Книга - Red Shift

Red Shift
Alan Garner


The much-loved classic, finally in ebook.A disturbing exploration of the inevitability of life.Under Orion’s stars, bluesilver visions torment Tom, Macey and Thomas as they struggle with age-old forces. Distanced from each other in time, and isolated from those they live among, they are yet inextricably bound together by the sacred power of the moon’s axe and each seek their own refuge at Mow Cop.Can those they love so intensely keep them clinging to reality? Or is the future evermore destined to reflect the past?













For Billy




Contents


Cover (#u8e795886-a511-5cbf-bf61-854095d6aeef)

Title Page (#u78ff0aff-ca69-58c0-b532-e9159e485e96)

Dedication (#udc40a696-1b0a-5264-9099-e1ce53757cd8)

Red Shift (#u97402cf4-b156-5ac7-a3c8-9336501160aa)

Praise (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


“Shall I tell you?”

“What?”

“Shall I?”

“Tell me what?” said Jan.

“What do you want to know?”

Jan picked up a fistful of earth and trickled it down the neck of his shirt.

“Hey!”

“Stop fooling, then.”

Tom shook his trouser legs. “That’s rotten. I’m all gritty.”

Jan hung her arms over the motorway fence. Cars went by like brush marks. “Where are they going? They look so serious.”

“Well,” said Tom. “Let’s work it out. That one there is travelling south at, say, one hundred and twenty kilometres per hour, on a continental shelf drifting east at about five centimetres per year—”

“I might’ve guessed—!”

“—on a planet rotating at about nine hundred and ninety kilometres per hour at this degree of latitude, at a mean orbital velocity of thirty kilometres per second—”

“Really?”

“—in a solar system travelling at a mean galactic velocity of twenty-five kilometres per second, in a galaxy that probably has a random motion—”

“Knickers.”

“—random knickers of about one hundred kilometres per second, in a universe that appears to be expanding at about one hundred and sixteen kilometres per second per megaparsec.”

Jan scooped up more earth.

“The short answer’s Birmingham,” he said, and ducked.

Jan looked across the flooded sand quarry behind them towards the Rudheath caravan site among the birch trees. “Come on.” The earth was still in her hand.

“Where?”

“What were you going to tell me?”

“Oh, that.” He took his shoe off and turned it upside down. “It really is grotty being gritty. I was going to tell you when I first saw you.”

“When was it?”

“When you came back from Germany.”

“Germany?” The earth ran through her fingers. “Germany? We’ve known each other longer than that.”

“But I didn’t see you until you got out of the car: and then I – saw you.”

“I wasn’t away more than a fortnight.”

“What was it like?”

“Anywhere.”

“The people you stayed with?”

“Ordinary.”

“So why go?”

“To see what it was like.”

“And she found that the ground was as hard, that a yard was as long—No. She found that a metre was neater—”

“Tom—”

“Yes?”

“Lay off.”

He put his head on her shoulder. “I couldn’t stand it if you went now,” he said. They walked from the motorway fence along a spit of sand between the lakes.

“‘Grotty’ is excessively ugly,” said Tom. “A corruption of ‘grotesque’. It won’t last.”

“I love you.”

“I’m not sure about the mean galactic velocity. We’re with M31, M32, M33 and a couple of dozen other galaxies. They’re the nearest. What did you say?”

“I love you.”

“Yes.” He stopped walking. “That’s all we can be sure of. We are, at this moment, somewhere between the M6 going to Birmingham and M33 going nowhere. Don’t leave me.”

“Hush,” said Jan. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not. How did we meet? How could we? Between the M6 and M33. Think of the odds. In all space and time. I’m scared.”

“Don’t be.”

“Scared of losing—”

“You’re not—”

“I always win.”

She pressed the back of her hand against his cheek.

“Tell me,” he said. “I’ve been waiting all afternoon.”

The motorway roared silently. Birds skittered the water in flight to more distant reeds, and the iron water lay again, flat light reflecting no sky. The caravans and the birches. Tom.

“Next week,” said Jan. “Right?” Her knuckles were comfortless between his. “Next week. I go next week.” She tried to reach the pain, but his eyes would not let her in.

“London?”

“Yes.” Teeth showing through lips drawn: lines from sides of nostrils: frown and pain lines. “And my parents—”

“It’s a pretty mean galaxy.”

She pulled him to her. “You’re just a baby.”

“Yes.”

“Upset.”

“I’m not upset. I’m panicking. Love me.”

“I do. I do love you.”

“For ever.”

“How—”

“Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.”

“Quote.”

“More know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows. And that’s another.” He stood back from her and bent down to skim a stone across the lake. “On one side lay the M6, and on one lay a great water, and the site was full. Seven bounces! Bet you can’t do more than three!”

“Which of you am I supposed to believe?” said Jan.

“Both.”

“When will you grow up?”

“We were born grown up.”

“I love you: you idiots.”

They went round the caravan site by the sand washer. It was a tower, with chutes that fed sand into a piled cone. There was a catwalk to the top, over the chutes. The top was a very small steel plate.

Tom ran up and climbed to the plate. He stood slowly, feeling for his balance. The sand pile was a perfect gradient, one in one. Tom spread his arms, thirty feet above the ground.

“If you drop,” he called to Jan, “it doesn’t half rattle your teeth. But if you jump out as far as you can, it’s flying, and you hit the sand at the same angle right at the bottom, no trouble. It’s the first time that grips. You have to trust.”

He leapt through the air clear of everything and ploughed the sand with his heels.

“Coming?” He looked up at her.

“No, thanks.”

“It’s not what it seems. Or aren’t you good on heights?”

“I don’t like being gritty.”

They crossed the road to the estate where Jan lived.

“That was fairly stupid,” said Tom.

“I was impressed.”

“Not the jump. That was stupid, but the other was worse.”

“It’s happened before.”

“And it’ll happen again.”

“I know.”

“Stupid and infantile.”

They were clear of the birch wood, by open fields. Television screens in the caravans flickered among the white bark.

“Corpse candles,” said Tom.

“Snob. They look cosy.”

“They are. Togetherness!”

“Don’t take it out on them. I’d rather not live in London; but I do want to nurse. It’s as simple as that.”

“I wasn’t stopping you.”

“You weren’t?”

“We’ll adapt,” he said. “You’ll get a fair bit of time off, even in training, and you can come home. It’s quick from London. I’m used to you every day, that’s all, knowing I’ll see you—Oh my God.”

Two men were putting up a For Sale notice in Jan’s garden.

“I was trying to tell you,” she said.

