Dark Ages

Prologue

RISING SIGNS

(1989)

As touching the terrors of the night, they are as many as our sins. The night is the Devil’s black book, wherein he recordeth all our transgressions.

Thomas Nashe

She had no truck with horoscopes. No way could someone’s future be predicted by the stars. And yet, as Frances glanced at them with casual disinterest, her own was written there for her to see.

The sky tonight was orange and polluted, but frosty sparks were showing here and there. The only shapes she recognized were two her mum had shown her – out in the back, one bedtime, long ago. From the flyover embankment, she could see them well enough. The Great Bear, rising upward from the dark fields to the north; and setting in the west, the Northern Cross.

Cars passed fitfully, racing westward through the night; the junction left behind before they knew it. In the lengthy gaps between them, the dark and silent countryside drew closer. Fran turned on the spot, then pulled back her glove to check her watch. Just past midnight. They’d got here first this time.

Wrapping her long coat closer, she went back to the car. It was parked up a service road, just short of the underpass. The others had sat tight; she didn’t blame them. Paul leaned across to open the passenger door, and she climbed in, drawing a shivery breath between her teeth.

‘Anything?’

Fran shook her head. ‘Dead quiet.’

The CB crackled briefly, then lapsed into an empty, spooky hiss. She gave it a glance. The set was clamped below the dashboard, its digits glowing green.

‘Nothing on that?’

His turn to shake his head. ‘Not since Merlin.’

Ten minutes since that last, half-garbled contact. As if the silence of the night had clogged the airwaves. The sense of isolation was insidious: creeping up. Bullington Cross felt cut off from the world – a lonely, lamplit island in the murk.

‘Want some coffee?’ asked Marie from the back. Fran turned gratefully in her seat, and took the thermos cup she proffered. The coffee was too hot to taste: a gulp of scalding water. She wriggled as it seared its way down.

‘So when are we going to meet this boyfriend of yours?’ Marie teased in her ear.

Fran turned her nose up coyly. ‘When I let you.’

‘Knows about these midnight escapades, does he?’ Paul murmured.

‘Yeah …’ said Fran. ‘He knows.’ Her eyes flicked down. She took another sip.

‘And does he think you’re mad?’ Kate asked.

‘He thinks I’m bloody crazy.’

Paul grinned at that, and raised the CB handset to his mouth. ‘This is Catkin at Bullington … any news on the convoy, over?’

The edgy pause that followed made them all hunch forward: waiting. The radio snapped and squawked. And then a woman’s voice came through – tone firm but faint with distance.

‘… call for Herbs and Watchers along South Route … Four launchers, two controls, out of Yellow by ten past twelve …’

‘Shit,’ Kate whispered, shifting.

Fran swallowed. ‘Twenty minutes …’ She felt a tingle of relief: it wasn’t a false call. Then her stomach hollowed out. They’re on their way. They’re coming.

Heart thudding, she climbed out; the others followed. Paul unloaded placards from the boot and passed them round. Glancing up, Fran saw that a police car had appeared while they’d been talking: it was parked on the flyover above them, watching the A34.

The four of them walked in silence through the underpass, emerging in the day-glo of the link road. A handful of others were there already. Fran recognized old faces, said hello. Chatting, someone cracked a joke: she giggled with delight. The tension sometimes got to her that way.

A transit van came crawling past, and dropped off several coppers. She watched one cross the road to shine his torch into the woods. The others started spacing out along the nearside kerb.

‘Come far?’ one asked her, amiably enough.

‘Oxford.’

‘So when’ll you be getting to bed tonight?’

She shrugged. ‘God knows.’ Not much before three, if we follow it down. And I’ve got a tutorial in the morning …

‘This may be a silly question, right … but why are you wearing shades at half-past midnight?’

She reached up to adjust them with an impish little grin. ‘To preserve my anonymity, of course.’

‘Famous, are you?’

She shook her head. ‘Notorious, more like.’

The snarl of motorbikes made her heartbeat quicken. She turned her head as the outriders reached the underpass, and paused to rev their engines. Four or five patrolmen, helmets swivelling: waiting for the signal to proceed. They had it a moment later, and peeled off past her, roaring up onto the flyover and westward.

Frivolity had fizzled out. The thump of her heart felt as heavy as lead. Dry-mouthed, she started up towards the crest. A couple of Watchers were waiting there, well-marked. Silent now, the copper matched her pace.

The police car on the flyover came suddenly to life: drove backwards, blue lights flashing, to block the access road. Fran looked beyond it – but the A34 lay empty in the darkness.

A glance back at the others: they’d stayed down in the shadow of the heavy concrete span. But then she’d always been the type to strike out on her own.

A squad car – London plates – came cruising past.

‘Here they come,’ called someone; and turning, she saw the line of lights come streaming down the hill. It nosed into the far side of the system, and came snaking slowly through it: the vehicles still hidden by the roundabout mound, but their noise now rising clearly to her ears.

She’d never forget the noise they made. Above the growl of engines, a clatter and squeak that made her hairs stand up.

Transits and patrol cars rumbled past her, driving steadily upslope onto the flyover – and then the first military vehicle came off the roundabout. A camouflaged command car, riding high on its wheels – a mottled, muddy shape behind the sleek white escorts. Whistles blew; a football rattle whirred. The turnout was too small to do much shouting. But Fran’s voice would have failed her if she’d been among a crowd. All she could do was stare, and search their faces: those bleak, unsmiling faces, staring back.

Pursing her lips, she stepped up to the verge and held her hand up, proffering a silent V for peace. The copper tensed, expecting her to lunge. The first Control was following already – a clanking monster, flexing like a serpent for the turn. She challenged the gaze of its armoured cab: a skull with a sarcophagus in tow. The second rumbled after it – and then the missile launchers, in a sinister cortege, their long, low backs enshrouded with tarpaulins. Engines roared at her, and axles squealed. As each one passed, she saw the double blast-ports at the rear; the missiles resting snugly in their tubes.

Four Cruise launchers: one full flight: the standard monthly exercise deployment. The wrecker came behind them, like an iron scorpion rattling with chains. A rearguard of police vans straggled after; and then the first pursuers came in sight. Used-looking cars, bedecked with CB aerials. Merlin passed, then Elderflower. And here came Torquemada too – a Dominican priest and friars in full regalia.

