Marc Chadbourn - The Devil in green

Briefly, Mallory felt a sense of belonging that put all the unpleasantness of his past life into the shade. Perhaps there still was a chance for him: a fresh start, although he'd long ago given up that childlike whimsy of believing that some Higher Power took enough of an interest in the ants that swarmed the earth to give them a second chance. The fleeting hope, that weak thing he thought he'd scoured from his system, was a simple by-product of the perfect confluence of music and moment, he told himself. But still, it tugged at him.

He was examining the odd thoughts pulled from him by the intensity of faith when his concentration was broken by a figure he could just glimpse on the edge of die congregation, slightly ahead of him and away to the left. His face was obscured by his black cowl pulled far forwards, unusual in itself as everyone else there went bare-headed. But there was no other reason why Mallory's attention should be drawn to him so powerfully that he couldn't look away. The figure was still, his shoulders slightly hunched. He didn't appear to be singing, merely watching or perhaps listening, deep in thought.

Mallory couldn't understand why the figure made him feel uneasy, or why the tingling tiiat had started in the small of his back was slowly spreading up his spine. Some deeply buried part of him was trying to break out of his subconscious to issue a warning.

As he watched for some sign that would give him an explanation for his reaction, the figure began to turn towards him, as if he sensed Mallory's eyes upon him. Inexplicably, this filled Mallory with dread. He didn't want to see the face inside that cowl.

He looked down at his hands, then up towards the altar, and when he did finally glance back, the figure was gone.

Outside in the night, Mallory tugged Miller away from the uplifted worshippers streaming back to their huts for a few hours' grace before the whole round started again. He found a shadowed spot next to the cathedral walls and said, 'Let's hit the town. We can dump our uniforms and explore. There's got to be some life out there. Maybe we'll find someone who'll take pity on us and buy us a beer.' He knew his bravado was a response to the sobering but stupid fear he had felt in the service.

'Are you crazy? You heard what they said — being caught without the uniform-'

'We're not going to get caught.'

'-is a punishable offence. And we're not supposed to go out of the compound after curfew. I don't even know if we're supposed to go out there at all.'

'I told you, we're not going to get caught. Who's to know? Don't you want to find out what your new neighbours are like?'

Miller protested fulsomely, clearly afraid of jeopardising everything he felt he'd gained, but Mallory chipped away at him on the way back to their quarters so that by the time they arrived, Miller reluctantly agreed to the secret foray.

Daniels and Gardener still hadn't returned, so they quickly changed into their street clothes and slipped out. 'How are we going to get away?' Miller hissed as they flitted from hut to hut.

'I had a look around earlier. There's a spot not far from the gate where we can slip over the wall. When we come back we can give the guard some bullshit about being on a secret mission or something. He's bound to let us in.' Miller didn't look convinced, but he allowed himself to be swayed by Mallory's confidence.

The camp was still as they made their way past the gate. But before they could climb the ladder to the runway around the top of the wall, the sound of running feet and frantic raised voices rapidly approached from the other side. Mallory pushed Miller back into the shadows.

An insistent cry hailed the guard. Mallory couldn't make out what was said, but the guard responded by hand-winding an old-fashioned klaxon before opening the gates.

Nine knights rushed in through the widening gap, the blue flash on their shoulders clear in the flickering flame of the torch mounted above the gate. Their swords were drawn as they constantly scanned all around with their army eyes. They were in a terrible state, their uniforms torn and charred, their bare skin covered with cuts and bruises; some had bound deeper wounds with makeshift bandages torn from their shirts, the material now stained black. Their faces were grim with determination.

In the middle of the group, two knights hauled what Mallory at first thought was burned log. It was only when he saw its rolling white eyes that he realised it was a man, his skin seared black; Miller turned away from the smell of cooked flesh. The knight was still alive, but he wouldn't be for long.

The ones at the rear gathered around one of their number who had a wooden box clutched tightly to his chest. They drove hard into the compound then yelled at the guard to close the gates.

A group of five men hurried from the direction of the cathedral to meet them. The only one Mallory recognised was Stefan, his balding head gleaming like a skull. Ignoring the suffering of the wounded knight, he went directly to the captain and said something in hushed, insistent tones that Mallory couldn't make out. The captain nodded, motioned to the one with the box; Stefan barked an order to his four assistants and then the whole group moved speedily in the direction of the cathedral.

When they'd gone, Miller whispered dismally, 'That poor man!'

'Looks as if he stood a little too close to the barbecue.' Mallory stared at the silhouette of the cathedral blocking out the stars, trying to make sense of what he'd seen. 'What was in the box?' he mused to himself. 'What was so important?' After a moment, he set off for the ladder. 'Ah, who cares? Come on, let's hit the town.'

They climbed quickly, keeping one eye out for the guard. When they reached the top, Mallory led Miller to a part of the wall that was lower than the rest where they could easily drop down to the street. They paused for a moment at the foot of the wall, and when they were sure no one had seen them, they ran towards the town, keeping well to the shadows.

Once the walls had been swallowed by the dark at their backs, Miller heard Mallory's voice floating back to him as they ran. 'You know how you get that little tingling sensation when something's going to end in tears? Or is that just me?'

Salisbury's streets were oddly otherworldly in a flood of light from flaming torches that had been attached to the now-useless lampposts; their sizzling pitch added a spicy quality to the cooling air. More people milled around than Mallory would have expected with the encroaching night. Many shops remained open, their trade carried out by candlelight. Friends chatted beneath the crackling torches, freed from the rigour of days that had become unduly hard. Children played in the gutter without fear of cars or buses, although the occasional horse-drawn cart moved by them at an alarming clip. Outside the Maltings shopping centre, a teenager strummed on a guitar while his friends danced or drank home-made cider. Others flirted or kissed each other in the shadows.

The population had adapted remarkably well to the inversion of their lives. Indeed, from the good humour evident all around, they appeared to be relishing it. Mallory and Miller moved through them, watching silently, enjoying the normality.

Near Poultry Cross, where tradesmen had hawked their goods for centuries, a man with lank grey hair to his shoulders stood on an old kitchen chair and preached passionately to a small detached crowd. He seemed to be proclaiming the glory of a god that lived at the bottom of his garden. Further on, three women prayed silently around a picture of George Clooney framed with wild flowers. At the marketplace, there were more, individuals preaching to no one at all, or large groups singing of the wonder of some deity or other.