Doomflight
Author: Guy N. Smith
Date: 1981-01-08 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Big business has come to the sleepy town of Fradley in the form of a partnership attempting to turn a disused local wartime RAF station into a major international airport. Retired schoolmaster Hartley Lowe is leading the mounting local opposition, and he soon discovers that the site was built on an ancient Druidic stone circle complete with its dark rituals and human sacrifices. He foretells all sorts of misfortune, but as the ancient druids claim back their land, the level that the terror reaches is beyond even his expectations.
Publisher: Random House

Doomflight - Kindle Version 1.0

(c) Guy N Smith 1981 - 2011

Published by Black Hill Books, March 2011

ISBN : 978-1-907846-175

First Published by Hamlyn Paperbacks January 1981.

Converted to Ebook from original paperback by Scan2Ebook.com

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Contents

Title

Prologue

I : Chapter One

I : Chapter Two

I : Chapter Three

I : Chapter Four

II : Chapter One

II : Chapter Two

II : Chapter Three

II : Chapter Four

III : Chapter One

III : Chapter Two

III : Chapter Three

III : Chapter Four

III : Chapter Five

III : Chapter Six

III : Chapter Seven

The End

PROLOGUE

The girl sat with her face turned towards the rain-spattered car window, staring blankly out into the enshrouding blackness, her body taut with anger and bitterness. She was aware of her companion's hand resting almost apologetically on her thigh but she ignored it. She gripped the steering wheel of the Mini and made the column creak.

‘Sue,’ The slim denim-clad man by her side reached across and flicked on the dashboard light, its dim glow reflecting the anxiety on his angular features. ‘Sure, I …’

‘Frank, don't … don't touch me.’ and she added with venom, ‘please!’

‘All right, all right.’ He snatched his hand away. ‘I won't touch you then. But I'd like an explanation.’

‘It shouldn't be necessary. If you don't know why I want to break off our affair then …’

‘Of course I don't bloody know.’ His voice hardened. ‘I haven't a clue except they say that one sure way to ruin a romance is to give your girlfriend driving lessons.’

‘That's got nothing to do with it.’ She glanced at him briefly and then turned her head away again. ‘I've only been letting you give me lessons because you insisted that I ought to learn to drive. But I don't damned well want to drive a car. I hate cars!’

‘All right, you hate cars. But I'd be obliged if you would tell me why tonight's so different from every other night since we've been going out together.’

‘Bccause,’ she paused, her anger coming up to boiling point and requiring a deliberate effort to keep control of herself, ‘because … you've been going out with other girls.’

Several seconds elapsed before he breathed. ‘That's a lie.’ Somehow his voice lacked conviction.

‘You're a born liar, Frank.’ She twisted round to face him, her pert features screwed up into a mask of hatred and contempt. ‘You'd lie to the very last, but you don't fool me any more. You're one big bloody lie. You don't work at Cashmore's any more because you had the push for fiddling the books. Seven weeks ago. Oh, you covered that up pretty well. Like you hid that common little bitch from off the council estate. What d'you tell her you do on the nights when you don't see her? No doubt she sucks it in just like I've been doing all this time. You can fool some of the people some of the time, but not all of the people all of the time.’

‘Very clever,’ he sneered, trying to regain his composure, fumbling in his pockets for cigarettes and matches. Right now he needed tobacco. Badly. ‘You're just looking for an excuse to jilt me. Well, save yourself the bother. You don't need one.’

‘I haven't finished yet. God, what a fool I've been. And I was a virgin until I met you.’

‘Don't give me that.’ The match which flared up between his fingers with dazzling brightness forced her to look away so that she was unable to see his expression.

‘It's true!’ Her voice rose to a shriek.

‘Not at eighteen,’ he laughed nastily. ‘Not these days. Eighteen-year-old virgins are rarer than dodos.’

Her clenched fist struck him hard in the face, throwing his head back against the passenger door, his cigarette spinning away and landing in a cloud of sparks somewhere on the floor at the back.

‘You bitch.’ He would have hit her back there and then, had it not been for his concern for the cigarette. He scrambled up, leaned over the seat and began groping amidst the clutter in the back. ‘Hell, you might set my bloody car on fire.’

‘Your precious car.’ She watched him steadily without moving. ‘The one thing you remain faithful to, Frank. I'm surprised you even allowed me to sit in the driving seat.’

There was an audible grunt of relief as he found his cigarette. The fingers holding it were shaking.

‘Like I was saying …’

‘No, like I was saying.’ She stared at the silhouette behind the glowing cigarette end. ‘I was a virgin. You can believe that or not, it doesn't matter to me. In fact, nothing concerning you matters to me, Frank. I'm old fashioned, I'd been saving myself as they say; not for marriage but for the right man. I made the bloody biggest mistake of my life. If and when I find somebody decent I've got to live with the knowledge that I let you have me, I became an unpaid whore to a guy who's doing the same to cheap council-estate tarts …’

‘You're a stuck-up little snob.’ He drew heavily on his cigarette, and the way his eyes glinted and narrowed frightened her. ‘What the hell d'you think all the girls in these parked cars on this old aerodrome are doing, eh? I suppose you think they're just kissing and cuddling with their fellers, a few more daring than the rest allowing their tits to be felt.’

‘I don't give a damn what other girls do,’ she retorted. ‘I'm not one of the mass. I'm me, and that's what counts.’

‘Who's been spreading all these stories about me?’ His voice was lowered to a whisper, his body leaning forward so that his face was only inches from hers. ‘Come on, let's hear it, because I'm likely to sue somebody for slander.’

‘You can't sue people for telling the truth.’ She wanted to laugh loudly but his expression checked her.

‘Come on, let's hear it,’ he insisted. ‘I want to know and I'm not letting you out of this car until you tell me!’

‘Don't you dare to threaten me!’ Her anger died quickly. She was trembling, a quaver creeping into her voice. ‘Actually … actually, it was a woman who works with my mother. She told her. She knows somebody in your family.’

‘Mrs Barlow,’ he spoke slowly. ‘I might have known. She's a deliberate troublemaker. A bleedin' liar, too. I can't understand why nobody's sued her before now. Well, she's going to get the shock of her life. First thing in the morning I'm going round to see my solicitor, and …’

‘Oh, don't make even more of a fool of yourself, Frank. You know it's true.’

‘Damn you!’ His hand went back to her thigh but this time there was no gentle seductive movement from his fingers; instead they gripped and squeezed until she cried out with pain.

‘Don't … you're hurting me, Frank.’

‘You deserve to be hurt, you little bitch.’

‘Take me home at once,’ she gasped, and then suddenly realised that she was in the driving seat. Her hand shot forward, her fingers seeking the ignition switch, knocking the other keys and causing them to rattle.

‘No, you don't!’ Frank's other hand seized her wrist, pulling it away. ‘You're not going until we've thrashed this out.’

Her fear was mounting. Her wrist burned where he gripped her and the artery in her thigh throbbed under the pressure.

‘Now, let's talk sensibly.’ His warm breath fanned her face as he moved closer.

She opened her mouth to say something but no words came. Sheer terror rendered her speechless. This was not the young man who had caressed and kissed her naked body night after night in the back of this same car. Gone were the living words, the gentleness that was always a prelude to sex. In their place was the harshness, the sheer ferocity of a wild beast.

She forced her head away, saw the blackness of the night outside. It seemed to beckon her. Run, Sue. Run and hide before it's too late. Oh, God! Terror gripped her. A newspaper report. She almost saw the small print, not even warranting a front page headline. ‘Girl found strangled in car on deserted wartime aerodrome. A man is helping police with their enquiries.’ It happened frequently. A crime of passion, the media called it. Often the killer got away with three years, convicted of manslaughter.

She relaxed, let her body go limp, an instinctive action that lessened the viciousness of his grip. She closed her eyes, forced herself to think. One thing was certain, she wouldn't be going home in the car; if she wanted to return to the safety of her parents' house then she had to do it herself. On foot. Her hand moved slowly, found the door catch and rested on it. Take your time. Don't rush. Don't let him guess what you're doing.

‘Now, let's get a few things straight, Sue.’

She heard his voice as though it came from somewhere far away, not so vicious, sensing victory. Nod your head. Play for time while you pull yourself together. You'll only get one chance and if you fail …

Sue acted with a suddenness which took even herself by surprise. In one co-ordinated movement she depressed the catch, flung the door wide, and leaped out into the pouring rain; stumbled, regained her balance and started to run blindly.

‘Damn you!’' Frank's voice came after her and she heard him scrambling out of the car. ‘I'll kill you.’

Run. Oh, God, run like you've never run in your life before.

She had never taken much notice of the aerodrome before; several acres of cracked concrete and scrub bushes, a few half-demolished brick buildings, only the two remaining hangars intact, rusted corrugated-steel sheets which now housed the bulk stock of some components firm. A couple of years ago barbed wire barriers had been erected at the entrance points. They hadn't lasted long; the general public's determination to infiltrate for a variety of reasons was not to be deterred. Now people came and went as they pleased, learner drivers, clandestine lovers, local poachers after the rabbits which inhabited the sand banks on the north side.

Sue slowed her pace as a branch whipped her across the face. Driving rain soothed the weal instantly. Her blouse and skirt were rapidly becoming saturated.

Run and don't stop.

Somewhere behind her she heard Frank's padding, squelching footsteps.

‘Sue, come back. Goddamn you!’

There should have been other parked cars around, couples making love from whom she could have sought protection. There weren't. The blackness was complete, no sign of life, not a sound except from the wind and rain, and her pursuer.

Usually the night sky reflected the lights of the city only three or four miles away. Tonight there was not even a hint of the dull orange glow. Just blackness all around.

She was forced to slow to a walking pace, fighting for breath, her pulse racing. She had to prevent the panic which was threatening to engulf her. Survival depended upon clear thinking.

You can't run any more,

Something blocked her path; brickwork. Rubble was strewn on the ground all around her making it difficult to keep her balance. The old control tower, what was left of it, anyway. She knew it well enough. On fine weekends in the summer, children played here. There was a notice somewhere warning of the dangers.

It had stopped raining. She was suddenly aware of this as she leaned up against the wall. Moisture dripped from the bushes all around and trickled down the brickwork.

She stood there listening. There was no other sound except the dripping of water and the thumping of her heart. Where was Frank? Perhaps he had gone back to the car and had made up his mind to leave her here. It was a terrifying thought, abandonment in these desolate ruins on the fringe of the city. But it was better than being caught by her boyfriend … ex-boyfriend, she reminded herself. She knew he meant to kill her. The maniacal glint in his eyes had given away his innermost thoughts.

She tried to think what she was going to do. She had to get away, get back home. It wasn't going to be easy, even though she appeared to have eluded the man who was hunting her. Something was dreadfully wrong; no distant lights, no traffic noise. And there didn't even appear to be anybody else on the old runways. That never happened, except perhaps when drifting snow blocked the entrances in winter.

She made an effort to stay calm and tried to work out in which direction the dual carriageway lay. This control tower faced … oh, God, she'd never really noticed which way it faced. She'd had no reason to. She could not remember where they had parked the Mini or which way they had come in.

And then she heard a movement. She stiffened and stared wide-eyed about her. At first she could not determine the nature of the sound nor whence it came. Frank? If it was him then she must remain still and silent until he was gone, for in the darkness he would only discover her by accident

Somebody was breathing, long-drawn out constricted breaths, phlegm rattling and wheezing. Shuffling footsteps.

She found herself backing away, the jagged stonework scraping her back and thighs. Suddenly the wall was no more.

She turned to her right, took another three steps, and only then was she aware that she was inside the remains of the tower. She saw the entrance, barely discernible, just a square of grey in the darkness. Even as she stared she knew that somebody was framed in it. It was impossible to make out details except that a human being stood there; man or woman, friend or foe, she had no idea.

Laboured breathing was the only sound. Whoever it was could see her, was staring at her. She cowered, opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. Flight was impossible. She was trapped.

Suddenly a silvery shaft of light flooded the scene as the moon broke free from a bank of dark storm clouds. The soft ethereal glow filtered into the old tower through the crumbling wall, bathing the intruder in a pool of light.

Sue saw him clearly; the tattered robes which fell almost to his bare muddied feet, gnarled hands, the head bereft of hair and seeming too large and heavy for his shoulders to support. Yet it was the face which brought the first scream to her lips. Eyes that were hooded like those of a bird of prey, unblinking, the nose large and hooked, a small mouth that seemed to have no lips; just a dark toothless cavity. The flesh was stretched tight over the skull, yet even so it was a mass of wrinkles; old, so very old that her mind could not accept what her eyes saw, and even at the very peak of her terror, when all reasoning was gone, she felt the full force of the other's malevolence.

By the time he reached her she was finished screaming. His bony fingers closed over her wrist and she made no attempt to resist as he led her towards the entrance and out into the open. It was lighter now, the sky grey with the coming of dawn.

She saw but did not comprehend. The aerodrome was gone (had it ever existed?) and all around was open heath, the grass soft and springy beneath her feet. There were people, too, a dozen or more, all bare-footed, dressed in the same drab robes. They were huddled in the centre of the big stone circle, muttering amongst themselves.

Sue stumbled along beside her captor, gibbering incomprehensibly to herself, laughing. She noticed the group moving to one side, forming a semi-circle beyond the long flat stone slab.

The bald man led her over to it, and pushed her down so that she lay flat, staring up at the sky, watching it grow lighter every second.

They were closing in on her now, staring down at her, spittle dribbling from their toothless mouths as they began some low monotone chant. Waiting. For what?

A pinkish glow mingled with the grey of the dawn, turning the sky roseate, glinting on the steel blade of the knife which one of the assembly produced from beneath the folds of his garments and handed to his leader.

Sue knew that she was going to die; she had known all along. It was of little consequence; death was but another way of life. She accepted it without question. Fear had left her.

She smiled up at the old man who ripped her clothing and bared her breasts. Then they all waited, heads turned towards the east, watching for the sun to rise above the distant horizon, every one of them knowing what had to be done.

Extract from a report in the Mercury dated 12 April 19— on the twelve-day trial of Frank Edward Steele:

The jury at Stafford Crown Court today took less than an hour to reach a unanimous verdict of guilty in the murder trial which has lasted almost a fortnight. The judge in sentencing Frank Steele to life imprisonment said that this was one of the most horrific and bizarre murders of the century. Steele had taken his girlfriend Susan Kemp to the disused Fradley aerodrome for a driving lesson on the night of 9 November. The following morning the girl's parents reported to the police that she had not returned home on the previous night. Later that day her mutilated body was found on one of the runways. The murder weapon was never found, but there was ample evidence that Steele had been at the scene of the crime.

Throughout the trial the accused stuck to his own macabre story. He and Miss Kemp quarrelled in their parked car and she had run off into the darkness. He attemped to pursue her and in the course of his search he came upon a group of priest-like figures worshipping at a stone altar. He fled back to his car and left the airfield. He returned at first light to look for Miss Kemp and the shock of finding her dismembered body caused him to wander round the aerodrome in a dazed state of shock. It was here that the police found and arrested him.

The judge, Mr Justice Sayer, added that the public must be protected from murderers such as Steele and that in this case life-imprisonment meant that Steele must remain in prison for the remainder of his life. The killing, he said, had all the hallmarks of a human sacrifice carried out by devil worshippers yet the evidence showed that it was the brutal work of a homicidal maniac, one who killed without reason simply because he derived sadistic pleasure from the mutilation of an innocent young girl.

On 1 July, the current lease on Fradley aerodrome expired and the land was put up for sale. Offers in the region of one million pounds were invited.

Part One: The Old Airfield.

I: 1 -THE CONTROL TOWER

There was a distinct similarity between the two men who lunched in a quiet corner of the spacious exclusive restaurant. The casual observer might have been forgiven for mistaking them for brothers. Both were middle-aged, with greying hair, and in both the same inner force had over the years caused the eyes to narrow and the lips to tighten at the corners, exuding an air of self-confidence which gave them a decided advantage over the ordinary man.

In Charles Whyte's case though this had developed into an ultimate ruthlessness, a will to succeed whatever the cost.

Clive Manning still had, to his chagrin, some scruples. He glanced furtively about him as he sipped his glass of Blue Nun, with an uncomfortable feeling that he shouldn't be here anyway. He scanned the other faces in the dining room in case there was a familiar one present. There wasn't, and he gave an inaudible sigh of relief. There was slight annoyance in the frown that furrowed his brow. An occasion like this should have been celebrated in more lavish surroundings; London, not the provinces. He would certainly have felt easier, too. He looked at his companion and their eyes met.

‘I'm glad it's all over,’ Manning said. ‘I can't pretend that I've been happy about it.’

‘You're the planning officer,’ Charles Whyte regarded the other steadily, a faint smile playing on the comers of his mouth. ‘The man who has the final say. A casting vote, so to speak.’

‘It's not as easy as that. I have to abide by the decision of the committee, and that wasn't unanimous by any means. They had to be … persuaded. Gently.’

‘I don't see any real snags.’ Whyte cut a thin slice of melon and held it suspended on his fork. ‘After all, the place has just been lying idle since the RAF closed it down in …’

‘In 1943. Two years before the war ended. It has an unsavoury history, to say the least.’

‘No matter. My company are not concerned with the past, only the future. It was built as an aerodrome, used as one, and then degenerated to an untidy storage depot. Just a couple of dilapidated hangars crammed with motor components. The rest was allowed to go wild; scrubland, the remnants of the old runways a dodgem track for learner drivers, a haven for adultery after dark. Not that that's my worry. I'm just making a point. Far better that the area is tidied up and put to the use for which it was originally intended.’

‘Which was farming. We had good offers from local farmers who would undoubtedly have put it to good use. Which was why …’

‘Which was why,’ Whyte's pale-blue eyes hardened. ‘we had to pay a quarter of a million over the limit.’

‘Gazumping.’

‘A word that is not in my vocabulary, Manning. A business deal in which the highest bidder secures the prize.’

‘As I said, it wasn't easy. I had a few nightmares, mostly looking out from behind bars.’

‘Oh, come, come.’ The way the American sliced the rest of his melon revealed an annoyance he was trying to control. ‘You've made … deals before, Manning.’

‘Agreed. But not on this scale, and not in the face of such … opposition.’

‘As if that matters. One always meets with opposition. Whatever you want to do there is always somebody who will object. We can't allow a few villagers to stand in the way of progress. Take Concorde for example. The greatest development in the history of aviation might have been stifled if a few objectors had had their way.’

‘There will still be objections,’ Manning eyed the other coldly. ‘Please, Mr Whyte, don't kid yourself that the planning committee's decision is absolutely final.’

‘The Civil Aviation Authorities agreed last week. Naturally, there had to be some persuasion but in the end they were only too happy. Which is only to be expected. Fradley will become a totally independent airfield without any government sponsorship. It won't be another BL, I can assure you. As far as my company is concerned the whole deal is cut and dried. All we have to do is to comply with the various safety regulations and a profit will be assured. Our flights will be the most competitive in the world, simply because we have the right backing, the right men, the right approach. Like yourself.’ A compliment, a sop cast, to boost the planning official's waning confidence.

‘Yes.’ Manning took a long drink of wine, reminded himself of his own cut, and tried to convince himself that it would work out. Nobody would ever know. ‘Yes, I guess you're right.’

‘Of course I am. I don't think even you, Manning, realise the extent to which we propose to go. Not Heathrow or Gatwick, by any means. Yes. Rome wasn't built in a day.’ Because we weren't building it. ‘But in time we're really going to worry the big concerns. Even Freddie Laker. We don't propose to hang about. Before this year's out those old runways will have been transformed into new and bigger ones capable of taking an aircraft such as Concorde. The terminal and the hotel will be the envy of every airport in the world.’

‘One thing that worries me’ (there were a lot of things that were worrying Clive Manning. ‘apart from local opposition, which will be your pigeon anyway, is the history of the place.’

‘Well, we don't give a goddamn shit about …’

‘No, I don't expect you do, but maybe it's best you know. Just in case …’

‘Fire away then,’ Whyte began cutting into his T-bone steak. For the moment he was done with talking. He was bored with Manning; the guy was a pain in the ass, rapidly going down in his estimation. Getting cold feet, too. Let him talk, get it off his chest; a kind of safety valve.

‘A few years back …’ Manning toyed with his food, his appetite seeming to have disappeared ‘… a couple of youths went for a burn-up on the runways one night. The one had just had a new MGB and he wanted to show it off to his friend. They went to the aerodrome because a fog was threatening to come down and they thought that was the safest place. Well, they lived out their racing fantasies for an hour or so and then this ground mist moved in and they decided they'd have to pack it in. They were already on their way to the nearest exit, driving on sidelights, when they noticed a light flashing in the old control tower, as if somebody were using a torch up there. They pulled up and sat watching it. It came on and off several times and then they decided to go and take a look. They drove back, parked close to the tower, and got out of the car. The mist was getting really thick by this time.’

Whyte stifled a yawn and decided he'd had better steaks in the States. The trouble with the English was they were small eaters. They didn't know a decent-sized steak.

‘They searched that tower,’ Manning sensed his companion's lack of interest but was determined to finish his story. ‘And there was nothing there. Nobody around.’

‘Which was only to be expected.’

‘Quite so, but I happen to know the lad who owned that MGB and he certainly isn't the fanciful sort. Anyway, a year or so after that night I happened to be talking to an ex-RAF pilot who was stationed at Fradley during the war, and what he told me has given me a lot of food for thought …’

Whyte was studying the wine list, to all outward appearances not listening, but Clive Manning was undaunted.

‘As you probably know …’ the planning officer pushed his plate to one side ‘… Fradley was more of a training base than anything else. Chaps were coming and going, friends today and gone tomorrow, trails never to cross again. Well, there was an American pilot by the name of Wilson stationed there at the time, a likeable sort of guy but as mad as they come. He'd already been shot down twice over enemy territory but he couldn't wait to get back into action again. The mechanics had been having some engine trouble with an old Mosquito, and Wilson volunteered to test it when it was ready. According to the story he paced about like a caged lion for several days until the work was completed.’

‘He took it up and everything went fine until the final run-in when the engine just seemed to cut out on him. He should have been able to manage a landing all the same, but he didn't. One theory is that he suffered a heart attack at that moment but nobody will ever really know. His machine just piled up and burst into flames less than twenty yards from that old control tower. In fact, some of the brickwork on the tower was damaged as a result. Wilson and his Mosquito were reduced to cinders before anybody had a chance of getting anywhere near.’

‘All very interesting,’ said Whyte with a faint sneer in his tone. ‘but I don't see how this is going to have any bearing on my plans.’

‘Going back to the two young chaps I mentioned,’ Clive Manning went on undeterred. ‘well, shortly before their night-time visit to Fradley, the firm of motor component manufacturers were doing some clearing up. I know their foreman personally and he told me that one day they were working in the remains of the old tower when they spied something wedged behind an old wooden crate up on the platform which had been built for the purpose of holding such equipment as the RAF duty man might need. The crate was an original air force one, covered with dust, and hadn't been moved since the place was evacuated. It was only the fact that this object was made of some shiny alloy substance that it was noticed. Anyway, it turned out to be a fountain pen torch, the small kind that just throws a sliver of light. It was obviously a personal item because on it was scratched the owner's name - R. WILSON. Remember, the Mosquito had piled up only yards away and it is just possible that the torch had been flung into the air on impact, sailed through the open top of the tower, and lodged behind the crate. Or - and this is one theory which was put forward - Wilson, in his restless wanderings about the camp, quite often used to keep the duty-man company in the tower during the night hours. The small torch was used to assist in the making of tea to avoid showing a brighter light.’

‘Did our two young friends imagine the light? Or was it some other prowler? Or, and we can only speculate on this, had the spirit of pilot Wilson returned to the tower close to where he had met his death?’

‘Crap.’ Charles Whyte laughed coarsely. ‘I'd thought better of you, Manning. Fairy stories. If something is prowling about the old tower then it's going to get one helluva shock because as soon as we start work that old heap of bricks is coming down.’

‘I haven't finished yet.’ There was a nervous tremor in the other's voice. It might have been embarrassment at the ridicule; it could have been fear. ‘Wilson's death was only the start of a series of accidents that built up a reputation for the aerodrome as being jinxed, so much so that in the end the RAF closed it down, at least as far as aircraft were concerned. It was just kept on as a depot, a kind of stores dump. You see, there was another fatal accident. A young pilot under instruction went up on a short solo flight. He wasn't away long, maybe twenty minutes, but in that time a ground mist formed, the kind you frequently get in autumn. He tried to make a landing but mistook the control tower lights for those of the runway. By rights he should have crashed into the tower and destroyed it. He didn't - it seems to have borne a charmed life throughout. This lad swerved, missed it by a matter of feet and piled himself up in much the same way as Wilson had done.’

‘A lot of smaller things were going wrong. There was a fire in the officers' mess. Fortunately nobody was burnt to death.’

‘Doubtless started by a cigarette.’ Charles Whyte made no attempt to conceal his scepticism. ‘Look, Manning, I brought you out to lunch to conclude a very satisfactory deal for both sides. You've got your cash. What you do with it is your affair. But I didn't bargain on having all this rubbish shoved down my throat.’

‘I …’ Manning was about to say ‘I'm sorry’ but changed his mind. He couldn't help a slight blush, though, like some miscreant schoolboy who had embarked upon an intricate fabrication in an attempt to divert his headmaster from the real purpose of his reprimand. ‘I … want you to know, Whyte. I think it's only right that you should know what you've bought.’

‘And since when,’ the other regarded him with a whimsical smile. ‘did you suddenly become troubled by your conscience? Do you give a rundown on property to all those who have purchased under your benevolent influence?’

‘No, of course not. I've never been involved in a deal like this before.’

‘Not so big, sure. But there have been lesser ones. What about that enquiry last year, the Canlos Building Company?’

‘Nothing was proved.’

‘Naturally, or you wouldn't be sitting here lunching with me now. I knew I'd picked the right man. We wouldn't have approached you if we hadn't been sure of you. Rumours, particularly those which the press latch on to, are seldom unfounded.’

‘All right, you've made your point. But don't underestimate Fradley.’

‘There's no room for spooks where Flyways are concerned.’

‘It's your problem. I couldn't care less, personally. The fact that I … got the deal through for you is no skin off my nose. But don't forget there was a killing there less than a year ago, one of the most brutal this century. A girl was hacked up with a knife within yards of that old control tower.’

‘I read it in the papers.’ Charles Whyte glanced round, nodded to a waiter at the far end of the room. The sooner the bill was settled the better. He would have liked a brandy but he didn't want to prolong this session.

As they left the restaurant Charles Whyte was sweating. The planning officer had unnerved him, not by his narration of events at Fradley over the past forty years but by his petty fears. The guy scared easy. He was the kind who would fold under interrogation. How he hadn't been pinned down over the Canlos business was a mystery. Maybe there wasn't anything in it after all, smoke without fire, earning Manning an unjustified reputation. Fradley could so easily have gone wrong. It still could. Jesus, Whyte hoped fervently that there would be no enquiry. The sooner he phoned the Warboys brothers, the better. The Flyways consortium had to be on their guard. For the first time they had made an error of judgement; if things went wrong it could be costly.

Clive Manning walked across the spacious corporation car park to where his red Granada was parked. The small white ticket adhered to the inside of the windscreen annoyed him; ten pence to park during lunchtime. Out of his own pocket back into that of his employers'. Petty. Mean. But the traffic wardens would delight at the excuse to land a fine on the planning officer. He wasn't going to give them that pleasure.

His fingers trembled as he unlocked the door and slid into the driving seat. He licked his lips. He was edgy. No reason to be. Everything had gone according to plan. He'd got the Fradley deal through. Had his money, too; and a bonus luncheon, not that he'd really enjoyed it. That guy Whyte was a bastard. Dangerous, too. Probably he'd already got it worked out so that if anything went wrong the planning department were left holding the can, and that meant Clive Manning would be in the hot seat. A game called Passing the Buck; officialdom knew best how to play it.

Manning sat in the car for some time just staring out of the windscreen ahead of him. He'd said too much at lunch. He didn't know why, just as though he had to get it all out of his system. That telephone call from Hartley Lowe the other day had started it all; the retired schoolmaster who fancied himself as an archaeologist was trying to stir up trouble. ‘You know what happened to the last airfield at Fradley, don't you, Mr Manning? Oh, it's jinxed all right. People died because of it and more will die if these new owners turn it into an airport. Not that it's our concern in that respect. Of course there's a petition in progress; you'll be having a list of signatures soon. Several thousand of them. D'you know what it's like living close to Heathrow, or Gatwick, or Elmdon? You don't? Well, I've got a brother living near Heathrow. His hearing's been impaired, has to wear an aid. The whole village here at Fradley could end up like that and we're not going to run the risk. No, sir. Oh, and by the way, did you know that Fradley aerodrome was built on the site of an old Druid stone circle? You didn't? Well, that's not surprising really because recent research has only just turned it up. Sacrifices and all that, young virgins mutilated - just like that Kemp girl was.’

Stupid old sod! Manning made an effort and purred the engine into life. The leaves on the huge chestnut trees beyond the car park's northern boundary wall were beginning to turn a yellowish hue. Another week or two and they would be brown. Autumn again. Just a year since the Kemp girl was murdered.

The three spires of the cathedral beyond the lake stood out starkly against a clear blue sky. Yet another mode of worship, Clive Manning reflected. Religion was much of a muchness, some forms more violent than others. One day, centuries hence, this magnificent edifice could well be buried beneath layers of tarmac or concrete or whatever material Mankind had invented by then. The souls of the worshippers buried beneath the surface, screaming vengeance against those who had trapped them in a man-made hell; demanding revenge. You couldn't blame them. The planning officer decided he'd feel the same way, not that he ever went to church, only when official functions demanded it.

He attempted to shake off his melancholy mood as he eased the Granada out of the car park and into the busy mainstream of city centre traffic. It refused to budge; it already had a hold on him like the nagging headache you wake up with and which persists and grows worse as the day progresses. He hoped it wasn't going to develop into a migraine.

The traffic filtered slowly through the lights then picked up speed. A second set of lights on red slowed the vehicles down again.

Manning tried to figure out why he had told the American the history of Fradley. It was the sort of thing Hartley Lowe would do - ‘If you're not interested then you bloody well should be. It's your heritage. Mayhem and murder, sadistic killings and ritual sacrifices carried out by your ancestors; nothing to be proud of.’

He tried to push Fradley out from his mind but it refused to leave. Funny about that airman Wilson. It was true all right. The Shipley boy wouldn't have lied about seeing lights in the control tower. Probably he didn't even know the saga of the torch, anyway. Something had happened that was linked with the death of Susan Kemp. And Clive Manning was letting it get under his skin.

His headache was becoming progressively worse by the minute. It was a migraine. His sight was channelled, like looking down a tunnel. He grunted and pulled the car gently into the kerb. Horns blared. He cursed. Selfish bastards, didn't they realise that drivers sometimes stopped because they were feeling ill?

He sat there, eyes closed, hearing the vehicles overtaking him, dodging the stream of oncoming cars and lorries, cutting back in. His head throbbed and pulsed until he thought his skull would explode. A dark curtain had fallen before his eyes, blackness intermingled with stabbing red lights that seared his brain.

Then he heard the voice, nearby as though somebody was addressing him through the closed window, muffled so that he could not identify it as either male or female.

‘Let me help you. But you'll have to get out of the car first. Never mind the traffic, I'll guide them round you.’

Even as he undid the latch, a thought crossed Clive Manning's mind. Why the hell didn't he get out the pavement side? It was too late now, though. He was standing in the road. The car door swung shut with a metallic thud.

‘That's it, sir. Now keep close to me and I'll see you across the road.’

‘Who … who are you?’

‘Just somebody sent to help you, sir.’ A whisper that seemed to hang on the still air as though refusing to be blown away.

‘I … can't see,’ Manning swallowed. ‘Migraine … I'll be all right … just help me somewhere … somewhere where I can lie down and rest.’ He held out his hand anticipating that the unknown helper would grasp it, but no fingers closed over his own.

‘Walk right ahead of you.’

The planning officer hesitated. There was a new edge to the voice, a hardness, unsympathetic, almost malevolent. He tried to work out a sense of direction, felt behind him for the car but there was only empty air; he must have moved away from it.

‘Quickly … walk.’

One step, two, tottering, starting to panic. Traffic was rushing by, the wind of passing vehicles causing his tie to flutter.

‘Don't stop. Keep going.’

A sudden squeal of brakes and then impact. Something hit him with bone-breaking force, lifting him, throwing him. Airborne for a few terrible seconds and then he struck the ground. Manning screamed. Brakes were screeching again, tyres protesting; a loud metallic bang as though a car had gone into the back of another.

He lay there, the pain starting to build up. Every bone in his body felt as though it were broken. His mouth was filled with thick iron-tasting liquid, warm and treacly. He tried to swallow, choked. People were shouting, but he couldn't make out the words. Just one voice dominated, the soft croaking of the one who had offered help and then given pain and injury … maybe even death.

‘Traitor!’ A single word filled with venom. ‘You have traded the souls of the damned and for that you must die!’

No! I don't want to die. Please help me. I don't want to die.

‘But you are going to die, just as others before you have died and many more will perish for your foolishness and greed.’

The voice was fading now, inaudible, a hateful whisper that was drowned in the shouting, still mocking him as the blackness closed in.

By the time the ambulance managed to weave its way through the city-centre traffic to the scene of the accident, Clive Manning was dead. For half an hour after the body had been removed, crowds clustered on the pavements, a host of different theories being offered to the two harassed police officers. A man had seemingly walked to his death amidst the passing traffic; a mental aberration, perhaps even suicide. In due course the coroner's court would reach a verdict, a supposition. Not that it really mattered. By then nobody would really be interested.

Within the hour life on the busy main streets was back to normal. Only a scattering of sand hid the bloody stain on the black tarmac, and this was being steadily ground into the surface, obliterated by the passing traffic.

The city had witnessed, drooled over the carnage like cannibals at a ritual feast. Now all was forgotten. The ghouls had left.

I: 2 - THE RUNWAY

The bulldozers had been working on the old runway for over a week. What initially seemed a routine task was now presenting problems. Even after forty years the existing concrete was not willing to surrender without a fight. Cracked and chipped on the surface, sprouting moss and weeds, it was solid and unyielding two feet down.

On the third day, work was held up whilst deep holes were drilled to ascertain the nature of the ground beneath.

‘Problems,’ said the site engineer, lighting a cigarette and frowning. This 'drome was obviously built in a hurry just like those rotting nissen huts over there.’

‘Of course it was.’ Phil Warboys wanted to show his irritation in some way but couldn't think how. ‘It was wartime. They couldn't train the pilots fast enough. But what's the hold-up?’

The engineer eyed the other carefully, choosing his words before speaking. This guy was dynamite in spite of his five and a half feet and wiry frame. The cocksure type who always had an answer, right or wrong, and didn't take any argument. Self-made - they came harder that way, especially with a million in the bank to back them up. Phil Warboys's brother, Roger, was in the same mould, just a couple of inches taller. Tough. Neither of them would accept that there was a hurdle that could not be surmounted. It was no good trying to tell them that there was one. All the same they had to know the problems.

‘It isn't just concrete down there,’ Drylake watched carefully for the reactions of the Warboys brothers. ‘It's rocks. Big bastards weighing several tons apiece.’

‘Well, smash 'em up then and bulldoze 'em out.’ The typical whiplash answer he might have expected from Phil Warboys. ‘Don't waste time telling us about 'em.’

‘Sure it can be done but it'll take time. We can't keep to the original schedule.’

‘You're under contract. You'll have to, otherwise you don't get paid. Not only that, you'll probably get sued.’

Drylake drew heavily on his cigarette and flicked the ash into the air, watching the wind whip it away. These guys were smart, on the ball, knew exactly what they could and could not demand. The contract clauses, let-outs; strikes, war, factors beyond the company's control. Giant rocks - the engineer pursed his lips and thought about it - if you bulldozed roads, runways, foundations of any kind, then you expected to come across rock.

‘Can't you blast 'em?’ Roger Warboys didn't miss a trick either.

‘Oh-huh.’ Drylake chewed his lower lip. ‘We'll give it a try. But it'd be better to try and get 'em out without if we can.’

‘Who's that guy over there?’ Phil Warboys pointed to the summit of one of the mounds of excavated soil. A tall lean man wearing a deerstalker hat, the flaps tied down over his ears, was peering down into the crater beneath.

‘That's Hartley Lowe. He was here most of yesterday.’

‘And who the devil's Hartley Lowe?’

‘Lives in the village,’ said Drylake, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Used to be headmaster of the school. Retired now. A bit of an archaeologist. He's been around ever since we started cutting out the main runway. Looking for fossils I suppose.’

‘He's bloody well trespassing,’ Phil Warboys snapped. ‘There's notices up at all the entrance points.’

‘He isn't doing any harm.’ The engineer's voice lacked conviction. ‘Just looking.’

‘I'll have a word with him.’

Drylake licked his lips and shook his head as the Warboys brothers turned and stalked in the direction of the big mound. There was going to be trouble; unnecessary trouble.

‘Good morning,’ Hartley Lowe turned, hearing approaching footsteps and saw the two small men standing down below looking up angrily at him.

‘What the hell d'you think you're doing?’ Phil Warboys's face was flushed, his lips a thin bloodless line.

‘I see you've uncovered the Ring,’ Lowe was not a man to be daunted easily. He sensed trouble but he gave no sign of it. He had the schoolmaster stamp on him, bushy eyebrows which gave the appearance of sternness, his dress and bearing dignified, a hint that he could be bad-tempered if he were crossed.

‘It's nothing to do with you what we've uncovered.’

‘Anything related to the past, the heritage of the British people, is the concern of every one of us.’

‘Not on our land it isn't. You can just climb down from up there and get off this aerodrome. And don't come back.’

The older man stiffened, a vein in his forehead visibly swelling. He tossed away a fragment of rock which he had been examining.

‘A very debatable point whether or not I'm trespassing,’ he started on the descent slowly, angrily. ‘You may have the right to protect certain areas of the land which you have purchased but there are places which you cannot keep the general public from visiting. This is one of them.’

‘Don't talk rubbish. If you think we're going to allow half the population to hang around here, getting in the way of the bulldozers, risking injury to themselves, you've got another think coming.’

‘Take a look at this.’ Lowe delved into an inner pocket of his jacket and produced a folded sheet of shiny paper which he began to unfold. ‘This is …’

‘We're not interested in what it is. Just get off this land.’

‘I must insist that you see this,’ the other was determined not to be hustled away, spreading out the paper, holding the large sheet at either end. It rustled and flapped in the slight breeze. ‘This is a photostat copy of a map drawn up in the sixteenth century. I have the original at home if either of you are interested in seeing it. Naturally, the scale is somewhat out of proportion, yet the markings are clear enough. Now, you can see that there was a road of some kind following the same course as the modern dual carriageway, doubtless made by the Romans. To the left, which is where we are standing now, is a large circle. Each one of these tiny crosses represents a huge boulder of such weight and size that the mind boggles as to how the Druids transported them here and put them in place. Nonetheless, they did.’

‘We're not interested in …’

‘I insist that you hear me out,’ Hartley Lowe dropped back into his headmaster role, as if this were a fiery meeting with his school's governors. ‘On this very spot human sacrifices were carried out, this soil is drenched with the blood of countless victims. It did not end with the progress of civilisation as we know it. It is as though the devil himself had decreed that this place should be used for the pursuance of evil. During the time when Cromwell was defiling Lichfield cathedral, his troops marched a hundred prisoners from the city and slew them … here! They had a whole countryside in which to perform this vile deed yet they came to the Ring to do it? Why? Evil beckoning evil? According to this map it is reasonable to assume that the circle of stones was still in evidence then. Their burial was probably something which was done over the centuries, farmers ploughing alongside the massive boulders, throwing soil up against them. Land subsidence possibly played its part, too. Then came the final ignominy, concrete runways sealing the stones in a tomb. The fact that it was wartime and that the need for an aerodrome was vital caused this ancient place of worship to be forgotten. Our own local archaeological society has had plans for a year or two now to excavate this site.’

‘Well, we're doing that for you,’ Roger Warboys sneered.

‘You are desecrating it!’ Lowe snapped, his face reddening. ‘The sacred stones will be smashed out of all recognition by your bulldozers. A Druid site which would be invaluable to anyone interested in studying the history of mankind will be totally destroyed if you have your way. I am not exaggerating when I say that this very site could well have the importance of Stonehenge. It is even bigger than Stonehenge from what I have seen of that part which you have exposed. These diggers must stop. The excavation must be conducted with care if the circle is to be preserved.’

‘You're crazy,’ Phil Warboys clenched his fists as though he was about to strike the older man. ‘Don't you understand, we have planning permission and a schedule to keep to? We can't hold up an airport because of a few old stones.’

‘The airport is of no consequence.’ There was a fanatical gleam in Hartley Lowe's eyes. ‘The Druid circle is. I shall demand a preservation order from the Department of the Environment. This country has all the airports it needs. The East Midlands is only a matter of a few miles away. One here would be totally superfluous. Oh, don't mistake me, I know why you are building it. Greed, sheer greed. All that you lot are interested in is in lining your own pockets. Well, the petition has already gone to the planning department, sheets of signatures, people who don't want your planes deafening them every minute of the day.’

‘Then they're going to be disappointed.’

‘There will be an appeal, that much I assure you.’

The brothers glanced at each other, nodded. ‘OK, Mr …’

‘Lowe,’ the tall man glowered. ‘Hartley Lowe.’

‘OK, Mr Lowe, you've made your point.’ Phil Warboys noticed out of the corner of his eye that Drylake had gone across to talk to a group of workmen who had been standing about, apparently awaiting further instructions. ‘You go back to wherever you came from and do what the hell you like. Get another few thousand signatures, draw up a few more maps. But let me tell you this; you're trespassing here, and the law states that trespassers may be removed, using no more force than is necessary. If you come back that's exactly what will happen. And who's to say how much force it was necessary for us to use to throw you out?’

‘Don't you dare to threaten me!’

‘Well, we are, and if you take our advice you'll stay well away from Fradley. Get it?’

Hartley Lowe stared at them, slowly licking his lips. His anger had boiled up to a peak but somehow he managed to hold back the explosion. Mingled feelings - mostly of rage - churned inside him but for one fleeting second he was gripped by fear. He didn't recognise it for what it was until he had stepped back a pace. He swallowed, ashamed of himself. Haughtily he drew himself up to his full height, turned and walked stiffly in the direction of the nearest exit. He knew the two men were watching him, their eyes never leaving him until he was clear of the aerodrome and out on the narrow lane. Ruthlessness exuded from them, hitting him like some psychic force.

