Guy Smith - Throwback

Two nights later the dreams began, weird frightening dreams as though a hitherto closed door of her subconscious had opened up, a computer that had been given an extra key and processed data which had previously been denied it.

Delany's again, her surroundings so familiar that it might have been only yesterday that she had staggered in there. You're not well, you need to rest. 'It's the Russians that have done this to us.' She ignored the man loitering in the craft centre, pushed past him and went on into the restaurant. Empty, as she knew it would be. The ovens still steamed, gave off an appetising aroma of vegetarian dishes. I'm not well, there's something wrong with my skin, it's smarting and I can't think properly. Yes, you can. Fight it, don't succumb to it.

Seated at a table, a cup of steaming herb tea before her, inhaling the vapour; it seemed to clear her head a little. Think, girl, think it all out carefully. You made the wrong decision last time; this is your final chance.

The steam quelled the feeling of dizziness, her brain shuttered like an old plate camera, came back to reality. People were shouting outside, sirens blaring, police and ambulances stuck in the traffic jam. What the hell was going on? A nuclear attack?

Forget them, concentrate on yourself, you've got to get back home. Don't go to Pauline's mother's house this time because that was where you went wrong before. Maybe now she could drive the Dyane except she would never get out of town in it. Whatever her decision she would have to go on foot. Head south. Remember that, keep going south.

She drank the herb tea thirstily, poured herself some more. Don't forget to fill your carrier bags with food before you go because you'll need it. Then with a jolt she remembered Jon. Jon! She could picture his face clearly now, the misty profile which had been eluding her for so long. Her husband. A pang of bitterness because he had another woman, probably that Atkinson girl was with him right now. Jealousy, then guilt. She had had other men too but now it was time for a reconciliation. She and Jon could both work at something they had let slip, a marriage that had slid for years and was nearly at the bottom of the slope. But she had to get home, that was a priority. Her one chance to put things right.

She loaded her bags with food and went back outside into the street. A milling throng, the traffic all snarled up, people hurrying, clambering over abandoned vehicles in their haste.

Jackie fought her way through, joined a stream going the other way. Don't go to First Terrace this time. Ignore everybody else. You're on your own. Head south.

She kept going, recognised landmarks, lost them again but knew she was going in the right direction. People lay in the road, on the pavements, some of them dead, not because of their awful affliction but simply because they had been trampled by the crowds. A crying child came towards her, its features beginning to peel and harden but she ignored it. Don't stop for anybody, you can't help them. Head for home whilst you still know where home is. South . . . south . . . south . . .

Days of burning sunshine, cool nights that brought relief. Sleeping in long grass, heather, the air filled with strange grunts and cries, people incessantly on the move. She hid; they must not find her, this time there must be no Kuz.

Walking, sleeping, eating wild fruit and herbs after her own food had run out, raiding the larders of deserted cottages whenever she came upon an isolated dwelling. Mile after mile each day but never seeming to arrive anywhere, knowing that she was heading in the right direction.

A long trek throughout a summer that waned and eased into autumn. Always on the move. The hills were full of restless people, some of them congregating into groups which built stone structures, prepared for the onset of winter. Fools, you will not survive when the cold comes, head south whilst there is still time or else seek the protection of proper dwellings built to resist the blizzards.

And that was how she had arrived at this cottage in the hills, alive and warm whilst everybody else was either dead or gone. Waking, only the figments of those strange dreams lingering on, frightening her because she was all alone. She should be dead like everybody else who had been caught out by the winter. Perhaps it would have been better that way. But she still had the will to fight and live.

No longer did that face evade her. Now she knew it, saw its every detail as clearly as though she had only gazed upon it yesterday. Jon! And only the snow was preventing her from going to him.

Endless days spent in keeping the fire going; fortunately the shed at the bottom of the garden was well stocked with coal. Surviving.

And at nights the dreams came again. Always Jon, how it had once been between them and how it would be when they were together again.

A bright sunny morning, the snow crisped by a severe overnight frost. Jackie had stoked up the fire, opened the door and looked out upon an arctic world. She tested the drift that smothered the lean-to and it bore her weight. The snow was walkable.

Jubilation, fears crowding in on her. If she left would she find her way in this white wilderness? If she did not then she faced certain death once night fell and the temperature dropped. She shivered, her skin goose pim-pling. And then she heard the approaching helicopter.

She was familiar with the big sky-birds, the way they flew deafeningly across the countryside, hovered, sometimes landed and men got out. Men with guns, searching. For what?

She fled back inside, forced the warped door closed. The helicopter would pass over, soon be gone. Its roar vibrated some ornaments on the mantelshelf and she knew that it was directly overhead, maybe barely higher than the roof. Whining angrily, sending a stab of stark fear into her palpitating heart. As if it scented her.

It wasn't going away! Even louder. She clasped her hands to her ears, stumbled for the cover of the old sofa which had been her bed for so long, flung herself full-length behind it, could not shut out the noise.

Louder and still louder, the glass in the rotted window frames rattling, threatening to fall out. Wind gusting, icy unnatural blasts finding their way in under the ill-fitting door. Then silence.

Jackie cringed, moaned softly to herself, aware that the machine had landed as she had seen others do from time to time when she had been living in the settlement. Noises, something slammed, echoed mechanically. Voices. The awful realisation that the men were coming here, that they had spied the smoke from the chimney and had put down to investigate.

Footsteps. She heard the door being forced back, curled herself up into a ball, shut her eyes tightly. Please don't see me, don't take me away. If that happened she would never ever see Jon again, months of hoping and surviving all for nothing.

There's gotta be somebody around.' The man who entered was dressed in thick flying clothes, still wore his goggles which hid most of his rather weak features and gave him a sinister appearance. 'It's like they say, there's no smoke without fire.'

'And there's a fire all right.' The second man pointed to the fireplace with the barrel of his .357 Magnum. 'Let's check upstairs.'

Jackie heard their heavy footsteps on the stairs, across the small landing and into the bedroom directly above. A moment's silence and then they were coming back downstairs. That bugger's been dead for some time.' The speaker wrinkled his nose beneath his goggles. 'So there's gotta be somebody around to have lit that fire. Hey . . . look there!'

Jackie's brain spun as the sofa was dragged roughly to one side, found herself looking up into the barrel of the Magnum and knew only too well what it could do. One blast and she would be dead instantly. She had seen a youth shot once who had foolishly stoned a search party of soldiers. Please don't kill me. I don't want to die any more.