Aztec Century

Book 383: Gateway Essentials

by Christopher Evans

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Hard Science Fiction

Synopsis

Britain has fallen to the technological might of the Aztec Empire whose armies have rampaged across the globe. Now, for the first time in a millennium, the British are a subject race. Inevitably there is resistance - and among those determined to fight the invaders is Princess Catherine, elder daughter of the British monarch. But she is torn between her patriotism and her growing involvement, political and personal, with the Aztecs - and with one Aztec in particular. Then her sister is arrested and exiled for her part in an alleged terrorist attack - and Catherine finds herself walking a perilous tightrope... Sweeping from occupied Britain to the horrors of the Russian front and the savage splendour of the imperial capital in Mexico, Aztec Century is a magnificent novel of war, politics, intrigue and romance, set in a world that is both familiar - and terrifyingly alien. Winner of the BSFA Award for best novel, 1993

Release date: June 24, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 348

Sample

In those thousand days of our first exile, my dreams were always of London burning. Although I was twenty-one and already married at the time of the invasion, dreaming, I became a child again, a young girl running along the palace corridors, passing tall windows where I glimpsed the night sky full of the enemy’s luminous golden ships. They hovered and darted, raining bright fire down on the city. I was confused and terrified, desperately seeking my father.

Finally I burst into his council chamber, where he sat at the head of a long gleaming table, my brother Richard on his lap, a child like myself. The silence made me halt, see the grimness in everyone’s face. I ran to my father’s side, and he embraced me. He wore a dark suit and a white open-necked shirt; his face was grey with exhaustion. He kissed me on the forehead and shook his head sadly. Then adult hands took me, dragging me away, through halls and down stairways and out into the fiery night. I was still screaming, my eyes flooded with tears, when they bundled me aboard the carrier, where my nanny sat with my sister Victoria, an infant asleep in her lap.

The true circumstances of our escape were more prosaic. When the attack began, Alex and I were at my family home in Marlborough, supervising the storage of art treasures in the vaults. We were evacuated by night, first to one of our estates near Okehampton, where Victoria joined us, and then by various misadventures to the Welsh borders, where our carrier ran out of fuel. We made an emergency landing near Monmouth and were rescued by a ragtag group of Welsh loyalists, who promptly abandoned us in the Sirhowy valley, retreating into mid-Wales with most of their countryfolk as the Aztec armies advanced rapidly northwards from their bridgeheads at London and Southampton.

We took refuge in a deserted mansion house, expecting imminent capture. There were only twelve of us, and the radio bulletins of the next several days were confused and alarming. London was said to have been laid waste by firestorms; enemy forces had already advanced to Nottingham and Bristol; a transporter carrying my cousin Margaret from St Petersburg had been shot down over the Baltic; my father and brother were reported dead after the palace had been stormed.

None of these stories proved entirely true, except that London had fallen and the Aztecs were making rapid gains. Margaret remained safely in Moscow with Tsar Mikhail, and my father and brother had been captured rather than killed. It was a measure of our beleaguered state of mind that we greeted such news with a relief bordering on joy.

As it turned out, we avoided capture, largely because organized resistance to the invasion collapsed within a matter of weeks. The Aztecs halted their advance after consolidating their positions north to the Tees and west to the Severn and Exe. Our armies surrendered and a truce was signed. Not long afterwards, Nauhyotl, a cousin of the Emperor Motecuhzoma, was installed in London as governor. The occupation of England was complete.

Three years passed.

On that final morning in Wales, I woke from my dreams to find myself alone in bed. Alex rose early most mornings to monitor radio transmissions on the equipment we had salvaged from the transporter.

The grandfather clock beside the door said nine thirty. Had I slept so long? I still felt weary, and there was a sour taste in my mouth.

The water in the bathroom came out in a lukewarm dribble. Dressed in a sweater and jeans – clothes scavenged from the deserted town of Tredegar further up the valley – I crossed the landing and noticed that the door to Victoria’s bedroom was open a crack.

My sister lay asleep in a swirl of sheets, blonde hair splayed on the pillow, the room ripe with her body heat. The bed was utterly unkempt, as if she had also been wrestling with disturbing dreams. She was three years younger than I, and had hated every moment of our exile.

