Berserk

Chapter One

Ten years after Steven's death, Tom never thought that his son would change his life again.

Tom held dear every precious memory of Steven, especially those times that affected him so much that he believed they had altered his perception of things forever. His toddler son, pointing to the sky in wonder and gasping his first word: Cloud! Older, learning to ride his bike, Tom letting go and Steven only falling when he realised he was riding on his own. At thirteen he won a bronze swimming medal for his school in the national finals, and the photograph of the presentation showed a boy on the cusp of manhood: his expression delighted yet reserved, full of self-awareness. At seventeen Steven joined the army, and at nineteen he was accepted into the Parachute Regiment. Tom still had the photograph of his son wearing that red beret hanging above his fireplace at home. It made him proud. It made him sad. It was the last picture he took of Steven before he died.

Tom sat staring into a half-empty glass, listening to the bustle of the pub serving after-work pints and meals, wondering whether he should go home to Jo or stay for one more drink, and Steven suddenly popped into his mind. This often happened—he had been their only child, and his loss had stabbed them with a blade that time kept twisting—but mostly it was when Tom least expected it. He blinked tears into a blur, drained his drink and tried to imagine what Steven would be like now, were he still alive. After ten years in the Parachute Regiment he would have likely seen action, either in Eastern Europe or the Gulf. He would probably be married; he had always been one for the girls, even as a youngster.

Maybe Tom would be a grandparent.

"Hello, wherever you are," he muttered as he stood and walked to the bar. He often pictured the ghosts of those not yet born, shades of lives unlived, and sometimes he craved to be haunted by his own grandchildren. He hoped they would be proud, but he thought not.

"Same again, Tom?"

Tom had placed the glass on the bar with every intention of going home, but now he nodded and handed over a handful of change. Glass replenished, he returned to his table, but two men had taken his place. He considered asking whether he could join them, but the thought of entering into conversation with strangers did not appeal to him right now. Not when Steven was so fresh in his mind.

It's almost ten years. He sat in a window seat close to his original table and sipped from his pint. Ten years since he died. Jo has changed so much in that time. Gone from a lovely young mother into middle-age, barren of all but her hollow hobbies. And I still love her. He drank again and closed his eyes, tears threatening. She loved him, too. It was strong, their bond, and passionate; perhaps the single positive outcome of Steven's death.

He wondered just how much he had changed.

The two men were talking quietly, yet Tom could not help overhearing some of their conversation. He had never been the sort who could shut out background noise, and even if he had no real interest in what was being said, the words still found their way in.

The men were talking about their time in the army. They looked around thirty. Steven's age, were he still alive.

Tom drank some more ale, already beginning to regret this third pint. Jo knew he stopped off for a beer on the way home every Friday. What she did not know was that he was invariably on his own. He had led her to believe that a few colleagues from the office went along, and that small white lie did not bother him greatly. There was no reason to make her think otherwise. She would only worry. And for Tom it was just a couple of quiet pints, during which time he could muse upon the week gone by and contemplate the weekend ahead. He sometimes chatted to the couple who owned the pub, and occasionally he entered into conversation with one or two of the regulars. But more often than not this was his own time. It was when he could really think about whether or not he liked himself. The answers usually came in thick and fast, and that was why he was often home after just a couple of drinks, to immerse himself in life with his wife once again. Smother his thoughts. Bury the aching feeling that he should have done much, much more with a life so scarred by Steven's death.

"… never knew what it was all about," one of the men said. The other nodded meaningfully and drank from his pint. He caught Tom's eye momentarily, then glanced away.

"Well, if he didn't know what they did there, he deserved it."

Tom turned to the side in an effort to hear more of the conversation, but somebody won jackpot on the fruit machine. The celebratory clunking of their ejected winnings drowned the bar for thirty seconds, and by then the two men were once again sitting in silence.

Tom looked around the pub and felt a familiar disquiet settling in. He spent only a couple of hours here each week, and yet sometimes it seemed more familiar than his own living room. Perhaps this was the only place he ever truly relaxed. He closed his eyes and sighed, and when he opened them somebody said, "Porton Down."

He looked at the two men. They were hunkered down over their drinks, leaning in close, but they were not catching each other's eyes. One was staring into his pint glass, the other had found a fascinating snag of lint on his jacket sleeve.

