Chapter 3

DISTANT SHADOWS

In the clear, bright light of early morning the party made its way along the road. On their left, the green swell of the Downs obscured their view of the sea to the south as they made their way past the sleeping village of Owermoigne.

It was just after six, and, providing there were no delays, they would be at market in plenty of time, half an hour before it opened.

They had rented a cart from the landlord at Wool, hooking it on to the rear of the first wagon. As they trundled along, Jake walked alongside, keeping an eye on Tom, who lay there on a straw palliasse, wrapped in blankets to keep him snug against the crisp morning air.

This stretch of the A352, which ran in a great loop from Wool to Dorchester, was kept clear most of the year by Branagh’s patrols, its broken tarmac surface swept free of vegetation. This close to the county capital, those same patrols made it their business to stop and search anyone they didn’t recognize, or who couldn’t produce proper identification. While that could mean trouble, usually they knew better than to pick on genuine traders. If word got back to Branagh it meant trouble for them, so generally they did their job, keeping an eye out for bandits and thieves and leaving genuine citizens alone.

It could have been worse. Corrupt as many of Branagh’s officials were, there was a limit to their greed. They knew precisely what they could get away with, and with whom.

For the last mile or so Tom had dozed off again, and Jake had been left to his thoughts. He had been musing about what Tom had said the previous day. About how they had ‘got off light’. It wasn’t true. Frank Goodman wasn’t the only one who had lost a brother. There was barely a family who had not lost sons or brothers, or who had had wives or daughters raped or beaten. Added to which there had been deaths from disease and accident and all manner of misfortunes. All in all, it had been a hard life these past twenty-odd years. Harder than he could ever have imagined. And yet rewarding, too, compared to the life he’d had.

Jake sighed. As ever, he shied away from thinking about all that. It was better to think about the present. Better to live life in the now.

They had stayed up late last night, talking to the locals. Wool itself had been attacked twice in recent months, the last time only a week or so ago. From the sound of it, it was the same bunch of rogues they had encountered in the woods, but that news was far from good. The party they’d dealt with was, it seemed, part of a much larger, marauding band, some forty or fifty in number. It was only because Wool’s defences were so good that they’d not been overrun. That and the fact that, like their friends from Corfe, they had the better weapons.

He wasn’t expecting the raiders to try again just yet. The two who’d got away would have told the others just what they might expect, and he’d have been surprised if they’d come back for more. Not only that, but this part of the county was well patrolled.

If they were going to try again it would be on the way home, tomorrow.

Unless…

Unless they’ve gone to try their luck against Corfe itself.

The thought had formed in his mind last night and, concerned that he might just be right, he had paid the landlord a crown to send one of his boys back to Corfe that very evening, to warn them to take care, and to give them the news about Tom.

He had written a note to Mary, for the boy to deliver, telling her not to worry; that Tom’s injury was a scratch and that they were taking good care of him, signing it simply, ‘From your good friend, Jake’, nothing more.

Tom himself had had a reasonably good night. Thanks to the tablets and the earlier dose of morphine he had slept like a log and woken refreshed, with a far better colour. The doctor had come just before they’d left to check the wound and bind it again for the journey, expressing his satisfaction with the way it was healing. But Jake was still worried. He couldn’t help it. He had seen it too many times: how a simple wound could kill a man in days from gangrene or blood poisoning. It was one of the big disadvantages of living in a post-technological age. That said, there was a hospital in Dorchester, and a good one at that, and Jake was determined to get Tom looked at just as soon as he could. Doc Padgett was a good man, but he was no expert.

Another mile had fallen behind them. The tiny hamlet of Warmwell was to their right now. Ahead, about a mile and a half further on, was Broadmayne, where the first of the watchtowers that encircled Dorchester stood. A couple of miles beyond that, was the town itself.

It was as they passed the village of Conygar, where the ancient pylons lay, fallen and rusting in the fields to either side, that they met their first patrol. Six men on horseback, led by their ‘boss’, a big, muscular man by the name of Hewitt, who had been their guest at Church Knowle many a time.

Ted Gifford slowed the ponies and brought them to a stop. Seeing who it was, Hewitt gave the signal to his men to wait, then climbed down and came across.

‘Hey up there, me lads… how’s things?’

They gathered about Hewitt, letting Jake do their talking.

Noticing Tom, Hewitt asked Jake what had happened.

‘We ran into a raiding party. Sixteen strong. We killed fourteen of them. Built a pyre of their bodies back on the roadside near West Holme. Tom got hit late. We thought we’d got them all, but three of them was hiding further back.’

‘I saw to one of those buggers,’ Frank Goodman said, and laughed.

Hewitt was grinning. ‘Fuckin’ good news, lads. Fourteen dead, eh?’

Jake nodded. ‘Yeah. Only they were part of a much larger group that attacked Wool a week or so back. The villagers fought them off – gave them what for, by all accounts – but there’s still thirty or more unaccounted for.’

Hewitt’s smile had gone. ‘Thirty, eh? And well armed?’

Jake shook his head. ‘They’re just kids. Teenagers. Shanty-dwellers, by the look of it. Though what they’re doing this far west this late in the year I don’t know.’

‘No…’ Hewitt stroked his beard thoughtfully. This was unwelcome news.

‘I saw another lot,’ Jake said. ‘Up on the Wareham road, two days back. A ragged bunch of miscreants. Five adults and three kids. They looked hungry.’

Hewitt nodded, chewing over this new information. Then, as if confiding to them, he leaned closer, lowering his voice.

‘A word of warning, gentlemen. You’re going to market, I can see. Well, bear in mind that things ’ave changed since you were here last. It’ll cost more. A lot more.’

There were murmurs of discontent among the men at that.

‘What do you mean?’ Jake asked. ‘How much more?’

‘Prices ’ave gone up, that’s all I’m sayin’. You’ll see for yerself and, I hope, ask more for your own produce. No one’s gonna do you no favours, I warn you. Bad times are comin’, me boys. Bad times.’

Bad times, eh? Jake thought, once the patrol had gone and they were on the move again. But why?

Hewitt’s warning concerned him. He had been counting on having enough to pay for Tom’s hospital treatment. It would have been a bit of a scrape even as it was, but if prices had gone up it might prove difficult.

As a one-time futures broker, he knew instinctively what such things meant.

Trouble. We’re heading full speed into trouble. And the first thing that happens is that things get more expensive. It’s the first sign.

Yes. But what kind of trouble?

The answer, most likely, was up ahead, in the taverns of Dorchester. Someone there would know. Someone would have word of what was going on.

The old county capital was directly ahead of them now on the road, some three miles distant to the north-west, its wooden, pallisaded walls coming slowly into view across the meadows. The ancient Bronze Age mound of Maiden Castle was visible, too, a mile away to the south-west, the stone walls of Branagh’s ‘palace’ sat atop its lush green slopes.

This had been the centre of government for three, maybe four thousand years; a fortress town, bounded by the River Frome to the north. When the Romans came in 43 ad, they had conquered the surrounding lands and built a wooden fort here – turning the area into what was basically a frontier town. Durnovaria, they had called it, back then. In the next two centuries they’d expanded their little hilltop fort into a proper town with buildings made of stone – a forum, a marketplace, public baths, and the great houses of the rich. They had built an amphitheatre, too, and a great aqueduct to the west of the town. By the fourth century the wooden pallisade had been replaced by walls of stone. But the Romans had come and gone, their towns, including Durnovaria, burned down and plundered by the invading Saxons. In time Arthur had built his Wessex here. Arthur, King of the Britons. It had a ring to it that ‘Branagh, King of Wessex’ had never quite acquired, perhaps because Branagh – in his sixties now – had been a salesman before the Collapse.

The thought of it made Jake smile.

‘Penny for ’em,’ Tom said, leaning up a little on his pallet.

Jake looked to him. ‘It’s nothing. I was just thinking about the history of this place. How’re you feeling?’

‘Not bad. It aches, but…’ He made to touch his shoulder, but Jake reached across and tapped his hand, like he would a child.

‘Leave it be.’

‘Where are we?’

‘An hour short. Broadmayne’s coming up.’

He said nothing about meeting the patrol. Nothing about what they’d learned last night in Wool, or of what Hewitt had said. He didn’t want Tom to worry. Didn’t want anything to get in the way of him getting better. As for what it’d cost to get him seen to at the hospital, he’d have to do what he could.