Downstairs, porridge and coffee were simmering on the wood-fired stove, and the sink was full of breakfast dishes. We grew oats, barley and root vegetables in the surrounding fields, and had rounded up chickens, three cows and a flock of sheep from the hillsides after our arrival. We supplemented our diet with tinned goods from the shops in Tredegar which had escaped looting before the town was abandoned during the mass retreat into mid-Wales. There, in the empty heartlands of their nation, the Welsh believed themselves safe from further Aztec encroachment.

My stomach felt leaden and I could not face breakfast. Cradling a mug of coffee, I stood at the window, watching Thomas and Sarah at work in the greenhouse. Both had been staff in our household before the invasion, and Sarah had miscarried a baby the previous summer. It would have been the first child born here, and everyone had shared her loss.

I set to work on the dishes, putting a kettle on the stove to boil. Then Alex strode in, a broad smile on his bearded face. Freshly showered and smelling of Duc du Lac cologne, he kissed me on the cheek and led me away from the sink.

‘I’m washing up,’ I protested.

‘Leave it. Bevan’s having trouble with the generator, and the hot water’s down again.’

‘I’m boiling a kettle.’

‘Kate,’ he said with firm patience, ‘sit down.’ He gently pressed me into a chair. ‘I want to talk to you.’

He straddled another chair gaucho-fashion.

‘I overslept,’ I said.

‘It’s allowed once in a while. After all, you are the King’s daughter.’

‘You’re very cheerful this morning.’

He helped himself to a mouthful of my coffee. ‘I’ve good reason to be.’

He was dressed in a chunky fawn sweater and dark brown cavalry twill trousers; he always managed to look well groomed, whatever the circumstances. Tall and strongly built, with his auburn hair grown long and his beard dense, he was like a lion of a man to me.

‘How’s your Russian?’ he asked.

‘My Russian?’

‘Nyet, Vladivostok, and all that.’

I eyed him. ‘Alex, what’s all this about?’

‘Your cousin’s husband’s sending a ship for us.’

He drained the last of my coffee, awaiting my reaction.

‘Is this a joke, Alex?’

‘No joke, Kate. I got the news only half an hour ago. It’ll be here some time tonight or early morning.’

I sat back in my chair to ease the ache in my belly. Alex had always enjoyed springing surprises, but this was not the usual sort.

‘They’re coming to pick us up?’

He nodded.

‘I didn’t even know we were in contact with Moscow.’

‘It was pure luck,’ he replied. ‘Six days ago I locked on to one of their spy planes doing an overfly. I broadcast an SOS. This morning I got confirmation that a ship’s coming for us.’

It was obvious he wasn’t teasing, yet it seemed too fortuitous to be true.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘What if it’s a set-up? A trap?’

He shook his head. ‘I signed the message Charlotte Brontë. The one that came back this morning was signed Anne.’

This, I had to admit, was a clever stroke. As children, Margaret, Victoria and I had played at being the Brontë sisters, Margaret being Anne, myself Charlotte and Victoria Emily. Alex was the only person I had ever told, and if the message had been relayed to Moscow, Margaret would have known it was genuine. That there had been a reply in kind settled matters.

‘Why didn’t you say anything until now?’

‘I wanted to be certain it was a Russian ship. I didn’t want to raise your hopes unnecessarily.’

He reached across and took my hand. I felt a certain excitement but also other, mixed emotions.

‘Just think of it,’ Alex said. ‘Escape at last. Freedom.’

‘Are they going to fly us straight to Moscow?’

‘I presume so. Somewhere within their borders at least. It’s what we’ve been waiting for.’

‘Have you told the others?’

‘Not yet. I’m going to announce it at lunch. Then I think we’re entitled to a little celebration.’

His optimism was infectious, and I couldn’t begrudge him the good news, even though leaving England would mean abandoning my father and Richard to their imprisonment. We really had no other option. Sooner or later, the Aztecs would push into Wales, and we would be captured if we remained.

Alex seemed to sense my thoughts. ‘There’s nothing more we can do here, Kate. We’ll be better placed to continue the fight in Russia.’

‘I know. It’s just not that simple for me.’

‘Of course it isn’t. I do understand, you know. But there’ll be plenty of other exiles there. Don’t forget that half the Royal Navy made it to Murmansk after the invasion.’

I decided to be positive. ‘It’ll be good to see Margaret again.’

He squeezed my hand. ‘There’s something else. Something it’s time I showed you.’

‘What?’

‘Not here. Upstairs.’

Despite the gravity of his manner, there was also a gleam in his eye. I knew full well what a visit to our bedroom would entail.

Late morning sunlight shone full through the window as we lay together.