Porton Down! That's on Salisbury Plain where… Where Steven was killed. "Training accident," they had told Tom. When pressed, they gave a few more details, and he had always wished that he had not asked. And yet … there was that ever-present doubt. "Cover-up," Tom's own father had muttered at the funeral, but he was long lost to Alzheimer's by then, and Tom did not pursue the matter.

There came one of those rare moments of silence that haunt bars waiting to manifest, a brief second or two when conversations falter at the same time, the fruit machine falls silent between turns, the bar staff pause for a drink or go to change a barrel, and the juke box takes a breather between tracks. And into that silence—still so quiet that probably only Tom could hear it—one of the men whispered, "They kept monsters."

Later, Tom would spend some time musing on destiny, and what cruel fate had deigned that he hear those three whispered words. If he had gone home after his second pint he would have never heard, and life would have gone on, and perhaps he and Jo would have grown old together, their love doing its best to fill the void where Steven and his family could have been.

But by the time he thought that, he already knew the monsters of which the man had spoken. And in the face of their ferocity, regret had no place at all.

"Excuse me!"

Tom had watched the men finish their drinks, leave the pub, glancing around as if their final comment hung in the air for all to hear. And it was the look in their eyes-scared, defensive—that made him put down his unfinished drink and follow them out.

"Excuse me!"

They were walking quickly, and he had to jog to catch up.

"Excuse me, gents. Hey!"

They paused and turned around. Neither of them looked very welcoming. This close, Tom realised how big they both were. He guessed that they were no longer in the army; one had long hair, the other sported a beer gut that testified to apathy and lack of exercise.

Tom came to a halt, panting, and wondered what the hell he was going to ask.

"Help you?" Long-Hair asked.

"Yes," Tom said, looking from one to the other. Beer-Gut seemed merely dismissive, as opposed to aggressive, so he concentrated on him. "I couldn't help overhearing some of what you were saying in there—"

"Ear-wigging, were you?" Long-Hair asked.

"No," Tom said. "But I heard you mention Porton Down. My son was killed on Salisbury Plain ten years ago, and I was just wondering …" I won't mention their "monster" comment, Tom thought. That's what drove them out, the thought someone might have heard that word. Monster.

"Sorry to hear that," Beer-Gut said, though he sounded indifferent.

"I was just wondering, if you were at Porton Down maybe—"

"We weren't there," Long-Hair said. "You must have misheard us."

"How long ago did you say he was killed?" Beer-Gut asked.

"Leave it!" his friend cut in, but Tom was quick with his answer.

"Ten years next month."

Beer-Gut's eyes widened slightly, he took his hands from his pockets, stood taller.

Long-Hair looked from his friend to Tom, then back again. "I said leave it!" he said, and he went for Tom. He grabbed his jacket and shoved him against the wall, not hard, but there was certainly nothing friendly in the gesture. His breath stank of fear. Tom had never smelled anything like it before, but he knew exactly what it was. This man was terrified. "We just came for a drink," he said. "We don't like people listening in on our conversation, and we don't want to be bothered by stuff we know nothing about."

"So you weren't there?" Tom asked, keeping his eye on Beer-Gut. The big man frowned and refused to meet his gaze.

"Where?" Long-Hair said. "And even if we were, didn't your son tell you anything about the Official Secrets Act? Now fuck off before I get angry." He let go of Tom and retreated, wringing his hands as if embarrassed at his show of aggression.

"If that wasn't you angry, I'd hate to piss you off," Tom said. But Long-Hair did not avert his gaze or apologise. He simply stared, and soon Tom was unnerved enough to back down. "Okay, I must have misheard," he said. "Sorry. I thought I heard you talking about monsters."

Beer-Gut turned and started walking away. Long-Hair smiled, shook his head. "Too much ale, old man," he said. Then he too turned away, and the two men left Tom standing alone. Neither of them looked back.

Too much ale, old man. And for every minute of his walk home, Tom wondered how true that statement could be.

"It's almost ten years, now," Jo said the following Monday morning at breakfast.

Tom nodded. He had just finished his cereal, and his thoughts kept returning to the two men from the pub. One of them aggressive, one of them quiet, but both uncomfortably aware of what he had been asking them. He had not been hearing things, and he had not imagined their comments in the pub. The palpable fear in their reaction made a mockery of their denial.

"You think we should mark the occasion somehow?" she said.

"How?"

