The Adjacent (57 page)

The Lancaster was barely flying when the engines of a second plane at the distant end of the runway emitted their full-throated roar, and that bomber too began its take-off run. Entranced by the experience, unlike anything he had ever known, Tarent remained where he was, daunted by the sheer physical presence of these cumbersome and deadly warplanes, but which were also somehow elegant.

This second Lancaster had already struggled into the air as it passed where he was but was still low above the runway. Gradually
gaining height, it flew away in the direction taken by the first plane. It was soon almost invisible to Tarent.

The flare-path lights were quickly extinguished.

Around the perimeter of the airfield, other Lancasters were taxiing down towards the end of the take-off runway. The sound of their engines reached him intermittently, on the vagaries of the wind. Tarent walked on, hoping that he would be able to reach that point in the airfield before the last aircraft left. He wanted to experience the start of the take-off run from close quarters.

After another minute or so, the flare-path lights were switched on again, and in quick succession two more Lancasters thundered down the runway and took off. Tarent again stood still to watch them.

The flare-path turned off, and more of the Lancasters taxied towards the distant take-off point.

The lights came on again, ready for the next take-offs, but almost immediately another Very light was shot high into the sky. The flare-path lights were instantly extinguished.

Again it seemed to Tarent that the exploding flare of red light was exactly above him. Once or twice might be a coincidence, but three…? He watched nervously as the spluttering flare drifted down towards the ground. This time he could smell the remains of its smoke – a childhood memory of fireworks swept through him.

The waiting Lancasters remained in two lines, converging from both sectors of the perimeter road towards the end of the runway.

There was another engine sound. This had a different pitch from that of the Lancasters, a sharper, higher sound. It came from an aircraft that was low in the air, fast-moving.

Without warning, a ground-based machine-gun, mounted at the far side of the airfield, opened up. Its tracer bullets arced across the sky. The intruding aircraft’s engine noise increased, and for a moment Tarent glimpsed a twin-engined aircraft with a bulky body, banking low above the ground, swinging away from the airfield. As it swiftly flew across the perimeter towards the east, a second anti-aircraft gun started firing from the ground. Its tracer bullets crossed with the others, too high, too far away to have any effect.

The flare-path lights remained off – in the far distance the Lancasters waited, engines running.

Another Very went up – again, it burst in the sky directly above Tarent’s position. He stepped briskly to one side, beginning to feel that these things were somehow being aimed at him, and not wishing to have the hot remains of the flare container fall on him. However,
this flare had a serious purpose – as the latest Very tumbled slowly earthwards, the twin-engined intruder reappeared. It roared over the airfield again, this time flying fast and low above the take-off runway the Lancasters were using. It was heading directly towards the point where the bombers were queuing for take-off. Tarent could see a deadly flicker as cannons mounted in the stocky wings fired towards the waiting aircraft.

The anti-aircraft machine-guns at the sides of the airfield started firing, and tracer arced low above Tarent’s head, directly towards the intruding German plane. As the intruder rushed past him, no more than a hundred metres away from where he crouched in the grass, Tarent saw the tracer from the AA gun behind him make violent contact with the side of the plane.

The reaction was instant. The engine on that side made a screeching noise, the German plane banked sharply to one side, and lifted dramatically away from its attack run. With the damaged engine still shrieking intermittently, the intruder levelled out and flew away towards the east. Tracer from the airfield machine guns followed it, but it was already too far away to be hit again. It was obvious in any case that it no longer presented a threat to the Lancasters on the ground.

When he felt certain there was to be no more shooting Tarent stood up. He continued to walk towards the far end of the main runway. In a while the flare-path lights came on again, and two more heavily loaded Lancasters made their lumbering but successful take-offs into the summer night.

AHEAD OF HIM, TARENT SAW THE DARK OUTLINES OF TWO
small buildings. They were to the side of the airfield, close to the perimeter track. He planned to walk across the long grass as far as the buildings, then continue the rest of the way by following the perimeter road itself. Although the moonlight still shone, slightly brighter now that the moon had risen further, Tarent stumbled two or three times on small but unseen obstacles on the ground. He was holding the Canon in his hands, and was all too aware of the risk of tripping over and damaging it. It would have been safer to slip the camera into its protective pouch, but for him the Canon still felt like a token of reality – so long as he held it ready he was
in control of at least that part of his life.