A faint smile flickered on Hartley Lowe's gaunt features. The Warboys brothers were evil; so was the aerodrome. Sooner or later evil must clash with evil if the legends ran true to form. The strength of the dark forces would be put to the test.

‘Now what the hell's the hold-up?’ Roger Warboys got out of his Mercedes, slamming the door shut behind him. His feet squelched in several inches of mud. Fifty yards away a bunch of twenty or so workmen were standing idle. He made out Drylake. The site engineer was standing staring at one of the bulldozers.

Warboys cursed. It was already mid-afternoon and it was quite obvious that the excavations were no further advanced than they had been twenty-four hours ago. There was evidence of blasting but the rubble was still uncleared.

‘Trouble,’ Drylake grimaced, averted his gaze from that of the Flyways director and pushed his hands deep into his pockets.

‘Like what?’

‘Like two bulldozers and a JCB seizing up for no obvious reason. Too much of a coincidence to swallow.’

‘Sabotage?’ Warboys immediately thought of Hartley Lowe. The old boy might be barmy, and steeped in his own convictions, but sabotage wasn't his scene. Nevertheless, there were countless others in the village opposed to the airport being built; yobs who delighted in vandalism. Heavy plant offered a challenge, more difficult to wreck than telephone kiosks,

‘Definitely not sabotage.’ Drylake shook his head,

‘What then?’

‘If I'd been brought in as an independent mechanic from outside I'd say right off that the machines were clapped out. However, I know that they're not. Not new by any means, but there was plenty of life left in them yesterday. It sounds crazy but they've apparently worn out overnight.’

‘That's bloody stupid!’

‘Sure, but you can check for yourself if you don't believe me. The drivers will back me up. Sound machines gone bad and not one of them will shift a bucketful of rubble.’

‘Jesus Christ! Then get on to the contractors and …’

‘I already have,’ Drylake sighed. ‘There's an engineer on the way down from Leeds. He'll be here in an hour or so.’

‘Look, we can't waste time fucking about with plant. Tell 'em to get some new machines here fast.’

‘I've suggested that. No chance. They've a section of new motorway and a housing estate under way at present. They don't even have, a JCB to spare.’

Warboys grunted. The schedule was money. Whyte and his backers were relying on everything being ready for the starting date, the first transatlantic flight making the headlines. Already it was being given plenty of publicity with a series of television adverts. Delays smelled of inefficiency. You couldn't tell the public that construction plant wore out in a matter of hours; it would stink, labelled as some cheap jacked-up project that lacked money. And lack of money meant a second-rate service, second-rate planes and pilots. Which all boiled down to passengers considering their own safety and opting to fly with the established companies.

‘Then get machines from somewhere,’ he snarled. ‘I don't give a hell where from.’

‘That's impossible. Contractors don't hire out to other contractors. The business is competitive, cut-throat.’

‘Look.’ Warboys's hand shot out, grabbing the other by the front of his duffle coat. ‘Your firm is under contract to ours. No excuses. You know the deadline. Make it by then or we'll sue you.’

‘Take your hands off me!’ Drylake shook himself free, felt his anger starting to rise. ‘If you think you're that smart then take a read at the contract, clause eleven: wars, strikes, factors beyond the company's control. And bloody well believe me, this is well beyond our control!’

The two men stared at each other, tempers flaring. Hands clenched, raised. Warboys was the first to back down, lowering his arms, turning away.

‘See what you can do,’ he called back over his shoulder as he squelched a path back towards his car. He hated himself for walking away; it was alien to his character. But there was nothing else he could do. There was no point in phoning Whyte in Los Angeles at this stage. Drylake was a good man, efficient. Somehow he would get some machines. Nevertheless Roger Warboys had an uneasy feeling. Heavy plant didn't just clap out like that. A little shiver ran up and down his spine. He told himself autumn had already turned to winter, and buttoned up his sheepskin overcoat.

A sizeable crowd had gathered outside the Fradley village hall, one that had been building up for the past hour, a hubbub of angry conversation. A number of home-made banners were in evidence, mostly carried by the younger generation, youths who had forsaken their usual Saturday morning burn-up on their bikes round the village. ‘AIRPORT OUT'. ‘DON'T DESTROY OUR PEACE'. ‘AIRPORT OF THE FUTURE MEANS VILLAGE OF THE DEAF’. A young couple had even gone to the lengths of constructing a small wooden coffin with the word ‘FRADLEY' emblazoned on it, carried shoulder high.

‘Quiet please.’ Hartley Lowe appeared on the top of the wooden steps, once again addressing his school assembly, the same stern expression that many of his former pupils recognised, the upraised hand. The talking died to whispers and then faded.

He paused, studying them. Across the road, he saw PC Wathes, almost insignificant except for his uniform. The village constable met his gaze and nodded. Both men knew that the presence of the law was superfluous. There would be no trouble, just a straightforward demonstration, a protest delivered to the gates of the proposed airport. Wathes smiled faintly. Hartley Lowe was really the law in Fradley. Most of those present had gone through his school. Their respect for him had not faded. They would do as he ordered.

‘I'm delighted to see so many of you present.’ Lowe ran his gaze over the throng before him, made a brief estimate of numbers and decided that there should have been half as many again. Yet he would not comment on this. A past vicar in the village had once made clear his views concerning those who did not attend church every Sunday and in so doing had cut his congregation by half. ‘Now, we all know why we are here,’ he went on, pausing briefly whilst a few remarks aimed at Flyways Limited died away. ‘but I must impress upon you the need for a peaceful demonstration. I have it on good authority that a television van is already parked by the main entrance to the aerodrome, so let us conduct ourselves with dignity and thereby add weight to our protest. I do not need to tell you of what we face if this airport is built.’ Lowe was forced to wait again whilst a particularly noisy section of the crowd voiced their own views.

‘It must not,’ he continued. ‘it shall not, be allowed to operate here and thereby destroy our rural tranquillity. It is up to us to stop it. Yesterday I delivered our petition to the planning department. As chairman of your parish council I have lodged an appeal which will be heard in due course …’

‘When it's too bloody late,’ somebody shouted.

‘All is not lost,’ replied the ex-schoolmaster, boosting his own confidence as well as that of these people, constantly telling himself that they were going to win. ‘Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead but I don't think many of us had much confidence in the judgement of our late planning officer …’

‘Corrupt bastard!’

‘We are in no position to go into …’

‘What about the Canlos business? The slimy bastard was doing the same trick there.’

‘Gentlemen, please, let us stick to the reason why we are here today. It is not just in our own interests that we are fighting a modern evil; it is for the sake of our children and grandchildren and every future generation. Bear this in mind, but I beg of you to be orderly.’

Amidst rousing cheers Hartley Lowe descended the steps and walked in a northerly direction up the road, the crowd starting to follow, banners waving, the young man and his girlfriend staggering in an over-exaggerated manner beneath the burden of the lightweight coffin.

Hartley Lowe's pulses raced, his whole body responded to the atmosphere. His role was that of a general leading his troops into battle, all eyes on him, those behind attempting to keep in step with him.

‘Down with Flyways.’

There was bound to be chanting. Lowe did not condone it but he accepted it. His own dignity he would preserve throughout. It would be difficult, the way he felt, especially if he met up with those two little cockneys again. Never had he hated anybody with such vehemence before. He didn't know he had that much hate inside him.

The lanes were narrow with tall straggling hawthorn hedges on either side, their last few dying leaves fighting a hopeless battle in the face of the coming winter. Unlike the line of protesters, they had no hope of winning.

The procession was quickening its pace now, the younger ones eager for a confrontation with their enemy, hustling and pushing. Hartley Lowe sensed it and slowed his pace, determined to maintain his own brand of authority, resisting his own urge to hurry. He knew how they felt but, as he had told a succession of pupils over the years, nothing of any good was ever done in a hurry. This demonstration must not develop into an unruly rabble. A show of dignity was half the battle.

They smelled the smoke before they saw it: an acrid aroma in the atmosphere which grew stronger by the minute. Lowe coughed and instinctively felt in his pocket for his pipe, the obvious way to alleviate the harsh fumes. Somebody somewhere was having a late autumn bonfire of leaves and grass and other dead vegetation. There had always been fires on the aerodrome, mostly old tarpaulins and tyres which sent columns of thick black smoke high into the sky, the smuts floating down like some blasphemous snow shower. He had even tried to get this excessive rubbish burning stopped a couple of years ago but the petition hadn't done any good. Fradley wasn't a smokeless zone, the authorities had pointed out, and the fires were sufficiently well away from human habitation. Those who smelled the fumes had to be in close proximity to the old airfield; agreed, it presented a health hazard to bronchitis sufferers but the remedy was in the hands of those people - stay away!

People were coughing, some of them dabbing handkerchiefs at streaming eyes. The smoke was thickening fast, obscuring the countryside all around. Two fields away a flock of feeding starlings took to the wing, piping angrily, circled once and then flew off in search of purer pastures.

‘What the hell's burning?’ somebody from the rear shouted and then convulsed, choking and coughing.

Hartley Lowe gasped for breath, his pipe forgotten. They could not go on in the face of this. A sudden thought struck him. It was a deliberate plot on behalf of the airport consortium to stop the demonstration. The wind was right and they had timed it to perfection, a couple of large bonfires lighted to disrupt the demonstration; it was just the kind of trick those Warboys brothers would pull. His features hardened, the bushy brows hooding his determined eyes, chips of hard granite which did not know the meaning of defeat.

‘It's been done … deliberately,’ he tried to shout to those behind him but his words ended in a low wheeze. ‘Keep going … don't …’

The first fire engine announced its presence with a screaming wail of sirens, an angry scarlet monster hurtling down the lane, its headlights struggling to pierce the dense gloom. People scrambled up the banks to get out of its way, hanging grimly on to hawthorn branches, oblivious of the thorns which speared their flesh. The driver slowed momentarily then accelerated again, the rush of wind from the vehicle causing loose garments to flutter.

‘Keep back … everyone,’ PC Wathes shouted in an attempt to make himself heard, coughing and heaving. ‘Stay … where you are. More engines …’

Two more fire engines followed in the wake of the first, ignoring the crowd which struggled to maintain precarious holds on the steep grassy inclines. Sirens sounded from every direction, some using the main dual carriageway, preferring the faster road in spite of the longer distance; all bound for the old airfield.

‘What … what are we going … to do?’ Hartley Lowe turned to the man at his side, sensed the rising fear in the other's voice.

‘We're going on. Can't give up now. That's … what they want us to do.’

Some had already turned back, running and stumbling in their urgency to get clear of the smoke which was still thickening. There was no sign of the policeman. Possibly he had already sounded the retreat from the rear.

‘Keep … going …’ Lowe stumbled back on to the hard surface and, with head bent, forged ahead. His eyes were shut tightly, only being opened every few seconds to ensure that he was still on course. Footsteps sounded behind him but he didn't look back. He didn't care if he had to go it alone.

A hundred yards further on the atmosphere was suddenly clearer. He stopped, looked around him. The wind was taking the smoke at an angle of forty-five degrees behind them. They were through the worst, just a handful of them, the remains of a straggling force that had once been angry.

Before them lay the old RAF airfield, gaunt and ugly, craters and rubble heaps marking the progress of the excavations. Now it presented a terrifying scene, a wall of flames, ten feet high and a hundred and fifty yards wide, sweeping from north to south, devouring the piles of cleared scrub bushes, the heat so intense that the fire burned fiercely across an acre or more of soaking-wet dead bracken. A bulldozer, blackened and blazing, was caught in its midst.

‘My God!’ Hartley Lowe stared, blanching as he caught sight of a movement at one of the windows, a distraught figure waving its arms; then it was gone.

‘The airfield's on fire!’ Somebody had to say the obvious. The purpose of their presence here was forgotten. Nobody would be interested in listening to them today.

‘I … I thought I saw somebody in that bulldozer,’ Lowe said hoarsely. The man by his side nodded. They envisaged the end, the terror of the fire victim, but neither of them was willing to put their thoughts into words.

A line of fire engines was drawn up fully a hundred yards behind the fire, long-range hoses arcing and spraying foam at the flames, the leaping running enemy hissing its contempt for their efforts. A quarter of a mile or so in front a couple of brigades were busy soaking the undergrowth, hoping that their efforts would halt the blaze. The engines were facing in the opposite direction in readiness for a hasty retreat. Every so often the smoke billowed and eddied, a curtain hiding the actors momentarily from the audience.

Hartley Lowe walked on. There was no question of going back; the smoke cutting across the lane was thicker than ever now. They had to go on. There was nothing else they could do. They had become compulsory spectators to a scene so bizarre that it might have been hell itself.

Eventually they arrived at one of the entrance points, a gap bulldozed out of the hedgerow, the barriers of oil drums, planks, and barbed wire thrown to one side. A police panda car was parked across it, a uniformed constable shouting at the small crowd which had drifted across from the A38, telling them to get back, to move their parked cars which were a hazard in themselves. Some did as they were told, others merely drifted twenty or thirty yards away and turned back to watch the holocaust.

‘Go on, keep away.’ yelled the constable, who was becoming angry. He had expected to be off duty in an hour; now he would be lucky to get home inside ten hours.

Hartley Lowe stood staring, almost convinced that he was dreaming, the whole scene a culmination of his obsessions over the past few months. His eyes smarted, his throat was raw and hoarse when he tried to speak. ‘What happened?’

‘There's a fire,’ said the policeman harshly, his patience at its limit. He almost said Piss off, you silly old sod, but remembered just in time that he was in uniform. ‘Now, sir, nobody's helping by standing about. Move on.’

Lowe nodded and backed away several paces, unable to take his eyes off the scene. A bunch of firemen were making an attempt to reach the charred shell of the bulldozer, hoses hissing a path for them through the blackened undergrowth, smoke and steam billowing up and shutting everything out. There was somebody in the machine, or had been. Nobody could possibly live in there. The heat fanned his face. He didn't want to watch but he couldn't help it. The massive blaze hypnotised him.

‘Move on back, sir.’

Hartley took two more paces, stopped again. The rescue force had got within fifty yards of the bulldozer. Now they were retreating, breaking into a run. A sudden explosion sent blinding flames in all directions, a roar of sheer hellish power that had the ex-schoolmaster covering his eyes, moaning softly, knowing that he had seen death in its most terrible form.

When he looked again more firemen were running out, ignoring the blazing steel shell of the bulldozer, trying to drag their colleagues back to safety. One of the injured was burning like some Guy Fawkes effigy, screaming, panicking and running blindly back towards the heart of the fire. None followed him. Then the smoke rolled back and hid him from view.

The old concrete runways were cracking and spitting, fragments flying in all directions. In the distance the sirens of more fire engines could be heard, growing louder by the second. Every available crew within a fifty mile radius had been diverted to Fradley.

Hartley Lowe retraced his steps, dragging his feet, pausing every few yards to get his breath. The air was thick with the stench of the fire, a harsh nauseating smell that reminded him of the desert nearly forty years ago; one of Rommel's tanks his platoon had knocked out. It had blazed for hours before they could approach it, the crew trapped inside. Sometimes he still had nightmares about it, heard the cries of the doomed. Now he smelled their roasting flesh and could not stop himself from vomiting,

There was no sign of any of the others who had begun the protest march with him. They had fled back to their homes, their anger forgotten. Perhaps it was as well. This was no time for demonstrations.

Drylake sat staring fixedly at the acres of charred undergrowth, the embers glowing redly in the approaching dusk. His hands gripped the steering wheel of the Land-Rover as though he intended to rip the column out. The Warboys brothers occupying the rest of the seat had not spoken for almost a quarter of an hour. Everything had been said; there was nothing anybody could do or say now that would make any difference.

O'Gaughan was dead; they'd find his body - or what was left of it - when they cut through the remains of the bulldozer. Drylake couldn't understand why the man hadn't got out in time. Admittedly the fire had started behind him, cutting off his retreat, but he could have driven through it before it got a hold. Probably he was drunk. He had been warned before about carrying alcohol in the cab. All the same, he needn't have died. There would be questions asked, the safety precautions examined. The site engineer carried the ultimate responsibility. You could have a dozen lunatics on the site but if something went wrong then it was your fault all the way. Flyways would need a scapegoat and in all probability the Warboys had already singled one out. Himself.

‘I can't see that the fire will really have done us a lot of harm at this stage,’ Phil Warboys muttered, toying with an unlit cigarello and wondering if the Havana smoke would neutralise the foul taste in his mouth or make it worse. ‘It's cleared a lot of scrubland. No buildings have been started yet so there's no actual structural damage.’

Drylake ran his tongue round his parched lips. There was no mention of the dead man or the fire brigade casualties. They didn't matter. They were replaceable, like the heavy plant which had been destroyed. Just tools for doing the job.

‘Can't figure out how it started,’ Roger Warboys shook his head. ‘The undergrowth was soaking wet. A cigarette end wouldn't have a hope in hell of igniting the foliage. A few gallons of paraffin maybe.’

‘Deliberate, eh?’ said his brother. Plucking up courage he lit the small cigar, coughing as he did so.

‘And why not? That demonstration from the village was due to take place today. They got the idea that they'd really go to town. Instead of a crowd of protesters we get a blaze that sweeps across the whole airfield. What could be more spectacular? It'll be on all television and radio news tonight. But what they don't realise is that they've really done us a favour. They've cleared our undergrowth for us and the only damage is to the contractors' equipment which the insurance companies will look after, anyway.’

‘At least one man has died,’ Drylake muttered.

‘Oh, sure but we can't help that, can we?’

‘No, but you wouldn't give a shit if you could. There's something else you've overlooked. This is going to put your schedule back several weeks.’

‘Why the hell should it?’

‘We've lost machinery that can't be replaced overnight.’

The other was silent. Contractors were the same in every walk of life; they enjoyed any excuse to tell you they couldn't meet your deadline. A kind of subtle class warfare. They blamed distributors who in turn blamed the manufacturers. A combination that boiled down to a Marxist movement intended to disrupt democratic society. The galling thing was you couldn't do a thing about it because you could never pin it down to one man. The unions were just the puppets in the firing line. Doubtless they would involve themselves in this issue; excavations postponed pending an enquiry.

‘Well, there's no point in sitting here all night,’ Roger Warboys opened the door. ‘If there's anything urgent you can phone us at our hotel.’

Drylake nodded, tight-lipped. He was glad to see them go. God, the little bastards gave him the creeps. They worshipped money, nothing else mattered, not even human lives so long as it was not their own. They weren't interested in aviation, just what they could make out of it. At present they were coining it out of a big disco business. They didn't know the first thing about music at any level either; they'd prised well-known DJ's away from radio and television with huge salaries. You hire our disco but you gotta take the jockey with it. Everybody made money that way, most of all the Warboys brothers. They owned a string of nightclubs on the south coast, too. Their empire was growing. One day, though, the bubble would burst,

Drylake reflected sardonically. They'd take on something they couldn't handle, like Flyways. If those locals had fired the old airfield he couldn't blame them. Except for O'Gaughan. Looking at it that way it was murder. If they got caught the charge would be manslaughter. British justice was far too lenient.

It was dark by this time, just the glow of the fire which had been reduced to embers lighting up the night sky with a sinister orange radiance, a reminder of what had happened. The panda car by the nearest entrance still had its blue light flashing. The constable's pallid face was briefly reflected in the glare of a match as he risked a cigarette. An ambulance was standing close by. That was in readiness for when they found what was left of O'Gaughan, Drylake supposed.

Shadowy shapes moved to and fro, relays of firefighters who knew it was going to be an all-night session. They still weren't able to reach the burned-out bulldozer. Mostly they were directing their hoses on to sections of the smouldering ground, saturating it, making it hiss like an army of angry cobras. But still the fire refused to be extinguished; it was deep-seated, in places burning below ground the way moorland fires always do. It might take a week to put it out completely.

Something, a distant movement shown up by a sudden resurgence of flames a hundred yards or so in front of him, attracted the site engineer's attention. He started. Christ Almighty, somebody was walking about out there on a bed of red-hot fire!

Drylake squinted, trying to make out the figures. They weren't firemen, that much was certain; not that he could discern much detail because the flames were dying down again. There was something odd about them, he tried to place it. A casualness, a lack of urgency, not doing anything in particular. Just mooching.

He was shaking as he slid out of the Land-Rover and walked across to the panda car. The constable looked up, saw him, and immediately shielded his cigarette in a cupped hand.

‘Hey!’ Drylake's voice shook slightly as he pointed out to the heart of the fire zone. ‘What are those blokes doing walking out there?’

‘Which blokes?’ the policeman sounded bored.

‘Those …’ Drylake's words died away. He strained his eyes. The undergrowth had flared up again, seven-foot-high flames that showered sparks into the air, destroying the shadows. There was no cover, nowhere for anybody to hide even had they been able to withstand the heat. Just an open mass of smouldering burning scrub. And there was nobody to be seen beyond the furthest line of firemen.

‘You're seeing things, sir.’ The officer wanted to get rid of his visitor, wanted to finish his cigarette in peace. ‘An atmosphere like this gets you. Your eyes hurt and run so badly that you can't be sure of anything you see. Plays on your nerves, too. I'd go home and get some sleep if I were you. There's nothing anybody except the fire brigades can do until tomorrow.’

‘I expect you're right.’ Drylake shook his head slowly and began to walk away. There was nothing to be gained by insisting that he had seen people out there. All the same he knew that he had. It wasn't his imagination or his streaming eyes. Somebody, a few minutes ago, had walked on fire!

Charles Whyte stirred restlessly, taking his time to come out of a deep slumber. Somewhere a telephone was bleeping. Harshly, insisting that it was answered. He stretched out a hand, lifted off the receiver, and pushed the earpiece between his head and the pillow. The sound of Roger Warboys's voice had him sitting up, instantly wide-awake, groping for the light pull.

‘You might've told us you'd be out of New York for a few days,’ Warboys was angry. ‘What the hell are you hiding in LA for? It took a lot of persuasion to get the number out of your secretary.’

‘I don't leave an itinerary for public knowledge,’ Whyte growled. ‘Now, what's the trouble? Don't tell me they've rumbled the deal with Manning.’

Briefly, Warboys told him about the fire.

‘Why wake me in the middle of the night to tell me an area of scrub which we were going to have to clear anyway has been burnt?’ Whyte asked.

‘Because,’ snapped Roger Warboys, losing his patience. ‘it's going to throw the schedule all to cock.’

‘What you're telling me,’ Charles Whyte spoke softly, almost with a hiss. ‘is that it's going to cost more.’

‘Money won't buy time.’

‘Won't it?’

‘No, it bloody well won't. Carver Plant Hire have no dozers to spare. Every one of them is on hire, mostly for motorway work.’

‘Leave it with me.’ Whyte's tone was terse, confident. ‘And arrange to have a car meet me at Elmdon tomorrow … today, 6.35.’ He hung up before Warboys could argue further.

It was dark and raining heavily when Charles Whyte booked in at his Midland hotel. The pouches beneath his eyes were dark and his usually immaculate hair was slightly ruffled. He scowled at the receptionist and did not speak to Roger Warboys until they were in the elevator.

‘Well?’ Whyte grunted.

‘Four bulldozers arrived on site at 2.30. They'd've been there earlier if the transporters hadn't been held up at Derby waiting for a police escort. They'll start work first thing in the morning.’

‘They should've started this afternoon. There was a good two hours of daylight left.’

‘Police wouldn't let 'em. They wanted to finish sifting through some of the cinders.’

‘And, of course, they haven't a clue how it started.’

‘They're convinced it was arson. It seems to have started from one particular place, and apart from wind advantage you'd wonder how the hell anybody got anything to ignite there.’

‘And where was that?’

‘Right between two of these bloody big boulders that've caused us more than a little trouble. One side of the rock was blackened by the flames, the other untouched. In fact, the stone had got that hot that it'd caused it to split.’

Whyte pursed his lips. ‘We can't afford any more trouble. It cost me a grand to get Carver to pull those machines off the motorway job. That's dead money.’

‘These villagers are out to cause trouble.’ Warboys hated the fat man, the way his eyes bored into you as though delving into your innermost thoughts. ‘I reckon they started the fire. And they won't let up just at that. If their appeal goes through …’

‘The trouble with you,’ said Charles Whyte with a smile - but there was no humour in his small eyes - ‘is that you're always worrying about what the opposition might do. A bunch of English peasants can be taken care of without too much trouble, believe me.’

Warboys shivered and momentarily wished that he was in no way connected with the Flyways consortium. The feeling passed, however, as quickly as it had begun. Charles Whyte exuded confidence. In a way, the other decided, the American was practically invincible. He would let nothing stand in his way; the kind of man who would commit a murder and then eat a hearty meal shortly afterwards. Fradley Airport would be opened on schedule, that much was certain.

I: 3 -THE OLD RELIGION

Roland Hildegarde gave a loud sigh when he saw Hartley Lowe come into the public library. The chief librarian always kept his office door slightly ajar; his staff were not imbued with his own dedication, his attention to precise detail. They also lacked his confidence and authority. Rarely did he take a holiday, and when he did he was perpetually beset with worries about what might be going wrong in the library. The public had been known to smoke in there on the odd occasion. Oh yes, he knew the culprits, and kept a watchful eye on them. Harcombe, the old pensioner out of Stowe Street, he was one of the worst offenders; smoked a rank pipe, the tobacco even more pungent than Lowe's. He'd lit it in the reading room one lunchtime, waited his opportunity until Hildegarde had popped out for a bite to eat. The place stank when the librarian returned. Harcombe was still there perusing his usual quota of working-class newspapers but there was no sign of his pipe. Damned cheek, he'd taken advantage, knowing he was breaking the rules, (there were three separate ‘no smoking’ notices on display), and he'd even had the gall to pass the time of day before leaving at his usual time of 3.30. That had really been the instrumental factor in deciding Hildegarde to leave his door so that he had a partial view of the library. Rules were laid down and must not be broken.

Roland Hildegarde gave a series of delicate little coughs (I'm here but I don't really want to be disturbed). Nevertheless he knew that Miss Palmer would not succeed in getting rid of Lowe.

The librarian seated himself at his desk, made sure that everything on it was neat and tidy and in perfect alignment; he could not bear pads or diaries to be in a state of disarray. Then he took a deep breath and waited patiently.

‘Excuse me, Mr Hildegarde, Mr Lowe would like to see you.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Delighted. Show him in, Miss Palmer … Ah, Hartley, how are you, my dear fellow?’

The preliminaries were always the same when these two met. Health, the weather, the garden, a brief tut-tutting over the day's political headlines in The Times. All that was covered in a span of three minutes and then there was a pause before the main purpose of Hartley Lowe's visit was reached.

‘You know they're digging up the Circle, don't you?’ Lowe spoke in hushed tones, glancing sideways to ensure that Miss Palmer had actually closed the door behind her.

‘Everybody knows,’ Hildegarde was blinking rapidly behind his rimless glasses. ‘It's to be discussed at the archaeological society's meeting next Thursday. Prentice rang me this morning. I gather the appeal has been turned down.’

‘I wouldn't have believed it,’ Hartley Lowe rested his elbows on the desk, knocked a paperweight which the other immediately restored to its former position, and sunk his head into his hands. ‘Is nothing sacred these days?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Surely there must be some way we can stop them; a mass demonstration on site, the whole of the village sitting down in front of the bulldozers.’

‘Those tactics never work. Even the might and guile of our unions couldn't bring Grunwick to its knees. What chance would a few ordinary citizens have?’

‘They will stop them, though, Roland.’

‘They?’

‘Whatever it is that still exists on the site of the old airfield. Ghosts, Druids, whatever you like to call them. They have protected their domain up until now. They forced the RAF to abandon Fradley two years before the war finished. Things have happened there since. That killing … the fellow Steele … he didn't murder that girl. They sacrificed her to the old gods just as they started the fire … another sacrifice, that Irishman burned to death in an attempt to appease the forces of darkness. They're calling upon all the forces to wreak their vengeance upon those who seek to defile a sacred temple of worship.’

Hildegarde was blinking even faster than before now. It was some moments before he spoke.

‘If I didn't know you for one of the most rational and level-headed men in this town, Hartley,’ he permitted himself a faint smile. ‘I'd call Miss Palmer to show you out. I'd probably do that anyway if I hadn't taken the trouble to read up all about the “Old Religion”.’

‘Thank you, Roland.’ Hartley Lowe felt a craving for a pipe of tobacco but that would have been presuming too much upon the forbearance of the other man. ‘Unfortunately there isn't an awful lot the books can tell us on the subject. The period was too early for much to be written down. Of course, the Druids were a spin-off of the priesthood of Celts in southern England and Brittany. They accompanied the soldiers into battle, acted as doctors as well as priests, and strengthened their magic by means of human sacrifice. Most of their rituals were performed beneath oak trees or within a stone circle such as the one at Fradley. There are scores of these circles up and down the country, a grim reminder of how cheap life was in those times. Mistletoe was sacred to them, a clear example of how the Christmas festival is actually a continuation of a pagan one. The Druids were supposedly disciples of Logos, that part of the soul which controls the instincts; they also believed that the universe was invincible and that the soul was immortal. Possibly we should have found out a lot more about the Druids had not the Anglo-Saxons hounded them as devil worshippers and driven the cult underground. Apart from that, and bits of information I've gathered from the excavations of their stone circles, I probably don't know any more about them than you, Roland.’

‘Quite.’ Hildegarde's blinking had slowed; he was almost relaxed. ‘I've spent most of this week attempting to research them and I've not found a lot. This library is pretty extensive but the Druids covered their tracks exceedingly well. Basically, though, they relied more upon black magic than white and were cruel to the point of sadism. However, they aren't going to help us much. Fradley, as we know it, is being destroyed by the hour. Within a year it will be operating as a modern airport. I'm afraid we … you've lost your battle, Hartley.’

‘Not by a long way,’ Hardey Lowe's expression was determined. ‘I am at the moment pressing our MP to step in. I think the fellow's genuine in spite of his inclinations towards the left. He agrees with me that the Midlands is adequately served by airports and another would be quite ridiculous. I've turned up something else, too. There's a public right of way across Fradley airfield. It crosses the old runway. No landowner can remove such public access from his land. Farmers, for instance, are forced to leave a path across the centre of such fields. The Ramblers' Association have done commendable work in unearthing many of these, even though they did overlook Fradley. I suppose just because everybody was in the habit of going there … for a variety of reasons, nobody thought to question their rights. There is still a chance of an eleventh hour reprieve.’

Hildegarde glanced at his watch, a flamboyant sweep of his arm that was by no means a subtle hint. Lowe nodded, scraped his chair back and stood up. ‘I'll see you at the meeting on Thursday night, Roland.’

‘Yes.’ The librarian stepped round and tugged the door open, looking out into the main library with the quick darting movements of a shy sand lizard. Everything appeared to be all right. Miss Palmer was filing diligently and Harcombe was in the reading room; he had not lit his pipe. ‘We are fighting for the preservation of an historic place. Your colleagues in the village seem to have overlooked this aspect and gone off at a tangent over aircraft noise if the airport is built. I think that has been the big mistake: split forces fighting for different causes. Far better had we all pulled together. However, it's too late now. The ultimate outcome is in the lap of the gods.’

‘Exactly,’ Hartley Lowe smiled faintly. ‘The gods of the “Old Religion”.’

Damien had spent most of the day on the old airfield. At fourteen he was going through a difficult phase, not quite having discarded his childhood whilst at the same time struggling to cope with the advent of manhood. Adolescence had brought its own frustrations and this was one of the reasons why he wanted to spend Sunday on his own. Normally he would either have delivered some papers for Mr Ransford, the newsagent, or else stopped at home with his parents. Today he relished neither.

Anthony, his school friend, was going over to Alrewas to meet a girl. Damien knew her, a plump, spotty-faced female who nearly always wore her mauve and white striped school uniform at weekends. Either she was too lazy to change into something casual or else her folks couldn't afford to buy her alternative clothing. Whatever the reason, she lacked sex appeal even to a boy who was still making exciting discoveries.

‘Gillian's going to bring a mate of hers along on Sunday for you,’ Anthony had declared excitedly on Wednesday after school had finished. ‘Her name's Angela. Sometimes they're mistaken for sisters.’

The possibility of a close physical resemblance between the two girls had decided Damien against a romantic afternoon on the canal towpath. However, the prospect of a day at home with his parents was not the ideal alternative. Their attitude towards him had changed completely these last few weeks. As an only child he had had a sheltered upbringing; not exactly spoiled but always relying upon parental decisions. The three of them went everywhere together. Holidays alternately at Blackpool and Weston-super-Mare, car rides to either the Malverns or the Cotswolds on Sunday afternoons in the summer, a shopping expedition to Birmingham every Saturday. During weekday evenings his father insisted that Damien study for his CSE exams from 6.30 to 9.00, with the exception of Fridays when he was allowed to go to the youth club with the proviso that he was home by 9.30. Suddenly this whole routine had become one long bore. His parents had bought him a bicycle for his birthday; it wasn't that he was forbidden to go out on it, simply that time did not permit in his monotonously crowded schedule. He had thought about it a lot. Most of the other boys of his own age at school went off on their own at weekends. It seemed the normal thing to do. Nevertheless, the decision had worried him a lot, as though it would sever a strong family tie. But it had to be. So, on the previous day, following their return from Birmingham, the laborious task of carrying laden carrier bags and cartons from the car into the kitchen completed, Damien had nervously voiced his intention of going for a solo cycle ride on the next day.

Silence. Everything seemed to stop, the rustling of paper bags, the dull clanking of canned foods being stacked on the pantry shelves by his mother.

‘What a peculiar idea!’ His father was the first to speak, glancing at Damien's mother with an almost frightened expression on his face as though some terrible family crisis had arisen.

‘Oh, no.’ Gladys Shotton gasped. ‘he can't do that. Not on his own.’

‘Of course not,’ Bill Shotton agreed, twisting his fingers nervously together. ‘Not at his age.’

‘But I'm going to,’ Damien said stubbornly. ‘because I'm quite old enough to. Boys of twelve at school go out on their own. I'm fourteen. And, anyway, I'm fed up with sitting in the back of the car every Sunday.’

‘We aren't going out in the car this Sunday,’ his mother snapped defensively. ‘We're stopping at home. Your dad wants to tidy the garden up before the winter sets in and I've got to finish making my dress for the firm's annual dance. You can help your father by sweeping up some of the dead leaves and making a bonfire. Or if you don't want to do that you can watch the football on the telly.’

Silence again. Damien felt himself wilting under the disapproving stares of his parents. He swallowed, and was ashamed of himself for blushing. Seldom was he reprimanded within the confines of his own home - because he always obeyed. In one way it was cowardice, in another laziness because it was the easy way out. A combination of the two destroyed every vestige of personality. This time he had to make a stand.

He took a deep breath, consciously trying to steady himself, praying that when he spoke he would not stammer or concede and say, All right, Mum. I'll stay home and help Dad in the garden. Boyhood battled with manhood and in a matter of seconds the latter triumphed and he knew that he had to see it through at any cost. Not just his pride was at stake, his whole future was on the deck.

‘I'm going out on my bike tomorrow.’ The words came out slowly, possibly more aggressively than he had intended, but their force seemed to strike his parents like a physical blow.

‘You're not going out on your own tomorrow. I won't allow it,’ said his father, in a low, trembling voice, trying to hold his anger in check.

‘You can't stop me,’ Damien's earlier blushes faded, his features were white and his body shook with suppressed fury. ‘It's time you realised I'm not in short trousers any more. I want to do my own thing and I'm going to do it. Christ, I'm only going for a ride on my bike.’

‘It isn't safe.’ His mother's voice rose to a pitch. He'd only heard it hit the high notes once before, the time she told Mrs Barrow next door to stop cutting the privet hedge so low. ‘You know what happened to Susan Kemp.’

‘Don't be ridiculous, Mother.’ The ‘mum’ was dropped instinctively. ‘She didn't go off on her own. She'd probably still be alive if she had because that maniac of a boyfriend of hers killed her.’

The argument escalated. At one stage Damien thought his father was going to hit him. He steeled himself in readiness for a quick retaliation but the blow never came. Voices were raised. They were trying to shout him down, thinking up a host of reasons why he should not go out on his own.

‘But I'm going!’ he yelled at last and ran through to the hall and upstairs to his own bedroom, slamming the door loudly behind him.

He flung himself on his bed and lay there, attempting to cope with a new situation and failing. He listened to his parents' voices down below but they were too muffled for him to be able to make out what they were saying. He didn't want to know, he told himself. He didn't care. And neither did they. They just wanted to hang on to him, shield him from the outside world, deprive him of pleasures which his friends were allowed to enjoy. At least, he consoled himself, they hadn't followed him upstairs to continue the row. Finally, still fully dressed, he fell asleep.

He was awake the next morning just as the dawn light was creeping in through the windows. He knew something was wrong by the fact that he was still fully dressed and depression was already clouding his brain. Then everything came back to him and with a sudden movement he crossed to the window. Outside, the world was grey and still, the new part of the village totally deserted as the population prepared for a late rising.

Damien went downstairs stealthily, carrying his shoes in his hand. Every step seemed to creak and at any moment he was expecting to hear his parents' bedroom door open. But it didn't. They, too, were going to sleep late. Probably they had convinced themselves at bedtime that their son was overwrought and that by morning he would have forgotten his threat to go out on a lone cycling expedition.

Damien Shotton went to the pantry first, and finding the large plastic container which his father used for sandwiches during the week, he filled it with loose food; a slice of stale fruit cake, some biscuits and a packet of salted peanuts.

He wheeled his bicycle down the drive, only mounting it when he reached the road. He glanced back over his shoulder just once, saw his parents' bedroom curtains still closed, and began to pedal frantically, suddenly desperate to be away from this place; to be free.

He had had no intention of going on the airfield. It was too close to home and, anyway, it wasn't the place it used to be, an open space for all the family to enjoy themselves. It was a series of mounds and craters, an ugly scar on an otherwise beautiful rural landscape.

The lane leading down to the A38 was narrow and winding. Once on the dual-carriageway he would really be able to put his bike to the test, see what it would do away from the restriction of crescents and cul-de-sacs. He topped a rise, saw the airfield spread out below him, its canyons and mountains and … he slowed, stopped to look, his curiosity getting the better of him. The old runways were gone, piles of broken concrete marking the place where they had once been. But that was not what had attracted his attention; in the centre of this expanse of blackened scrubland, charred and twisted trees, and standing out like gaunt black skeletons in some eerie forgotten graveyard, he saw what appeared to be a broken uneven circle of greenery, a kind of moss-and-lichen-covered dyke that had been buried for centuries and was now attempting to resurrect itself. He stared, wide-eyed. What he saw was a contradiction of the laws of Nature. Elsewhere not a single blade of grass nor an autumnal leaf had survived the devastation of the fire. It was impossible for the heath blaze to have spared such a circle, leaping over the rocky ramparts and then devouring the centre. It was also an impossibility for the vegetation to have grown again in so short a time.

Damien Shotton was puzzled. Even so it was unlikely that he would have taken the trouble to go and investigate had not one of the entrances to the Fradley aerodrome - which he came upon round the next bend - been open and unguarded.

He slowed again. The oil drums and strands of barbed wire, which for weeks had served to deter trespassers, lay in an untidy tangled heap to one side. A notice board which proclaimed ‘GUARD DOGS PATROL THESE PREMISES’ lay smashed and broken where one of the speeding fire engines had caught it.

The youth wheeled his bicycle a few yards inside and glanced nervously about him. There was nobody in sight; just a few bulldozers and diggers and various items of heavy machinery standing stark and unwieldy on the blackened landscape. A couple of wooden site huts had an air of desertion about them. No vehicles were parked by them so it was logical to conclude that they were unoccupied.

He walked forward, wheeling his bicycle, ashes and burned twigs flaking and crunching beneath his feet. His nose wrinkled at the sour smell of charred vegetation. He didn't know why but he had to go and inspect that area of lush green growth in the centre of this black desert, a mirage that beckoned the thirsty traveller with a false promise of cool water and respite from the burning heat.

But it was no mirage; it was real enough, exactly as he had seen it from the road. The circle was by no means complete, though. In places it was broken where bulldozers and explosives had attempted to wrest the huge rocks from their bed, like the work of an unskilled dentist, hacking and tugging at a row of decayed teeth, extracting the odd one or two, snapping a few more, then giving up.

Damien could not remember having noticed these boulders before on the occasions when he had come to the airfield. The surface had definitely altered in this particular place as though there had been some kind of subsidence. The bulldozers wouldn't have been powerful enough to cause it, he concluded, but perhaps in some way the intense heat of the fire had cracked a layer of rock beneath the surface so that it had collapsed and as a result these huge boulders had been thrust up through the topsoil.

That didn't explain the moss and lichen, though. He felt at it with his fingers. It was damp and cold, transmitting tiny shivers to his body, causing his flesh to goose pimple. He shuddered and recalled a much-hackneyed phrase some of the boys at school used to describe the toilets: a dark and gloomy place. Well, this was certainly one, so dank that the rock vegetation had flourished within a week of the scorching, devastating blaze as though Nature was displaying proof of her invincibility in the face of the destructive efforts of man. These tremendous rocks were going to fight to the very last, down to the last jagged sliver.

Damien was shivering. He was frightened, too, because he was faced with something outside his own knowledge, an overall strength that humbled him such as his father's commanding manner had never done. He wanted to leave, to be away from this awful place and never to return.

He turned the handlebars of his bicycle and was just on the point of wheeling it up the slight incline, out of the hollow and on to the flat surface above him, when he heard the sound of an approaching engine. A vehicle was slowing in the lane, turning into the airfield.

Damien's mouth was dry as he listened to the engine dying away followed by the metallic slamming of a door. Then footsteps squelching in mud. Finally the silence rolled softly back again.

He waited a few minutes and then, lowering his bicycle to the ground, he crept up the short slope on hands and knees, slowly raising his head until he could see over the top. It was a vehicle, all right; a grey, mud-spattered pickup Land-Rover, and it was parked directly by the first site hut. Whoever had driven it here had to be inside the small wooden building.

The boy eased his way back down into the hollow, grasping the handlebars of his bicycle as though seeking some comfort in the cold alloy. He was frightened, and he had to admit to himself that he would far sooner have conceded to his parents' dogmatic demands than find himself in this predicament. If only he could return home he would creep back up to his bedroom and remain there until his mother and father got up. He would join them at breakfast and if necessary apologise to them. After that everything would be all right.

