Guilt E-Book

Ian Taylor

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Social drama meets rite of passage and the supernatural in Guilt, a riveting psychological thriller set in 1962 small town England. It's a time of class consciousness and jobs for life, where a man is defined by his work and the Aldermaston march is imminent.

After a night of heavy rain, four teenage boys meet in the Roman Camp: middle-class Brock; Red, whose working-class family has upwardly-mobile aspirations; Mouth, the scraplad; and Raggy, the deaf simpleton. They decide to go down the flooded riverside fields to see what they can shoot.

When the four meet Shack, the local gamekeeper, he advises the boys to treat the landscape with respect, or the vengeance of the Wild Man - the local supernatural guardian - will be unleashed. Heedless of the man's warnings, the four proceed with their plans.

Death soon follows, and one by one they all have to face their demons - and the Guilt that is swallowing them whole. But down by the river, ancient forces are stirring as the spirit of the Wild Man awakens.

Leseprobe

GUILT

IAN TAYLOR

ROSI TAYLOR

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

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About the Authors

Copyright (C) 2021 Ian Taylor & Rosi Taylor

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Lorna Read

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

For Harvey

PROLOGUE

The river, the mysterious peat-brown being that descended from the high moors was, from the earliest times, a powerful presence in the valley. Before the Romans came the Celtic tribes of the north considered its waters to be sacred. So it was for later settlers who understood its many moods. They thought of the river as a living creature to be respected, not to be abused or taken for granted. Over the centuries this awareness was not entirely lost. There were still a few who kept in touch with the spirit of the river. They read the signs and watched for the warnings when the water began to flex its muscles and rip bankside trees from their moorings. These were the folk who knew when disaster might happen…

No one could ignore the river for long. There were times when it ran, tranquil and slow, through the town that lay in the bottom of the valley. At such times it receded into the backs of people's minds. But no one could quite forget it. Shopkeepers and housewives, who rarely went far from their businesses and doorsteps in the early 1960s, found themselves thinking about the river as soon as storm clouds appeared on the surrounding moorland skylines.

"Eyup, Tommy." Ralph Parnaby, the newsagent, greeted one of his regulars - the legendary Tommy Page, master pike fisherman. "Gonna be a spot of rain. Best keep an eye on the river."

"Right enough." Tommy paid for his paper. "Land's that wet already more rain'll run straight off."

"And that means floods, Tommy."

"I'll take a look tonight. Fish'll tell us, for sure."

The river was never far from anyone's thoughts. In times of storm it became an obsession.

At such periods the river was transformed from a benign and soothing presence to a mythical monster. Anxious eyes would glance skywards.

"Here it comes!" The housewives nodded to each other in the corner shops. "They'll be sandbagging down at Wade's."

"That Noah – you know, that old fella from Genesis – happen he were born at bottom of Water Lane!"

Old photographs testified that in past generations it was common for small groups of onlookers to gather on the town's bridge to watch the river. These groups were mainly composed of retired locals and laid-off seasonal labourers. Books on local history stated that the younger men deferred to the wisdom of their elders, who would duly pronounce on the rising waters: if it would be a short-lived affair, or something potentially serious.

Many times the river had flooded the works' yards at the bottom of the valley: the bone mill, the slaughterhouse, the local brewery. Employees kept a spare pair of wellington boots in the staff changing rooms to avoid being caught out.

Occasionally the town's bridge would become impassable to all but council trucks and tractors. The river would rage like a demented thing against the bridge piers, carrying a battering ram of swirling liquid down from the storm-swept moors. As well as uprooted trees, drowned cattle and sheep - and, in winter, large blocks of discoloured ice - would be swept along in the churning current.

No one could remember anything like the floods of 1962. Half a century later aging locals looked back on that year with awe. The sudden inundations of April and July were quite simply apocalyptic. Those who remembered the year's events would say – to anyone with a long enough attention span to listen – that they even had the potential to change lives.

It had snowed heavily in January and February, then the torrential rains in March and early April had set off a rapid thaw. The melted snow had poured down from the hills in one big rush – and the river had been transformed.

Thunder had clattered and rumbled ominously for days. The steep grassy slopes of the valley sides were shimmering sheets of water. Streams overspilled their banks to become instant torrents which poured headlong into the river.