He came closer to the buildings and two more Lancasters went roaring past on their way to the raid on distant Sterkrade. Tarent briefly wondered if any of the airmen aboard had, before this raid, known the name of their target town. The flare-path flipped into darkness again, and at the end of the runway two more bombers moved slowly into position. He was now close enough to the take-off point to hear clearly the sound of the engines of the waiting aircraft.

He walked on to a concrete apron in front of the two buildings. Parked there, partly blocking the way he was intending to take, was a small aircraft. It was a single-engined plane, streamlined, low-winged. After the sheer bulk of the heavy bombers it looked almost like a miniature. Tarent paused, raised his camera, and used the night-sight to take a clearer look at it.

He quickly took three shots of it, trusting to the digital clean-up of underlit subjects.

The plane had RAF roundels on the wings, which otherwise were painted in drab green-brown camouflage. There was someone standing beyond the aircraft, leaning against the wing. Through the night-sight, Tarent could make out only a leather flying suit, thickly lined, crumpled brown.

He lowered the camera. The figure was a woman.

As he walked around the plane, the woman turned towards him. She was wearing a leather flying helmet, which she swept off and threw to one side.

‘Is that you, Tibor?’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

Her voice was familiar, completely recognizable, but it could not be –

‘Melanie?’

They were facing each other, unbelieving, almost afraid. Neither of them moved, preserving the shock.

‘I thought you were dead,’ she said.

‘I thought you had been killed.’

‘No – that’s not what happened. They said you had been blown up in a Mebsher.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘What?’

They were having to raise their voices. As he moved around the aircraft, yet another Lancaster was accelerating along the runway. It was so close the noise was deafening.

‘I can’t hear you!’

‘Come here.’

They stepped towards each other then, their arms outstretched. Gently, cautiously he reached out for her. He expected to feel the thick leather flying jacket under his hand, but he touched a bare arm, then the thin dress she was wearing. He could feel her back, her spine, through the fabric.

‘How did you get here?’ he said.

‘How did you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Neither do I. My god, I’ve missed you!’

‘Melanie!’

He held her close to him, feeling her arms around his back, squeezing hard. She was pressing the side of her face against his, that familiar touch, just as he remembered.

She said something, a soft word or two into his ear, but the second Lancaster went down the runway, drowning out all other sounds.

As it moved away, its tail lifting from the runway, she said, ‘Tibor, where are we?’

‘I’m not sure. I really don’t know.’

Somewhere behind them there was a loud bang, and another Very light was fired into the sky. He had become so used to the sound that he barely glanced up, but Melanie arched her head back to see. Then he did too. At the top of its flight, the red flare was burning brightly.

Again, it was directly above him. It was falling towards them, spitting bright sparks.

Then it turned white. It brightened. It became a point of light so brilliant it was not possible to look directly at it.

It was casting a shaft of brilliance across a large area of the ground. Tibor and Melanie were at the centre of it.

Tarent turned, sensing a movement, somewhere towards the perimeter, away from where they were. A tall young man went by on a bicycle, head down, pedalling hard, watching where he was steering. He was unaware of them, did not react to the intense light coming down around them. He passed on into the darkness, freewheeling.

The light above brightened. It descended towards them. On the ground the patch of light grew smaller, and was cohering into the shape of a triangle.

Incredibly it intensified yet again, blinding, searing them, annihilating them.

Then it went out, leaving only blackness.

Tarent was holding his wife in his arms. It was so strange to do, yet so right, so unquestionably right. She was folding herself against him as she used to, as she always had, right at the start when they were young, and even later on, whenever they found the time to be alone together, and still loving.

Daylight had broken around them. It was early morning, cool and sharp. They were standing on tussocks of grass, long and damp with dew, wetting their ankles. The sun was low in the east, already clear of the horizon and too bright to be looked at. In the near distance was a line of trees, but their trunks were masked with a light mist, so that their green foliage spread above, making it look as if the trees were floating above the ground. There were cows in the field – some were sitting on the grass, chewing slowly, while others were already up and grazing. One was close to them – it regarded them with wide eyes, while it continued to chew.