“No one does this to me.”

“No one’s doing anything to anybody.”

“What’s that, then?”

“I was trying to tell you. Mum and Dad have been given a unit in Portsmouth. We’re all moving. We’ve never stayed long anywhere.”

“I reckon it’s a pretty mean galaxy.”

He took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. They went inside the house. There was a red light on the telephone answering machine. Jan pulled a face.

“What’s the matter?” said Tom.

“Mum has a patient who rings every day. It’s rubbish.”

“Not to him at the other end.”

“Precisely.”

“How can they stay sane, doing that work?”

“They never let themselves be involved. It’s in the training.”

“But they’re always on call, especially with that thing.”

“What, the Tam? There are some patients who’d rather talk to a phone than to Mum or Dad.”

“Get away.”

“They would. They feel safer. A tape recorder doesn’t want things from them.”

“A cassette confessor.”

“If you like.”

“An automatic answering divine. God in the machine.”

“Don’t be daft,” said Jan. “It’s only something that helps two people help a lot of others. It means they’re never out of touch.

“Or never in.”

“They’re busy.” She switched the tape on and spoke into the telephone. “This is Jan. I’m going to the caravan for tea, then Tom’s coming back to work.”

“Do you ever meet?” said Tom.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“Sorry.”

“OK. But it wasn’t funny.”

“No.”

They sat by the fire; landscapes were in the coals.

“Are you sulking?” said Jan.

“Thinking.”

“What?”

“Plans.”

“Secret?”

“No.” Tom fingered the stonework of the hearth. “I’ll miss this nonentity box.”

“I shan’t,” said Jan. “All our houses are bland, wherever we go. Dad has to buy and sell quickly.”

“It’s better than a caravan. It gives you room. Every way. Plenty of space for ducks on these walls.”

“You’re a snob.”

“Inverted,” said Tom. “I made my father a regimental gnome when I was ten: spent weeks of Free Expression on it at school.”

“What happened?”

“It melted in the rain. But he was chuffed at the time.”

“Will you be able to work in the caravan?”

“Not as well as I can here, but I’ll manage. Anybody can pass exams.”

“You’re spooking me. You’re too quiet.”

He put his head on the stone. “I’m not very quiet inside. Come on. Let’s go. Forget the house. It’s only a waiting room now.”

The men had stopped their hammering.

It was dark in the birch wood among the caravans. People moved along the cinder roads, carrying buckets. On every screen, the same wrestler bounced off the same ropes into the same forearm smash.

“It was recorded last week,” said Tom.

They reached Tom’s caravan. His father’s topiary, privet grown in ammunition boxes, stood along the front, the rope handles stiff with white gloss paint.

Tom and Jan kicked off their shoes as they entered. Now the crowd could be heard, and the bell for the fifth round.

“Leave your boots in the vestibule.” Tom’s mother called from the lounge.

“Have done. What’s the score?”

“One each. A folding press and a back-breaker submission.”

“I’ve worked it out,” he said to Jan. “We’ll be all right. Tell you later.”

They went into the kitchen. His father had laid the table, and was tossing lettuce in a dressing.

“Smells good,” said Jan. “What is it?”

“Wine vinegar and dill.”

“I always drop the salad on the floor,” said Jan.

“The secret’s in the bowl. Use one a lot bigger than you think you need: give yourself plenty of room.”

“I estimate that salad has proportionately more space allocated to it than I have,” said Tom. “Permission to be a lettuce, sir, please.”

“Permission refused,” said his father.

“Carry on, sergeant-major,” said Tom, and went to lie on his bunk.

Through the partition wall he could hear the television commentary, and a few feet away Jan and his father were discussing salad. “Boston Crab and Cold Lobster do not mix,” he wrote in his Physics notebook.

He took from behind the pillow a pair of army headphones which he had padded with rubber. He clipped the cans over his head, and was private again. Jan and his father made the rest of the salad, and he watched them as if they were in an aquarium. On the caravan wall, framed, were his great-grandfather’s war medals, and beneath them his grandfather’s. His father’s uniform hung, ready for duty, the one ribbon, for Long Service and Good Conduct, clean, new, crimson and silver.

He felt his mother pass by from the lounge and saw her go into the kitchen to fry herself some bacon. The smell came through the silence. Then Jan was with him, smiling, reaching out her hand. He took off the cans and entered the aquarium.

“Single-leg Boston in the last round,” his mother said. “After two Public Warnings.”

“So long as the damage is done, warnings don’t count,” said his father.

The lobster lay dismembered in a bed of lettuce. “Seems a pity to spoil it,” said Jan.

“Ask the lobster,” said Tom, and filled his plate.

Tom’s mother cut off the bacon rind and ate it. “The nights are drawing in.”

“As Thomas à Becket said to the actress.”

Jan spluttered.

“You what?” said his mother.

“How’s the dressing?” said Tom’s father.

“Delicious,” said Jan.

“Let’s see how you do with the wine, then. I’ve a poser for you this week.”

“You wily warrant-officer,” said Tom. “You’ve decanted it.”

“All’s fair in love and war. Couldn’t have you seeing the bottle, could we?”

He poured the green-white wine for Tom and Jan. Tom’s mother put the kettle on the stove to make herself some tea. “Never stake money on a bet with this man,” said Tom. “He waited till we’d had the dressing.”

“That’s your manky palate, lad. The dressing and the wine have to balance. There’s the art.”

“It’s a Moselle,” said Jan. “Very fresh. Last year’s, I think.”

Tom’s father stared. “How did you know? Come off it: that wasn’t a guess.”

“I was au pair for a grower at Easter,” said Jan. “Moselle.”

“Ay, you can’t win ’em all. Lovely wine, though, isn’t it? The only good thing to come out of Germany.”

“What about the iron crosses hanging with the medals?” said Tom.

“They weren’t from walking-wounded, I can tell you.”

“Swapped for a packet of fags?”

“Hand to hand. Them or us. That’s our mob.”

Tom turned to Jan. “We don’t count that. You’d been there—What’s the matter?”

Jan stumbled from the chair, her handkerchief at her mouth.

“Not the bog!” Tom shouted after her. “I’ve not emptied it this week!”

Jan threw the door open and was sick into the bracken.

“So much for your fancy teas,” said Tom’s mother. “Well, it had to show sooner or later.”

Jan came back into the caravan. “Sorry,” she said. “Do you think I could have a glass of water?”

“Sit down,” said Tom’s father. “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks.”

“Here you are.”

“Do you mind if I take it outside? I want to rinse my mouth.”

