Reitze was watching the other carefully, guessed what he was thinking. He heard Rankine's words again: These are our people, you know.' Not any fucking more, they aren't!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

JON QUINN felt autumn in the heavy rainshower. The difference between late summer and the beginning of fall, as suddenly as that. He'd lost track of the days and weeks, regretted not having marked them off on that dog-eared calendar of Jackie's which hung from the knife rack over the working surface in the kitchen. It was too late to start now but he judged that they were well into September. The leaves would start to turn soon.

That guy was still watching him from the patch of thorn bushes up on that hillside opposite; even if you couldn't actually see him you knew he was there. He had moved well out of range since Jon had fired a barrel of the shotgun in his direction, knew what to expect if he came any closer.

It was obviously the same fellow who had been mooching about after dark, one of those who had come that night and looted the toolshed. Hell, there were plenty of other places, deserted farms, why did he have to stick around here? Just having him in the vicinity sent little shivers up and down Jon Quinn's back. He couldn't understand it, the bastard wasn't out to steal anything now because he had had the opportunity; he'd been in the buildings again and hadn't taken anything.

Jon had stopped him for a time, used the electric fence which worked off an old car battery, heard him howl with pain and shock the first night after it was set up. But the battery had run down and he hadn't got another one. So he had taken to padlocking the toolshed but the bugger still came. Maybe he was harmless, just curious, but he was getting on Jon's nerves. No good going up there after him because he was gone the moment you set foot in the field, bounding up towards the forest skyline, hiding out

there. Still watching you. Well, he'd better keep his distance because Jon never went anywhere without the twelve-bore these days.

Sylvia had had her trip into the village and she had not pestered him to go anywhere since. The place had been deserted, everybody gone, or perhaps nobody had ever lived there in the first place. It was getting difficult trying to imagine a world where there was any kind of normality. Jon was getting used to it, accepting it now.

The manual petrol pump at the garage wasn't working. He had given up trying in the end, decided that he would have to keep his half tank of fuel for emergencies. They had called at the shop, found the door swinging open, and gone inside. The shelves had been raided, bread and cakes taken, cooked meat trodden into the floor, putrefying. The raiders obviously didn't like processed meats but the flies were enjoying a banquet.

Jon filled the back of the Land Rover with as much canned and packeted foods as he could find, emptied the biscuit rack. Then on down the narrow street to the hardware store. He had to smash his way in, found an abundance of tools, more than enough to replace the ones that he had had stolen. The law of the jungle, steal and steal again. He had often wondered idly what it would be like if law and order broke down; now he knew.

He thought about taking another vehicle, there were ample cars parked down the street, but he had decided he needed a Land Rover more than anything. Funny how so often you kick yourself for not thinking of something at the time; he could have syphoned some petrol out of one of them. Maybe next time, if they ever went to the village again. Since that day he had not had any reason to use the Land Rover. They were safer on the Hi!!.

The wild hill-dwellers knew that he and Sylvia were here all right but only that one up on the slope had persistently watched them. Doubtless, a spy. Maybe they thought the electric fence was some kind of magic and were keeping their distance but surely they had cottoned on that it wasn't working any longer. That guy gave him the creeps.

Jon had a harvest to get in and even though a lot of it would be wasted he decided to occupy his time reaping the rewards of work done during the days before all this happened. The peas they could dry, the potatoes could be stored in the old barn. He made a clamp for parsnips and carrots. The swedes could stop in the ground, he'd lift the remainder towards Christmas to feed the goats on. Christmas? How the hell would you know when it was Christmas?

Sylvia was co-operating now because she did not have any choice. There was nowhere to go and he was satisfied that she would not take her own life. If there was a type then she certainly wasn't it. She was adapting slowly.

The calves had vanished one night about a fortnight ago; Jon had found where they had been killed, driven into a corner of the field and probably been clubbed to death. It didn't matter much because he did not have enough fodder to see them through the coming winter, and as he did not eat red meat himself there was no point in slaughtering them. All the same, he felt sorry for them that they had to die so brutally.

The winter was going to be the big test for all of them, mostly for the throwbacks. If they were going to attack the holding they would do it then when they were short of food and their crude houses were proving inadequate against the blizzards. In the meantime they just lived from day to day, tried not to think about tomorrow. He just wished he knew what had happened to Jackie though.

He found himself looking up towards the thorn bushes again. There was no sign of that guy and for some reason he felt more uneasy than usual.

Sylvia had finished her routine chores, put another boiling of beetroot on the Rayburn. Surely there wasn't much point in pickling any more; there was a limit to how much beetroot you could eat even in a time of food shortage. There wasn't and wouldn't be a shortage, though; eating would just become boring. Jesus, what would she give for a meal at a restaurant, served for her and the washing-up done by somebody else afterwards!

She crossed to the window from where she had a partial view of the smallholding and on up to those steep fields beyond, the rough one dotted with thorn bushes where they had spied that lurking figure day in, day out. He wasn't in view now but she shivered all the same, could almost feel his eyes burning into her.

Her train of thinking flipped back to Eric. For some reason lately they were much closer, closer than they had ever been. Which had to be a figment of the imagination because they had not seen each other since early summer. And were not likely to see each other again. Ever.

A feeling of sadness had her searching the hillsides with misted vision, felt a tear trickling slowly down her cheek. Oh Eric, come back, please, I need you. I'm so sorry for everything.

She couldn't see Jon any longer, he was somewhere up the far end of the holding working on that strip of Jerusalem artichokes. He could bloody well stop there for all she cared, Christ, she couldn't stick this for the rest of her life, chained to the kitchen. Give me a hand with this, give me a lift with that. We'll be glad of it when winter comes. Live for the bloody winter because it's going to be hell. Never mind the summer, winter's on the way. Bang your head on the wall because it'll be lovely when you stop.

The weather had certainly turned much more showery and Sylvia was keeping the Rayburn in all day. Jon had promised to lug another load of wood soon. (They'd need it because winter was coming.) Raining again, slanting spots on the window; just a shower because she could see a patch of blue sky behind the dark grey cloud formation.

Eric again. The best times had been the early days before they were married. Her parents had not liked him, they didn't like anybody who might just take advantage of their sixteen-year-old virginal daughter. You take a tip from us. Sylvia, don't get tied up with one boy, have plenty on the go. Safety in numbers. Sure, mother, I'd like plenty of boyfriends. Good girl!