By dawn the river had darkened to the colour of bog oak and the town bridge was ankle deep in scummy peat-thickened liquid. The booming voice of the waters mingled with the thunder and observers had to shout to make themselves heard. Goat willows and hazels on the banks thrashed like crazed things in the violent wind. Chimney stacks and roof slates succumbed to the storm, littering the town's streets with debris.

Early risers drew back their curtains to see sheets of rain obliterating the valley slopes. Even the younger working men and women knew this was a big one. To the older generations it was nothing short of cataclysmic.

A sense of unease gripped the town. And still it went on raining.

Michael Shackleton, the local gamekeeper, set up his summer camp on rising ground in the woods as usual. Each day he watched the water level rise, until he wondered if his camp might be cut off, an event that had never happened before. But the floods would put a stop to poaching, unless the more enterprising local rogues decided to come by canoe.

When a worried farmer asked his opinion of the weather the gamekeeper enquired if he cared more for the earth than he did for money. The farmer said yes, of course. "Then you've no need to ask me," the gamekeeper smiled shrewdly. "The earth has all the answers you need."

Florrie Gaunt, the mysterious old woman who some called a witch, predicted doom and disaster for all who wouldn't take heed. When clients called for a Tarot reading she would tell them to pay attention. They shook their heads in puzzlement. Attention to what? If you don't pay attention you'll never know, was her cryptic reply.

When Tommy Page went down to the rising river to consult with the fish he got the shock of his life. His friends asked him what he'd found out, but he stared at them like a madman.

"No fish," he said, in a voice hushed with awe.

"No fish?" the enquirers echoed.

"They're all on the bottom hiding in the mud."

The flood of April 1962 affected much of northern England and was the worst the town had experienced. But the one in the following July was, some said, even bigger.

To many they seemed like warnings, but of what the townsfolk were unsure. Was it their greed and pettiness? Was this punishment for serious moral flaws? Self-examination continued until the floods receded and normality lulled them back to sleep.

To a few unsuspecting souls they were more than warnings: the floods of that year were like lessons carved in stone.

1

Young Red, christened Ronnie Patterson, a big youth of fifteen with ginger hair, woke as usual at fifteen minutes to six. It had been raining when he went to bed and a glance through the curtains told him nothing had changed.

"Shit!" he muttered under his breath. Rain always made his work more difficult.

Ten minutes later, in donkey jacket and jeans, he wheeled his Carlton racer from the backs into Victoria Road, an empty newspaper bag slung over his shoulder. He was half way down the street when Nancy, his mother, a still-attractive though careworn brunette, rushed from the front door of the big 1890s' semi with a raincoat across her arm.

"Ronnie – your mac!"

Red ignored her, cycling steadily away through the rain.

At 7.15 a.m., by St Margaret's church clock on the hill above the town, he was riding through puddle-filled streets of drab terraced houses, stopping occasionally to thrust the last of his damp newspapers through letterboxes.

On a gable-end hoarding large posters proclaimed Mr Acker Bilk's Stranger on the Shore and CND's annual march ALDERMASTON TO LONDON – EASTER 1962.

Red pulled a face at the posters – he wasn't concerned about either.

Two council trucks roared past, filled with men and sandbags. Red watched the trucks with sudden interest. Then he made the connection.

"Jesus!"

He pedalled quickly away.

Dismounting below the church clock, he wheeled his racer through the gate into the graveyard. Leaning the Carlton against a tall headstone he ran to a wall of moss-covered sandstone at the far side. He leaped onto the wall and looked down.

The rain had eased and a watery sun was struggling out through colossal mounds of storm cloud. He screwed up his eyes, dazzled by gleams of sunlight flashing from what looked like a plain of glass, just beyond the town where the river had been the day before.

Then, because it was Saturday, he let out a wild yell, remounted his bike at a run like a rider in Wells Fargo and hurtled from the churchyard.

Behind the closed gates of the Dykes's scrapyard a huge and nameless black guard dog on a chain sniffed the air suspiciously. Beyond the dog dilapidated outbuildings were almost hidden by piles of scrap metal. A shabby two storey brick-built house stood to one side of the yard.

