Max shook his head. "One of them, Dave Garson, I was only speaking to him the afternoon he died. He was terrified. There was no way he was going to open his door. But he was gone the next day. His wife and kids were hysterical. They said the things came bursting in after they'd gone to bed and Dave was finishing off his beer in the kitchen-"
"Maybe you're wrong about them getting into locked houses," Church began.
Max shook his head furiously. "That's not it. We're as sure as sure about that. We've been watching them. They can't get in." He turned around to call over an aristocratic-looking man who was drinking a short at the bar. He was tall and thin, probably in his late sixties, with white hair and a handlebar moustache. He reminded Church of an ex-army type.
"This is Sir Richard," Max said as he made the introductions. "He lives in the Manor House on the green. We decided to form an action group to gather information on these things."
"Surveillance is one thing I am very good at," Sir Richard stressed. "We set up a good team around the village, keeping watch all night long. We tracked the movements of these things. Took a few pot-shots at them to see if we could do them any damage. No luck, unfortunately. Like shooting fog."
"And they definitely can't get into shut-up houses, right, Sir Richard?" Max said.
"Absolutely. They'll gather at the door, but never go inside. The most damnable thing. We honestly have no idea what to do next."
Having made his point, he retreated to the bar. Max leaned forward and whispered, "Ex-Tory MP for his sins, but he's a pillar of the community, great at organising things and getting people involved. In fact, I'm surprised how much this nightmare has brought everyone together. I used to think this was a right stuffy place, but since all this started I've seen a different side of all sorts of people. It seems to have brought out the best in everyone. Ironic, isn't it?"
For the rest of the evening they mulled over this point. They had all seen the good that had come out of hardship and suffering, but however much they argued, they couldn't agree if what they had lost was a fair price for what they had gained.
Geordie the barman had some spare rooms he used to let out to foreign tourists touring the area, but he agreed to give them up reluctantly. He was a little warmer when they promised to pay handsomely if he could arrange some food. He disappeared into the kitchen and forty-five minutes later came back with some cold ham, mashed potatoes and peas. Laura moaned about the meat "infecting" her vegetables, but after their hard day's walking the others polished off their dinner and washed it down with more beer.
Max left them alone while they ate, returning to the other drinkers to pass on what he had learned. Church watched their expressions move through disbelief to a dumbfounded acceptance and then something approaching awe. It made him feel uncomfortable.
At 11 p.m., all the drinkers gathered together at the door. Church could see the apprehension jumping from one to the other like electric sparks, lighting their faces for just a fleeting moment. Max maintained his cheeriness somehow and threw a bright wave before wrenching open the door and peering out into the oppressive darkness of the street. They all hovered for a moment, and then some kind of circuit was thrown in their minds and they surged out. Church could almost hear the unified exhalation of fear. Then, with a rustle and a bang, they were gone and the door was shut.
"Will they be all right?" Ruth asked.
Geordie leaned his heavy frame across the bar. "With a prayer. They've done it enough times, got it down to a fine art. They don't take any risks."
"It would be easier to stay at home." Church was surprised how concerned Ruth appeared.
"That'd be a bit like giving up, now wouldn't it?"
"I suppose so."
After he'd finished wiping up, Geordie led them through the back and up a twisting staircase to a roomy first floor. Several bedrooms lay off a dog-leg corridor. They were all Spartan-a double bed, chair, dresser, wash basin-but they were clean and the beds were all made up with crisp linen.
"What time's breakfast?" Veitch asked.
"You're paying, you decide," Geordie said grumpily. "Gi' me a knock when you're ready."
Church and Laura took the first room. Veitch angled to share with Ruth, but she opted for Shavi.
"Looks like it's you and me, son," Tom said wryly.
"Whoop de doo." Veitch kicked the door shut. "He's definitely a queen, right?"
Laura made love to Church voraciously, pinning him to the mattress and riding him so roughly the clatter of the bedframe against the wall left no one in the building in any doubt what was happening. After ten minutes, Veitch hammered on the wall and shouted something indecipherable but obviously angry and obscene.
"Just 'cause you aren't getting any!" Laura yelled back. "One-hand boy!"
Her passion brought Church to an early climax, but she didn't seem to want anything in return. She collapsed next to him, flushed and laughing at her exertion. "Just call me Rodeo Girl."
Their breathing subsided slowly as they stared at the ceiling until all they could hear were the creaks of the old house settling in the night. During the sex, Church's doubts had drifted to the back of his head, but there in the silence they returned in force. More than anything he didn't want to hurt Laura. He knew her better than all the others, her well of insecurity, her secret fears and lack of confidence, the kind of things she would be horrified if he said he recognised in her. Yet he seemed incapable of getting any handle on his emotions as far as she was concerned.
She seemed to sense what he was thinking, for she smiled and put a hand firmly across his mouth. "Less is more. Don't ruin things with intellect."
He took her hand away gently. "I just want to be honest with you. You know… no false pretences. I-"
She clamped the hand down even more firmly. "Churchill, this is me you're talking to. Do you think I'm going to be led up the garden path like some dreamy-eyed girlie? I'm a mature adult. Without wishing to define mature. I'm able to make choices. I know what I'm getting into. I know the inside of your head looks like something out of Saving Private Ryan. Back in Edinburgh I let the pathetic… yes, even desperate… side get out of control. But if it happens again, I'm going to put my own eyes out."
She took her hand away. He went to speak and she clamped it down again, laughing in enjoyment at the small power.
"So the bottom line is, don't worry. No strings. If things work out, that's fine. If not, well, at least we tried. So let's just enjoy the moment."
He wriggled free and buried his face half in the pillow so she couldn't get at him again. Laughing, he said, "You're sure."
"Sure as shit, big boy."
They play-fought briefly, unable to represent their feelings any other way, before falling back side by side, giggling. Once they'd quietened again, Laura said thoughtfully, "You know what, I don't take anything for granted any more."
"What do you mean?"
"I used to drift through life accepting everything that came my way. Didn't get too excited because that was the way it was. It was just… nice. You know that tingly feeling you get in the pit of the stomach? I get that all the time these days. Sometimes just looking at shit, like the way the sun hits the fields. Like the smell of really good food. Or woodsmoke? Have you noticed how good that smells? I get excited when we all have a good conversation, you know how it is when the ideas are bouncing around and I'm bitching like hell and people are batting it back at me. The world's falling apart and people are dying out there, and I'm sitting thinking these are the best days of my life. What does that say about me?"
"It's not just you."
"What?"
"I feel it too. I think we all do. What does it say? Something about the way life should be lived, I guess."