But it wasn't all right. He was trapped in this hollow amidst the circle of stones with no chance of escaping unseen. The villagers and the boys at school talked about these men who had bought the airfield; ruthless types who would stop at nothing to achieve their aims. Innocent trespassers had already been threatened. Maybe savage Alsatian dogs were used to patrol the area. The place itself had a history of violent death. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

Damien Shotton trembled as he crouched there. Suppose these men found him, there was no telling what they might do. Certainly he would be reported to his headmaster, maybe even to the police. His fears escalated.

After some time the sun rose, a pale orange ball that cast a watery glow in the eastern sky. He wondered how much longer it would be before the man returned to his Land-Rover and drove off. Whatever he was doing in that hut, he was taking his time over it.

The sun rose steadily but still there was no welcome sound of an engine starting up. Damien sat on the ground and began to eat some of the food which he had brought with him. His parents would surely have missed him by now. He wondered if his father was out searching for him; not that it would do any good. The boy stood no chance of escaping from here until the man with the Land-Rover had gone. That hut commanded a view of the whole airfield from its elevated position, similar to a sentry box in a prisoner of war camp, according to several of the films which Damien had watched on television. No chance to run for it. The ground was too soft, a bed of ash. The Land-Rover would catch him up and overtake him in whichever direction he tried to flee.

Afternoon. The sun was starting to slip towards the western horizon, partially obscured by a bank of grey cloud that was building up. It had gone colder, too. Damien was shaking so much that his last biscuit fell from his fingers and showered into a mass of crumbs on the ground. He climbed the bank again and peered over. The Land-Rover was still parked in the same place, not that he had really expected to find it gone. He knew then that its owner was here until nightfall, probably catching up on a backlog of paperwork which had been neglected throughout the week.

At least, once darkness fell, Damien Shotton would be able to creep away. He shuddered. Night was not a pleasant prospect. He returned to the hollow and waited.

Dusk came slowly, a mist starting to rise and creep across the flat landscape, seeming not to find the hollow beneath the gigantic boulders, hanging over it like a wisp of woodsmoke from a chimney on a still autumn evening. Damien started. Somewhere bells were ringing. Church bells. Then, for the first time he remembered what day it was: Sunday, not just an ordinary Sunday, Remembrance Sunday. A feeling of sadness and regret crept over him; embarrassment, too, that he had forgotten until now. Last year he had gone with his parents to the morning service, a poppy pinned to his jacket. It all came back to him, the two minutes' silence. He'd felt a sneeze coming on, fought to control it, and had somehow succeeded. Afterwards they had all trooped out to the war memorial for the laying of the wreath. Hartley Lowe had laid it, sombre in his dark suit, looking sterner than usual. Age shall not weary them …

Damien shook himself. He'd been dreaming, almost fallen asleep. It was the cold that was making him drowsy. That was one of the reasons why arctic explorers died in the snow, they couldn't keep awake. He tried to think clearly. It was dark now, he couldn't see a thing. That meant it was safe to leave. The bells were still ringing, much slower now. He judged it must be nearly 6.30. Then they died away. Total silence.

He stood there almost afraid to move. Two minutes' silence. That was silly, it didn't apply to him. Yes, it did; Grandpa Shotton was killed at the Battle of the Somme. But Grandpa wouldn't mind him moving about as long as he didn't make too much noise.

He felt for his bike. It wasn't there! But it had to be, it couldn't have run off on its own. He began to move round, stooping, arms outstretched trying to locate his missing machine.

His fingers touched something hard and smooth. Rock, but it wasn't like the rounded boulders he'd sat and studied during the daylight hours. It was vertical like a wall. He moved along it, tracing its course, a concave that was taking him round in a circle. He swallowed, frightened, and began to move faster, glancing upwards. Just blackness, not so much as a star to be seen in the night sky overhead. A musty smell assailed his nostrils, cloying damp and stale air.

Somewhere a bugle sounded; muffled, not clear and resonant as the bells had been. He recognised the Last Post.

By this time he was badly frightened. His bicycle had completely disappeared and the sloping sides of the hollow had somehow been replaced by walls of rock which had no exit. There might even have been a roof overhead. In which case he was a prisoner!

He started to panic, clawing at the rock walls, heedless of the way his nails broke and tore. He wanted to shout, to scream, but fear kept him silent; fear that … somebody might hear him. He was a trespasser. He had no right to be here. Whoever found him might exact terrible retribution. Crying softly, sobbing, he sank down to the ground. Something else was wrong. It should have been soft and muddy. It wasn't; there was nothing but solid rock beneath him! The cold dank atmosphere reminded him of a recent visit to his cousin's house in Birmingham. At the bottom of their garden they had an old wartime air-raid shelter. Much, much smaller than this place, though. But so similar …

Yet, even if it was enclosed he could still hear parts of the Remembrance Day evensong in the village. The Last Post was finished. A brief silence …

‘Age shall not weary them.’

But it was impossible. The bells and the bugle had carried on the breeze but no way would he be able to distinguish voices, make out the words! It was almost as though somebody was whispering them only a few yards away. He cowered, trembling.

A drone, growing louder by the second. He recognised the sound as that of aircraft, dozens of them, heavy bombers like you saw in war films on the television, not the supersonic roar of modern jets. Nearer, nearer, so loud that he was forced to cover his ears with his hands. Oh, God, what on earth was happening? He tried to think logically to calm his fears. Fradley was going to be an airport, a big modern one. They were testing it, night flying. No, that was stupid. There were no runways, nothing to cope with any type of aeroplane. A Remembrance Day air display? Even more foolish; nobody would be able to see the planes in the dark.

Suddenly there was a muffled explosion and the ground beneath him trembled, shaking as though an earthquake was starting. More explosions. Heavy gunfire, rapid and nearby, deafening. He could smell the burnt cordite in the atmosphere, searing his nose and throat, making him choke. He lay flat, arms covering his head. Shouting, screaming all around but he kept his eyes tightly shut. He dared not try to peer into the blackness.

The din was fading, the aircraft receding into the distance, gunfire only spasmodic and far away. The stench of powder-smoke was again being replaced by that foul smell of staleness. And a voice was whispering, ‘Age shall not weary them.’

Damien sobbed, his terror escalating so that even had the opportunity to flee presented itself it was doubtful whether his limbs would have responded. Silence, even the whispering had ceased. It was as though the world had been evacuated and only he was left behind.

After a while he was conscious of people moving about, walking virtually silently except for a swishing sound like the Reverend Barnstead's clerical robes made when he went up to the pulpit to deliver his weekly sermon. Damien raised his head, squinted. Nothing but blackness.

His young brain had struggled to find a logical explanation for everything and had failed. Now his thoughts were jumbled. He began to scream hysterically. It was then that hands grabbed him, pulled him to his feet, fingers that were cold and strong, dragging him along the ground so that the jagged rocks tore his clothing and lacerated his flesh.

And all around voices were whispering, a weird chant that was building up and echoing in a vast black void. ‘Age shall not weary them.’

I: 4 - SACRIFICE!

From the window of his site hut Drylake had an unrestricted view of the police search. He had to admire their thoroughness, the way they fanned out and closed in again, tracker dogs tugging at their leashes, every square yard being covered, some of the ground being gone over a second time. And when, suddenly, men and dogs converged on one particular spot and huddled together, staring down into the runway foundations, Drylake knew that they had found what they were looking for. He knew also that the Shotton boy had not been discovered alive.

In the red Range Rover parked just inside the nearest entrance sat the Warboys brothers. Behind them, occupying the centre of the rear seat, the site engineer could make out the bulky form of Charles Whyte. Drylake felt uneasy for a lot of reasons. An atmosphere of foreboding seemed to be building up over Fradley. The American's arrival had escalated the tension.

Drylake continued to watch the police activities. A plainclothes CID man went across to an unmarked van. He was there some time talking into a short-wave microphone. In the meantime the other officers were standing well back from the excavations. Drylake guessed they didn't want to risk messing up any clues. The experts would be here shortly with all their sophisticated equipment. Bit by bit they would piece the story together; if that were possible at Fradley!

The site engineer was glad that the three directors were remaining in their Range Rover throughout. If they were discussing him, scapegoat hunting again, then he didn't want to know about it. He'd even thought of chucking the job in, but why the hell should he on account of those three creeps? He wasn't going to make it that easy for them. They couldn't get rid of him for a lot of reasons; he didn't work for them, he was employed by Carver Construction. And if they tried to pull a few strings at the top then the union would step in, work would come to a complete standstill and they'd be worse off than by leaving him alone. Whichever way they looked at it they weren't going to have their airport in operation on the scheduled opening date. And they knew it.

Two detectives were walking across towards the hut, their short muddy wellington boots splattering their trousers, every step squelching into the mire and having to be withdrawn forcibly. Drylake's stomach knotted itself so that he felt momentarily sick. This wasn't going to be a pleasant business from any angle. There was, however, one faint glimmer of satisfaction amidst his gloom; the cops were coming to him, not to the bosses first. It gave him a feeling of importance and satisfaction.

‘We've found the kid,’ the Detective-Inspector stated in a matter-of-fact tone once he was inside the small wooden building and the door was shut. ‘His throat's cut from what we can see of him. Whoever did it threw him into that ten-foot hole beyond those big rocks. We'll let the fingerprint men go down first.’

‘Hole!’ Drylake stared open-mouthed. ‘What hole? The only hole out there is the trench the machines are digging out for the runway footings.’

‘Big hole,’ the other replied. ‘Almost like some kind of dungeon's been chiselled out of the rock strata below. Possibly your dozers weakened the surface and it collapsed. Anyway, that's neither here nor there. The fact remains that there's been a murder and we've got to find the killer … quick! The longer a guy like that is on the loose the bigger chance there is of more kids being done in. Now, this Shotton boy left home sometime early Sunday morning before his folks were up. He came here on his bike. The bike's propped up by the big stones, a few feet from where he fell into the hole. Where were you yesterday Mr … Mr Dryford?’

‘Drylake,’ the site engineer corrected him. ‘As a matter of fact I was here all day, right here in this hut. After a week of problems and hold-ups I had a lot of paperwork to catch up on. I got here round about nine and left sometime late afternoon. It was just getting dark so I guess it would be sometime between half past four and five.’

‘Anybody with you?’

‘No,’ Drylake swallowed, wishing to hell that he wasn't so dedicated that he used his own time for Carver's benefit. No, dedication was the wrong word. Scared. Scared deep down that if the airport schedule fell too far behind they'd put another man in charge. There was also another underlying reason, too. Since his wife had left him a few months back he couldn't stand having time on his hands. ‘No, nobody was here with me. I was on my own all day.’

‘I see,’ It was difficult to interpret exactly what the tall gruff detective saw. ‘So nobody saw you all day. A boy got killed a short distance from here but you saw neither him nor the guy who murdered him?’

‘I didn't see a soul.’ Oh, Jesus Christ, keep calm. You've nothing to worry about. Their investigations will show that it wasn't you. ‘Nobody much comes here these days, not since we started excavating and ripping the old runways up. It's too filthy, all ashes and mud.’

‘All the more reason why you should notice anybody who happened to be here.’

‘I was busy, hardly lifted my head all day. Even so I didn't get finished. It's one of those jobs where you never catch up. There's a lot of form-filling that's skimped and you just pray that nothing goes wrong.’

‘I see.’ The CID officer gave no indication of what he saw again, just glancing at the young constable, not even a nod or a frown. ‘I'll have to ask you to hang around for a bit. Just stay here in your office. Try to catch up on that paperwork.’ Grim sarcasm.

Drylake stared blankly out of the window after the two policemen had left him. It was like a kind of house arrest. His own tiny cell; solitary confinement, tortured by his own fears.

Some more vehicles were arriving. A Rover with three or four detectives in it, a plain black van. He knew what the latter was for; it made the bile rise in his throat.

Drylake shook his head, trying to clear it. Police were grouped around the murder scene. No way could you determine what was going on even if you wanted to. Reinforcements were arriving in a red and white patrol car, getting out and going across to the Range Rover.

He found some cigarettes and lit one with a trembling hand. There was nothing he could do except wait,

‘Why our pitch?’ Roger Warboys thumped the table in the police interview room in his frustration. ‘Miles of open countryside; and some crazy killer has to pick on us.’

There was a flicker of contempt in the chief-inspector's dark eyes as he surveyed the three men; they didn't give a damn about how the boy had been carved up. They were upset because the whole business was a nuisance; it interfered with their building programme.

‘There could be several reasons.’ The policeman's voice was cold and hostile. ‘On the face of it, it's a ritual killing. A human sacrifice, for want of a better explanation, carried out by devil worshippers or some strange cult. Identical almost to the way the Kemp girl was killed last autumn.’

‘But you've got that guy behind bars.’ Charles Whyte's cigar showered ash down his suit as he spoke. His eyes seemed to have sunk even deeper into their sockets until they were barely visible.

‘Yes,’ the other snapped. ‘But if it is a cult murder then Steele was only one of several. The others would doubtless kill in the same way. Last time there was evidence that Steele had been on the airfield. This time,’ he hesitated, dropped his gaze, ‘there's no signs of anybody having been in that stone circle of stones except the dead youth!’

‘That's crazy!’ said Whyte.

‘Of course it is. But you come up with a feasible explanation and I'll listen to you. No footprints except Damien Shotton's. That site engineer's telling the truth. He arrived early morning and spent the whole day in his hut. Why didn't he see anybody? Obviously the kid was already out there, messing about round those diggings. He might even have lain low hoping to creep away when Drylake had gone. That takes us up to dark. Our chaps reckon he spent the whole day there. So the murder was done after nightfall when somebody arrived at the Circle and found him there. There's just too many damned weird coincidences. The ground caved in and opened up that rock hole some time after the workmen had gone home on Friday night. Another thing, there's green vegetation, moss and lichen, growing on the rocks. The fire should have scorched them up, but it didn't, although Drylake can't remember seeing them last week. Allowing for the fact that construction gangs don't take much notice of what's going on around them, it's impossible for such a growth to have occurred in one week. So we are faced with rapid-growing plant life and people who walk in mud and ashes without leaving a trace. Have you got an explanation?’

‘Doubtless the highly efficient English police force will find the solution,’ Charles Whyte murmured. It was impossible to tell from his eyes whether any sarcasm was intended. ‘In the meantime we must forge ahead with our building programme.’

‘Oh no, sir,’ there was glib satisfaction in the policeman's voice. He was enjoying this, delivering a blow to the jaw of capitalism; his own family had started at the very bottom, though they had worked their way up to middle-class respectability, and he couldn't forget the fact. ‘I'm afraid we cannot allow any work to take place on the site at the moment, not until every square yard has been sifted through. Somewhere out there, without a doubt, lies a clue to the killer's identity. We just have to find it.’

‘And how long will that take?’ Whyte made a commendable job of hiding his frustration, his fury, his contempt for this senior police officer. Inwardly however he seethed.

‘How long is a piece of string?’ the chief-inspector laughed harshly. ‘Obviously we want to get this man as quickly as possible, in the interests of everybody.’ He stood up, a sign that the interview was at an end. ‘I'll be in touch, sir. In the meantime I'll appreciate it if all personnel stay off the site.’

It wasn't until the three Flyways directors were back in the Land-Rover that they openly cursed the British police force. The airport, their whole plans, seemed to be jinking away from them, a marshland will-o'-the-wisp mocking them. The backers behind the consortium would accept no more excuses. They wouldn't wait any longer.

It was no coincidence that the village action committee met on the evening following Damien Shotton's funeral. Hartley Lowe would not have admitted to anybody that he had arranged it so. If you didn't recall his words then you hadn't been paying attention. He was still a headmaster to the core, retirement hadn't changed him.

The small hall was packed, many of the menfolk still wearing their black ties, the women in sombre navy blue or charcoal costumes. Outside there was a flurry of snow, a reminder that autumn had already merged into winter. The flimsy double doors rattled as the wind freshened.

‘It is a sad day for every one of us here,’ began Hartley Lowe, observing from the platform a white-faced, haggard Bill Shotton standing at the back of the crowd, eyes smouldering their hatred for the airfield. ‘We are now virtually fighting for our very existence. The proposed main runway is not, as we were led to believe, to run from east to west. No, my good friends, it is to be from north to south, as I have only this afternoon discovered after consultation with the local planning committee;. And do you know what that means?’

Grunts and murmurs from all around. If those present at the meeting did realise the implication, then they wanted to hear it from Hartley Lowe himself, to have it spelled out dramatically for them.

‘It means,’ Lowe hung on his words, ‘that the big aircraft, your DC-lOs and 707s will be taking off in a direct line with our village school! Planes will pass over our children at a low altitude, hour by hour throughout the day. Apart from the detriment to their studies, the distraction, the dangers of impaired hearing, there is a far greater risk …’ He paused and noted with satisfaction the distraught faces upturned towards him. ‘Bad visibility or engine failure on take-off or landing could result in a horrific catastrophe, leaving its scars on every one of us for the rest of our lives!’

Hoots, wails of agreement, mostly from the womenfolk. Hartley Lowe permitted himself a grim smile of satisfaction. He had got his point over, got every one of them on his side.

‘Therefore,’ he went on, pausing for several seconds for silence to be restored. ‘Therefore, I propose to send a registered letter, on behalf of all of us, to the Department of the Environment, with copies to the Home Secretary, the Civil Aviation Authorities and our own paltry planning committee. If, after that, they allow work to go ahead to build this unnecessary airport, then it is quite obvious that they have no regard for human life, not even for the lives of innocent children.’

Cheers greeted his words. A young local reporter was scribbling feverishly on a pad on his knee, determined to master the mysteries of shorthand as soon as possible. At last he snapped his notepad shut. The editor was getting tired of the constant village-versus-airport battle. There would be a little note in the forthcoming edition to the effect that correspondence on this subject was now closed. In all probability the action committee would not receive a mention. As the editor himself said, the airport company had the go-ahead. Nothing could stop them, but this small village population would bemoan their luck for years to come. Nobody else was really interested, except the archaeological society, and they didn't count for much.

The meeting broke up and, even after the hall was closed and locked, small groups huddled in the roadway outside, oblivious to the falling snow, boosting each other's confidence. This would stop Flyways once and for all, there was no question about it.

One lone figure trudged away, head bowed, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat. For Bill Shotton it was all over. Whether Fradley Airport was built or not, it would not bring Damien back. He wanted revenge on somebody but he did not know whom; neither did he know how to get it. Life for him was at its lowest ebb.

Hartley Lowe stared after the bereaved man until the snowflakes had swallowed him up. Poor fellow, he didn't understand. Nobody did, except himself and possibly Roland Hildegarde. It wasn't just about aeroplanes, the noise they made, the dangers they presented. It was about something that went back two thousand years, probably longer.

The Druid priests, too, were fighting for what they believed in - the right to carry on in their own way. The partial destruction of their stone circle had incurred their wrath. They had already made human sacrifices to their gods. If the desecration, the sacrilege did not stop then there would be more deaths.

But, Hartley Lowe reflected, it was no good trying to warn the authorities of the real danger. The reasons he was putting forward on behalf of the village action committee must suffice. And if they failed, then God help every one of these people!

Hartley Lowe received a postcard acknowledgement of his letter from the Department of the Environment on 23 November, and ones from the Home Secretary, Civil Aviation Authority and the planning committee within the following days. On 30 November he received a reply in full from the Environmental Minister, signed by his personal secretary:

Dear Sir,

Re: Proposed Fradley Airport

I am in receipt of your letter dated 21 November. This matter has been investigated thoroughly and we are convinced that there is neither excessive danger to the school nor the village from the siting of the runways.

The noise factor is a matter which will be looked into and, if necessary, dealt with once the airport is functioning.

Should you have any other cause for complaint, after the airport is operating, then kindly address them in writing to this office where they will be looked into at once.

Yours faithfully,
p.p. Minister of Environment.

Hartley Lowe screwed the letter into a ball, tossed it into the waste-paper basket in the corner of his study. Then, with a grunt of annoyance, he retrieved it and attempted to smooth out the creases. The others would have to see this. It must be pinned on the noticeboard in the porch of the village hall, written evidence of their failure to win the battle. That was it, final and absolute. The Appeal had failed; the objection to the runway was a last desperate throw. Now it was all over.

He sank down into his leather-backed chair and stared out through the latticed bow window. The snow had eased off after an overnight fall. Maybe half-an-inch lay on the ground. For a space of a few hours it would cloak the black hideousness of the airfield but already there was a dampness in the atmosphere which promised rain.

In the distance he could hear the drone of bulldozers. Work on the runways had restarted. The police investigations into the killing of Damien Shotton had drawn a blank. The case wasn't closed; it was ‘on file’. Which meant that the police were hoping for something to turn up, a forlorn hope when the killers were ancient priests, but, of course, one couldn't tell them that.

The airport would be built now. There were no more obstacles in its way. And just as surely, Hartley Lowe reflected grimly, the followers of the Old Religion would continue to exact their vengeance. Even if their stone circle was destroyed they would live on, an angry, invincible force.

Part Two: The Airport

II: 1 - TENSION

Lance Evans could have gone off duty an hour ago, immediately after his last training flight of the day. But he didn't. Instead he went across to the main mess, bought a lager, and looked around for a table well away from the general hubbub of off duty staff.

Small and fair-haired, he could easily have passed for seventeen or eighteen at a casual glance. Some of the senior pilots referred to him as ‘Baby Face’, usually behind his back these days. A few resented his good looks. Especially Rob Morton, senior flying instructor at Fradley Training School. He had a reason, though. Pamela Bridges.

Lance glanced towards the door from time to time, checked the clock on the wall, 6.32. He told himself to stop getting edgy. Flights were often late. All the same he couldn't erase the nagging worry at the back of his mind. They all knew the risks, every single one of them engaged in flying in any form. The rate of accidents was low when compared with road deaths. Just one difference - if anything went wrong up there you didn't have much chance. Only the very fortunate were dragged alive from the wreckage of a crashed aircraft. Each time you went up you offered a silent prayer that it wouldn't be your turn. Selfish, in a way, but that was the way it was. Lance had prayed twice this morning. Firstly for himself, an agnostic hoping that some mysterious force would hear him, grant him safety whilst that idiot Carmichael was at the controls of the HS-125 training aircraft; secondly for the 707 on which Pamela was an air stewardess. Of the two she was probably the safer. Unless of course there was a mechanical fault of some kind. Tom Hodges was a first-rate pilot, even if he was a friend of Morton's. That meant Lance had two enemies. The pair of them hated him, couldn't accept that it was a girl's right to - change her mind.

Lance fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes, remembered that he'd smoked the last one on checking out. Christ, he'd needed it after the way Carmichael had handled the plane. Nothing really dangerous, just plain stupid. Lance couldn't understand anybody paying thirty quid a lesson and then trying to tell the instructor that he didn't know his job. There were several like that; Carmichael was the worst. The worst for a long time.

The instructor got up and fetched some cigarettes from a vending machine in the far corner. When he returned he checked with the clock again. 6.45. No need to start getting tense for another half hour yet. If anything had gone wrong he would have heard by now. They hadn't even announced the incoming flight as being delayed. But that was typical of Flyways. Beneath a veneer of super-efficiency there was a gathering wave of slackness which everybody tried to pretend didn't exist. Lance thought about it, tried to put his finger on it but it was impossible. Flyways had wrested a nucleus of first-rate air and ground staff from other companies. Nowhere else in Britain could you pick up that kind of wage packet for the particular job you did. The whole organisation should have functioned smoothly, earned itself a reputation of being one of the best in the world. But it hadn't. Apathy, perhaps. On paper everything was organised down to the last, minute detail. In theory Fradley should have been a gigantic well-oiled machine, infallibly computerised with a near-infallible workforce. But the weakness was the human factor, that element which either bonded or destroyed the relationship between man and that which he controlled.

Lance Evans wished in many ways that he had remained at the East Midlands Airport. The flying school there had already established its reputation. He wondered what it was like there now. Flyways had disrupted it. Morton and Hodges were just two examples of the talent which had been lured away. Had Lance stayed he would in all probability have been promoted to senior flying instructor within three years. Only his age would have prevented him from obtaining the appointment immediately. If he hadn't moved to Fradley though, he reflected wryly, he would never have met Pam. She'd come here from Elmdon. Morton had brought her. They'd been living together for six months up until they'd split up, a kind of trial marriage, the big man had told him once. Lance hadn't gone out of his way to break it up. It had just happened. After that a lot of things had backfired for the younger man. The mentor-protégé relationship between Morton and himself had developed into a kind of sly feud. Others had become involved. Tom Hodges was doing his best to work on Pam, taking advantage of overnight stops abroad. Reece Lingen, the airport manager, was subversively posting the stewardess on Hodges' planes; or so it seemed.

Evans drew hard on his king-size. Why the hell was everybody so concerned about Rob Morton's welfare? They weren't really when you took a long hard look at it. Pam could have had any man she wanted at Fradley, married or single. They all had their fantasies about her but it hurt their pride to see her with a youngster like himself. Break it up boys, and she's there for the taking. Kick that kid up the backside.

‘Hi!’

He started, almost dropping his cigarette. There she was, seating herself at his table, her claret uniform as immaculate as her long fair hair, blue eyes that rippled to match the smile on her lips. Carefree on the face of it; she would have made a good actress.

‘What's up, Lance?’ she grabbed his glass, took a sip and made a wry face. ‘Ugh, the beer here doesn't improve at all, like everything else.’

‘I'll get you a Bacardi,’ he half rose to his feet but she motioned him back.

‘Don't bother now. Drink up, if you can stand it, and let's get out of here.’

‘I was getting worried,’ he said, grinning his relief. ‘You're thirty-five minutes overdue. Bad day?’

‘So-so,’ she murmured, with a slight frown. ‘No worse than usual, I suppose, where Flyways are concerned. A spot of engine trouble at Brussels. Nothing serious, but Tom insisted on having it checked out by their mechanics. Whatever you say about him, he's on the ball. Most pilots either wouldn't have noticed it or else they would've waited until they got back to base. Not Tom.’

‘Been chatting you up again, has he?’ Jealousy flickered in his wide blue eyes. He forced a smile.

‘Trying to,’ she laughed. ‘He bought me a drink while we were waiting.’

‘This is the third week out of four that you've been listed on his flights. Lingen's behind it.’

‘So what, you're not going to get all jealous again, are you?’

‘I don't like it. It's a kind of conspiracy.’

‘Maybe, but it won't get them anywhere so let's play along with them, disappoint them. I'd sooner fly with Tom, anyway. He's one of the best pilots in the business. On the other hand,’ she added in a more serious tone. ‘I'd give anything to get back to Elmdon.’

‘I doubt whether they'd take back anybody who walked out on them for Flyways, the nouveau riche, the big new airport that's robbing all the others of staff and passengers, the South Sea Bubble of the eighties that'll burst before it reaches the nineties. At least, that's what everybody's saying, including the press.’

‘There's something about this area,’ Pamela Bridges instinctively lowered her voice. ‘Something you can't quite place. Almost as though it should never have been. It's so … so false!’

‘I know what you mean,’ he drained his glass but made no move to get up. ‘The whole set-up is too vast, it's grown too quickly, almost like a mushroom town on some newly discovered goldfield. Most other airports build up over the years, their reputations growing with them. Not Fradley. One minute it was a disused RAF airfield, the next its vying with Heathrow, or attempting to. They're trying to say that within ten years it'll be Britain's Number One. Looking at it from an outsider's point of view, you'd be inclined to believe that that just might happen. We know different. Everything's too rushed, too many things covered up. The hotel, for instance, it can't pay its way on cut-rates. Maybe it's just a stunt and shortly everything will come down to reality with a big bump but they're hoping that by then they'll have got the regular custom. I don't know, but if I was offered my old job back at the East Midlands I'd be there first thing tomorrow morning.’

‘It's not only the way the place is run,’ she was almost whispering now. ‘It's … it's the atmosphere. I can't really explain it. Almost as though … as though you're being … watched all the time, some hidden camera following your every move.’

‘I get that feeling, too. It's as if you're an intruder, a trespasser. I guess it isn't just us. A lot of other people here are experiencing it even if they don't consciously recognise it. There's some kind of tension around. Everybody's on edge, scared of their own shadow. Air Traffic Control is just living on its nerves. Some of the lads were talking and they reckon Stapleford is heading for a nervous breakdown. That really worries me. Suppose he went over the top before anybody realised it. You could have the biggest catastrophe in the history of aviation all around you. He was OK at Gatwick, one of the best at his job. Why the sudden change? Probably he doesn't even know himself.’

‘And how was Mr Carmichael today?’ she asked, trying to change the subject. Through the main glass doors she could see two men talking, Rob Morton and Tom Hodges. They were laughing about something and it made her feel uneasy.

‘A bloody nutcase.’ Lance Evans stubbed the remains of his cigarette viciously in the ashtray. ‘I've had some cases at East Midlands but none as bad as him. After eight hours' flying he knows the lot. It's what happens after the next two hours when he goes solo for the first time that worries me.’

‘Well, you won't be up there with him,’ she said abstractedly, seeing Morton and Hodges enter the mess. She knew that they had seen her, that they were discussing her in low tones.

‘No, but it'll be on my record if he goes and kills himself.’

‘Let's go,’ she said, standing up and swinging her bag on to her shoulder. With some relief she noted that the chief flying instructor and the big fair-haired pilot had mingled with the queue at the bar.

Outside the atmosphere was sultry. The sun was a hazy ball behind a bank of spreading dark cloud. There might be a thunderstorm later in the evening. Even the elements were tense. A wasp bellied on the faint breeze, made a U-turn, circled the couple and made off. She admired the ease with which it negotiated people and obstacles. Not even the fastest, most versatile aeroplane in existence could equal that. Man, in spite of his technology, was way behind Nature.

They made their way to the enclosure marked ‘Airport Staff’ on the perimeter of the vast open car park. A heat haze shimmered over the lines of parked vehicles.

Lance Evans was jangling his car keys in his hand, an unconscious sign of his eagerness to be away from Fradley. Then, as they approached the dark-blue Mini Clubman, he suddenly stopped.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ!’ he snapped.

‘Whatever's the matter, Lance?’

‘Just bloody well look at that!’

She followed his extended pointing finger, saw the flat nearside front tyre bulging beneath the weight of the vehicle. She groaned. It would happen today! Yesterday, tomorrow, wouldn't have been so bad. Tonight they were due to go to a party at John and Jane's.

Lance wasn't wasting any time. The hubcap clanked loudly on the tarmac, the nuts squeaked their protest at the use of the wheel brace, then the jack was groaning under the weight of the car. Pam's admiration for her boyfriend overcame her annoyance and frustration. There was nothing sham about his efficiency, the way he moved from one task to the next. It seemed only seconds until the Mini was creaking its way back down to ground level. It stood there, almost defiantly, like some alien creature that had been rudely awakened from a prolonged slumber.

‘That's it,’ Lance said, wiping his greasy hands on an oily rag. ‘No bother. One thing about these Minis -’

They both heard it, the soft expellation of air rising to a crescendo; saw the tyre on the newly fitted wheel begin to deflate and flatten, squashing outwards.

‘Oh, sod!’ He aimed a kick at the vehicle, struck it soundly on the nearside wing. With one final dying gasp the punctured tyre flattened and settled. ‘I bloody well ask you! One puncture in eighteen months and now I get two on the same bleeding day!’

‘Lance.’ Her face was pale, her hand shook. ‘I told you. It's this place. Fradley! There's something evil about it, just as though it should never have been built - as if we're being constantly thwarted by something!’

But Lance Evans wasn't listening. He was stalking away angrily in the direction of the services and maintenance depot, another customer service provided by the country's latest airport.

Pamela Bridges turned away, experienced a momentary feeling of panic. The air was stifling, thick and heavy as the increasing clouds filtered and humidified the heat of the sun behind them; tension that you could feel. She shivered in spite of the heat. The sky was darkening as the storm approached, clouds scurrying, mingling to form sinister, inexplicable shapes. Then came the first roll of thunder, distant yet prolonged, like the angry rumble of ancient gods of war bent on revenge against the paltry mortals who had dared to challenge their might.

Edgar Swain reflected with no small amount of satisfaction upon the irony of his overnight stay at the Fradley Airport Hotel. A tall balding man in his early sixties he had enjoyed a variety of roles throughout his life. Following a humble beginning working in one of the Old Hill foundries, he had progressed to farm labouring upon medical advice in an attempt to combat the persistent chest complaint with which he was plagued. Good fortune had smiled upon him in the form of a pools win which had enabled him to buy an adjoining farm and thus set him on the road to wealth.

Farming, however, was not in Edgar Swain's make-up and his own acreage eventually formed part of that which was converted into the wartime aerodrome. By various means, not a few devious, he eventually secured ownership of the whole airfield and after the war found it more profitable to become a warehouse landlord than a gentleman farmer. His original plan was to sell out and retire, which he did in due course, but following a visit one evening from Charles Whyte he was persuaded to invest most of his capital in the new airport. So far, as the American had promised, the returns were satisfactory.

Swain relaxed in an armchair, sipped a brandy, and surveyed the luxury of his room; a private bathroom and shower, television, delicately shaded lighting from four wall lamps, and a double bed that virtually swallowed you up when you clambered into it. Of course, not all the rooms were as exquisite as this one; royalty and heads of State would use this one in the future, no doubt.

Another brandy, and his uneasiness of the past few days began to fade. He should have demanded that Whyte flew here to talk to him, not agreed to a trip out to New York. Of course the consortium wanted more money; he had no idea how much. The American had not even hinted at a figure, merely referred to a proposed plan for further expansion. Swain had to admire them. From a standing start it had become one of the big airports within three years, and now they were already talking of more runways, another terminal. That meant that things were going a lot better than he'd thought. The balance sheet at the last directors' meeting in February had shown a loss, quite a considerable one.

‘But of course we shall make a loss in the first few years,’ said Whyte. His cigar ash had spilled all over the duplicated sheets of figures as though in a deliberate act of contempt for the accountants who had drawn them up. ‘We shall make a loss next year, on paper, and the following year we shall show a small profit.’

Edgar Swain had sat there with puckered brows. All this was a bit out of his depth. Only last week he had handed his bankers a cheque for $10,000 to negotiate. He struggled with some mental calculations. Five thousand quid. He had invested fifty grand in this project. There was a long way to go yet. And now they were after more money.

By the time he was on his third brandy he wasn't sure whether he was going to play ball or not. If they hadn't already got their hands on so much of his capital, he definitely wouldn't. It seemed like a case of throwing good money after bad. Maybe he could try playing hard up. He didn't think they'd believe him.

He crossed to the window and stared across towards the main runway and terminal. A Boeing 707 was just coming in to land. Its deafening noise stirred his blood, made him feel quite heady. He was an integral part of all this noisy splendour. Without his help it might never have happened; the old tumble-down hangars would still be here, learner drivers using the mossy runways. He had altered destiny, changed a landscape, written his name on a chunk of his country's heritage, a far cry from welding chain in a Black Country foundry. A warm glow engulfed him as he stood watching the late evening sun winning its battle against the remnants of the storm clouds, sparkling on the puddles on the car park. A little bit of luck had figured here and there, but basically one word summed up his present position. Success.

This hotel was a monument built to commemorate his rise. His name should have been carved on one of the foundation stones in the same way that one of the city garage owners had left his for posterity. Edgar Swain, 1921-19… Hell, no, 20… He was here for a lot longer yet.

Of all the splendour laid out in front of him he liked the hotel best. It embodied everything befitting a man of his status. Funny, he laughed softly, a kind of slurred wheeze, this was exactly where the old control tower had stood. His thoughts went back to that round building with its crumbling stone steps going up to the upper compartment. The RAF hadn't even built that; their efforts were confined to unsightly edifices of wood and corrugated sheeting. It had been a windmill in the old days. He'd once thought of preserving it when he first bought the farm. Instead, he had watched it deteriorate, even using pieces of the rotting sails for kindling wood as they fell to pieces. Windmills were unique nowadays, fetched a good price. Maybe the Yanks would have bought it for a small fortune and shipped it home to resurrect it on some plot of New York suburbia. That was immaterial now, though. Nothing could compare with the grandeur of the hotel. He determined that when he spoke to Whyte one of his demands would be a plaque to himself somewhere in this building, preferably the foyer. If, and only if, his request was granted, would he agree to invest some more of his capital.

He wondered about the extension. In order to expand, it would be necessary to purchase more land. Two or three grand an acre was sure to be the asking price, and the only suitable site for more runways would be old Teddy Williams's farm. Teddy was a bad-tempered old swine; they'd never got on, even in the days when they were neighbouring farmers. The boundary fence had always been a source of trouble. Swain could never understand why the wire was always breaking when elsewhere on the farm a minimum amount of maintenance was necessary. He had his suspicions that the old boy used to cut it periodically to gain some free grazing for his stock until they were noticed.

Williams had been one of the main objectors to the airport from the very day the land had been sold to Flyways. But it hadn't done him any good. Like all the rest of those whining villagers he'd had to concede defeat in the end. It remained to be seen what he'd do when an offer was made to him for his farm. Certainly he'd refuse at first, stand haughtily on principle and eff and blind in his usual way, but overall money was his god. He'd sell, all right.

Swain watched dusk turn to darkness, thrilled to the glare of artificial lighting that drove the darkness back from the runways, and experienced a sense of euphoria as the 707 roared from the tarmac like some mighty prehistoric nocturnal bird of prey. With the echoes of its departure still ringing in his ears he turned back to the room and contemplated with relish the dinner which would be served in an hour or so in the number one dining room. A menu lay on the bedside table. He picked it up, scrutinised it carefully, and decided to make his choice leisurely beneath the Aquilisa shower.

His naked body glowed as the warm water sprayed on to it. He closed his eyes and wondered about taking a bath as well, total relaxation. Roast snipe on toast as a starter. Locally shot pheasant or partridge with French fries for the main course (he hadn't fully decided which species yet). Wine, naturally. Damn them, they'd forgotten to leave a wine list in the bedroom. Inefficiency that might go unnoticed by the average guest but unlikely to be overlooked by the kind staying in this suite. He'd let Whyte deal with it, give the airport general manager a good rollicking to pass on down the line, a few asses getting kicked on the way.

Pangs of hunger were already gnawing like rodents inside his stomach and the saliva was running at the prospect of the pheasant he had now chosen. He had just decided not to waste time with a bath when he heard somebody moving about in his bedroom. He turned the shower off and listened.

Shuffling footsteps, a grunt of irritation. Edgar Swain reached for a towel and began to dry himself as quietly as he could. He'd have to put some clothes on before he went through to confront whoever it was. It could all be quite innocuous, one of the domestic staff come in to turn back the bed covers. He couldn't very well confront a young girl in the nude! It might even be the wine waiter hoping that his earlier omission to leave a list had not yet been noticed. But, of course, it might be a thief thinking that the occupant of room 111 had gone down to dinner. And tackling anybody in a state of total undress always put one at a strong disadvantage.

Swain was trembling as he pulled on shirt and trousers, and had difficulty with the fastener, cursed, and eventually found the clip. He stepped barefooted across the thickly carpeted bathroom and just as his fingers closed over the door handle the lights suddenly went out.

He froze into immobility and glanced around, a tiny sensation of fear beginning somewhere deep inside him. After a few seconds his eyes adjusted to the orange-coloured gloom. On Fradley Airport the blackness of night which cloaked the rest of the countryside was unknown. Brilliant artificial lighting, brighter than daylight, flooded the main areas and only on the outskirts were the shadows allowed to gather.

Slowly Edgar Swain eased the intersecting door open. His breathing was shallow and he could hear the beating of his own heart. The door which opened on to the landing was closed and his first thought was that the bedroom was empty, that he had been mistaken and the movements had come from one of the adjoining rooms. Then he saw the light, a thin shaft of white that cut through the orange glow from the curtained window and sprayed an uneven circle on the thick carpet pile by the bed. He stared, his wide eyes following the beam back across the room until he could make out the silhouette of a man standing in the corner.

Edgar Swain's mouth opened, his lips formed mute unintelligible words and his fear mounted. There was no doubt in his numbed brain that he was face to face with a burglar, a professional criminal who had successfully fused the lights in order to cloak his nefarious activities.

The intruder was short and stocky and dressed in some kind of uniform. On his head he wore a leather flying cap, the flaps unfastened and brushing his shoulders. Gauntlets covered the hands, heavy boots laced tightly. Goggles were pushed up on to the forehead. Swain took in every detail. Except the face which was indiscernible, bathed in shadow.

The gloved hand holding the tiny torch moved, elevated the beam and brought it to bear directly in Swain's eyes. He grunted and threw up his hands in an attempt to shut out the dazzling white light. Somehow it penetrated his closed fingers, searing his eyeballs until he was forced to turn his head away.

‘Hey!’ His voice was hoarse, a croak that was more pleading than reprimand. ‘Turn that thing off, for Christ's sake!’

The torch beam dropped a few inches, sprayed on his shirt front like some juvenile slide projector. Swain tried to focus his gaze above the blinding shaft but still the other's face remained in shadow. That first glimmering of fear was now turning to stark terror. The room was deathly cold and suddenly he became aware of the silence. A large airport is never devoid of sound. Planes are constantly taking off and landing, people talking, shouting, laughing. Outside there was not so much as a whisper to be heard. Nothing. It was as though the world had suddenly died. Except himself and this mute stranger.

The other was speaking. At least Swain presumed that he was, because his own head was filled with words that seemed to come at him from every direction and yet from nowhere in particular; whispers that were harsh and grating to the ear, barely resembling the human voice but managing to convey their meaning, toneless, devoid of emotion like some ancient and scratched record being played by a wind-up gramophone with a rusty needle, the speed varying, slowing, speeding, slowing again.

Edgar Swain stood transfixed, seeing the outline behind the glare of the tiny torch, recognising the very style of the uniform as that belonging to a member of the USAF. He had been familiar with these airmen during the time that Fradley was used as a base. There was no doubt in his mind. But he needed to see the face to be sure, wanted to know if it was possible to recognise it … whether this man was alive or dead, maybe somebody he had once known.

They are still here. You will never get rid of them.

‘Who? For God's sake, who?’

Them. The Old Priests. To gaze on their faces is death although they'll probably kill you all, anyway.

‘I don't believe you. You're making it all up … lying, because I've caught you in my room.’

I don't need to lie. I just have to keep on searching. For what, I don't know. They did this to me, not content with just killing me. They have denied me eternal peace.