Sam Dykes was a small wiry man of mixed indigenous traveller and diddicoy blood. He stood on top of the heap in work clothes shiny with grime, tugging at a length of lead pipe. Deborah, his wife, dark and attractive, with a ghost of the pure kaulo ratti in her features,chopped bundles of kindling in a lean-to by the house. Their swarthy fifteen-year-old son Len, nicknamed Mouth, worked in a nearby shed, laboriously stripping paint from a solid oak chest of drawers. His empty newspaper bag hung on a nail by the door.

Red skidded to a stop outside the gates. The guard dog erupted into furious barking.

Mouth stepped from the shed. He was dressed in dirty blue jeans and an old grey woollen jacket. He waved at Red then returned to the shed, to re-emerge pushing an old Raleigh Tourer. He glanced warily at his father.

Sam stopped hauling at the lead pipe. "Shut that bloody dog up!"

Mouth flung a stone at the dog. "Pack it in! He's a mate!"

The dog stopped barking and whined.

"Mouth, it's flooded!" Red yelled, unable to contain his excitement a split second longer.

Mouth approached the gates, wheeling his Raleigh. His rubber mask of a face broke into a malevolent grin.

"I know. I've seen it."

Sam freed the lead pipe and tossed it into an empty oil drum. "Back at twelve, you hear, boy? Load coming in from Donny."

Deborah stopped chopping and straightened up. "It's Sat'day, Sam. Let him have a bit of time with his mates."

"Keep to your own business, woman!" Sam snarled.

"But, Sam –

"Shut it!"

Deborah turned away, her eyes betraying her years of silent pain. She resumed her chopping.

Mouth spat savagely and glared at his father – a look of such venom Red was shocked. The relationship was more poisonous than he had realised.

Mouth opened the gate. "C'mon, Red, let's get outta this fucking dump."

The two friends cycled quickly away.

Water had flooded the works' yards by the river: the woolgrowers, the bone mill, the brewery, the feed merchants. Council workmen unloaded sandbags from the trucks Red had seen earlier. The 8 a.m. male workforce, on foot or pushbikes, struggled through the flood at factory gates.

The largest building by far stood at right-angles to the river. One long wall of dull orange-red brick bore the words WADE'S POTATOES in large black capital letters.

To the right of the letters was the logo of a giant, in green on a buttercup-yellow background, clasping a brown sack of potatoes on his shoulder. His free hand juggled three large potatoes and his face bore a demoniacal grin. Several vans in the yard, axle-deep in water, bore the same logo.

The workers began sandbagging doorways and pumping water from ancillary buildings. It was the usual ritual. Red and Mouth stood with their bikes, watching the activity from the edge of the flood.

Mouth turned to Red with a mocking grin.

"Next fifty years in there, Red – bagging spuds till pension day!"

Red was used to Mouth's put-downs. He attempted a lofty tone.

"Better'n the bone mill, ain't it? Better pay than the railways too."

The prospect of his going to work at Wade's when he left school was certain as sunrise. But a time-span of fifty years was beyond the scope of his imagination.

Big Red, christened John Patterson, Red's father, a large powerful man with thinning ginger hair, dressed in a green boiler suit, shirt and tie, pulled up in his Ford Popular. The boiler suit bore Wade's logo on the right-hand front pocket.

He stuck his head from the car window.

"Weren't for bosses' greed we'd have a flood defence by now. Rot starts at the top!"

Big Red was foreman at Wade's. Caught in a lonely limbo between management and workforce he criticised everyone. Everyone was used to it and put up with his impassioned outbursts with tolerant good humour. He frowned, his son's presence suddenly seeming to register.

"Done your paper round, lad?"

Red shrugged. "Course."

"Had your breakfast?"

"No, dad. Not yet."

Big Red looked at the two youths sternly. "Well you ain't doing nowt useful down here!"

He waited until Red and Mouth turned to go, then drove into the works yard, shouting orders through his car window. For a couple of minutes the men in the yard made an effort to work a little faster.

Red sat cross-legged on the churchyard wall. Mouth urinated on a gravestone, then jumped up beside him. They looked down on the flooded fields to the east of the town. Mouth's eyes opened wide in wonder.

"Shit – it's got huge! Never seen it as big as that! Water's gone right past Wild Man! Hell didn't you tell me, Red?"