‘So,’ I said at length, ‘what is it you wanted to show me?’

‘A small thing,’ he replied, ‘but mine own.’

Nimbly he leapt out of bed and went to the bottom drawer of his dresser, removing an attaché case. He had worked for the Ministry of Defence before the invasion, and I had always known that the case contained something important, without ever asking him what.

He opened it on the bed. It held several document wallets, but Alex removed a flat square object which I recognized as a computer disk. He held it out to me as if it were a sacred offering.

‘Just what I’ve always wanted,’ I said, with eager sarcasm. ‘What is it exactly?’

Alex sat back on the bed. ‘It’s the culmination of more than ten years’ work, Kate. It’s a piece of software, an advanced analytical intelligence programme with a random response capacity.’

I was illiterate as far as computers were concerned. ‘What does that mean in plain English? Can it fry an egg?’

‘It’s a kind of parasite,’ he told me. ‘Something that can insert itself into existing systems and extract information from them. But secretly, without being detected unless you’re really looking for it.’

Under the bedclothes, I drew my knees up to my chin. ‘So it’s important, is it?’

He knew I was teasing, and he gave me a suitably patronizing smile.

‘If we could get access to the enemy’s security networks, we’d be able to ransack their files, plant false information, do pretty well what we please. It could be devastating, Kate.’

‘Gosh.’

He snatched up a pillow and swiped me across the head.

‘Don’t mock. It’s even more impressive than you realize, and I’m sure the good Tsar and his government are going to be very interested in it. We’re not just taking ourselves to Russia, Kate, we’re taking something that’s going to be of vital importance in the battle against the Aztecs.’

Bevan was out on the front garden lawn, crouching over the generator. He had removed two of the fan-shaped solar concentrators and was working on the third with an adjustable wrench.

‘Bore da,’ I said, crouching beside him.

‘Blasted thing,’ he said without looking round. ‘Hold that for me, will you?’

He passed me a greasy bolt and washer, continuing to tinker for a moment, grunting under his breath.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ I asked.

‘We’ve been using it non-stop this last twelvemonth or more. Something’s got to give.’

I helped him lay the concentrator down on the grass. It was twice my height but quite lightweight, its matt-black panels iridescent in the sunlight. It was veined with slender support struts like a butterfly’s wing.

At the centre of the generator sat the sun-crystal, striated and multifaceted, the colour of zinc. Manufactured from reed-like coralline growths which the Aztecs farmed in their coastal waters, the crystals absorbed sunlight at high efficiencies. Bevan had jury-rigged the generator from the transporter’s drive-units, and it supplied all our heating and lighting.

Bevan unscrewed a conducting disc and began sanding it with a scrap of emery cloth. He was a pot-bellied man of about forty, lantern-jawed and balding, dark hair hanging lank behind his ears.

‘Always potching with it, I am,’ he continued to grumble. ‘More trouble than it’s worth, if you ask me.’

I was tempted to tell him not to bother, but Alex was always warning me to mind what I said to him. Soon after our arrival in the valley, Bevan had appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and had since become our handyman and fixer. His motives remained elusive, and I knew we had to be careful. Many people in Wales had proved fickle in their attachment to the nation’s cause, refusing to fight after the Aztecs had guaranteed the territorial sovereignty of Wales during the invasion. Though that sovereignty was now seen by most Welsh to be a sham, their loyalty to the Crown was far from solid.

I lingered for a moment, watching him unscrew the covering on the control panel.

‘Anything else I can do?’ I asked.

‘Want to get your hands dirty, do you?’

‘I just thought—’

‘I’ll give you a shout if I need you.’

Somewhat rebuffed, I left him to his labours, unsure whether he was being bloody-minded or just gruffly matter-of-fact. He had never actually acknowledged who we were, though he certainly knew. It was quite possible he heartily disliked all of us but relished the continued opportunity to display his resentment.

The terraced lawns once fronting the house had been turned into vegetable patches for peas, runner beans and root crops. The house was a Gothic Revival mansion built over a hundred years before by an English mine-owner. We had chosen it because it was large and partly screened by a pine plantation. It looked out over the valley, with the derelict pit directly below; both pit and mansion were called Ty Trist, the House of Sorrow. The mine-owner had been hated by the locals and was buried in a secluded graveyard with the stark inscription GOD FORGIVE HIM on his tombstone.

