Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Warhead - Andrew Cartmel [62]
‘And could you understand them?’
‘Not very often.’ Ace set the plastic tumbler down on the high‐friction coaster and put the empty champagne bottle into the pocket of the seatback. ‘But when I did, I didn’t like what I saw.’
‘Sensible,’ said the Doctor.
* * *
11
The slab of stone was split in two. It lay in deep weeds like an open book left on the ground by a giant. One half of the slab was angled on a rise of ground so that it caught the sunlight throughout the day. It was warm to the touch from midmorning until late evening. When you put your hand to its rough surface and pressed hard you could feel a faint vibration. Probably just the blood drumming in your own fingertips, but it was like touching the warm hide of some ancient creature, sleeping under the ground.
Justine liked to imagine a beast buried in the earth. Not buried like the dead but hibernating, sleeping, ready to wake up one day. She enjoyed sitting here on the stone and eating her rations at midday. The slab lay in the centre of a clearing in the woods, high on the slope of the hill. It was a good place to sit, with a clear line of sight through the trees down to the big house below. There were other, smaller, stones and the remains of a wall in the adjacent woods. Justine had studied them and decided that some of them, the newer ones, were merely the ruins of an old farm. The old farm was the best place to be when she wanted shelter, the smells and shadows of the trees. When she wanted to feel the sun Justine preferred the slab.
It was warm now under the torn denim of her Levis. Sitting here she would read poetry, lying back, a tuft of weeds for her pillow. Her disc player ran on solar power and she set it out in the sun beside her head, listening to the few CDs she’d brought with her. Other times she would read the magazines.
Justine was strict with herself about reading the magazines. When she read about the house in them her excitement would begin to grow and sometimes she couldn’t contain it. The desire would rise in her to see the house. Not the way she could see it now, from the treeline on the hill. But up close.
Without conscious thought she would find herself walking to the edge of the woods. Once she had even come out of the trees, through the gardens, right up to the old Victorian greenhouse. She had stood there on the overgrown lawns looking up at the house. That had been unwise.
So Justine rationed the reading of the magazines and kept her excitement under control.
The sun was high now and she lay back on the stone watching coloured shapes chase each other behind her eyelids. The shapes were vivid splashes of green and blue on a field of radiant orange. They were unreal colours, romantic colours. Like the colours of tattoos. Justine watched them until it was time to eat. Today’s rations consisted of charqui. She chewed each mouthful slowly, trying to work moisture into the tough strips of dried beef. There was almost no water left in her canteen. Tonight she would have to buy some from a village shop. Their rations were holding out well but water was heavy to carry and she’d brought only the minimum with them on their overland trek from London across the North Downs.
The walk had taken them three days. They could have made better time if Justine had been willing to let Sammy off the leash, a crude length of leather she’d fashioned herself and knotted loosely around his neck. Several times she’d seriously considered dispensing with the leash but ultimately decided the risk of Sammy running off was too great. Sometimes Justine wondered if she was cruel, but she always dismissed the thought from her mind. Sentimentality could get her killed.
Justine began to plan the shopping expedition. It would have to wait until nightfall. She kept a watch on the house during daylight. Each evening when the sun went down she abandoned the vigil and went back to her encampment. She read by the campfire while Sammy lay on the ground beside her, whimpering