‘You know what I was thinking, Jake?’

‘Go on…’

‘I was thinking I might get something… for Mary and the girls. Some little trinkets. There was a stall last time…’

Jake smiled. ‘I was going to look there myself. The woman with the funny eye. Becky, I think her name is…’

‘With the funny eye…’ Tom laughed; the first time he’d laughed in days, only laughing hurt him.

‘Oh damn… Now it’s weepin’ again…’

‘We’ll soon be there, don’t worry.’

Jake smiled reassuringly as he said it. Only he did worry. He couldn’t help it. If Tom got ill – badly ill – how would he explain it to Mary?

‘You’re going to be fine. I’m going to make sure of it, okay?’

Tom looked back at him with gratitude. ‘Okay,’ he said softly, then closed his eyes. ‘Just wake me when we’re there.’

They had dropped off their goods at McKenzie’s storage warehouse, parked the wagons and stabled the ponies. Now, while Frank Goodman saw to the dogs, Ted and Eddie went off to see what they could get for their produce.

Hewitt had been right. Everything was much more expensive. The gate fee – levied on each wagon, cart and sled – had doubled. Similarly their stabling fee had risen, if not by quite so much. And from what they had glimpsed of prices in the market itself, they were going to have to skimp on one or two items.

But not on Tom, Jake decided, as he helped his friend down the long side alley that led to the hospital. He was going to make sure Tom got the best treatment he could while they were there, even if it meant skimping on luxuries like tea and coffee.

‘You mustn’t fuss so much,’ Tom protested. ‘I’m fine. It’ll heal of itself.’

‘Maybe,’ Jake answered. ‘But I’m not taking any chances. Besides, it would be a false economy. What would Mary say if you were ill for a long time? How would she cope? No, Tom. They need you.’

Tom looked down at that. His silence seemed significant, but Jake didn’t know why.

‘Look… we’ll get you checked out. Make sure you’re okay, right? Then we’ll go to that stall we were talking about. Buy your girls something nice.’

Tom looked up again and smiled. ‘You think we can afford it?’

‘Who knows? Maybe we’ll use some of that money Jack Hamilton gave us to get him a bride.’

Tom looked askance at him. ‘But Jake…’

Jake grinned. ‘I’m only joking. I wouldn’t think of it. But if there’s some over… Well, we could repay him later. Jack wouldn’t mind.’

Tom considered that, then shrugged. ‘I guess…’

They emerged out into a busy square. Just across from them was the front entrance of the old building where the hospital was housed. The real hospital had been burned down in an earlier campaign, and they had utilized this old factory instead. It was far from perfect, but it was better than nothing.

Being a market day, they had to wait some while, but then they were ushered through into a cubicle. A moment later a young doctor appeared, dressed in a long white coat and holding a clipboard.

‘Right, gentlemen, I…’ Only, seeing Tom he fell quiet. ‘Ah… I thought…’

‘I’ve been wounded,’ Tom said, speaking over the young doctor, as if to prevent the man from saying anything more. ‘The bullet went clean through my shoulder. Missed the bone. It’s been cleaned and bandaged, but we need to make sure it’s not infected.’

Jake looked from one to the other. It wasn’t even as if the man had introduced himself. But he knew, for a certainty, that Tom knew the young doctor and the doctor knew Tom. Only how?

He watched as the doctor removed the bandage and studied the wound. It looked less bruised now, less swollen, and after cleaning and bandaging it again, the young man looked to Tom and smiled.

‘It looks fine, Mister Hubbard. Whoever cleaned it up did a good job.’

‘That’s Doc Padgett of Wool,’ Jake said, his curiosity burning now. He wanted to ask what was going on, but Tom seemed keen to get away, now that he’d done what Jake had asked.

‘Do you need any painkillers?’

‘No,’ Jake answered. ‘I think we’re fine.’

‘Okay…’ It was as if the doctor had a query on his lips, only he wasn’t going to ask it. Not while Jake was there, anyway.

Tom stood. ‘So what do I owe you?’

The young man drew in a long breath. ‘We’ll call it five crowns, yes?’

Five crowns! Jake narrowed his eyes. What was going on? He’d expected to pay ten at the very least, maybe as much as twenty.

Tom counted five large coins out into the young doctor’s hand, then gave him a nod.

‘Thanks.’

Outside, in the street, Jake made Tom round to face him.

‘What’s going on?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘That doctor. He knew you. He’d met you before.’

‘Yeah, well…’

‘Go on… I’m dying to know.’

Tom looked away, unable, it seemed, to meet Jake’s eyes. ‘Last time we were here. I… I came to see him. I had a problem, see.’

‘A problem?’ And then it dawned on him what Tom was saying. ‘You mean…?’

Tom nodded. ‘It must have been the time before that. I saw a girl, here. You know…’

‘At Flynn’s?’

Again he nodded; only there was a look of shame in his face now. ‘I… I got a rash.’

‘Christ, Tom… Those places…’

‘I know…’ Tom glanced at him, then looked away again. ‘Worst part was telling Mary.’

‘You told her?’ Somehow that shocked him.

Tom nodded. ‘Had to. Wouldn’t have been fair not to. Didn’t want to give her what I had, did I?’

‘And now? Are you all right now?’

‘Yeah. He gave me something for it. Some cream and some tablets. I…’

Jake raised a hand. ‘Enough… I don’t want to know.’

Only he did. He wanted to ask Tom why. He’d thought Tom was happy with Mary. He’d thought…

Fuck. What had he thought? That Tom was some kind of saint?

‘Christ,’ he said softly, imagining it now. ‘That must have been hard. Telling Mary...’

Tom’s eyes were desolate, recalling it. ‘Worst thing I’ve ever had to do. Broke her heart…’

‘But she forgave you?’

Tom’s smile was wintry. ‘Yeah. But things ain’t the same, Jake. They just ain’t the same…’

Jake looked away, his thoughts in turmoil. So that was why. He’d thought it odd. But he would never have guessed. Not in a million years.

‘Let’s find that stall,’ he said, gently taking his old friend’s arm, seeing how frail he looked after his confession. ‘And no word of this when we get back, okay?’

‘Okay,’ Tom echoed; but there was something in his face now that spoke of a deeper, more grievous wound than the one he’d sustained in the ambush – something that Jake completely failed to see, being so tied up in his own thoughts as he was. Something which ate away at the older man. Something unshared.

A secret.

For the moment, however, things were all right. Back on an even keel.

For the moment.

The undercover market was a big space just off the Maumsbury Road, a sprawling, noisy place of several hundred stalls which, on market days, was one great bustle of activity. One could buy almost anything beneath its awnings. Anything that was still being made or grown, that was. And even some of the old stuff, from before the Collapse, was still available, at a price. There were specialty stalls, like those that sold CDs and records, and others that specialized in books and magazines from the old times. There were stalls that sold leather goods – belts and jackets, harnesses and saddlebags. There were others that sold household chemicals – rat poison and detergent, as well as soap and shampoo. Two or three stalls sold home-made sweets, while a good half dozen were stacked high with vegetables of every description. Fruit and clothes, candles, tyres and spectacles, blankets, wallpaper, clocks and watches, seeds, toys and sewing materials – all were sold beneath the market’s brightly striped awnings, along with knives and swords, writing paper and pens. There were even two stalls piled high with broken machinery, for those seeking spare parts. In shops nearby guns and ammunition were available, along with liquor and wine and cider. One could buy a strong pair of boots or some delicate, elegant shoes. Tapes, cassettes and videos could be found too, on a stall which flew a banner reading ‘Overtaken Technologies Inc.’. Paint and jewellery, hats and football memorabilia, all were on sale, while at two adjacent stalls at the very centre of it all, a small crowd queued for haircuts and basic dentistry.

Right now, however, Jake and Tom were looking at the wares on the trinket stall, run by a young woman with a lazy eye, Becky. She was busy, helping them choose their purchases.

‘Now that’s a lovely one,’ she said, her rich Dorset accent rounding off every word. ‘A real bargain, especially in these times. Look at the engravin’ on it! An’ it’s real silver. Look, there’s the mark.’

Tom studied the leaf-shaped brooch a moment, then looked to Jake. ‘What d’you think, Jake? D’you think she’d like it?’