"I did."

"Bet most of it's gone by tomorrow. Up and down that fast. If we wanna see it at it's best we gotta go today. Best get Brock and Raggy."

Red looked troubled. "Raggy's a pain. If we take him we'll have to look after him."

For a moment Mouth's face took on an oddly calculating look Red was unable to fathom. "Raggy's useful," he said, without elaboration.

"But he ain't that bright," Red objected. "You never know if he's gonna do summat daft."

Mouth gestured impatiently at the gravestones. "You look after him, Red, if it bothers you. Tell 'em we're off to Wild Man. Be at the Roman camp at half-nine."

"Stuff! What's wrong with you? Why can't you get Raggy?"

"My gun's being fixed. Gotta go down to Battersby's yard and get it back. Tell Brock he wants his rifle and wellies. And fetch us a sandwich for later, okay?"

"Bossy sod!"

Mouth gave him his mocking grin, jumped from the wall and grabbed his bike. Red watched him go. He put up with Mouth's ways because the days adventuring with him were good. With Mouth he entered a wild world that everyone else seemed to have lost touch with.

Mouth was the most dangerous person Red knew.

After a breakfast of eggs, bacon and fried bread, followed by several slices of toast and marmalade and a pint mug of tea, Red remembered Mouth's injunction.

"Could you make some sandwiches today, mam? I fancy going for a bike ride."

Nancy turned from the big six-ring gas cooker in their newly-added kitchen extension. "You won't be back for dinner?"

"I might ride out to the castle. I won't have time to get back." He didn't mention Mouth or the flooded river, which were both guaranteed to cause fierce disagreements.

"Cheese and pickle?"

"Great."

"Tea at six. Don't forget."

While Nancy prepared the food he cycled off towards Brock's house. Frank Brockless was a planning officer at the local council and lived with his family in a detached stone property on a newly built estate at the western edge of the town. Edna Brockless was a legal secretary in a local solicitor's office. They had two sons, fifteen-year-old George, nicknamed Brock, and his ten-year-old brother Simon, who was a precocious little pain to everyone, especially if you were fifteen.

Red felt a bit daunted by the Brocklesses. They were better off than his parents and Frank believed in owning property, a capitalist notion Big Red denounced whenever the management at Wade's put him under pressure.

The fact that he had bought their house in Victoria Road was justified by the assertion that rented housing in the town was full of the river and cockroaches.

Red was about to dismount from his bike at the Brockless's front gate when a Rover P4, with Frank in a business suit at the wheel, pulled away from the drive and turned on to the road. Red cycled past, then turned and came back as soon as Frank was out of sight.

As he walked to the front door a short burst of sunlight broke through the clouds, glinting harshly, like a threat, on the glass of the modern bay windows. Before he could knock on the door Edna, short, plump and blonde, appeared from the garden. She wore gardening gloves and carried secateurs.

She eyed Red suspiciously and pre-empted his question. "George is studying. He's got to think of his future. How can he get on if you're always distracting him? He'll see you at school next week. Goodbye!"

Red had a choice reply on the tip of his tongue, but he kept it to himself. Mouth might have told her what she could do with her secateurs, hence his friend's nickname, but Red didn't want any conflict. Today, he had decided, they should just have fun.

As soon as Edna had returned to the garden Brock opened the front door. Fair haired and stocky, like his mother, with a sleek, well-fed appearance, he was smartly dressed in cardigan and grey flannel trousers. Red felt scruffy in his old donkey jacket and jeans.

"What's up, Red?" Brock whispered.

"Seen the river?"

"No."

"It's massive."

"We going hunting?"

"Course."

They grinned conspiratorially.

Red cycled through the backs in the poorer streets to the south of the town centre. He stopped by a shabby backyard gate and dismounted. He was about to fasten his bike lock but, on reflection, he realised there wasn't much point. Anyone walking by could just pick the bike up and run off with it. It was what they did in this part of town. He decided to take the bike with him into the yard.

With difficulty he forced his way into the yard, then realised there was an old clothes mangle with seized-up rollers behind the gate, preventing it from fully opening. Rusty bike frames, broken furniture and rubbish filled the yard. Children of all ages, the youngest half- naked, wandered in and out of the rundown house.