It was a fine September morning, the bracken on the valley slopes turning the same colour as the rusting winding tower. The pit itself was surrounded by spoil-heaps on which only a sparse grass grew. The colliery had closed down fifty years before when the first solar units were imported from Greater Mexico.

Though our life in the valley had been rugged and sometimes perilous these past three years, I knew I would miss it. The Sirhowy river which meandered its way along the shallow valley bottom was little more than a broad rocky stream. It was a word of uncertain Welsh provenance which Bevan claimed meant ‘angry water’ – a name fit for an Aztec noble.

Behind me, Bevan swore in Welsh. I turned and saw him duck as the red light of the tracking mechanism flashed on and the support framework slewed towards him, just missing his head. He delved into the base of the machine, and the movement stopped.

I retraced my steps. Bevan took a grubby handkerchief from his trousers and swabbed his brow. He looked exasperated and irritable.

‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘We can manage without it for today.’

He peered at me, his eyes shadowed by his square brow. ‘I take it you’ll be telling your sister she’s got to bath in cold water, then?’

Victoria liked a hot bath every day after rising, but she would be more preoccupied with the news about the Russian ship.

‘I don’t think she’ll mind today.’

‘Still in bed, is she?’ Bevan hoisted his trousers and sucked on his teeth. ‘She gets plenty of beauty sleep, that one.’

*

I spent the afternoon with Victoria, packing our few belongings into two suitcases. From the bottom drawer of a dresser, I produced the old atlas my father had given me on my tenth birthday. It had been printed in 1930, during the reign of my grandfather, and its pages gave off the odour of history both literally and metaphorically. Stiff and musty, they mapped large areas of the world in crimson, recalling a time, only sixty years ago, when the British Empire was at its height. On modern maps, the crimson was displaced by swathes of Aztec gold.

Victoria put on our mother’s wedding dress, which she had saved as a keepsake. It was an elaborate affair of white silks and French lace, unfashionably frilly and ornate. It fitted her perfectly. Our mother had died when Richard was born, and neither of us could remember her well; but from photographs I knew that Victoria resembled her strongly. Now twenty-one, she was entering the prime of her beauty, fair-skinned with hazel eyes and striking dark eyebrows.

She flounced in front of the mirror, then said, ‘I wonder what would happen if I wore this to our first reception in Moscow.’

‘You’d certainly create a stir. But you’d have to have the mothballs washed out of it first.’

‘Do you think Margaret and Mikhail will greet us when we arrive?’

‘I’m sure they will, but not formally, or in public. Russia’s technically neutral, and it wouldn’t be politic.’

‘Won’t it be marvellous to be somewhere civilized again? I’m so tired of dressing in old clothes and eating potatoes every day.’

She, more than any of us, heartily disliked the rigours of our life in the valley. And she was right to be excited at the prospect of greater comforts and freedom. I wished I could share her enthusiasm wholeheartedly, but I had always imagined that we would eventually escape to another part of the country to join an army in hiding, which would begin the reconquest of our land. A romantic fantasy, of course. For me, leaving Britain would not really be escape, but flight, an acceptance of the finality of conquest.

That evening, everyone gathered in the candle-lit hall and we feasted on our produce: roast lamb with carrots, parsnips and green beans, washed down with several bottles of claret which Alex had unearthed from somewhere. Victoria got rather drunk, but gracefully allowed Alex to escort her to bed.

We gathered on the balcony. It was a clear, moonless night, mild and still, the stars brilliant above us. A match flared in the darkness in front of Alex’s face, and he put it to the end of a cigarette.

‘Where did you get those?’ someone asked.

Alex was holding a pack of Albions. We had run out of cigarettes a year before.

Alex simply winked and offered the pack around, taking suitable satisfaction from his largesse. He was the eldest son of Lord Bewley of Norwich, and had been created Duke of Durham by my father when we married; but he had always had the common touch. Of the small retinue which had escaped with us from Marlborough, all were former staff – detectives, butlers, maids-in-waiting – but exile had broken down the barriers between us. We had each been forced to take our part in the urgent and continuing business of survival.

I tracked a bright star-like point across the sky until it was lost over the horizon. The Aztecs were reputed to have a spy satellite orbiting the Earth which could photograph a rabbit in a field from a height of one hundred miles. Alex assured me the Russian ship would know their positions and be able to avoid detection. It was almost certain the Aztecs were aware our house was inhabited, but we assumed they would have no means of knowing by whom. I sometimes wondered if Alex was right that we had continued to remain free because of the Aztec policy of leaving unconquered territorial pockets intact in regions after invasion in order to maintain their armies’ sharpness. Much of Wales and Scotland had been spared, in defiance of normal military logic.