Everyone on foot was running now: the police for their parked transit, the Watchers for their cars. Fran wavered for a moment – watching the tail-lights fading in the darkness; almost shaking with the force of her reaction. Then she was off and pelting down the hill.

Reaching the car, she scrambled in. The others were all aboard, the engine running. She was still fastening her seatbelt as Paul took off – back through the underpass and onto the convoy’s route. Less than five minutes after its passing, the roads were clear again, the junction silent.

It didn’t take long to catch the convoy up again. They breasted a rise, and the snake of crimson lights was there ahead of them, sharp pulses of blue along its winding length. Soon they were up with the leading Cruisewatch cars. Fran could make out the control trucks at the front of the column, their high sides marked by orange running-lights.

She sat back in her seat, and braced one boot against the dash. Kate and Marie were motionless behind her; Paul’s grim stare was focused on the road.

‘… convoy approaching first Andover bridge …’ someone said on the CB.

Getting on for I a.m., and all the world seemed dead. The chase filled her with nightmarish excitement. As they sped on through the night, she thought of all the unseen eyes that watched them: owls and foxes staring from the copses and fields. But what else might be peering through the hedgerows; what faces in the long pale grass the headlights played across? She couldn’t help but think of ghostly figures, creeping up, to watch this roaring cavalcade go past.

Past Andover, and Thruxton Hill, they reached the long steep incline into Amesbury. Salisbury Plain was spreading to the north: a sea of pitch.

‘I’m going to try and get ahead of it,’ Paul said.

They broke off the pursuit at Amesbury Roundabout – the convoy grinding on towards Stonehenge. Paul put his foot down, speeding up the empty lamp-lit road. At Durrington he spun the wheel: they turned onto the Packway and raced west. Parallel to the convoy’s route; Fran looked and glimpsed its winking lights, a mile to the south.

Behind her, Kate was studying the map. ‘They’ll road-block us at Shrewton, sure as hell.’

‘Any way round?’ Paul called over his shoulder.

‘The road from the Bustard to Westdown Camp. They won’t have covered that.’

‘Right. They might have closed it, though.’

‘It’s worth a try.’

‘Fran?’

‘Go for it,’ Fran said.

They came to Rollestone Crossroads and went tearing north again. The road rose up, and let them see for miles; then dipped again. Darkness stretched away in all directions, but strange red lights were glowing here and there. The fringes of the firing range were coming up ahead.

Fran hung on, and braced herself. The Bustard vedette showed up in the headlamps as Paul swerved onto the narrow westbound road. No one was there to see them pass. The lonely sentry hut was locked and dark.

The unlit military road led up towards West Down. It might have been a country lane; Paul took it at exhilarating speed. The murk out here was dense and overwhelming: trapped beneath the starlight like a layer of London smog. Fran straightened up, and peered through her window, still searching for the string of phantom lights.

Then Paul yelled: ‘Jesus, SHIT!’

She swung around, and saw it in the headlights: a figure in the middle of the road. A featureless, inhuman face, with gaping holes for eyes.

Paul wrenched the wheel, and lost control.

The car went slewing off the road and plunged into a ditch. The bonnet crumpled up, the windscreen shattered. Fran was thrown against her belt: the impact mashed the breath from her lungs. Her head struck something hard and bounded off. Stunned, she felt herself flop back.

The world had just stopped dead.

She lolled there for a moment, sick and winded. Her whole head had gone numb – as if a piece of it was missing. Cold night air blew softly on her face.

Something started fizzing by her knees. Sparks, she thought, oh Jesus, we’ll catch fire. Galvanized, she struggled with her belt – and glanced at Paul. He was slumped against the wheel, head down. ‘Paul … ?’ she quavered, reaching out to take hold of his shoulder. She shook him, hard. He made no sound.

The muffled sizzling came again. She cringed away – then realized it was just the CB set: skew-whiff on its rack, but still lit up. She peered at it stupidly. Someone whimpered softly from behind her.

‘… convoy coming into Tilshead now …’

Help, she thought, and groped round for the handset. She found it dangling; scooped it up.

The radio hissed at her.

Fran recoiled again, as if she’d just picked up a snake. The hiss broke into eerie gibberish: almost like another voice, but mangled and tormented. Fear lanced through her. She dropped the handset, fought against her door and felt it give. She slithered out, and rolled onto the grass.

The headlamps were still on: staring and blind, like a dead thing’s eyes. The tail-lights left a bloody trail that almost reached the road.

They tinged the silhouette that waited there.

Someone in the car was weeping quietly. Ignoring them, she peered towards the road. Her mind flashed up the face she’d glimpsed. She thought its horrid gauntness had been muffled by a hood.

A soldier. In a gas mask?

But then the figure started coming forward. Something about its shambling gait made her struggle to her feet. Then the scarlet glow lit up the face beneath the cowl.

Oh Jesus Christ.

A metal mask stared back at her: brow and cheekbones setting off the tar-pits of the eyes. The lower face remained scarfed up in shadow. The sight was almost toad-like – and revolting. She stumbled back – then swung around and fled. Clear of the car, and out into the darkness of the range.

The shadow thing came striding in pursuit.

I

WATCHERS

(1993)

Beautiful city! … Whispering from its towers the last enchantments of the Middle Age … Home of lost causes and forsaken beliefs.

MATTHEW ARNOLD, ON OXFORD

CHAPTER I

Spire Dreams

1

Lynette caught sight of her from over the road, and gave a little wave. The gesture, like her smile, was almost shy; but her pretty face was bright with expectation.

Fran almost turned and walked away right then.

It had taken her so long to get this far. She hadn’t even answered that first letter. But Lynette had patiently persisted: so gentle, so committed, that all at once, one afternoon, Fran’s brittle shell had cracked. She’d wept a year’s worth of tears that day; her mum had told her later what a blessed sound it was – drifting downstairs from the bedroom through the silent, sunlit hall. After all those months of torpor and withdrawal, her daughter sobbing like a little girl.

More letters; then a phone call. We have to meet, Lynette had said. And Fran was feeling better, but still delicate and drained – as if she’d just brought up the poison of the world’s worst tummy ache. She’d hesitated; hummed and hawed. The soft voice on the phone was a voice from the past. And the past was forbidden ground.

Yet here she was, right now, in sunny Oxford, nervously waiting while Lynette crossed the street. As ever, Lyn looked gorgeous – a picture of elegance in her smart black trouser suit and snowy blouse. Fran suddenly felt dowdy in her cardigan and leggings.