“Not before time,” said Tom’s mother.

Tom followed Jan out to the steps and put his anorak round her. She was shivering. He went down the steps and turned the leaf mould over with a spade.

“One of the benefits of the rural life,” he said. He came back to her. “What’s up, apart from the lobster?”

“Sea food gets me sometimes.”

“Indeed.”

She shrugged. “I’m fine now.”

“At least you’re human. I thought you weren’t bothered by next week.”

“I’m bothered, all right.”

Tom’s father was finishing the meal, but his mother had taken her tea through to the lounge.

“Better?”

“Thanks. It sometimes gets me.”

“You should’ve said. Can I make you anything?”

“A piece of bread will do fine.”

“Moselle?”

“I’d rather not. Sorry. It was a lovely meal.”

“Moselle’s good for an upset stomach.”

“No, thanks.”

“Your colour’s back.”

“I’ll finish your wine,” said Tom.

“Show it a little respect,” said his father. “It’s not lemonade.”

“To the glorious dead German grape.” Tom raised his glass.

“Cider’s the worst,” said his father.

Tom and Jan cleared the table.

“You feel it in your bones next day. Soon as you drink anything – tea, milk, water – you’re as stoned as when you began. Wicked.”

“Courting time,” said Jan. “All ancients into the lounge.”

“Ay, well,” said Tom’s father. “Think on.” He closed the kitchen door after him.

Tom poured the last of the wine. He hid his face in Jan’s hair. She stepped away.

“What’s wrong now?”

“I don’t like the smell of drink,” she said.

“Have some, then you won’t notice.” She shook her head. “Your loss.” He emptied the glass.

“Let’s wash up.” Jan pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and ran hot water into the sink. Tom picked up a towel.

“There’s something bothering your father. He wasn’t himself.”

“Wasn’t he? Look, I’ve worked it all out. On your pay, and what I can scrounge, we should just about be able to meet, say, every month. Crewe.”

“Why not come here? It’s not that much further.”

“Crewe’s quicker, and we shan’t waste time we could spend together. No privacy here. We couldn’t talk. If you make it Saturdays, the shops’ll be open, and it’ll be warm.”

“I’ve never felt romantic in Crewe.”

“You will. It’ll be the most fabulous town on earth.”

Jan gave him a plate to dry. “Fantastic,” she said.

The kitchen door opened, and Tom’s father appeared.

“Er.”

“Yes?” said Tom

“My glasses.”

“By the telly?” said Jan.

“Oh. Feeling better?”

“Right as rain.”

“Good.” He went out.

“There’s definitely something wrong,” said Jan. “He’s embarrassed. And listen: they’re arguing.”

“When aren’t they? I’m sorry I panicked at the motorway. We’ll be OK. – I wonder why rain is always right.”

“Didn’t you see him?”

“No. We’ll be OK in Crewe. You can get a cheap day return.”

“Listen!” She held his shoulders. Warmth seeped through and bubbles rainbowed his shirt.

“You’re wonderful,” he said. “Your eyes are like poached eggs.”

“Tom, listen. Something’s wrong—What did you say?”

“Poached eggs. Round and meaningful. I cherish them.”

Jan laughed and wept on to his chest, hugging him. “You lovely bloody idiot. What am I going to do?”

“Don’t swear. It demeans you. Poached isn’t the same as hardboiled. I love your face.”

“I love you.”

The kitchen door opened. Tom’s mother stood with uninterrupted vision. His father was with her.

“Is there no privacy in this camp coffin?” said Tom.

“Your mother and I would like a word with you. Both of you.”

“Why?”

“In the lounge.”

“It’s Sunday, sergeant-major. We have the kitchen, and you have the lounge.”

Jan led the way to the other end of the caravan. Tom’s father turned off the volume control on the television.

“It must be serious,” said Tom.

“Shut up,” said Jan.

“Sit down: will you – please? On the divan.”

They sat. Tom’s father went to the window and peered out, half facing the room, his hands behind his back. “Stand easy,” said Tom. His mother lodged one buttock on the arm of the chair, swinging her foot.

“I want to ask—”

“What?”

“I want to ask you and Jan—”

“What?”

“It’s written all over you,” said his mother.

“Your mother and I – would like to know whether you’ve anything to tell us.”

“What’s your problem?” Tom reached out his hand for Jan. She took it.

“We think—”

“Both of you?”

“Don’t,” said Jan.

“I’m trying to be useful,” said Tom.

“Like hell.”

“Watch that tongue of yours!” said Tom’s mother.

“She’d look pretty silly if she did.”

“Stop arsing around,” Jan whispered.

“I heard that!”

“Let’s try again,” his father said.

Tom opened his mouth, but Jan kicked him.

“Your mother and I. We wondered if you’d had any occasion to do anything to make us ashamed of you.”

Tom stared at the muted commercials on the television screen. I’m wearing my cans. Please, I’m wearing my cans.

“Well?”

“Would you care to rephrase the question in English?”

“You heard me.” His father was shouting: he could see him.

“Yes. We have.”

“What did I tell you?” said his mother.

“What did she?”

A silent boy poured cornflakes silently into a bowl of light, and smiled.

“When?” said Tom’s father. “When did you?”

“When did we what? Look, sergeant-major, I’ve a pile of work to get through tonight—”

“When did you have occasion—”

“—to make you ashamed of us? Last Saturday.”

“What?”

“We went by bus to Sandbach without paying.”

“What’s eating them?” Jan said to Tom in Russian.

Tom stood up. He was shaking. There were no cans. He spoke clearly.

“My parents are trying to articulate – or, more accurately, my prurient mother is forcing my weak father to discover on her behalf, where, when, and preferably how, we, that is, you and I, have expressed ourselves through sexual intercourse, one with the other. Am I not right? Daddy?”

His father grasped the side seams of his trousers, rocked as if he would fall.

“What did I tell you?”

“Yes, what did she tell you?”

His father steadied himself. “We’ve had complaints.”

“Complaints?”

“Reports.”

“Reports?”

“Yes.”

“From whom?”

“Neighbours.”

“May we know their names?”

“Never mind who,” said his mother. “We’ve heard and seen. You two: always walking wrapped round each other: kissing and that.”

“Kissing and what?”

“And – that.”

Cans

“And the time you spend in that house alone. Do her parents know?”

“Of course,” said Jan.

“Then they ought to know better.”

“Than what?”

“Than to let you get up to things in their own home.”

