The trees were like the black bones of charred beasts, clearly defined, like specimens on white paper; the hillsides smoked and were also black, and where there were villages or houses a little dash of colour came from a red or yellow flame still guttering on, though it had been three days since the Brigante planes had been over. She had seen the jets, of course, since then; they were easily identifiable by the red and white roses they used for insignia. They had been heading back to their Pennine bases.
What disgusted her most was that this area had possessed absolutely no anti-aircraft cover. The crashed C-130E she had seen earlier had come down purely as a result of inexpert flying (it had never been designed as a bomber in the first place) and she had regretted the waste of the four young crewmen—all with long blond braided hair and fair moustaches, all handsome—whose bodies she had found inside. She had gained something, however. She now possessed a good Polish-made AK-47 rifle (how it had come into Brigante hands she could not guess) which, because of its lightness and lack of kick, she had always preferred to longer-range assault rifles, and this one had the added advantage of the folding metal stock. It fitted neatly into the hand-tooled scabbard strapped to her saddle. She wore her old EM-3 on her back, together with a bag of scarce .28 cartridges which went with it. The AK-47 accepted the far more easily obtained standard 7.63 ammunition.
Una could not believe that anything survived in that landscape, but she had been told that Craven would meet her here and there was nothing for it but to take a deep breath of the relatively clean air and urge the colt forward. As she rode she checked the map she held in her free hand, trying to make out which of the ruined villages was Cattelford. She went slightly to the southeast and found the remains of a major road; the horse's hoofs skidded slightly on the asphalt, but it was easier than trying to ride over the burned scrub.
She was lucky. A sign for Cattelford, the metal singed and slightly warped, was still standing. She rode into a mess of masonry which had been so badly hit that there was scarcely a piece larger than the ragged straw sombrero she wore to protect her over-sensitive eyes from the sun.
'Craven?' she called.
Something rose cautiously from what must have been a cellar; it stood there, its M-16 held at the ready. The figure was tall and its gaunt features were covered in soot. It wore an old flying helmet which had been painted silver and it had a cracked leather jacket covered in patches bearing cryptic but not particularly interesting designs.
She knew Craven would not recognize her. He was, in turn, only a dim memory—something that was no longer real.
He was thinner than the men she normally found attractive and she wondered if he had changed physically, if it was merely the name that was the same.
'Craven?'
He smiled, still not sure if Una were an enemy or the courier he was expecting. 'Captain Persson?'
She nodded and dismounted. The sadness in his face attracted her. He seemed to be one of the few who had not been brutalized by this feriociously petty war. A weary veteran, an experienced fighter, like herself.
'Well.' Craven removed the flying helmet to reveal a shock of thick, red hair. 'We really don't need to know about reinforcements now.'
'So I see. How many of your people left?' He reminded her of a poet she had admired in her youth—Wilde, Swinburne; someone like that.
'Two,' he said. 'Both wounded. I had to shoot two others. The bastards were dropping nerve-gas towards the end. They're lucky to have it to waste. The wounded ones are down there.' Craven jerked his head back at the pit from which he had just climbed. 'Have you any medical kit? Anything?'
She reached into the pannier on the left of her saddle and drew out a basic kit. 'There's morphine in there. Not as much as there should be. I used some last night on a civilian.'
'Seems a pity.' Craven made no other comment but stepped forward to take the kit. He replaced his helmet, slung the M-16 over his shoulder and slid back into the hole. Una did not follow him. She stroked the nose of the horse, glancing around at the ruins, listening to the faint murmurings from the cellar.
Craven came back very quickly. He was shaking his head. 'One had died. I don't think the other will make it, but maybe we could get together some kind of stretcher. There's planks down there which didn't get too badly burned.'
Una sighed. 'You don't want to leave him?'
Craven shook his head. His smile was crooked, a trifle dishonest. 'This is the loser division, Captain Persson. We look after one another.'
While finding the statement a bit peculiar, Una's response was I sympathetic. 'We'll use the horse, then. We could make some kind oftravois.'
Craven frowned, momentarily abstracted. He looked at her and he smiled again. Then he straightened his back, his eyes becoming slightly hooded, making Una wonder what private role he was adopting to get him through this particular crisis. He was the first person she had met for some time who attracted her, whom she wanted to know better. He seemed to be a brave man, hiding a natural dignity behind what appeared to her to be something of a posture of dignity. Perhaps he was doing it for her. She glanced at the blasted ground so that he would not see the private humour in her eyes. This was no time to feel randy.
The deep stone cellar had, as Craven had claimed, hardly been touched by the fire-bombs. Through the gloom Una made out two figures, one moving faintly and muttering, the other quite still. Craven had already found two suitable planks and was clumsily trying to lash them together with a long piece of oily rope. Una put a hand on his shoulder.
'Let's get the bloke up first.'
Craven thought this over and nodded. He propped the planks against the wall and they toppled down, narrowly missing the wounded man. This time Una grinned openly and got her arms under the body of the soldier, through whose fresh bandages blood was already beginning to seep. He had been hit mainly in the right arm and leg, probably by shrapnel. Craven's bandaging had been almost completely useless.