‘I think she’d love it. Only can you afford it?’

Tom took a long breath. He’d already selected necklaces for his three girls. This last purchase was for Mary, and in light of his recent confession, Jake could see why he took so long to choose. He wanted to get this right.

‘No discount for bulk purchases, then, Becky?’ Jake asked, winking at her.

Becky was a buxom lass with a fine figure, and but for her ‘funny eye’ she’d have been snapped up by some local male long ago. As it was, however, she would probably never marry.

‘I wish I could,’ she said, blushing now. ‘But the price of silver has soared, I tell you gennelmen. ’Ard times are comin’.’

‘Not by just a couple of crowns, my sweetheart?’

He could see his flattery was slowly winning her over.

‘I tell you what,’ she said, reaching under the stall and bringing out an old black leather briefcase. ‘You were sayin’ you was lookin’ for a ring… for your boy… Well, I’ve a few nice ’uns here.’ She snapped the case open and laid it out before Jake. ‘You give me my price for the brooch and the rest of it, and I’ll take a coupla crowns off the price of the ring. And you gennelmen can sort it out between you.’

Jake was about to say something, but at that very moment he saw it.

‘That one,’ he said, pointing to a simple gold band at the top left of the black velvet-backed display. ‘That’s the one.’

Becky plucked the ring from the display and handed it across.

Jake studied it a moment, then looked to Tom. ‘What d’you think?’

‘It’s nice. But a bit small for Pete-ie, wouldn’t you say?’

Jake looked to his friend and laughed. ‘It isn’t for Peter. Least ways, it’s not him’ll be wearing it.’

Tom looked blankly back at him, and then he clicked. ‘Oh… you mean for Meg?’

Jake nodded slowly.

Tom’s eyes widened, understanding flooding them. ‘You think…?’

‘I know. Least, with your permission.’

Tom laughed, but he was looking very serious now. He turned, facing Jake fully. ‘I think it’s a very good ring, Jake, my dearest friend, and I’d like it very much if your son were to be my daughter’s partner in life. I think…’

A tear rolled down Tom’s cheek. ‘Fuck it, Jake. You know what? I can’t think of anyone I’d rather she were with.’

‘You don’t think he’s too young, then?’

‘Too young?’ Tom shook his head, then wiped away another tear. ‘No, Jake. Not at all. You know, you see. It don’t matter how young or old you are. You just know.’

Jake grinned. ‘Then let’s settle up and go and find the others. Maybe have a wee drink or two to celebrate, eh?’

Jake turned back, looking to Becky, who seemed dewy-eyed at the prospect of one of her rings being the occasion for such happiness.

‘Becks, love, you’ve got your price! It’s a deal!’

And, reaching across, he drew her closer and gave her a kiss on the cheek that made her blush furiously.

‘It’s my pleasure,’ she said, looking at Jake wistfully as Tom handed over payment. ‘Any time, gennelmen… any time…’

Peter was chopping wood out back, when Meg came running up. Seeing her, Boy jumped up and bounded over to her.

‘Hey, Boy,’ she said, kneeling down to stroke him vigorously, the way he liked it. She looked to Peter and smiled.

‘You’ll never guess what…’

Peter stood a log on its end then looked to her. ‘What?’

‘I overheard some’at Ma was sayin’.’

‘Oh yeah?’

He swung the axe, cleaving the log in two. Boy barked, as if applauding.

‘Yeah… seems as Jack Hamilton is lookin’ fer a wife.’

‘A wife?’ He stood up another log, but he was grinning now. ‘Go on…’

‘Yeah… Seems he gave your dad a purse to go purchase ’im a bride in Dorchester.’

Peter had been about to swing the axe, but he stopped, staring now at Meg.

‘Buy a wife?’

‘Yeah… one who can cook and clean rooms and serve ale at the bar.’

‘A skivvy, you mean?’ And he brought the axe down hard, making the two halves of the wood fly up into the air. Boy barked again.

‘Well, I think it’s romantic. Even if ’e is in ’is sixties and ’e’s ’avin’ to pay. ’E’s been far too long on ’is own.’

Peter glanced at her, trying to see if she was somehow alluding to his father, but her words didn’t seem to have any hidden meaning. He set up another log.

‘Mind,’ she said, coming over and placing a hand on his bare arm, ‘it does make you wonder…’

‘About what?’

‘Well… say you had to buy me… what kind of price would you pay? How deep would you dig in your pocket to have me?’

He stared at her, stunned by the words. She laughed, then squeezed his arm. ‘I’m only kiddin’.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah…’ Meg walked over to the wall and stood there, looking out across the fields. ‘I mean… money’s important, but…’ She shrugged, then turned and grinned at him. ‘You know what? If I were someone else… you know, a young girl, without no prospects and livin’ in some awful town like Dor -chester… well… I think I might just jump at the chance, even tho’ ’e’s old.’

‘Would you?’ Peter looked crestfallen now.

‘No, silly. I don’t mean me. I mean… Oh, now you’ve got a face on. I knew I shouldn’t ’ave told you.’

He set the axe down and stood up straight. ‘Ask me again.’

‘What?’

‘Go on. Ask me again how much I’d pay for you.’

Meg frowned, then, with a shrug, asked him again.

This time he didn’t hesitate. This time he said it clearly and not just in his head.

‘Every penny I had, Meg Hubbard. Every last penny I had.’

Jake could have murdered a pint when they got back, but their drink had to wait. Ted Gifford was waiting for them by the door, and he had bad news.

‘It’s gone mad, Tom. Totally fuckin’ mad!’

‘What d’you mean?’

Tom sat on the nearby bench. He looked exhausted.

‘I mean the price o’ things has gone through the roof. We managed to get a bit more for our own load, but nothin’ like enough. We’ve no option, Tom. We’re going to ’ave to borrow some money from somewhere.’

Tom leaned forward. For a moment he closed his eyes, then he looked up at Ted again. ‘How much d’you think we need?’

‘I dunno. A coupla hundred crowns… three hundred, maybe? Heating oil alone has trebled in price. As for clips and cartridges…’

‘You’ve been to Hardy’s gunshop?’ Jake asked.

Ted nodded. ‘Frank went. Says it’s absurd what they’re askin’!’

Jake sighed heavily. ‘Three hundred? Even if we could get someone to lend us that kind of sum, we’ll be bankrupt in a month or two at this rate. Is there no way we can make cutbacks?’

‘We’ve done that. You must have seen how things are.’

Jake hadn’t, but he understood what was happening. In times of trouble, essentials, those things that people had to have, went up in value sharply, especially if someone was hoarding them, while luxuries, those things that were desired only when money was plentiful and people could afford them, went down. Most of the stalls he and Tom had visited – Becky’s apart, for gold and silver nearly always held its value – were selling luxuries of a kind, and so wouldn’t really have been affected much.

Jake sat down. ‘What d’you think, Tom? Should we ask old Harry? Or maybe Liam, at the stables.’

‘You think either of them can spare that kind of money?’

‘I dunno. But it won’t harm to ask. They know we’ll pay ’em back. We’re old friends, after all, and we’ve been coming to them the best part of twenty years now.’

‘Then ask.’

Only he could sense, behind Tom’s words, that Tom didn’t like the idea. He didn’t like the thought of throwing himself on someone else’s mercy, even if it was only short term. He’d rather not buy at all than borrow to buy.

Tom looked to him. ‘I could take back the things we bought…’

Jake was uncompromising. ‘No. You won’t.’

‘But we’ve got to have ammunition, Jake. We’ve got to be able to defend ourselves.’

‘Then we buy some.’

‘But…’

‘No buts, Tom. I’ll go see Harry now. He’s probably in the back bar. What I’ll do is ask Harry for half of it, and Liam for the rest. That way neither man’s too stretched. Besides, I’ll make it worth their while. I’ll give ’em ten crowns interest apiece. That’s not a bad return, I’d say, and I can bring it back myself, three days from now.’

‘But, Jake…’

‘No arguments. It’s done. As for you, Tom Hubbard, you need to stretch out on a nice soft bed.’ Jake looked to Gifford. ‘Ted… give me a hand, won’t you?’

Only Jake didn’t plan to go and see Harry, nor Liam either, come to that. He’d had an idea. Not one that was guaranteed to work, by any means, but he was going to try it anyhow.

