On the fourth day she left the castle, took her opportunity when she and two of the other women had gone out to search for firewood. The snow was deep, travelling was not easy, and every movement required a determined effort. If her lover had not been constantly calling her she would not have gone. She would have stayed and died in that underground place; somebody died every day.
She had to rest every hundred yards or so and now when she coughed there was a tinge of red on the snow. A desperation that overcame her waning strength, an inexplicable instinct urging her to retrace her steps of the last few days. She must return to the hills, she should never have left them.
And all the time she heard her mate calling her, a call which could not be denied. Floundering, falling, dragging herself through deep snowdrifts. Crawling when she could no longer walk, sobbing her frustration.
Until finally she could go no further, lying there in the frozen snow and listening to the voice of her lover vibrating in her pain-crazed brain. Waiting for nightfall, for surely then he would come to her, carry her back to the hills which would be their rightful Kingdom now that everybody else had left.
But he did not come. And eventually he stopped calling her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JACKIE DID not go upstairs to check on Rod Savage. She knew he was dead and there was nothing to be gained by going to look at him. Secretly she was aware of her fear of death. It had not always been like that, she had seen plenty of it these last few months and had accepted it. But now it was different, she did not know why.
The snowstorm petered out later the next day, but the drifts were piled high up against the walls of the small cottage. Travelling was out of the question, she had no choice other than to remain where she was.
Yet her instinct to leave was strong. Very strong. Like the wild geese experiencing the urge to fly south with the onset of winter, so she became restless. Pacing the living-room hour after hour, staring out of the windows at the drifted snow, contemplating digging herself out of the garden. But it would not end there; miles of deep snow lay between herself and the freedom she craved. In the end she resigned herself to staying, remaining in the cottage, a corpse on the bed upstairs for company.
Two nights later the dreams began, weird frightening dreams as though a hitherto closed door of her subconscious had opened up, a computer that had been given an extra key and processed data which had previously been denied it.
Delany's again, her surroundings so familiar that it might have been only yesterday that she had staggered in there. You're not well, you need to rest. 'It's the Russians that have done this to us.' She ignored the man loitering in the craft centre, pushed past him and went on into the restaurant. Empty, as she knew it would be. The ovens still steamed, gave off an appetising aroma of vegetarian dishes. I'm not well, there's something wrong with my skin, it's smarting and I can't think properly. Yes, you can. Fight it, don't succumb to it.
Seated at a table, a cup of steaming herb tea before her, inhaling the vapour; it seemed to clear her head a little. Think, girl, think it all out carefully. You made the wrong decision last time; this is your final chance.
The steam quelled the feeling of dizziness, her brain shuttered like an old plate camera, came back to reality. People were shouting outside, sirens blaring, police and ambulances stuck in the traffic jam. What the hell was going on? A nuclear attack?
Forget them, concentrate on yourself, you've got to get back home. Don't go to Pauline's mother's house this time because that was where you went wrong before. Maybe now she could drive the Dyane except she would never get out of town in it. Whatever her decision she would have to go on foot. Head south. Remember that, keep going south.
She drank the herb tea thirstily, poured herself some more. Don't forget to fill your carrier bags with food before you go because you'll need it. Then with a jolt she remembered Jon. Jon! She could picture his face clearly now, the misty profile which had been eluding her for so long. Her husband. A pang of bitterness because he had another woman, probably that Atkinson girl was with him right now. Jealousy, then guilt. She had had other men too but now it was time for a reconciliation. She and Jon could both work at something they had let slip, a marriage that had slid for years and was nearly at the bottom of the slope. But she had to get home, that was a priority. Her one chance to put things right.
She loaded her bags with food and went back outside into the street. A milling throng, the traffic all snarled up, people hurrying, clambering over abandoned vehicles in their haste.
Jackie fought her way through, joined a stream going the other way. Don't go to First Terrace this time. Ignore everybody else. You're on your own. Head south.
She kept going, recognised landmarks, lost them again but knew she was going in the right direction. People lay in the road, on the pavements, some of them dead, not because of their awful affliction but simply because they had been trampled by the crowds. A crying child came towards her, its features beginning to peel and harden but she ignored it. Don't stop for anybody, you can't help them. Head for home whilst you still know where home is. South . . . south . . . south . . .
Days of burning sunshine, cool nights that brought relief. Sleeping in long grass, heather, the air filled with strange grunts and cries, people incessantly on the move. She hid; they must not find her, this time there must be no Kuz.
Walking, sleeping, eating wild fruit and herbs after her own food had run out, raiding the larders of deserted cottages whenever she came upon an isolated dwelling. Mile after mile each day but never seeming to arrive anywhere, knowing that she was heading in the right direction.
A long trek throughout a summer that waned and eased into autumn. Always on the move. The hills were full of restless people, some of them congregating into groups which built stone structures, prepared for the onset of winter. Fools, you will not survive when the cold comes, head south whilst there is still time or else seek the protection of proper dwellings built to resist the blizzards.
And that was how she had arrived at this cottage in the hills, alive and warm whilst everybody else was either dead or gone. Waking, only the figments of those strange dreams lingering on, frightening her because she was all alone. She should be dead like everybody else who had been caught out by the winter. Perhaps it would have been better that way. But she still had the will to fight and live.
No longer did that face evade her. Now she knew it, saw its every detail as clearly as though she had only gazed upon it yesterday. Jon! And only the snow was preventing her from going to him.
Endless days spent in keeping the fire going; fortunately the shed at the bottom of the garden was well stocked with coal. Surviving.
And at nights the dreams came again. Always Jon, how it had once been between them and how it would be when they were together again.
A bright sunny morning, the snow crisped by a severe overnight frost. Jackie had stoked up the fire, opened the door and looked out upon an arctic world. She tested the drift that smothered the lean-to and it bore her weight. The snow was walkable.
Jubilation, fears crowding in on her. If she left would she find her way in this white wilderness? If she did not then she faced certain death once night fell and the temperature dropped. She shivered, her skin goose pim-pling. And then she heard the approaching helicopter.
She was familiar with the big sky-birds, the way they flew deafeningly across the countryside, hovered, sometimes landed and men got out. Men with guns, searching. For what?