Greg's door crashed upwards, quickly followed by Dan's, and Moira had the engine running before Dan jumped in beside her. She held Diana tightly as the car surged and swung to fit in behind the van. She could see the crowd reacting, spreading across the road to challenge them; sec Greg's momentary hesitation, and then his sudden acceleration as he drove full tilt at the mob. She wanted to shout encouragement, It's them or us, Greg, but she must not distract Dan, who was matching Greg's speed and might have to react quickly. In seconds they were ploughing through, people scattering to left and right – she didn't think anyone stayed long enough to be hit but she couldn't be sure… Faces, shouts of anger, the glint of a flaming torch, the rattle of flung stones on the roof, Diana screaming… Then they were away, free, circling round behind the estate to join the by-pass.
She had thought Diana's scream was of fright but now she was able to look at her. A stone must have found the open window because her forehead was bleeding and she was whimpering in Moira's arms, trying (as she usually did when she was hurt) not to cry. Moira said, 'Di's hit but keep going,' and started cleaning the wound with a tissue while she soothed her. Diana attempted a smile and said, 'Horrid people.'
'Yes, darling, horrid. But they can't catch us now… She's all right, Dan… Hold still, my love, while I stick a little plaster on it.'
They drove in silence for a while, out into the country, skirting Heathrow; they had agreed not to stop till they were well into the Chilterns and certain none of the mob had jumped into cars and followed.
Dan glanced down at Diana to make sure she had fallen asleep and said at last: 'I wonder when we'll be back.'
Sally leaned forward, her forearms on the tops of their scats, her head between theirs. 'I didn't tell you before, my loves, because of little ears. But I could see our houses as we came round the back road. That lot weren't carrying torches for nothing, you know. Our places were well alight already… Sorry, dears, but it's got to be forward, 'cos there's nowhere to go back to.'
11
They drove for about an hour before Greg pulled into a lonely woodland verge beyond Great Missenden, where they loaded the van roof-rack to clear the central gangway for domestic use. Rosemary made toast to go with the hot soup and they stood around sipping and nibbling and saying little. Now that the planned-for crisis had overtaken them, they all admitted to a sense of unreality; even the burning of their homes seemed a fact from another existence, and the brief drama of their escape a fictional episode. Too much had happened in a few hours; erstwhile friends had dragged witchcraft's name into the mire, psychic murder had triggered off mob violence, their religion and Craft had been declared criminal and now they were nomads in a land with too little open space where nomads might breathe. It was nearly midnight on a still August night, with nothing familiar around them but a van and a car crammed with all they possessed. Their minds needed a rest before they could take it all in. At this moment, all they felt (and they felt it unanimously) was the need to see tomorrow's dawn in a new landscape, a long way from the treachery of friends and the ashes of their homes. Physical distance seemed to have spiritual meaning; let them seize that distance and they would feel strong.
They decided to make for the Welsh mountains – a choice they had more or less finalized over the past week -but to reach them overnight, instead of taking the two or three days they had envisaged. There could be night-time violence in the big cities in reaction to the day's events, so they agreed upon as rural a route as possible, via Princes Risborough, Bicester, Chipping Norton, Evesham, Worcester (the biggest town on their route, but it could be bypassed, and it would be well into the small hours), Ludlow and Welshpool – in which area they could explore more slowly for somewhere to settle, at least temporarily. But tonight's objective was the Welsh Border and a reasonably secure spot for a few hours' rest and consideration.
They agreed to stop every hour to stretch legs and change drivers. Sally did not drive but by taking charge of Diana on the back seat with her, she could free Dan and Moira for alternate hours of dozing and driving.
They washed up the mugs and set off, the car taking its turn in the lead.
'All these practical arrangements may sound petty, the way things are,' Dan said to Moira as he settled back in the passenger seat. 'But you know what, darling missus? They help us keep sane.'
Moira smiled and let in the clutch, suddenly warmed by his use of their private-language title. 'That's right, darling mister,' she told him. 'Now you go to sleep and let me drive in peace.'
Eileen had not slept well. Last evening's news had depressed and confused her. Since their Suffolk experience a few days earlier, she and Angela had not knowingly met any more witches but had found themselves identifying with them more and more. They had liked the Coddenham group, shared their fury over the rape and humiliation of May Groombridge, and felt no unease about what had happened to the callous policeman – whether or not it was a coincidence. But the Angels of Lucifer and the death (again, coincidence or not) of Ben Stoddart, were a very different matter. The 'small isolation hospital' where the savage ritual had been enacted had not been named nor its location given, but Dr Friell and Nurse Parker had been named and their violent kidnapping reported, so Eileen had no doubt that the 'hospital' was the Banwell Emergency Unit. The knowledge had let loose a flood of conflicting emotions – reawakened guilt, outrage on behalf of former friends, curiosity (which she felt to be morbid but could not banish) about the actual details, paralysed inability to decide whether Ben Stoddart really had died from psychic attack or from auto-suggestion… Angela Smith had had to work very hard to soothe her young cousin and had lain anxiously awake till about two in the morning listening to her tossing and muttering in her sleep.
Eileen woke suddenly just after sunrise. She thought at first Angie had spoken and looked across at the other bunk, but Angie was still unconscious. Then the voice came again and Eileen realized it was outside the caravan. Two or three voices, men and women, and the clink and shuffle of movement. She must finally have exhausted herself into really deep sleep, she decided, because the layby had been empty except for themselves and she had been unaware of any other vehicles arriving.
A young child whimpered in pain and a worried woman's voice said: 'Dan, we'll have to get her to a doctor.' The man's reply was indistinguishable but the tone was equally worried.
Eileen unzipped her sleeping bag, pulled on slacks and sweater, and opened the caravan door and looked out.
'Did someone mention a doctor? I'm a nurse, if I can be any help.'
The young couple looked round, at first startled, then relieved; they seemed tired and nervous. 'Could you have a look at her?' the mother said. 'We'd be very grateful. We…' She broke off and lifted a little girl about four years old out of their heavily loaded station wagon. 'She had a bump on the head last night and it seemed all right -but I think she's a little feverish now.'
Eileen gave her attention to the child but was still aware of the atmosphere of nervousness; another couple had emerged from the second vehicle – a big Bedford van -and an elderly woman was hovering watchfully beside the car.
Angie had come out of their own caravan and on an impulse Eileen said: 'There's only the two of us.' She felt the strangers begin to relax. 'What's your name?' she asked the little girl.
'Diana.'
'Mine's Eileen and I'm going to see if I can make that bump better.'
'Some horrid people threw stones at us.'
Tension again. Eileen was getting impatient with it, wanting to concentrate on Diana, when Angie took the problem out of her hands. 'Look, everybody – if you're on the run, relax – so are we. And if you're witches, we don't give a damn; we're not bloody Crusaders. So while Eileen looks at the kid, why don't we all organize breakfast?'