“It’s the only,” screamed Tom, “place I could ever work without your clattering: drivelling: the weather! The only – keep books clean! Jan first ever,” his eyes were shut, “see anything. anything in me. worth. anything.” He rammed the backs of his fists into his face, dragging his eyes open.

“I do not propose to discuss our relationship, or matters appertaining to it, beyond that statement. I will be private, sergeant-major. I will be private sergeant-major—” He meant to laugh, but the trembling reached his throat. He stood, his father’s size, broken.

“You great wet Nelly,” said his father. “You’re as much use as a chocolate teapot.”

“Is Tom right?” said Jan. “Is that why you’ve done it?”

“What can’t speak can’t lie,” said his mother. “I can read that one like a book.”

“You cow. You think we’ve been having it off together, don’t you?”

“I’ve told you to watch your filthy tongue, young woman.”

“You’re afraid,” said Jan. “Afraid we’re doing what you did when you had the chance. And what if we have? Who are you to preach? I bet you’ve flattened some grass in your time.”

Tom ran from the room.

“That’s no way to speak.”

“Sorry, sergeant-major. Will you excuse me? I must see how Tom is after your achievement.”

“I knew what you were the moment I set eyes on you,” said Tom’s mother. “I felt a shiver right down my spine. And our boy. See what you’ve done to him. Standing there, crying his heart out. Couldn’t look his own mother in the face. Couldn’t deny it: not even his fancy words could get round that one.”

“Oh, piss off, you,” said Jan, and slammed the door.

She found Tom leaning across the sink, his head on his arms against the window glass. The sobbing came from his stomach, shook the caravan. His sleeve had dragged a clean line through the condensation, and his giant shadow was on the wood outside, like a hole in space among the white birches.

Jan put her arms round him, stroked, kissed, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” but the spasms of his weeping shook her, would not be subdued.

“How dare they—?”

“Hush, love, it’s all right.” Both taps of the sink had been twisted out of shape, but Tom’s hands were not marked. “It’s all right; I’m here.”

“How dare they try – how dare they – how dare they try to—?” He pressed his open palms against the window gently, relentlessly, so that it broke without shattering, and the glass collapsed only when he moved his hands.

“Tom!”

He held the fragments like crushed ice. Shallow, pales lines crazed his skin. He felt nothing.

The hard, smooth terror was in him. He saw the birches carved, bent to shapes that were not trees but men, animals, and the hardness and the terror were blue and silver on the edge of vision. He opened his cloak, and Logan saw him strike at the guard with something smooth held between his hands. The guard fell, and Macey jumped from the road to the ditch.

“Follow the kid!” shouted Logan. “Move!”

They drove for the wood. Logan snatched the rein of a pack mule. The air thrummed and hissed arrows. The mule’s baggage was a shield, but Logan stumbled over men on the open ground.

Macey was behind a birch, wiping his hands on rags, wrapping, thrusting the rags under his cloak.

“Come on, kid!”

“No,” said Macey. “Stop. And the others.”

“Move!”

“No.”

The guards were still on the road. They had not followed.

Macey went to the edge of the trees. “This,” he called across the ditch, “for all men, in the name of the keeper of the place.”

“Don’t push it,” said Logan.

“They won’t touch sanctuary,” said Buzzard.

Logan looked about him at the worked trees. “Where are we?”

“Rudheath.”

“It’s a Cats’ sanctuary,” said Face.

“And Cats is allies,” said Magoo.

“The country’s federation ground hereabouts,” said Buzzard.

“Federation ballocks,” said Magoo. “Cats is Cats.”

“I don’t trust nobody past Crewe,” said Logan. “Get further into the wood.”

They retreated until the guards and the road were lost.

“How good’s this sanctuary?” said Logan.

“Depends how the Cats rate it,” said Face, “and what they figure the army’ll pay to get us back.”

“The road must’ve clipped the sanctuary,” said Buzzard. “Reckon the army won’t be too popular.”

“We need hardware,” said Magoo. “Ain’t nothing on the mule.”

“Go see what you can find on the dead guys,” said Logan. “There may be a knife, or something.”

“Lotta use that’ll be,” said Face.

“It’s a start.”

“We was marching degraded, remember?” said Magoo. “Hey, what was that Macey pulled on the guard?”

“Not!” said Macey. He sat by a tree. Sweat from his hand had soaked the rags. The hardness wrapped in tatters hung at his shoulder, beneath his cloak. The weight of it was heavy for the first time, heavier than anything ever.

“Aw, come on, goofball.”

“He said no.” Logan watched the men.

“What’ll we do?” said Face.

“We’ll soldier,” said Logan. “We’re the Ninth.”

“There ain’t no Ninth,” said Face. “Why are you carrying on like we wasn’t busted?”

“I don’t give a toss what some minging stonemason does because he thinks he can run an army. Let him build his goddam wall, and the rest of the crap, but we’re still the Ninth, not brickies. Right?”

They looked at each other, and at the sanctuary.

“Yeh.”

“Anybody claim rank over me?” said Logan. “Right. We’re back on duty. Military discipline will apply. Face, Buzzard check out this place. You still waiting?” he said to Magoo.

Macey was inert, wrapped in his cloak. “My mates,” he said.

Logan tethered the mule. “That was pretty smart, kid. I thought you’d flipped.”

Macey looked up at him. He seemed to be terrified.

“We’d all’ve gone if you hadn’t used it,” said Logan.

“You didn’t see.”

“I saw enough.”

“You mustn’t see!”

“You used the stone axe from way back.”

“No. They’re never used.”

“Logan held out his hand. “I’d sure appreciate it—”

“No! But I had to. You’re my mates. Not for me. My mates.”

“Yeh, we’re your mates. It was OK. Quit worrying.”

“Brilliant mates. All brilliant mates.”

“You were right, kid. I saw nothing.”

“I saw.”

“Saw what?”

“Blue. Silver. And red.”

“What’s with this blue and silver? You ever had it before?”

“When I was a kid. Pain. But then it was—Hell, there ain’t words.”

“Like you flipped?”

“But I didn’t go,” said Macey. “Blue and silver – makes me so chickenshit I can’t remember whatall next. It was changing. But when – that guy – killed him hereabouts – when I killed him – on the road – blue and silver – I freaked – but I could see him, what I did – but there was two hands – pressing at me – a long way off against my eyes – and then near – and then noplace – big as all there is. Sir, I don’t think I’m too good for this unit any more.”

Magoo appeared among the trees. “Nothing,” he said. “And there’s no guards.”

“Skived back to Chester,” said Logan. “I’d like to see their report!”

“I don’t figure they’ll be making none. Sir.”