‘Give me half an hour,’ he said to Ted Gifford, once they’d got Tom settled. ‘If I don’t have the money by then, then we’ll find some other way of raising it. I’ll meet you outside Hardy’s, okay?’

‘Okay…’ But Ted hesitated. Jake could sense he wanted to say something.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘What’s goin’ on here, that’s what’s wrong. I can’t help thinkin’… well, feelin’ rather… like this is ’ow it felt first time roun’. You know… when it all fell apart. Only… what’s left to fall apart? We’re down to basics as is. So why’s things gone ’aywire?’

‘I don’t know, to be honest. Scarcity of goods is driving some of it, but I don’t know why that should be. There was plenty last month. Maybe Branagh’s hoarding stuff. He’s certainly put up all the fees.’

‘I never trusted that bastard.’

‘Nor I… But look… let’s just deal with this right now, eh? Let’s get our stuff and get back home, and worry about the rest of it later.’

Jake, too, was worried now. Walking through the crowded space, he kept on seeing that same concern in every face. Normally amiable people were bickering now, arguing over the slightest little thing. In the past this had been a pleasant place to do business. There had been laughter and a lot of good-natured banter, but now there was a tetchiness about people. He could see it in the way they spoke to each other. More than once, as he passed by a stall, he would find buyer and seller locked in a bitter, irritable exchange. There was a lot of gesturing and shouting, too. ‘Fuck you!’ one of them would say, giving the finger, and they’d be off again, the babble of angry voices seeming to grow as Jake got deeper in. None of it came to blows – Branagh’s men, who were out in force, saw to that – yet there was a simmering anger that could easily have spilled over into violence.

What made it worse, as far as Jake was concerned, was that no one seemed conscious of it. It was like they were all too preoccupied to notice. He stood there a moment, looking about him, feeling for that instant like the sole still point amidst a swirling mass of humanity. He saw how people were going about their business, saw the urgency with which they made their way from stall to stall, like tomorrow was the end of the world and they were all stocking up against it. There was an air of desperation mixed with panic, the kind that happens sometimes when no one knows clearly just what’s going on, only that disaster is imminent.

Which made it all so much more of a mystery, for as yet he’d not heard a word of rumour that made sense.

Right now, however, he had something to do; something which, if it worked, might kill two birds with a single metaphoric stone.

Becky looked up as he stepped in front of the stall, her vaguely troubled look becoming a beaming smile as she saw who it was.

‘Jake! ’Ow lovely to see you again. You come to buy something else?’

‘You could say that…’ He hesitated, then, ‘Look… I know this is asking a lot, but could you close up for half an hour? I need to talk. I… well, I thought we might go to a tavern… somewhere quiet, and have a word or two.’

She looked surprised.

‘I dunno… half an hour…’

‘I’ll pay you. Pay you well.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘I ’ope you don’t think…’

He put his hands up defensively. ‘It’s nothing like that. But I do have a proposal for you. One I think you might find to your advantage…’

‘Yeah?’ But he could see she was intrigued. ‘Okay. ’Alf an hour. But you pay me ten crowns for loss of trade.’

Jake smiled. ‘Sure.’ And as he said it, he wondered what would catch Jack Hamilton’s attention most, that disconcertingly lazy eye of hers, or her voluptuous figure. Either way, both he and she could do much worse, and she would be her own mistress still.

He watched her as she covered things over, then got her neighbouring stallholder to keep watch for her. Then, and only then, did she come round to him, smiling and taking his arm.

‘All right, Jake. Let’s go and ’ave that talk,’ she said, pressing against his side. ‘You got me right puzzled, you know that?’

‘I know,’ he said and grinned, knowing in that second, for a certainty, what her answer would be.

Ted was waiting where he said he’d be, outside Hardy’s gun shop at the southern end of the market, Frank Goodman, Eddie, Dick and the rest in tow.

‘Did you get the money?’

‘I got two-ninety of it.’ And he handed over the big leather money pouch Jack Hamilton had given him at Wareham.

‘But that’s…’

‘Ours, till we see Jack again. I got him a bride, like he asked, and for free. She’ll be travelling back with us. In the meantime we’re going to use our good friend’s money to buy what we need. We can pay him back when we next see him.’

They were staring at him now, wide-eyed.

‘A bride?’ Ted asked. ‘For nothing?’

But Jake wasn’t going to be drawn. ‘You’ll see. Now let’s get what we came for. Frank… take one-eighty of it. That should be enough, don’t you think?’

‘It’ll do,’ Goodman said, turning to Ted, who had begun to count the money out.

‘What else are we lacking?’

‘We need some spectacles for Ginny Harris…’

‘And boots for young Sam Webber…’

‘We could do with some more seed…’

‘And scissors…’

Jake raised a hand. ‘Okay. Let’s make up a new list. Prioritize. There’s things we have to have. Seed, yes. Candles… Petrol for the generator… what else?’

And just like that their anxiety was gone.

‘I’ve never seen them like it,’ he told Tom, two hours later, when he was back at the inn, sitting at Tom’s bedside. ‘That one small thing – that sudden rise in prices – and it was like their whole world had been undermined.’

‘Yes, but it’s not just that,’ Tom said. ‘It’s a feeling in the air. We’ve both had it, I know, these past few weeks. Only here… well… it’s heightened, I guess.’

Jake nodded. ‘You’re not joking. It’s like some form of mass hysteria. I just hope it blows over. Winter’s coming and hopefully that’ll put a lid on things for a while. And then maybe, in the spring, we’ll feel differently.’

‘We’ve had it easy for too long,’ Tom said quietly.

‘You think? It’s felt like it’s been hard to me.’

Tom chuckled. ‘Then you’ve a bloody short memory, Jake Reed.’

‘Yeah?’

Jake looked around the room. As ever at market times, the landlord, Harry Mason, had crammed six beds into the room, to take advantage of demand. Tom’s was pressed up against the wall, beneath the casement window. From outside came the noise of the market. It would be closing in two hours.

Jake got to his feet, then, for want of something to do, leaned across Tom and felt his brow. It was hot, but not feverish. And his colour looked better than it had been.

‘I’m going to ask that doctor if he’ll come.’

‘What’s the point? We’ll be back home tomorrow evening.’

‘Yes, and when you are, Mary can fuss over you as much as she likes. Until then, I’m in charge. And I want the doctor to look at you again.’

Tom seemed agitated suddenly.

‘No, Jake. It’s a waste of money, and money’s tight right now. I’m fine, really I am.’

‘I don’t care. He’s going to look at you, and that’s that.’

‘Jake…’

‘I’ll send the pot boy to get him. Not now, but later. Last thing. Maybe he can give you something to help you sleep.’

Tom tried to get up, but he was clearly weaker than he thought.

‘Jake…’

‘What?’

‘All right… send for the doctor if you must… but I want to come down for a bit. I want to sit with you all, in the bar. I don’t want to be up here all night, on my own.’

Jake would have said no, that Tom had to get his rest, but he could see that this meant something.

‘All right. For an hour or so… but that’s all.’

Tom smiled. ‘Thanks. Now you can go.’

‘Well, thank you.’

In the doorway, Jake turned, looking back into the room. Tom had closed his eyes. He looked peaceful now, in the last light of the day, but his injury had clearly exhausted him. He had always been such a strong man, a great oak of a man, but now he seemed drawn, almost frail.

We’re too fucking old for this, Jake thought, stepping out into the hallway. Worn out too bloody soon.

They and the world they lived in.

He stepped outside, then went back beneath the awnings, walking among the stalls, knowing that he had one last task to perform. He had promised Josh he’d find him something. One last gem to add to his collection. Only as he made his way through the press of bodies, Jake found himself thinking not about that, but about Tom and what had happened last time they’d been here. Had he really had unprotected sex with a girl? It was hard to believe, knowing Tom, because Tom was always so cautious, so… reliable. Not only that, but he couldn’t think when Tom might have found the time, for they’d been together almost constantly.

And yet he must have.

Rory’s Record Shack was where it always was, tucked away in the darkest corner of the market, between a stall that sold buttons and another that sold picture frames and scented candles.

Rory himself was a big, black-bearded man who wore black leather from another age. He grinned as he saw who it was, then addressed him in his broad South London dialect.

