comrades and say negligently, ‘Got myself another Greek while you idle sods were sleeping.’
The breathing was loud now. The sentry moved his position so that he was right above it. An arm like a small tree trunk was swung up to rest on the edge of the cliff, and then a shag of salt-caked hair appeared, and finally the man’s head came fully into view and a pair of deep-sunk, intensely blue eyes took in the waiting men.
‘How do, chuck,’ said the Greek.
The sentry rocked forward on his toes and shot out his left hand to grab the grizzled hair. But quick as he moved, the Greek was quicker. His other hand came into view, grasping a large jagged clamshell. It snaked out almost faster than the eye could follow, and the next moment the sentry’s left wrist was slit through to the bone.
He fell backward, shrieking. His right hand released his sword as he grasped the gaping wound to staunch the spurting blood. The Greek dropped the shell and reached out to pick up the fallen weapon. Then a heavy-shod foot crashed down on his forearm and pinned it to the ground.
He looked up at the unreadably rugged face of the guard commander and smiled through his tangle of beard.
‘Thanks, chuck,’ he said. ‘Saved me from a nasty fall.’
‘Kill the bastard, Commander,’ urged the ashen-faced sentry. ‘Chop his fucking arm right off!’
The commander was aware of the blue eyes fixed quizzically on his face as he debated the matter.
‘Not yet,’ he said finally. ‘Not till we know if there are any more of his kind about. Besides, the men need cheering up after what’s happened recently, and I reckon a clever old Greek like this will take a long time dying.’
‘Long as you like, Captain,’ said the Greek. ‘I’m in no hurry whatsoever. I’ll
‘Shit,’ said Ellie Pascoe.
Through the open window of the boxroom which she refused to dignify with the name study she had heard a car turning into their short drive.
She finished reading, take as long as ever you like.’, pressed Save to preserve her corrections and went to the window.
A man and a woman were getting out of the car and heading for the front door.
‘Hello,’ called Ellie.
This voice from above made them start like guilty things surprised, and the woman dropped her car keys.
Perhaps they think it’s the voice of God, thought Ellie.
Or perhaps (one thought leading to another) they think they are the voice of God.
‘If you’re Witnesses,’ she called, ‘I think I should tell you we’re all communist satanists here. I’ll be happy to send you some of our literature.’
‘Mrs Pascoe?’ said the woman. ‘Mrs Ellie Pascoe?’
She didn’t look like a Witness. And Witnesses didn’t drive big BMWs.
A pair of assertions as unsupported as a Hottentot’s tits (she plucked the phrase from her collection of Andy Dalziel memorabilia), but evidence is what we look for when intuition fails (one of her constabulary-baiting own).
‘Hang on. I’ll come down,’ she said.
By the time she got downstairs and opened the front door, the couple had recovered their composure. Now they just looked concerned.
‘Mrs Pascoe?’ said the man, who was slim, thirtyish, not bad-looking and wearing a rather nice Prince of Wales check suit which looked like it had been cut in Savile Row. Would look even nicer on Peter. ‘You are Mrs Pascoe?’
‘I thought we’d established that.’
‘My name’s Jim Westcombe. I’m with the council’s Education Welfare Department. It’s about your daughter, Rose. She’s at Edengrove Junior, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, but not today. I mean, it’s their end-of-term trip to Tegley Hall Theme Park… look, what’s this about?’ Ellie demanded.
The man and woman looked at each other, then the man went on, ‘Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about, she’s fine, you’re not to worry, really…’
‘What?’
There are few things more worrying to a mother than being told not to worry, especially a mother who a few short weeks ago was sitting by a hospital bed, not knowing if her child was going to recover from meningitis or not.
The woman gave her a look which combined empathy of her feelings and exasperation at her companion’s heavy-handedness.
‘Jim, shut up,’ she said. ‘Mrs Pascoe, the coach taking the children to Tegley has broken down. There’s a replacement coach on the way, but it seems your little girl wasn’t feeling too well and the head teacher thought it best to make arrangements to get her home, only when he tried to ring you he couldn’t get through…’
Ellie turned and grabbed the hall phone. It was dead. In the mirror hanging above the phone, she saw an unrecognizably pale face whose pallor shone through her summer tan like a corpse-light through muslin. This was it. This was the punishment she deserved. She had brought it on herself… worse… on Rosie… on Peter…
‘… so he tried your husband but he wasn’t available, so then he rang into the Education office and as Jim and I were coming out this way and would be passing your road end, we said we’d call and check if you were in.’
‘Oh God,’ said Ellie.
I’m confused, she thought. I’m not hearing properly.
She leaned against the door frame to steady herself and the woman reached forward to rest her hand on Ellie’s arm and said, ‘Really, it’s OK, Mrs Pascoe. You know how it is, end of term, kids getting excited, rushing around like mad. I’ve got two myself, I know how they can keep us frightened, believe me. It’s just a matter of getting out there to pick the little girl up. Have you got your car here? Jim can go with you, he knows where the breakdown happened. I can’t come myself, I’m afraid. I’ve got an urgent appointment, but Jim can spare a couple of hours, can’t you, Jim? He’ll even drive if you don’t feel up to it.’
‘Surely,’ said the man. ‘No problem at all. Let’s get started, shall we? Sooner we’re on the way, sooner you can get your little girl home.’
Ellie took a deep breath. It wasn’t enough. She took another. It was like squirting oil onto a piece of rusty machinery. She could almost hear the gears of her mind starting to grate against each other as she reviewed everything that had been said to her.
She said, ‘Sorry. This has knocked me out. I’m not usually so slow. It was just a bit of a shock. I thought you were trying to tell me there’s been an accident…’
‘Nothing like that,’ said the woman. ‘Really.’
‘And did you talk to Mr Johnson, the head, yourself? You’re sure he said it was nothing to worry about?’
‘Yes, I spoke direct with Mr Johnson,’ said the woman firmly. ‘Just a tummy bug, he reckoned. But she really wants to be home rather than bumping around on a bus all day.’
‘And if it was anything more serious, the sooner we get out there, the better, eh?’ said the man heartily.
‘Jim, please!’ said the woman reprimandingly.
‘No, it’s OK,’ said Ellie, stepping forward and smiling at the man. ‘It’s always best to be ready for the worst. Are you ready, Mr Westcombe?’
Then she brought her knee up as hard as she could between his legs.
It was good to see his face drain pale as her own.
Now