“Why?”

Magoo smiled, and went back towards the road. Logan followed.

“They’ve taken the bodies.”

“Reckon?” said Magoo.

They stood by the road. It was empty and straight, the cleared ground on either side hid no one.

On the road, blood still moved. It lay in patches for a hundred metres. The guards had tried to run. There was nothing left.

“Did you hear?” said Logan.

“No.”

“What, then?”

“We’re past Crewe. Like you said.”

“Back on sanctuary. Quick.”

Buzzard was hurrying to meet them as they crossed the ditch. “Sir! Face and me: we’ve found the shrine. It don’t look healthy.”

“Show,” said Logan.

They went into the birch wood. Every tree had rags tied to it: in a clearing they came to a spring, and around it were offerings of human heads.

“What tribe?” said Logan.

“Cats.”

“But the trees are Cat totems.”

“Look at the spring, sir.”

The water emerged from above a line of clay, but recently, so recently that the earth had not crumbled, the bank had been cut back to hold a stone through which the water ran, and the front of the stone was carved as a snake, opened mouthed.

“How do you read?” said Logan.

“Not more than a week old,” said Magoo, turning a head between his hands. “The stone’s new.”

“Reconsecration,” said Buzzard. “By the Mothers. They’re moving south.”

“Stand to. All arms,” said Logan. “At the double here.”

“Yessir.”

They brought Macey and the pack mule.

“Alternative analysis?” said Logan.

“None, sir,” said Buzzard. “This is a Mothers snake, and those heads are Cats.”

“Will they be near?”

“Unlikely,” said Face. “They’re scared of their own sanctuaries. They’ll come if they’ve any Cats to sacrifice.”

“You and Magoo stand sentry,” said Logan, “but listen. All of you get this, and get it good. The guards have been taken out, maybe not by Cats. The Mothers have come south. They’ll raid the Cats wherever they find them, and both sides will whip our ass if we let them. Solutions.”

“The usual,” said Face. “Divide and rule. Hit the infrastructure.”

“Correct. All right? We retreat until we’re clear of the Mothers, then we go tribal.”

“What about you, sir?” said Buzzard.

“I can pass. I know enough to get by, but when things stabilise here, we’ll have to settle for one dialect.”

“There’s only one,” said Magoo, and laughed. “Who’d’ve thought the Ninth would end up as frigging Mothers!”

“We’re still the Ninth,” said Logan. “But we’re fighting a different war.” He pulled out the snake from the spring mouth and broke it. He left the pieces as they lay. “Bury the heads. Then move. Single file. South-east. Kill on sight.”

“What with?” said Buzzard.

“Anything. We’re fighting a different war. You’ve one chance, if you’re smart, and there’s one way to know you won’t be double-crossed. That applies at all times.”

“All mates: all we’ve got,” said Macey. “All we need.”

“What was it you pulled on the guard?” said Magoo. “I’ve marched with you five years and never saw. What was it?”

“No,” said Macey, hugging himself.

“Aw, don’t be like that. We’re your mates, goofball.” He tried to wrestle with him.

Logan’s boot came down on Magoo’s wrist. “I’ll kill any man who touches Macey’s gear. No question. A military order. Acknowledge.”

“Affirmative,” said the Ninth.

They withdrew slowly, hiding their tracks. Buzzard led, Macey held the mule and Logan covered the rear. They swung into deep forest away from the road. It was quiet in the forest, as if sanctuary moved with them.

They halted at the lip of a steep river valley. “The Dane,” said Buzzard. “It’s fordable.”

Face climbed a tree. “We’re on course,” he said when he came down. “Sanctuary bearing three-five-zero, and a mountain, bearing one-three-zero, estimated eleven clicks. But we’ll need to swing south to avoid towns. They’ll be full of Cats wanting protection right now, so we’d better watch out when we cross the Sandbach road. There’ll be heavy traffic.”

“Mountain status,” said Logan.

“Isolated peak,” said Buzzard. “Mow Cop. Ridge running north. Gap near Bosley, where Cats have federal permission to fortify a camp. Suggest ideal, but cold, sir.”

“We’d seen them coming.”

“Militarily strong, good water, but severe exposure.”

“Right,” said Logan. “Maintain present bearing. Cross Sandbach road, then swing for Mow Cop. And I want me a Cat village before dark.”

“We could reach Mow Cop in daylight, sir.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“How big a village, sir?”

“Big enough to equip us, not too big to take.”

They crossed all tracks, followed none.

“Mow Cop bearing eight-zero,” said Face, “ten clicks. And I smelt smoke: wind one-seven-zero.”

“Report,” Logan said to Buzzard.

Buzzard went up the tree. “Domestic,” he said.

“Not a raid?”

“Negative.”

“Distance?”

“Estimated three clicks.”

“Tether and blindfold the mule,” Logan said to Macey. “Magoo, Face, go see that village. Full logistics and report back before dusk.”

“Yessir.”

“You all right, kid?” said Logan.

“I guess so.”

“We’ll be depending on you. Your mates. You won’t chicken?”

“I hope not, sir.”

“Kip down: Buzzard and I’ll stand to.”

“What do you plan?” said Buzzard.

“I don’t know yet,” said Logan.

“Why smash that snake? Sure, they were the Mothers, but I’ve never known you violate gods. Even Magoo was shook up. Hit the infrastructure, yeh, but in the Ninth we always said Logan—”

“In the Ninth we still say.”

“Sir?”

“We still say, we still think, we still do. The Ninth functions.”

“Yessir.”

“Sound more convinced.”

“I’d just like to report,” said Buzzard, “that if we’re the Ninth, we’re understrength.”

“I can’t sleep, sir,” said Macey.

“Lie quiet: rest.”

“What are you figuring on?” said Buzzard.

“I don’t know yet,” said Logan.

Face and Magoo returned.

“Small settlement,” said Face. “I’ve seen it before. Called Barthomley. Cats. One roundhut: two, three others: estimated twenty men plus families. Situated on low mound, stream to the north at foot called Wulvarn. One gate, shut, guarded: simple ditch and stockade. Four sentries in all. Ditch filled with green thorns.”

“Attitude,” said Logan.

“Defensive only.”

“Trained?”

“Negative.”

“We can take ’em,” said Magoo. “If we throw the pack tent across the thorns, the stockade’s only three metres.”

“Noted,” said Logan.

They led the mule to within half a kilometre of the settlement, then Logan ordered a halt. It was night and a clear moon.

“Buzzard, I want you to go in there and bring back one sword.”

“You kidding?” said Buzzard.