‘Jake, me old mucker… it’s good to see you.’

They shook hands warmly.

‘You got anything for me?’

Rory’s smile broadened. ‘I was hoping you’d show. You want something for Josh, I take it?’

Years ago Rory had called in to the Bankes Arms when he’d been passing and had sworn he’d never seen a better collection than Josh’s. He knew what the old man liked.

‘I said I’d try and find him something special.’

‘Then you’ve come to the right place, my friend. Here…’ And he reached beneath the counter and handed across an old vinyl record, in its polythene-protected cover. ‘I guess he might have it, but…’

‘No!’ Jake said quietly, looking at the cover of the album with pure delight. ‘Jesus, Rory, where the fuck did you get hold of this? It’s priceless!’

‘I know. Some kid brought it to me. Didn’t know its worth. Said he found it, but I reckon he half-inched it, meself.’

But Jake was only half listening. He was looking at the grainy black and white image that filled the twelve by twelve cover. Five young men were coming down a set of stairs, next to an old street telephone box, while to the right of the cover a big sign on the window of a cheap motel read ‘$6 a night’. He flipped it over. There, on the back, was the band’s drummer, Ed Cassidy, his hand raised in peace, his distinctive bald head made yet more anonymous by a pair of dark glasses. Behind him was what appeared to be a wasteland.

Josh had been looking for this for years. And here it was. West Coast rock at its very finest.

He looked to Rory. ‘What are you asking?’

‘I’m not asking anything. It’s a present. For Josh. You two have been good customers over the years. Fuckin’ fine gentlemen the pair of you. But now it’s time to move on. I’m off to Cornwall once I’ve packed up here, so if there’s anything else you fancy, you can have it half price. Closing down sale. One day only.’

And he laughed again, a warm, kindly laugh that was so unlike anything Jake had heard all day, that he found himself joining in.

‘Shit, Rory,’ he said, holding the album against him carefully. ‘Josh is going to wet himself when he sees this. Are you sure?’

Rory grinned. ‘Sure as sure and a bit more sure after that. He can put it in with Quicksilver, the Dead, Airplane and the rest. I’d play it for you now, only I don’t want to risk scratching it.’

‘No… You got any punk?’

‘Late seventies punk or late twenties?’

‘The real stuff.’

‘’Fraid not. Had a Vapors single, but it went. Got ten crowns for it.’

‘Then you’re lucky.’

‘Yeah…’ Rory’s smile faded. ‘Looks like the shit’s hit the fan at last.’

‘Yeah…’ Only that was too morbid. Jake looked at the cover again. Josh had some of the other Spirit albums, Clear and Twelve Dreams, but this was the band at their best.

‘The Family That Plays Together… it’s a great title, don’t you think?’

Rory grinned again. ‘Not bad. My favourite is Bless Its Pointed Little Head, by the Airplane. Not that I’ve ever seen a copy…’

‘Hey… you want to come and join us for a drink tonight?’

Rory shrugged apologetically. ‘I’d love to, only I’ve got to get packed up and on my way. I’m meeting my daughter down Helston way.’

‘You’ve got a daughter?’ All these years and he’d never known that.

‘Yeah… Roxanne. Fuckin’ awful choice of name, I know, but blame her mother. She’s twenty in a month or so. Lovely girl. Wants me to go and live with her… now that her mother’s dead.’

‘Oh…’ Jake stared at the man, surprised. How long had they known each other? Fifteen years? And they’d never had a proper conversation. It had always been about music. Nothing but the music.

Jake came away with two more items: a CD of JakPak’s first album, Suture, from ’27, and an old vinyl single of ‘Glad It’s All Over’ by Captain Sensible, which he’d bought partly as a joke – to give to Josh.

On his way back to the inn he ran into Frank Goodman.

‘Jake…’

‘Frank… everything okay?’

Goodman nodded. ‘The main load’s stowed on the wagons and locked into the stall for the night. I just came out to see if I could find any last minute bargains.’

‘What’re you looking for?’

‘Something for the missus. A bracelet, maybe.’

‘Then go see Becky… or rather, let Becky sort you out. I reckon as she’ll give you a good deal if you say you’re with me.’

‘Yeah?’ Goodman almost smiled. ‘Point me in her direction, Jake, and I’ll see what she can do…’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve only got seven crowns left… d’you think that’ll be enough?’

‘It’ll be plenty. Now get going. I’ll see you back at Harry’s…’

After checking on Tom, Jake got washed and changed, then went downstairs. The bar was already packed out, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the heavy buzz of conversation.

Jake hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was feeling famished. They had paid Harry up front for bed and board, so if he wanted anything, it was just a question of him ordering from the menu. But they’d not paid for their beer, and with things having soared in price, he knew that finding beer money would be difficult. Taking Harry aside, he asked if they could have a slate this once.

Harry’s momentary hesitation spoke volumes. Jake clearly wasn’t the first to ask.

‘All right,’ he said, nodding. ‘You’re good customers o’ mine. But I want payment within a week, right?’

‘A week?’ Jake considered that, then, ‘Done!’

The two men spat on their hands and shook.

Just like in the film, Jake thought, watching as one of Harry’s girls, Jessie, poured him a foaming pint of Best.

Ted Gifford and a few of the others had taken one of the big tables on the far side of the bar. Jake made his way over.

‘Room for a little ’un?’

Tankards and glasses were raised to welcome him. Someone shifted a little and Jake squeezed in, between Dick and Ted’s old pal, Brian Leggat, from Abbotsbury.

Talk was of how expensive things were, and of the latest rumours coming down the road. Everyone was in the same boat when it came to the price of things. There’d been no warning, and a lot of them had been left short.

‘God knows ’ow we’ll manage next time roun’,’ Dick Cooke, who came from Cerne Abbas, said. ‘As it is I’ve only ’arf o’ what I meant to get. An’ if this winter’s a bad un’…’

It was a fear they all had. That they’d be without essentials over the winter months.

‘The price o’ vaccines…’

‘Couldn’t buy one for love or money…’

‘Gonna have to chop a fucking heap o’ wood to get us through…’

‘The cost of fuckin’ salt… unbelievable!’

And so it went. But Jake kept his silence. He’d seen what was going on. What he wanted to know was why, and none of his friends, concerned as they were by the situation, could answer him.

‘So…’ Eddie said, turning to face him. ‘Where’s old Jack’s bride, then? I thought she was comin’ back with us.’

‘And so she is. But she’s got to get packed and ready.’

‘A local girl, then?’

‘She is.’

Ted Gifford groaned at that. ‘Fer fuck’s sake, Jake… tell us… I can’t stand the suspense no more.’

But Jake ignored him. He finished his pint and set his glass down. ‘Who’s having another?’

‘I meant to say about that…’ Eddie began.

Jake leaned in, as if confiding to them all. ‘Harry’s given us a tab for the night. You can order what you like, boys…’

There was a great cheer at that. Eddie and Dick stood, taking orders, then made their way over to the bar to get them in.

It was just after ten past five.

‘It’s gonna be a long night,’ Leggat said from where he sat to Jake’s right. ‘Men’ll be drinking to forget their sorrows.’

Jake nodded. That was the truth. And they had the time to get oblivious.

‘How’s your Jean?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘She okay? And the kids?’

Leggat grinned and pulled out his wallet, searching through it, then presented Jake with a small colour photograph, which showed him, his wife and their two children.

‘Christ! Where d’you get this?’

‘Tinker… came roun’ our village. Was chargin’ five crown a picture. No end of takers, I tell you. Ain’t seen nothin’ like it for years. Bloody thing actually developed in the back of the camera. Guy sez they ’ad cameras like that fifty, sixty year ago.’

Jake stared and stared at the photo, then handed it back.

‘Fuck…’

‘You a’right, Jake?’

‘Just that. It’s so nice. To have a picture of you all.’

Leggat laughed, then shook his head. ‘Yeah… yeah, it is.’

‘Look, I just gotta go sort Tom out. I said he could come down for an hour or so. I’ll see you in a bit…’

Outside, on the back stairs, he stopped, holding on to the rail for dear life.

That picture had got to him.

Jake took a long, shivering breath. He had been close to tears back there, just thinking. What a treasure it was. What a priceless fucking treasure. It had got him thinking. If only I had the like of it. Some image of her. Because all he had were the pictures in his head.

