing for the night. They had to be as far away as possible from Brum before everything blew up. But even though he didn't say anything, he could tell from Sunita's response to the tight deadline that she understood the dangers.

"Mum and Dad will understand," she said confidently. "I'll call them once we're on the road. They'll be asleep when I get back to pack. Though you know, things aren't so different between us. They both wish I was with a boy who knew the Koran back to front."

He shrugged, said nothing. There were always too many people wanting to interfere in everybody's life.

Sunita slipped her arm through his and gave it a squeeze. "We'll never be able to agree on the music for the car, you know. There'll be me with my Groove Armada and Basement Jaxx and you with some ancient old toss like The Redskins or one of those other old fogey bands you like. I don't know how you got into all that stuff. Most of them were playing before you were born."

"You've got to appreciate the past to know where you're going."

"You've been reading books again, haven't you? I told you it was bad for you." She smiled, but it drained away once she realised they were standing outside his home. Over the year her imagination had turned it into some kind of nightmarish haunted house, the place where all bad things originated. Even on the few times she'd been into the empty place there'd been an unpleasant atmosphere mingled in with the cheap cigarette smoke and smell of fried food. "Are you sure he's not in?"

"He never misses a meeting." Lee led her round the side of the house. The small back garden was in darkness; a few items of clothing still fluttered on the washing line.

"What about your mum and Kelly?"

"They'll have stopped off for a drink after the bingo."

"Lee, why are you bringing me here?"

"There's something I want to show you. To put your mind at rest."

"About what?"

"That everything'll be all right." She still seemed unsure, so he took her hand and tugged her towards the shed in the shadows near the rear fence. It was much larger than average. Mick had put it up when he was thinking about breeding racing pigeons, but he'd never got round to that, like so many other things in his life.

"You don't want to get down to it here one more time, do you?" she said with a sly smile.

"Wait and see." They stepped into the darkness of the shed and its familiar smell of turps and engine oil. He took her hand and waited a couple of seconds before saying in a clear voice, "Come out. It's me."

In the dark Sunita looked at him in puzzlement; she could feel his hand growing clammy. "Who are you talking to?"

He hushed her anxiously. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the back of the shed and when he didn't get whatever response he had been expecting, he tried again, a little more insistently. Still nothing. "Please," he said finally. "This is Sunita. I told you about her. She's okay, you know that."

He waited for another moment and then sighed. "We better go," he said reluctantly.

Outside, she gave him a peck on the cheek. "It's a good job I love mad people. Now are you going to tell me-"

"You better not laugh!"

"Of course not."

"Promise?"

"I promise, idiot. Now get on with it."

He bowed his head with the odd, wincing expression which she knew signalled deep embarrassment. "It started a couple of weeks ago. I kept hearing noises in the shed."

"Noises?"

"Yes, you know… voices. They kept chattering in there. I thought some smackheads had broken in, but every time I went to check there was no one in there."

"Ooh, spooky!"

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But then last week there was someone there."

Sunita eyed him askance, trying to predict the punchline. "Who was it?"

He rubbed his chin, obviously not wanting to continue. Finally he said, "Do you believe in fairies?"

"Fairies?" She burst out laughing.

"You said you weren't going to laugh!"

"Sorry, but… You can't be serious!"

He looked away grumpily.

"Okay, go on!" she said, tugging at his sleeve. "What did they look like?"

"They looked like fairies! Well, a fairy. Small, pointed ears, green clothes. It was just like one I'd seen on a book I had when I was a lad."

It took him another ten minutes to get her to take him seriously, but eventually she accepted it. "Okay, there's been a lot of strange stuff going on all over. If you say fairies, I believe fairies," she said, bemused. "So there are, really and truly, fairies at the bottom of the garden."

"I don't know why I even bother with you," he sighed. "Just listen then, if you're not going to believe me. I tell you, I thought I was going loopy to start with, but every time I went in, there he was, so I had to accept it. And we started talking." He snorted with laughter at the ridiculousness of the idea. "I told him all about you, about my dad, about… well, everything."