“Get.”

Buzzard hesitated.

“Make with that sword,” said Logan.

He was away an hour. The blade was long.

“You can use this?” Logan said to Macey.

“Guess I can.”

“Sir,” said Buzzard, “them Cats is easy. They’re farmers. Who needs Macey? Shout ‘Mothers’ over the fence and they’ll die.”

“Good,” said Logan. “Now we’re going to take out this village with tribal weapons, OK? I figure for the Ninth to survive it must disappear. They won’t put this one down to us. We maximise harassment and interdiction. OK?”

Magoo grinned. “Outta sight!”

“Here’s how it is,” said Logan. “Macey flips. We go in across the tent and pull it after us. When we hit their perimeter, Macey should kill four, five just like that. We grab assets, then eliminate. Result, a raid put down to the Mothers, and we have the gear to go tribal. As the Ninth, there will be no abort; but if we louse it up, survivors cut ass out on their own. Questions?”

“We hit this village,” said Buzzard.

“Correct.”

“And they don’t know it’s us.”

“They know,” said Logan. “But that’s all.”

“Children. Women.”

“Wise up,” said Magoo.

“I told you,” said Logan, “we’re fighting a different war.”

“I can’t do that cold,” said Buzzard.

“You won’t be cold,” said Magoo.

Macey could hardly walk. Logan and Face took an elbow each to steady his trembling. Logan held the sword.

“You’ll be OK soon, kid. This is the worst. You’re with your mates.”

The village was only an enclosure on a long, low mound above a stream.

“How’s that water?” said Logan.

“Clear,” said Face. “Bog the other side. I suggest we hit near the gate.”

“Agreed,” said Logan, and settled Macey on the ground, with the sword hilt between his hands, like a child with an unknown toy.

“Why don’t we try it easy, first?” said Buzzard. “Like ask them to let us in.”

“You crazy?” said Magoo.

“No, but Macey is. And when he turns on, he ain’t exactly quiet, neither.”

“Right,” said Magoo.

“Surprise is all we got,” said Face.

“They don’t know that,” said Logan.

“I’ve been in,” said Buzzard. “They don’t want trouble, but they’re sure scared.”

“And they don’t come more dangerous than them,” said Face.

“Go talk to them,” Logan ordered Buzzard. “Say we’re a patrol and we’ve a wounded man. That’ll cover Macey. But don’t let them open the gate. Say there’s Mothers about.”

“You may not be fooling,” said Magoo.

“Go with him,” said Logan, “and as soon as Macey’s across them thorns, you and Buzzard drag the tent over. It’s deployed?”

“Yessir.”

They went through the forest towards the camp.

Face twisted a harness round Macey’s shoulders, holding him upright against a tree. Logan worked the leather down to Macey’s elbows. “Keep close behind that trunk,” he said.

“You bet,” said Face.

“What you want for light, kid?” said Logan. “There’s a moon.”

“No!” Macey struggled.

“Steady,” said Logan. “Not yet. We gotta have light. Stars OK?”

“Yes.”

“Well, look there, kid. If that ain’t old Orion up in the sky. Can you see his belt? Three bright stars. Which of those pretty little stars are you going to be?”

Voices, not loud, came from the camp.

“Take no notice,” said Logan. “You choose yourself a pretty twinkling star on Orion’s belt. OK?”

“OK.”

“Which one?”

“—Mintaka.”

“Mintaka. Right. Now you keep watching old Mintaka, and see that son of a bitch don’t run away.”

Logan took out of his cloak a small wheel from a horse trapping. It was held between two prongs like the rowel of a spur.

“You keep looking at Mintaka: and catch hold of that sword now.”

Face gripped the harness and pressed his head and body against the opposite side of the tree. Logan spun the wheel, flickering starlight. He stroked the rim with an accustomed measure, evenly turning the spokes, their invisible shadows glimmering Macey’s eye.

The voices at the camp argued, but there was no alarm.

“Go, Macey. Mintaka, baby. Go, kid.”

Macey shook.

“Go, baby, go.” The hand caressed, the wheel spun. “Go, baby.”

Face frowned at Logan, puzzled.

“Mintaka. Mintaka. Stay loose, kid. You gotta go.”

Macey’s eye was open. Logan stopped speaking. The sound between them was the thin ring of the wheel.

“Mintaka, baby.”

Macey sagged in his harness, his head drooped.

“I can’t make it.” He was crying. “I can’t flip.”

“Get down with the others,” Logan said to Face. “Be ready.”

“But he’s—”

“Get down.” Logan twisted the harness into his own hand, and put the wheel away. “Get down.”

“Sir, he ain’t safe for one man.”

“I’m ordering you.”

Face backed off until he was clear.

“What is it, kid? You want to try the moon?”

“The moon’s axe edge,” sobbed Macey.

“Yeh! Those are your words, kid! You’re remembering!”

“I am the one the moon’s axe spares—”

“Great! Great!”

“No, sir. I can’t flip with no axe, no smooth hard axe. Not now.”

“But it’s safe, kid. Stay loose. You’ve got the axe from way back.”

“It don’t talk to me no more.”

Logan bit on the harness, his look upon the glow of the camp. Macey’s head was young.

“You ain’t gonna flip?”

“Not really, sir.”

“OK,” said Logan. “No Ninth. No brilliant mates. Finish.”

“I ain’t brilliant now, sir. Not any more.”

“You ain’t. You ain’t brilliant, kid. You’re blue and silver.”

Macey screamed.

“Blue and silver, blue, silver.”

Macey screamed again as each word tore him. Logan felt the strength and agony in the harness.

“Go, baby, bluesilver blue silver!”

He watched the sword, ready for spasm.

“Bluesilver, bluesilver, bluesilver, red, baby!”

Macey was rigid against the tree. His arms brought the sword up in front of him, pointing at the camp.

“Yeh, that’s your bluesilver. Go take it. Take them bluesilver bastards in there!” Logan slackened the harness, whistled the warning to Magoo, Face and Buzzard. “Go take them bluesilvers!”

“Let there be no strife,” shouted Macey, “for we are brothers! The distance is gone between us!”

“Chickenshit! Where’s the big words? Come on! You’ve flipped! The big words, so’s you can go!”

“The strong bull of earth!” sang Macey, “The white bull bellows!”

“That’s it, kid!”

“I am above you!

I am a man!

I am the man of all gifts, and all giving!

Prepare my way for me!”

“You’re there!” Logan threw off the harness. But Macey jerked with a force that Logan had never felt in him. The sword still pointed, but the body was too rigid to move.

