of smouldering ashes by the time they even got here. I mean, they wouldn’t even know the house was burning, unless they saw the light in the sky from Cley. And this is the time they burn the stubble anyway. I can see one field of stubble burning from here. Between us and Cley.’
Poor Rose could find nothing to say.
‘Point is,’ said Timothy, ‘we’ve got to save ourselves. I can hold them off till dark, because I’ve scared them now. They’ll be looking at that old bastard’s hand, and wondering what it’s like having the same hole in your face. But after dark, one petrol-bomb through a downstairs window . . .’
‘Can’t we make a run for it?’ asked Jane.
‘They’re watching the house. Pretending to be cutting the hedges. I can see five of them. They’re all round . . .’
This just isn’t happening, thought Rose wildly.
‘One of us might get away, around dusk,’ said Tim thoughtfully. ‘If one of us got away, they wouldn’t dare harm the others. Not unless the one that got away was caught. Where’s the nearest help, Mum, d’you think?’
‘The minister,’ said Rose weakly. ‘The minister at Cley. He knows . . . most of it, anyway. He wanted to help us get out this morning. He offered . . .’
‘Pity you didn’t take his advice,’ said Timothy, mercilessly.
‘Or the police,’ said Rose.
‘They’ll be keeping an eye on the police-station,’ said Timothy. ‘On the whole Cley road. You’ll have to work across the fields, Jane. Or go down to the shore and along the beach. They might even send someone down to the beach. Keep to the hedgerows, that’s best.’
‘Jane can’t go!’ said Rose desperately.
‘Well I can’t go,’ said Tim. ‘Jane’s useless with the pistol. Can’t hit anything.’ Then he added, ‘And you’re too big, Mum.’ Then he added, in a kinder voice, ‘Besides, you’ve got to stay and talk to them, if they come back.’
It began to rain towards dusk. Great clouds swept in over the sea, and the dusk began to come terribly quickly. Rose just sat, without volition, without belief. All the life seemed to have run out of her.
She started out of a cold doze, as Timothy spoke to her. Kindly. Reassuringly. Just like Philip. She looked at her son. He looked tense, but in a way he was loving it. She remembered an army colonel talking on the radio once. Young men make the best soldiers, he had said. Eighteen-year-olds, even sixteen-year-olds, make the best killers. They have no imagination; they do not understand what it is to inflict or suffer pain and death. How about thirteen-year-olds? she thought wildly. She had read of thirteen-year-olds committing murder. In America even ten- or eleven-year-olds. With guns. It was all a video game to them, at that age.
Mature people make the worst killers, the colonel had said. Because they can empathize with pain. My God, she thought, I am a useless quivering mass of empathy.
‘Got a little job for you, Mum. Now listen! All I want is for you to go down to the outhouse. Use it, if you like. You must be bursting by now. But the thing is, when you come out, forget to close the outhouse door. Just leave it open, about a foot or so. Right? Now can you remember that? Don’t close the door afterwards. Just leave it open, carelessly. Open, right?’
Wearily, she nodded. There seemed no harm in leaving an outhouse door open.
‘Off you go, then!’ He hauled her out of her chair and gave her a helpful push towards the door.
‘Put your anorak hood up,’ said Tim. ‘It’s raining. You’ll get your hair wet.’
Without thought, she let him push it up for her; he patted her hair back in place with affection, and let her pass.
It seemed a long lonely walk to the outhouse. She glanced about, nervously. She spotted one man cutting a hedge at a distance. He straightened up as she emerged. Watched her all the way to the outhouse door. It was strangely humiliating. She pulled the door hard shut, and bolted it on the inside.
The need to go came on excruciatingly; she only just got her jeans down in time. Even her body felt a hostile stranger.
Afterwards, she nearly shut the door behind her. From sheer habit. It was only the sight of Tim’s anxious face and gesturing hand in the kitchen window that reminded her in time.
She walked back to the garden, in a cold sweat. Couldn’t she do anything