The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [206]
‘Indy? That you?’
I swing round, then realize the voice is coming from ahead. A shadowy, long-legged figure is clambering over the fence from Green Street, close to Martin’s cottage.
‘Ed!’ I shout. ‘Over here!’ My knees seem to be folding under me, and I’m shaking so much the stars are juddering.
A light snaps on in one of the houses that back onto the circle, a sash window rattles. Someone yells, ‘For Christ’s sake, what the hell is going on?’ A rich, well-educated voice, like Michael’s only much fruitier. ‘We’ve had virtually a whole fucking week of this shit–go back to the campsite so some of us can sleep or I’ll call the police.’
But Ed’s already reached me, his arm coming under mine to support me.
‘How did you get here so fast?’ I ask.
Everything happening in moments now, pictures in crystal. I must be feverish, because the sky is still pulsing with that strange light.
‘Is that real?’ I ask Ed, leaning heavily on him as he swings open the gate to the lane.
‘Don’t see it often. Noctilucent cloud. Summer phenomenon, to do with the sun’s rays below the horizon illuminating ice crystals in high cirrus. Even more amazing from the air–rippling right across the northern horizon while I was flying home. Magic’
It all washes over me. I start gabbling about Bryn, under the stone, losing blood.
Get to the hospital as fast as you can, Indy
‘Go,’ says Ed, in Martin’s cottage, the phone at his ear. ‘If you’re sure you’re OK to drive? The police can come and find you at the hospital. I’ll deal with the ambulance–when I raise a signal.’
‘Upstairs is better.’ Still shaking, I pull his fleece on over my cardigan. ‘Could you see us? When you flew over? Where did you land the helicopter?’
‘At Yatesbury, of course.’ Ed stops halfway up the stairs. ‘Why do you keep going on about the helicopter?’
‘I must have blacked out, then.’
He shakes his head, punching 999 into the phone again. ‘Just go–thank Christ. Ambulance, please, and police–might be an idea to send a fire crew as well…’
The car keys are still on the top of the chest, next to my handbag. I snatch them up and run out of the cottage.
Don’t let me be too late.
Driving out of the stone circle, my gut tells me I already am. Bad luck, Indy, widdershins. Maybe it happened hours ago. The moonless countryside is alive with light when it shouldn’t be. The pale lichens on the huge diamond-shaped Swindon Stone are glimmering under the weird electric-blue ripples of cloud. Feel like I’m driving along one of John’s spirit paths, hearing the blackbird’s song again, afraid of what my skin is telling me now, wondering if I would recognize the gleam of her spirit as it passed me in the night on its way home.
Everything so huge and complicated, it won’t go into words.
At the hospital, the car park is deserted apart from John’s pickup. Almost drowned in the glare of light from the glass doors, a small red cinder glows: the tip of a roll-up cigarette.
‘Sorry, Indy,’ says John. He catches sight of my face, as I slow from a breathless run. ‘No, don’t panic’ He stands up, drops his rollie and wraps me in a hug. ‘It’s OK. I meant sorry for calling you back unnecessarily. She’s fine. They stopped the bleeding: it was a fibroid, a big one, but not cancerous. She came through the op and she’s going to be all right.’
PART EIGHT
Sunwise
‘Life can only be understood backwards. But it must be lived forwards.’
Soren Kierkegaard
CHAPTER 58
Lammas, 2006
‘I don’t want to do it,’ I said. ‘Harry would do it better.’
‘Harry has bronchitis. I could hire another cameraman, but you’ve worked on this shoot the whole way through and you know what it’s about and you know my style. So…’
‘Are you going to be there?’
‘Not in the helicopter, no. I’m going to be on the ground, filming with the other camera. It’ll be you and Ed on your own in the air. I’ll pay you…’
I move the phone away from my head so she won’t hear, and take a long swallow of red wine. It tastes vile. They’re raising the stone again early next week,