‘You can't be dead. You wouldn't be here if you were,’ Swain's voice tailed off as a lump formed in his throat. He was shaking with terror. This man, his voice which seemed to come from everywhere and yet nowhere in particular, there was something vaguely familiar about him; like a screen or radio star whom you see or hear again after years of absence. Particularly in the case of radio it can take you a few minutes to identify them. Now he struggled to place his unwelcome visitor. Clue one: an airman. Clue two: an American, by his uniform and accent. Oh, God, let me see the face!

You really want to look upon me?

Edgar Swain started. The other had read his thoughts. No, more likely it was just a guess; you catch any prowler and the first thing you want is a look at their face. This was some kind of hoax. A sick practical joke probably thought up by the villagers in an attempt to gain revenge after having been thwarted in their efforts to stop the airport from being built; maybe even to start a mass scare that it was haunted.

‘You're a damned fake!’ Swain's newly found anger was starting to overcome his earlier fear, dispelling it fast. He was ashamed of himself for those few moments of weakness when he had actually been convinced that he was face to face with the dead. He wasn't usually so gullible, it was simply that the fellow had taken him by surprise. ‘You're from the village, sent by Hartley Lowe to try and scare the shit out of me. Come on, let's see your face. Once I've recognised you I'm going to call the police and have you charged with breaking and entering. You'll have plenty of time to reflect upon your sick joke in gaol!’

To look upon my face is death, also. Just as those who gaze upon the old priests die. Like I did. I, too, am one of the cursed now, sentenced to wander for the rest of time, searching hopelessly for something which I shall never find. That will be your fate, also. The choice is yours.

‘Damn your cheek! Come on, let's have a look at you.’

So be it. You have only yourself to blame.

The arm which held the torch swung upwards in a slow arc, the beam focused directly on the features beneath the stiff and cracked leather of the old flying helmet. Swain stared, recognition coming slowly, some faint distant memory being forcibly recalled from the dim past, going back forty years; the wide forehead, eyes staring, reflecting a permanent inner fear, the broad nose broken in two places and never reset. A slim moustache, the hairs giving the impression of being colourless, the lips thick and bloodless, the jaw square and jutting yet lacking the determination which had initially moulded it. The overall expression was one of sheer hopelessness, that of one resigned to some terrible unspeakable fate.

You know me now. You remember those occasions when we met and talked when you came to the airfield.

Swain recoiled, trying to jerk his eyes away but they were held fast in some kind of hypnotic trance. The jigsaw came together in his brain with a shattering jerk like someone who has just recognised a police identikit picture, tautening every nerve, shattering logic, screaming the unbelievable truth.

The torch was still focused on the pallid face, accentuating the malevolence which was impregnated in it. The stamp of evil was all too evident, branded by the ancient ones who controlled the body, mocking the eternal peace of death and the laws of life.

‘I know you … they used to call you the “Mad Mullah”.’

A faint smile twitched those bloodless lips for a fraction of a second and then was gone. The eyes flickered once, a brief expression of sadness and regret like a man compelled to take his place in a firing squad, aware that he must help to take a life against his will, knowing there is no alternative and resigning himself to it.

You asked to look upon my face. You know who I am now. I am Wilson!

Edgar Swain's vision was distorted, blurred, blazing with the brightness of burning flames. He smelled the smoke, acrid and choking in his nostrils. No longer could he see the face of pilot Wilson, the one they called the ‘Mad Mullah’. Instead he saw the old airfield, the concrete runway and control tower illuminated by the crackling flames from a smashed and blazing aircraft, crowds of people standing by helplessly.

A man was screaming, trapped in the cockpit. For one brief moment his face appeared over the smoke-blackened wreckage, sheer terror on his features. His small moustache was on fire, the tongues of flame licking at his nostrils as he frantically tried to smother them. Nobody could hear him; they did not even notice him. Only Edgar Swain.

It was Wilson, all right, no doubt about that. He mouthed words that were drowned in the roar of the fire. Don't look at my face. For God's sake, don't look!

Swain felt himself falling, the blackness coming at him, checking a second, forcing him to take one final look at the tortured expression of Wilson.

You looked. It's too late now.

Consciousness was slipping from him. One last sensation, a vile choking pungent smell, the stench of burning human flesh.

Then nothing.

II: 2 - ORDEAL BY FIRE

There was an atmosphere of tension in the small room on the 43rd floor of the towering block of apartments. The air conditioning system was struggling to cope with the midday heat, and far below even the New York traffic seemed to have slowed.

Four men sat at the table in the centre, rolled shirt sleeves and open necks failing to stem the steady ooze of perspiration. Empty beer cans littered the table's surface. Even Charles Whyte had forsaken his usual brandy for something more cooling.

‘Hell, it couldn't've happened at a worse time,’ Whyte groaned, closed his eyes, and for once the motor which powered him seemed to be faltering. ‘Swain was all set to chip some more into the kitty and then he goes and has a heart attack and snuffs it! Another forty-eight hours and we'd've had it all sewn up.’

‘Yeah, but Fradley isn't solely dependent on Swain,’ Phil Warboys cut in. ‘Sod it, he was peanuts really. Useful but not indispensable.’

‘You gonna throw in another hundred grand?’ Whyte glared at him, giving the impression of an angry and frustrated frog that has just discovered that its muddy pool has dried up.

‘Look, you know I can't. The bank are pushing me as it is. Summer's never the best nightclub season. Another couple of months and business will pick up.’

‘Yeah,’ Roger Warboys agreed half-heartedly, wiping the sweat from his forehead again. ‘Our cash flow always makes an upsurge in October. Until then we just have to bide our time.’

‘We don't have time.’ Whyte chewed hard on the saturated butt of a dead cigar. ‘Only cash buys time, and we're running out of that fast, too. The Bank of New York has drawn the line and the backers are pressing us for some return for their money. Sure, we could pay them a dividend and stall them for a time but that will curb any extension plans.’

‘Do we really need to extend at present?’ The fourth man who had so far remained silent spoke with a quiet London accent. In his late thirties he was slightly overweight, his thinning fair hair hanging damply in a fringe on his forehead. Eyes that missed nothing, shrewd in every deal he negotiated, Frank Weston had so far remained in the background of this syndicate. ‘I mean, we can manage for a while, see how things go.’

‘No, Frank,’ Whyte smashed the remains of his wet cigar into the nearest ashtray. ‘At the moment we're presenting a headache to the other big airports. Both Heathrow and Gatwick have announced expansion plans. That way they'll draw ahead of us. This is literally a rat race. One with a difference. You don't just have to keep level with your rivals, you have to get ahead of them. We took 'em all by surprise, just like Laker did in the seventies. Now they're trying to overtake us, go so big that we don't stand a chance in hell of getting back into the running. If we don't get there first, we've had it. We'll just be another second-rate airport struggling to make ends meet whilst the others rake it in. New backers won't take us on. I've tried. They're sitting back waiting to see what happens to those who put their money in first.’

‘What about our external account? Won't the British bankers oblige?’ Weston asked.

‘I've thought of that,’ Whyte tapped a pencil meditatively on his front teeth. ‘They financed the running costs against the deeds of the land quite happily.’

‘Well, expansion is running costs. You have to expand so that you can keep going.’

‘Sure. I checked on the British bank rate this morning. Eighteen. The commercial banks are lending at two over. Twenty would really thump us. They've got a big squeeze on at present.’

‘I'll make you a deal,’ Weston spoke slowly, a hint of a smile on his lips that vanished almost immediately.

‘Yeah?’ Whyte was tensing in every muscle, a wild animal sensing a trap. ‘Let's hear it. The suggestion box is open to all and sundry.’

‘OK,’ Frank Weston glanced at all three of them. ‘I won't beat about the bush. Sell me the airport hotel and let my company take over the running of it. Nobody need ever know it's changed hands. That way you'll get the extra cash you need.’

‘And you'll add yet another hotel to your chain,’ Whyte murmured. ‘Where's the catch?’

‘There, isn't one. It's a straight offer. I just want the hotel.’

‘But you're not prepared to advance the cash without it?’

‘No way. I'm a businessman, same as you, Chuck. You've got nothing to lose and everything to gain.’

‘I see.’ Charles Whyte looked at the Warboys brothers. ‘Well, we're all here, so we can vote on it. What d'you guys think?’

‘I think it's a good idea,’ Phil nodded. ‘in principle, anyway.’

‘Providing the price is right,’ Roger added.

‘Of course. We wouldn't sell otherwise,’ said Whyte with a smile, hoping that the others didn't notice that the fingers which selected a new cigar from the cedar wood box in front of him shook slightly. ‘The vote appears to have been carried unanimously, Frank. We now have to agree on a figure and I guess we're all in business.’

Edgar Swain was not mentioned again throughout the meeting. His usefulness had died with him. His invested capital would remain the property of Flyways Ltd. Whyte had persuaded him to add a codicil to that effect in his will.

Phil Warboys was uneasy when he retired to his hotel bedroom later that night. His brother was staying over at Whyte's place but Phil had opted to book a room in town, offering as an excuse that he needed to be up early to catch the seven o'clock flight back to Fradley. He wanted to be away from them all for a few hours, to mull over a few things. It was no good talking to Roger; his brother was wildly enthusiastic about today's deal, but for Phil it was too smooth, too easy. Weston had put forward the idea and it had been immediately accepted.

He winced at his own weakness in voting with the others instead of against them; not that the outcome would have been any different for Whyte would have cast the deciding vote. All the same he should have stood against them, let his objections be known. He was no better than a shop-floor factory worker going along with the unions just because all his workmates had the flocking tendencies of sheep. He had even said it was a good idea.

Phil told himself that he lacked guts and derived some satisfaction from the courage of his admission. He poured a stiff whisky from a decanter on the table, sat on the edge of the bed, and attempted to work things out in his own mind.

First, he neither liked nor trusted Frank Weston. He'd known the guy for several years, watched his progress from a terraced-type boarding house in Southend, via two blocks of holiday flats, to the plush chain of five-star hotels which had made him his first million. Phil was sure the other had to have been making money on something else as well, maybe a call girl racket, even drugs. If he was, then it never came to light and he certainly didn't need to chance his luck with anything illegal now. He'd made it. And neither did he need the airport hotel. Prestige? Maybe, but if it was still run under the name of Flyways then it wasn't going to be one of Frank's showpieces, just a few more nickels in his vast coffers. It didn't add up.

Phil had a sense of foreboding. The news of Swain's death hadn't been a good start to the day. Probably the others hadn't given it any more thought than just that it was an inconvenience, a temporary setback to their plans. Phil couldn't give a damn about Edgar Swain, whether he lived or died; it was the manner of his dying that left an unpleasant taste in the mouth … in the bloody hotel of all places! What the hell had he wanted to book in there for when he lived only a matter of a dozen or so miles away? Gloating, self-satisfaction, a night to savour his success and look out upon his empire from his bedroom window? Possibly. Or had some strange inexplicable force lured him there to kill him?

Phil Warboys glanced about him uneasily, swallowed uncontrollably. He took a generous swig of whisky and noticed how his hand trembled. Damnation, this whole business was getting on everybody's nerves. Even Whyte was keyed up. If they didn't snap out of it soon they were headed for disaster. They were all at breaking point.

Pull yourself together, you stupid sod. He drained his glass, walked across the room and refilled it, walked back unsteadily to the bed and slopped some of his drink as he sat down. There is nothing whatever to worry about. Get it? There … is … nothing … to … worry … about. Fine. But there's a homicidal maniac on the loose around Fradley! Sure there is, and he killed a boy on the airfield, and they've never found him. But that was over three years ago; he's probably not around any more. The police said it had all the marks of a ritual killing. Shit, people are getting carved up every day somewhere in the world just because somebody takes a dislike to them. What about Edgar Swain? Well, he wasn't … sacrificed. Death from natural causes. You're presuming, there hasn't even been an inquest yet. The old bugger would probably have died wherever he was staying. Would he? Of course he bloody well would. Oh, Jesus Christ Almighty!

He looked at his watch. 1.20am. Time had flown on the wings of fear. His mouth felt dry in spite of the whisky he had consumed; it hadn't calmed his nerves at all. If anything he was a thousand times more edgy.

Phil Warboys began to undo his shirt buttons, then stopped after two. There was nothing to prevent him walking right out of here now, making his way across to the airport and taking the first plane out for Fradley. Nothing at all, except … Christ, he sure was in a bad way if he let it get him like that! Let what get him? He couldn't rightly say. Just edgy. Overwork. Maybe when he got home he'd give the doctor a ring. It was sure to be valium again, like three years ago when things had really got on top of him. No, show 'em who's boss, what you're made of. Ride it on your own.

With a determined effort he finished undoing his shirt and pulled it off. A few hours' sleep was probably the best remedy right now. His overnight holdall was still zipped up. He pulled a wry face, conceded to his inner fears once again. Don't bother getting undressed. Just lie on top of the bed as you are (easier to jump up and run like that). Laziness, that was his trouble; couldn't be bothered to take his clothes off. Why not leave the light on all night? Bloody idiot, you'll be buying kids' nightlights next or a dinky little glow-worm torch that gives a faint blue light all night to scare the bogeyman off.

Strewth! Angrily he reached up and tugged the light pull above his head. Immediately the room was plunged into the semi-gloom of a big city night. In the same instant he felt the length of cord tauten and snap, snake in the air and fall coiled across his face and chest. Feverishly, giving way to a sudden panic, he grabbed it and threw it from him, hearing it hit the opposite wall. The White Hunter had thrown off the deadly Black Mamba seconds before it struck. But it had scared him badly.

His naked torso was bathed in sweat. That was because the room was stifling hot after a typical New York midsummer's day. Open the window then. A second of rigid fear at the thought, forcibly trying to relax. No, don't bother; you're too tired. Try and get some sleep. You need it.

For a long time he lay looking up at the orange glow on the ceiling that the flimsy curtains were unable to shut out. Night never really came in New York. Just as well for those who are scared of the dark. No, not the dark, the things that darkness hides. Like what? There was no answer to that one. Just kids' bogeymen that didn't exist except in their own minds … like Phil Warboys's mind. Hell, he was getting childish.

Sleep which had been so evasive at last began to surrender itself to him. The orange glow dimmed. Night did sometimes happen in New York then. A kind of darkness, more of a greyness, like a creeping mist. He closed his eyes. His breathing was back to normal, he felt easier. Almost asleep. Don't think about it. Relax, it'll soon be morning.

Night-time. Somewhere, not New York. An airport, though. Fradley, where else? There was no mistaking it, the hotel, the terminal, Air Traffic Control like some hideous twenty-first-century office block. The big runway. No, not the present main one. A bigger one, far bigger, emblazoned with floodlighting, a DC-10 just arrived. Crazy, but that was what success was all about, going one better than anybody else. Flyways had even put Heathrow in the shade this time.

Warboys tried to work out where he was standing. Somewhere over by the old ATC building or was it Terminal Three? It didn't matter, he had a splendid view. Crowds. Maybe there was some external trouble, continental airport disputes that were holding everything up. Or just a bank holiday rush. Whichever, business was good. The bank could stick their twenty per cent right up their … There was something wrong over by the big aircraft. Police cordons, ambulances standing by in readiness. Armed police!

A hi-jack!

It had to happen some time. Nowadays it was like a contagious disease, spreading across the globe. A real killer if it got you, happening when you least expected it.

Phil Warboys was scared to hell. A helpless onlooker, one of the crowd which the police were trying to keep back. He raised himself up, trying to see over the heads of the people in front of him. A foreign-looking guy was conversing from the gangway with a police spokesman below. Both were shaking their heads, spreading their hands in a gesture of despair. Stalemate. It could go on for hours, days.

The watchers were pushed still further back. One didn't need an interpreter to understand the scenario. The dark-skinned men on the DC-10 were demanding a pilot to fly them out somewhere. They had a bomb and were threatening to blow themselves, the plane, and its passengers up if their demands were not met.

Time passed. More consultations. Then sudden panic. The police were trying to clear the airport fast. The series of events had escalated, were out of control.

Then, without warning, came the blinding explosion, orange and white flame shooting high into the night sky, burning debris falling everywhere; smouldering pieces of wreckage flaring up, the blaze spreading, fire and ambulance crews driven back. Mass hysteria. Only Phil Warboys did not move. He couldn't, every muscle and limb in his body was paralysed. He just stood there, people rushing past him, the intense heat fanning his face, his eyes streaming so that the scene around him was distorted.

Suddenly the whole airport was deserted. Firefighters, helpers, spectators had abandoned a lost cause. Warboys tried to shout, to scream, but no words came as his vocal chords refused to function. Nobody realised he was here. They had left him to be cremated alive along with the bodies in the aircraft. This was hell, the real hell, the one they'd tried to frighten him with as a kid. It did exist, after all.

Movements, people coming out of the flickering shadows beyond the flames. Sudden hope flooded over Warboys. He tried to shout, afraid that they would not notice him, but it was impossible. A dozen or more shapes materialised, came forward fifteen or twenty yards, then stopped. Watching. Just watching.

I'm here. Oh, God, help me! He knew the words had not left his mouth, but it shouldn't have mattered. They must have seen him standing out here in the open. Minutes passed and despair flooded back. Either they hadn't noticed him or else they were choosing to ignore him. He tried to turn his head so that he could see them properly but his neck muscles refused to move. His view of them was a sideways one that strained his eyeballs and hurt them.

It was then he realised that something was dreadfully wrong. He had expected to see police, firemen; possibly even gangs of looters returning to the scene before law and order took over. Instead he saw a line of shuffling cloaked figures, cowls hiding their faces except for the occasional glimpse of wizened distorted features that could scarcely be termed human!

The shock sent a searing pain into his heart. For one moment he thought he was going to collapse but the agony passed and left him trembling, legs weak yet miraculously supporting the weight of his body. His instinct was to turn away, close his eyes, but it was as though some irresistible force compelled him to watch.

Where was everybody else? Who were these cloaked intruders? The questions went unanswered. They were moving slowly towards him now, bunching ominously. He jerked his head away. He didn't want to look, didn't want to see the faces beneath those cowls. Somewhere inside him a tiny voice was screaming at him to run. Run, Run. Now, before it's too late!

I can't!

You can. Run!

Unbelievably, his feet were moving, dragging his body forward. He dared not look back but he knew that the ghoulish army was close behind him, withered hands with broken filthy fingernails reaching out for him, mouths twisted into foul obscenities which were lost in the noise of the blazing aircraft.

The heat was intense, burning, scorching his body. It was only then that he realised that he was heading towards the blaze! He faltered, stopped, glanced behind him. They were still coming, pawing the air in their eagerness to get him, screaming their mute hatred!

There was no going back; far better to face the terrors of the flames than have his very soul destroyed by these fiends from hell. This was hell. He was sure of it. Before him the eternal fires of damnation, behind him … Oh, God, there was no knowing what was at his heels.

The heat was insufferable, his clothes beginning to smoulder, his eyes streaming, the tears being immediately scorched up. He couldn't breathe. One half-glance over his shoulder; scaly fingers brushed his jacket, failed to find a grip.

He leaped forward, screaming both terror and defiance, hearing the thwarted shrieks of his ungodly pursuers; stumbled, clothes bursting into flames, the flesh beneath shrivelling and blackening, hissing. He should have died immediately, but for some reason he didn't. Of course, this was Hades and he was one of the damned. He sank down weeping. This was how it would be forever more, the crazed heat, those unspeakable things mocking him as he roasted. And he was not going to be allowed to die!

His eyes closed, somehow managed to shut out the leaping yellow flames. He was writhing, kicking, parched throat croaking his curses. But it was cooler now. He was sweating, too, his body lathered; it wasn't dried up any more.

It was some time before he dared to look around him, gasping his relief aloud when he recognised the small oblong of his New York bedroom, the soft glow of the city seeping in through the thin curtains. The air was thick and heavy, stale with the lack of oxygen.

Phil Warboys leaped from the bed, found the light switch by the door, and flooded the room with harsh white light. His whole body was shaking as he staggered across and opened the window, found a lager in almost the same movement and popped the can, tipping the contents straight into his parched mouth,

Christ, that had been a bad one! He hardly dared to reflect upon the figments of his tortured mind, still feeling the searing heat, trying to shut out the memory of those hideous creatures, things which had no right to be on this earth.

He'd been leading up to it all day, the climbing tension and unease had to find a safety valve somewhere. He should have felt better now that it was all over (was it?) but he didn't. His head ached abominably, the sweat still flowed from his pores. He checked his watch. 3.20 am.

He wasn't going to risk sleep again. Finding his cigarettes he lit one and sat on the edge of the bed waiting for daylight. That sense of foreboding hadn't left him yet.

Warboys sensed that there was something wrong even before the DC-10 touched down on Runway One at Fradley. His nerves tautened as though bracing his body. Not just anticipation; clairvoyant. A human computer that worked one step ahead of his brain.

It was the hotel! He saw the fire engine, the waiting ambulance, from the gangway. Panic started to build up. He wanted to run. Anywhere. Flee before the holocaust happened, escape from those nightmarish cowled creatures which would materialise out of the flames. But he couldn't. Even as a Flyways director he had to wait his turn, pass through the customs; just a formality, but one that could mean the difference between life and death. It was all he could do to stop himself from screaming What's happening? Will somebody tell me what the hell's going on?

He went straight to Reece Lingen's office, found the airport manager on the phone and had to wait again. Valuable seconds that clocked up three minutes.

‘Ah Mr Warboys, sir …’

‘What's happened? That fire engine, the ambulance …’

‘I'm sorry, sir, there's been some trouble. A fire broke out on the third floor of the hotel. Fortunately, although the whole floor was ablaze, the firemen managed to contain it and finally bring it under control. Probably a wiring fault but we won't know until they've checked. One casualty, I'm afraid. A woman in Room 94 was trapped. No way could anybody get near. Eventually, she jumped. Her clothes were on fire. The impact killed her. I didn't see it myself.’ He added beneath his breath, ‘Thank God!’

Warboys crossed to the window. From here he had an unrestricted view of the airport hotel. Apart from some blackening around the exterior of a couple of third-floor windows there was little to show that anything untoward had occurred. Within a fortnight the floor would have been restored and life would revert to normal. If it ever could be normal at Fradley.

Lingen was saying something but Warboys was not listening. He knew how that woman had felt; how he himself had felt last night. The heat, the pain, the terror - those disciples of death. The occupant of Room 94 had leapt, hoping for life or praying for death? Not daring to look back.

Phil Warboys stood watching the firemen rolling up a hose. To them it was just another job. They didn't know, couldn't be expected to. Perhaps it was as well.

He smiled softly to himself. He was glad now that he had voted with the others yesterday, signed the hotel over to Weston. That wasn't enough, though. None of them would get any peace of mind until they'd got rid of the whole airport. It was a cesspool of evil and they were all caught up in it. Sooner or later it would drag them down into its foul depths. And they were helpless to fight against it.

II: 3 - UNSEEN FORCES

‘According to the press, Fradley is the “Jinxed Airport”,’ said Lance Evans, tossing the newspaper across the table to Pamela Bridges.

She scanned the leader article, sipping her coffee at the same time. Neither of them were conversationalists before about 8.30 any morning. It was not in their make-up: they hated a new day until it was well under way, whatever prospects it might hold for them.

‘Carmichael's going up on his own today,’ Lance voiced his thoughts, and then wished he hadn't. Pam was getting nervy; he could see the stress building up in her day by day. That fire at the hotel couldn't have happened at a worse time; they'd been on their way to the staff car park when the woman had jumped. They'd seen her, a blazing rag doll, heard her screams, the crunch as she hit the concrete.

‘Can't you stop him?’

‘Not a chance. After ten hours' flying anybody can go solo. Carmichael included. The bastard doesn't like me anyway. Good as told me I didn't know how to handle a plane.’

‘Cheeky sod!’

‘My hands are tied. If I try to stop him he'll complain to Morton, maybe even higher. He'll get his solo. Frankly, I couldn't care less if he breaks his flaming neck. I just hope to God that he doesn't involve anybody else in his disaster.’

‘Like coming down on the school?’

‘Exactly. He's daft enough to try and land in their playing field just to show everybody what he can do.’

‘Lance …’ there was concern on her face, her hands crushing a paper tissue as though she was intent on pulping it ‘… you know that St Christopher you bought me … the week we moved in together?’

‘Sure.’ A nine carat gold one that was always suspended around her neck. Lately it had become an obsession with her; she never removed it. ‘Why?’

‘I … I can't find it.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I can't understand it. I was wearing it when I checked out yesterday. I didn't notice it was missing until I was getting ready for bed.’

‘It's probably in the car.’

‘I've looked.’

‘I'll have another search.’

‘Don't bother, Lance.’ There was irritation in her voice. ‘I know it's not there. I … I think it disappeared when … when the fire … that woman …’

‘Steady on,’ he said, getting to his feet and coming round the table to her. ‘You're working yourself up into a state. You're not fit to go to work. Go back to bed. I'll tell Hodges when I get to the airport.’

‘No!’ she was virtually screaming. ‘I'm going to work!’

‘Can't you bear the thought of a day without seeing either Tom or Rob?’ His voice hardened and the fingers which had been encircling her wrist tightened their grip. ‘Maybe you're having second thoughts about breaking off with Rob?’

‘How dare you!’ Her free hand shot up towards his face but he caught it in time. ‘Let go of me, you're hurting me.’

‘I'm not going to let go of you.’ His lips tightened. ‘Because you're not well enough to be left on your own. I'm going to put you to bed, ring the airport and tell them that we're both down with a stomach upset. Then we'll spend the rest of today sorting things out.’

‘There's nothing to sort out. I'm not ill, and I'm not going to be treated like a child. Now, let me go and we'll both get ready for work.’

He hesitated, undecided. He'd never doubted her before, but suddenly suspicions were beginning to grow in his mind. Morton and Hodges were cronies, two of a kind. They were cunning enough to be playing a deep game between them. Certainly Rob would encourage Tom where Pam was concerned; anything to get back at Lance Evans. There had been several insignificant little things during the past few weeks: Pam was posted regularly on Tom's flights. Administration was to blame for that. Reece Lingen was hardly the kind to encourage an affair between a pilot and a stewardess, but it could have been subtly arranged by Hodges. You know something, Reece - they had been on christian name terms for a long time now -that Bridges girl is an A1 stewardess. It's nice to know you've got somebody on board like her if anything went wrong. I'd appreciate having her on my flights as much as possible, if you can arrange it. Don't let me interfere with your system, though … Lingen wouldn't see through it, he wasn't the type. Those overnight stops on the continent … Lance only had Pam's word for it that she had slept in a room on her own.

He felt anger rising. She had slept around in her time: she made no secret of it to him, her frank detailed confessions could arouse him at any time. Except now! Smatterings came back to him: the West Indian who had seduced her at Clive Hansford's party when she was working at Elmdon. She laughed about it. She'd gone there with Morton, but he'd ended up too drunk even to miss her for half an hour. There was no hint of a split between her and Rob then. The little bitch would be quite capable of doing the same across himself. She couldn't get enough; one man was as good as the next.

‘Damn you!’ he snarled. Blind rage was taking over. He didn't love her, he hated her. It was one big hoax, they were all in it at Fradley. He was the stooge. The joke of the decade, they were all laughing themselves silly. Go and fuck Baby Face, sweetheart. Show him a trick or two, make a man out of him! Keep us informed on your progress.

Lance released his hold on her, clenched his fist. His muscles bulged, the veins in his neck swelled. He wanted to drive his knuckles into her face, smash her nose and teeth, pull some of her hair out by the roots; then rip her uniform, straddle her on the floor. Rape her! See how much she could take, how much of a nympho she really was. Then she could go back to Hodges. Or Morton. She'd never be able to erase the memory of what had happened. It would haunt her at every screw. Oh, God, he'd have his revenge on the lot of them. Starting with her!

His fist was drawn back to strike the first disfiguring blow when something checked him. Not his conscience, more like a safety valve somewhere inside him which suddenly took the pressure. His arm fell to his side.

‘I'm sorry.’ He turned his head so that he did not have to meet her gaze. ‘I don't know what came over me.’

She straightened her uniform, rubbed her wrists tenderly. She knew he'd been going to hit her, seen his rage at bursting point. She felt sick and shaken. He was shattered, too.

‘I'm sorry, too,’ she whispered. ‘It was stupid of me going off like that. It's just … oh, Lance, we've both felt it before, some kind of force that gets inside you, controls you. It's never been as bad as this previously though.’

‘No,’ he sighed. ‘I guess not. Fradley is depressing us, getting under our skin. I reckon a day off would do us both good. I'll ring in now and leave a message for Hodges. He can please his bloody self whether or not he believes it. Maybe we'll even take a couple of days off. Sod Fradley and whatever it is that's jinxing the place. And sod bloody Bruce Carmichael!’

He went through into the adjoining room and started to dial. No sooner had he spun the last digit than the unobtainable tone was screaming its harsh monotone in his ear. With a curse he dropped the receiver back on to its cradle.

‘I heard it,’ she muttered as he rejoined her. ‘Phone's out of order. Everything's going crazy!’

‘We have two alternatives.’ He did his best to smile, to hide his fears which were growing again. ‘We can either walk a quarter of a mile to the nearest telephone kiosk, or we can simply not bother.’

‘I think we ought to let them know,’ she said, her eyes narrowing. ‘Look, you make some coffee and I'll go and phone. I can take the car and at the same time have another good look for my St Christopher.’

‘You're not …’

‘I'm not ill,’ she snapped. ‘It'll probably do me good, anyway.’

He made as if to argue, was about to say, We'll both go, but changed his mind. There was no point in starting another row. She would only be away a few minutes, and she might even find her missing medallion. That would help to ease a lot of tensions.

‘All right,’ he nodded. ‘I'll put the kettle on. Don't be long.’

She left the room, hurrying down the staircase and into the hall below, her footsteps echoing in the main entrance to the flats.

She felt the tenseness returning, this time with an even greater urgency. Guilt was the strongest sensation. She hadn't experienced it in this form since her early teens; the awful knowledge that she had overslept or missed the bus, desperate not to be late for school. Running, breathless. Oh, please let me be on time! It wasn't the fear of punishment but rather a deep sense of duty. You had to be there before the early bell, no matter what. Oh God, she had to go to Fradley!

She fumbled with the door key on the Mini, dropped it once and scrambled in the gutter to retrieve it; wasted several valuable seconds until she realised that she was trying to insert the ignition key upside down. Panic. Glancing back up at the flats, afraid that Lance might be watching her from the window. He wasn't. What did it matter if he was? He knew she was going to use the car. Guilt, but some strange driving force inside her was even greater. Hurry, you have to be at the air-port by nine. You must be there!

She drove fast, gripping the steering wheel, staring fixedly ahead of her. Horns blared as she hit the city traffic and dodged from lane to lane in her desperation to beat the rush hour. Accelerating, braking hard, once almost going into the back of the car immediately in front as the driver pulled up suddenly in front of a pedestrian crossing.

As she waited, impatiently revving the engine, a street clock seemed to mock her. 8.45. The Mini shot forward, over-revving, squealing the tyres, squeezing past a lumbering Cortina estate and edging into the nearside line of cars. Somebody fired a salvo of spotlights and headlamps at her; she stuck two fingers up, and negotiated a bus one-handed.

Lance would have realised by now that she wasn't coming back. He'd be worried at first, then angry. By the time he'd walked down to the kiosk to check he'd know she'd gone off somewhere. He'd surely ring Fradley. It would take time to get through to Flight 1203. Nobody would be able to contact her by that time because the plane would be ready to taxi.

She made the car park and leaped out, not bothering to lock the Mini. In all probability she would never ride in it again. She and Lance were finished. No particular reason. Except Tom Hodges. She'd left it late to respond to his attentions but there was still time.

The big pilot looked relieved when he saw her. ‘Hi, kid,’ his eyes were undressing her, visualising her statistics. Maybe Morton had even described her naked body to him. ‘You had me worried. I was on the point of phoning for a replacement. Glad I didn't.’

‘I'm glad, too.’ Her smile was broad, her eyes shining a message that he seemed to read instantly.

‘Geneva,’ she whispered huskily.

Geneva - it said it all. An overnight stop, a promise that had hitherto been one of Tom Hodges's fantasies.

Once they had taken off Pamela Bridges found herself relaxing. No regrets, not a single one. She had already pushed Lance Evans from her mind. Finis. This was what she had wanted for weeks, only until this morning she had lacked the guts to make the break. Now she'd done it.

Tom Hodges could have her tonight; she'd do just anything he wanted. Oh, Jesus, she'd make it real good for him! She'd wasted far too much of her time with Lance.

Bruce Carmichael was in high spirits, a sense of euphoria that masked an undercurrent of nervousness so that he was not even aware of it. This was his Big Day. His first solo flight was going to go without a hitch. Earlier, ever since the previous evening, he had had some misgivings. A nightmare hadn't helped. Engine failure, the HS-125 plunging like a stone towards a block of high-rise flats. He'd been screaming, anticipating the impact, bracing himself for the end, praying that it would be over quickly.

He'd hit the flats hard, jarring every nerve, his heart jumping as though trying to get free of his body. Then he'd been lying there in the darkness, sweating, trembling, muttering aloud his thanks for still being alive, that it was only a bad dream.

He hadn't gone back to sleep. He was afraid that the dream would continue where it had left off, that this time he wouldn't be spared. The palpitations inside his chest frightened him. He'd read only a week or two ago that forty was a dangerous age for men. This magazine revelation was disquieting; he had less than three months of his thirties left and it wasn't a pleasant thought. The crowd in The Scales consoled him with the old story about life beginning at forty; a contradiction which had cost him two successive rounds. Old Philby had had the gall to ask for brandies on each occasion - doubles!

Even daylight had not dispersed his fears. The thumping of his pulses had eased down somewhat only to be replaced by a splitting headache. He hoped it wasn't going to develop into a migraine. He blanched at the possibility of his sight failing somewhere between Fradley and Elmdon.

He breakfasted early, more heartily than usual - three mugs of black coffee instead of one, and three aspirins. Then he flicked his lighter for the first cigarette of a chain that would not be broken until he got out of his car at the airport.

His headache lessened considerably and before going out he paused to admire himself in the full-length wardrobe mirror - immaculate. His latest addition of a waxed moustache was almost the final touch in a characterisation he had been developing over the years; one that his pilot's licence would complete.

He didn't really look forty, he told himself as he whined the starter motor of his M-registered Avenger until it fired. More like a mature thirty. Fit, too. He never had been one to put on weight. That RAF doctor had been crazy to fail him on his medical. Surely it was never twenty years ago! Just a ploy by the Ministry of Aviation to cut down on their intake.

Why the hell couldn't they come out with the truth and say they were overmanned? He tried to remember which party was in power at the time. He couldn't; it was too long ago. It didn't really matter, anyway.

He heaved a sigh of relief as he parked his car and switched off the engine. Every yard of the way he had feared that a breakdown of some kind might thwart him from his life's ambition. It hadn't and he could relax for the moment. A deep breath to steady himself.

His headache was almost gone. He dropped the remains of his cigarette on to the tarmac and crushed it with his foot. Then he paused for a moment, surveying and appreciating the grandeur of his surroundings. Absolutely magnificent. Before long, when he had purchased a plane of his own, this would be his Mecca. That stupid kid, Evans, would have to bloody well acknowledge him then.

He walked slowly in the direction of the training school. It was difficult to understand how a twit like that had kidded everybody he could teach people to fly. Morton saw through him, all right; he'd as good as said so.I'd like to have you with me, Carmichael, but you know how it is. Admin have to have their own way, no matter what. Can't even pick my own clients. Sorry you've landed with young Evans but I reckon a chap like you is capable of learning to fly regardless of the instructor.

However, he'd soon be rid of Lance Evans, Bruce Carmichael reminded himself. It was solos from now onwards and that young upstart stayed on the ground. And if he yacked too much over the radio he could either be ignored or switched off.

Carmichael didn't much fancy Elmdon. Nothing to do with the size of the place, he reminded himself hastily; it was smaller than Fradley. Just that … well who in their right mind wanted to go to Birmingham? Nevertheless, it didn't present any problems which couldn't be overcame. The balls-up a few weeks ago when they'd nearly come in on the wrong runway was Evans's fault. The instructor had blamed ATC but Carmichael guessed that he'd had a right bollocking over it when he'd got back to Fradley.

‘Some good news for you.’ Rob Morton was smirking, coming across to Bruce Carmichael as the latter entered the training centre.

‘Let me guess,’ said Carmichael, puckering his forehead in mock perplexity and smoothing a hand across his straight jet-black hair. Grecian 2000 had knocked five years off him. ‘Young Blondie's made another cock-up and landed on the wrong runway at Elmdon.’

They both roared with laughter.

‘He's not coming in today,’ said Morton, still grinning. ‘Phoned to say he's got the shits. He didn't sound particularly convincing.’

‘Scared himself to bloody death, eh?’

‘Maybe. He lives on his nerves. Anyway, I'll look after you myself today, so you needn't worry.’

Carmichael felt a twitter of nervousness in his stomach. Very shortly he would be up there in the heavens entirely on his own, his only contact with earth through his radio. It was frightening if you thought about it too much.

His initial fears slowly evaporated after he reached a thousand feet, to be replaced by a sense of euphoria again. The whole universe was his, he had the freedom of a bird. His confidence increased. Any idiot could fly a plane. Well, perhaps not just anybody but certainly someone like himself.

There were no snags. He saw Birmingham laid out beneath him, a sprawling untidy maze, then Elmdon Airport; received permission to land. No bother. He prided himself that he came down on the right runway, taxied to a standstill. Not like that fool Evans.

Twenty minutes later he was airborne again. Time was going too quickly; he wanted to savour every second. Perfect weather conditions. Morton only came in once on the radio, a staccato exchange of words to the effect that everything was going fine.

Then Carmichael sighted Fradley, asked for and got, permission to land. Strange, there seemed to be some kind of heat haze on the ground below, a shimmering which distorted everything, like peering into a deep clear pool of water and then having the surface rippled by a sudden gust of wind.

He checked, took his readings, heard Air Traffic Control telling him to come in. Nothing to it. The runway was there, waiting for him, urging him down as though applauding him for his faultless performance.

The heat haze was bad, the whole airport wavering, blurring. The radio crackled, obliterating the terse orders. Bruce Carmichael tried to adjust it; it cut out and went completely dead. No matter, in a couple of minutes he would be down and safe. He was starting to become uneasy.

His vision was blurred, almost as though an opaque film had formed over the cockpit, everywhere just vague outlines. Nevertheless he could see the landing strip like a giant snake leaping up to meet him. Now!

The moment his wheels made contact Bruce Carmichael knew that he wasn't on the runway! Something soft that sucked at the plane, then hard, bouncing it. Careering madly. Slewing. The haze was gone; he could see clearly, the shock hitting him hard. He was in a grass field! The HS-125 was ploughing a furrow through soft meadowland, its course a half-circle, a pile of gorse bushes caught up beneath it, heading directly for a withered and stunted oak tree. Branches beckoned menacingly, raised threateningly as if to strike a devastating blow - almost as if it understood!

He braced himself, closed his eyes and waited for the end. It seemed as though the damaged aircraft was travelling slower and slower, agonisingly prolonging his fate. He dared not look.

The impact when it came was announced by a slow tearing sound like wads of paper being shredded, the vibration beginning slowly then building up to a climax. Still moving. A jolt that threw him forward just when he was plucking up courage to take a look. Everything went black.

Hands were clutching at Carmichael's flying-jacket. He tried to shrug them off, kept walking. His headache had returned, far worse than before; migraine proportions. He was walking over rough ground, he couldn't see. His sight had gone completely. People were trying to restrain him. Shouting. Jumbled words that he could not understand.

‘Get away!’ he yelled, and struck out blindly, feeling his fist connect with something solid. ‘Leave me alone.’

They were all around him, too many of them for him now, barring his way. His arms were held, pinioned, so that he could not resist. A crowd, talking excitedly.

‘Mr Carmichael, sir.’

‘That's my name. Damned well let go of me!’

‘Bruce … Bruce, you've got to come with us.’

He vaguely recognised the deep voice. Slowly his brain processed the sound waves, sorted out the identity of the speaker. Rob Morton!

‘Where am I?’ Carmichael asked weakly, a hopelessness creeping into his tone. His previous anger was melting. He needed help, he didn't know why. Something was wrong; very wrong.

‘You crashed your plane, Bruce. Missed the runway by miles, landed in a field adjoining the road.’

Oh, God! Certain things came back to him. The approach to the runway, the way everything had suddenly faded; his vision, the radio going dead. The blurring …

‘He's lucky to be alive,’ somebody was saying. ‘Doesn't appear to be hurt much either.’

‘We'll have to get you to the hospital for a check-up,’ Rob Morton began leading him by the hand. ‘I can hear the ambulance coming now.’

Carmichael's brain was numbing again. He recalled the huge oak, the way it had seemed to step into the path of the plane like some living evil force. And yet he still lived; it was incredible. The mysterious haze, the communications cutting out. Coincidence? Possibly. Most important of all, he had been spared, looked after by some kindly Providence.

He stumbled. Somebody caught him, prevented him from falling headlong. His hearing was going, the voices seeming fainter and fainter. If his helpers had not been holding him he knew that his legs would have collapsed under him. Fatigue, weakness; delayed shock. He didn't know how he had escaped from the plane.

He made a vow to himself that he would never fly again. He'd never have the nerve to go in a plane. Dizziness. He clutched hard at somebody's hand; thought he was going to faint. Voices, not like those which came from the people around him. More like whispers on the wind, mocking laughter that was barely audible.

It was then that fear took its hold and Bruce Carmichael passed out. Morton caught him as he fell.

Behind the small group, which now carried the unconscious man in the direction of the waiting ambulance, a column of black smoke was rising into the hot still air. The wrecked HS-125 had burst into flames, some of the dry undergrowth around it catching fire. A sacrificial pyre yet miraculously, as though ordained by the ancient gods, the victim still lived.

A few seconds later the fuel tanks exploded with a thunderous roar. The forces of evil were angry at having been denied the sacrifice they demanded, the smoke thickening and darkening the summer sky, a terrible warning to those who desecrated sacred grounds; a warning that hung for several hours in the windless atmosphere, before finally dispersing.

II: 4 - THE PEOPLE OF THE DARK

Pamela Bridges lay with her face buried in the pillow, hoping that the sobs which shook her naked body would not awaken the man who slept heavily by her side. Everything, her whole life, had suddenly turned into one big disaster.

She didn't know what had come over her. Perhaps she was going mad. Her every action lately was a contradiction of the one that had gone before. Starting with that same morning.