“The distance is gone between us!

Silver cloud lost!

Blue sky away!

Stars turn!”

Logan held on. The strength in Macey he had never known, and the words were not his.

“The wind blows – through sharp – thorns, for we are brothers, through the sharp hawthorn Tom’s a cold angler in the lake of darkness, blow the winds, blow, blew, blow, silver go! Go!”

Macey broke from the tree, straight for the camp. Logan staggered after him. Magoo, Face, Buzzard fell aside and Macey ran by, across the thorn spikes, and vaulted the stockade.

“He’s flipped like all get out! He’s going wide open! He ain’t selective!”

They pulled the tent over the ditch. Four guards had attacked Macey and lay dead. He was in the roundhut, killing startled men as they moved from sleep.

“How many?” said Logan.

“Nineteen,” said Buzzard.

“Escapes?”

“Negative. We zapped them good.”

“Where’s Macey?”

“Usual.”

“Stopped?”

“Yep. Turned right off. Crashed out. I left him spewing by the hut. He’ll sleep now.”

“Right,” said Logan. “Magoo, you go round up what’s left. Check them out, Face.”

“Yessir.”

Logan went to Macey, who was curled around his sword, blank-eyed, face clawed white with tears.

“Boy,” said Logan. “Was that some. He ain’t never gone like that before.”

The woman and children were being gathered into the open space before the hut.

“I don’t read you here, sir,” said Buzzard.

“Grow up, soldier. You’ve seen this before.”

“That was punitive.”

“And I keep telling you this is a different war, and we follow it through.”

“You call this following through?”

“You tell me,” said Logan, “for once. Aw, go find some hardware, if you don’t like it.”

“I’ll do just that,” said Buzzard.

There was no reaction from the people, no pleading or sounds, as they died.

Buzzard collected weapons while the killing began. “You following through, soldier?” said Logan. “You going to wear that cloak you picked up? Who made it? If you won’t have those people die, they don’t exist, so how come you wear a cloak that no one made? It’s cold on Mow Cop, soldier, and wind blows right through cloaks that ain’t real.”

Buzzard flung everything to the ground and ran towards the open space: but the others had finished for him.

“Decapitate,” said Logan. “Then find yourselves clothing and equipment.”

“What the hell you at?” shouted Buzzard. “Ain’t this enough?”

“Tribal raid, soldier. Decapitate. They’re all right. They’re dead.”

“Go stuff yourself,” said Buzzard. “You ain’t real any more, Logan: you ain’t the Ninth. You’re screwed.”

Logan struck him under the ribs with a spear. Buzzard looked at Logan and at the spear they both held. “You Mother,” said Buzzard.

“Can we afford that, sir?” said Face.

Logan drew out the spear.

“He was the best scout we ever had, that’s all,” said Face. “We ain’t overstrength.”

“You arguing?”

“No, sir.”

“Decapitate, search and equip,” said Logan. “I’ll stand to.”

“Come on, Face,” said Magoo. “This must look for real. I’ll show you.”

Logan brought the pack mule in and began to load it. “Would Mothers take rye?” he called to Face.

“Yessir. They can’t grow enough.”

“We need it for winter,” said Magoo, “and a crop. We need to keep the heads, too.”

“We stay till dawn,” said Logan, “then bury army gear. And Buzzard.”

“Better load him, sir,” said Face, “while he’ll drape.”

“Liquid refreshments are now being served.” Magoo was braced in the opening of a hut, a grey jar in each hand. “Those Cats, they sure make beer.”

Logan and Face took the jars and drank. “Man,” said Face. “I needed that.”

“Go see what else.”

Face went into the hut. “I thought we got all,” he said.

“Glad we didn’t,” said Magoo. “Is she one hot trot!”

“What is it?” said Logan.

“I hold the army record,” said Magoo.

“We missed a girl, sir,” said Face.

“Kill her.”

“Not this,” said Magoo. “Not yet. Rest and Recreation, sir.”

“No.”

“She won’t be trouble. And if we’re setting up on that mountain, we need a woman.”

“No.”

“I can’t cook, sir.”

“She’s yours tonight,” said Logan, “but that’s it.”

“You next, sir?”

“No.”

“OK.” Magoo went back into the hut.

“We ought to have a woman, sir,” said Face. “Even if we’re temporary up there.”

“Risk,” said Logan.

“Not if we hamstring her. And we can’t spare anyone for fatigues, even Macey.”

“Point noted,” said Logan, drinking.

Magoo reappeared. “Face?”

“Goddam animals,” said Logan.

“Have a drink,” said Magoo. “We’re all you’ve got.”

“Yeh.”

“Can you go tribal, sir?”

“A soldier can do anything.”

“Uh-huh?”

“And still stay the Ninth.”

“The Ninth bit don’t bother me. It’s if you can’t stake out heads, or fight dirty: you won’t be tribal, you won’t be no Mother, and you won’t be no man.”

“We speak tribal as soon as we leave this stockade,” said Logan.

“But you gotta think tribal,” said Magoo. “Like us. You gotta feel it. That’s why Buzzard’s dead. You break him when he enlists, so he’ll be well motivated, and then you expect him to drop it and be himself. He couldn’t. He made you kill him. You’re harder than Buzzard, but right now I think you should be a goddam animal.”

Logan drank.

Face came out of the hut. “Feel free,” he said.

“After you, sir,” said Magoo.

“To hell with them,” said Logan, and went into the hut.

“What do you reckon?” said Face.

“I’ll tell you when he comes out,” said Magoo. “If he don’t give – I’ve seen Romans break. If he don’t do it to her he’s only got himself, and he don’t dare look right now.”

“You like Logan?”

“He’s shit gone wrong. I like surviving.”

“Buzzard?”

“Playing Roman. It gets you, if you let it: then you ain’t nothing. Congratulations, sir.”

Logan had come out.

“Yeh.”

“Have a beer.”

“No. The games are over. Stand to till dawn.”

Logan picked Macey up. The sword hung on his palm. Face pulled it away.

“Here, kid,” said Logan. He pushed Macey through the door opening. “Go do yourself some good.”

“You know, sir?” said Magoo. “That chick was half stoned when I found her. That’s why she was missed the first time.”

“Search for others,” said Logan. “We can’t afford mistakes.”

“There won’t be any more,” said Face. “I know these Cats.”