‘Where are the planes?’ Tarent said. ‘It was night. I was on some kind of airbase. It was in the year 1944… I saw a newspaper.’ He clutched at the camera hanging on its lanyard around his neck. ‘I took a photo of the front page, let me show you.’

He fumbled with the switch, to turn on the Canon, something he had done a thousand times in the past but today, this time, his fingers felt clumsy and incapable. Melanie reached down and gripped his wrist.

‘Not now. Show me later, Tibor.’

She turned, keeping her arm around his back, and they began to walk slowly across the field, feeling the damp grass, blinking their eyes away from the brightness of the morning sunlight. The meadow signalled an innocent past, a summoning of a collective wish, a simple shared experience. But Tarent could still hear, as if hearing a memory, the Lancasters taking off, the sights and smells of the airfield at war. A dark, real and deadly war. He knew he had been there, but in what way, by what means, and for why?

‘Do you know where we are?’ he said. ‘This is not where I was. I came back from Turkey, I was taken to a government place –’

‘I came here because I was told that this was where I would find you.’

‘But how did you travel? I thought all travel had been –’

‘I came by car. Someone lent it to me. It’s parked down at the farm.’

‘The farm?’

‘I thought you knew. This is a farm in Lincolnshire, in the Wolds, not far from Hull. I had no idea why you would be here, but they were right.’

‘Who is they?’

‘At the hospital. The admin staff told me you were back in England, so I came here to find you.’

‘On this farm in Lincolnshire?’

‘Yes.’

‘Warne’s Farm?’

‘Yes, of course.’

They walked on, came to a gate, which Tarent opened and then closed again, making sure the beasts in the field could not escape. Beyond was a road, a narrow country lane. The grasses here on the verges were long, the hedges above thickening as the leaves broke out for the spring. He could smell soil, dampness, grass, mud. The air was so still.

‘What date is it?’

‘Some time in March, I think,’ Melanie said.

‘You think?’

‘I’m not sure of that any more.’

‘Do you happen to know what year we are in?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Tibor, I don’t know. I’m not certain of anything. Just this. Isn’t this enough? Why do you need to ask about dates, years?’

‘I keep losing days and dates.’

Ahead of them the farm buildings were coming into sight, nestling against the side of a hilly ridge. Prominent among them stood a tall, brick-built tower, church-like. He took up his Canon again, switched it on, waited while it booted, then zoomed the quantum lens to its maximum focal length and focused on the tower. It looked dilapidated, unstable, a dark and unsafe relic from an earlier age. He clicked the shutter release. Melanie moved forward so that she was standing between him and the farm buildings. She was an unfocused blur in the viewfinder, so he let the automatic lens readjust and she came into sharp focus. He had never stopped loving her but he had forgotten how beautiful she was, forgotten how much he liked to look at her, liked to photograph her. He clicked the shutter release, then, because she was smiling, twice more again.

CHRISTOPHER PRIEST IS A CONTEMPORARY NOVELIST AND A
leading figure in modern SF and fantasy. He was born in Cheshire, England. He began writing soon after leaving school and has been a full-time freelance writer since 1968. He was selected for the original Best of Young British Novelists in 1983. He has published thirteen novels, four short story collections and a number of other books, including critical works, biographies, novelizations and children’s non-fiction. His novel
The Separation
won both the Arthur C. Clarke Award and the BSFA Award. In 1996 Priest won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for his novel
The Prestige
, which was made into a film in 2006. Directed by Christopher Nolan, it went to No.1 US box office in its first week and received two Academy Award nominations. He has been nominated four times for the Hugo Award, and has won several awards abroad, including the Kurd Lasswitz Award (Germany), the Eurocon Award (Yugoslavia), the Ditmar Award (Australia), and Le Grand Prix de L’Imaginaire (France). In 2001 he was awarded the Prix Utopia (France) for lifetime achievement.