Greg was last out of the minibus. The rest of the team were scampering about on the forecourt in front of the clubhouse. He could hear his father barking orders: "Tom, you'll be opening with me."

"Righto, Colonel."

"Harry! Give it all you've got. Remember, we owe these chaps."

"Wilco, Colonel."

"Greg! Where the h.e.l.l is Greg? Come on lad, we haven't got all night. Five hours of sunlight at the most, by my reckoning."

Five hours? Was that how long he had driven for, that day? Or had it been longer? Maybe he'd gone on into the night, the sun and towers the last things he'd seen in daylight?

"What are you mooning about for?"

Greg shook himself. His father, hugely-chested, iron-grey sideburns down either side of his leathery, nut-brown face, was peering at him from the clubhouse door, a bat over one shoulder. "Not been smoking more of that blasted weed again?"

Greg shook his head dumbly. The cooling towers soared into the azure sky beyond the clubhouse. The boy was too agitated to work out whether the sun would sink between them in its final moments of glory, or simply pa.s.s them by in some other direction. At the moment it was a distant fireball, far overhead. It gleamed on the bonnet of the minibus. How had he found his way to this place, that night?, he wondered. Or had he? How many pairs of cooling towers were there in Britain?

"Hmmphf!" With a familiar grunt of disapproval, the Colonel disappeared into the shady interior of the clubhouse, his feet clumping on its floorboards. "I knew we should've picked Cambridge," he was saying to himself The Colonel's men were all out for forty-eight.

Greg's contribution didn't help much. "We're counting on you, boy," his father boomed, clapping him hard on the shoulder as he went in last, the bat tight under his arm.

Greg's mind wasn't on matters, basically. For one thing, the cooling towers dwarfed everything, and now threw dusky shadows over the wall of foliage at the far side of the pitch. For another, evidence of the power station was everywhere: to the south, beyond a green net fence, high voltage pylons stood in regimented rows, linked together by jungles of cable. To the east, behind the clubhouse and its gravel car park, spoil-heaps of cinder were visible, rolling away in a desert of reddish-brown humps. There was no escaping it.

Then there was the fast bowler; a husky, bearded man, standing at the other end of the square, tossing the ball up and down as Greg took his crease, staring hard and trying to suppress an ironic grin, as if he knew something the batsman didn't. Greg had no time to wonder what it was. The first missile came at him before he even knew what was happening. He flailed at it without looking, knowing that he'd missed and jerking his head away from any possible rebound. It was actually a relief to hear the click of the middle stump and the muted applause from the deck-chairs in front of the clubhouse.

For once, his father wasn't able to deride his puny effort as he came off - the Colonel had only made three himself. He still managed to glare at his son with undisguised contempt before stalking away.

After tea, he despatched Greg to the distant boundary. "Long-on," he said irritably. "Let's see if you can get that right."

Greg's heart sank as he sloped across the green. This meant that he'd be directly facing the clubhouse... and the cooling towers. He shook his head to clear it. The July heat was still intense, sweat dribbling down his nose. The air was full of midges and sweet with the smell of cropped turf. He wiped his hands on the back of his white pants as he approached the boundary. It was marked by a wall of vegetation - trees with blue shadows among them, dense leafy bushes and tall mid-summer gra.s.ses. Greg viewed it nervously as he approached. He remembered tangled woodlands last year - hot and dark, twisted, primeval, crimson sunlight shafting through, thorns snagging his soaked shirt and waistcoat, nettles stinging through his dress-trousers.

He was biting a knuckle when he turned his back on it to try and concentrate on the game. The home side were just starting their innings; they had a useful batting order by all accounts. Coincidence... pure coincidence, he told himself over and over again. Somewhere in front, the opening bat hooked a straight six from the first ball. Greg looked up at the cooling towers - deep blue sky, now with a trace of purple, was still framed between them.

"d.a.m.n your lovely hide, Tara!" he hissed under his breath. "Look... I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but it's over. I can live with it, now. I'm sorry. Alright... I'm b.l.o.o.d.y sorry!"

The final apology came out so loudly that one or two other fielders glanced briefly round at him. He grinned and shrugged, then had to duck as the powerhouse batsman hooked his second ball straight for the boundary, this time on Greg's side.

"Six!" shouted the umpire.

Greg went scrambling into the foliage after it, dodging round the first mesh of thickets, then wading through a profusion of weeds and nettles. Green shadows closed in. In the distance, he could hear his father complaining bitterly to his team. The old soldier's sixth sense had still not deserted him. Even at an early stage of combat like this, he recognised impending doom. Greg sn.i.g.g.e.red. The old windbag. He'd had plenty of practise.