Macey shivered in the hut. His clothes were drying on him and stiffening. His skin flaked, encrusted. He blinked in the dark hut. A girl, about fifteen years old, lay like a doll on the floor. The lamp was reflected in her eyes. There had been paint on her brow, but it was smudged to shapelessness. Macey slumped on his hands and knees. The stink of him was in his own nostrils. He touched the paint on her forehead. “Don’t,” he said, “be afraid,” and she reached out her hand, “of me.” The hand touched the hard weight slung by his shoulder, and her eyes moved to him. He fell beside her, his fingers reached gently for the lobe of her ear and held it. She smoothed his clogged hair.

Jan held Tom’s wrists. He let her. She turned on the crooked tap, shook his hands free of the glass and pushed them into the water. There were no deep cuts, and she directed the jet to sluice fragments away from the skin.

“Bloody Norah!”

Tom’s father had come into the kitchen.

“Let your hands dry, don’t rub them,” said Jan. Tom did so, his body quiet, his face red and swollen.

“Has he hurt himself?”

“He’s done no hurting,” said Jan.

She dabbed his hands with paper tissue. They seemed to be free of glass. His father went to the taps and the window.

“It wasn’t my idea,” he said.

“So much was obvious,” said Jan.

“He did this.”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t the idea.”

“It was the result.”

“Bloody Norah.”

“Bloody Tom,” said Jan.

“What’s it come to?”

“He ran out of words.”

“Him? He’s a walking dictionary. I don’t understand him half the time. The one thing he can do is express himself.”

“He’s still here,” said Tom. “He hasn’t died, or anything convenient like that.”

“I never really thought you two were – you know.”

“Permission to dismiss, please, sergeant-major.”

“But it wouldn’t have been right to have left it to your mother.”

“Left right left right left right left left—”

“She’s my wife.”

Tom laughed quietly.

“It matters.”

“Does it?” said Tom.

“Yes, mush: it does.”

Tom lifted his head. “I usually do see things too late. My father is honest,” he said to Jan. “I’ve never know him not.” He drank some water from the tap. “The powers of recovery of the human organism are remarkable. If you’re admitting error to me, you must, logically, have dissociated yourself from the accusation at source, while I was being constructive with the window. You told my mother that she was wrong.”

“I – did – say—”

“Something.”

“Yes.”

“So it’s my turn to help you.”

“Not me: your mother.”

“You differentiate?”

“It was the swearing—”

“It didn’t wreck the kitchen,” said Jan.

“But it wasn’t nice: from a girl. And we’ve always given you a considerable degree of latitude.”

“About fifty-three degrees fourteen minutes north,” said Tom.

“Swearing’s not nice.”

“Inadequate vocabulary would be a better description,” said Tom. He walked towards the lounge.

“Don’t diminish yourself in there,” said Jan.

Tom nearly smiled. His father moved with him, but Tom stopped. “No, sergeant-major. This is a solo. Go help Jan.”

His father wavered. “Sex,” he said.

“What about it?”

“It’s a terrible thing.”

Tom walked endlessly towards the lounge. His mother was hunched before the gas fire. For the first time he saw that she was old. He put his arms around her shoulders. She was light to raise: he held bones. Her face rested on his shoulder. He could not tell whether her crying was real.

“I’m sorry for that,” he said. “But you were, and are, wrong.” She shook, too, as he had shaken, and through it, within her, he felt his own strength, and was alert.

“I thought – that you – and she.”

“There’s no ‘she’. The name is Jan.”

“I thought you’d been – intimate.”

The obscenity, but he held on. Words. Which to use now to end now?

“You thought we’d had relations.”

His mother nodded.

“Only our parents,” said Tom, “and that should be a joke.”

His mother sobbed again. The strength did not move.

“You have to face up to the existence of Jan, you know.”

“Your father and I would prefer it if you waited till you’d finished your studies before you had anything to do with girls.”

“That could be ten years!” He was laughing now.

“Soon enough.”

“Jan’s a help: and their house.”

“It’s not our fault we can’t do better than this. It’d be worse in Married Quarters. I’ve had some! She should wash her mouth out with carbolic.”

“Stop before you start,” said Tom. “And listen. What you said to Jan tonight was not only untrue, it was humiliating.”

“Humiliating!”

“Will you apologise?”

“To her? To that kind of language? If you tell me you’ve not been—I’ll believe you.” Generosity, thought Tom, is infinite. “But I’m not apologising to someone who uses foul language in my home.”

“Wait there,” said Tom. He lifted his hands from his mother’s shoulders. The cotton dress was tacky and clung to him. The prints of his palms and fingers were clear. He went to the kitchen. Jan and his father had cleaned up the glass and were putting hardboard over the window.

“My mother’s upset by your swearing: so am I. Will you take it back?”

“Go on, love,” said his father. “Sticks and stones—”

“Sorry,” said Jan. “I’m not ashamed of what I’ve done.”

“I needed to know,” said Tom.

“How are your hands?” said his father.

“Right as rain,” said Tom. “I’ve remembered: it was Plautus.”

“What was?”

“First said ‘right as rain’. Stay there until I’ve settled my mother.”

He went through to the lounge.

“Jan doesn’t feel very accommodating. And I can see her point.”

“Then she’s not welcome here,” said his mother.

“Suit yourself. I’m going over to ‘The Limes’ with her now, neither to be intimate, nor to have relations, but to work.”

“Your hands are bleeding.”

“I’ll survive,” said Tom. “Hey, turn the sound up on the telly: there’s a commercial for removing biological stains.”

“What we want,” said Tom, “is a communications satellite.” He walked with Jan through the wood. It was a clear moon. The M6 was like a river, and the Milky Way a veil over the birch trees. “I suppose any would do. How’s your astronomy?”

“Non-existent.”

“You must know the basic constellations.”

“They never fitted the pictures in the books. I like that kite, though.”

“Where? Kite? Kite? That’s not a kite, you goof, that’s part of Orion. Those three stars are his belt.”

“Well, I’ve always liked them.”

“OK. We’ll have Delta Orionis: over there on the right. It’ll be with us all winter. We’ll be together at least once every twenty-four hours.”

“How?”

“What’s a good time? Ten o’clock? Every night at ten o’clock we’ll both try to look at that star, and be together because we know the other’s watching, and thinking. At the same moment we’ll be looking at the same thing.”

“If it isn’t cloudy,” said Jan. “I love you: you’re so impossible.”

“It’s impossible.”

“It’s not. It’s a marvellous idea. That star and us. Like now.”

“There’s never ‘now’,” said Tom. “Delta Orionis may not exist. It isn’t even where we think it is. It’s so far away, we’re looking at it as it was when the Romans were here.”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/alan-garner/red-shift/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.