Lyn hesitated for a moment, then gently touched her shoulders – kissed her cheek. When she drew back, her smile looked stretched; her eyes were bright and wet.

Fran felt her own eyes prickling behind the shades she wore. Her throat had tightened up, she couldn’t speak. That smile was from the Old Days: from Before. She’d almost forgotten what the sunshine looked like – the nuclear winter in her head had blotted it all out. But now, at last, the cold, black smoke was lifting. A glimpse of light again. A breath of spring.

And more than that: her friend was here, and beaming her delight. It made Fran warm inside, to see her pleasure. It made her feel so happy she could cry.

Lyn had worked so hard for this. She’d earned it. Fran wanted just to hug her, and hold tight.

‘Oh, God … Sorry …’ Lyn blinked and sniffed, still smiling. People kept on passing, heedless of the reunion in their midst. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she said simply.

Fran swallowed. ‘Thanks for waiting.’ An even bigger under-statement, but she couldn’t find a better way to say it. And had it only been four years? She felt like Rip van Winkle (Sleeping Beauty was too flattering a parallel): waking up to find the world had changed, and all her friends were dust …

Except for one. And who’d have guessed it, back when they were freshers?

‘Come on,’ Lyn said, and took her elbow. ‘Remember Heroes? It’s still there. Let’s have coffee.’

2

She’d been down for her interview, and seen its winter colours; but it had taken that golden first weekend to really bring her under Oxford’s spell.

Michaelmas Term: even the name was strange and rich somehow. The city in the autumn sunlight had seemed part of a whole new world. After the rugged countryside of home, it might have been a magical realm. She could feel the age of things down here: the buildings, and the books. And though she’d grown up close to ancient places, they’d never had a hold on her like this.

The place was beautiful enough; she had watched the stone-work glowing in the amber setting sun. But for her, the fascination was its treasury of thought. That was why she’d worked to come to Oxford: to study there, and somehow soak it up. Those hoards of books; those centuries of learning. It wasn’t the prestige: that didn’t matter.

Well, not much.

She’d signed herself in at Christ Church, unable to stop smiling. The college had entranced her from the start: a citadel of honey-coloured stone. Exploring, she’d found shady cloisters, quiet little nooks. A maze of spires and ivy. It was like an old-world castle in some fantasy she’d read. But this time it was real, and she was here. Little Frannie Bennett, from Up North. Her accent was soft, but she’d broadened it when posher ones cropped up. I went to a comprehensive, but I’m just as good as you.

Her spacious study bedroom overlooked an inner quad. Halfway through unpacking, she’d sat on the bed, and started taking stock. Still high on her excitement, she felt a little awed as well: belittled by the splendour of the place. She was suddenly grown up, and on her own. In Oxford – hours from home. No turning back now. The thought upset her buoyancy somewhat.

The first thing you should unpack is your kettle, Mum had said. Fran did so – and her mug and coffee too.

Lynette, meanwhile, was moving in next door.

Fran’s mum and dad had seen her off at the station, but Lyn’s had driven down here. There was lots of to-ing and fro-ing; the mother sounding anxious, the father more laid-back. Fran had the impression they were pretty well-to-do.

‘Oh Mummy, please don’t fuss,’ was Lyn’s first plaintive contribution.

She was hovering in the corridor when Fran peered out: awkwardly aloof, as if watching someone else’s room being furnished. She looked tired and rather miserable already. Someone else whose heady day might yet end in tears.

‘Can I offer you a coffee?’ Fran asked.

The girl’s smile was so grateful that it forged a bond at once. Posh though she was, her face was naturally friendly; her toffee-coloured eyes were warm and soft. Fran beckoned her in, and made another mug.

They swapped details like the schoolgirls they’d so recently been: Fran sitting cross-legged on her strange new bed; her first guest perched politely on the chair. Lyn was from Coventry, and had come here to read History; her father was a professor in the subject. Fran, who lived in Derbyshire, was doing French and German. Listening to Lyn talk – each consonant impeccably pronounced – she couldn’t help but feel a little distanced. Yet the other’s well-bred poise offset a shyness that she warmed to; a niceness that she couldn’t help but like.

‘You’re sure you’ll be all right, Lyn, darling?’ her mother asked from the doorway. The smile she offered Fran was gracious enough, but Fran had felt herself assessed, the woman clearly wondering who her daughter would fall in with, once free of the parental gaze.

‘Quite sure, Mummy. Thanks ever so much for everything …’ On which sweet note she saw them firmly to the car.

‘Fancy a wander?’ Fran asked, when she came back; and out they’d gone together, looking round the mellow college buildings, before meandering down onto Christ Church Meadow. Back to the Hall for a welcoming communal dinner; then coffee in Lyn’s room, the window open wide on the Oxfordshire dusk. Their friendship put its roots into that balmy autumn evening, and blossomed through the busy weeks ahead. By the end of that first short term, they might have known each other years: sharing secrets, clothes and sound advice. Fran and Lyn, inseparable as sisters.

3

‘Remember that time we hired a punt?’ Lyn asked her, smiling: drawing her gently back towards the past.

‘God, yes. Frannie and Lyn Go Boating. And wasn’t that a bloody disaster … ?’ But she was smiling herself, recalling how that afternoon had gone: a piece of farce so perfect that they’d ended up quite helpless with the giggles (though without a pole). And underpinning it, the river’s calm, the spires that gleamed with sunlight on the skyline; a clocktower chiming three …

‘Why don’t you take those sunglasses off?’ Lyn said, making a mischievous face, in case Fran took it the wrong way. ‘People will think you’re a spy or something …’

Fran stared at her for a moment; sensed a flicker of unease behind her friend’s determined smile. Then, slowly, she reached up and took her shades off. They were the pair she’d always used to wear: cheap wraparound black plastic. Her mocking, mock defence against being photographed and filmed. No laughing matter now, though; she hardly ventured out without them. They filtered the day – made it colourless and safe. Their lenses were anonymous, a mask.

The coffee bar grew brighter; Lyn watched her, looking anxious. And how must I look? Fran thought. She knew how she felt: as if she’d pulled her knickers down in public. That helpless; that exposed.

But she placed them on the tabletop, beside her sipped-at cup, and clasped her hands upon them. She didn’t need a mirror to see the paleness of her face, the vulnerable depths of her wide green eyes. She could read all that from Lyn’s concerned expression.