Lance. Oh, God, if only she could talk to him now, make him understand; plead with him. The sweetness of revenge, a strange sense of satisfaction derived from an inexplicable hatred towards a loved one, had boiled and simmered throughout the flight until the 707 touched down at Geneva.

Her regrets were edging into her system before she and Tom had begun their meal in a restaurant which overlooked the lake. The evening sunlight shimmering on the glassy surface seemed to jolt her out of the remnants of her angry mood, the summer's day reminiscent of something else which was ending. She glanced at her companion. He was staring at her in an abstracted sort of way, a half-smile on his face. Lust! He was speculating, whetting his appetite in readiness for the night which lay ahead. Their eyes met. Hers were misting up so that her view of him was blurred.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Hodges laughed softly.

‘Inflation's galloping.’ She made an attempt to grin. ‘Fifteen per cent, according to this morning's paper.’

‘I'll put the price up then.’ He leaned forward, half-serious.

She thought, you're a conceited, lecherous bastard and I wish to God I'd made it clear at the outset I wasn't going to sleep with you tonight. There's still time to back out. She opened her mouth to speak; almost said, If you think I'm going to let you have me tonight you've got another think coming. She chickened out at the last moment. Lance had a word for girls who did that . ‘prick-teasers'. By accepting this lavish meal from the chief pilot she felt obliged to do what he wanted. It pricked her conscience. In a way it was prostitution, if you looked at it like that. She'd have to go through with it. Maybe there was still a chance with Lance when she got back to Fradley. Or had she gone too far this time? She despised herself for what she had done up until now, let alone what she would do before morning. Somehow Fradley had a bearing on it. The place got under your skin, made you react abnormally to situations, engendered love and hate in the wrong proportions. It frightened you. Everything was out of perspective.

‘Well?’ His hand reached out, found hers and squeezed her fingers. She almost shrank away; she was returning to normal now that she was away from the airport's evil influence. But her reason told her to play it cool. You've got yourself into a mess; you've got to see it through, then get the hell out of it.

‘Well what?’

‘Those deep thoughts of yours. Inflation's run riot, I'll go to twenty pence.’

‘I was thinking about Fradley,’ she replied truthfully.

‘Why not forget the place?’

‘Can anyone ever forget Fradley? It eats into your system.’

‘I expect you've got something there,’ he mused. ‘There's something about it … something you can't quite put your finger on. The whole place is kind of … depressing. Creepy, if you're the nervy sort. Jinxed, like the papers say. If you ask me somebody somewhere is witch-hunting. Like the DC-10 scares. The press and the public are pillorying the plane so that every pilot who flies one is as tense as hell. That New Zealand crash in the Antarctic was really the climax. That's how it is with Fradley; a couple of totally unrelated killings, then the fire at the hotel. Then sensationalists leap on the bandwagon and hey presto, everybody's screaming that the country's latest airport is haunted.’

‘It's more than just rumours and coincidences.’ She wanted to pull her hand free of his but he was holding her too tightly. ‘I know. I've felt them.’

‘Let's not talk about Fradley,’ he smiled. ‘Let's talk about us!’

The moment she had been dreading. He was presuming that this was the start of an affair. Every nerve in her body was tautening, instinctively rejecting him. Not that he was unattractive. On the surface he had a charming personality. But underneath the suaveness she sensed a wild animal, a stag at the rutting stand picking a hind for itself, the expectancy of sex for the sake of sex, casting aside any deeper emotion in its quest for self-satisfaction. This was Tom Hodges, chief pilot at Fradley in his true role. Many of the stewardesses would have envied her position, fought and clawed at each other for the privilege of sharing his bed. Several had already experienced it; the stories were many, told in hushed whispers amidst schoolgirl-like giggles; exaggerated descriptions of way-out love; no, not love – lust!

Pam quavered. Her thoughts went back to Lance and a lump formed in her throat. Tears filled her blue eyes, liquid guilt which threatened to roll down her pale cheeks. The bastard wasn't even aware that she was trembling, or, if he was, he gave no sign of it. Possibly he was under the impression that she was overawed by his company, excited by him.

Dusk was coming quickly, racing across the water and turning it first to a dull grey, then shading it darker. The sun had sunk behind the mountain peaks. Those guests who had chosen to take their liqueurs out on the lakeside were starting to return. The evening air was chilled by a freshening mountain breeze which stirred tiny ripples on the surface of Lake Geneva.

‘Would you care for a brandy first?’ Tom Hodges's voice was husky, his eyes seeming to bore right into her own, penetrating the film of tears.

‘First?’ She had meant it to sound indignant. Instead her tone was naive, that of an embarrassed and puzzled teenager who queried the reason for a boyfriend stopping the car in some quiet country lane on a first date.

‘There's no hurry,’ he turned and beckoned a waiter. ‘Je desire .., ’

She wondered if it was too late to back out, felt herself starting to panic; heard Lance Evans's voice somewhere inside her. ‘prick-teaser'! She thought she might even be blushing. A moment of indecision. There was nothing to stop her getting to her feet, telling him that he was sadly mistaken and she would ask reception to transfer her to a room of her own. Telling him to get stuffed.

Madame, she visualised the surprised reception clerk, an eyebrow raised, do I understand that you wish a room separate from your husband?

She would look extremely foolish. Another room might not be easy to find; this was the peak holiday period. Then she would sleep rough somewhere. Where? The nights were too cold for sleeping out of doors without a sleeping-bag and some kind of cover. There were dangers after dark, too. Only last month a couple had been murdered whilst sleeping out in a parked car. She sighed. She did not appear to have any alternative. She couldn't blame Tom; she had virtually thrown herself at him, jumped willingly into the wild beast's lair.

She sipped her brandy. It burned her throat, seared the lump which was still there and made her cough. Her partner was watching her intently.

‘Not still thinking about Fradley, are you?’ he laughed.

‘Not really,’ she said, shaking her head and stalling him by taking a careful sip like some connoisseur of rare spirits. ‘What time are we due back tomorrow?’

‘Forget tomorrow.’ He took her hand again, squeezed her fingers. ‘Live tonight and let the devil take tomorrow.’

The elevator seemed to race headlong to its destination on the third floor. Tom was holding her arm as they got out, hurrying her, she thought. Not really, though; her attempts to bring everything to slow-motion pace, to put off the inevitable, were failing miserably. The sooner she got it over and done with, the better - but it wasn't going to be like that. It would last throughout the night, if the stories they told about Tom Hodges were true. She recalled some of them, licked her dry lips and grimaced. It sickened her. It was going to be tough.

Tom took his time. Another drink in the bedroom (a conditioner), sitting on the edge of the bed. His arm came round her, pulling her close, honing in for the first kiss. She lifted her mouth to meet his. There was no point in attempting to resist. It was going to be a long night.

She made her decision before he had fully stripped her clothes off. She was going to put on an act and do it well, regardless of her true feelings. She laughed silently to herself at the thought; it wasn't going to be rumoured around Fradley that Pam Bridges couldn't stick the pace with Tom Hodges.

She took him by surprise, pulling him beneath her before he was ready, releasing her feelings in a show of pseudo passion, clawing his bare chest with a burning hatred for herself and what she was doing. Her emotions engulfed her, her head rang with the angry cries of Lance Evans. He knew, oh, God, he knew, all right. And she had to take it out on somebody.

After a while they lay side by side resting. She wanted to push his idling exploring fingers from her body, turn her face to the wall and try to pretend that it had never happened. Instead, she said. ‘Why don't we put the light out?’

‘That's the kind of thing you do after ten years of marriage,’ he replied, glancing sideways at her, as though trying to read her innermost thoughts.

‘I think it's sexier in the dark,’ she said, staring up at the ceiling above her. ‘The second time around, that is.’

He leaned over and switched off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Pam found herself tensing, wishing that her request had not been granted so readily. Somehow it seemed more sinister now that she could not see her lover. A strange bed companion, it might have been anybody, a lakeside pick-up when the urge had been too great for her to resist. She listened to his breathing. Perfectly regulated. He was physically fit, in spite of the life he led, the women he had on almost every flight. Whatever else he might be, he was the model chief pilot from take-off to touch-down.

‘I can't understand you,’ he murmured at length, his fingers tracing a delicate damp path up and down the insides of her thighs.

‘I'm not sure that I understand you, Tom. Or myself for that matter.’

‘I mean that Evans kid - I always thought you were the kind to prefer mature men.’ There was a hint of ridicule in his tone.

‘He's mature enough,’ she snapped. ‘He looks younger than he really is. He's lucky.’

‘Have you split with him?’

The question took her unawares. She hesitated before replying. Tom Hodges had put into words an issue which she had been trying to avoid, postponing the decision. She wanted tomorrow, to be back in England. But the thought also frightened her. Lance … and Fradley!

‘I … don't know,’ she stammered. ‘Really I don't, Tom.’

‘But you're not certain of your relationship with him: otherwise you wouldn't be here with me now.’

‘I guess you're right.’ He was. She didn't really know. ‘I don't think I really know whether I want a regular relationship with any man.’ In other words this is a one-night stand, Tom. I want to get a whole lot of things out of my system and then perhaps I'll be able to sort myself out. I'll make it good for you tonight. For both of us.

‘We're going to Athens on Friday,’ he said. ‘Let's take it a trip at a time, eh?’

She found herself stiffening and hoped he thought that it was because he had found an erogenous zone. No way was she going to Greece. She'd go sick, like she should have done this morning had not something …

The dark was frightening. Even here, so far removed from the airport. It was just herself, her own fears, magnified by her regrets and her guilt. Nothing from Fradley could harm her here.

Hodges rolled on to her, crushing her into the bed with his fifteen stone of solid muscle. She forced herself to respond, reaching up and pulling his head down to meet her kiss, his thrusting tongue simulating everything that was starting to happen down below.

Acting was much more difficult this time; she had to feign an orgasm. She made no attempt to hold back her tears; lots of women cried when they hit their climax.

The sobbing was taking it out of her, weakening her physically and bringing on a headache. She wondered if she could cross to the washbasin for a drink of water without waking Tom. Maybe later. At the moment the effort seemed too great. Sleep eluded her; she had reached the peak of exhaustion and gone beyond into a state of perpetual wakefulness where depression lurked in the darkness, like some malevolent monster.

A thought crossed her mind, torturing her. Lance. What was he doing now? Tossing in his bed back at the flat? Or had he, too, gone out into the night bent upon some erotic act of vengeance against her? Fear gripped her, its clammy fingers pushing deep into her stomach until she almost cried out aloud with pain. A fleeting memory, the details obscured because it hadn't meant much to her at the time. A young man - Steele, she thought the name was - supposedly perfectly normal until he had gone to Fradley one night with his girlfriend. Something had affected him, turned him into a sick, depraved killer.

Lance … oh, God, she prayed that he was safely back at the flat.

It had been a difficult day for Lance Evans. Something was dreadfully wrong with Pam, that much was clear. It was more than just tension, everyday pressures building up to a peak. He knew the source but couldn't explain it. Fradley. Quietly the airport was spreading its own epidemic, an illness which took different people in different ways. In isolated cases it was fatal. That was what worried him most.

He ought to have gone to work. If he could have been sure that that was where Pam had gone he would have followed. But if she wasn't there when he checked in, then there was no way he was going to have the freedom to search for her, particularly as she had the car.

He had walked slowly back from the call box. The flat had a deserted air about it, as though he should not have been there, an intruder in its daily empty atmosphere, disturbing its routine of silence.

On impulse he went to the telephone and lifted the receiver. The dialling tone purred sweetly. It could just have been a coincidence earlier, a temporary fault. He tried to convince himself that that was all it was and that it had righted itself.

As he went through to the kitchen to make some more coffee he heard the roar of an approaching, passing aircraft. He moved quickly to the window, picking it out in the distance, a speck that had left its noise far behind. He recognised the DC-10, knew by its position and direction that it was the Geneva flight. And he also knew that Pam was on board it. In his own mind there was no doubt, whatsoever.

And that was that. He heard the automatic click as the boiling kettle switched itself off but made no move to get up from the sofa and fill his mug. There was no point in doing anything at all today. Only one option was open to him … to remain here. And wait. And pray that Pam might just come back; alive and sane.

The heat of the day, the refreshing coolness of evening, the dusk turning to darkness, all went virtually unnoticed. Lance stared ahead of him, even his cigarettes forgotten. The disease had got him. Initial symptom: a state of hopelessness. He dared not even consider the next stage.

He remembered the last time he had cried; he was fifteen at the time and the headmaster had called him out of class one afternoon to inform him that his father had died suddenly of a thrombosis.

There were occasions after that, crises when it would have helped if he could have cried, got everything out of his system in a flood of tears. He'd tried but he just had not been able to make it.

Now, suddenly, Lance Evans discovered that he could cry.

Paul Whittaker had not been feeling well all day. His condition had all the symptoms of flu, he decided. Not impossible in the middle of summer but it had come on so suddenly. He'd been all right earlier in the day, felt somewhat lethargic towards afternoon and now, having clocked on for the night shift on Security, he felt positively ill.

Small and stocky, Whittaker had mixed feelings about working the nocturnal hours at Fradley. With a wife and three children to support, the extra money was useful; more than that it would be difficult to survive without it in these days of racing inflation and economic recession. But his wages were hard earned. A lot of his mates from the nearby village, particularly those who had recently been made redundant from the city factories, thought he had an easy life. No actual work to do. They overlooked the boredom, the cold, and the uneasiness one felt out there all alone in the shadows beyond the runway lights. That was where all your childhood fears came back to you, had you glancing about you, seeing things that weren't there. Or were they?

Paul remembered an old 78 record he'd been given on his seventh birthday, an act of tactlessness by a well-meaning aunt. He hadn't forgotten the words over forty years:

Hush, hush, hushy here comes the bogeyman, Don't you be afraid of him, he'll catch you if he can.

That was destined to scare any kid.

Tell him you've got soldiers in your bed, He'll never guess that they are only made of lead.

The words of the song came back to Paul Whittaker now, the tune repetitive, annoying. He couldn't get it out of his head. The silly bastard who wrote that had obviously got it in for children, sadistically delighting in making them cower under the sheets at night. In his own case it had succeeded in planting a fear that had never faded, a subconscious terror of dark places, a terror that he had had to hide from others throughout his life. It had turned him into a secret coward.

Hushy hushy hushy here comes the bogeyman.

He checked into the canteen, ordered a tea and bought a packet of Aspros from a vending machine. He could feel the heat of his body beneath his dark serge closely-fitting uniform, an inbuilt central heating system that had no thermostat to cool it. His sense of awareness was dulled, too; watching his own action from afar through eyes that burned and smarted, robot-like movements.

‘How are you, Paul?’ A passing maintenance man patted him on the shoulder, whistling tunelessly.

‘Fine, Joe,’ said Whittaker, grimacing at his lie. What did it matter? Joe didn't care. Neither did anybody else. He could have clocked out and gone sick, it seemed the sensible thing to do. But he didn't. He had a stubborn senseless devotion to duty - no, to his own conscience. During twenty years at Longbridge his only absences had been prolonged strikes. He'd hated every minute he was away. It was no good blaming the unions; the workforce was at fault for not standing up to the shop stewards. At Fradley he hadn't missed an hour in his six months. Not once had he been late or clocked out early. He wasn't going to give in now. It kind've made up for his fear of the dark.

He got to his feet, swayed slightly, and had to concentrate on keeping his balance as he headed for the door. Nobody in the packed canteen noticed; he didn't want them to. He'd make it through the night somehow and sleep it off tomorrow. On the following shift he'd be back to normal. Just a temporary inconvenience.

He stepped outside, shivering as the cool air hit his heated body. It was incredible after a day of blazing sunshine that the night could be so cold. He winced at the brightness of the runway lights, shooting pains going right through his eyes and into his brain. His mouth was dry and sour.

A deafening roar; he clasped his hands to his head. A Boeing 707 was just taking off. His skull vibrated, the original ache worsening, throbbing. Christ, he ought to pack it in and go home to bed. No, sod it, he'd stick it out if it killed him. That wasn't such a remote possibility, he reflected pessimistically. He worried a lot about dying.

He tried not to think about the long hours which lay ahead of him. Like a frightened animal the shadows on the perimeter of the airfield seemed to beckon him. Over there nobody would be able to see him; the light, but not the noise, would be cut out. He would find a snug corner somewhere, probably behind one of the storage sheds, and curl up for an hour or so. He wouldn't be missed. If he was then he was just checking the boundaries, making sure no trespassers had broken through the surround fence. The need to rest overcame his fear of the darkness. He wouldn't be really alone, anyway.

He began to make his way across towards the main terminal, barely noticing the crowds which jostled inside the huge building, their voices an incessant chatter on the faint night breeze. The world around him was receding, leaving him in a lonely void of feverishness, forcing him to avert his eyes from all bright lights. For once he craved the darkness.

The shadows were soothing to his overheated body, the earlier shivering now having been replaced by sweating. God, it was hot! He followed a long line of sheds, almost ran to turn the corner, to escape the outer circle of light which spread out from the centre of the airport. He gasped with relief, rested his back against a brick wall. Slowly his knees bent, his legs refusing to support the weight of his body. He sank down, sat there with bowed head, peaked cap pushed back on his head at a jaunty angle. He'd feel better presently.

Time passed. His eyes closed and opened; sleep came and went in fitful dozes. He lost track of time, kept meaning to struggle back to the canteen for another mug of tea and some more Aspros but the effort was too great. Maybe in a few minutes; just a few more minutes.

His headache was worse. Now he was shivering again, every limb shaking violently. Oh, Jesus, I might catch pneumonia; must get back. Clock off, go home to bed. I must.

Whittaker tried to stand up. Funny, the wall behind him seemed to be curved instead of vertical, smooth instead of rough brickwork. He made a mammoth effort, used his leg muscles, somehow straightened his body. He made it, leaning there, weak and gasping, trying to pull himself together.

Two things were wrong. No … three! He was aware of them all at the same time yet had to sort them out in his confused mind. First, it was pitch black all around, not even so much as a glow in the sky from the runway lights. Secondly, the silence; not a sound, no aircraft nor traffic noise, not even voices from across at the terminal. Thirdly, it was no building he was propping himself up against. Outlined against the stars he saw a huge rounded boulder towering above. There was not a building to be seen!

The wind was freshening; he felt its coldness on his skin, heard the way trees and bushes soughed. He peered into the dim starlight, made out a few silhouettes; some gorse bushes, half-a-dozen large trees … It was crazy; this could not be! Where the cluster of outbuildings should have been there was nothing but open heathland. And more boulders. Massive ones, placed so symmetrically that they at once attracted attention.

Whittaker followed them with his eyes, picking them out of the gloom, tracing their course. Only when his gaze arrived back at its starting place did he realise that he was standing on the edge of a gigantic stone circle!

His brain tried to cope and failed. He was ill. Nothing would become logical until he was better. He had to get away from this place. He started to move, then stopped with a sudden realisation, one that brought a fresh terror with it. He had no idea where he was; neither did he know in which direction the airport lay … if it existed! A black stillness illuminated by faint starlight all around. Nothing else, nothing at all.

It was as he stood there terrified that he became aware of moving shapes in front of him, figures that materialised out of the darkness, black shadows that took on human shape. A group; indistinguishable as individuals, voluminous clothes that encased them from head to foot, a kind of shuffling, stooping walk.

Whittaker pressed himself back against the nearest boulder, every nerve in his body sensing danger, urging him to flee. But flight was impossible; some strange compulsion to stay and witness the scene before him held him there, stronger even than his fear.

The group gathered together in the centre of the circle of boulders. Whittaker could see them more clearly now; they reminded him of the monks he'd seen once on a visit to a monastery. Hooded and robed. There was a difference, though: they lacked the air of humility and reverence which had surrounded those in Cornwall. They were not just arrogant: it was something much stronger than that … it was evil!

Their strange soft chant hung on the air as though even the strong breeze was powerless to disperse it. Scudding clouds cleared a patch of night sky, unmasking a half moon which immediately cast its ethereal glow across the circle as though determined to expose this sinister gathering, vanquishing the cloak of darkness.

Paul Whittaker recoiled, his fingers scratching at the smooth stone behind him, needing something to hold on to but failing to find it. He turned his head away but it was as if his neck muscles were taut elastic, jerking his head back to face them. You must watch; you have no choice!

Only then was he made aware of the girl. She was naked, bound hand and foot, lying on a flat slab of rock. Her long fair hair hung down, almost touching the ground, matted with what looked like mud; it could have been blood.

She was staring directly at him and he knew that she saw him, eyes wide and bulging, her plea only too clear. Help me, save me from these monsters before it is too late!

I can't I'm helpless, ill. But it isn't really happening. Is it? Oh, God, it can't be.

It is.

Her lips were compressed. In her eyes he read scorn for himself. Where was the airport, the people? It couldn't just disappear like that. Perhaps he had wandered away from its precincts in his delirium into a tract of open countryside. Even so, all this had no right to be happening. It did not belong to the twentieth century!

Once again he tried to find a reason. There was none; it was totally illogical. Certainly he was ill, but everything around him was real. The stone he leaned against, hard and cold; the night wind fanning his heated face. He wanted to run, to escape, but he could not. Invisible bonds held him prisoner, compelling him to witness this macabre gathering.

These men were priests of some kind, that much was evident. They were kneeling, praying to some pagan god in their own way, using words that reached Paul Whittaker yet were meaningless to him, a chant that went on and on and on. The girl lay still, staring up at the stars, her features white and strained, yet no longer pleading for help. She was resigned to her fate.

Whittaker's mouth formed soundless words, hearing them in his brain yet unable to utter them. Let her go, you fiends. She hasn't harmed you. Oh, God, set her free!

Silence. Even the wind seemed to have died down; not so much as a leaf rustled. The priests were all kneeling with the exception of one, an ungainly bowed figure who stood close by their captive. Everybody, the whole world, was waiting. For what?

Time passed. The security guard wondered if he had slept, dozed off and awoken again. Perhaps he was asleep all the time, this recurring nightmare unwilling to fade. He knew only too well that he was awake.

The stars were paling, the moon was low in the sky. Away to the east a faint greyness was infiltrating the black mantle of night, spreading. Dawn was breaking.

Full daylight. They must see him now, Whittaker thought, but they gave no sign of having done so. The girl's eyes were closed as though she slept, her small breasts rising and falling.

With the coming of daylight he could see his surroundings more clearly. They were, as he had supposed, a wide expanse of heath, dotted with scrub bushes, tall oaks close to the circle. Nowhere was there any sign of human habitation. Some corvines croaked noisily as they left their roost in search of an early breakfast, perhaps some carrion that had been overlooked by other predators. They were hungry.

It was the silence which Whittaker found most frightening. There had to be a road within earshot; planes leaving and arriving at Fradley could be heard for miles around. There was nothing. Only the crows. Where had everybody and everything gone?

The priests were turned away from him, facing towards the east. There was a rosy hue beginning to flood the sky above the horizon. Another minute or two and the sun would be in sight, above the topmost boughs of those giant oak trees.

Oh, merciful God! Whittaker realised only too well what these foul worshippers were about to do. This was to be a human sacrifice that went right back to the beginning of time, innocent blood spilled to appease some unknown deity. Murder!

Obviously, he decided, this was some twentieth-century band of devil worshippers. There were cults springing up everywhere, desecrating churches and graveyards, exhuming corpses in pursuance of their foul rites. If only he could get the police. Total despair flooded over him. There were no police in this wild barbaric landscape. Only the ancient laws of life and death.

He looked at the girl again. She reminded him of somebody he knew, somebody he saw from time to time but was not acquainted with. He searched his memory. The face, the hair, were familiar. Somebody from the airport: that young stewardess - he didn't know her name; the one who was often on the DC-10s with Hodges. A strong likeness certainly. Whittaker couldn't be sure, he'd only ever spoken to her once.

Sunrise!

It came with a startling suddenness, a blinding fiery ball whose rays burned up the last of the dawn's greyness; flooding the countryside with the warmth of a new day. The priests were prostrate, except the one by the flat sacrificial stone; one arm aloft as though saluting the rising sun, the other delving beneath the folds of his dark garments, then being withdrawn. Something glinted, a honed blade that caught the sunlight, reflecting its brilliance.

A low murmur came from those on the ground, escalating to a cry of jubilation. A dazzling sliver of sunlight slanted down on the circle, struck the stone altar like some meteorite from the heavens with unerring accuracy.

Whittaker was temporarily blinded by its brightness, spared the sight of the death blow. Then, through a red haze, he saw the knife being withdrawn from the victim's breast, the deep scarlet of dripping blood. The watchers were on their knees, heads bowed, arms outstretched. The chant was beginning again, a whisper at first, rising to a wail.

Paul Whittaker's senses swam, the weird voices hammering incessantly at his brain, a kaleidoscope of pink and crimson blurring his vision.

Hush, hush, hush, here comes the bogeyman, Dorit you be afraid of him, he'll catch you if he can.:

Terror freed him from his paralysis. Somehow he broke away from the stone which had held him prisoner, his legs struggling to obey the screamed incoherent commands from his brain. Running, stumbling. Falling. Dragging himself up and running again. He couldn't breathe properly, his lungs constricted.

They were at his heels, catching up on him, hungry for a second human sacrifice; chanting, screaming. Furious that he had seen.

Run. Anywhere. Find somewhere to hide in an ancient deserted land. Man had become a beast of the chase.

Whittaker was falling again, bracing himself for the impact, grunting once as his head met something hard and unresisting with shattering force. He felt his senses slipping from him, prayed that they would kill him quickly.

Don't you be afraid of him, he'll catch you if he can.

Some time later - hours or days, he had no idea - he was aware that life still coursed through his body. He lay where he was, the ground hard and flat beneath him. It was warm. Very warm. The sun was beating down on him making him sweat profusely. But he was still alive.

Noise. He cringed. An aircraft taking off close by, a 707 for sure. All part of his everyday life, sweet sounds that turned nightmares back to reality. He opened his eyes, blinked in the bright sunshine and tried to focus.

They hadn't caught him, then. Somehow he had escaped and was now lying on that tract of heath beneath a blazing midday sun. They must have …

The heath was gone! He stared. All around him were the landmarks of the twentieth century, the towering ATC building beyond the storage sheds, the 707 now no more than a speck in the brilliant blue sky. The main terminal …

He forced himself up to his knees, looked around. He was in a narrow gully between two sheds, a place he often came to for a quiet smoke during the night hours. He couldn't explain it, he wasn't going to try. Except … except that a girl had been slain beneath the rising sun, murdered by a bunch of madmen. That had been only too real.

Whittaker was on his feet, staggering, holding on to the wall to prevent himself from falling. The blackness came back at him, a wave that almost engulfed him; receded, left him weak and tottering.

He made it as far as the car park before he collapsed.

III: 1 - DON'T YOU BE AFRAID OF HIM, HE'LL CATCH YOU IF HE CAN

Outwardly there had been few, if any, changes to the Airport Hotel since the Southern Hotels Ltd takeover. Certainly the general public were not aware of the change of ownership.

Internally, however, there was an air of disquiet which rippled down from the manager to the junior domestics. The initial efficiency was being eroded, a service that was deteriorating until soon it must be noticed by the guests. A reputation that was still in its infancy was destined to be destroyed before it reached maturity. Which was why Frank Weston had arrived at Fradley. His latest investment was already causing him grave concern.

Of course the fire and that unfortunate woman's death had been the start of it all. It had unnerved the staff; they lived in fear of another blaze in which they themselves might be the casualties. Which was quite ridiculous. And that security guard's delusions had only fanned the flames of rumour. Somehow confidence had to be restored. It was difficult to know just where to start.

Weston meditated over a Havana cigar and a brandy in the crowded lounge bar. This Druids business was all nonsense. The villagers, particularly Hartley Lowe, were using it as a weapon, creating hysteria. Nobody really believed them but if many more things went wrong then they might. The noise issue had become a secondary one. Another petition had recently been delivered to the Department of the Environment, signed by virtually every householder within a three-mile radius of Fradley. It wouldn't do any good, nobody really expected it to,

Just harassment; it would go on for years. There were always objectors to anything you wanted to do.

His thoughts turned to Charles Whyte. A hard bastard, ruthless; but not as cunning as he made out to be. You could pull a fast one over him. Like Weston had done. He laughed silently to himself. The Airport Hotel now belonged to Southern Hotels Ltd. For the moment. A big takeover of the whole company was being negotiated. The biggest combine in the catering business had already made their initial offer. A good one but they'd go up on it; they could afford to. Whyte was totally unaware of this, not that it really mattered now if he found out. There was nothing he could do about it. Yet Weston wanted to preserve his secret a little longer, hit the Fradley consortium where it hurt most. No particular reason except that he'd delight in putting one over Whyte.

But nothing had to go wrong in the meantime, nothing which might make the prospective buyers change their minds. Spooks wouldn't bother them, but if something went seriously wrong, destroyed public confidence, they might. That was the real reason why Frank Weston was here. Pulling the wool over Whyte's eyes again, letting the big man think that his every command was being obeyed. Management and staff morale had to be boosted for a lot of reasons.

Weston watched a barman disappear out of a door at the rear and return a few minutes later carrying a bottle of Cinzano. That implied slackness in restocking the shelves, a customer kept waiting. Just a minor point but one of many that had to be rectified.

He turned his attention to the customer. The scene might have been that of a popular hotel anywhere in Britain. Correction; no, not quite. Something was lacking and you had to be more than just perceptive to spot it. You had to know that things were wrong in the first place. They were talking, yes, but mostly tête-à-tête. No ribald laughter such as you might expect from people bound for luxurious holiday resorts. The episode of the fire was fresh in their minds. The press had already dug up the killings for them, gone through the whole of the Steele case again, even linked it with the Shotton boy. That was a tilt at British justice; if Susan Kemp's murderer was still at large then the wrong man had been tried and convicted. The media thrived on sensationalism, wild suppositions. Fair enough, they had to make their bread, but not at Fradley's expense. Surely nobody in their right mind would pay any attention to the ravings of a crazy security guard who right now was banging his head on the walls of a padded cell. The fellow claimed to have witnessed a human sacrifice. On Fradley. Crazier still, he made out that the airport had vanished and then reappeared. The Druids legend had really got him, the last push needed to topple him over the brink. But the papers had latched on to it; some crackpot reporter had come up with a feature article on psychic forces and how they could manifest themselves. Weston hadn't bothered to read it. Nevertheless it was all destined to stir the cauldron up to boiling point

He ordered another brandy and decided to take it up to his room with him. His own drink and he was having to buy it. It galled him; the whole wine and spirits cellar belonged to him. But it was imperative to remain incognito otherwise everything would at once revert to a degree of efficiency which would immediately lapse on his departure.

His bedroom window faced the main terminal and for twenty minutes or so he stood and watched the floodlit scene, planes arriving and departing, a general bustle of crowds. Finally he turned away, bored, and began to undress. The deal over this hotel, his whole chain, would go through in a matter of three months. It would seem strange having all his investments on paper, nothing tangible, nothing to manage. Life could get boring. If you let it. Frank Weston didn't intend to sink into a dull routine. If you had money you could always find something interesting to do. Like making more money.

The night was noisy. It couldn't be anything else at Fradley. Special double-glazing would blank out most of the sound but it wasn't so effective in summer when it was necessary to have windows open.

Weston lay on top of the covers; it was too sultry to lie between the sheets. He closed his eyes, winced as a 707 passed directly overhead. He'd always fancied owning an airport hotel. It was fine until you stayed in it. Whyte and Warboys thought he was just after prestige. Even before they had made the deal Kaner had hinted at a mass takeover. He, Weston, was the clever one. He'd fooled 'em all. Several million just for signing his name on some documents a few times. They could have the Airport Hotel and all the noise that went with it.

Sleep wasn't going to be easy. Not because of the incessant aircraft noise; it was his tenseness that was keeping him awake: his brain was racing like a car with the choke out. There was too much to think about. The villagers with their silly petitions, witch-hunting by the press, all combining to ruin the smooth running of the hotel. They were all linked (in the mind), and all you had to do was to break the chain and the lot would fall apart. But how?

He had been wrestling with the problem for some time when he heard the aircraft; he'd been listening to them all evening but this one was different. Heavier, slower. You picked it out at once. It reminded you of your childhood. Wartime years. You didn't really understand what it was all about but you were old enough to be afraid. Afraid of death because it was all around you, the streets of London blazing, fire crews fighting losing battles, ambulance men trying to sort out the living from the dead. Chaos. A holocaust that threatened to destroy sanity. It couldn't be happening but it was, the stench of death wafting to and fro in the air.

He was anticipating the gunfire before he heard it, bracing himself for the first crash of anti-aircraft fire, cowering before the bombs burst, shaking the building. The noise of battle was incessant, the walls of his room vibrating. Shouts. Screams.

Plaster from the ceiling showered him. A choking cloud of dust filled the room. He opened his eyes, closed them again quickly. Through the closed curtains he had glimpsed a blaze of light, not the dazzling brightness of the floodlighting but the dancing yellow and orange of flames. Outside there was an inferno.

Frank Weston smelled the smoke and coughed. It was thickening, making it almost impossible to breathe. What the hell was going on? It wasn't wartime …

A sudden awful thought. The sword which had been hanging precariously over the world for thirty years had finally fallen. The ultimate catastrophe was here, the western world plunged into the war which would herald the end of civilisation. Total annihilation. A surprise attack. Everything gone, capitalism wiped out in a matter of minutes. Oh, Jesus God, the hotel; disintegrating.

He rolled off the bed and fell on to his knees. For one split second he started to pray, then gave it up. What was the use? When one hadn't prayed for decades there was no point in starting now. Nobody was likely to listen.

He pulled himself up. A jagged square of plaster struck his shoulder and broke up before it hit the floor. Something splintered and cracked. He covered his head expecting the ceiling to cave in but nothing happened.

He made it to the window and stared out through the jagged broken panes, trying to focus. His eyes streamed, irritated by the dust and smoke. Clinging to the window ledge he convulsed in a fit of coughing, bent double. All the time he was aware of the heat which came from outside like a blast furnace with the doors wide open.

Weston rubbed his eyes, shielded them with his hands and looked out again. It was difficult to make out exactly what was happening. Fire dominated the scene, a blazing aircraft right by the hotel, tongues of flame devouring the wreckage greedily, crackling and spitting sparks high into the night sky.

Sirens everywhere. Why the hell didn't they play their hoses on the flames? Everybody seemed to be standing back, an indistinguishable mass of white faces. Why the hell didn't somebody do something?

He turned away, stepped back into the room. Just in time. The remainder of the glass fell inwards, splinters flying like target knives. A sudden pain on the back of his hand, a warm wetness that could only be blood. He didn't even look at it. He had to get out of here. Fast.

He groped his way towards the door, blinded by the acrid fumes, found the knob with a bloody hand. He pulled; nothing happened. Turned it, first to the right then to the left, tugging frantically. The structure creaked under the strain but held fast.

Frank Weston knew he was panicking but there was nothing he could do about it. Terror such as he had never known before, not even when he'd been caught in that air-raid on a visit to London in 1940. This was an air-raid. Impossible. More anti-aircraft fire. It was!

His brain was past reasoning. Just one thought - escape! Get out. Anywhere. Run into the fields and woods. Hide. Crawl under the hedges like a wounded animal. Whimper and wait for death.

Savagely he kicked the door, cried out with sudden pain. A broken toe. He tried to stand on it, kicked frenziedly with the other foot and lost his balance. Falling. The floor hit him hard, seeming to come up at him, winding him. He grunted, pressed his face hard against the thick carpet. This time he prayed, incoherent mumblings that rose to a rasping scream, then died away.

Hours seemed to pass. Yet it could only have been minutes, otherwise the whole building would have collapsed. The heat was suffocating, flames crackling close by; the next room maybe.

More explosions shook the walls and dislodged another section of plaster. Gunfire again, rapid like the bleating of a nanny goat in season. The choking smoke reduced the orange glow in the room to a fog-like gloom.

Weston raised his face from the floor, fighting for breath that came in rasping wheezes, constricting his lungs. This was it. The end. He knew it, had known it all along but had refused to accept it until now. Strangely, he was becoming much calmer, the panic inside him receding. He laughed, erupted into a fit of coughing. Funny, you spent all your life worrying about dying but when the time came you didn't really mind; not half as bad as everybody made it out to be. A lot of questions would remain unanswered, too many mysteries left unsolved. What the hell had happened?

He lay there listening, trying to piece the jigsaw together from the sounds which reached him through the crackling of the flames. Those aircraft had gone, passed over. The gunfire and exploding bombs had died away. It had been a raid of some kind, a devastating night attack which had taken everybody unawares. Not so much as a shout or a scream now. Everybody dead. He was the only survivor at Fradley and for him time was running out. A matter of minutes before either the whole building fell in on him or else the smoke suffocated him. It did not really matter which.

Consciousness threatened to slide into oblivion but checked on the very brink. When you were ready to die, wanted to get it over, you couldn't.

Suddenly he heard somebody at the door. At first he couldn't be sure; a faint scratching sound that might have been rats trapped by the blaze. Then the handle was tried, rattled frantically. Something heavy crashed against the woodwork, shaking lock and hinges.

‘Help … me,’ Weston croaked. At least, he thought he did, his cracked and blistering lips forming the words. Gasping to breathe, trying to crawl towards the door. ‘Don't … leave me.’

The door was open. He sensed it rather than saw it, felt a rush of hot air which eddied the smoke and blew it across the room. Someone was there. Soft footsteps, a wheezing that might have been his own but he was sure wasn't. He waited, anticipating fingers grabbing his clothing, trying to drag him to freedom. Nothing happened.

He pawed at his eyes, frantically trying to clear the smarting film which obscured his vision. It cleared partially, hurt like hell. He could see … something. A shape, indistinguishable but vaguely human. Bulky, towering over him.

‘Help … me.’

There was no response. Oh, Christ, I'm here. Can't you see me?

He tried to rise to his knees, made it to a grovelling position, head resting on folded arms like … like worshipping! Words came and then went before he had grasped their meaning. It was as though brain and body had become separate entities, a lack of co-ordination. He should have died, been burned to cinders in the inferno which raged all around. But by some miracle (no - horrendous, inexplicable catastrophe), he still lived. He was aware that he was on his feet, walking, heedless of his broken toe.

Through the smoke haze. Retching, somehow managing to draw air down into his tortured lungs, Weston staggered in the wake of his unknown rescuer, compelled to follow, incapable of exerting his own will. His brain was in a turmoil, numbed by fear.

Downstairs and out into the open. Easier to breathe. Weston groped at his eyes, trying to see. A burning landscape. He recognised the big runway; it had to be the remains of a wrecked plane which was rapidly being consumed by fire in front of the hotel end. He looked for the other buildings. Air Traffic Control towered; majestically up into the sky, just visible through the smoke. No lights showed. Possibly the power supply was disrupted. Whatever the reason it was deserted. An empty giant.

The main terminal; the crowds were gone, not even a cordon of police or firemen. Nobody. Oh, God, there had to be somebody about somewhere!

Weston had no idea where the other was leading him. Once they were clear of the fire the darkness closed in on them. He couldn't see his companion now and was forced to clutch at some fabric with which the stranger was clothed; coarse, unfamiliar material which reminded him of a hessian potato sack, the folds voluminous like a cleric's gown.

It was impossible to measure time or distance. They trudged on steadily, the ground rocky and uneven. Several times Weston fell, cut his knees, but stumbled on blindly. Afraid to stop, afraid to go on, terror now beginning to penetrate his dazed brain. He had to make the effort to speak, ask where they were going. His tongue was swollen, filling his mouth like whole fruit, strangling the movements of his vocal chords. A meaningless whisper; he didn't know whether it came from himself or the freshening breeze which rustled the foliage all around them.

The ground was softer now, squelchy underfoot. Mud oozed between the toes of his bare feet. In places he sank in up to his ankles and had to wrench himself free, desperately clutching at his one hope of being saved, the thick rough cloth which chafed the skin on his fingers. The fear of abandonment in this cold damp place was something it was best not to think about.

It was a bog of some kind, sponge-like grass tussocks which gave beneath the weight of the travellers, surfacing again after they had passed on. Getting deeper all the time, water splashing Weston's knees, then up to his thighs.

Panic. He took the strain, leaning back, bare heels trying to find a grip in the mud.

Stop! For Christ's sake stop!

He felt himself being catapulted forward, fell with a loud splash. His head went underwater. Somehow he managed to hold his breath until he came up again. Still holding on, still being pulled along, an infant having his first swimming lesson under the guidance of a cruel instructor.

Strangely the water was not getting any deeper. Weston had made up his mind that he was going to be drowned, had already resigned himself to his fate. This man (if it was a man, or even a human being - he was beginning to have his doubts) had rescued him from the fire when death seemed a certainty, only to drown him. It didn't make sense. Nothing did.

Frank Weston was almost running in places to keep up with his captor. His lungs were strained to bursting point, his heart thumping, a dull ache beginning to spread across his chest as though steel bands encased him. It couldn't go on much longer; his body had reached the limits of its endurance.

Suddenly the ground started to rise slightly, the water dropping to ankle-depth, then just sticky mud beneath the soles of his feet. His lungs were incapable even of uttering a sigh of relief. He wanted to sink down, just lie there until death spared him the physical agonies.

The terrain was levelling again and for the first time he was afforded slight vision. The blackness all around was not so dense, more of a dark grey, such as the light which heralds the coming of dawn; the false dawn, as it is sometimes known.

They were on a small island of some sort, an acre or so of elevated ground in the midst of a swamp, blurred silhouettes breaking up the flatness. A white low-lying mist was either forming or dispersing, Weston couldn't make up his mind which. Trees, big ones, towering oaks in full summer foliage dripping with condensation, their trunks smothered in mistletoe, like constricting water snakes bent on squeezing the life from them. The atmosphere was thick with the stench of marsh gases, foul odours that reminded him of rotting corpses.

Suddenly he loosed his hold on the other's garment, staggered a few paces, then his legs gave beneath him. His fall was cushioned by thick wet grass that squelched its protest in a series of gurgles.

Weston closed his eyes. Relax, get a grip on yourself. A feverish nightmare brought on by the ordeal of the fire; somebody got you out. You're going to wake up in a hospital bed.

But the island refused to disappear. The pre-dawn mist was closing in on it, the lower branches of the furthest trees now hidden from view.