Tom was awake. As Jake came into the room, he yawned and made to stretch, then winced.

Jake smiled. ‘You forgot for a moment, eh? That’s a good sign. It means it’s healing.’

The light outside was fading now, the room in half darkness. Jake lit the bedside candle, then leaned across and drew the curtains.

‘What’s the time?’

‘A quarter after five.’

‘It seems later…’

Jake looked down at his old friend. In the candlelight, Tom seemed to have aged. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but he seemed tired. Not tired the way a young man got after an exacting day, but the kind of tiredness that seizes on the old. A drawn kind of tired.

He sat Tom up, then felt his brow again. It was cool.

‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Better.’

‘The pain…?’

‘Is manageable. It’s a dull ache now, most of the time.’

‘Good. But I’m still getting the doctor, right?’

Tom made no move to argue.

‘Okay,’ Jake said. ‘Let’s get you dressed.’

At the top of the steps, Tom paused and looked to Jake.

‘Let me do this on my own.’

‘Fine. But hold on to the rail.’

‘What am I? Eight?’

Jake chuckled. ‘Okay. But they’re steep.’

‘I can see that.’

‘Let me go first…’

‘What? So I can fall on you? That’d be useful, having the both of us in hospital.’

‘Then stay in bed.’

‘Stop fussing, man.’

He stopped fussing. But he couldn’t stop worrying until Tom was safely at the bottom. There, Tom let Jake help him again, Jake putting an arm about his waist as they stepped out into the bar.

‘There ’e be!’ Ted Gifford said, getting up to welcome Tom.

There were smiles all round.

‘Get the man a beer!’ Frank Goodman called, looking to Eddie, who was up out of his seat and on the case already.

‘Pint of Best, Tom?’

‘And no flies in it this time!’ Tom shouted back, alluding to the time, back in the summer, when a half-drowned bluebottle had spoiled Tom’s first mouthful.

Tom nodded, then squeezed into the seat, between Ted Gifford and Dick Cooke, the Cerne Abbas man.

Jake took a seat just across from them.

‘How you feelin’, boy?’ Ted asked, touching Tom’s good arm. ‘Not still weepin’, is it?’

‘No. It’s good. The doctor’s looking at it later.’

‘Ah… good…’

Jake watched Tom take the tankard from Eddie and, after a salute to all those gathered there, raise it to his lips, savouring the taste.

Like old times, Jake thought, only it wasn’t. They were relaxed now, sure, but not as relaxed as in the past. There was still an underlying atmosphere. A sense of unease.

‘So when’s this woman comin’?’ Frank Goodman asked, looking to Jake.

‘Soon,’ Jake said, amused by their persistence. ‘Just be patient.’

‘I don’ reckon she exists,’ Frank said, his gaze never leaving Jake’s face. ‘I reckon Jake’s ’avin’ us on.’

Jake smiled, taking no offence. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘Well… where’d you find one, just like that?’

‘In the market… that’s where…’

They all turned, their faces a mixture of shock and surprise. It was Becky, and she was glammed up to the nines. Lazy eye or no, she looked in excellent shape.

‘Becky,’ Jake said, standing and offering her his seat, ‘meet the boys. Boys… I think you know Becky. Becky Hamilton, as’ll be.’

‘Well, I’ll be…’ Ted Gifford began.

‘No you bloody won’t,’ his son chipped in. ‘Not if she’s Jack Hamilton’s missus!’

And they all roared with laughter, Becky included.

‘What you ’avin’, Becks?’ Eddie called. ‘It’s on the tab…’

Becky squeezed in, waggling this way and that to get comfortable, much to her neighbours’ delight. ‘A pint o’ Best’ll do me, Eddie, my love.’

‘Quite a change of career,’ Brian Leggat said, grinning at her.

Becky turned to face him, her one good eye focusing on him. ‘Oh, I’ll still be comin’ back ’ere to market from time to time, don’t you worry. Bein’ Jack ’Amilton’s missus won’t change that!’

‘If ’e’ll ’ave you,’ Leggat said mischievously.

Oh, ’e’ll certainly ’ave me!’ And she winked outrageously with her good eye, making them all roar with laughter.

Peter stood there in the quiet of the shadowed hallway, listening. Apart from the steady tick of the old grandfather clock, and the sound of Boy gently panting, there was nothing. The house was silent, empty.

He walked through, into the comparative brightness of the kitchen. The room was lit from outside by the moon, a great white circle in the dark, halfway up the sky over Kimmeridge, away to the south-west.

Boy padded after him, then gave a tiny growl.

‘Quiet, Boy…’

Even so, he went to the pantry and, reaching up, took down one of the long, leathery chews that hung there and threw the dog his share of their last pig. Boy jumped up and caught it in the air, then settled with it, chewing away contentedly.

Peter went to the window and looked out into the yard. Everything seemed fine. The wood was where he’d stacked it earlier, the lid to the water barrel padlocked. There was a brief, faint noise from the chicken coop and then silence again.

He looked back at Boy. ‘Okay, Boy… all’s well here. Let’s go look around the barn.’

He walked back out into the hallway. His gun was in the case on the wall, where he’d left it earlier. Taking the key, he unlocked the mesh-protected door and took it out.

He breached the gun, checked it was loaded, then clicked it shut again.

‘Come, Boy… let’s go see if there’s any foxes…’

Boy growled at the word, but held on tight to his chew-strap, even as he padded after his master.

There was a faint breeze blowing from the east, coming across Poole Bay and Studland. In the distance he could hear an owl. It was a fine night for hunting.

The barn was further down the slope, backing on to the high wall of the New Inn tavern. Back in the old days, so he’d been told, this had been a really popular spot, and every evening, during the summer, the great car park at the back of the inn had been filled with motor cars. There’d been parties here running late throughout the summer, with the electric lights blazing out and the music drifting across the night-cloaked fields.

Peter sighed. There hadn’t been any cars these past twenty years and it didn’t seem likely that there were going to be any ever again. Which wasn’t a bad thing, according to his dad. Only sometimes he found himself wishing he could ride in one, just once. Just to know what it was like.

He looked up, out across the fields. From here, at the top of the long slope, you could see the sea, like a shimmering sheet of metal in the distance.

Boy had stopped suddenly. Now he began to growl. A moment later he dropped the chew and began to bark. It was the kind of bark he gave when it was someone he didn’t know.

Peter raised his gun. He had a whistle on a string about his neck. When this kind of thing happened he was supposed to take it out and blow it hard and people would come running. Only he didn’t.

He walked on, slowly, silently, moving out a little, away from the barn.

‘Hush, Boy,’ he whispered.

At once the dog was silent. But Boy was fully alert now, his ears pricked up, his body crouched low to the ground, like he was hunting game.

Slowly Peter circled, trying to make out who or what was there. At first he couldn’t see a thing. Boy had to be mistaken. Either that or it was some small animal. But then he glimpsed something.

He took the safety off, then began to edge closer.

There were three of them, stretched out on the straw pallets at the back of the barn. At least, two of them were stretched out. The third was sitting up, his back against the end wall. From small movements of his head Peter could tell he was awake, even if the others weren’t.

Keeping watch…

He crouched, making himself less visible.

They didn’t seem to be armed, but he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t see any weapons, but maybe they were resting on the floor beside them, or tucked away in their clothing.

There was the faintest groan. One of the ‘sleeping’ men turned a little, moaning as he did, as if he were wounded. The watchman leaned in, saying something, but Peter couldn’t make out what.

He crept closer, Boy shadowing him, moving as he moved, looking to his master with bright, eager eyes.

He could pick them off from here, easy. Could have two of them before they even moved. But he was curious now. Who were they?

Peter glanced round. Behind him, to his right, near where the old pet sanctuary had once stood, was the Hubbards’ house. They’d be expecting him back, and soon. He could see candlelight in one of the upstairs windows and wondered which of the girls it was. Beth probably. It was her room.

He looked back, and felt his stomach lurch.

He was gone! The watchman had gone!

Peter turned, looking this way and that. Then, from behind the barn, came the sound of someone pissing.

He let a long breath escape him.

As the man came back, buttoning his flies, Peter got a good look at him in the moonlight. He was a stout man, in his thirties, with a straggly beard. A very ordinary man, except for the look in his eyes.