He leaned his bike against the mangle and wondered if he was doing the right thing. They would have a much more relaxed day without Raggy, as they would have to keep an eye on him all the time, in case he did something stupid. But Mouth wanted him so he could boss him about. And he wanted Brock too, Red knew, so he could taunt him. Mouth had to have folk around him to dominate and annoy.

Before he could even reach the back door nine-year-old Billy, in a torn and grimy shirt, pushed past and clumsily tried to wrench the lamp from the Carlton.

Red exploded in exasperation. "Gerroffit, Biily! Go nick someone else's!"

Billy fixed Red with a wide comic-strip grin. But he stopped tugging at the lamp.

Ricky Bottomley, aged fourteen and known to everyone as Raggy, appeared in the doorway in a dirty sweater with holes at the elbows. Raggy was stunted, pock-marked and pale. His grin revealed bleeding gums.

"Where we off, Red?" Raggy's voice was a burned-out croak.

"Wild Man." Red formed his words carefully, as Raggy was deaf and had to lip read. "River's up."

Raggy's grin grew wider.

"Need wellies and a coat."

Raggy nodded and cackled excitedly. "Okay."

Red stared at him with pity and revulsion.

A council truck filled with men and sandbags roared through the centre of town. The men on the back of the truck bawled and wolf-whistled at a teenage girl who walked up the street with an older woman.

"Eyup, Sally – show us yer tits!"

"Gerrem out lass and let's have a look!"

Sally Bell, blonde, beautiful and fifteen, did her best to pretend not to notice. Her aunt Josie, plain and thin, wagged an accusing finger and shouted back:

"You should be ashamed of yourselves!"

The men on the truck set up a howling chorus, like oestrus-crazed dogs.

Josie took Sally's arm protectively and steered her towards the window of a butcher's shop. Above the door a sign announced: DAVID BLADES FRESH MEAT AND GAME. Josie peered short-sightedly in the window, cupping her hands to the steamed-up glass.

Sally hovered impatiently on the pavement. She was dressed in a cheap skirt and a top two sizes too small. She had blossomed in the past six months into the most stunning girl in the town and Josie couldn't keep pace with her need for new clothes.

While Josie rummaged in her purse Sally pressed a transistor radio to her ear, from which B. Bumble & The Stingers' Nut Rocker could be faintly heard.

"Just gonna go into Blades's and get us a bit of black pudding for tea. Sally – you hearing me?"

Sally removed the transistor radio. "Give us a couple of bob, Auntie Josie."

"What – for cigarettes? Cigarettes and pop music – that's all you think about!"

"It's rock 'n' roll." Sally corrected her with a frown.

"But where's it gonna get you?" Josie said in vexed frustration. "What you gonna do with your life?"

"I just wanted a cig," Sally pouted.

"Ain't it better we eat?"

Josie turned towards the butcher's doorway. Sally took a step backwards.

"Ain't going in there. That David Blades has eyes like spiders. They crawl all over you."

"Well don't go wandering off. We've to be at the jumble early. How you gonna get a job if you ain't no decent clothes?"

As Josie joined the queue in the butcher's Red appeared, cycling quickly. Sally called to him. He pulled up and grinned at her warmly.

"Quick, Red, give us a cig afore Josie comes back."

"I gave you some at school."

"That was yesterday. I've just run out."

"What do I get?"

"A snog if you want."

They stepped into a nearby alley and kissed eagerly and sloppily. Red tried to pull back, but Sally clung to him tightly.

"Stay a bit, Red. Cuddle me a minute. Council blokes upset me."

He felt awkward. Sally was warm and lovely and she drove him crazy, along with half the men in the town. But he had a prior arrangement.

"Can't, Sal. Gotta meet Mouth."

She looked hurt. She wanted to be with Red more than anything. He was so thoughtful and caring and – she wasn't sure – she thought she might be in love with him.

"What's Len Dykes got that I ain't?"

"He's a mate," he said somewhat stupidly. "We have a good time."

She pushed up close to him and ran her fingers over his chest.

"We could have a good time too, Red."

He felt torn. Another few seconds and he knew he would give in. He thrust a pack of Players at her.

"You owe me, Sal."

With an effort he reached a decision. He kissed her cheek and eased her away. She called after him as he left the alley.