Then he stopped dead.

The ball was visible a few feet in front. But beyond it, by fifteen yards or so, what looked like an old van was peeking through the lush undergrowth. For a second, Greg was rooted to the spot. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

The vehicle was mottled and mossed, and sunk to the fenders in briars, but it was definitely a van - a Ford by the looks of it. Greg came a step closer, fresh sweat breaking on his brow. The white and brown paint had now faded and was riddled with cracks. In many places it had flaked away completely, leaving rusty metal beneath. You could no longer read the words 'Gallagher & Son, Caterers' on it. Not unless you had a good imagination. Or knew what you were looking for.

Greg qualified on both counts. He picked the ball up, turned stiffly, and walked through the trees to the pitch. He threw the ball back and resumed his position without a word. It didn't prevent him shaking violently. It couldn't stop the frightful jack-hammer of his heart.

At least the door at the back was still closed, he thought vaguely. It was the van's rear-end he'd seen, so he knew that for a fact. It couldn't have been the front - that was still hard on the oak-tree, where it had mashed itself twelve months ago, after that manic five-hour drive into the setting eye of the sun.

Greg mopped new sweat from his brow. It felt like cold grease.

Twelve months! Had it really been so long ago, that day at his uncle's country seat. In the middle of that first university summer; those endless, idle months of holiday, when Greg, long-haired, bored and now on his father's lead again, was re-introduced after many years to Cousin Tara. Lovely Tara, her hair a wave of flaxen glory, her young lips ripe and red as wine.

For seconds Greg lived it again. Leading her giggling and tipsy down the steps to the lower veranda, where no reveller could see them from the high terrace-windows. Taking another slug from the bottle of Jim Beam, before throwing it into the flowerbeds. Kissing her, her arms wrapping around him. Pushing her back against the ivy-clad bal.u.s.trade. The silken bridesmaid's dress riding up. The pretty white stockings and suspenders beneath. Tara struggling slightly. His hand on the smooth flesh of her upper thigh, gripping it hard... harder. Suddenly drunk with l.u.s.t. Ignoring her cries of pain. His fingers yanking at the lacy crutch of her panties.

"Come on you silly b.i.t.c.h," he jabbered, as material tore. "It's just a bit of fun... you silly, h.o.r.n.y b.i.t.c.h!"

G.o.d, the rapture of penetration! The hot tight folds enclosing his manhood. Tara's cries becoming shrieks. His hand clamping over her mouth. Bucking savagely against her, jarring her again and again on the crumbling, ivy-clad bal.u.s.trade... which apparently was not crumbling as much as he'd thought.

The loud crack was terrible in its finality. Greg heard the smack of wood on leather. He looked up just as another clean drive came rocketing towards him, and ducked with seconds to spare.

"Six!"

The Colonel began to berate his men again, as Greg turned to the darkling woodland behind him. The barrage of abuse this time was something about n.o.body being deep enough. Now somebody was taking his father on. Somebody always took his father on. This one sounded gruff and working cla.s.s.

The row faded into the background as Greg ventured into the trees again. It was hotter and gloomier than before. Moths flitted among the groves. The air felt clammy. He glanced warily about him, but nowhere could he see the ball. He knew that within seconds he'd be back in the glade with the vehicle. He swore. Surely this wasn't possible? Surely, somebody must have found it during the last twelve months? It couldn't have lain here undiscovered for so long. What would the odds be against him being the first? Then he remembered hearing something in the clubhouse about the pitch having been re-marked recently, and the square turned around. Good G.o.d, he might be the first after all!

He toyed with the idea of going back and saying the ball was lost. Sumpton Margaret were bound to have more than one. They probably wouldn't be satisfied with that, of course - corkys were expensive. They'd expect a more thorough search. Some of them might even come over to help him. Christ... they might find the van! Now Greg fought his way through into the clearing. He had to find that ball, and quickly.

He did. At least he found where it had gone to... and it couldn't have been worse. Greg felt his jaw drop. By the looks of things, the ball had struck the vehicle in the middle of its rear door. The old lock, caked with rust, had smashed off with the impact. The door now hung ajar, sullen darkness within.

Greg stared blankly at it. The horror was almost too much to bare. Seconds pa.s.sed and he couldn't do anything; neither advance nor retreat. If only he'd been more sensible, he found himself saying. If only he'd kept a cool head that day, and thought his way through. But of course, he'd panicked. G.o.d, how he'd panicked.