‘Take his legs,' said Una.
Craven followed her instructions and they made their way slowly up the slope formed by earth and rubble until they could lower the man to the ground. Craven went back for the planks and watched admiringly as Una, using the rope and her canvas cape, quickly built the travois. Then she re-bandaged the wounded man and they carried him to the travois, making him as comfortable as possible. He was grateful. His morphine-numbed lips formed a few words which Craven seemed to understand. He gave the man a thumbs-up sign.
'We'll be back in no time. There's a hospital in Taunton.'
Una felt that this was not the moment to mention what had happened to Taunton.
Later Una and Captain Craven lay in the shade of a large oak tree watching the horse cropping the grass near the grave which they had dug for the soldier, who had died five or six hours after they had set off. They were relaxing, smoking a joint, fairly sure that the CLF ground troops were nowhere nearby. Craven had removed his helmet and flying jacket and was stripped to the waist.
'So the Brigantes have occupied Leeds,' he said. 'Not bad. No wonder they suddenly started concentrating on the West Country. We really didn't expect that strike. We were sitting ducks. We hoped that the war might be over. It looks as if we can't count on a settlement now. We're finished, wouldn't you say?'
'We were finished years ago,' she said. 'It's the foreign interference that's kept everything going. I thought that when the French suddenly rediscovered their old Celtic affiliations it might create a fresh spurt of trouble but so far they don't seem to be supplying the Celtic Liberation Front with anything more than normal support. You should see their newspapers. Full of anti-Anglo Saxon propaganda.'
Craven drew deeply on the joint. 'What about the Normans, then? Where do we fit?'
Una loosened the top buttons of her fatigue jackets. 'You're beginning to talk in their terms. That's never a very good sign. How did you come to get involved?'
'It was something to do. A cop-out, you could say. I used to be a writer. Th
is, by and large, is a much easier life.'
'You must have been a very sentimental writer, if you can say that.'
'I don't think I was. Well, not about myself, at any rate. Maybe about technology. I was very interested in technology. That, too, is the attraction of the army. I originally applied to the air force, but I'd had a breakdown and apparently they think that's a bad qualification for a flyer but a good one for the infantry.'
Una accepted the joint as he handed it to her. It was Nepalese. She had rescued almost half a pound, along with the rifle, from the crashed C-130E.
'And what did you do before you joined up. Captain Persson?'
'A lot of things. Basically I was in the entertainment business. I took war pictures. I was on the stage for a while.' Una waved one of her beautiful hands. 'Boredom is what gets me.' She was surprised to find herself adopting a posture, perhaps in response to his.
'I can't think of anything much more boring than this fucking war,' he told her. 'It's a fantasy war. Who wants to fight it?'
'People who want to fight. Where did this one start? Perhaps in Belfast. The Irish problem. Of course, there wouldn't have been any Irish problem without England, would there?'
'Don't ask me. I've never had much of an interest in politics.'
'It's always been my weakness. We all find our different forms of escape.'
'You like politicians?' He was not looking at her.
'It's glamour, you know, which keeps a woman going. Perhaps it's wrong, but that's the truth of it. A dreadful instinct. Stronger than any sex-drive. Captain.'
His mind wasn't apparently on her words, but he turned his head politely back, his eyes half-closed, his fingers (longer even than hers) stroking the faded bracken. 'Sex-drive?'
'Romance. Without it I doubt if the race would have gone on so long. Not if women had had anything to do with it, anyway.'
'Romance?' He smiled slowly at her and reached out to touch her cheek.
She lay back and watched as his face came towards her. There were little scars on the pale skin; there was a piece of tobacco on the upper lip; she noted one last flicker in the eyes before they shut and his lips breathed against hers and she shut her own eyes and put her arms around him so that her fingers closed on rib-cage and muscle, on his lean shoulders; and she opened her lips to his teeth and his tongue, and she felt his tired legs against her own legs and she knew that almost certainly he would not be able to fuck her and, there and then, she loved him.
It had to be the uniform, she thought.
TWENTY
In which Catherine Cornelius enjoys a personal experience of Entropy
Catherine lay in bed listening to Trevor swearing in the next room, if he slept an hour or two longer, she thought, he'd be a lot better off. And so would I. But sleepers and tranquillisers rarely had much effect on him these days. He appeared in the doorway, glaring down at where she lay under the patchwork duvet. His hair was spiky. He had a towel around his thin waist. There was blood running along his neck from a small cut.
'You've been using my razor to shave your bloody legs again. You are a fucking sloppy bitch, aren't you?' When he raved like this he tended to spit.
She felt despondent. ‘I haven't shaved my legs in weeks.' She pulled back the duvet and waved her right foot at him. 'Look.'
'Oh, fuck off. Anyway, somebody has been using my razor. Who was here while I was in Holland?'
With a shrug she put her leg back under the blanket. 'About three thousand friends of yours. People you said could crash here while you were away.' I He sneered. 'How many of them did you fuck?'