"Whenever you want, Red!"

She lit a cigarette and watched him sadly as he cycled away.

At the end of the street Red stopped and looked back, his face a study of conflicting emotions. He knew he really should go back to Sally, before some greasy youth tried to steal her away from him. He had been going with her for two months and couldn't be sure yet what she felt for him. A Wade's van suddenly blocked his view of her. He suppressed his misgivings and cycled on.

As he turned the corner he was hailed by Cathy Raines who, like Sally, was a pupil at the senior school. Cathy was tall and raven haired and had sex oozing from every pore. She waved at him eagerly.

"Hey, Red, we off shagging this aft?"

Red ignored her and cycled on. He'd been with Cathy once, but she was anyone's. She even went with the rough lads from the bone mill. She was no one compared with Sally.

Cathy looked after Red and scowled. That Sally Bell had hooked him. Little Miss Titsy. Red should be hers, not Sally's: a handsome hunk with a steady future at Wade's. She made a promise to herself that, one day, she would get even.

2

The Roman camp was a large bumpy field which occupied the remaining higher ground beyond St Margaret's church at the eastern limit of the town. It was a well known archaeological site – some scholars would even say famous – and the town's museum contained hundreds of local artefacts.

Below the fenced-off area of the camp the land sloped gently into the valley, where the flooded pastures spread away upstream to distant woods and the dark moorland skylines beyond.

At 9.30 by St Margaret's clock a group of four youths had arrived in the camp and were surveying the wilderness of trees and water. Mouth and Brock leaned on the fence that surrounded the ancient site and gazed at the flooded fields. Red climbed the fence into the next field and cut a stick from a blackthorn bush with his pocket knife.

Raggy climbed over too and stood in the first water-filled hollow. He seemed like a marooned scarecrow in his tattered fawn duffle coat and patched trousers, as he stared in open-mouthed fascination at the shining flood.

All but Raggy had air rifles, carried openly. Red had his Airsporter, with its new spring, Mouth his pre-war Webley Mark Two with its detachable barrel and Brock had the old German Original he had bought from Red the week after he had got his Airsporter. Red's rifle was the newest and the most powerful, with Mouth's a close second.

They all wore black wellingtons with heavy rubber soles. Raggy's were half-length ladies' boots. Red prodded one with the blackthorn stick.

"Nicked your mam's wellies, Raggy?"

Raggy grinned, lip reading.

Mouth and Brock joined them. Brock waved his arm at the bumpy field.

"The Romans named this camp after the river, which has an ancient Celtic name."

He nodded sagely, as if he was addressing a history class. Mouth and Red looked bored.

"The Romans were here for three hundred and fifty years. It's amazing to think after all that time you can still see the groundplan of this fort."

Mouth scowled. "There'll be no groundplan left of you, Brockle-arse, if you don't stop showing off."

Brock adopted an expression of unassailable superiority. "I just think it's important to know your local history."

No one was listening. Mouth eyed Raggy with an expression of distaste.

"Hey, Raggy, you ugly pratt, you ain't no gun so you'll have to do the shitty stuff."

Raggy looked confused, unable to follow Mouth's words. Red poked him with the stick to get his attention. He formed his words carefully.

"Raggy, you're Scout. Gotta tell us of danger. Deep water and holes and such."

He gave Raggy the stick.

"Okay, I'm Scout." Raggy displayed his bleeding gums.

Mouth spat at a fence post.

"Off to Wild Man Wood, Raggy. Kill us a two-ton rabbit!"

Raggy grinned and cackled, not understanding. He swished his stick through the pasture grass.

He was Scout. He was important. He looked proud.

Jack Parnaby's house stood at the eastern end of a row of quality stone-built three-storey properties that dated from around 1910. Jack was the ambitious twenty-five-year-old son of Ralph Parnaby, the local newsagent.

From the lane at the back of the house there was a view of the Roman camp. Jack's Mark 2 Jaguar was parked in the lane.

Jack, in corduroy trousers and loose folksy sweater, was loading the car with CND banners for the Aldermaston march. Janet, Red's nineteen-year-old sister, a tall and very striking brunette, was helping him.

"These marches are getting really big," Jack said enthusiastically. "The government has to take notice."