He remembered staggering backwards across the lower lawn, dragging Tara's leaden weight behind him. Remembered hearing calls for her on the veranda. Natalie - Tara's older sister - looking to pa.s.s on the bridal bouquet. Oh Christ, they'd seen him dancing with her! They'd seen them come out together!

"Jesus wept, Tara!" he spat. "It was just a bit of fun. It didn't mean anything. What the h.e.l.l are you crying for, for Christ's sake!"

Not that Tara had been crying. The sobs he'd heard were his own. From the glaze in her eye and the angle of her neck, Tara would never cry again.

Moments of sheer madness had followed. A winding garden path, which seemed to lead nowhere. The frightening click of croquet b.a.l.l.s just over a hedge. Natalie calling again, some short distance behind them. Greg's eyes filled with sweat, his crooked back aching. And then, suddenly, salvation! A side-gate leading to the drive, and there, unattended, one of the catering vans. Its rear compartment unlocked, keys still in the ignition.

As Greg stood staring at the vehicle, in its shroud of forest debris, he remembered the mad, directionless drive, and always that sinking ball of flame ahead; his only marker. How many hours had he driven for, and how many times over the legal limit of alcohol had he been? Even then, that awful thought had penetrated his skull; so much so that he'd finally had the sense to get off the road before some traffic patrol stopped him. Greg cringed as he remembered turning sharply down a rural track, and hearing that tumbling weight in the rear.

Oh G.o.d... oh Lord, what had he done?

He swallowed and padded quietly forwards, vision locked on the half-open door, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He closed his eyes as his mind tried to grapple with the magnitude of the thing he had to do. He came to another halt, and stood swaying, hugging himself. The van's interior was a chasm before him. Nothing stirred in its depths.

He stared into it, his hair p.r.i.c.kling.

From some distant place behind him, he fancied he heard shouting. How long had he been gone?, he wondered. Seconds? Minutes? They'd be coming to help soon, whether he liked it or not. And they wouldn't hesitate to look in the van.

Like a statue creaking into life, Greg forced himself forward to the back of the vehicle. Still, nothing was distinct inside it. A faint musty smell poured out, but it wasn't as foul as he'd feared. His hand was shaking as he extended it to the door. A dent was visible, and a slight red blemish where the corky had struck the metal.

Greg a.s.sumed it was from the corky. His fingers made contact. The old door squealed noisily as he pushed it slowly open. Dull greenish light rolled inward over a floor of corrugated metal, revealing rivets, strips of crinkled paper, an old tray... and a cricket ball, sitting at the farthest end.

And that was all.

Greg made no move to enter. He was totally perplexed. He looked around again; tried to check out the message in the faded paintwork along the vehicle's flank. What if it wasn't the same van? What if it was coincidence? What if the whole thing was just coincidence?

He scrambled quickly inside and crawled towards the ball. What if it was the same van but somebody had already been there and found Tara? He paused to consider. No. He'd have heard about it by now. He took the ball thankfully in his hand, then a truly horrible thought struck him. Suppose, just suppose, Tara had got out herself... finally released when the corky broke open the door? Greg went cold. He glanced uneasily around, looking for evidence that she'd been there. The first thing his eyes alighted on was a torn fragment of material lying in the nearest corner.

Silk?, he wondered. White silk, now ripped and filthy?

A shadow fell across him.

Greg slowly turned. A black, tattered figure was standing framed against the trees, staring silently in at him. Its head was c.o.c.ked unnaturally to one side.

The boy threw himself backwards, screaming hysterically. Unable to retreat further, he slammed his hands over his face.

"For G.o.d's sake, what b.l.o.o.d.y rubbish is this!" came a hushed but outraged voice.

Stuttering, Greg peeped through his sweaty fingers. The figure outside was his father, his broad features written with disbelief. Other cricketers were emerging through the undergrowth behind him. Most were swishing through the weeds with bats and wickets.

"I... I..." Greg didn't know what to say. A tear ran down one cheek. "I... I got it," he finally stammered, holding up the ball.

The Colonel's astonishment seemed to grow. Now there was a hint of fury, as well. "I can see I'll have to keep a tight rein on you even beyond the summer," he hissed forcibly. "Those drugs have knocked you for six."

Greg nodded dumbly and climbed hurriedly from the van. All of a sudden, living at home under close scrutiny seemed a far better option than returning alone to his flat in the dingy Oxford suburbs. He followed the others out of the woods without a single backwards glance, and once on the pitch, asked his father if he could change position and maybe field from the other side.