She remembered Richard. 'You think I'd fuck any of your manky friends? Bloody speed freaks, covered in sores?'
He wiped his neck with the towel. 'All you do is criticize. If I'm not good enough for you, if you don't like me or my friends, why don't you get out of here? I'm pissed off with supporting you. You just lie there all day doing bugger all. How long is it since you cooked me a breakfast?'
'You said you didn't like me doing domestic stuff.'
'Yeah. Well, you don't do anything else nowadays, do you?'
She began to get up. Her body ached with tension. I'll cook you a breakfast.'
‘There isn't anything to eat.'
'You never eat breakfast, anyway.'
'I might. Shut up, for Christ's sake! I don't need your bloody sarcasm on top of everything else. I should have been at the studios by now. It'll be another bummer, thanks to you. I can't play after one of these scenes. You know that.'
'You ought to save yourself up. What's left of you. Why don't you stop making them?'
'I don't make them, darling. If this place was run a bit better—if I didn't find my bleeding razor fucked every morning—if you kept this place even reasonably tidy—maybe I wouldn't have to lose my temper. Think of that.'
She said: 'You used to accuse me of being too houseproud. Besides, I don't give a shit about your razor or this bloody flat. I came to stay with Mary, remember? You wanted me to. I didn't want to live with you. You asked me to, after Mary got killed. Remember?'
He turned away. 'Sure. I was a sucker.'
She sank back onto the pillows. 'I set out to ruin your life. To lead you on. To make a fool of you. Because I like it.'
'You're closer than you think, darling. I should have listened to Bob. He warned me about you. Why don't you piss off?'
'All right.'
'Oh, great. Now you're going to blackmail me.'
'Make up your mind/
'It was fine, wasn't it, when I was in the money? When I brought plenty of chicks and drugs home. But it's not so good now, is it?'
'I told you to stop bringing anything home. I told you to get out of the band. Anyone could see Bob was ripping you off. I even told you not to sign that contract, and that was while I was still with Bob.'
'I told you so, I told you so. Thanks for nothing.'
'Do you want me to go out and get you something for breakfast?'
'Oh, fuck off.'
He left the room and she listened to him clattering about in the kitchen. She heard him muttering. She knew he was finishing off the rest of the formal accusations. She could no longer feel sorry for him; she could no longer feel guilty. She waited for the silence that usually came after a few minutes of this. Then she prepared herself j for his re-entrance.
He came back holding a mug of tea.
'Want some tea?'
‘Thanks,' she said.
‘I'm sorry about that.'
She sipped the tea. It wasn't worth replying. He never seemed aware of the pattern himself and she couldn't bring herself to go through the ritual, even though it would mean a quieter life. Besides, this was probably only a pause, while he got his breath.
'Well, I am sorry,' he said.
'Good.'
'Well, it's shitty to find your razor fucked.'
‘Yes.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Okay.'
'You understand?'
'Oh, sure.'
'You don't sound too convinced.'
She sighed.
'Oh, you fucking bitch!' He was off again. 'You lousy, sloppy, lazy cow! You—' He advanced to the bed and stood looking down at her. 'You bitch.'
'Hadn't you better get to the studio?'
He seized her naked shoulders. He leaned forward to try to kiss her. Instinctively she turned her head away.
'You bitch.' Half-heartedly he slapped her across the cheek. She wondered why she feared physical violence so much when it was accompanied by anger. He crossed the room to the mountain of giant cushions on which his jeans and shirt lay. He began to dress, pulling beads, bangles and medallions expertly over his head and wrists, adjusting his huge belt around his hips, pulling on his stackheel denim boots, one eye on the mirror. He always seemed to dress as if he were getting ready for the stage. 'You come on all lust and rolling eyes and you're really as frigid as a bloody nun.'
'You frighten me,' she said quietly.
r /> 'Baby, you frighten me' He pointed a finger at her in much the way he had once pointed it at crowds of screaming thousands. 'You conned me, Catherine. What the fuck do I get out of this one? I lay bread on you, drugs on you, chicks on you, buy up the sex stores, and whenever I get home you're too tired or you're feeling funny or—I don't know!'
'I'll leave, then.'
'Don't threaten me.'
'You don't love me.'
‘I do love you.'
She hadn't the courage to say what she wanted to say, that she had never loved him, only felt sorry for him when Mary had been killed when the van hit a lorry head on.
'When will you be back?' she asked.
'Day after tomorrow. If the roads are all right we're going straight on to Newcastle. We're doing a gig for the big base up there.' Most of his work was for the armed forces these days.
‘I'll get your washing done for you,' she said.
'Look, there's no need to come on like a martyr, Cathy.'
'I said I'd do it.'
He sat down at the dressing table and began to pour cocaine from a plastic sachet onto the glass surface, carefully breaking down the white crystals with a razor blade. Through a rolled up ten pound note he sniffed the long line into his right nostril, a single snort. He held his nostrils together, still sniffing. He drew a deep breath. 'Nothing. This must be fifty per cent speed, twenty per cent soda, twenty per cent floor-sweepings and ten per cent coke.'