Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State Now there was the gap in the wuzzy—a gap where a summer-fire had burnt it back long ago, to let the heather and the bracken get a stronger foothold for a time until it could re-establish itself—so that was the way he would go—
The dead wuzzy and heath and bracken gave place suddenly to a crumbling stone wall, reinforced by a sheep-proof wire fence.
Over the wall and the fence: there was smooth hillside grass now, liberally sprinkled with sharp-focused sheep-dung and smaller rabbit-droppings, with the curve of the headland above him and the full fury of the wind at his back, driving him upwards towards the crest; indeed, even as he let the wind drive him, he saw real sheep away to his left, huddled against the inland line of the wall, and also the white danger-signal tail of a rabbit bobbing off to his left, into a square wall of windswept gorse—
But there was no other living thing, either ahead or left-and-right, as he came towards the high point, with the whole coastline behind him fully revealed and stretching into far rain-mist: this, almost to the very yard, where that dimpled trench-line marked the edge of the gorse square, must have been where the old Romans had built their signal-station, with this superb view of any Irish raiders sailing up the Bristol Channel—although in this bone-cutting wind it must have been more a punishment-posting than a mere watch-keeping duty—
Another ten yards, and he would be at the high-point of the ditch, Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State where the ancient palisaded-and-revetted gateway must have been, with a high watchtower somewhere inside that wuzzy, all built with timber brought up from distant inland wooded valleys with great labour and organization far surpassing anything Ranulf of Caen and Gilbert of Mountsorrel could have managed more than a thousand years later, in a less efficient age of the world—
And then he saw them: and saw them both together, on the corner of another sheep-wall-and-fence inwards from the Roman signal station, but not in those other ages of Romans and Normans safely dead, but in his own now, with his own death shouting —
Which way?
They saw him almost in the same instant, perhaps by chance, or perhaps because they were being properly carefuclass="underline" it didn’t matter, because in his own age, if he gave that damned Green Machine rifle a clear sight, he was dead now—and the odds against him clogged his throat with fear even as he tried to make a decision—
Which way? Because if he went back the way he had come, the curve of the hillside would still give them a clear view as he reached the stone wall again, which was higher on this side, so that he would have to climb up it—
Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State The thought became its own decision: there was a narrow band of grass between the gorse-wuzzy of the Roman fort and the steep bracken-and-heather below him, and his legs were already anticipating his brain’s instructions, already running him where he needed to go, automatically twisting and jinking him like that frightened rabbit which had itself showed him how to take cover in the wuzzy.
But he wasn’t going into the wuzzy like the rabbit: the gorse was old and thick on both sides of him, and even if he could break through it (which he didn’t think he could, anyway), it would slow him down too much—or it might even stop him altogether. And that was all the man with the rifle needed—
(‘The Green Machine’, Audley had called it, of course: ‘They had a break-in and lost a couple—’: and they had one in the car now—
but the other was up there on his flank somewhere! Damn, damn damn!)
He had to keep moving: so long as he was moving sideways—then he had a chance. Not even the best marksman liked deflection shooting: marksmen liked sitting targets—
But the damned wuzzy was still too high on either side, and he could feel the land falling away under his feet with each rabbit-bound. So what he was doing now was running back the way he’d come, parallel to the invisible path below him and the great grey sea itself. So this route would trap him on the very point of the Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State high ground, on that last straight stretch after the zig-zags had brought them up from Brentiscombe meadow. So… he must bear right—must take the risk that they were on an interception course above him: once down in that heather-and-bracken, among the stone outcrops, then he’d have a chance as they came over the skyline in their turn, because he still had his gun—
Even as he changed direction the slope in front of him seemed to drop away and the whole combe sprang into view far beneath him, with its tiny houses huddled under foreshortened trees and the line of model cars parked beyond them. But in the very instant that he saw the combe a bullet cracked viciously—cracked and double-cracked—the sound was above him, yet also somehow behind him and ahead of him too in the same fraction of time before the howling wind carried it away.
As Tom threw himself forwards he already knew that he could never keep his feet on such a descent, but he managed an impossible succession of downward rabbit-leaps towards the nearest outcrop before the ground slipped from under him on the rain-sodden bracken. Yet even then, by some acrobatic miracle, he contrived to control his slide for another twenty yards, first on his bottom and then on his back, until one foot suddenly snagged in a deep-rooted patch of heather, twisting him sideways with an explosion of pain. And then earth and sky whirled, and he was rolling and tumbling helplessly, grabbing— grabbing—
Christ Jesus! He’d lost the gun!
Heather and bracken tore his hands as he tried to slow his descent, but then the hopelessness of recovering the weapon opened them Price, Anthony - For the Good of the State again, even though he felt that it was like letting go of life itself as he slid and tumbled the last few yards to drop over a miniature cliff on to the path below.
The fall jarred stars in front of his eyes for a moment—red and yellow stars, seen hazily through blurring rain and sweat. But then they weren’t stars at alclass="underline" they were a huge red-and-yellow kite, straining to escape from their owner up the path, a few yards away.
‘Get away! Get away!’ Tom screamed at the boy as he tried to struggle to his feet. ‘Get away!’
The kite and the boy parted company: the kite soared upwards and outwards, and the boy seemed to disappear outwards and downwards, over the edge of the track. And Tom cried out in anguish as his ankle grated and gave way under him.
He fell on his side, and for a second he wanted only to curl up into a ball and disappear. But then his brain ordered hands and knees—
hands and knees if not feet, Tom!
He heard himself cry out again in agony as he righted himself and the broken bones of his ankle screamed at him. And then it was too late.