The Buried Circle. Jenni Mills

Чтение книги онлайн.

       PART ONE Memory Crystals

      ‘History, archaeology, it’s all moonshine, really. We’re only guessing.’

      Dr Martin Ekwall,

      interviewed on BBC Wiltshire Sound

      1942

      ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he says. The Insect King. ‘It’s only a mask.’

      Eyes like a fly, elephant’s trunk that’s long, rubbery…

      ‘It’s only a mask,’ he says again.

      ‘I know it’s a mask,’ I says, braver than I feel. But there’s masks and masks. I’ve seen masks. I’ve seen what happens in the moonlight in the Manor gardens.

      ‘Frannie…’ It’s only a whisper, so I’m not sure if it came out of his mouth or out of my head. He’s at me now, pressing himself against me, and I’m feeling all the bits of him, long gropy fingers and the hard poky bits. There’s a glow in the sky, something burning near the railway yards, searchlights over Swindon, the banshee howl of the warning, and the anti-aircraft batteries have started up.

      ‘Take it off,’ he says.

      ‘The mask?’

      ‘Your flicking robe.’ At least, I think he says robe.

      ‘Coat.’

      ‘Whichever.’

      ‘A bit nippy for that.’ I’m trying to keep it calm, trying to be funny, pretend I’m in control, because this isn’t what I meant to happen. He gives me a push, quite hard, and I’m up against the stone. It’s cold against my back, like moonlight, and scratching at me like fingers through the thin material of my coat. There’s really nowhere to go now.

      I would be afraid, but I won’t let myself. You can’t let them have everything. You can’t let them have your fear. You got to keep a bit of yourself. I’m going to put my bit where it’s safe, a long way away from here.

      Beech trees, black against a silver sky. Somewhere else the real moonlight is pouring down. Bombers’ moon. A killing moon. Planes like fat blowflies trekking high above the Marlborough Downs. I take myself away, as far as I can, trying not to feel the burning down there, fingers, hands, other things, feels like there’s lots of them all at once, wanting a piece.

      A voice whispering again, Frannie, Frannie. It’s terrible dark. There’s a smell of rubber, thick and choking. Hard to breathe. An awful slick, oily smell of rubber…