She shrugged, twirling a strand of hair. She had always done this when thinking deeply, and Tom loved it. It gave him a glimpse of the vivacious woman he had known before their lives had been blown apart. "Maybe we could visit the Plain again."

They had gone to Salisbury Plain once since Steven's death, on its first anniversary. It was still a military firing range back then, and they had not been able to get anywhere near to where the accident had happened. They had to imagine from a distance; the RAF Tornado swooping in across the hills, unleashing the air-to-surface missile, its pilot pulling up when he realised his mistake. He thought he was firing at a target vehicle, they had been told, not an actual troop carrier. Steven was one of fifteen men killed. They had been returned to their families in sealed coffins with Union Jacks splayed across the lids, a yearly pension payment to the next-of-kin, and no real answers. Accident, they were told. It was an accident.

"We could," Tom said, "if you really want to." Jo shrugged. "I'm not sure what I want." "I'd like to go," Tom said. He nodded. The men's talk in the pub had reignited a deep-felt skepticism about what he and Jo had been told concerning their son's death. Much as Tom realised how ridiculous it was to link the two—the men's strange conversation could have nothing to do with Steven, not after so long–there was always that doubt in his mind to play on. Any small mention of military accidents, mistaken identity, friendly fire, always set his mind running again, turning over the few facts they had been given and creating whole new truths to fill in the gaping blanks.

The inquest had been long. The media had covered it intensively, and following the "misadventure" verdict, newspapers had run interviews with relatives and pressure groups. There had been several TV programmes about the incident, and two investigative journalists had spent a year trying to discover the "real truth." They had come away smug and victorious with what they had found: a few obscure facts about live weapons training policy, and a closet full of skeletons connected to the inquest's presiding officer's sexual preferences. But nothing concrete. After a year in which the fact of Steven's death had been hammered home to them each and every day, Tom and Jo knew little more than they had the day he died.

Tom had no faith in the inquest's findings, and even less in the papers and TV programmes that used it to promote their own sales and ratings. He had no doubt whatsoever that the story they were told was nowhere near the truth, but the glare in which the inquiry took place had swayed many people into believing that the real story was being fully uncovered. What was actually revealed at the end of that long, painful year was yet another skewed version of the same account. More names to blame, rules to change, heads to roll, many apologies made to hungry TV cameras and a public so used to being deceived that they no longer recognised the self-satisfied smiles of their deceivers.

Cover-up, Tom's father had whispered at the funeral.

Tom had always been angry, but the anger was tempered by a grief so all-consuming that he had barely known it himself. For that year he was a stranger living in his own body, existing purely to suffer the memories of his only son. He recalled many occasions that he had not thought about for years, random moments in time, as if his mind were searching for remnants of Steven. Everywhere he looked he saw his son riding a tricycle, kicking a football, leaving home at seventeen to join the army. It came to a point when Tom wished he could go a day without memories, but those were the times when loss hit him hardest. His anger, though rich and deep, was also useless. It would gain him nothing. And he knew that through it all, the most important thing was that he and Jo were there for each other.

He had never forgotten, nor forgiven, but in a way he supposed he had given in. And eventually life moved on.

They kept monsters.

"Yes," he said again, "I'd like to go. I think it would do us some good."

Jo lowered her head and looked down into her mug.

"Jo? You all right?"

She nodded, looked up at him with sad eyes. She rarely cried anymore. Somehow this look of wretchedness was worse. "I'm fine," she said. "It's only an anniversary. Not really a day different from any other."

"No, no different."

"I think about him every day anyway. It's just …" She trailed off, shook her head.

"We should mark the day," Tom said.

"Yes." Jo looked at him and smiled. "It's like a birthday, except this is Steven's deathday. Is that sick, Tom? You think people will think we're weird?"

Tom grasped her hand across the table and felt the stickiness of butter and jam between her fingers. "You think I give a flying fuck what people think?" he said.

Jo laughed. He liked that sound. It reminded him that they still had a life together, and sometimes he needed reminding.

"I'm going to work," he said. "I'll check out the Internet at lunchtime and see if I can find us a nice cottage somewhere nearby."

"I think just a weekend," Jo said. "Any longer may not be very nice."

"Just a weekend," Tom said. He stood and kissed his wife, hugged her, tickled her ear and stepped back as she aimed a slap at his arm. "See you later. Love you."

"Love you too," she said, already standing to prepare for work. "I'll be home a bit later tonight. I need to finish this design before the end of the week."