He glanced around furtively, looking for the one who had brought him here, afraid now that with the advent of daylight he would have to look upon the countenance of the mysterious stranger. His eyes made out dim shapes, half-hidden by mist, beneath the trees. Bushes perhaps; weird forms created by the swirling white vapour against a dark background. Weston's exhausted brain sought a number of explanations, logic rejecting each one until only the awful truth remained. Not just one strangely garbed captor but a dozen or more were grouped in a semi-circle.

Their features were cloaked by the hoods which covered their heads, the shadows rendering them indistinguishable, almost invisible. Slowly the mist crept around them, hiding them as though mortal eyes were forbidden to gaze upon them.

Weston felt the cold fingers of the fog touching him, its vile stench seeping into his nose and mouth; gases that had lain trapped in this bog for years now seeking revenge for their imprisonment. He tasted their foulness, the rancid flavour of something that was old and evil.

He lay there trembling in a grey world of cold malevolence. He might have been alone, a castaway on a marsh island. He knew that he wasn't. The mist around him was a cloak for an evil which was beyond mortal understanding. They lurked there, whatever they were, just waiting. Watching him.

He knew that he was on trial, summoned before a council of justice which was older than any other in the land, a judge and jury which had already reached their verdict long before his own arrival.

All that remained was for the sentence to be carried out. Frank Weston knew that he had been found guilty; of what, he had no idea. It made no difference. There was no defence, no appeal. He knew without any doubt that he was going to die. It was the law of the land. Their law; their land.

A sudden breeze sprang up and the mist started to thin out, wafting about into strange shapes, revealing others that were not its own creation. The daylight which had been held back surged forward as though eager to unveil the secrets of the dark hours, expose the messengers of death to mortal eyes.

The group moved forward as though by some prearranged signal, hastening to do that which had to be done, cloaks drawn tightly about them. There was no time to be lost, the light was coming fast. The thick mist on the swamp hid the rays of the rising sun but that could not be helped. The wrath of the gods had been incurred and they demanded human blood. An unknown deity demanded appeasement.

It was daylight before the fire crews were able to approach the remains of the charred and smouldering aircraft. The blaze in the west section of the Airport Hotel, where the wing of the slewing DC-10 had made contact, had been brought under control before dawn. Part of the building had collapsed; rescuers were still searching optimistically, three ambulances on stand-by.

Crash teams had been put on emergency alert within minutes of the radioed alarm call from the captain; a suspected fault in the wing slats liable to slow the aircraft dangerously on landing. Fire engines and ambulances were on immediate stand-by, not that anything was really expected to go wrong.

A scheduled stop at Boston had been cancelled. The shorter runways there were not considered safe for an emergency landing. The captain had been instructed to proceed directly to Fradley. It was all routine, everything under control.

Flight controllers were not unduly worried. A technical hitch. It had happened before. Nevertheless, every precaution had to be taken; the flight due in from Geneva was diverted to the East Midlands Airport. Tom Hodges would be using a lot of bad language.

Everything was routine until communications suddenly ceased. The captain's voice was cut off in mid-sentence. It was at that moment that everybody sensed that disaster was imminent.

The DC-10 with its forty-seven passengers and fifteen crew came in 20mph faster than normal and then started to slew across the runway, a diagonal course that took it towards the hotel. It slewed again as desperate measures were taken to bring it under control. It looked as though it might make it. Almost, but not quite.

A blinding explosion lit the scene seconds after the hotel had sliced off one wing. In the inferno which followed the fire crews were driven back. They knew they had no hope of approaching the stricken plane so they turned their attention to the blazing building. People were already trapped. With luck they'd get a few out in time. Life had suddenly become a lottery.

At last the wrecked DC-10 could be searched. These men knew their job, were aware of the horrors they faced. But somebody had to do it.

The dead had all been accounted for after the first hour, all sixty-two of them. But still the search continued relentlessly. Another hour and there was still no sign of that which the grim-faced team sought. Nowhere was the black-box flight recorder, the instrument which would have taped the crew's conversations as they embarked upon the final run-in.

Puzzled and frustrated the searchers disembarked from the blackened skeleton of the plane and began systematically to search the surrounding area.

By midday the missing items still had not been found. Shortly after three o'clock that afternoon sweating firemen who broke into a collapsed hotel room discovered both of them, apparently catapulted from the DC-10 into the building.

Neither of the instruments showed any outward signs of damage. They were transported at once to the operations room in ATC where those in charge of investigations into the disaster eagerly awaited a clue to the cause of the crash.

Only then was it discovered that the tapes were blank.

Whilst Lance Evans was frantically attempting to penetrate the jammed telephone lines to the East Midlands Airport, in an effort to ascertain the whereabouts of Pamela Bridges, Hartley Lowe was addressing an audience of little more than twenty in the village hall. Only on rare occasions had the ex-schoolmaster been known to display his emotions openly; this was one of them. He hid his fear beneath an angry outburst, his fury directed at those absent from his hastily called meeting rather than at the few who had turned up. Apathy was evident in the village. The early fires of anger had been dampened by failure. The majority of the residents had resigned themselves to the noise and the danger. Some had moved away. They were all cowards, lacking the moral fibre to fight on just because the battle seemed lost.

‘I tell you,’ Hartley Lowe quivered with rage, his bushy eyebrows knitting into a caricature of a huge moustache above his deep-set eyes. ‘that that which has happened is a carbon copy of the wartime disaster when a fighter pilot mistook the lights of the officers' mess for those of the runway.’ He paused, allowing his listeners time to dwell on his words, preparing himself for (he hoped) the verbal knockout punch. ‘And the hotel is built on exactly the same site as that officers' mess …’He didn't get the reaction for which he had hoped. Blank expressions. They didn't catch on, not yet anyway. His anger reached a peak, his voice trembled.

‘Just as the airport,’ he thundered. ‘is built over an ancient Druids' Circle. These people have disturbed an old evil and brought its wrath on themselves … and us!’

Men and women glanced at one another. Their blank expressions changed to looks of embarrassment. Their feelings were akin to those of an audience in a half-empty theatre who are confronted by a third-rate music hall comedian. You feel obliged to laugh; make the effort. Then you feel foolish because you know that others are witnessing your valiant attempts at mirth. You feel a fool not just for laughing but by being here in the first place.

One or two of the men winked at each other. They were indiscreet. They should have learned from their own schooldays that Hartley Lowe missed nothing. His keen sense of classroom awareness had not lessened any since his retirement. He saw them and he despised them.

Methodically he gathered up his notes. Only a pulsating vein in his neck betrayed the fury that seethed inside him. He wanted to shout, I've warned you. Now pull yourselves together, we haven't much time. Instead he walked tight-lipped down the aisle between the rows of empty chairs and out into the starless summer's night. These people wouldn't listen any more than they had done when he'd taught them at school. But that wasn't the only reason he'd held back. There was a much simpler, deeper one, one that he'd only just realised. You couldn't instruct people on how to fight against the forces of darkness.

PART THREE: THE ANCIENT CIRCLE

III: 2 - THE FRADLEY CURSE

‘I'm sorry,’ Pamela Bridges said. It was the hardest thing she'd said for years. It had taken her twenty-four hours to find the right words. So simple and yet so difficult. Now all she could do was to await Lance's reactions.

He hadn't spoken at all on the drive back from the East Midlands Airport. Out of the corner of her eye she had tried to determine his feelings. Silent, not even tight-lipped. She might have been some stranger he was giving a lift to. Impersonal, neither liking nor hating. It would have been far easier if he'd exploded his anger (if he was angry), even told her they were through. But if it was his intention to split with her then he would hardly have driven across to collect her from the diverted flight from Geneva. That, at least, was comforting.

She followed him into the flat and closed the door. The first few minutes were the worst, wondering which of them was going to break the uneasy silence. She put the kettle on and turned to look out of the window. She'd already said ‘I'm sorry’, so she wasn't going to repeat it. It was Lance's turn now. She felt him come up behind her, found herself tensing in anticipation of his arm coming around her.

‘A good trip?’ he said. She tried to detect a note of sarcasm in his voice but couldn't find one. It was the question she had been dreading.

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘it wasn't. In fact, it was the worst flight I've ever known. Oh God, I wish I'd never gone.’

‘You had a golden opportunity to opt out.’

‘I know. Oh, Lance -’ she turned suddenly to face him, her arms going up around his neck ‘- I don't know what came over me. Except that the airport was the cause of it. It was like a depression in the beginning, building up until it got a grip on me so that … so that I just hated everybody and everything. I just had to hurt you somehow. I couldn't help myself. And then, when we got to Geneva all the hate just ebbed out of me. It was an awful feeling, like I wanted to run and hide from everybody. I know Fradley is to blame for all this. You don't realise it until you get far enough away from its influence.’

He watched her closely, his eyes asking the questions which he could not put into words. You slept with him, didn't you? What are we going to do now? Split up?

‘I spent the night with Tom,’ she said, dropping her gaze, feeling herself starting to tremble. ‘Before and during the flight I couldn't wait to get into bed with him. Then, when we landed I found myself wishing I could get on a plane right back to England. Even Fradley. But I'd got to go through with it. Christ, I need a bath to wash it all off me, get it out of my system.’

‘I hope you were good,’ he smiled. ‘I wouldn't like it to get around Fradley that Pam Bridges doesn't live up to her reputation.’

‘It was good.’ Her eyes were misting up and she knew she'd break down eventually. ‘For him, if not for me. And whilst we're conducting a personal enquiry into each other's lives last night, what did you do with yourself?’

‘Nothing.’ It didn't sound very convincing. ‘Just nothing at all. Except worry about you. And us.’

‘I thought perhaps Susan Strange might have called round.’ She couldn't stop the edge to her voice. ‘It wouldn't have surprised me and I couldn't very well complain if she had, could I?’

‘Well, she didn't,’ he snapped. ‘and I can't for the life of me understand why you or anyone else should think that I'm the slightest bit interested in Susan Strange.’

‘There's been gossip at the airport for weeks. Ever since she broke off with Rob Morton.’

‘I don't like hand-me-downs.’

‘What about me?’

‘You're different.’

‘Not really. Sue and I have a lot in common. We've both slept around some.’

‘Shut up, for Christ's sake.’ He shook himself free of her. ‘If you want to go, Pam, you go. I won't try to stop you. You don't have to try and find somebody to fill your place. I'm quite capable of looking around for myself.’

‘Lance,’ she said in a low, gentle voice. ‘Stop it. Pull yourself together before it's too late and we go off at a tangent again. It's working on us again; the Fradley curse. It's got everybody at the airport in all kinds of ways, however insignificant. Petty quarrels between maintenance staff. That walk-out by the catering staff a fortnight ago. All creating an atmosphere of tension. Bigger things like this latest DC-10 crash. There's only one way to stop it; close Fradley and let the place go desolate. Give it back to whatever lives there!’

‘No chance of that happening,’ he replied, relaxing a little. ‘These Americans have got too much money sunk in it. There's only one course open to them, to keep going and hope their run of bad luck will change. It's do or die as far as they're concerned.’

‘Then we'll have to get out. You and me.’

‘Sure. And what the hell are we going to do? Fradley pilots are virtually blacklisted throughout the country. We burned our bridges by leaving top airports. They won't take us back, not even as runway sweepers.’

‘Then we'll have to get out of flying altogether.’

‘No.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘I'm not going round knocking on doors peddling insurance. Or working in a factory. Could you take a job in a supermarket, sit on your backside at a cashpoint all day ringing up frumpy housewives' wares?’

‘It wouldn't be easy.’ She moved across and switched the kettle off. ‘But, on the other hand, it would be nice and safe with no worries. The chances are that at the end of each day you'd still be alive. Your sanity might be endangered, but you risk that at Fradley.’

‘In other words,’ he said, reaching down a jar of coffee granules. ‘we're both stuck at Fradley whether we like the idea or not. We've got to see it through.’

‘But at least we're together again.’ Any minute now that threatened flood of tears would hit her. ‘Lance, come what may we've got to stick together, no matter what Fradley does to try and part us.’

He pulled her to him just as she started to shake uncontrollably.

‘I take it you had a good trip, lover-boy.’

Tom Hodges looked up from his drink in the mess room, taking in the slim figure of Susan Strange, instinctively admiring her freshness. Few stewardesses, except perhaps Pam Bridges, looked so immaculate within half-an-hour of disembarking from a ten-hour flight.

‘I didn't.’ He pushed a stool across for her to sit on. ‘Being diverted to East Midlands just about capped my day.’

‘Maybe you wore yourself out with your new girlfriend last night.’

Now that was really bitchy; the difference between the two girls.

‘I did that,’ he laughed softly. ‘We screwed for hours.’

He watched for a reaction. You didn't beat about the bush with the likes of Susan Strange; Rob Morton had briefed him well. Sue and Rob had met through a contact-ad in a sex-mag and then discovered that they both worked on airlines. Not so much a coincidence as that two similar people had found each other through a continual search for physical sex. The chief flying instructor would have taken her back into his bed any night but he'd screwed it up by trying to run Pam on the side as well. Maybe, Hodges reflected, they should have got together for a threesome and all been satisfied. Nevertheless, you had to tread carefully with Sue. It was rumoured that she was after young Evans now. That would be her way of taking revenge on Pamela. Or, maybe, she just couldn't get enough.

‘You know they haven't split up, don't you?’ she asked. ‘Evans drove over to the East Midlands and picked her up.’

‘I know.’

‘Just a one-night stand for you, eh, Tom?’

‘You could say that. I never expected it to be anything else.’ Not that it's any of your goddamn business. ‘Rob was asking after you.’

‘The hell he was. He could have asked after me himself. He's only just gone out, a few minutes before you arrived.’

He guessed she'd been watching him from somewhere in the building for some time, waiting her chance. He lit two cigarettes, passed her one, and watched her draw on it, expelling the smoke in twin streams from her small delicate nostrils.

‘I'm booked in on your Paris flight next Monday, Tom,’ she spoke slowly, dwelling on each word, then added. ‘and so is Bridges. Christ, I can't stand working with the cow. You have to be a good actress to be an air hostess, all sweety-weety in the eyes of the passengers when underneath you'd like to push them out at ten thousand feet.’

You nasty bitch, he thought, and took his time tapping a length of ash into the heavy glass ashtray. And not so cunning, either. Rob won't screw you any more and you're up a dead end with Evans. So that just leaves Chief Pilot Hodges who has built himself a reputation as a stud. She'd be OK for a night but too possessive for anything more regular. As bad as being married. He didn't want her in Paris. He had something else lined up after his last visit. He wasn't going to get involved with anybody else again.

‘Don't start anything on the plane,’ he warned. ‘Even if you hate her guts, smile and pretend she's your fond sister. Or your lesbian lover.’

‘Ugh!’ she grimaced. ‘But you needn't worry. I'm not after starting anything. Not in working hours, anyway.’

‘Paris is awkward.’ He had to make the lie sound convincing so he didn't go into details. ‘Maybe we can arrange something in the near future, though. I'll check my monthly schedule and let you know.’

‘You do that.’ She forced a yawn and hoped he got the message. ‘By the way, they found the flight recorder and the flight deck voice recorder of the DC-10 in the hotel. There's rumours that both tapes were blank.’

‘I heard,’ he said. ‘But it can't be. Not both. More than likely there was something on one or both which they want to hush up …’

‘Like what?’

‘Christ knows, I don't. Maybe something that would be detrimental to the DC-l0s if it was publicised; you know what a bashing the media is giving them lately. Anyway, you needn't worry about Monday. It's a 707.’

‘I'm not worried.’ She would never have admitted to her fears anyway. ‘But this place is getting me down. The police are trying to trace a guy who's still missing after the hotel fire. Higgins. They reckon they've found all the bodies except his.’

‘Probably some guy pulling a big insurance con or else he's hoping to be presumed dead to hide his trail for some reason,’ said Hodges, not particularly interested. ‘That's not our worry, though.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Better be making a move. See you Monday, sweetheart.’

Her eyes followed him across the room to the swing doors, watched him until he was out of sight. She sighed her disappointment. She'd expected better dividends from a meeting with Tom Hodges, especially after Pam Bridges had been fouling up everybody's pitch. Still, there was time yet. She'd work on it on the Paris trip.

Her train of thought led to Lance Evans. Just a kid. He'd grow up, though. Pam wasn't good for him all the same. Most guys wouldn't have stood for what had happened in Geneva. And it would happen again. And again. Sooner or later Lance would tire of her nympho ways. And when that happened Susan Strange would be there waiting. And on that day Rob Morton and Tom Hodges could go to hell.

Pamela Bridges and Susan Strange had made a point of avoiding each other from take-off at Fradley until touchdown at Paris. Twice, when passing each other during the course of their services to passengers, they smiled icily with their mouths whilst their eyes blazed hate for each other.

Pam's uneasiness had increased throughout the flight. It had begun that morning when she had arrived at Fradley with Lance shortly before nine o'clock. The moment they pulled on to the car park she sensed the atmosphere; it hit her like an invisible force field, so powerful that within a matter of minutes a slight nagging headache had begun spreading upwards from the base of her neck. She tried to put it down to the cramped conditions in the Mini. She knew only too well that it was an attempt to deceive herself. A lie.

It was raining, a fine drizzle that was reminiscent of an autumn mist. Depressing. It seemed to eat into your bones, a dampness like the cold fingers of somebody long dead. She shivered.

The hotel loomed up out of the mist, the side nearest the runway smoke-blackened, sections of brickwork having been demolished for safety. It seemed deserted as though it had already surrendered to the forces of evil, battle-scarred in defeat. Of course that was nonsense. Within a week or so it would be renovated, as good as new, solid and invincible. That was another lie.

There was no sign of the remains of the DC-10. The main runway was clear, back in service again. All sorts of fears crowded in on her. It hadn't been just an ordinary crash. OK, there had been a few disasters with DC-l0s. The press were highlighting them. Only this morning one sensational newspaper had published pictures of half a dozen past disasters. One could accept mechanical failures on the law of averages. A flight recorder could pack up; so could the flight deck voice recorder. But not both together. That was more than just a coincidence. Sabotage by terrorists? Possibly, but not terrorists as the twentieth century knew them; an enemy far more insidious, one that it was impossible to come to terms with because you never saw them. When they hit you it was too late.

For the first time a job in a supermarket or multiple store appealed. Boring, but you knew that at the end of the day there was every chance that you would still be alive. Each day at Fradley was a trial of nerves, a gamble with death as the loser's prize. The little things had stopped going wrong or maybe you just did not notice them nowadays. The disasters were increasing on a steady scale. That missing man, the one that had been named as Higgins. It turned out he was one of the guys who not only held a large number of Flyway shares but also had bought the hotel. The papers had sniffed that out from somewhere, linked it with the ‘Jinxed Airport’; as though he had been singled out because of that. Police were expecting ransom demands. Pamela didn't think so. She knew in her heart that he was already dead. Maybe they'd find his body; maybe they wouldn't.

There was nothing untoward about the flight to Paris. Bang on schedule. She compared it with the Geneva one. There was one big difference; the nearer they got to Switzerland, or rather the further they left England behind, the more her tensions had eased. Today that was not happening. Her headache worsened, every nerve in her body tautening as though trying to warn her of something.

As they came in to land she braced herself, felt the sticky dampness of sweat beneath her uniform. Her mouth was dry, she felt slightly sick and dizzy. Somehow she maintained an outward appearance of calmness, that was what they paid you for. Even if both wings dropped off and you were plummeting like a stone, you were still expected to give the passengers assurance that everything was perfectly all right; fasten your safety belts please. No smoking. Lying had become an integral part of living and dying.

She had half-expected something to go wrong as they made contact with the runway. But it didn't. They taxied, stopped. She almost fainted with relief. It was an effort not to be sick. Then the headache changed up to top gear.

Somehow she forced herself to complete her duties, calling on all her reserves. She wanted to lie down in a darkened room. Sleep would be impossible. Just try to rest. Twenty-four hours had to be killed. She didn't want to think about the return flight.

The taxis were waiting to ferry the crews to their hotels. Pam sprawled into the worn seat of the Peugeot, noted that Susan Strange was in the same car. What the hell, just get me to somewhere where I can lie down.

The short journey seemed to take an eternity, the stopping and starting in heavy traffic jarring every nerve in her body. She closed her eyes. Once she was in her room she would be OK. Perhaps.

She had to call upon those reserves again to drag herself up the long flight of stone steps to the hotel.

‘Quand le déjeuner est-il servi?’

She recognised Tom Hodges's voice in the foyer. The thought of food made her want to vomit. This was more than just a bad head; a bug of some kind. She'd be all right by morning. Otherwise Flyways would have to send out another stewardess. Knowing Fradley, though, they wouldn't bother. They flouted the law blatantly these days. It hadn't been like that in the beginning, every petty rule being carried out to the letter. Now the company was collapsing with corrosion in every department. Unless the rot was stopped they'd be bankrupt within a year.

The elevator moved smoothly upwards. Pam leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. The movement gave her a peculiar sensation, churning her stomach; almost like airsickness. That was something she'd never suffered from, even in her early flying days.

They came gently to a halt and the doors slid back. As she opened her eyes Sue Strange was staring contemptuously at her.

‘I'm shattered,’ Pam muttered. It was silly, she didn't have to say anything. The other was well aware that she lied, was gloating over the fact.

They filed out on to the landing. Pam swayed, thought she was going to fall. The numbers on the doors were blurred. She had to concentrate, desperately trying to focus. 94 … 96 …

She turned the knob of 99, stepped into the small single room. The moment she was alone her resistance collapsed. She made it to the bed, flung herself headlong on to it. The springs seemed to catapult her like a trampoline, hurling her up to dizzy heights, somersaulting, falling, arms spread wide in an attempt to save herself. The room, its furniture, whirled crazily.

After a time everything steadied. Her rapid breathing slowed, too slow; so shallow that she found herself consciously drawing in air. That was caused by nerves. She had first suffered from it in her late teens and the doctor had put her on a course of valium. It had done the trick, psychologically anyway. Now it was coming back again and knowing the cause was no cure. Fradley was responsible. Everybody who worked there would go under eventually. Even the strongest would fall in the end. There was no escape.

She dozed, a troubled state in which she tossed, buried her face in the pillow in an attempt to shut out the light.

She must have slept. She was aware of a blackness in the room which could only be night. And her headache had disappeared. But her relief was only temporary. She stirred, tried to sit up, and only then was she aware of her weakness.

She was sweating, too; not the damp beads of fear which she had experienced earlier but a layer of perspiration that seeped from every pore in her body. Her throat was parched, crying out for water.

Pamela Bridges found the light pull and tugged, flooding the small room with blinding fluorescent light. Shading her eyes against its glare she peered in the direction of the washbasin, saw the plastic square screwed to the wall above the taps, its large red lettering mocking her - DO NOT DRINK THE WATER.

She fell back on to the pillow in despair. No way was she going to be able to make it to the bathroom out on the landing. She was shaking, trembling violently, aware that the fever raging within her had not yet reached its peak.

The two boys had crossed the sloping meadow which ran down to the black sluggish river at the bottom. They idled, hands deep in the pockets of their worn and ragged jeans. The taller one was approaching his fourteenth birthday, copper-coloured hair falling untidily down to the neck of his grubby white T-shirt. His small mouth curved into a frown, a perpetual expression of his discontentment, his boredom.

The second boy was a year or two younger, a stone or so overweight, a roll of spare flesh bulging out over his waistband.

Neither of them had spoken since they had climbed over the gate by the road, principally because there was nothing to say. Playing truant was an exciting thought but after the first hour or two it became boring. Not that school was any more interesting. Life generally was one long drag.

Their original plan had been to spend the day in the fields bordering the Fradley runways. Aircraft were coming and going all day long.

‘Wiv a bit o' luck,’ said the red-haired Carlton, whose speech had a trace of cockney in it. ‘we might see one o' them DC-l0s crash.’

‘Wow!’ Mark glanced at his companion in alarm. ‘I hope not. I saw the pictures in the paper, about a dozen crashes. Horrible.’

‘It'd liven things up,’ Carlton grinned sadistically. ‘What I'd really like to see is …’

A DC-10 just taking off drowned his words. Mark was sure that he didn't want to see whatever Carlton had in mind. The older boy thrived on every aspect of cruelty and disaster. Only the day before he had caught a grasshopper, pulled its legs off and carried the dismembered insect around in a matchbox, showing it to other boys and laughing at their expressions of horror.

By the time the noise of the plane had died away Carlton had forgotten what he was going to say. He was walking on ahead, kicking at dandelions, snapping their stems. It was in his nature to destroy; it gave him a feeling of power. He liked to shock. That was one advantage he had over his parents and the school authorities. Both meted out punishment but in the end he was the winner because he revolted them, upset their equilibrium. Nobody could really hurt you if you made up your mind not to let them. A beating wore off after a while so that you could laugh about it; what you inflicted upon your chastiser was there for keeps.

Mark now wished secretly that he was in school, not that he enjoyed any particular aspect of his education. Sport was the worst, not just a bore, really hateful. Gym was even more distasteful, especially the climbing ropes. At any height above six feet he was liable to an attack of vertigo. Mr Pyke, the PE instructor, refused to believe him, accused him of putting on an act, shirking. He'd make them all sorry, though, when he fell and broke a limb. The very thought paled him, brought on a slight fit of dizziness.

Tuesdays were the worst day of the week. No lessons in the afternoon, not proper lessons, anyway. PE, followed by swimming. God, he hated water, even washing in it. Gone were the days when you could skive in the baths, take your time in the changing rooms and spend the rest of the time splashing about in the shallow end. Since Mr Pyke had added to his duties that of swimming instructor all that had changed. Five minutes to get changed and into the water; non-swimmers lined up for intensive instruction. ‘Don't worry lads, I won't let you drown.’ No, but I'd bloody well like to drown the lot of you. Particularly that fat slob Mark Garrett. ‘Come on, Garrett, get in the water and let's see what you can do.’

Strangely, although Mark Garrett spent a lot of time in the company of Carlton Smith, he hated the other. He was scared of him, too. No, more frightened of his own weakness at going along with whatever the other suggested. It was bloody stupid really. A combination of martyrdom and reluctant admiration for the tall lad. Carlton was tough. Nobody bothered him, and if anybody got the better of him then it was only a temporary victory. Like the time old Pyke had hauled him before the head for ducking one of the juniors and holding him under water. The following week there had been a fire in the headmaster's study during the lunch hour; not a lot of damage but it had made one hell of a mess. The tyres of Pykey's car had been slashed the next day. And the young boy who had been the unfortunate victim of all the trouble had had his blazer and satchel stolen from the cloakroom. They'd never been found. Three totally unrelated incidents, as Carlton had said a number of times, and if anybody so much as mentioned his name in connection with them his dad would be seeing his solicitor. Nobody had. Which went to prove that Carlton was big. They were all damned scared of him, even the teaching staff.

Mark had only skipped school because Carlton had suggested (ordered) him to. It was a strange relationship, one that the younger boy had never really got into. It was easier just to go along. Lately, some of the juniors were becoming scared of him too. If they saw him coming along the corridors they stood back to let him pass. And if they met on a pavement in the city on a Saturday morning they stepped off into the road. Once a young boy had almost gone under the wheel of a passing transit van. That had been when Mark had first started to become afraid. Things were getting out of control.

It took guts to be Carlton Smith's sidekick. But it took even more courage to opt out. And Mark Garrett didn't have that kind of courage. It was easier to play along and hope that something would crop up. That Shotton kid … Damien had been a mate of his. Somebody had carved him up good and proper. It was the kind of carnage that Carlton would drool over; not that he'd actually do a thing like that. Not yet, anyway, but he was building up to it. That boy at the swimming baths could easily have died. That would've been murder.

Mark shivered in spite of the heat of the day. The airport gave him the creeps. He'd never enjoyed playing there even in the days when it had been a free-for-all wilderness. It was as though … something invisible lurked there. He was glad that they had come away from it down here to the meadows. Even these grassy river fields weren't the same these days. The tranquillity he remembered when he used to come here fishing with his father four or five years ago seemed to have gone. The airport again, destroying the peace with its continual noise. The environment had suffered, there was no escape. It was right what Hartley Lowe said. Not that Mark had much time for the ex-headmaster of his school. Schoolmasters were all the same. Bullies. They made life hell for you because they enjoyed it; they delighted in making trouble for somebody.

‘Be glad when it's August,’ Carlton grunted.

‘Why?’

‘Why? Don't talk bloody thick. Football o' course. You and me'll go to the Villa's first match.’

‘Yeah,’ Mark swallowed. ‘Sure we'll go, Carlton.’ Not if I can help it. You might be the big boy at Fradley School but you won't cut much ice on the terraces. They'll pull you down in numbers; and me if I'm with you.

They reached the river bank. They'd smelt the river Tame for the past fifty yards, a nauseating kind of disinfectant odour that was put in the water to mask the stench of sewage and factory pollution. A lot more was being pumped in since the opening of the new airport. You could see it floating sluggishly downstream.

‘See that there?’ Carlton pointed with a stick he'd picked up.

Mark stared. He picked out something towards the centre which reminded him of a deflated kid's balloon, floating along half-full of water. He gulped his embarrassment as he identified it. Psychologically he wasn't yet ready to enjoy the string of schoolboyish jokes about condoms. Adolescence was still a year or two away. Sex talk made him feel inadequate; he didn't know enough about it and you could make a fool of yourself with the other boys that way.

‘Aw, don't play the innocent little momma's boy,’ Carlton laughed nastily. ‘Time you was gettin' used to the feel've a johnny on your dick. Tell you what, next week we'll go into town and find us a coupla birds. What about that, eh?’

‘Yeah,’ Mark gulped. ‘I'll come with you, Carlton.’

‘No, you won't,’ Carlton threw his head back and roared with laughter. ‘You'll come with a bird, Markie.’

Mark laughed. It was best to laugh when Carlton did even if you didn't get the joke. He wondered if Carlton had ever been with a girl. He doubted it.

They followed the bank in an easterly direction. A few hundred yards ahead a massive viaduct screened the merging of the Tame and the Trent, a foaming cauldron of brownish stinking polluted water just beyond the ugly concrete structure. No longer were there fish to be caught lurking beneath the bridge; neither did the wild duck fly in at twilight any more. There was nothing for anybody or anything to come here for now. Indirectly Fradley was playing its part in that also, camouflaged beneath the march of progress.

Mark Garrett wished that he could find some excuse to go home. He thought about faking illness; it wouldn't be difficult to vomit in this atmosphere. No sooner had the idea crossed his mind than he discarded it. Carlton despised any form of weakness. Like an animal in the wild he seized upon it. That was the hallmark of an inveterate bully.

One was not aware of the island until one drew level with it along the bank. At first glance it appeared to be a peninsula of the other side, an extension of the opposite field. However, on looking closely you saw that a narrow channel of inky black water separated this oblong acre or so of land from the mainland. The current had, over the centuries, eroded and separated the tiny island, isolating it from trespassing humans except in times of low water.

‘Went on there once,’ Carlton grunted. ‘When we was kids, that was. Just to play. There's a kind've cave on the other side, a hole in the bank. What say we take a look?’

As usual, Mark Garrett nodded his assent and hoped that it didn't look too half-hearted.

‘Water's low,’ Carlton was already starting to climb down the bank, extending a plimsolled foot out to a large stone which protruded above water level. ‘Just like steppin' stones, ain't they?’

Three minutes later both boys were on the tiny river island. As they topped the slight rise in the centre they both experienced a sense of conquest as though they should be marking their achievement with a flag; not the Union Jack, that was too old fashioned.

‘Great, ain't it?’ Carlton surveyed the countryside around them, a network of pylons, the power lines seeming to converge on a cluster of tall buildings a couple of miles or so away. Fradley; a kind of sinister anticlimax.

They could see a plane just taking off. In a few moments their eardrums would be reverberating.

‘Big, ain't it?’ Carlton surveyed his tiny kingdom, claimed it with a sweeping gesture of his hand. ‘Makes you feel big, don't it?’

‘Yeah,’ Mark nodded, screwing his nose up as the summer breeze blew a fresh odour of sewage downstream.

They saw a train crossing the viaduct, supersonic thunder which challenged the might of the heavens.

‘Let's find that cave,’ the red-haired boy began making his way towards the far side of the island, treading cautiously over clumps of grass and sharp stones.

‘This used to be one big marsh once,’ Mark Garrett felt he had to break the awkward silence which had descended after the plane was lost to sight. ‘Just one big swamp. Alrewas. “Was” means marsh.’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Carlton turned back to leer. ‘And who told you that crap?’

‘Mr King, the geography master said so,’ said Mark, feeling his confidence dwindling at the mention of school. ‘He said …’

‘I wouldn't give a shit about what 'e said. 'E's a bluffer like all the rest o' them creeps there. Gotta tell you somefin', else they ain't justifyin' their jobs. Make up any old crap; they're only schoolkids, they'll believe it.’

‘I wonder if this island was here in the days when it was a marsh,’ said Mark. He liked history, the one sufferable subject out of the whole curriculum. He didn't see why even Carlton should spoil it for him. ‘I bet it was, the one bit of firm ground in acres of quagmire.’

‘Shaddup, you stupid little prick,’ said Carlton Smith, leaning over the steep bank. On this side the river ran much slower. Some said it was ten or twelve feet deep in places. Directly below him the miniature rocky cliffs shelved inwards, screened from his view. ‘I think this is the place. Give us a hand down, it's a bit tricky.’

Mark Garrett sweated under the strain of the other's weight, tried not to gasp aloud and announce his inferior strength. Smith's feet found a hold and he transferred his grip to some undergrowth which sprouted horizontally from the perpendicular bank.

‘Ah, right first time. It's here. Hang on a sec, I'll just take a peek, then you can come and have a dekko.’

The ‘cave’ was shallow, a gap where the huge boulder had split at some time as though King Arthur's sword itself had been jerked free from its stone scabbard. Just room enough to squeeze inside, turn around, and …’

Carlton Smith screamed. He felt the cold fingers on his bare forearm in the same instant that he looked into the face of the man held upright in a narrow rock fissure. Dulled eyes from which even death was unable to banish the expression of terror; mouth wide, the tongue blue and swollen. The clothes were ragged and torn, gaudily coloured pyjamas that hung in strips and exposed the white flesh - flesh that was lacerated with deep jagged wounds, the blood having congealed into solid strips that ran right down the length of the body.

For some seconds Carlton Smith and Frank Weston gazed into each other's face. The boy screamed a second time and turned to flee, heedless of the sharp rocks which scraped his body, mindless of the deep black water which opened up to greet him, pulling him down into its foul murky depths. Grinning, leering, swirling faces mocked him, scrawny hands reached out for him; held him. Sheer hate. Down, down.

Trying to scream; swallowing water, striking out blindly with arms and legs but it was futile. The black shapes which held him were not going to release him. Ever.

Up above, a panting Mark Garrett was running frantically for help, splashing his way back across the shallow river bed, heedless of the rocks which offered a dry passage. The roll of fat encircling his stomach wobbled and shook.

He had caught just one glimpse of Smithy's face as the current took him. That expression would remain with Mark for the rest of his days, the bloated eyes that seemed about to burst from their sockets, the scream that was choked by the polluted river, hands raised as though to ward off some terrible apparition. Only as he went under did Carlton begin to struggle.

Mark knew that it wasn't the shock of falling into the river that was responsible for the other's state of absolute terror. The cause of his fear lay in that cave, some unspeakable terror lurking beneath the overhanging bank.

It wasn't just in search of help that the younger boy fled blindly back across the meadows. He had to get away from that awful place, the stinking black river with its tiny island that harboured an unknown horror.

He dared not glance behind him. He could feel its presence in the air, an invisible, almost tangible, force that pursued him, whispering in the wind.

He had sensed it before. At Fradley Airport.

III: 3 - THE CRACK

‘It's impossible,’ said Charles Whyte in what was barely a whisper. ‘Absolutely impossible. Yet it has all happened within the space of one week. Just one week!’

The Warboys brothers glanced at each other as if in search of reassurance; not just of the events which had precipitated this meeting in a luxurious room of the Angel Croft Hotel, but that they were actually here, seeing a very different Charles Whyte, his tone a faint dying echo of his usual staccato orders, his body hunched with the prospect of defeat. Almost broken.

It could have been a dream, a nightmare of financial ruin such as only the capitalist knows - but it wasn't. It was real. Terrifyingly real!

‘Two DC-l0s written off,’ Whyte croaked, stabbing a finger at the other two as though they were to blame. ‘147 lives lost.’ Not that that mattered, people were dispensable. ‘Half of the hotel wrecked and then we find that Weston was selling out anyway and we no longer have any say in the Airport Hotel. Christ knows what'll happen to it now. And Weston's body turns up on a river island three miles from the airport. As before, the police say it has all the marks of a ritual killing. Some psychopath has been running loose ever since we started to build Fradley and they haven't got any nearer to catching him. And now … this!’

‘A bloody great crack in Runway One,’ Phil Warboys shook his head in bewilderment. ‘It's gotta be caused by some kind of earth tremor.’

‘And the experts say that a tremor that could make a crack that size would be felt for up to a radius of ten or fifteen miles,’ said Roger Warboys, pursing his lips. ‘Yet nobody heard or felt anything; not even in the hotel or the terminal only a few hundred yards away. Crazy. Now we're left operating on only the two smaller runways until it's repaired.’

‘Which could be anything up to two months,’ said Whyte, banging the table with his fist. ‘Carver Construction has gone to the wall so we've got to get quotes, and the insurance company won't agree to work being started until there's been a full enquiry into the cause. It's anybody's guess how long that will take. And in the meantime the press are having a ball. Our weekly passenger list has dropped by fifty per cent thanks to all this rot about ancient Druids objecting to us using their ground for an airport. Now we're forced to cut back even more on our flights. Another few months and if there's no improvement that's it as far as we're concerned. There's no chance of getting fresh backers either here or in the States.’

‘You make it sound like the finish,’ said Roger Warboys, attempting to hide his pessimism.

‘It will be unless we do something drastic.’

‘Like what?’

‘That's what we're here to discuss. If either of you have any ideas, let's have 'em.’

‘We need something spectacular,’ Phil Warboys mused. ‘Something which will bring the public flocking back. Like cut-price flights to the States.’

‘That's out for a start. We're struggling like mad to keep our increases as low as possible and even so we're barely breaking even. We can't stand losses, however small, even for a short period.’

‘Why not try a stunt of some kind?’ Phil Warboys pursed his lips. ‘Something that'd make everybody forget what's happened, something to bring the public flocking back. A flying display, engage the Red Arrows, really top stuff.’

‘I think you've got something there,’ said Whyte, helping himself to a cigar from his case and taking his time lighting it. ‘The Red Arrows are out. They wouldn't agree to take part in anything organised by Fradley and that's a cold fact. But I like your idea, Phil. The only thing is it'll have to be a homebred display, so to speak. We've got the flying staff and I dare say we could hire some aircraft. Instead of doing ultramodern we could do a World War II show, a few bombers and Spitfires, a skydiving display. Yeah, it's a good idea. We just have to make it work.’

The meeting broke up. Whyte knew that they were playing their last hand. There had to be a trump card in it or else Flyways wouldn't see the end of the year. Once he was alone he poured himself another brandy. He'd been fighting to play down all these disasters. At all costs the popular theory of evil forces had to be squashed, at least as far as the public were concerned. There were too many things, though, that defied logical explanation. Weston was one. Even if he had gone crazy, set fire to his own hotel and then tried to disappear, somebody had carved him up. He couldn't do that himself. A lot of folks had been killed. Air crashes happened all over the world. Two in one week for Fradley was too much of a coincidence, particularly the blank tapes. The idea of sabotage occurred to him. It was a possibility. There again, no saboteurs could cover their track so effectively time and time again.

He hated to admit it, even to himself, but behind all the strange happenings right from the beginning there had to be an involvement of supernatural forces. He licked his lips. Flyways did not concede to anybody or anything. Or, to be more precise, Charles Whyte didn't.

He drew hard on his cigar, savouring the rich Havana flavour. It was them or him. And he had no intention of losing.

‘It's nothing but a cheap stunt,’ said Lance. ‘A fly-past of antiquated bombers and Spitfires. Nothing very clever about that. Or original. You can go down to Hendon and look at them any time.’

‘It'll draw the crowds,’ replied Pam. ‘You can bet your life on that. Personally, I think they've got a cheek asking you to take part in it. It isn't in your contract of employment so you're quite entitled to refuse.’

‘Except that I want to, Fradley or no Fradley.’

‘You must be mad.’

‘Maybe. I'm also relieved that you're alive, Pam. God, if you hadn't picked up that bug and had to stay in Paris you'd've gone down in the Channel with the rest of the crew and passengers.’

‘I know.’ The thought still frightened her. ‘But they've got to face up to it now that Fradley really is jinxed. A lot of the staff have handed in their notice this last week. And yet you and I, gluttons for punishment, turn up for work each day. We're both mad. Oh, Lance, let's get out now before it's too late.’

‘OK. But after the flying display.’

‘I knew you'd say that,’ she sighed loudly. ‘It's the display I'm frightened of, Lance. Something terrible will happen, I know it.’

‘I'll take care.’

‘I know you will but … but there's nothing you can do against them!’

Debbie Lowe was in her early thirties - a brunette who could have been more attractive than she was if she had taken the trouble; she didn't because men were not all that interesting to her. The opposite sex had little to offer her except their apparent common desire to overrule, to bully. If that was a woman's place in life, she decided, then she would remain her own boss, beholden to none. Of course, not all men were like that. Uncle Hartley was different. He knew how to enforce discipline in the classroom but at home he was a totally different person, quiet and unassuming. Lately he had developed a bit of a bee in his bonnet about the new airport but that was only to be expected with jets going over every few minutes and drowning every other normal household noise. This Druids business, she reflected, was taking things a bit too far. But that was Uncle Hartley all over - obsessional. Not that it did any harm, just another reason for trying to get Fradley closed and everybody who lived in a five-mile radius wanted to do that. A good many were leaving because of the disturbance; herself, included. Even if she did present another reason.

She smiled whimsically to herself as she walked down the gravelled drive from Hartley Lowe's house to where her yellow Datsun was parked beneath a street lamp. Fradley Airport wasn't the only reason she was going to live in London. This new consumer research job was too good to turn down; it was a challenge, something which she had been lacking for a very long time. There wasn't much of a future for a career girl out here in the sticks, apart from working at the airport. There were lots of jobs going there, at least a dozen various posts were offered in all the situations vacant columns of every local paper as well as three or four of the national dailies. All wasn't well there, that much was obvious - which was as good a reason as any for not applying for one of the jobs. Everybody there was getting jittery, and no wonder after two DC-10 disasters, two hotel blazes, plus a few ghastly deaths on the place.