Go on, she thought, just tell me I’ve lost weight. She’d always been a slender girl – a real Slim Susan, Mum said – but now she felt uncomfortable and scrawny. And while Lyn still wore her dark hair in a stylish, silky bob, she’d let her own grow shaggy: a malty mane that brushed against her shoulders.

But Lyn said nothing; just placed her hand on Fran’s, and gently squeezed.

‘You’re sure you want to do this today?’ she asked after a pause.

Fran nodded quickly: shaking off temptation before it really got a grip. ‘Have to start somewhere.’ Especially there … where it had all begun.

‘There’s no hurry. Plenty of time …’ From the look on Lyn’s face, she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea at all.

Fran drank some more cool coffee, and changed the subject. ‘How’s the thesis coming on?’

Lyn wavered, then went with the flow. Smiled modestly. ‘Oh … it’s coming.’

‘So, when’s it going to be Doctor Simmons, then?’

‘God, don’t ask …’ But she was beaming at the prospect, and Fran felt a little warmer, deep inside. It eased the guilt she felt for having missed Lyn’s graduation; she wouldn’t lose this coming second chance. Even as they chatted on, she searched Lyn’s smiley face. It sounded like her future was as clear as her complexion. No storms on her horizon; not a cloud in her blue sky …

‘You’re working, then?’ she asked her.

‘Mm,’ said Lyn, ‘but not this afternoon. It’s temping – just to pay the bills. I’m a bit of a church mouse at the moment …’ She flicked at the sleeve of her well-cut suit. Fran couldn’t help but smile to herself.

Lyn hadn’t noticed; her own gaze lingered on her cup. Carefully she set it down, and bit her lip; then took the plunge.

‘Craig’s been in touch,’ she said.

Fran’s chest grew hot and heavy in the silence that followed. She fiddled with her rings; then swallowed. ‘Is he here?’

Lyn nodded. ‘Staying with friends in London.’ Her eyes were down again, embarrassed. ‘He … never forgot you, Fran. All the time you were …’ Tailing off, she twisted round to unfasten her bag, and took an envelope out. After the briefest hesitation, she laid it on the tabletop between them.

Fran rested her mouth against her hands, staring at the neat white rectangle. No stamp on it, and no address; it had gone from hand to hand. Just one word, written with a flourish. Her own name.

‘He gave me that for you,’ Lyn said, unnecessarily. ‘He wants to see you.’

Oh, Jesus, Fran thought numbly. She felt empty inside: unable to react.

Lyn leaned forward. ‘Fran, we’re here,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t have to face anything alone. He really cares for you – believe me. Just … let us hold your hands; go through it with you.’

Fran felt a tear trickle down her cheek; like the first drop heralding a downpour. She fought to keep herself in check. Lyn took her hands and held them. The threatened cloudburst faded back to grumble gloomily on the horizon.

Fran took a shaky breath. ‘… Thanks.’ She sniffed, her eyes still shining wet; then managed a damp smile. ‘You’re an angel, Lyn. Friend in a million …’

‘Let’s leave it for today,’ suggested Lyn. ‘Come on: let’s just go and sit in the Meadow …’

‘I can’t,’ Fran said, and shook her head. ‘We’ll take it slowly … but I have to go back. I can’t go any further till I’ve laid the past to rest.’

CHAPTER II

Grey Ravens

1

Lyn drove out of Oxford and northward through the countryside. The world through Fran’s shades had a monochrome look, but she could smell the breadth and texture of the fields: new-cut grass, and fresh manure, and fleeting wild flowers. Her heart throbbed hard, constricted. She felt a little sick.

Lunch was a welcome hiatus. Past a picturesque village, they found a shady spot above the road, and stopped to eat. Lyn had prepared a modest picnic: French bread sandwiches, fresh fruit, and cans of sparkling wine. Two glasses and a tablecloth as well: she’d always been an organized young lady.

‘Found yourself a man yet?’ Fran asked casually, between mouthfuls. She’d sneaked a glance at Lyn’s left hand soon after they’d met, and the ring finger was bare.

Lyn gave one of her shy smiles, and shook her head. ‘Not yet. Too busy. Too much work …’ She ducked a wasp, and swatted it away. ‘Besides … I’m not sure if I want a relationship right now …’

That last one really hurt you, didn’t it? Fran thought, but didn’t say so. Best to let that lie. Sitting back against the rough bark of the tree, she recalled how it had started. Lyn had been coy at first – Big Secret – but of course she’d had to share it in the end. He was from one of the other colleges: she’d met him at a lecture. The relationship had deepened during Hilary Term; Fran hardly met the bloke throughout, and saw Lyn less and less. She knew she’d been quite jealous at the time. Not that she didn’t have interests of her own. The day Lyn came to tell her how their Valentine’s date had gone, Fran had been prostrate with the after-effects of chasing Cruise missiles round Salisbury Plain until four in the morning. There Lyn had been, bright-faced and bursting to tell all, while her confidante was half-asleep and lolling in her chair …

She took another bite of bread: the taste as bland as cardboard in her mouth. She didn’t feel the least bit hungry. The countryside was peaceful in the sunshine; sheep and lambs were grazing in the field. But their destination – still miles distant – had already cast its aura this far out. She felt its chill and shadow on her heart.

And then there was Craig’s letter: folded and crammed, still sealed, into her bum-bag. Food for thought that overfilled her stomach.

Lyn sipped at her wine; hooked her hair behind her ear. She sensed Fran watching from behind her shades, and beamed encouragingly. Fran found the strength to smile faintly back.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Let’s go. Let’s get it done.’

2

They came to the wire. It stretched and weaved away to right and left. Reinforced mesh, with razor coils on top.

Fran stood there on the footpath, staring blankly through the fence. There was an empty road beyond it; then a vast expanse of grass. In the hazy middle distance, a scattering of buildings basked – smooth-backed, like concrete whales.

Her fingers closed on Lyn’s: so tightly that she feared they might do damage. But the gesture was convulsive, and she couldn’t let them go. They’d linked hands coming up the hill from Heyford – Fran had wavered to a standstill when she saw the water-tower. It rose above the skyline like a scaffold.

‘Come on, now,’ Lyn had whispered. ‘You can do it.’

If she felt her knuckles popping now, her quiet voice didn’t show it. ‘Are those the hangars, then … ?’