He was afraid. And he had every right to be. You didn’t cross the countryside these days without being in fear of your life. To be a drifter was to be a problem. A problem that was solved more often than not with a bullet to the head.

Boy had been silent until that moment. Now, seeing the stranger so close, so clear in the moonlight, he let out the faintest whine. Immediately the man froze, looking out towards where Peter crouched beside Boy.

‘Japhet… Japh…’

The words issued from the man in a low, urgent hiss. Their answer came from the darkness inside the barn, the word slurred and sleepy.

‘Wha…?’

Peter’s gun was aimed directly at the watchman’s chest. With his left hand, he reached inside his shirt and drew the whistle out. He had only to blow it.

Only if he did, they might run off, and then they’d be up half the night chasing them round the countryside. As it was he had them. Provided he played it right.

The question was, what would his dad have done?

He knew without having to ask.

Straightening up, he raised his gun to his shoulder and took two paces towards the man.

‘Run and I’ll shoot you dead!’ he said in a loud clear voice. ‘I’m a fuckin’ good shot and I won’t miss. Now put your hands up where I can see them!’

To his surprise, the man groaned and sank to his knees, his hands raised in surrender. From the barn came a similar groan of anguish and a babble of words.

‘Oh shit… oh fuckin’ shit…’

This was where he’d have to be careful. If either of the two in the barn were armed…

Only he knew they weren’t. If they were they’d not be so afraid of him.

‘Boy! Guard them! Go on, Boy… make sure they stay!’

Boy leapt up at once and went across, barking at the two men who were there. One of them lay there still, oblivious to all that was happening. The other was sitting up now, his hands raised in surrender.

Good. Putting the whistle to his mouth, he blew. Once. Twice. A third time.

There was a moment’s pause. Then there came the sound of slamming doors, the noise of running feet. The kneeling man – the watchman – was whimpering now. He knew the game was up.

Peter stayed where he was, not showing himself fully. The man could see the glint of moonlight on the gun’s barrel, however, and would know that Peter wasn’t messing.

As the first of the villagers ran up, Peter gestured towards the barn.

‘There’s two in the barn… and this fellow here. I don’t think they’re armed.’

He glanced round; saw that it was the butcher, Matthew Hammond. Behind him Jack Randall and his wife, Jenny, were hurrying down the slope, coats thrown on hastily, both of them armed with shotguns.

Hammond nodded to Peter then stepped past him, going right up to the one on his knees. He pointed his rifle at the man’s head.

‘Okay… who the fuck are you? And what are you doing on our land?’

Others were arriving now, among them Mary and her daughters. They too had pulled on coats. Mary had a gun, while the girls had clubs and knives.

The kneeling man tried to answer, but he was stuttering now. ‘W-we’re just p-passing through.’

From his accent he sounded like a Midlander.

Hammond looked across, to where Jack Randall stood over the prone figure, while the other man cowered against the back wall, Jenny Randall’s gun pointed directly at his face.

‘This one’s injured, Matty…’ Randall said. ‘Badly by the look of things. I’d say our friends here have been in a bit of a ruck.’

‘That true?’ Hammond asked, touching the man’s neck with the barrel of his gun.

The man look petrified. As well he might, for half the village was out now. Men and women were hurrying down the slope, coats thrown over their shoulders hurriedly, every last one of them clutching a weapon of some kind.

‘It’s t-t-true… We… w-we were part of a p-party… out of B-b-b-Broms -grove.’

‘Bromsgrove. In the Midlands?’

He nodded.

‘So what were you doing here, in Purbeck? How many of you were there?’

‘Th-th-three th-th-thousand… maybe m-m-more.’

There was a murmur of surprise at that.

‘Three thousand?’ Hammond sounded stunned.

Again the man nodded.

‘So what happened to the rest?’

‘Th-they g-got t-turned back… on the b-big road north of here. Armed t-troops… they c-came out of n-nowhere. Th-that’s how my f-friend got h-hurt.’

‘Must be Branagh’s men,’ Randall said. ‘Can’t think who else it’d be.’

Charlie Waite, the landlord of the New Inn, arrived right then, with two of his sons. They were carrying torches, and in their flickering light, they could see the faces of the men for the first time, see the blood-caked clothes of the one who’d been injured.

‘Christ…’ Jenny Randall said quietly, appalled by the sight. ‘The poor boy’s been peppered with bullets!’

But Hammond wasn’t concerned with that. He nudged the kneeling man again with his gun.

‘Why were you on the road?’ he asked. ‘Three thousand men… what were you? An army?’

‘R-r-refugees,’ the man stuttered. His eyes were wide. You could see he expected every moment to be his last.

‘Refugees, my arse,’ Charlie Waite said, coming up alongside Matthew Hammond, the two big men towering over the kneeling stranger.

Waite reached down and grabbed the man by the neck and shook him. ‘Tell me the truth, you fucker!’

Peter looking on, grimaced. He had seen this side of Charlie Waite before. The man had a short fuse and no sympathy. His intercession could only mean trouble.

‘N-n-not just men… w-women, t-too. And k-k-kids.’

The wounded man groaned and opened his eyes. Jenny Randall looked to her husband, concerned.

‘We’ve got to do something… the poor boy…’

Charlie Waite looked round, enraged by her sympathy. ‘’E’s like that, Jenny, cos he deserves to be like that! I bet a crown to a penny they were mercenaries. Not a woman or child among them.’

‘Then why’ve they no weapons?’

‘Because that’s what mercenaries do. As soon as things turn against them, they throw away their weapons…’ He looked back at the man he still had a grip on and shook his head. ‘They would have marched straight through if Branagh hadn’ta intercepted them. And where’d we be then? Facing the same dilemma, only with a thousand times as many of the bastards! Let’s have done wi’ ’em, I say.’

There was a loud click as he took off the safety on his gun.

Peter acted instinctively. Before Waite could place the gun to the man’s head, he stepped in and knocked the gun aside, then stood there, between Waite and the now hysterical man.

Waite looked astonished. ‘What the…?’

Peter glared at the innkeeper. ‘I didn’t blow the whistle so you could come and kill them. I could have done that myself. You want to kill them, you’re going to have to kill me first, and then you’ll have to deal with my dad. No, we keep them… tie them up and lock them away somewhere safe, till the rest come back. Then we decide. And Jenny’s right. We give them the benefit of the doubt, and tend to that one’s wounds. Then if he dies, it’s not our fault.’

Waite sneered at him. ‘You think that matters, boy?’

But Peter wasn’t having any of it. Waite didn’t scare him. ‘Oh, it matters, Mister Waite. It matters more than anything.’

It was just after eight when, unexpectedly, Rory from the record stall turned up after all, a very pretty young woman on his arm.

‘Tom… Jake… this is my daughter, Roxanne.’

‘Rory!’ Jake said, delighted, jumping up to welcome him. ‘I thought you were heading off to Cornwall…’

‘I was… then her ladyship turned up, out of the blue, so I thought…’

‘Oh, you’re very welcome. Both of you! Shove up everyone… make some room for our good friends here!’

Jake had given up on the idea of getting Tom back to bed an hour past. He only had to look at his friend to see what good this was doing him. Him and them all, if the truth be told, for the anxieties of the day had been washed away in a tide of alcohol.

‘Wha’ral’i’be?’ Eddie asked, getting to his feet unsteadily. ‘A pi’ fr you, Ror? An’ wha’ral’a-gir’ave?’

Dick Gifford snorted with laughter. ‘Lissen to ’im! Pissed as a fuckin’ newt!’

‘A pint would be ace,’ Rory said in his best cockney, for that moment the only truly sober man among them. ‘An’ the same for Roxie, ta.’

Eddie leaned closer, winking at the girl. ‘S’on’a’tab…’

Jake looked to the girl, then back at her father and shook his head. ‘Nah… I don’t reckon she’s yours, Rory. Much too beautiful.’

Rory grinned. He didn’t care what people made of him, but clearly any praise of his daughter was very welcome. And she was a good-looking girl, full-figured with long curls of dark brown hair. Looking at her, you could see why Becky had found it so hard to get and keep a man. Roxanne, on the other hand, probably had to fight them off.

‘So what do you do, Rox?’ Tom asked. He was sat right back now in his chair, a look of autumnal mellowness about him.