The Colonel's reaction was to start swearing, and eventually he had to be led away by Tom and Harry. "Do you have any inkling of the humiliation we're facing?" the old man shouted over his shoulder, as he was steered back towards the crease.

Greg didn't. And he didn't care, because as the rest of the team drew away, he became aware of the woods behind him, and sounds he hadn't noticed before.

There was a faint, ongoing rustle for one thing, like old skirts dragging through the undergrowth. He listened to it for minutes in a state of horrified fascination, too frightened even to glance over his shoulder. It seemed to be coming closer. Then there was something else; almost like a chuckle. Hardly discernible, but clearly a chuckle. A slight, girlish chuckle.

The game resumed but Greg scarcely noticed. He was almost paralysed with fear. "Oh Tara," he whimpered. "Don't do this to me... please. I don't deserve this."

"Greg," she whispered, from somewhere very close at hand. "Greg, my love..."

His joints were like ice. He could sense the figure behind him, slightly shaded in the cover of the trees, but almost within touching distance.

"Greg... ory!" A breathless, beautiful, singsong whisper.

Slowly, despite himself, Greg twisted round to look.

And was baffled. The boughs were heavy with leaf, the s.p.a.ces between them deep in shadow. But there was n.o.body there. n.o.body at all. He scanned the tranquil groves frantically. Hardly a breeze stirred among them. The forest lay at peace. He turned slowly back to the game. A dream, then? Fevered imagination?

Then he looked up.

And saw the dull red globe hanging between the cooling towers. He gaped in horror. It was immense. It filled the sky like a scene from the Apocalypse.

It smashed into his left temple.

There was loud crack, and a searing light filled Greg's eyes. Blinded, he tottered backwards. Only when the bushes enclosed him, did the light diminish. In fact, it went out like a candle. And in the sudden darkness, he tripped. With a scream, he fell.

With a sigh, she caught him...

[Originally published in Kimota 7, Winter 1997].

TREADING THE REGOLITH.

by Cate Gardner.

Lunar dust blew into the tent with the strength of her frustrated kick. Sarah stood in the opening, looking out at the world they'd left behind, and gulped oxygen as if it ran short. Across the clearing, Ted sat on a bench. She wondered what occupied his mind, a.s.suming his mind was occupied. It so often wasn't. Such thoughts would drain her sanity until she sat vacant eyed beside Ted. She almost wished for that.

The absence of sound reminded she was a long way from home and there was no thumbing a lift back. Within the weight of his helmet, her husband's smile beamed and his eyes bugged out. He couldn't get enough of the view.

The sight of Earth hurt Sarah's eyes. You do it for him. For the love of who he was.

A land-truck lurched across the desolate landscape. Windscreen wipers left grey arcs across the gla.s.s. The rev of its engine drowned out the silence and allowed her sanity to settle back into place.

Ted shifted position. He turned away as the truck stopped just shy of his bench. Sarah waved to the driver. Her arm felt c.u.mbersome within the suit. The driver jumped out of his vehicle.

"Just enough room to breathe," the driver said, his voice crackling through her helmet's speaker. "You get used to it."

A dozen comebacks tore around her mouth. She remained silent.

The driver's steps bounced across the surface and, coupled with his inane grin, gave the impression he no longer possessed all his faculties. String spooled from his waistband and led back to the truck. Mad for sure.

He flicked his finger at the string. It pinged. "When you've sprung a little too far to the left you'll understand. I'm Dirk Dillon, your Luna Four representative."

"Sarah and Ted Mulhern." Her voice echoed within the helmet. It sounded as if she had a cold. "Good to meet you."

"First off, allow me to apologise for being unable to take you with the rest of the group. The usual land truck, a thirteen-seater, broke down as we were leaving Luna Four forcing us to use the smaller non-regulation vehicle. Complimentary oxygen, Spam and other a.s.sorted tinned goods will be provided as an apology."

The thank you caught in her throat. Breath issued as static and disturbed the dust that had collected around her helmet microphone. He nodded and grabbed her gloved hand.

Ted turned away from the Earth as if sensing an invasion. Finally, he moved.

"Ted Mulhern, Ted Mulhern," his voice echoed. "Pleased to meet you."

The two men shook gloves, then Dirk patted Ted's shoulder. Ted responded by patting Dirk's elbow. Sarah coughed.

"Now aren't we a happy triangle." It hurt Sarah to smile. "I guess we should be going."

They followed the string back to the land truck. With a final glance at the unmanned tent, Sarah climbed in.

"What's Luna Four like?" she asked.

"As they say in the brochures, it's unlike anything you've seen before."