Fran nodded once, like someone in a trance. The last time she’d been up here, the day had been as bright and hot as this one; but lamps had still been burning on those buildings – shimmering like day-stars through the haze. The quick reaction flight was lurking there: bombed-up, and ready to go.

Today, the lights were off again; the hangars seemed abandoned. An eerie silence hung across the base.

‘Ugly-looking things …’ Lyn murmured.

‘They called them TAB-Vees,’ Fran said; the term came back to her from nowhere. ‘Theatre Airbase Vulnerability Shelters.’ She nodded to herself; then pinched a smile. ‘I used to know all the jargon, you know. Proper little trainspotter, I was.’

‘But nothing’s in them now?’

Fran shook her head. ‘They’ve gone. They’ve all flown home …’ The hush was huge: unnatural. Her inner ear recalled that disembodied rumbling in the air, when the hangars had been open, the aircraft on the prowl. Turning, she studied the empty sky – half-expecting to see a light in the distance: a bright, approaching star. A roaring bomber coming in to land.

A cloud obscured the sun. Its shadow slid across them, the green fields greying out – and she found herself right back where she had started.

It had been an overcast day, that Saturday in autumn ’88. She could almost smell the damp October air; the thinning veil of mist along the fence-line. The bitter tang of jet-fuel as the planes came screaming in.

She watched them land, like hungry iron hawks. The camouflaged ones were bombers, she was told: F-IIIs that could carry nuclear loads. They were followed down by others, grey as ghosts. Those were the Ravens, someone said: the radar-jamming planes.

Ravens. It had struck her, though she couldn’t quite say why; the weirdness of the choice of name, perhaps. Sinister, portentous – but a raven’s coat was black. These grey things came like spirits: like pallid spectres of their former selves …

Her fingers loosened; Lyn’s hand slipped away. And Lyn could only hover, like an anxious hanger-on. Excluded by the memories of things she hadn’t shared.

‘What are you seeing, Fran … ?’ she almost whispered.

But Fran didn’t answer; her mind was too full of restless ghosts.

Of Ravens.

3

It had still been Freshers’ Week when Paul had knocked on her door; she hadn’t even got her posters up. The societies were recruiting fit to bust, of course; she’d seen the cross on his lapel, and guessed what he was selling.

‘Would I be right in thinking you’re a Christian?’ he’d said, after a brief, polite preamble.

‘Well …’ Fran said, and felt a bit evasive. It was true she’d shopped around at the Freshers’ Fair. The Student Christian Movement had intrigued her; she rather liked their radical approach. But the college branch of Greenpeace was the only one she’d joined. She classed herself as C of E, but hadn’t been to church for quite a while. A charismatic-slanted group at school had sucked her in, bolstering her final year with happy-clappy pap; but in pulling up her roots to come here, she’d set herself adrift on that score too. Simplicity had brought no satisfaction: If God gave me brains, why won’t you let me use them? Right now, she wasn’t sure what she believed.

And now this pleasant second-year was trying to tempt her back. Whichever group he spoke for, they were doubtless keen on choruses and earnest Bible study. She shifted with discomfort at the thought.

‘I’m still deciding at the moment,’ she said carefully.

Paul gestured, smiling. ‘Fair enough. But me and some friends are going on a sort of religious outing on Saturday, and I wondered if you’d maybe like to come … ?’

Fran hesitated. ‘Going where?’

‘To Upper Heyford airbase,’ Paul said softly. ‘A place that needs to hear the Word of Life.’

Now that, she’d told him afterwards, was what I call a religious outing.

The base had been the scene of a national demo; the Christian groups had gathered at Gate 8. Walking down the track towards it, the sight of those sombre, vaulted hangars so close to the fence had given her a chill. A brooding sense of threat hung all about them. Paul told her that the bombs were stored elsewhere, but it felt like one was ticking in each building.

The service, in their shadow, was more stirring than she’d dreamed. She’d listened to the speakers, and joined in with the songs; shared the Peace with total strangers; hugged Paul tight. As people breached the wire and got arrested, she’d clung to the fence and shouted her support.

It was a rainbow congregation, lively and colourful; but most of all she remembered the Dominicans, in their solemn cloaks, and their banner behind them: a black dog running, with a firebrand in its jaws.

Paul had led her on down the perimeter path; taught her the difference between Blazer patrol trucks and Hummvee armoured cars (while one of the latter paced them, like a hunchbacked iron toad). An impromptu Mass was being held near the Peace Camp. Paul, being a Methodist, hung back – but Fran went and knelt at the roadside, to take a torn-off piece of Tesco’s Sliced, and sip from the chipped cup of wine. And all the time, beyond the fence, the planes were prowling past, their tailfin beacons pulsing bloody red.

They’d hung around in the waning afternoon, until the people who’d been arrested were finally released. Then one of the Oxford groups invited them back for a social at someone’s house. It lasted late into the evening, and she’d loved it: food and drink and dry good humour, ending up with some decidedly secular songs. She sang along delightedly with those; but the melody that stayed in her buzzing head was one she’d heard at Heyford’s iron gates. The people who stumbled in darkness, their eyes have seen the light…

4

And those who sit in the deepest pit: on them has the day dawned bright.

She ran the lines through her mind again – worrying each word like a Rosary bead; but the gloom was deep and glutinous inside her. There was just that pale, thin gleam on the horizon.

‘How do you feel?’ Lyn asked her gently.

They’d adjourned to a pub in Somerton, north of the airbase. Such a pretty little village, so close to that desolate field. Fran had made for the dimmest corner of the room, well away from the golden sunshine. And still she hadn’t taken off her shades.

‘Glad I came,’ she murmured, staring down at her drink; fingers playing with the stem of her glass. ‘Well no, not glad … but no regrets. I needed to start here.’

‘You came out here with Paul before?’ Lyn said after a pause. Proceeding with exquisite caution.

‘Yeah,’ Fran said. ‘He brought me. And after what I saw that day, my perspectives were all different.’

Another silence, while she took a sip of wine, and set the glass down carefully. Then her shielded gaze rose back to Lyn.

‘I’d never had such a sense of pure evil. You could feel it, coming at you through the wire. You could feel how close the warheads were; their power. Like sleeping suns …’ She shook her head again; more like a shudder. ‘And meanwhile, Cruise was coming out of Greenham, once a month.’

Lyn waited with her own glass barely touched.

