Chilton. It
reminded him of big outdoor events, rock festivals or the South of
England Show at nearby Ardingly, but with one major difference.
There was no jollity. No excitement or anticipation. Just an oppressive
silence and an air of undisguised dread. Faces dull with shock
and worry. Eye contact was made reluctantly, accompanied by embarrassed
smiles. No one was about to ask why he had come, because
no one wanted to be confronted with the answer. They were all here
for the same reason.
They were here to find out if their loved ones were alive.
He crested a low hill and saw what had stopped the traffic. There was
a roadblock just south of the turning to Chilton, and another to the
north. The road in both directions was an identical scene of haphazardly
parked cars and grim clusters of people making for the police cordon.
Next to the junction was a large grassy area, not quite big enough
to be called a field. It was thronging with people, many in uniform,
erecting tents and tables, setting up for a long operation. There was
a catering van doing a brisk trade, and a lorry unloading portaloos.
An ambulance sped along Chilton Way and paused briefly at the
junction. Police and civilian workers in orange tabards held back
the crowd, some of whom screamed and wailed at the sight of the
ambulance. One group of onlookers surged forward and began
photographing both the ambulance and the emotional reaction to it.
Craig noticed TV vans parked on the verge, satellite dishes mounted
on their roofs: the media were already here in force.
It struck him that Nina was right. He would be competing with
dozens of equally concerned relatives for what meagre scraps of information
were available. He knew how chaotic such operations were
in the early stages. Keeping the public informed was a low priority,
and the police knew better than to release information until it could
be confirmed beyond any doubt.
Then someone from the crowd turned in his direction. A slim, elfin
woman with short dark hair. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she
peered at him and smiled. Abby.
'I thought you'd be here already,' she said as they hugged briefly.
'Nina's at work. I had to find someone to have the kids.'
She nodded, looked at him closely. 'I hate to say this, but it might
be a wasted journey.'
'Are they in a mess?'
'Not too bad.' She indicated the tents behind them. 'This is the
command post, which is as far as anyone gets. They're setting up a
casualty bureau and a media-briefing room. They've got the fire brigade
and civil defence volunteers trying to seal off the entire village.' She
grinned. 'Breaking the cordon doesn't go down well, as some of my
colleagues have discovered. One of them reckons he got chased away
at gunpoint.'
Craig shook his head. They both turned and stared in the direction
of the village. Fields and trees and bushes in a hundred shades
of green, still sparkling with melted frost, and the grey church tower
peeking above the treetops. It looked an idyllic scene, utterly benign.
How could there be anything wrong here?
'Beautiful part of the world,' Abby murmured. When he didn't
respond, she added, 'Your father was campaigning against development
in the village, wasn't he?'
Craig nodded. He caught her use of the past tense. She coloured
slightly.
'I'm sorry. I wasn't implying . . .'
'I know.' He stared at the trees. Until a breeze caused them to sway,
he could almost believe they were false; painted scenery that might
fall away and expose the horror of what had happened here.
'Makes me think of that John Wyndham story, The Midwich Cuckoos .'
Abby frowned. 'Was that the film with those creepy blond kids?'
He nodded. ' Village of the Damned .'
Something in his voice must have affected her, for she reached out
and patted his arm. Then she indicated a couple of officers sitting at
folding metal tables, a large queue forming in front of them. 'That's
where they're taking details of friends and family.'
There was a ripple of
reminded him of big outdoor events, rock festivals or the South of
England Show at nearby Ardingly, but with one major difference.
There was no jollity. No excitement or anticipation. Just an oppressive
silence and an air of undisguised dread. Faces dull with shock
and worry. Eye contact was made reluctantly, accompanied by embarrassed
smiles. No one was about to ask why he had come, because
no one wanted to be confronted with the answer. They were all here
for the same reason.
They were here to find out if their loved ones were alive.
He crested a low hill and saw what had stopped the traffic. There was
a roadblock just south of the turning to Chilton, and another to the
north. The road in both directions was an identical scene of haphazardly
parked cars and grim clusters of people making for the police cordon.
Next to the junction was a large grassy area, not quite big enough
to be called a field. It was thronging with people, many in uniform,
erecting tents and tables, setting up for a long operation. There was
a catering van doing a brisk trade, and a lorry unloading portaloos.
An ambulance sped along Chilton Way and paused briefly at the
junction. Police and civilian workers in orange tabards held back
the crowd, some of whom screamed and wailed at the sight of the
ambulance. One group of onlookers surged forward and began
photographing both the ambulance and the emotional reaction to it.
Craig noticed TV vans parked on the verge, satellite dishes mounted
on their roofs: the media were already here in force.
It struck him that Nina was right. He would be competing with
dozens of equally concerned relatives for what meagre scraps of information
were available. He knew how chaotic such operations were
in the early stages. Keeping the public informed was a low priority,
and the police knew better than to release information until it could
be confirmed beyond any doubt.
Then someone from the crowd turned in his direction. A slim, elfin
woman with short dark hair. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she
peered at him and smiled. Abby.
'I thought you'd be here already,' she said as they hugged briefly.
'Nina's at work. I had to find someone to have the kids.'
She nodded, looked at him closely. 'I hate to say this, but it might
be a wasted journey.'
'Are they in a mess?'
'Not too bad.' She indicated the tents behind them. 'This is the
command post, which is as far as anyone gets. They're setting up a
casualty bureau and a media-briefing room. They've got the fire brigade
and civil defence volunteers trying to seal off the entire village.' She
grinned. 'Breaking the cordon doesn't go down well, as some of my
colleagues have discovered. One of them reckons he got chased away
at gunpoint.'
Craig shook his head. They both turned and stared in the direction
of the village. Fields and trees and bushes in a hundred shades
of green, still sparkling with melted frost, and the grey church tower
peeking above the treetops. It looked an idyllic scene, utterly benign.
How could there be anything wrong here?
'Beautiful part of the world,' Abby murmured. When he didn't
respond, she added, 'Your father was campaigning against development
in the village, wasn't he?'
Craig nodded. He caught her use of the past tense. She coloured
slightly.
'I'm sorry. I wasn't implying . . .'
'I know.' He stared at the trees. Until a breeze caused them to sway,
he could almost believe they were false; painted scenery that might
fall away and expose the horror of what had happened here.
'Makes me think of that John Wyndham story, The Midwich Cuckoos .'
Abby frowned. 'Was that the film with those creepy blond kids?'
He nodded. ' Village of the Damned .'
Something in his voice must have affected her, for she reached out
and patted his arm. Then she indicated a couple of officers sitting at
folding metal tables, a large queue forming in front of them. 'That's
where they're taking details of friends and family.'
There was a ripple of
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