Nobody could work in that kind of atmosphere, she decided as she unlocked the car and slid in behind the steering wheel. Tomorrow she would be away from it all, heading south. She didn't know when she would be back, if ever. No, that was taking it a bit far. She didn't hate the place, she was just fed up with it. Nevertheless it was a pity that she had been unable to see Uncle Hartley for more than a few minutes. Kaufmann was with him. A queer sort of guy, eyes that filmed over as though he were in a perpetual daze, his thoughts miles away. Debbie didn't know exactly what the other did for a living; some kind of psychic investigator, she understood, although that would hardly have been a well paid enough job to allow him to pursue it full-time. He was only in his late forties at the most, certainly not old enough to be retired. Possibly he had a private income of sufficient size which allowed him to indulge in his own eccentricities.

When Debbie had quietly opened the door of Hartley Lowe's study Kaufmann had been standing with his back to the large gas fire, totally oblivious of her presence.

‘Surely there are psychic forces there, Hartley,’ he declared in a deep southern accent (she seemed to remember Uncle saying he hailed from Alabama). ‘You've only got to step on the place to feel 'em, like live currents in the air. Now why is it that areas absolutely soaked in ancient evil seem to attract airports?’

‘You tell me,’ said Hartley, motioning to Debbie to sit down, but making no attempt to interrupt his visitor.

‘It's a case of like poles attracting, evil calling evil.’ replied Kaufmann. His eyes cleared momentarily, blazed with anger, and then glazed again. ‘Yet the modern evil fails to recognise the ancient evil - until it's too late. Take the New Phoenix Airport in the Arizona Desert. Now what a plumb crazy place to choose for a site, a waste land of rocky mountains and desert. Nobody had lived there except the Apaches, and in the end the heat and lack of food drove them to seek the comforts of a reservation. Then, three-quarters of a century later there's an airport springing up with the rapidity of an overnight gold rush shanty town. And not just an airport. A town, too, followers-on who thought they saw a way to get rich quick. And now they're all paying for it. They brought noise to the goddamned quiet of the desert, noise such as the place had never heard before. Not just aircraft, machinery of every kind. It was a sacrilege, an insult to the long-dead. Because beneath the very site, under the bloodstained sand of the Apache wars, lies an old Indian burial ground! Oh, the guys who built New Phoenix, knew all right. They scoffed, kicked the asses of those who tried to warn 'em. And now they're paying the price for their folly, innocent and guilty alike.’

‘What … what's happening to them?’ Hartley Lowe leaned forward, his features pale and strained, his thick eyebrows knitting.

‘They're all going deaf!’ Kaufman gave a short laugh. ‘Eight out of every ten people in New Phoenix wear a hearing aid. Sixty per cent are already stone deaf. You'd think they'd see what was happening, close down, leave before it's too late. But, no. They're carrying on as if nothing's wrong; they don't even realise. Soon it'll be a city of the deaf, the spirits of the Apaches taking over!’

‘And the same will happen at Fradley?’ Lowe breathed.

‘It's impossible to tell what form it'll take in the end,’ replied Kaufmann, turning in Debbie's direction but even then not appearing to notice her. ‘Even death will not satisfy the priests of the Old Religion. They demand more than that from their enemies, those who defile their sacred grounds; more than their lives, their very souls are in danger!’

Hartley Lowe licked his lips. ‘Bert,’ he said, seeming glad of the excuse to interrupt the other. ‘Bert, this is my niece, Debbie.’

‘I'm pleased to meet you.’ Kaufman seemed to be forcing himself out of a trance back in to reality. ‘I trust you are not employed at Fradley.’

‘No,’ Debbie smiled and shook her head. ‘No way. I can't stand noise and anyway I'm off back to London to a new job tomorrow.’

‘You are very wise,’ said Kaufmann. His eyes had dulled again. ‘Even those who live in the village are not safe from the terrible wrath of the old ones. But the majority of people will remain, refusing to believe right to the bitter end what is happening. Then it will be too late, just as it already is in New Phoenix.’

‘Is there nothing that can be done?’ Hartley Lowe asked, a note of almost pleading in his voice.

‘The airport could be closed. That is what the spirits want, the message they have been trying to get over without success.’

‘I am afraid there is no chance of that. Everything has been tried and now finally even I must admit failure.’

‘Then there is no hope for those who remain,’ said Kaufmann. He seemed to relax suddenly as though a long-awaited decision had been reached. ‘I must try once more at New Phoenix although it is surely a waste of time. Yet I will never rest until there is absolutely no hope of saving these people. Only then will I pray to the Almighty to protect their souls. Certainly nothing will save their lives.’

‘Don't let me interrupt you.’ Debbie rose to her feet, buttoning up her short car coat. ‘I can see you two have a lot to discuss. As for myself, I have the rest of my packing to attend to. Goodbye, Uncle, I'll be up to see you at Christmas, no doubt.’

She kissed Hartley Lowe on the cheek and turned to Kaufmann with hand outstretched. ‘Goodbye, Mr Kaufmann. I do hope you'll be successful, both here and at New Phoenix.’

‘I doubt it.’ His grip was soft, almost jelly-like. ‘I don't think there is any chance of getting either party responsible for disturbing the undead to listen to reason. However, it is my duty to try, much as I fear for my personal safety in returning to New Phoenix.’

Kaufmann was an odd bird, she decided, as she drove along the main street of the village in the direction of the airport. Some way ahead she could see the runway lights illuminating the night sky. She shuddered as she recalled Bert Kaufmann's words. More than their lives, their very souls are in danger.

She left the village behind and entered a maze of narrow winding lanes, the tall overhanging hedges with their thick foliage forming a long dark tunnel which shut out every vestige of artificial light except the headlights of the Datsun which cut through the blackness with a white glare.

Debbie was almost level with the man standing half-hidden in the undergrowth before she saw him; an outstretched arm, thumb crooked. She was standing on the brakes before she realised it, backing up, glancing out of the rear window trying to see him.

Normally she would not stop for a stranger at any time; certainly not after dark. She didn't know why she did it now. She saw his outline in the back glare of the lights, the whiteness of his face beneath a short-peaked cap. His hand was on the door handle, clicking the lock. She leaned across, released the catch.

‘I nearly didn't see you,’ she quavered, trying to laugh. She ought not to have stopped. There was still time to slam the gears in, roar away and leave this stranger standing here. It seemed the sensible thing to do but she didn't do it.

Too late. He was inside the car, closing the door with a dull metallic thud.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He was looking straight ahead so that she only saw him in profile. There wasn't much to see; the upturned collar of his raincoat hid the lower half of his face. She wondered why he had his collar turned up, why he wore a coat at all for the night was sultry. He wasn't young. Neither was he old. It was difficult to guess his age; forties maybe. It didn't matter, anyway. She let in the clutch and the car moved slowly forward.

They drove in silence. For some reason she didn't start a conversation. There were many things she wanted to know but could not bring herself to ask them. Who are you? Where are you going? Where do you come from? It was none of her business.

It was an uneasy silence, one that was oppressing her, undermining her nerves. She'd have to say something soon. Obviously he wasn't going to. He wasn't a local, otherwise he wouldn't have been thumbing a lift so close to the village. Of course he was going to the airport. Everybody seemed to be going to the airport these days.

Something was wrong. It took Debbie several minutes to work out what it was. Of course, the blackness. They were out of the lanes now, the hedges smaller, just barbed wire fencing in places. But the night was black without so much as a star showing in the sky overhead. What had happened to the airport's blazing lights?

‘The airport,’ she gasped, her foot easing off the accelerator which slowed the Datsun down to about l0mph. ‘it … I can't see it.’

Her companion was staring fixedly ahead. ‘Perhaps we had better go and look,’ he said in a flat monotone.

She was about to reply when suddenly she saw in the headlights that the road was petering out. The tarmac was broken into chunks as though workmen had been smashing it up with pickaxes in preparation for extensive resurfacing. That she could have accepted; but not the tall weeds which sprouted through the uneven surface, the spreading moss!

‘We … we must have taken a wrong turn somewhere,’ Debbie said, desperate for a logical explanation. ‘We appear to have left the road.’

The man by her side neither moved nor spoke. Debbie's mouth was dry and she could feel herself starting to sweat under the arms. The hand which moved the gear lever into reverse trembled.

The car shot backwards. She couldn't see anything but straggling hedges, and wondered if she was steering a true course. Then they came to a shuddering halt, the vehicle lurching to one side, something solid striking the underside with terrible force. In her panic Debbie Lowe stalled the engine.

‘Oh …’ she gasped, flinging the door open, and almost falling out.

There was a sinking feeling in her stomach as she surveyed the damage, saw what had caused it. The back wheels had gone into some kind of a deep trench, the car resting on its chassis. It was perfectly clear that the only way it could be freed was by being towed out by either a tractor or a Land-Rover.

A feeling of helplessness swept over her. She wanted to pummel her fists on the roof of the trapped vehicle, kick the sides, shout and curse, then break down in a flood of tears. Yet she did none of these. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes; when she opened them again the blackness would be gone and the airport lights would be flooding the scene.

She opened her eyes. Apart from the lights of the car there was nothing but darkness all around. Oh, God, where was the airport?

Then she remembered her companion. Against the glow of the dashboard lights she could see him sitting there hunched in the passenger seat. She started to become angry. He hadn't even bothered to get out to see if he could help her; not so much as a query as to the trouble.

‘We're stuck fast,’ she spoke angrily, her voice shaking. ‘Both back wheels are embedded in some kind of trench. Would it be asking too much to request that at least you get out of the car?’

He fumbled with the door catch on the other side and after some seconds she heard it click. He climbed out of the tilted car, using the roof to pull himself upright. He wasn't very tall, 5ft 5in at the most. His raincoat was several sizes too large, falling about him like some kind of voluminous cloak. He stood there staring, muttering beneath his breath.

‘We'll have to get help,’ she snapped. ‘I belong to the AA. I just need a phone box. But -’ her anger faded into the beginning of a new feal ‘- but there doesn't appear to be any lights. Even the airport's in darkness. Where are we?’

‘Come with me,’ he said, holding out a hand towards her. ‘Stay close to me, this ground is treacherous. Tread carefully.’

His hand was cold, making her want to tug free and run, but she forced herself to hold on. Repulsive as this silent stranger was, without him she would be alone in this dark and silent place. They moved off. She wanted to keep at arm's length but he pulled her close. She flinched, trying to turn her head away. He smelled musty as though his clothing had been hung for years in some airless place.

There was total silence all around, the only sounds their own footsteps scraping on stony ground, her heart pounding relentlessly. The other did not seem at all perturbed by this desolation in an area where life went on at a tremendous pace. She wondered if he realised. It was useless trying to get anything out of him.

No longer could they see the lights of the car which they had left. She remembered that she hadn't switched off the headlights. Damn, the battery would be flat by the time help arrived. If they found help; her stomach seemed to contract at the thought. This place, the darkness, the loneliness was so far removed from such mundane everyday things which one took for granted. Telephone kiosks. AA breakdown services. Other people.

She estimated that they had been walking for twenty minutes and still there was no break in the pitch blackness. Twice her companion had caught her as she stumbled, once pulling her roughly to one side in order to avoid some obstruction. It occurred to her that he could see his way clearly. She didn't know how. It was unnerving: he was like some nocturnal beast of the jungle.

When they halted it was with such suddenness that she bumped into him. She found herself clinging to his arm, the terror which had been building up steadily now soaring to a peak.

‘Where are we? For God's sake where are we?’

‘We are at our destination.’ It was a plain statement of fact, devoid of any emotion. He seemed completely unaware of her fear.

‘No we're not.’ Her voice was rising to a scream. ‘There's no telephone box, no lights. We're still in the middle of nowhere!’

‘You are at the place to which I have been ordered to bring you.’ His grip on her wrist tightened. ‘A place which was once sacred to all the people of this land. Then came those whose only desire was to destroy, to erase our simple places of worship from the earth to make way for their own blasphemous edifices. The first attempt was many centuries ago when a band of warriors from over the seas ventured inland, pillaging and raping. We asked the gods for a sign that they were still with us. That night they gave us one. They split the ground open, leaving a wide chasm for all to see when daylight came. At the bottom of it, their bodies crushed and broken where they had fallen into the pit in the darkness, lay the invaders. Yet there was still a price to pay, the gods demanded a sacrifice from us, the priests of the Old Religion …’

You're mad, she thought, stark raving mad. And so am I. I must be, otherwise I wouldn't be out here with you and the airport wouldn't have disappeared.

‘The gods demanded a virgin.’ His voice rose to a high-pitched squeak which reminded her of a boy on the verge of attaining puberty. ‘They demanded that she be cast down into the abyss, to lie amongst the bodies of the slain, to torment their souls with her naked untouched body. It was done,’ he laughed harshly. ‘and later that morning the ravens flew in to feast.’

‘No!’ she screamed, starting to struggle as his other hand came round, strong fingers ripping at her clothing. ‘Don't you dare. Let me go!’

She kicked out, felt her foot make contact with his shins. He did not appear to notice.

‘We have asked the gods for help again,’ he shouted. ‘and they have answered us with another chasm, smaller than the first but it has stopped the big planes from using this sacred place. Now the gods must be repaid … with another virgin!’

She fought her attacker, scratching, biting, kicking, but not once were those cold strong hands deterred from their task. Garments were ripped; she felt the coolness of a summer's night on her naked body. Her arms were twisted behind her back, she was being pushed forward.

Debbie tried to draw back. One of her feet had stepped off into space. There was no doubt in her crazed mind that beneath her lay a pit or abyss of some kind and it was the intention of the other to fling her down into it.

‘No!’ she screamed again.

‘The will of the gods cannot be denied. They demand a sacrifice - a virgin!’

‘I'm not a virgin!’ It was a last desperate throw when all else had failed. A lie. Even in her predicament, with death yawning only inches away from her, she felt the shame, the degradation, a Judas denying the principles instilled into her by a strict upbringing. It made the lie unconvincing.

‘You lie!’ the stranger hissed. ‘You are still a maiden, and fit for the gods!’

She was falling. Floating. Somersaulting. Not screaming now. She tried to pray but her thoughts were incoherent. One's whole life was supposed to flash before one's eyes in situations where death was only seconds away. But Debbie Lowe's mind was a blank; a blackness that would never end.

It was the representatives of the insurance company, escorted out to the jagged crack on Runway One by Reece Lingen, who discovered the body. Open mouthed they stared down at the sprawled lifeless naked girl at the bottom of the ten-foot split in the smooth concrete. There was not a mark on her, none that they could see; not so much as a cut.

Her head was twisted round, looking up at them. Her lips were parted as though in a smile. Only her wide staring dead eyes reflected the terror which she had known at the very end.

The gods of old were appeased. They had accepted the offer of a virgin. Debbie Lowe had paid the asking price.

III: 4 - AIR ATTACK

Open Day. 30 September.

The sun shone warmly yet the heat of summer was starting to wane. The sky was a deep blue, just a few fluffy patches of cirrus in the west. A light breeze, scarcely noticeable. Rain was forecast for later; it wouldn't matter then.

The crowds had been filing through the terminal since ten o'clock, lining the red and white barriers which had been erected several hundred yards away from the runways. Runway One was in operation again; people strained their eyes, used binoculars, hazarded a guess at exactly where the mysterious crack had been, but the contractors had made a good job, blended the surface expertly. The press still made reference to the ghastly killing.

Two twin-jet training aircraft, HS-125s, made a flight and landed. Nothing particularly spectacular. It wasn't meant to be any more than an advertisement for the Fradley Flying School. Anything too ambitious might have served to deter prospective learners.

The old aircraft were lined up on Runways Three and Four, repainted and overhauled so that they looked as good as they had been whilst in active service. A Mosquito, used as both a fighter and reconnaissance plane, its surface highly polished to reduce air friction, constructed of laths of balsawood and birch, glued under pressure, wings and fuselage a covering of doped cloth. It had an arrester hook and folding wings. Light and fast, one of the most up-to-date planes in 1942, only a few were then already in the service of the RAF, but it was soon to be taken up by the Fleet Air Arm.

Fairey Fulmars, Blackburn Skuas, Lancasters, Spitfires. Fitters and riggers dressed in overalls and rubber boots worked busily. The war years were being reconstructed down to the last detail. It looked good.

Lance Evans and Rob Morton climbed from their respective training aircraft and walked quickly in the direction of the Flying Club building. It was noticeable that they kept several yards apart, not once conversing, not even glancing at each other.

Their roles were identical in this display. First a ten-minute flight in the HS-125s. Barely a quarter of an hour after landing they were scheduled to go up in a squadron of Spitfires; a display of aerial acrobatics that would test their adaptation to primitive machines. Originally it had been suggested that they carried out a mock attack on a formation of bombers but the Fradley pilots themselves had vetoed the idea. It was asking too much of them, cramming too much into a restricted programme. Just show the public how the old planes flew. They weren't expecting anything else.

Pamela Bridges sat watching from the second floor of the Air Traffic Control building. Stapleford's office was next door. She didn't know whether he was in or not. He had been off sick for a few days the previous week; it was rumoured that he was suffering from nerves. Everybody was.

She chewed on a piece of gum. Frustration. It was like a cancer eating away your stomach. She picked out Lance, a tiny dot on the other side of Runway Three, wanted to scream out to him, warn him. Of what? There was no way of telling, nothing you could put your finger on; the atmosphere was oppressive, claustrophobic.

One tiny grain of consolation brought a faint smile to her pale face. On Friday week both of them would quit Fradley. Forever. Together, the previous evening, they had written out their respective notices of termination of their employment. She had handed them in only an hour ago. They weren't the only ones. She had just prayed that it wasn't too late. Reece Lingen might try to talk them out of it but he would be backing a loser. He would know that from the start. Fradley was operating on a skeleton staff now. If resignations continued at the present rate they'd be seriously undermanned by the end of October. The Civil Aviation Authority would be forced to step in. It could mean a closure for safety reasons. And if that happened the Druids would have won the day.

Lance was her biggest worry. He needn't have let himself in for this. Aircraft were his weakness; he couldn't live without them. In spite of everything that had happened she had virtually had to force him to quit. Not that he had any loyalty left towards Fradley. It was simply that he couldn't face the thought of life without flying. And at the moment he didn't have a job to go to. After today the depression would set in. If he got through today. She was afraid that he might reverse his notice. If he did that then she would do likewise. No way were they going to be parted. They would be doomed together. Trapped here.

She stiffened, tension seizing her almost to the point of paralysis. Rob Morton was leading his pilots out towards the five Spitfires. She searched for Lance, found him where she expected him to be; bringing up the rear. Even today the others were determined to relegate him to junior status. It might be their last opportunity to do so.

Pamela watched them getting into their machines, each one identical except for the wing markings and once they were airborne there would be no means of identification. Planes would be planes, the pilots faceless robots which controlled them.

There was a lull in the proceedings, mechanics checking, having a last word with the pilots. Almost as though everybody was reluctant to proceed with the display, heeding some silent inexplicable threat. A harsh distorted cracking was heard over the public address system. Pam tensed again. Something had gone wrong with the loudspeakers. An omen - almost like machinegun fire.

Lance, stop! Don't …

Too late, the Spitfires were already taking off, Morton in the lead, the others following on at intervals like angry wasps suddenly disturbed from feeding on a half-rotten apple, zooming skywards, twisting, turning, levelling out; smoke trails, like writing in the sky.

Pam Bridges watched, twisting her fingers together, features strained as she tried to identify the five tiny specks high in the sky. It was impossible.

She glanced at her watch. A few more minutes and it would be all over. Apart from a few days of ordinary routine work their association with Fradley Airport was finished. For good.

She closed her eyes and tried to wish away a week of her life.

Lance Evans levelled the Spitfire out of a long roll and tried to relax. He was unusually tense. Of course, the change of machine was responsible for that. One sensed its primitiveness, the absence of sophisticated safety controls, dials that told you just about everything except who was going to win the next election. Instead there was almost a sense of abandonment. If anything went wrong you didn't have much chance. The pilots of the last war had earned every medal they received.

The flight procedure was stamped indelibly on his mind, every twist and turn, what was expected of each plane. Morton was to his right and above him, heading into the sun, with Jim Connors close behind. They would fan out into a triangle, come back through Anderson and Leghorn, then all spread out for the final run-in. Simple. Nothing could really go wrong.

Something attracted Lance's attention. Morton was slowing, losing height so that he was catching him up. Bloody idiot, he must have forgotten the procedure, thought this was the finale.

A funny feeling knowing that twenty thousand pairs of eyes were focused on you. All the top brass; Whyte, the Warboys brothers. They wouldn't forgive you if you fucked it up. What the hell, Lance remembered that he'd handed his notice in only a short time ago. He'd like to fuck it up for them except that it would reflect on his own reputation and that was everything to him.

Rob Morton wasn't doing so hot, though. He was too close, dangerously close. The bloody fool was coming right in on him.

It was only then, seconds before an aerial collision would have been inevitable, that realisation dawned on Lance Evans,

Morton was coming right out of the sky at him - deliberately!

Lance acted instinctively, every nerve in his body responding to the threat, struggling to throw the machine over, praying that Connors would cotton on and take evasive action in time.

The Spitfire dropped like a striking sparrowhawk. A shadow flicked over the cockpit and was gone. Lance glanced back. Morton had gone into a dive and was starting to come back up - straight on course for a collision. Oh, Jesus Christ!

Once again Lance Evans acted, this time an upward climb, seeing the other Spitfires scattering, wondering what the hell was going on. He thought he heard the gritty crackle of flak - it had to be in the mind! He shook his head. His life depended upon clear thinking, dealing with realities; split-second timing.

The remaining three planes were circling, now recognising a deliberate attack, not knowing how to act. Empty guns, but you couldn't use them even if they were loaded.

Lance tried to work out a defensive strategy. It wasn't easy. In wartime, suitably armed, one could engage in a straightforward dogfight with death as the loser's prize. This was ten times worse. You could go on playing chase-me-Charlie until your fuel ran out. Rob had gone crazy. His only weapon was direct contact and that would mean death for both pilots; Japanese style. Kamikaze.

His only hope was to try to get down on to the ground, but no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than his adversary was swinging below him as though guessing his intention and preparing to cut off his obvious escape route.

Just one way – up! Gain height and stall for time. Maybe one of the others would try to draw Morton off. But within seconds it was clear that they had no intention of horning in. You couldn't blame them. Nobody knew what to do. Except watch and await the outcome of this bizarre encounter in the skies, and hope that they were still alive at the end of it.

Lance experienced the cold sweat of terror, knew how a British pilot felt when being chased over Hun or Jap territory. At the back of your mind you knew you weren't going to make it; you almost gave up and welcomed the moment when you plummeted earthwards, a trail of black smoke your death marker.

He almost surrendered life, wanted to give it all up, get it over with. Only a few seconds and then he shook himself out of it. Pam! He needed just one worthwhile reason to live and she was it. He levelled, thought he heard the staccato sound of flak again, and tried to find a way past his enemy.

Rob Morton winced in the bright sunlight. He counted his attackers, couldn't make out the swastikas on their planes but knew they were there. Four. Three were keeping their distance, ready to run and leave the fourth to his fate. They'd all run out of ammunition. Except himself. Not that his guns counted for much because they had jammed after the initial burst. That made it stalemate. With luck he could force that Spitfire down, maybe drive him into a row of pylons or a wood. Get above him first. Take your time, you've got him on the run. Drive him like a sheep into the slaughterhouse.

He pulled a gauntleted hand across his wet forehead. His vision wasn't too good. Felt pretty rough all over. Nerves and the heat of battle. Got to finish it quick.

He prepared to go into a long dive. He tried to remember where he was and couldn't. Damn it, this was too stupid for words. But it would have to wait. Got to get that fuckin' plane down before the others decide to come back and help their colleague out. Fool him, get right over him, then do a vertical straight on him. There's only one way he can go …down!

Lance Evans saw Morton directly above him and anticipated a dive from the south which would bring his enemy directly beneath him, forcing him to go up away from the ground again. He eased back, waiting. And then it happened!

The shadow hit him first like a vulture swooping on its prey and he let go everything he'd got. Falling. Spinning. And in his wake he noticed the chief flying instructor coming straight after him, two dropping stones with only the force of gravity controlling their speed and keeping them apart.

Desperately Lance tried to straighten out, pulling back with a jerk which threatened to tear the machine in half. A building directly in front of him. He snagged at the stick, recognising Air Traffic Control as he skimmed the roof. Ahead was the runway. One, Two or Three - he didn't know or care. Just get down. Slowing.

Almost there. That was when the pursuing Spitfire hit him. Side by side, wings touching. Tilting.

The runway rushed up at him. He thought he saw a wide crack across it, a black yawning abyss, but it could have been a patch of shadow, a trick of the sun.

He didn't even feel the impact as the entwined planes hit the concrete, bounced, started to break up. His whole system had had enough and just gave up, switching him off, sparing him mental anguish and physical pain.

Fire engines and ambulances had already started to move forward before the heap of wreckage burst into flames, showering debris in all directions.

III: 5 - THE BIRD OF DEATH

Pam screamed, almost fainted. Twenty thousand spectators were screaming, mass hysteria rippling across the airport like an incoming tide. Even the sirens of the rescue forces went unheard. Total chaos everywhere.

Oh, God, it had happened! She had known all along that it would. A few seconds of paralysis and then she was tearing herself away from the window, rushing blindly out into the corridor. There were people everywhere, her progress to both stairs and elevator halted. Nobody seemed to be doing anything logical, just getting in the way, pushing each other, shouting. Panicking.

She found herself caught up in the human stream, pulled along in a raging current of panic. Everybody wanted to get outside at the same time. It wasn't just fear, more of a ghoulish desire to view the disaster before the flames were extinguished, to witness the full horror of it all.

Pam pushed, kicked out at a plump dark-skinned man who was clutching at her arm. She hated them, each and every one of them. They didn't care about Lance. Or the pilot of the other Spitfire. It was Lance, there was no doubt in her mind about that. She had to get out there to him, crash her way through the security cordons who were trying to keep everybody back. If they couldn't get him out alive then she would fling herself into the blaze and die with him.

She wanted to die. Out there on Runway One!

Outside. It seemed to have taken hours. Milling crowds pushed her back, not because they feared for her safety but because they were afraid of missing the bizarre climax. There was a stench of burning in the atmosphere.

She fought them every inch of the way, sheer desperation lending her strength. Somehow she cut a path through the throng until at length she reached the barriers. It was impossible to go any further; police and security officers formed an impenetrable line, batons drawn. They would use them if they had to.

‘I must go out there,’ she was screaming. ‘You must let me through!’

Strong hands dragged her back. Two men, she had never seen either of them before; one was yelling ‘you stupid bloody bitch’. The other twisted her wrist as though he hated her.

Suddenly she seemed to sag, all the fight gone from her with the realisation that her efforts were futile. Nobody could possibly have lived in that pile of blazing scrap metal. Nobody. Both pilots were dead. One of them was Lance Evans.

She saw but did not comprehend. Uniformed men were carrying a stretcher towards one of the waiting ambulances, walking quickly; an indistinguishable heap covered by a blanket. People behind her were talking, no longer shouting. Whispers of incredulity.

‘They've got one of them out … they've got one of them out … got one of them out …’

Her brain accepted the information; processed it.

‘They've got one of them out!’ One of the pilots had been rescued.

She reacted, gripping the top rail of the barrier as though determined to break it. Staring out on to the sun-scorched runway, trying to identify things and people through the black smoke haze; saw the stretcher being loaded in through the open rear doors of an ambulance. The smoke eddied, thickened, blotted everything out.

Oh God, let me see. I must know for sure. Which one?

Nobody knew, perhaps not even those who had effected a miraculous rescue. It would take time; difficulty in identification. ‘Names have not yet been released as close relatives are still to be informed.’ Official jargon.

Oh, Jesus! Straining every muscle in her body, eyes streaming in the smoky atmosphere, wanting to rush out there, run the gauntlet of police, lift the blanket, see for herself. ‘Found to be dead upon arrival at hospital.’

‘They've got one of them out!’ But he isn't necessarily alive and if he is he probably won't live long, not after that!

The smoke cleared. Almost frightened to look but forcing herself to.

The ambulance had gone!

Strangely, Pamela Bridges became calmer, even began to think logically. Perhaps it was her resignation to the fact that Lance was dead that drove the hysteria from her. The depression, black and unending, would come later. Delayed shock, they called it. In the meantime she had to do something.

She walked slowly in the direction of the car park; changed her mind. There was no point in going back to the flat. That was the last place she wanted to be. She began to retrace her steps, prayed that Reece Lingen had turned in for work after all. He would find out for her. Possibly he already knew.

Lance Evans stirred. At least his brain did; his body seemed to be paralysed. He tried to open his eyes, partially succeeded, but the blinding white light forced him to close them again.

He found he could think clearly, everything coming back to him. The air display. The Spitfires. Morton gone crazy. He wondered if the big fellow was still alive. Also how long he himself was likely to live. He ought to have experienced the pain of broken limbs and burns. You won't be good for anything much else, laddie; a cabbage! That is … if you pull through.

It was a terrifying thought, far worse than that of dying. He tried to flex his fingers, move his toes. He failed. The message from his brain wasn't getting through. That meant that physically he'd had it. A vegetable! Christ, they ought to be allowed to put you down when that happened. Humans were kinder to animals than they were to fellow humans. A dog in this state which had been dragged from the blazing wreckage of a car crash would have been given the needle on the spot. But because you weren't an animal they let you suffer. You didn't really stop to think about it until something happened to you. It was too late, then; too late to take your own life, even to plead with them to do it for you. They kept you breathing, fed you artificially until the end of your days.

People were moving about, a few words here and there which he couldn't make out. A sharp odour that drifted into his nostrils and seared the back of his throat. Lance had to think about it, remember where he'd last smelled it before he identified it. Disinfectant. Various other smells mingled with it. Hospital - an operating theatre!

It was a frightening thought not knowing what they were going to do to you. As a patient you had certain rights; you could refuse any treatment, not demand any particular kind. When you were like this you couldn't do a damned thing about anything. You took what they chose to give you.

He wondered if he could speak; his vocal chords flatly refused to act. That was that, then. Try another peep. Slowly. Eyelids barely open. God, the light was dazzling; almost like the rays of the sun directly in his face.

Lance's vision was restricted, like a television camera in a fixed position, only able to cover one section of the action. He couldn't make out whether they were men or women. Cloaks and masks hid all but their eyes. Harsh cruel eyes which stared almost gloatingly at his body (he got the impression that he was naked), muttered to one another. They were men, all right; too deep and nasal for women.

The light was playing tricks with him. He couldn't distinguish one colour from another, or rather the colours seemed to change frequently. At first he'd thought they were dressed all in white. Now they seemed darker, like a shabby brown.

He tried to make out the background. He'd assumed that it was a white-walled theatre. Now he wasn't so sure. It reminded him of a photograph in which everything except the principal subject had been deliberately blurred. Just four or five men (surgeons?), there could have been more outside the range of his vision. He thought he heard other voices; a kind of low tuneless chant.

Lance closed his eyes again. He wasn't sure. About anything. That sickly sweet odour had gone. Either he had become accustomed to it or else he had imagined it and it had never been there in the first place. It was all becoming rather frightening. Try and put everything into perspective; go back over every detail since take-off.

It had been a bad crash so logically this had to be hospital. He was lying on something hard. He'd only presumed it was an operating table. It didn't feel like one now, more like a rocky patch of ground. Uneven. If his body hadn't been so numbed then surely he would have felt sharp stones digging into him. It was easier to try and convince yourself that you were suffering from illusions and go along with them than to struggle with logic.

He tried it; it didn't work!

The dazzling blinding light was somehow not the glare of fluorescent strip lighting. Not harsh enough. As he'd thought before it was more akin to sunlight. Of course, there could be a window close by. But if he was indoors why was he lying on a patch of uneven ground?

There was only one thing for it, he'd have to take another quick peek.

‘He's coming round.’

Lance picked up the whisper this time, made out the words. For some unknown reason he shuddered. The voice had an unpleasant ring, a tone that blended hate with cruelty. Well, there was no point in trying to pretend he was still unconscious. He managed to open his eyes just a little wider.

The scene was the same. Just a group of cloaked men, the background still indistinguishable, as though they were all surrounded by an early morning mist which was reluctant to clear in spite of the penetrating sunbeams. Somewhere behind him something rattled and chinked. It could have been a chain. That was silly, though. They didn't have chains in operating theatres. Back to square one.

They were holding a muttered conversation. Quite a lot of them, a dozen at least. So there had been some more behind him. He wished he could speak, ask them what the hell was going on; curse them for letting him lie here like this.

Two of them were dragging something into the foreground, the others standing back to make way for them. Lance stared, couldn't believe what he saw. But his efforts to blame it on a figment of his imagination failed miserably. He knew that it existed!

The cage was large, approximately three feet square although in no way was it symmetrical. It was constructed of wood, the bars made from the branches of a tree, bark still adhering to the topmost parts.

Inside it was a large bird, balancing somewhat precariously on a rough perch to which one of its legs was chained. The chain clinked and the bird ruffled its feathers in annoyance.

Lance tried to identify the species. He was no ornithologist yet he had a rough smattering of knowledge of bird life in the British Isles, but in no way was this one a native.

Its characteristics were similar to those of the buzzard. Only it was much, much larger; twice as big. Bigger than a Golden Eagle yet it had none of the majesty of either bird. The plumage was a deep rich brown with lighter underparts, the tail barred with black and brown, huge taloned feet a sickly dirty yellow. A cruel, curved beak that even now masticated. But it was the eyes which caused Lance to catch his breath: beady and unblinking, they could have been mistaken for those of a stuffed owl had not the pupils moved.

Not only did the huge bird see. It knew. It understood. It hated!

More sinister even than its eyes was its overall scruffiness, bare patches in the plumage, dislodged feathers caught up, a kind of moult. Lance wondered if it was a hybrid, a buzzard crossed with another species … a vulture!

It shifted on its perch, rattled the chain again as though impatient to be at its prey, tearing and shredding human flesh with its bloody talons, gorging itself.

It was a Bird of Death!

Lance tried to move his eyes away, even closed them to shut out the hideous spectacle. He found that he could not. He was compelled to meet its gaze. Hypnotised.

He knew now without any doubt that this was no hospital, no operating theatre. It was out-of-doors, the rays of the overhead sun beating down on him, battling to disperse a mist which only made a series of token retreats, rolling back in a few yards, being repelled again. An island of sunlight in some dank place which oozed evil vapours. He had mistaken them for the sharp odours of disinfectant. A trick of the mind … a trick which had been played upon him deliberately!

One of the mysterious group was struggling to open the crude door of the cage, eventually succeeding. Lance felt himself mentally cowering, wincing with fear and disgust as the revolting captive hopped from its perch in one ungainly movement and waddled out through the opening. The chain around its leg checked it, pulled it up short. It hissed its annoyance, ruffling its plumage so that some more feathers fell out.

Even its keepers treated it with respect, one of them reaching behind it into the cage and fumbling with the chain. It clinked and came undone. The bird, whatever species it was, advanced another couple of steps but was pulled up short by the man who held its fetters at arms' length.

The others were backing away. Even now the mist had swallowed some of them up. A kind of laughter, more of a cackle, hung in the still air. Lance squirmed in his mind but it was impossible to move his limbs. It was only too clear what was happening. They were going to loose this nightmarish bird on him. He was to become human carrion!

He tried to curse, to scream. If his lips moved then no words came. The Romans had sentenced a Christian to death in the arena, a bloody spectacle to be savoured by the cruellest of audiences. Oh, these fiends were going to stay and watch, all right, lurking in the mist, their applause cackles that were barely human.

And then he knew, oh Jesus, he knew! Now that they were screened from his view he saw them as they were. The followers of the Old Religion, the Druids of Fradley. And this was Fradley, old even when Man was young, the ground within this ancient circle damp with the blood of its victims.

He was dead, naturally. He wouldn't be here otherwise. He laughed within himself, a deliberate cover-up for the sheer terror which was taking over. Even death could not spare him. His body might not feel pain yet his mind was crazed with it. Worse still, a thought which had his brain writhing. Death was no release if you were already dead! There was no way it could end. The bird would rip him to shreds but there would be no oblivion to shut it all out. He couldn't even close his eyes. Nor brace himself for the inevitable … no, not the end. There was no end. No way of understanding. Like trying to determine the bounds of the universe. Infinitum. It frightened you even to think about it.

He watched the bird, was unable to do otherwise. It took another step towards him, grinding its beak as though in eager anticipation of a sumptuous feast, a creature that survived on human flesh, drew its strength, its terrible immortality, from the warm fresh blood. Those who caged it were not its masters. It ruled over them, demanded sacrifices to be made to it. And they obeyed and enjoyed obeying a manifestation of their vile god!

It was standing over him. Lance looked up, felt something drip from its beak and plop coldly on to his chest. It was regurgitating. He wanted to vomit but all physical bodily functions were denied him.

Now the bird was motionless. Just staring, those eyes recognising his fear and mocking him. You can't die because you're already dead. That's the worst part of all.

He waited for it to strike, anticipating a talon across his face, ripping a cheek asunder. Or perhaps the beak gouging one eye, then the other, blinding him. No, it wouldn't do that because if it did he wouldn't be able to watch and cringe. It understood because its dark servants had brought it many such victims and over the centuries it had perfected its cruelty and in turn become a symbol of deity.

Time passed. Bird and man eyed each other.

And gradually it dawned upon Lance Evans that the creature was not going to lacerate his body. There was a kind of film over its eyes, a glazing that depicted boredom, a game that would progress no further. And yet might last for eternity.

But why?

There was no answer to that. Man and bird continued to look at each other. The sun's rays dimmed as the mist rolled back and closed in.

And then, almost casually, the vulture-like monstrosity turned and re-entered its cage. No sooner was it inside than the Druids emerged from the thickening grey vapour and advanced on Lance with the stealth of hunters who had come upon a helpless beast of the chase. They surrounded him, leaned over him. Only then did he notice that each one carried a knife, long wide-bladed weapons that were dulled and caked with what might have been rust. He knew that it wasn't.

They were going to kill him. But that was impossible. He was already dead! He had convinced himself of that.

They were talking. Not words as he knew them, rather a means of communication that seemed to impinge upon his brain, lodging there, a record with the needle stuck in a chipped groove; directed at himself.

The Bird of Death will destroy you all … destroy you all … destroy you … destroy … destroy …

Confusion. Fear. Lance squirmed, staring up into their aged wrinkled faces, feeling their hate for him, wanting to close his eyes to shut them out but they would not let him.

They seemed to have stepped back; he couldn't be certain. Further away, details less precise, almost like seeing them through a window pane blurred with condensation. The fog, that was it, drifting in, swirling all around them, winning its battle with the sun. Darker, too; almost like nightfall.

Still that whisper in his brain, less distinct … The Bird of Death … destroy you … destroy you …

Now he could neither see nor hear them. Lying there, aware of their presence, their malevolence and wanting to get it over with. Kill me, for God's sake kill me, if that's possible!

The living death, entombed yet still alive. Catalepsy. It would go on like this for eternity. He had become part of their world of darkness from which there was no return.

Pam Bridges insisted on remaining in the hospital waiting room. She could not face the prospect of returning to the flat. She would stay here until the outcome was decided, clinging to slender hopes. It was worse now after she had already resigned herself to Lance's death. Grief had hit her only to be followed by a faint glimmer in the blackness of despair. Any moment now she might be thrust back into the cesspool of sorrow.

Maybe it would have been better not to have been handed that slim lifeline of hope; it could snap at any second. The mind could only take so much.

She was alone. There was not even a distraught father awaiting a birth in the maternity ward. Nobody at all to share her anguish.

The plain whitewashed walls seemed to move inwards, the ceiling dropping a foot or so. A cell that grew smaller, the glare of a single bulb dazzlingly bright. She wondered how much more she could take.

‘We're doing all we can, Miss Bridges. Please don't raise your hopes, though. He's in a pretty bad way. Multiple fractures. We hope there's no brain damage.’

Oh, God, if they'd only come and tell her that again. At least she'd know that he was still alive. That had been two hours ago. They were still fighting.

‘Perhaps you'd like to go home and get some rest. Leave us your telephone number and we'll call you if …’

If … if … if. The sister hadn't said ‘if he dies’. Something you can't put into words in a situation like this. If he dies. And as there isn't much hope of him recovering there's no other alternative. So why not bloody well say what we both know and get it over with?

She was on her feet, wanting to run, to hide, to die.

The walls moved in another few inches. She swayed slightly, a sensation of dizziness which passed almost as soon as it began.

‘Are you sure you're all right, Miss Bridges?’

She whirled at the sudden shock of hearing another human voice, saw a man standing in the doorway. He was wearing a white coat, a face mask drooped loosely around his neck. He looked strained, exhausted. Battered mentally.

‘Yes … I'm all right. I just wanted to stretch my legs.’ The walls and ceiling appeared to have receded. It was just an hallucination, the kind you got in childhood when you were ill.

She stared, bit her lip. The doctor had come to tell her something. She was afraid; wanted to rush past him, down the wide hallway and out into the street, hands clasped over her ears so that his words would not reach her. He's dead you know, Miss Bridges, We did our best, everything we could, but we did warn you.

‘No!’ her hand went to her mouth. ‘Oh God, no!’

‘Take it easy.’ It was a soft voice that was nothing like she'd imagined. He stepped forward, caught her arm. ‘He's back in the ward now. Still unconscious, but he's got a fighting chance. You can go and sit with him if you want, but don't try to talk to him. Come on, I'll take you down there.’

A sister tried to smile reassuringly as they entered the small ward, pulling the screens open for them to pass through to the bed in the corner. Pam tensed, stared. It could have been anybody, even a tailor's dummy swathed in bandages, only the mouth and nose visible. But he was breathing: he still lived. And every second was precious.

She sat down on the chair, felt the hopelessness surging back.

‘He was badly burnt,’ the doctor whispered. ‘There'll have to be some plastic surgery later but we must surmount this hurdle first. You can stay as long as you like. If you want anything just ask the night nurse.’

Then she was alone once more. No, not quite alone. She had Lance Evans - or what remained of the man she had known and loved. She'd stay, right until the bitter end.

Now that the initial tension was gone she began to feel exhaustion creeping over her. Her head sank forward, her eyelids drooped. She tried to fight off sleep but it was too strong a force. Nature commanded that she rested awhile.