I became aware that Bevan was present, a silent, forgotten figure on the edge of our group. He was the only one who knew nothing of our impending evacuation. I asked Alex for his cigarettes and went over to him.

‘Would you like one?’ I asked.

He took the pack, withdrew a cigarette and sniffed it, inspecting the tiny gold crowns stamped around the filter.

‘Got a light, have you?’

I lit the cigarette for him.

‘Do you know what’s happening?’ I asked.

He squinted at me. ‘Planning on taking a trip, are you?’

‘A ship’s on its way. A ship from Russia.’

It seemed to me quite unfair that we had told him nothing. He might want to come with us, and even if he didn’t, we could hardly leave him without an explanation.

‘Coming tonight, is it?’

‘We think so. There’s room for you if you want to join us.’

He drew heavily on his cigarette, exhaling through his nostrils.

‘Is there, now?’

I felt uncomfortable. ‘I only heard about it myself this morning. Probably no one’s bothered to tell you because they assume you want to stay here.’

‘Being Welsh, as I am, no doubt.’

I couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic.

‘I mean it,’ I said. ‘We all appreciate the help you’ve given us here. If you come, I’ll make sure you’re looked after when we get to Russia.’

‘Very generous of you,’ he said drily. ‘Couldn’t go without talking it over with my mam, though, could I?’

I never knew when he was joking. He claimed that his mother lived alone in Trefil, a village to the north of Tredegar, and that he had stayed behind to look after her. We had never been able to confirm this. He came and went as he pleased.

‘Bring her with you if you want to,’ I said.

He looked beyond me at the others. I couldn’t see his eyes under the shadow of his brow.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, then turned and went back into the house.

Alex had volunteered to take first watch. I stood with him on the balcony.

‘I’ve told Bevan what’s happening,’ I said.

‘Oh? Do you think that was entirely wise?’

‘It can’t make any difference now, can it? Besides, think of how much we owe him. I’ve offered him a place on the ship if he wants it.’

He said nothing to this. I knew he and Bevan had never liked one another, but the Welshman had done as much as Alex to ensure our continued survival. I doubted he would want to leave his homeland for an uncertain future in Russia.

There was a draggy pain in the small of my back, and when Alex suggested we steal off to our bedroom for half an hour, for once I pleaded tiredness. He was ten years older than I, and we had met at Henley when I was eighteen. At first my father had resisted our involvement because Alex was a divorcé, with a reputation as a womanizer. I had found him irresistible from the start, and his appetite for me remained as strong as ever.

‘Besides,’ I said, seeing his disappointment, ‘we can’t leave the fort unguarded.’

Another pinpoint of light was crossing the sky, winking as it went. The night was utterly still and silent, and I felt that we were naked under the gaze of the heavens. At that moment a terrible sense of foreboding filled me, though I couldn’t explain why.

‘Have you got my cigarettes?’ Alex said.

It was only then I realized that Bevan had taken the whole pack.

It was Alex who shook me awake. Groggy, I sat up and saw the first blue hints of dawn through the window.

‘Is it here?’ I asked.

‘Not yet. But I’d be grateful if you took over the watch.’

‘Have you been up all night?’

He shrugged. ‘I thought I’d let everyone get plenty of rest. It could be a long day today.’

‘Into bed immediately,’ I ordered him.

I dressed and went down to the balcony. The dawn chorus had started, though the valley still lay in darkness. Everyone else apart from Victoria was asleep on sofas and armchairs in the drawing room beyond.

Perhaps the Russian craft had been delayed or even shot down. According to Alex, it would most likely follow a northerly route to avoid Aztec airspace in mainland Europe and England, coming down over the Irish Sea and approaching us from the west. I began to fear that it had never set out in the first place.

I went to the kitchen and put a pot of water on the paraffin stove. The smell of the stove made me feel nauseous, so I returned to the balcony.

And then I saw it.

Far south, down the twilit valley, framed by the rounded black hills, was a point of light.

My immediate instinct was to rouse the others and give them the good news that at last the Russians were coming. But as I stared, the point of light resolved into three – one larger, the other two smaller.

All were golden.

For long moments I did not move. I couldn’t take my eyes off their firefly glow, as gold as the sun.

‘Enemy aircraft!’ I shouted. ‘They’re coming!’