"I bet he had a good fairy laugh at all that," she said bitterly.

"No, actually. He said his people always looked after young lovers. 'Simpletons and those in love,' that's what he said." He laughed. "Same thing, I suppose. Anyway, I told him I was going to leave town and he said not to worry, everything was going to be all right for us."

"So where was he just?"

Lee looked troubled. "I don't know. He's been in there every time I've been in recently. Maybe he doesn't appear if there's more than one person…" His voice faded away as he recognised how stupid he sounded. "Or maybe all the stuff with Mick really has turned my brain to jelly."

"Jelly boy!" She danced a few steps ahead before he could pinch her; instead he swore forcefully. "Okay, okay!" she laughed. "But there's one thing I never could quite work out as a girl. Can you really trust fairies?"

From the darkened lounge Mick Jonas watched his stepson and the Paki bitch step into the shed, obviously for a quick touch-up, and he was still watching when they headed back towards the road. He quickly switched on his mobile phone and hit the speed dial. "They're on their way now," he said in his thick Birmingham accent. "Follow 'em till they're outside Brum then get 'em off the road. You can do what you like to the cunt, but just give our Lee a good fucking hiding. Teach him a lesson." He listened to the voice on the other end for a second, then added, "If you want to use a can of fucking petrol on her, pal, you do it. Just make sure Lee doesn't get burned up. The old woman would kill me."

He switched off the phone and lit a cigarette before lowering his overweight frame into the frayed armchair he had made his own. He felt a triumphant burst, that he'd got one over on his lefty, Paki-loving stepson who thought he was so fucking superior. But Mick had seen him sneak the suitcase out and store it in the boot of his old banger. He knew what the little shit was planning.

He closed his eyes and sucked deeply on the cigarette, enjoying the moment and the certain knowledge that a blow had been struck against the fucking multicultural society. But when he opened his eyes a moment later he was almost paralysed by shock. Through the window he could see something moving rapidly across the lawn from the bottom of the garden. He couldn't tell what it was-its shape seemed to be changing continuously and his eyes hurt from trying to pin it down-but it was horrible. The scream started deep in his throat, but it hadn't reached his mouth before the window had imploded, showering glass all around him. And then it was on him.

Maureen and Kelly returned from the local five minutes later. They tiptoed through the front door, just in case Mick was dozing after a few pints. They'd both pay the price if they woke him. But the moment she was across the threshold, Maureen had the odd feeling something was wrong. There was a strained atmosphere, like just before a storm, and an odd smell was drifting in the air. While Kelly went to the bathroom she crept into the lounge to investigate.

The first thing she saw was the broken window and felt the glass crunching underfoot. Her mind started to roll: burglars; some of those shabby youths who didn't like Mick's little club.

And then she looked into Mick's armchair and at first didn't recognise what she was seeing. It was black and smoking and resembled nothing more than a sculpture made out of charcoal. A sculpture of a man. And then she looked closer and saw what it really was, and wondered why the armchair hadn't burst into flames as well, and wondered a million and one other things all at once.

And then she screamed.

"I don't believe we did it!" Lee was bouncing up and down with excitement in his seat as the car pulled on to the M6 heading south.

"Well, your fairy told us, didn't he?" Sunita said with a giggle.

He gave her thigh a tight squeeze. "This is about us now. We can do anything we want. We can really enjoy ourselves, just the two of us. God, I love you!"

She smiled and blew him a kiss. "Things are strange right now, aren't they?" she said dreamily as she stared out of the passenger window into the night. "People seeing all those weird things. You and the fairies. Uncle Mohammed having those dreams that came true."

"Maybe it's a sign."

"Of what?"

"I don't know. Of hope. That things are going to get better."

She shook her head, her smile not even touching on the endless happiness she felt. "You're a hopeless romantic."

And the road opened up before them.