‘I engrave glass… words… designs… flower patterns…’ The men were leaning forward now, attentive to what she had to say; every last one of them smiling as they took in this new breath of fresh air to their table.

‘Thar’s a stall in the market,’ Billy Leggat said, gesturing with his pipe, ‘that ’as a few pieces like that. Lovely things, they are. ’Spensive, though…’

Roxanne grinned. ‘Those are mine.’

‘An’ tha makes a livin’ from it?’ old Ted Gifford asked.

‘Truth is, no,’ she said. ‘Not a great call for it, if I’m honest. But it’s what I want to do. And Dad helps me out from time to time, so…’

Rory put his arm about his girl and squeezed her to him.

Just then, Eddie reappeared with their beers. He had spilled a bit, but most of it was there.

‘Ror… Rox…’

‘Fuckin’ Japanese, ain’t it?’ Frank Goodman said, nudging his neighbour, then putting his fingers up to his eyes to make slits of them. ‘Wha’ you fink of it so far? Ror-rox!’

One or two of them laughed, but Tom and Jake were clearly a bit embarrassed.

‘Don’t mind him,’ Jake said, quietly, apologetically. ‘It’s a lovely name. Did your mother take it from the song?’

Roxanne, however, looked blank. Rory leaned forward. ‘Her mother didn’t like music.’

Tom laughed at that. ‘Christ, Rory… you do pick ’em!’

‘Don’t I?’ He looked at his girl again. ‘Mind… she does look a lot like her ma did at that age. That was when I first met her. We were on the road, both of us. Refugees. She was tryin’ to get home… to Cornwall… while me… I was just trying to get as far away from London as I could. Bloody madhouse it was.’

About the table there were dark looks at that mention. For the first time in an hour or two they’d been reminded. Of how things had been. Yes, and how they might yet be again.

‘Well, she’s a lovely girl,’ Becky said, smiling at her rival. ‘Such lovely ’air… I used to ’ave ’air like that…’

‘Jack ’Amilton used to ’ave ’air, too,’ Ted Gifford said drily, and they all set about laughing again, Becky included.

The talk had got little further when their old friend Hewitt, Branagh’s man, made an appearance. He looked like he’d been riding hard, for the sweat still clung to him and his face was black with dust.

‘Jake… can I ’ave a word?’

Hewitt took him outside, into the cold air. His patrol were nearby, their horses tethered. Like their captain, they all looked like they’d not washed in days and their eyes had a tired, desolate look to them, like they’d seen too much.

‘What is it?’

‘Just wanted to warn you. There’s been an encounter…’

‘An encounter?’

‘We had word something was happening a few days back, from other travellers. We didn’t let it get out, of course, or people might not have come here for market. Anyway… a force of four hundred men were sent north to intercept. They took up a position at Sherborne, on the bridge over the River Yeo. We hit the bastards hard, before they had a clue what was happening and—’

‘Hold on,’ Jake said, interrupting him. ‘You said to intercept. What were they intercepting?’

‘An incoming force. Three, maybe four thousand men. Some of them were armed, but most of them had little but makeshift weapons.’

Four thousand men… Jake felt a flicker of fear at the thought. There’d not been a force like that for years.

‘And we beat them?’

‘Drove ’em off. Killed a fair number, but most of them fled back north, over the fields, heading for Glastonbury…’

‘But not all of them.’

Hewitt nodded. ‘A small body of them doubled back. Last thing we saw they were headed south-east, down your way… that’s why I thought I’d warn you.’

The thought of it chilled Jake. ‘Thanks… but look, who were they? I mean… four thousand men…’

‘Midlanders. They’d been driven out, from what we can ascertain.’

‘Midlanders?’

‘That’s what the ones we’ve questioned say. And those accents… you can’t mistake it.’

‘Christ… and Branagh knew about this?’

‘Knew about it and acted.’

Jake thought about it. His instinct was to set off at once and come back for the wagons later if need be, only it was far too late for that. The men were much too drunk.

He went back inside, sobered by what he’d heard. Should he tell them? Spoil their evening? He decided not to. There would be plenty of time in the cold light of dawn to decide on a strategy.

Pray god I’m not wrong, he thought. Pray god eight hours won’t make a difference. Yes, and pray god they’re all safe at home when we get back.

Jake tried not to let what he’d heard make any difference, but it did. He couldn’t sit there now and laugh with them at this trifle or that; couldn’t enjoy the moment. The thought that they were sitting there while armed strangers were heading towards their homes was too uncomfortable to bear. He finished his beer – his last beer, he decided – then turned to Tom. If anyone knew what to do, it was Tom.

He leaned in, speaking quietly to Tom’s ear. ‘I think I know why things were like they were today.’

Tom was less drunk than he seemed. He turned and met Jake’s eyes. ‘Something Hewitt said?’

Jake nodded.

‘I wondered when you’d tell me. When you came back in… your face… it looked like you’d seen a ghost.’

‘More like a bloody army of ghosts…’

Tom’s eyes narrowed, taking that in. ‘What was it?’

‘Branagh sent his army north… to Sherborne… they had a battle there.’

‘Christ…’

‘Yeah. Four hundred men – well armed and well trained… against a band of marauders.’

‘I take it they won.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then why aren’t we celebrating? Why aren’t the bells ringing out?’

Jake took a long breath, then told him. ‘The invading force. Hewitt says there were near on four thousand men. Midlanders. They drove them off, but… well, most of them fled north, but some, he doesn’t know how many… went south… south-east, to be accurate.’

He saw Tom think about it, then realize what that meant. ‘You mean…?’

‘Hewitt doesn’t know. Only that they seemed desperate. Something drove them out. And what could drive out a force of four thousand men?’

There was the faintest tremor. The glasses on the table began to clink. Conversation faltered and then died as the men looked to one another, trying to make sense of it. The tremor grew, became a shaking. Pint glasses fell from some of the tables, shattering on the floor, while in the background the pounding boom of engines filled the air.

Everyone was on their feet now, a look of panic gripping them. Across the bar, on the far side of the room, someone was screeching anxiously, like they’d totally lost it.

Jake too was on his feet. ‘What in Christ’s name…’

A sudden, brilliant light hit the square outside, flooding the bar. Men shielded their eyes, stumbling against each other. There was an uproar of voices.

Jake pushed through, forcing his way outside, even as others staggered out into the brilliantly lit space. Out there the pounding pulse of the engines was deafening. It made the very air itself vibrate. Like the scouring, unforgiving light, it was coming from the sky directly overhead. Only that made no sense. It was over twenty years since there’d been any sign of aircraft in the sky.

Besides, whatever it was, it was no plane or helicopter. No. This was something new; something entirely alien.

Jake shielded his eyes, trying to make out the shape of the thing, its size. Only the light was so intense, so blinding, he could make out nothing.

A gun went off, then another.

‘You idiots!’ he screeched. ‘Don’t fire at it! But his words were swallowed up by the noise of the craft, the twin pulse of its engines, which was so loud it seemed to be inside him now.

And then, as suddenly as it had struck, the light went out, the blackness in those first few moments so total, so absolute, there was a great moan of fear.

Jake blinked his eyes tight shut, then opened them again, craning his neck to look up at the ship. For a moment he could see nothing. It was as if he had been blinded. All he could see was the burned-in image of the craft’s searchlight on his retinas. Then, as that began to fade, he got the vaguest glimpse of its outline, the silvered shape of it in the moonlight as it withdrew; a strange, inhuman-looking craft, much larger than anything he’d ever seen.

The pulse withdrew. Slowly the air grew still.

‘D’you see that?’ someone yelled. ‘D’you see that on its wings? Fuckin’ aliens!’

But Jake had seen it too, right at the end, even as it had accelerated out of sight.

Dragons. Those markings… they were dragons.

And as he thought it, so he could feel the touch of the finest silken threads on his face, the faintest trace of sulphur and cinnamon on his tongue. And, pervading all, like a coil of swirling, dark red smoke, the outlines of a face. Oriental. Brutal.

Jake fell to his knees, recognizing the triggered memory; knowing now without a shred of doubt who it was.

‘It’s the Chinese,’ he said, looking to Tom, who stood nearby, his shocked face turned to the sky. ‘It’s the fucking Chinese…’