Simon Clark - The Fall

‘What about here? Are we safe?’

‘I think so, but I’m asking everyone to stay inside the amphitheatre. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t touched.’

‘Do you need any help in telling people?’

‘No, that’s everyone now. Oh, with the exception of Sam Baker. Have you seen him?’

‘Yes, but he drove out of here about ten minutes ago. I assumed he was heading into town.’

‘Oh, damn.’ Jud took a deep breath. ‘Oh, damn and blast.’ In the pause after Jud had spoken, a sound like a ghostly wail came rolling across the fields.

‘Well, that’s the air-raid warning,’ Jud said, heavily. ‘Let’s just pray he keeps his head down.’

A couple of miles outside town Sam braked hard.

There, in the headlights, was a figure. It was hurrying towards him along the centre of the road. Every so often, it would turn and clamp its hands to the top of its head as if anticipating that disaster would strike the town at any moment.

There was no mistaking the figure – tall, orange overalls, fuzz of ginger hair.

Sam rolled the window down while edging the car forward.

The moment he opened the window the sound came in at him. It was the unmistakable rising and falling wail of the air-raid siren.

On the edge of town a beam of light sprang from the ground to play slowly in the sky, as if it was a single brilliant eye looking for danger. Soon it was joined by more and more until a dozen or so searchlights probed the dark sky.

Sam flashed the headlights. ‘Rolle… Rolle?’

The man wheeled round, staggered for a moment as if dizzy, or drunk, then fixed his eyes on Sam’s face.

‘Baker? Baker, Baker, Baker man! Bake me a cake as quick as – no, no!’ He chewed his finger and shook his head as if determined not to permit his mind to career away. He pointed a dirty finger with all the emphasis of the profoundly drunk. ‘Sam Baker. Yes. I remember you, from tomorrow.’ He ran his hand distractedly through his hair. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Rolle? Are you going out to the amphitheatre?’

‘Yes… You’ll drive me there?’

‘No, I can’t, there’s something I’ve got to do in town’

‘Pity, pity…’

‘But Jud’s out there at the amphitheatre. You remember Jud Campbell?’

‘Yes, I remember, I remember.’ He rubbed his jaw, his face the picture of troubled anxiety. ‘Grave news, Baker man. Grave news. There’s a bad storm coming. There’s—’

‘You mean an air raid? That’s what the sirens are warning, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed, sir. But it’s far worse than that. The integrity of the time stream is in jeopardy. Already the Liminals are escaping into the here and now; like water leaking from a ruptured pipe.’ He threw out his arms and made a whee-eesh sound.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean. Look, Rolle, we can talk later, but I’ve got to get into town. Do you know anything about a family who were – Rolle… Rolle?’

But Rolle had already run on, rubbing both hands through that ginger mop of hair.

Sam struck the steering wheel.

Damn. Where was the Rookery, for God’s sake?

He glanced at his watch. Almost ten. Already he might be too late. The family could be lying there butchered. What then? He’d stumble on the aftermath. Be spotted by the reporter. Then the blame would be pinned neatly on him?

He looked sideways through the window. A man in a white helmet was running towards him. Sam was going to ask him directions but at that moment the man blew a whistle. ‘Hey! Put those ruddy lights out. What are you playing at?’ He came forward, puffing heavily. ‘Fer heaven’s sake, man, Hitler himself’ll be able to see them flaming headlights from his bedroom window.’

Sam killed his lights. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘You’ll have the Jerry bombers dumping everything they’ve got on our flaming heads; don’t you… Hey, what kind of car is this, anyway?’ The man’s eyes bulged wide in astonishment as he approached the Range Rover. ‘Where’s the car headlight covers? Surely you know wartime regulations stipulate lights have to be masked?’

‘I’m trying to find a place called the Rookery.’ Sam sensed the seconds ticking away. ‘Can you give me directions, please?’

‘The Rookery…’ the man repeated distantly, taking more interest in the car than the question. His wide eyes took in the lines of the car, reading it like it was a piece of text. ‘What model is this? Those number plates don’t look right to me. Is it foreign?’

Of course it is, I’m the advance guard of the German invasion, you idiot! The words flashed through Sam’s head; it was all he could do to stop them slipping from his mouth.

The ARP warden backed away a little now. He looked suspiciously at Sam.

‘Now, now,’ the man said in a low voice. ‘There’s something funny going on here. How’d you come by a car like this? Where are—’

Sam didn’t hang around any longer. He floored the accelerator and the car surged powerfully away.

He glanced at his watch again. It was almost ten.

He didn’t have much time left. He could feel it in his bones

Sam had driven away from the man and found himself on a deserted country road. There was no traffic at all. Ahead the searchlights probed the sky.

He’d been driving for barely 20 seconds when he saw a woman walking along the darkened pavement in the direction of town.

The temptation was simply to keep driving into town in the hope he’d find someone else who could direct him to the Rookery. But it occurred to him that the air-raid warning would have driven everyone to the shelters. The streets would be deserted.

He pulled up alongside the woman, who was walking as quickly as she could.

‘Excuse me,’ he called through the open window. ‘I need some directions.’

‘And I need a lift,’ she said quickly. Before he could say anything she’d opened the nearside door and climbed into the passenger seat beside him.

‘What a stinking awful night,’ she said. ‘My bus never turned up. I’ve walked all the way from the base. I’ve done it before during the day but it’s murder at night.’

‘The base?’

‘RAF Casterton.’

He saw the uniform. ‘Oh? You’re a…’ He searched for the word. ‘A WAAF?’

‘That’s right.’ She smiled. ‘And you’re an American? Unless you’re a German spy, of course?’

‘No, right first time. American.’

‘New York?’

‘It shows.’

‘You are a New Yorker?’ She shot him a broader smile. Her lips were painted a vivacious red. ‘I thought I recognised the accent. I work with an American liaison officer from Brooklyn so I reckoned you must be from the same neck of the woods.’

Sam accelerated the car away. He could almost feel his watch against the back of his wrist, beating there like a tiny heart-beat, pumping away those seconds. Again, it struck him he might be too late.

‘I was delayed getting away from the base. You see, I wangled a 48-hour pass so I could be at my sister’s wedding tomorrow in Harrogate. She’s marrying a Canadian flight engineer. There’s a train leaves Casterton at 11; at least now I should make it with time to spare. Thanks.’

‘I need to get to someplace in town called the Rookery. Do you know it?’

‘Rookery, Rookery,’ she murmured, hunting through her memory. ‘Ah, yes. Swish houses on the north side of town.’

‘Houses?’ He’d assumed it was the name of one house.

‘Yes, there are a few of them built around a square. Wowee,’ she exclaimed. ‘Some car you’ve got here… Mr, uhm?’