‘It scared me – so I had to get involved,’ Fran went on softly. ‘Every time those missiles moved, I had to witness them …’ Behind the shades, her eyes had lost their focus: but now she could see deep into the past. ‘That night, they were headed for the Imber firing range – the most restricted part of the whole Plain. We tried to take a short cut: get ahead of them again. We cut across a corner of Larkhill range, the next one to the east. And Larkhill range was where we came to grief …’ She bit down on the final word, and dropped her gaze once more.

Lyn shifted awkwardly. ‘And they never found that person in the road?’

Fran didn’t answer for a moment; then took a deep, slow breath, and shook her head.

‘Did you hear from Paul again?’

‘Not since he came out of hospital. He just withdrew from everything – like I did. Marie died, and Kate broke her back. He blamed himself for that.’

‘And you … Do you feel guilty – for surviving?’

Fran wavered; gave a shrug of her thin shoulders. ‘It was my fault, as much as his. I said to go for it.’

Lyn took her hand. ‘Oh Frannie, don’t you think that you’ve been punished enough? You were traumatized as well. That’s why you had your … er …’

‘My breakdown, Lyn. Just say it.’

‘Sorry. Your breakdown.’

‘I was in a psychie hospital for nearly a year,’ Fran said in a grim, steady tone. ‘Voluntary admission: clinically depressed. I didn’t mention that, did I?’

Lyn made a hurt little face. ‘Oh, Fran …’

‘It must have been … the shock, or the concussion, but I had a real panic attack out there. I thought that things were chasing after me … And months, and years later, I was still convinced they’d creep into my room …’ And as she voiced her dread at last, she felt the gooseflesh ripple up her arms. Just then, for just an instant, she was back on the Plain, and lost in its featureless dark.

‘Shh,’ Lyn whispered, massaging her hand. ‘It’s over now. You’re safe.’

Fran swallowed back her tears again, and nodded. The flush of cold was fading, in the sunlight and Lyn’s love. Her memories were twisted up: her illness had done that. Her mental illness. The thought of it still shamed her, but she’d shared it. Like naming a demon to gain power over it. The past was the past. And here she was, objective: looking back.

It’s over now. You’re safe. Oh God, she hoped so.

‘Your parents must be so glad …’ Lyn said. ‘Seeing you able to come back here like this.’

Fran nodded again, and took her shades off – but only to wipe her eyes. ‘Yeah. They’ve put up with me a lot, these past few years …’

‘Your Geordie accent’s coming back, you know,’ Lyn said: a tentative attempt to tease.

‘Is it?’ Fran said wryly. ‘I can’t tell. We moved to Derbyshire ten years ago – that’s practically Down South!’

Silence settled between them. The ticking of a clock was quite distinct. Lyn moistened her lips.

‘Where was it you said you’d meet the man of your dreams?’

The gambit won a rueful smile. ‘Heaven’s Field.’ Fran murmured back. ‘Up north, on Hadrian’s Wall.’

‘So, did you ever take Craig there?’

Fran sniffed, and shook her head.

‘Are you going to see him?’

Fran shook her head again. Not negative this time; nonplussed. ‘I don’t know,’ she said softly.

And she didn’t. Thinking of Craig sent a giddy ripple through her – a sense of need as physical as hunger. But this was four years later, and the world had changed around. To visit old haunts was one thing; to meet old ghosts was something else again.

The conflict of emotions filled her mind; but something more subliminal still lingered. The faintest, phantom echo of that moment on the Plain. As if those twisted memories were still alive behind her: more distant now, but following her trail. As relentless and black as a Dominican dog.

5

Lyn’s flat was in a quiet, leafy street off Iffley Road: part of the first floor of a conversion. Fran wandered through, admiring, as Lyn showed her around: a cheerfully self-deprecating hostess – but Fran’s small suitcase made her feel too much like what she was. A stranger, from the past, just passing through.

‘This’ll be yours,’ Lyn told her brightly, opening the door on her spare room. A futon was spread out, all ready; the pillowcase and quilt smelt freshly washed.

‘I’m not sure how long I’m staying …’ Fran murmured.

Lyn’s beaming face grew earnest. ‘You’re welcome for as long as you like – all right? As long as you need.’

‘I’m … not very good company at the moment. Need a lot of time to myself …’

‘I can understand that. You need a base, you need a bed … they’re yours. Other than that, you can come and go as you want.’ She hesitated, almost shyly. ‘But I’d be glad to keep you company, whenever that’s okay. I’ve really missed you, Fran …

‘Now,’ she went on quickly, before they both got embarrassed, ‘would you like some coffee?’

‘Oh, please.’ Fran put her case down on the bed, and went over to the window. The evening was warm and light: the air like honey. She peered across the rooftops for a minute, listening to the distant city sounds – and those that Lyn was making in the kitchen. Peace, domestic comfort, all around.

Her heart began to race then; before she even realized that she’d just made her decision. Biting her lip, she went through towards the sounds of brewing coffee.

Lyn looked round, smiling. Wiping down her breakfast plates, and putting them away.

Fran swallowed. ‘There’s something else. I need to tell you.’ But in the expectant pause that followed, she no longer thought she could.

‘No hurry,’ Lyn said gently. ‘We’ve plenty of time …’

Fran glanced aside. An itemized phone bill caught her eye: stuck to the freezer door with a cat-shaped magnet. Staring at it, she said: ‘When I was in hospital … it wasn’t just depression. I was hallucinating; hearing voices.’

Silence from Lyn.

‘And I never told them,’ Fran went on, with just a hint of tremble in her voice. ‘I never said a word. I thought that if I did, they wouldn’t let me out again.’

Another pause. She risked a look. Lyn’s eyes were wide, her air less certain. ‘Oh God, Fran …’

‘But I’m better now,’ Fran finished quickly. ‘They just went of their own accord. Not a whisper for six months …’ She took a shaky breath. ‘And I’ve told no one else about them. Not even Mum and Dad.’

Lyn’s reassuring smile looked forced. ‘It might be … an idea to tell someone, though …’

‘I have,’ Fran came back evenly. ‘I’ve just told you. And believe me, it’s a load off my shoulders.’

Lyn nodded, looking doubtful, mechanically polishing a bowl. ‘But just to be sure …’

‘Oh Lyn, don’t worry: I’m not a bloody schizophrenic or something. It was just my mind getting straightened out. I’m all right now.’

Lyn put down the bowl, and came across and hugged her. A gesture worth a million words. I’m not unclean, Fran thought – and held on tight enough to hurt.

