‘It’s the dogs, isn’t it? You thought they might get hurt.’
‘We’re supposed to be animal rights protesters. They made me shoot ’em up.’ He laughed as if he couldn’t believe anything that had happened. ‘Bastards. And they think we’re amateurs.’
‘You’re my guard?’
He nodded. ‘I’m supposed to make sure you were in ’ere until the shelling started and then I’m to get out and let you sweat. I guess they didn’t want you getting out and wandering into a shell. In here you’re probably safe, I think the army’ll be pretty careful for a while after the last fiasco. We’re a hundred yards from any of the targets – more. I said the noise would freak out the dogs, but they didn’t care. I don’t know what they care about.’
Dryden brushed a line of sweat from his forehead and flexed his arms where the stress was making the joints ache. Carried on the wind they heard the sound of a vehicle, caterpillar tracks whirring as it climbed a dyke bank.
‘We better go,’ said Skeg, checking his watch. ‘Twenty minutes – less – we need ten to get clear.’
‘You think I’m just gonna forget it was you?’ said Dryden.
‘Christ no. I don’t want anything to do with these people; they don’t really care about the animals, it’s a game for them, retribution. Like it’s an excuse to be cruel, to damage people. I want out. And I don’t fancy my chances with them when they find you got out. So I’m gonna do my own deal – I’d make a fucking good witness in this case they keep talking about. I got them into Sealodes in the first place, I worked there for a few months last year till old Peyton gave me the push. But he let me walk the dogs, see, that’s how I knew.’
He sucked in air, trying to keep his courage alive. ‘I’ll do it too, but I want witness protection. I got a chance that way, but you get blown to pieces it’s all over for me.’
He pulled the three dogs to their feet. ‘So we’re all going.’
They stepped outside and the soft rain was falling again in gentle folds like net curtains. The fuel store was on the very edge of the village, beyond the river, and so the cottages on The Dring and the New Ferry Inn were a distant jumble of grey shadows.
‘Will they fire in this?’ said Dryden, as Skeg tried to arrange the three dogs on the leads.
‘Probably,’ said Skeg. ‘Now they can, they will. They’re just more likely to miss.’ He led the dogs down to the river and then down some stone steps. ‘You’re gonna get soaked, the water’s up over the path, but just keep with me.’
They splashed in amongst the reeds, Skeg holding the terrier under one arm and the triple lead with the other. The water was at least six feet below the edge of the dyke so that their escape was covered from view, even without the comforting blanket of rain.
Dryden reckoned they were three hundred yards clear of the edge of the village when he felt the double percussion of the two maroons through his feet: a dull visceral thud followed by a rattling scream as the signal climbed; repeated again before the first echo had died. They scrambled to the top of the dyke and looked up into the grey sky. Above their heads the two signals exploded with a crackle like fireworks, the deep purple smudges seen for just a second through the cloud.
Skeg was beside him. ‘That’s the all-clear. They’re gonna wait for the rain to stop.’
Dryden shrugged, watching a pale sun fade behind drifting cloud. ‘I still don’t understand why you came back,’ he said, leaning against the damp grass of the steep bank. ‘Why you’re here.’
Skeg embraced the head of one of the dogs, squatting down. ‘We took the rats two weeks ago, before Roland and his friends got involved. We needed somewhere to keep them. The range was closed then. I knew ways in, you can still get a boat to within half a mile – they never think of that, see; with a small boat you can almost get to the Ferry. Then you turned up those old bones in the cellar and the place was crawling with coppers. It didn’t bother us – so what if they found ’em? But they didn’t – they didn’t even cross the river. I had the dogs in town so they made me bring them out for you. As a present.’
Skeg stood. ‘We should take our chance, let’s go.’
Dryden was about to scramble down when he saw across the fields that the rain was lifting and that the grey shadow of Neate’s old garage could be seen on Church Street. The house was lifeless, the windows black, the glass long fallen from rotten frames. But there was an outhouse, a workshop, and through the windows of the double doors Dryden saw clearly the sudden flash of an orange-red torchlight, sweeping once, twice, in the shadows.
He watched, his eyes aching with the effort of seeing through the falling greyness of the morning.
But there: again, this time from an upstairs window, the sudden flash of electricity, as unmistakable as lightning.
Someone was searching Walter Neate’s garage. He decided then, before he could assemble his fears. When he looked back Skeg’s head was at the parapet, waving, but Dryden turned and ran on through the wet field, exhilarated by the sudden motion, the rain running down his face. Ahead of him the light had gone, but he didn’t doubt what he had seen. Someone else had returned to Jude’s Ferry.
39
Up close Neate’s Garage was almost entirely obscured by ivy, the bole of which was as thick as a man’s torso and had split the facade of the Edwardian house, bursting out to fill the eyeless windows. The rain had stopped suddenly and the landscape was still, trapped in a paperweight.
Dryden moved towards a downstairs window and looked in. The ceiling had collapsed and the floor was obscured by distended lumps of plaster, rotting timber and the remains of a dead sheep, the lines of the skull softened by alpine-green moss.
From the back of the house came the thin creak of a door, and boots on floorboards. Dryden circled the building and came to the corner around which lay the rear garden. A blackthorn bush had burst out of the concrete path and writhed against the brickwork. Through the black maze of the branches Dryden could see a man standing with his back to the house, his head turned up into the grey sky. In one hand he had a spade and the other a garden fork, both flaked with rust. He retrieved what looked like a quarter bottle of whisky from his coat and took a long drink, wiping his eyes and mouth afterwards with the back of his hand. He seemed to be orientating himself to the main features of the old garden – an oak tree in the far corner, a path made from circles of York stone and a trio of apple