Somewhere she heard Lance's voice. Her first waking thought was that it was in her dreams, her hopes rising to mock her again. She shook herself, saw the screens, Lance's still form. His lips were moving. Words, so faint that she had to lean over him. They were garbled, incoherent, spoken from delirium. She wondered if she ought to call the night nurse.

‘Bird.’

She caught the single word. It was delirium. It was impossible to tell the state of his fever under all those bandages. Without a doubt he was running a high temperature.

‘I'm here. Lance,’ she said, kissing his lips lightly. ‘It's me, Pam.’

She couldn't tell whether he had heard. Or if he had heard whether he understood. Tears filled her eyes.

‘Listen …’ his lips moved, struggling to form words. ‘Druids.’

‘Don't try to talk,’ she said. ‘Just rest. I'm here. I'm staying with you.’ Right to the bitter end.

‘Mist …’ His voice was a little louder now as though he was making a tremendous effort to make himself understood. ‘Druids … keep away from … from Fradley … the Bird of Death … they're sending … the Bird of Death!’

She shuddered. Even the ramblings of her lover hovering on the brink of death had a ring of truth about them. Delirium yet not born of fever; something much deeper, far more sinister.

Lance was silent. Just a faint sigh as though he were satisfied that his warning had been heard. Pam Bridges recalled his words.

‘They're sending … the Bird of Death.’

Suddenly Pamela Bridges knew that it was no idle threat from the dark forces which controlled Fradley Airport. Something terrible was going to happen, some catastrophe which would surmount everything that had gone before. And they were using Lance as their mouthpiece.

III: 6 - THE INHUMAN FACTOR

‘Lance.’ Pam turned back from the window and looked across at him as he sprawled in the armchair in front of the gas fire. ‘There's something I want to ask you.’

He looked up, smiled faintly. His features still bore the scars of his accident and if one looked closely it was possible to discern where expert plastic surgery hid terrible disfigurements and blended with his fair skin. A pair of crutches lay on the floor beside him. The doctors assured him that within a few weeks he would be walking normally. During the first few weeks after leaving hospital he had been sceptical. Now at last he believed them. His leg muscles were beginning to strengthen and function.

‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘What d'you want to ask me?’

‘Something you said when you came out of the operating theatre.’

‘I was unconscious for three days, you know that.’

‘You stirred, spoke to me. You said you had to tell me; made one hell of an effort to get the words out.’

‘Let's hear it then.’ His forehead furrowed into a frown. ‘What was it I said?’

‘You said …’ She paused: it sounded ridiculous now in the reality of a conventional modern flat. ‘You said that the Druids were sending the Bird of Death!’

He laughed but it sounded hollow. ‘I must have been raving. I can't remember anything, certainly not about Druids or birds.’

‘I believe you.’ Her fists clenched, revealing an inner frustration. ‘I thought in the first few weeks after you were discharged from hospital that you were holding something back from me. I know that you aren't and that worries me even more.’

‘Then don't let it. Look, Pam, Fradley can't hurt us any more. We're both finished with the place. Ages ago. I wish to God I'd never given my notice in, though. Otherwise I should be drawing full pay all the time I'm hobbling about on these bloody crutches. As it is, you can't get a job and have to rely on drawing unemployment whilst I'm having to manage on sickness benefit.’

‘They'll have to pay you out,’ she snapped. ‘God, it'll cost Flyways a bomb in injury benefit. Needless to say the insurance company will cover them.’

They sat in silence for some time, each busy with their own thoughts.

‘We don't have to go near the place again.’ There was no mistaking the relief in her voice. ‘All the same I'd love to know what the fiends were trying to convey through you. Maybe it was a final warning of some sort. “This is your last chance to close down the airport. Or else we'll send the Bird of Death.” Anyway, I thought they were hard on you at both the inquiry and the coroner's court.’

‘Anybody would've thought it was my fault that Morton went crazy. “Wouldn't it have been better, Mr Evans, if you had landed as soon as you realised that something was wrong with one of your fellow pilots instead of engaging in spectacular aerobatics?” What a bloody stupid thing to say. Which just goes to show that the blokes commissioned to carry out these inquiries don't know the first thing about flying. When you've got a plane on your tail like that you haven't a hope in hell of going anywhere; all you're concerned with is getting out of his way. The moment you start going for ground you're at a disadvantage like a pigeon with a hawk swooping down on it. That was when Morton got me. But I couldn't have stopped up there much longer. Christ, what the hell came over him? We both know what a vindictive bastard he was if somebody crossed him but what he did was sheer madness, the kind of thing Jap pilots did in the war when their guns had jammed. They never thought of making a run for it; that was unheard of. They simply tried to knock their target out of the sky even though it meant their own death.’

‘They got at Rob.’ Her features were pale, her hands shook. ‘Like they can get at any one of us any time they choose. As they did with me that time. Oh, Lance, we're not safe even now. We're too close to them, still living under whatever cloud of evil hangs over Fradley.’

‘Look,’ he snapped, becoming impatient, angry. ‘You're becoming a neurotic. The whole thing has got on your nerves and if you don't watch it you'll have a breakdown. You're letting your imagination run riot. Maybe I did say something when I was unconscious. I'll take your word for that but for Christ's sake don't go taking literally the ramblings of a guy who was knocking on death's door. We've both left Fradley. What more d'you want?’

‘I want us to get away from here.’ Her voice rose to a pitch. ‘Right away. As far as you can get from this jinxed airport.’

‘All right.’ He sensed the hysteria which was building up inside her and knew that he had to be careful. ‘I don't particularly want to stay around here either. But we don't have any chance of moving anywhere until we see some money. Once I get a payout on my injuries, we'll go. I can't say fairer than that.’

‘You're right.’ She sank down into the chair opposite him, wanted to give way to a flood of uncontrollable tears but somehow held them back. ‘We'll just have to be patient and bide our time. But every hour that we remain here we're both in terrible danger of getting caught up in some terrible disaster. You do … Lance, you do really believe that there are evil forces at work, don't you?’

‘Yes.’ He dropped his gaze, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Like the time, years ago, when he'd discovered that Father Christmas didn't exist but had played along with his parents because he hadn't the guts to tell them, to hurt their feelings. It was the same all over again. You do believe in the Druids, don't you? Yes, of course. Well, he'd seen enough, a string of disasters that defied any theory of coincidences. Like the DC-l0s, not just the two connected with Fradley but all the planes that had crashed. Nobody, neither designers, manufacturers, mechanics nor pilots could come up with a logical explanation. In the end it bewildered you. You just believed the aircraft were jinxed. You didn't need a reason apart from the disasters.

‘You don't sound convinced.’ Pam Bridges watched him carefully, her body tense.

‘Don't let's go into it all again. I know the facts, all that's happened at Fradley, as well as you do. I promise we'll get away as soon as we've got our finances straightened out.’

She fell silent. One of her depressions was starting. Lately she had suffered from a spate of them. Tension. Fear. Helplessness. The premonition - that they were on the verge of the most terrible catastrophe yet - was starting off another of her headaches; a fly caught up in a web knowing that sooner or later the spider would return.

They were all trapped in the web. Not just herself and Lance Evans but everybody at the airport, people who lived nearby, the villagers.

The Bird of Death would spare none when it swooped down out of the darkening skies over Fradley!

Charles Whyte sweated and hoped it didn't show. There was no doubt that the Warboys brothers were in a blue funk; you could see that just by looking at their faces. The strain was telling on them, wearing them down. They hadn't mastered the art of bluffing, something which was vital when you faced a Civil Aviation Authorities enquiry panel. Show a glimmer of fear and the first thing they think is that you've got something to hide and you're shit-scared they're going to find out what it is.

Whyte lit a cigar in spite of the stuffy atmosphere in the room, pinging the spent match into a tin ashtray on the table in front of him. The action typified his contempt for authority. Any authority.

‘We must not discount everything that has happened to DC-10s over the past few years,’ a tall bespectacled man in a blue serge suit was reading aloud from typewritten sheets in front of him.

Jesus, they're going to spin this out, Whyte thought. They haven't found out anything so they're going all round the mulberry bush to justify two months of pissing and farting about.

‘… apart from major disasters there have been numerous incidents in which these planes have lost parts in flight, engines that have seized on hitting birds, and tyres that have burst and started fires.’

‘On March 3rd 1974, 346 passengers and crew perished after their Turkish Airlines DC-10 crashed from 12,000 feet after taking off from Paris … almost identical to the recent Flyways catastrophe from the same airport The cargo door, on both planes, had come off in flight causing controls to rupture as decompression made part of the floor collapse.

‘In March 1978 two passengers were burned to death in a fire caused by two tyres blowing as a DC-10 was taking off from Los Angeles. The same factors were responsible for a DC-10 slewing and hitting the hotel at Fradley, causing a more serious fire in which lives were lost.’

‘We have the possibility to contend with of the human element being seriously at fault. Blank tapes on flight recorder and flight deck voice recorder. We must assume that these instruments were not in proper working order before the plane crashed. Human error was almost certainly the cause of a Western Airlines DC-10 which crashed on landing at Mexico City because the aircraft had landed on the wrong runway, one which was undergoing repairs, and collided with a truck. In the case of the Spitfires crash at Fradley we can only assume that the dead pilot, Robert Morton, was suffering from some mental disorder which caused him to engage in an outrageous display with the pilot of another plane.

‘Thus we are inclined to blame the element of human error in all Fradley crashes and can in no way blame the manufacturers of the DC-10 or other planes. On the Paris flight a stewardess had been taken ill yet no replacement was flown out before the plane took off …’

Whyte groaned inwardly. They were going to throw the book at Fradley for sure; totting up the disciplinary points like a Football Association disciplinary committee with a miscreant on trial before them.

‘And that is a brief summary of our findings.’ There was something smug, almost sadistic, about the speaker as he removed his glasses prior to sitting down. ‘Of course, it is up to the authorities to decide what action must be taken.’

Whyte left the hearing without waiting for either Phil or Roger Warboys. He drove hard and fast in the direction of Fradley. As with everything else that went wrong within a vast set-up like Flyways there had to be a scapegoat; a whipping boy. More than one, a chain of them. When you were at the top you kicked the ass of the guy directly beneath you. He, in turn, booted the backside of his immediate number two. And so on. And Whyte was going to enjoy putting the first boot in.

Reece Lingen was working at his desk when Charles Whyte entered without knocking, kicking the door shut behind him.

‘Mr Whyte,’ said the airport manager, rising to his feet in surprise. He read the other's expression, and accidentally knocked over a pile of papers with his hand, sending them floating across the room like autumn leaves being whipped from their branches by a sudden gust of wind.

‘I came straight from the hearing,’ said Whyte, in no mood for preliminaries. ‘They've got it loaded against us all the way, Lingen. Human error, they call it. In other words fucking inefficiency all down the line. Starting with you!’

‘I …’ Lingen recoiled visibly.

‘Don't waste my time with fucking excuses,’ hissed Whyte, sitting down. He was panting, out of breath. ‘You've been covering things up too long, Lingen. Don't think I wasn't aware of slackness here. That was one of the reasons I sent Frank Weston down here. Like every other incompetent bastard mixed up with this airport he fucked it up and got himself killed. And don't give me any more of this crap about ancient Druids being responsible for everything that's gone wrong. You carry the can, that's what we've been paying you a fat salary for. Well, right now it looks like the Civil Aviation authorities will close us down. For good.’

‘I doubt it,’ Reece Lingen recovered some of his composure, sat down again. ‘I doubt it very much, not in the near future anyway.’

‘Just give me one good reason why they shouldn't turn the screw on us.’ Whyte banged the desk with his fist, wishing he could smash it into the other's glib face. Maybe he would before long. The temptation was getting stronger every second.

‘Because …’ the airport manager did his best to meet Whyte's gaze ‘… they need us next month. On April 30th to be precise. The East Midlands Airport is undergoing some repairs to its main runway, work which coincides with a scheduled flight stop which cannot be postponed, merely diverted here. You will doubtless be interested to learn, Mr Whyte, that on that day Concorde will land here!’

‘Concorde!’

‘Yes, Concorde. Much as the other major airports try to belittle us, and in spite of a string of disasters, this is something which nobody can overlook. Our ill-fated air display drew twenty thousand spectators. At a rough estimate, even in these early stages, I think we can rely upon at least double that number of the general public coming here for the privilege of a close-up look at Concorde. Admittedly we can hardly make a charge but the advertisement which the press and television will give us will more than compensate for that. Fradley will be in the headlines. The memory of your average man in the street is short; he will forget the fires, the crashes.’

Charles Whyte muttered ‘Jesus Christ Almighty’ and promptly lost the desire to punch Lingen in the face.

‘It will be our finest hour,’ Reece Lingen stated and then felt foolish at his choice of words. The American had to be played carefully. The man-eating lion had been temporarily appeased with a sop; it hadn't forgotten its intended prey.

‘I just hope this isn't all pie in the sky,’ said Whyte, deciding that he had definitely earned another cigar. ‘Concorde could just as easily land at Elmdon or Derby. If they haven't thought of that already maybe they will before long.’

‘No,’ replied Lingen, smiling confidently. ‘They won't. I'd stake my salary on it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Obviously I don't know the details and we probably won't be informed until the very last but there'll be some VIP on board with a destination in this area. They want to fly him in as close as possible to it for safety reasons. Fradley would have been the obvious choice in the first place, I'd've thought, but with East Midlands out of action on that day they've got no choice now.’

Charles Whyte should have experienced a sense of euphoria as he left the terminal; a condemned man rejoicing at the news of an eleventh-hour reprieve. He didn't. Instead he started thinking about all the things that might go wrong.

You're crazy, he told himself. This is nothing to do with Fradley. We don't have to do a thing except the normal ATC duties for landing and taking off. It isn't even a DC-10. It's Concorde, the most up-to-date flying machine, the ultimate in perfection in aviation. Nothing, nothing can possibly go wrong.

There was one person in the world he couldn't bluff - and that was himself. And he knew it.

Hartley Lowe knew that there was only one course open to him. He made his mind up, came to the only possible decision during Matins that spring Sunday morning. In fact, he had been well aware of what he had to do as far back as Debbie's funeral.

The Reverend Bamstead was waiting on the church steps, shaking hands with every parishioner, a fixed benevolent smile on his pink face. Hartley wondered absently how it was that the clergyman's jaw didn't ache for days afterwards; he went about with a perpetual silly grin, alternating with a dejected droop during village bereavements. It was all so false, it made you feel physically sick with contempt for the cloth.

‘You're looking better, Hartley.’ Barnstead somehow found the other's hand, pressing it gently. ‘Time is the greatest healer of all.’

Hartley Lowe stared fixedly, wanting to wrench himself free, push the vicar away. He didn't feel better; he was becoming progressively worse, a depression that ate steadily away at the mind like a fast-growing cancer. Time wasn't a healer, either. Not in cases like his own. Wounds didn't heal with the passing of the weeks; they festered, building up like a volcano that would be forced to erupt in due course. And for himself that day was nigh.

‘The poor girl is at rest.’ Barnstead leaned closer, his voice a whisper as though he was imparting some secret to the ex-schoolmaster which must on no account be heard by the rest of the congregation.

Hartley felt his reflexes jump as though with some unexpected shock. Debbie wasn't at rest. She never would be. Because she was one of them! And there was nothing that all the prayers that had been said could do to alter that. Good versus Evil; a battle that could only have one eventual outcome. The latter force was too powerful to be overcome.

They'd got Debbie all right. Her soul was theirs for eternity, deprived of the peace which is the right of every mortal upon death. And now they were working on him!

Somehow he managed to extract his hand from the half-hearted grip, pushing it deep into his overcoat pocket so that it could not be seized again. His lips were moving, making some kind of formal reply. He had no idea what he was saying. It didn't matter a damn, anyhow.

‘Shall we see you at Evensong, Hartley?’

Again he answered. Possibly he replied in the affirmative, in which case he lied. Long before the church bell tolled to summon the worshippers to Evensong his volcano would have erupted and it would all be over. In a way it was a comforting thought.

It was some moments before he became aware that he was alone, walking on down the winding narrow path through the overgrown cemetery. The new verger had not lived up to expectations. By June few of the gravestones would be visible amidst a tall jungle of weeds. But what did it matter? Those below ground neither knew nor cared. They were the fortunate ones. It would be a pleasure to join them in an eternal sleep.

Hartley Lowe shook his head as though to clear it as he passed through the rickety lichgate and out into the village street. Why had the devils singled him out? It was illogical. Had he not fought for their cause during these last three years, done everything humanly possible to prevent the airport being built? And even then refusing to accept failure. But he had failed, that was it. The truth hit him, made him falter, wince. They wanted to punish him because he had failed them! Because he had given up the fight.

He could not face another night. By daytime he was reasonably safe but once dusk blended into darkness he could feel their power. For a whole week now he had slept with the light on in his bedroom but it made no difference. You couldn't shut out the forces of darkness, pretend that they didn't exist. They lurked in the shadows watching you, mocking you, playing with you. They didn't even have to await their chance; they could take it any time they wanted. They didn't hurry because they wanted you to know the real meaning of fear. Tonight, tomorrow, next week, next month, nothing might happen. You either convinced yourself by that time that you were safe and then they took you, or you went mad and spent the rest of your days in a mental hospital. Whichever, they got you in the end.

A little twinge of sadness brought with it a blurring of the vision. In one's twilight years one sought to put off tomorrow, lived for today. Now, for Hartley Lowe, there would be no tomorrow. It was sad but it was a fact. It was the only way by which his soul might be saved.

He glanced at his watch as he turned left into the muddy farmyard: 12.15. Jack Swinson would be down at the King William IV almost through his first lunchtime pint. His housekeeper would be in the kitchen wondering how she could prevent the joint from drying up before closing time. A weekly ritual.

Lowe did not hesitate, did not even try to avoid the thick patches of mud which squelched up over his shoes.

Rows of dilapidated stables on three sides of the yard, slates missing from the roofs, several of the doors fastened with string or wire. Frenzied gruntings came from inside. Pigs, dozens of them. Dirty, uncaring, greedy; like their master. Live for today, tomorrow can look after itself. Eat and drink as much as you can while you can. It disgusted Hartley even in his present state of mind. Perhaps he should have chosen another method, gone elsewhere. Somewhere cleaner, more dignified. No, the place suited the deed. Squalid.

Debbie had come to him three times during the past months. In dreams; at least they had to be dreams although he had seemed awake throughout. The first time it had been her face at the window. Smiling. But not in the way his niece usually smiled. More of a leer. She was saying something, mouthing words but by the time he had crossed from the bed and flung the window open she was gone. He had put it down to a hallucination, a manifestation of his constant thoughts, his grief come in human form to taunt him.

The second time she had been standing at the foot of the stairs when he had gone to investigate a noise in the early hours. He wanted to go to her, fling himself headlong downstairs, regardless of injury, but her upraised delicate white hand had halted him. She was dressed in the same mauve two-piece suit which she had been wearing the last time he had seen her …

She was speaking again, the words lost over the distance of ten feet or so which separated them. He tried to lip-read but his brain was numbed. Eventually he found himself back in bed but he could not remember how he had got there.

Finally, only last night, Debbie had appeared in his room, bathed in an ethereal glow which must have come from the full moon outside. The same clothes; he supposed that she did not have a change available to her. Yet she was somehow different. The smile, it had gone. Her whole bearing was one of urgency, gesticulating meaninglessly, talking fast so that he could barely catch the words. It was only later, after she had gone, that he was able to recall a few of them.

‘… not much time … everybody will die … save yourself, Uncle Hartley … join me … the others … in death … the only way. You'll die, anyway … take your life … don't wait for … the Bird of Death …’

Even as he headed slowly in the direction of Jack Swinson's pigsties, Hartley Lowe was telling himself that it was all in the mind. Debbie had come to him in a series of vivid dreams. He couldn't imagine what the Bird of Death was. Nevertheless, he was going to take his own life in defiance of the religious teaching which had been instilled in him from childhood. He would not be reunited with his niece; he didn't want to be. Not with them! But they were closing in on him, using Debbie as a lure to draw him into the paths of darkness. The Valley of the Shadow of Evil. They had challenged him, never believing that one so indoctrinated with the Christian way of life would yield to their taunts of suicide. They wanted him to stay alive so that they could take him when the time was right, when his mind was crazed and he no longer had the willpower to stand up to them. But he would cheat them, pray to his Maker to give him everlasting peace beyond the reach of the Druids' hell forces.

One quick look around, his fingers already lifting the latch of the end sty. Nobody in sight. Good. He opened the door, squeezed through and fastened it behind him. He was sweating, his legs wanted to sag. One last supreme effort; nearly there.

Five pairs of small eyes regarded him from the corner. Saddlebacks, squeaking and grunting at this sudden intrusion. They weren't afraid of him, just curious. Suspicious. He'd seen them all before, knew that the big boar was named Nero. An emperor who ruled over a stinking little enclosure, wallowing in the excrement of his subjects. Nasty. Vicious.

Swinson had shown Hartley round this filthy pig yard on several occasions, the farmer strangely proud of the place. In the summer months he used to hang around by the gate on Sunday afternoons looking for some passer-by to talk to. That was what loneliness did to you. It would have done the same to Hartley if he'd hung on long enough. One learned to avoid this lane on summer Sabbaths otherwise for sure one found oneself squelching in Swinson's wake, a widower who had developed an affinity to a herd of swine.

‘These are the finest animals on earth, mate. They get to like you if you just give them the chance. 'Cept him, of course. Nero don't like nobody but he's worth his weight in gold as a stud. Randy old bugger, too. These little 'uns here are being fattened up for Christmas. Old Powkes has already booked them. Take a good look at 'em. Any one of 'em could be your Christmas joint of pork running around. Easy to feed. Pigs'll eat just about anything. Remember that woman that disappeared that time. Can't remember her name. They charged the blokes with murder but couldn't find the body. It's obvious, ain't it? They fed 'er to the pigs. Dead easy. You wouldn't even 'ave to cut 'er up. They'd just pull 'er to pieces and …’

Hartley Lowe had had to make an effort to stop himself from vomiting. He'd never touched a pork pie since that day. Revolting. And Swinson even seemed to think that it was funny.

But that visit hadn't been entirely wasted. The other had reached up to a shelf by the door and brought down a rusted double-barrelled pistol, the action held together with baler-twine.

‘Nothin' I enjoy better than a bit o' sport. See this gun, it's a double .410 pistol. Don't go mouthing it around that you've seen it 'cause it's illegal. Classed as a firearm because the barrels are less than twenty-four inches. Bloody stupid, if you ask me; it ain't a firearm 'cause it takes shot cartridges. A bleedin' good little tool. Standing back o' these sties just on evening I can usually get me a dozen rats without much trouble …’

‘Now rats are really interesting creatures. Nearest you can get to a pig; same kind o' stomach so I was reading the other week. And they'll eat anything that's going, too. That woman I was telling you about. Now I reckon if it wasn't the pigs that ate her then it was the rats. There's always rats around pigsties.’ He put the gun back up on the shelf. ‘Always keep it there. Loaded. You never know when a rat's going to show itself.’

Hartley Lowe found the pistol and with some difficulty opened the stiff breech. Swinson had told the truth. It was loaded, both barrels. He had to use two hands to force the action shut again.

Nero had moved closer, the others huddling behind him as though they found security in his closeness. After all, he was the emperor of this place. The big boar was watching Hartley intently, almost as though he understood. But that was impossible. Pigs didn't understand anything outside their own sphere of filth and sloth, food and sex.

Hartley Lowe wondered for a few seconds just how one shot oneself. He had never had much to do with guns. Except in the army,

The barrels felt cold and hard against his temple. He found himself recoiling. No, that wasn't the correct way to do it. He hesitated, A dim recollection, some stupid play on the television … an old man trying to pluck up courage to shoot himself. Eventually he'd succeeded and shoved the, barrel of the revolver into his mouth. It had done the trick. Instantly.

Hartley heaved as the pistol barrels depressed his tongue. It reminded him of boyhood visits to the doctor, the spatula. Once he'd almost thrown up.

The rust felt gritty in his mouth, a sort of dirty metal taste flavoured with lubricating oil. Then he remembered that he hadn't cocked the gun. He withdrew it, had to use both thumbs to force the hammers back, spitting out flakes of rust as he did so.

God, he was dizzy. A sudden fear that he might faint before he finally managed to pull the triggers. He leaned back against the wall. Something snuffled and snagged at his trousers. He kicked out, felt his toe meet with something solid; something which squealed with rage and backed off. Nero.

Eyes closed, he took the trigger pressures with the forefingers of both hands. One last thought. Debbie. Not as she used to be, as she was now. Oh God, he had to get it over with quickly!

One last fleeting thought in the seconds which it took him to force the stiff triggers back. Kaufmann. He too had gone to meet his destiny at New Phoenix. Maybe someday they'd meet up again. Somewhere …

The force of the double explosion threw him upright against the brick wall, the pistol kicking out of his mouth and spinning from his grasp. Dead fingers groped their reflex actions and then he was falling forward in the manner of a tailor's dummy which has been inadvertently knocked over by a clumsy shop assistant.

Nero was waiting for him, powerful tusks tearing at Hartley Lowe's flesh even as he hit the floor, showering liquid filth in all directions. For once the other pigs did not look for a signal from their leader. Food ruled their actions and squealing and jostling one another they began to feast on an unexpected meal.

III: 7 - CONCORDE!

Lance and Pam strained their eyes into the deep blue of a spring sky. Fradley Airport was packed. The local newspaper had estimated a crowd of 40,000 to witness the arrival of Concorde. Even now, less than ten minutes before its estimated time of arrival, people were still flocking through the terminal, jostling for places inside the barricaded area alongside Runway One.

‘I'll bet there's close on fifty thousand inside already,’ said Lance, resting his weight on his walking stick. It was only a matter of days since he had dispensed with his crutches.

‘I still say we shouldn't have come,’ Pam muttered. ‘It was stupid of us. Hell, we both saw Concorde that time at Heathrow. Agreed it's magnificent, nothing to compare with it, but we didn't …’

‘Relax,’ he said, and smiled at her. ‘In half-an-hour it'll all be over.’

Yes, she winced. It would all be over. It only needed one small thing to go wrong. Like the day that DC-10 had slewed across the runway and hit the hotel. This time it might go in the opposite direction, scything through the packed spectators. Mass death, ten thousand bodies a second minced up into unrecognisable pulp. Oh, God, something was going to go wrong! She knew it, every nerve in her slim body screaming a warning at her. Get away from here before it's too late!

‘Tell you what,’ said Lance, sliding an arm around her and breaking into her thoughts. ‘We'll go to the May Fair tomorrow.’

‘May Fair?’ It was a struggle to free herself from her forebodings.

‘Sure. I saw a poster on the way down. There's one in the Museum Gardens tomorrow. It's May Day in case you hadn't realised.’

‘May Day?’ she stared at him, an electrifying tension starting to creep over her like some kind of paralysis.

‘Stupid. Most towns have a fete of some sort on May the First.’

‘Tomorrow's May the First,’ she spoke slowly. Then in that case … today's date is …’

‘With a mathematical brain like yours, Pam, you ought to go on Mastermind. That, together with your general knowledge …’

‘Lance,’ she interrupted him, clutched at his arm. ‘if tomorrow's the First of May … do you … do you realise what the date is today?’

‘Why it's April 30th, of course.’

‘Exactly. Oh, God, I knew we shouldn't have come.’

‘I can see you're about to have a touch of the funnies again,’ he snapped. ‘I can't for the life of me see what today's date has to do with us not coming here.’

‘Because … because, Lance,’ her grip on his arm tightened. ‘April 30th happens to be the night upon which the Druids celebrated the feasts of the old gods … the most potent time of all to offer a human sacrifice. Walpurgisnacht!’

He stared at her in amazement and then said. ‘You're stark raving nuts.’

‘Lance … please.’ There was panic in her voice now. ‘Let's leave. Before it's too late!’

‘You go if you want to.’ He tried to shrug her off and almost lost his balance. ‘But I'm staying.’

Her instinct was to flee, to run blindly, pushing her way through the crowds. They would all die. But she couldn't save them. Only one reason held her there, froze her against her will - Lance Evans. And pleading with him was futile. She made her decision in a matter of seconds. She would remain here and die along with him and some sixty thousand other people in the greatest human sacrifice ever perpetrated by the followers of the Old Religion on Walpurgisnacht.

They saw the plane before they heard it, the ultimate in air travel, a majestic slender shape that filled the skies like some hunting peregrine falcon with thunder rumbling in its wake.

‘Here she comes,’ said Lance. Pam felt the thrill coursing through his body, the fear spreading over her own as she huddled against him. He was saying something but his words were lost in the roar of Concorde's engines as it started to lose height, the watching crowd letting forth a cheer as though their side had just gone a goal up.

They were still cheering as the plane came into Runway One. You knew even though you couldn't hear them. A host of ancient worshippers paying homage to a glittering golden god, over-awed by its fierceness, offering themselves as sacrifices. Crazed idolatory. Mass hysteria.

She couldn't take her eyes off Concorde. It drew her gaze, held it. As though the eyes in the elevated head were trying to convey some message, searching her out.

A wave of silence came as the engines were killed. It hit you with hurricane force, stunning you, commanding your attention and respect. Your worship. Nothing moved in a moment of stillness whilst everybody tried to adjust, letting the deafening roar which still vibrated inside their brains subside.

Somebody behind Pam was whispering, his words magnified on the sound waves, carried on the soft spring breeze.

‘Just like a bleedin' great bird, ain't it?’

And at that moment she knew. Her instincts had not lied. Neither had Lance Evans that night when he fought for life and warned her of a terrible danger.

‘Just like a bleedin' great bird, ain't it?’ The unknown man's words echoed inside her head, mocking her. A warning. Only it came too late.

That description aptly summed up the huge aircraft which stood out there on the runway. Its every feature was akin to a majestic bird of the air. A fearsome bird of prey. A hawk or an eagle. The Bird of Death itself! Its eyes seemed to glitter with sheer malevolence, hammering its message into her brain.

Too late. Too late!

Pam snatched her arm free of Lance, staggering back against the people behind her. She fought to get the words out. ‘Lance … there, there it is!’

‘Of course it is,’ he turned, perplexed. ‘What the hell's the matter with you? It's Concorde …’

‘Sure it is.’ She tensed as the fear inside her magnified. ‘It's Concorde, all right. But Concorde is the “Bird of Death”.’

‘Don't be bloody stupid. You're neurotic. Imagining things.’

‘No, I'm not. I know. Lance we've got to get away now before something terrible happens.’

He grabbed for her hand but she knocked him away, in the same instant turning, starting to push her way through the crowds. Let me through, damn the lot of you. Run whilst you still can! Or stay and die!

People parted, eager to fill the vacant space she had left, impervious to her panic. She was trying to run, scrabbling her way through the masses, glancing back every so often. On one occasion she stopped, breathing heavily, afraid that Lance was going to remain. Then she saw him, caught a glimpse of his angry face as he strove to pursue her. She started to run now that she was clear of the lines of spectators. He would follow, all right.

Through the terminal, oblivious of the curious glances, and out on to the tarmac the other side, sprinting now, knowing that Lance would overhaul her quickly in a straight race even with his damaged legs, desperation lending him speed. Her breath came in strangled gulps, the pain in her lungs almost stopped her. Only terror gave her the strength to go on down the rows of parked cars, sobbing her relief as she spied the Mini shimmering in the warm April sunlight.

‘Pam … stop.’

Lance was only twenty yards away. He had cast aside his walking stick. Somehow she found the key and managed to get the driver's door open, slamming and locking it as she fell into the seat. He was hammering on the door, cursing. She didn't look up at him as she inserted the key in the ignition.

The engine turned over a couple of times and then fired. Oh, thank God! It would be just like them to sabotage the Mini, trap her and Lance here in whatever death trap they had prepared.

She accelerated, got the revs before leaning across and opening the passenger door.

‘You bloody idiot, what the hell's the matter with you?’ Lance slid into the passenger seat, fighting to get his breath.

Only then did she let in the clutch. Tyres squealed as the Mini shot forward, the swinging door rebounding off the Marina next to it and slamming shut. Her foot went right down to the floor. Lance would not dare to try to grapple with her at this speed. She kept her eyes on the tarmac, tried to ignore him, deaf to his cursings.

They were doing 50mph when they passed through the exit gates. She did not slow down in spite of the narrowness of the winding lanes.

This was a desperate gamble; life for the winners, death for the losers. All the cards were on the deck now. With every passing second they had a slim chance of survival.

‘You may unfasten your safety belts now.’

Passengers hastened to obey. Outside they could see the sea of faces, the spectators in their thousands. Those inside the huge aircraft experienced a sense of pride and achievement. They were the principal actors in a star-studded show. Those people out there had turned up to see them, the privileged few. They were envied because they had flown in Concorde, the greatest feat so far in Man's efforts to conquer the skies.

‘Please remain in your seats.’

All eyes were on the tall fair-haired man who was on his feet at the front of the plane, busily stuffing tobacco into a long-stemmed pipe. All part of the popular image, significant of the political movement for which he stood. They caught a glimpse of his face in profile, sensed rather than saw the fanatical gleam in his eyes. His lips appeared to move, possibly rehearsing the explosive inflammatory speech which he would be delivering in a matter of hours. He was on the verge of his own triumph, change that would sweep the country at the next election; victory for those who had for so long been kept in the background.

Plain clothes security guards flocked around him. They were taking no chances. One could sympathise with a gunman waiting in the crowd outside; few would mourn the passing of the tall pipe-smoking man. But they had a job to do. And this was Britain, not some revolutionary South American state.

A ripple of angry murmurs, both from inside and outside Concorde as the advance party began to move out on to the gangway. The passengers felt the tension, an invisible force that brought with it a restlessness, a desire to move, to be doing something. Anything.

None so much as glanced at the small wizened man at the rear who was still in the process of unfastening his seatbelt. One could merely have hazarded a guess at his age. Fifty? Sixty? Seventy? It would have been impossible to make an accurate estimation of his years. Or his nationality.

His thinning hair, brushed straight back, had strands of grey in it. His skin was dry, parchment like, stretched over his cheek bones displaying an Asian face structure. The hands which toyed with the worn leather briefcase on his lap had long fingernails, sharp like the talons of a carnivorous bird. His eyes, mere slits, hooded as he glanced around without so much as a movement of his head.

If one scrutinised him closely his uneasiness was apparent; a sharp little tongue licking at the cracked lips, the body taut, almost as though it was instinctively recoiling from the case across his knees.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Fradley Airport. We are on a scheduled stop of forty-five minutes. You may now disembark and obtain refreshments. Please be back in your seats by 11.32.’

People moved. All except the small man. His only movement was that of a trembling finger sliding back a small brass lever below the handle of the briefcase.

‘There, what did I tell you?’ There was jubilation in Reece Lingen's voice as he joined Charles Whyte and the Warboys brothers at the window of his office.

Two hundred and fifty yards away a small group of five people were descending the gangway of Concorde. Tiny specks, dwarfs beneath a huge fierce eagle.

‘Great,’ Whyte laughed. ‘And to spoil the show they have to fly that bastard in with them.’

‘Obnoxious as he is.’ Lingen replied. ‘I'm sure that the occasion overshadows his presence. Within a matter of minutes he will have been driven away. The people will forget. It is Concorde they have come to see and they will remember that they saw it at Fradley.’

‘Maybe,’ Whyte grunted. ‘but it's guys like that who could ruin us in a couple of years' time, infiltrating a Marxist element into a party that might just win the next election. Nationalisation of the airways, banks, insurance companies is just a step in the direction that bugger's trying to take the British people. A dictatorship is what he's after with himself in the driving seat.’

‘It'll never come about,’ the airport manager tried to change the subject. ‘The people will never stand for it. Just listen to them booing him out there now.’

The sound of angry voices was akin to a rumble of growing thunder, rising to a deafening pitch.

‘See what I mean?’ Lingen turned back to the others.

‘Hey, what the hell's going on out there?’ Whyte rose to his feet.

The noise was dying away suddenly like a fading distant echo. Out there on the runway the approaching party had come to a halt. They were turning, looking back at the plane. Everybody was staring at Concorde.

Something was happening inside the plane. A brief glimpse of rushing figures, a struggle of some sort.

‘Looks like …’

Charles Whyte never completed his observation. The scene before the watchers above the main terminal was blotted out by a blinding sheet of flame that seemed to leap at them, singling them out from the thousands below them, shattering the window with scorching force, a tornado that had spiralled up from hell itself to claim them.

‘Jesus wept!’

Lance Evans and Pamela Bridges clung to each other in the front of the Mini.

As they topped a rise about a mile and a half from Fradley Airport they heard the roar of the explosion. Seconds later they felt its blast, a searing force 10 gale that caught the car sideways on, slewing it across the lane, turning it round before embedding its boot in a thick hawthorn hedge; compelling them to watch the terrifying scene.

They could see Concorde. They didn't know how or why it was visible to them except that the airport buildings, the towering terminal and ATC must somehow have been removed to afford them such a view.

Flames everywhere, smoke beginning to billow up, hiding everything except Concorde itself. Whether it was still intact (it could not possibly have been) or how it came to be airborne they had no idea. They could only see the head, the curved beak breathing flames like some dragon of old, angrily snorting amidst the smoke, rearing up, a viking ship being dashed on the rocks.

Eventually it seemed to falter, the head dropping forward in dejection. Defeated. Breaking up. Disappearing back into the smoke waves.

And then it was gone.

They should have extricated the Mini, driven hard and fast, reckless with terror until the holocaust of Fradley was many miles behind them. But they didn't. They just sat there as though commanded to do so by some inexplicable force, staring at the column of black smoke which rose higher and higher into the sky until eventually it mushroomed out and hung there motionless.

They saw nothing but smoke during the ensuing hours. They heard nothing at all. No sirens of rushing fire engines and ambulances. No vehicles passed them. It was as though the whole world had died.

Periodically one of them spoke, but neither heard. They saw a movement of each other's lips but no words came. It was some time before they realised that they were deaf. It didn't come as a shock, more as a slow acceptance of their fate, a price that had to be paid for being spared the mass disintegration and cremation of the thousands they had left behind.

They did not even think about going anywhere because there was nowhere to go. They did not even pray. They simply sat and stared fixedly ahead of them waiting for the smoke to clear. It was getting darker all the time. Possibly night was approaching. They didn't know; they had lost all track of time. The atmosphere was thick with the acrid stench of burning.

Eventually it became lighter. It might have been the morning after the darkest night. Neither Lance nor Pam could be sure whether they had slept or not.

They didn't speak, there wasn't much point now, as they got out of the Mini and walked across the field opposite from where they judged they might obtain a better view.

That mushroom was still up there in the sky. It seemed bigger but less dense, as though it had spread out. It hadn't moved, though; it still hung directly over Fradley. Or, at least, where Fradley Airport had once stood.

The scene should have come as a shock. Their brains should have refused to accept what their eyes saw, sent them fleeing, screaming, mindless beings condemned to a robot-like fate. Possibly they had been envisaging the desolation, the total destruction for hours beforehand, conditioning themselves so that when at last they were faced with it they accepted it. They knew only too well what they would see.

Lance lit two cigarettes and passed one to Pamela, both of them drawing hard on tobacco which had no taste.

Nothing moved. There was no sign of human existence on the barren scarred wasteland which lay below them.

Nothing at all; just mounds and craters and smoking debris. Fradley Airport was gone; it might never have existed. Somewhere beneath the huge upheaval of concrete and tarmac lay the grandeur of modern architecture, buried without a trace. In its place were massive rocks which had been hurled up from the depths, blackened and split, shimmering in the intense heat, dominating the area by their size alone.

Pam held out a shaking hand, an extended finger tracing the course of the giant boulders, ending back where she had begun. A complete circle!

The fire still blazed. Only when annihilation was complete would its ravenous hunger be satisfied; when every vestige of Fradley was erased forever. Just the stones would remain. That which had been taken from the followers of the Old Religion had been returned, regurgitated from beyond the mists of time, as indestructible now as they had been then. Even Nature herself was forced to yield.

It was as they returned to the car that Lance and Pam first became aware of an irritation on their arms and faces. At first they scratched and rubbed. Then they looked; saw the mass of tiny pinhead blisters, the weeping sores.

Realisation. Terror. Screams that neither heard, just knew they were screaming; that the other was also. The silence was a thousand times worse, rolling in, suffocating them with a stillness that should not have been. An empty burning world.

They felt the drizzle, warm burning moisture in the atmosphere although there were no clouds; only that hanging pall of smoke that was spreading its tentacles beyond Fradley, a bizarre shape that could have been interpreted in a thousand different ways.

They tried to run but the burning in their lungs restricted them to a stagger. They gasped for breath but only drew down hot air that seared their throats, had them retching.

Eventually they made it back to the car, Lance falling in behind the steering wheel, risking only a glance at Pam, not wanting to see her as she was, trying to remember her as she had once been, that clear unblemished skin.

The engine started first time, and with some difficulty they ploughed their way back on to the hard surface of the lane, the leaves on the tall hedges even now starting to wilt and shrivel.

Driving slowly. Any direction, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered any more. The Bird of Evil had come and gone. In its wake it had left death and destruction. Perhaps somewhere they might find somebody who still lived.

The End

Thank you for purchasing this ebook.
I hope you enjoyed the read!.
Guy.

This ebook is the eighteenth book to be published as part of a project to convert Guy's entire back catalogue to ebook format. Beginning July 2010 it is expected to have all books available by the end of 2012.

The list of books so far published is :

1. Werewolf by Moonlight.

2. The Sucking Pit.

3. The Slime Beast.

4. Night of the Crabs.

5. The Truckers 1 - The Black Knights.

6. The Truckers 2 - Hi-Jack!.

7. Return of the Werewolf.

8. Bamboo Guerillas.

9. Killer Crabs.

10. Bats Out of Hell.

11. The Son of the Werewolf.

12. Locusts.

13. The Origin of the Crabs.

14. Caracal.

15. Thirst.

16. Deathbell.

17. Satan's Snowdrop.

18. Doomflight.

The next book will be :

19. Warhead.

"Caerlaverock is a top secret American missile silo situated in the Welsh hills, which contains the missile known as Spectre III, the most advanced on the planet. The security is strong, so to get into the base, the Russians use Mark Sallus, who has a knowledge of voodoo, and who knows a man inside. But when the Petro Gods of voodoo meet thermonuclear technology, the result can only be apocalyptic."

To view all ebooks currently available, including the one above, please follow the link below.
View Ebook Catalogue

Best regards,

Guy and all at Black Hill Books.