‘Sorry,’ Lyn said after a minute. ‘I know how hard that must have been to say. I’m really, really glad you told me first …’ When she eased away, her smile looked fresher: as if she’d shrugged a burden off as well. A weight of doubt and prudent disapproval. Fran grinned – and felt quite giddy with relief. Her leap of faith had landed on firm ground.

Oh Lyn, you angel. How ever did I find a friend like you?

With the subject safely broached, the rest came easier. She described the hospital, the staff, her fellow patients. Talking it out felt physical, a purging of her system. Like the tears that Lyn had won from her before; the rains that broke the drought of her depression …

‘What sort of things did these voices say?’ Lyn asked her after supper. Her tone still cautious, but curious too.

Fran hesitated. ‘I don’t know: that’s the really weird thing. It was a man’s voice, just a whisper … I’d look around, you know? – and the room would be empty. But it wasn’t English; more like Dutch or something.’

‘God, it must have frightened you.’

‘It did. You bet it did. And yet … the tone, it wasn’t really threatening. It sounded urgent. More like an appeal …’

She could analyse it calmly now; back then, she’d just been petrified with fear. The whispers had haunted her down the long, dingy corridors, insidious in their promise of madness. Perhaps finding a lump in your breast brought a stab of dread this sharp. Her voices seemed like symptoms of a tumour in her mind.

And if you ignored them, would they go away? A lump in her flesh would not. She’d heard of women losing precious time – too scared to see a doctor, till too late. And she’d been just as stymied: afraid to tell a soul about the voices in her head.

The world had closed down like a coffin-lid upon her; the voices were the hammer and the nails. Fragments of phrases, faint with distance; sometimes they’d fall silent for a week. The silences were worst of all. She’d sit and cringe for hours: just waiting for the words to come again.

But she’d kept them secret – and they’d gone away. The malignant lump had simply disappeared. A miracle cure must feel like this. She hardly dared believe it, even now.

‘Shall we do the washing up?’ she said, to change the subject.

‘Oh, shh, don’t worry about that …’

‘Don’t flatmates share their chores?’ Fran asked her drily. ‘I’d much prefer it that way. So come on, let’s get to it. And then I think I’ll have an early night. It’s been a tiring day …’

6

Fran

So much has changed. The whole world’s turned around. But I’ve not forgotten you. Can we meet someplace – and sometime soon? Lyn’s got my number. I really hope you’ll want to get in touch.

Still thinking of you

Craig

Fran read the letter through again. Much more slowly: savouring each word. Her heart beat like a slow drum in her chest.

His face was very clear now; the years between had faded like a fog. She remembered every line of his rugged good looks. The short brown hair, brushed back; the deep-set eyes. The wry mouth, sometimes smiling; sometimes grim.

Still thinking of you – even four years down the road. She felt a pang of pleasure, a twinge of helpless pride. Like someone with a treasure, hidden secretly away. He’s mine, she thought: he still belongs to me.

She folded the letter carefully, and slid it back into the envelope. Laying it aside on the bookcase, she started to unpack. Nightie, towel, toilet bag … but then she let an impulse overcome her, and delved into a side-pocket instead. For a moment her fingers searched in vain; but then they found the badge, and drew it out.

She’d been wearing it the day they met. A rectangle of metal, with a sheen like bluish gold. The stern and haloed image of a saint. She ran her thumb across the rough, raised lettering. Cyrillic script: an alien language. Only the dates made sense.

988–1988. One thousand years. Stretching like a bridge from the Dark Age past to the year she’d come to Oxford.

She laid her head down cautiously. First night away from home for many months; her first night back in Oxford since her breakdown. For an hour or more she lingered on the very edge of sleep: afraid of what unconsciousness might bring. But the stresses of the day had worn her out. Oblivion pounced, and caught her unawares.

She didn’t dream.

CHAPTER III

Cross of Iron

1

‘Is this seat taken?’

Fran studied her drink for a moment longer; then slowly, almost archly raised her head. After all the keyed-up waiting, she was suddenly so cool. She’d known it was him as he’d crossed the room towards her. She’d known it when he walked through the door.

Craig stood there, looking just a little awkward. She’d sensed him hesitating on the threshold; how long had he been standing just outside? But to judge by his face, his doubts had been won over. For all that he was ten years older than her, his smile was as engaging as an eager little boy’s.

She gestured. ‘Be my guest.’

He pulled out the stool, and sat. Still smiling; but his pale blue eyes were watchful. Their clearness – with his slightly scrappy haircut – helped preserve his boyish aspect; but that handsome face had harshness in its lines. Fran felt herself excited by the contrast – just like she’d been before.

He’d brought his bottle with him from the bar. A Budweiser, of course. He raised it to her – ‘Hi,’ – and took a pull.

She raised her glass in turn; then sat back, looking smug.

Craig cocked his head, enquiring. ‘What?’

‘I just love a man out of uniform.’

He gave a snort at that, amused. His coat was brown brushed leather, well worn-in. Fran, by contrast, was wearing Lyn’s best bomber jacket, complete with sheepskin lining. Which was quite ironic, really.

‘How have you been?’ Craig asked after a pause. His tone was quiet and calm, as always; the concern was in his eyes.

‘All right,’ Fran told him softly. ‘Coming on.’

‘You’re looking well.’

She shrugged.

The lunchtime buzz and bustle of The Grapes drew in around them.

Her hand was on the table; so was his. She felt his need to reach across and touch her – and knew he wasn’t sure how she’d react. He moistened his lips, his pale gaze still intent. ‘I’m glad you called me, Fran.’

‘I’m glad you waited, Craig. I mean that.’

He took her hand, and squeezed it. She squeezed back.

‘You’re sure about this afternoon?’ he asked, his voice a murmur.

‘Yes,’ she said, still holding on. ‘I’m sure.’

2

The first time she’d seen him, he was doing some repair work on a truck. Thinking back to that first moment, she knew she hadn’t dreamed where it would lead. All she’d done was stand there, feeling curious: wanting contact. Above all else, she’d wanted to get through.

He’d realized she was watching; turned and grinned. Encouraged, she’d smiled back. He’d wavered for a moment, then wiped his hands and slowly walked across. Right up to the high mesh fence that blocked his way.

‘Hello,’ Fran said politely.