In the drawing room, everyone awoke. There was a brief befuddled panic before Alex appeared and confirmed that they were indeed Aztec craft. He began marshalling us.

I rushed off to rouse Victoria. She was still soundly asleep, naked under the sheets. I shook her awake. Ignoring her protests, I scrambled around the room, finding jeans, a blouse, a sweater.

Alex hastened into the room just as Victoria was struggling into her boots. He was carrying his attaché case.

‘Quickly!’ he told us.

We hurried downstairs and went out through a side door, crossing a potato bed before slipping through a yew hedge. A stone stairway led down and away from the house. We skirted the pine plantation, heading across the lower slopes in the general direction of the colliery.

‘Where are the others?’ I asked.

Alex’s reply was drowned in a searing noise which was followed by an eruption of flame on the lower terraces of the garden. We were bathed in golden light as our attackers completed their first pass.

The two smaller craft were fast-flying, manoeuvrable interceptors with slender fuselages and sickle wings. Their larger companion had a pointed nose and high swept-back wings which made it resemble an enormous golden bird of prey: it was a gunship transporter, its hold typically crammed with troops who would spew out to occupy positions softened up by the craft’s firepower. All three shone brilliant gold in the gathering dawn.

Alex crouched and opened his briefcase. He took out the computer disk and thrust it at me.

I stood frozen, staring at it.

‘Take it!’ he insisted. ‘I’m going back for the others.’

He closed the briefcase and flung it away from him, sending it spinning through the air.

‘Alex—’

‘The codeword’s axolotl.’ He repeated the word, then forced a grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back. Head for the bath-house. I’ll find you there as soon as I can. Now get clear of here!’

Banking sharply, and utterly silently, the interceptors came in again. Plumes of liquid fire spurted from their noses, plummeting down to burst on the ground, setting clumps of gorse ablaze and throwing the skeletal framework of the tower into stark relief. Alex was already blotted from view by the smoke.

I slipped the disk into a pocket of my jacket. Keeping Victoria close to me, I led her down the mountain path towards the bathhouse, a squat building which stood on the lower flank of the valley. The air was thick with smoke and the petroleum smell of xiuhatl liquid incendiary.

We skirted the colliery, and I kept glancing back with each explosion. The gunship hovered at a distance while the interceptors swept in, spreading fire and mayhem. The house was still intact, and now the small craft paused in their attacks while the gunship descended until it hung no more than a hundred yards above the house.

White light from the belly of the ship bathed the entire area.

‘You will surrender immediately. No further attacks will be made. You will surrender immediately.’

The amplified message came from the gunship. It was repeated. I pulled Victoria down behind a low wall, searching the hillsides with my eyes for some sign of Alex and the others.

I heard the sound of rifle-fire, and I knew it came from the house, a defiant and futile attempt to resist the attackers with shotguns. A gust of wind cloaked us briefly in gorse smoke. There was a huge pneumatic thump, and the house erupted in a cataclysm of fire.

The blast of heat from the explosion seared our faces, and I pushed Victoria down. When I finally looked up again, fleeing sheep shone like phantoms in the fierce light of the inferno. The house was gone.

My eyes were blinded with heat and tears. Then my heart leapt into my throat as someone grabbed my wrist.

It was Bevan.

‘Be quick, now,’ he said. ‘This way.’

Half pulled, half following, we were led up an incline, scrambling over slag and discarded machine parts, slithering up treacherous shaley slopes, the ground sliding under our feet. Victoria was gasping and sobbing the word ‘Please … Please …’ over and over again, though whether she wanted to stop or was desperate to find safety, I could not say.

Then in front of us, in an overgrown wall behind a tangle of hawthorn, a cast-iron pipe jutted out. About three feet wide, it was coated with moss and algae, a dribble of rusty water trickling from it.

‘Right,’ said Bevan. ‘In you go, then.’

Victoria’s hand tightened on mine. All three of us were panting, and I felt as if I might be sick at any moment. The pipe stood at chest height above a stagnant rusty puddle. Its interior was utterly dark.

‘We can’t go in there,’ I heard myself say.

‘Says who?’ Bevan replied. ‘Want them to have you, do you?’

‘The others,’ I murmured. ‘Alex …’

‘You leave them to me. Go on, now. In.’

The sky was lightening rapidly, and I knew we had little time left. His urgency and insistence galvanized me. Quickly I scrambled up into the maw of the pipe. Bevan helped Victoria in behind me.

I