He nodded amiably, tweaking the brim of his cap between finger and thumb. His camouflage fatigues – green, brown and black – bore a master sergeant’s stripes: she was getting good at recognizing ranks. FLAHERTY was the name stencilled over his breast pocket.

Fran hooked her fingers through the mesh, and leaned against the wire. She wondered if her shades made her look flirty. ‘How are you liking England, then?’ she asked.

‘It’s not so bad,’ he murmured. ‘Nice little place you’ve got here. Some of the natives aren’t too friendly … but there you go.’

She took that coyly; cocked her head. ‘I thought you weren’t supposed to talk to us.’ He’d caught sight of her Cruisewatch badge, of course.

His smile grew broader. ‘I’m a great believer in freedom of speech.’

‘Which is what you’re here defending?’

‘Surely. Yours and mine.’

‘When we put all our resources into preparing for war, humanity hangs from a cross of iron. You know who said that?’

He shook his head, still smiling.

‘Dwight D. Eisenhower.’

‘Yeah? I never heard that.’ He leaned forward for a better look at the other badge she wore. Fran eased herself away along the fence; he followed. She felt a sense of mischief, like playing hard to get. The barrier was frustrating. She clung to it, and kept him close.

‘Aha,’ he murmured drily, having seen the thing at last. ‘I knew you were a commie.’

‘No, I’m not,’ she told him. ‘That’s my icon.’

Intrigued, he studied it more closely. ‘What does it say?’

‘Russia Baptized: One Thousand Years.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You been over there?’

‘’Fraid not. I got it at the Orthodox church in Oxford.’

‘Oxford, huh? That where you come from?’

‘It’s where I’m studying.’

‘Always wanted to visit Oxford …’ he said lightly, and would have said more, but a patrol truck was approaching: chugging up along the perimeter road. It came to a halt behind him, and the driver climbed out. Fran saw it was a woman, not much older than herself. Dressed in camouflage like Flaherty, but with a black beret – and a holstered pistol at her belt. MATTHEWS said the name-strip on her blouse.

‘Any problem, Sergeant?’

‘No problem.’ He held Fran’s gaze for a moment longer; then turned away. Fran stared at his retreating back, then looked across at Matthews. The other woman was eyeing her levelly. Her fresh-complexioned face was set and grim.

Fran tipped her head back: took it on the chin. Resentment twinged inside her, mixed with something more unsettling. She’d thought there’d be some fellow-feeling somewhere – one woman to another. But there wasn’t the slightest spark of it between them.

She’d shoot me, if she had to. Shoot me dead. The knowledge took the wind out of her sails.

Flaherty was back at his truck. He gave her a final, sidelong glance; no more. Matthews was still watching her. Dispirited, Fran turned and walked away.

But now she was here again, and reaching out to touch the fence. Curling her fingers round the cold green strands, and holding tight.

‘Looks different,’ Craig said softly; ‘from the wrong side of the wire.’

She glanced over her shoulder. He looked different: standing there behind her.

They’d driven up the road from the A339, Craig silent at the wheel of his rented car. The tunnel of trees had closed around them, channelling them through gloom until they were almost at the fence. They’d parked there and got out; Fran pausing with her hand on the open door. It had rained that afternoon, and the wood smelled damp and green, still dripping. The song of a blackbird came from somewhere close.

Greenham Common airbase lay in silence.

They were close to the silos here. The last time she’d ventured up this way, the MoD police had chased her off. A winter’s night, dark early – but the those sinister mounds had been brightly lit. They’d made her think of spiders’ lairs – nestled deep in their funnels of gleaming razor wire.

A ripple of cold went through her flesh. She shivered, and hunched her shoulders.

The webs were empty now, though; their spider-holes as derelict as Heyford’s silent hangars. Life had gone on while she’d lingered in the dark. The world had changed so much.

‘I heard they’re gonna turn it into a theme park,’ Craig said, with wry amusement. ‘Or something like that.’

She shook her head, bemused. The place had been an inspiration through her teens; had drawn her down from Oxford again and again. Now here it lay, forgotten. What was it they’d sung around the campfire? And we shall build Jerusalem in England’s Greenham pleasant land. Well the missiles were gone – but no sense of peace had come to take their place. The silos had a haunted feel; like burial mounds, robbed out.

The evening sky was overcast and low. Crimson light seeped through it here and there, staining the clouds like blackberry juice.

‘I didn’t like it here,’ Craig murmured.

Fran turned her head.

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ he went on drily. ‘I think we were right; I think we did some good. But we never fitted in. Just stuck in our own little world behind the wire. And so much hostility outside …’

‘Was that the only reason?’

He was silent for a minute. ‘I’d be lying if I said that sharing a base with ninety-six Cruise missiles didn’t give me the creeps sometimes.’

‘It wasn’t the nukes that scared me,’ Fran said slowly, looking back towards the row of gutted silos. ‘It was the fact that people were actually ready to use the bloody things.’

‘It wouldn’t have happened. That was the whole point.’

‘Maybe not. No, really … maybe not. But the readiness was there.’

A pause. Then he slid his arms around her waist. Fran stood there for a moment, not reacting; then let herself relax against his body. He squeezed her gently; touched his cheek to hers.

‘You know what it reminds me of ?’ he said after a while. ‘Cape Canaveral. You go there now, there’s just these burned-out shells of concrete, where the rockets blasted off. Dead silence. When the clouds are like this, and there’s a wind off the desert, it’s so damn’ eerie. It feels like the end of the world.’

CHAPTER IV

Testament

1

Lyn tapped her pen against her teeth – and wondered if she’d found her man at last.

The library was hushed, as if expectant. The lamp above her recess cast a cosy golden glow. The cloudy afternoon had brought a premature dusk, like grey fog seeping inward through the windows. The lamps were beacons, keeping it at bay. Back down the unlit aisles and stacks, the gloom was growing thicker.

The manuscript before her was the fragment of a will. Ninth century West Saxon; the testator’s name was written ae elgar. She felt uncertain, rather than excited. Was it him? Perhaps – but she was never going to know. He didn’t even have a face, to match the name against.

She’d been looking for him since childhood – whether consciously or not. It went back to that holiday in Norfolk. The thesis she was writing now had been conceived that summer. Not that she had known it then: she’d just been ten or twelve. They’d visited an ancient church, for Daddy to take pictures. Martin had moped around outside, as little brothers would, but she had walked on in to look around. The place still had its medieval rood screen, with painted figures dimly visible. Pictures of saints, according