"I'll cook tea," Tom said. He smiled, and when Jo gave him a smile in return he saw the real, sad depth to her that no banter or play could ever hide.

That lunchtime at work, Tom booked a cottage on the edge of Salisbury Plain for the second weekend in October. It was a remote location, set just outside a little village, an old cottage with two bedrooms, a downstairs toilet, an open log fire and a cold room beneath the kitchen where occupants had once stored their meat and other perishables. It was a ten-minute walk from the nearest pub and restaurant, and a half-hour drive from the military areas of Salisbury Plain. If Steven's ghost haunted the Plain, they would be within shouting distance.

Tom often wondered about ghosts. Steven is always with us, Jo said, but she meant as a memory, the reality of him retained by their never letting his moment in life fade away. But when they were dead and gone, what then? Would their son become nothing more than a number in an army report, a photograph, an occasional thought for his surviving friends? And after that… nothing. How could someone so alive suddenly become so dead? Tom hated this way of thinking, yet he had always possessed a mind prone to exploring the more esoteric areas of life, and Steven's death encouraged that rather than lessened it. Some nights, napping on the settee next to Jo, he found himself wandering the moors, drifting above those dark acres of fern and grass, skipping across marshland, passing through occasional small woods where animals lived from year to year without ever seeing a human being. And occasionally, in the darkest moments, he saw Steven roaming the Plain, confused at his sudden death, crying … crying for his mother and father … because he was far too young to die.

Tom would open his eyes, stare at the familiar four walls of his home, and despair at the brief but intense sense of hopelessness that always followed.

It was a bad afternoon. He sat at his desk and stared out the window, occasionally shuffling papers or opening up new files on his computer to convince himself, at least, that he was working. Steven was there as always, but there was also the huge chasm of emptiness and regret that threatened to swallow Tom whole: regret at a life wasted behind a desk, watching his ambitions and drive rot beneath an assault of nine-to-five indifference; and the emptiness in his own mind, where once had dwelled such grand aspirations. He had always regarded his job as a means to an end, but he had never come close to achieving that end. He sat at his desk for five days each week crunching numbers and paying for his mortgage, forever mourning the career in music that continued to elude him. So many opportunities taken up and blown away, so many deals scuppered because of bad luck or his own stupidity. The fact that he had barely played a note since his son's death did little to quell his regrets.

In their third bedroom Tom's instruments sat on their stands, monuments to lost dreams. They had once been the means by which he hoped to make his mark on the world, but now they merely took up space and drew dust, all potential long since echoed away to nothing. These walls had heard wonderful music, but they gave none back. He would stand in that room sometimes and wonder whether he had changed anything at all. Had a bird heard him playing and changed its course? Had the molecular makeup of the house been subtly altered by the vibration of his double bass, the sweet serenade of his guitar? Was there, anywhere in the world, evidence of the talent he had squandered?

Sometimes he believe that the ghost of his music wandered the Plain with the lost spirit of his only son.

But today, with autumn sunlight making beauty from dying leaves, there was something else on his mind. That doubt, risen from its uneasy grave. And the old anger at the lies they had been told, still tempered by grief, but no longer quashed by its intensity.

By the end of that afternoon, Tom needed to do something positive. He left work early and walked to the pub, hoping against hope, realising how foolish he was being, how naive. And yet he was still not completely surprised to see Beer-Gut sitting at the same table he had shared with his friend that previous Friday, alone this time, pensive and scared.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"Oh shit, I didn't think you'd be here!" Beer-Gut stood at his table, wide-eyed. He looked toward the door as if planning an escape.

"But you came anyway?"

The big man shrugged. He was breathing fast, eyes averted, perhaps going over whatever he had to say in his head.

"Guilt's a weird thing, isn't it?"

"Look, don't fuck with me like that," the man said quietly, staring at Tom for a few seconds before looking away again.

"I'm so sorry," Tom said, shaking his head, meaning it. He offered his hand. "I'm Tom Roberts."

Beer-Gut shook his hand; sweaty palms, but a strong grip. "Nathan King." He sat back down.

"Pleased to meet you."

King did not echo the sentiment, and Tom realised that this was probably the very last place he wanted to be right now. His whole manner projected nervousness and disquiet; the shifting eyes, tapping fingers, frequent sips from his glass.

"Let me get you a refill," Tom said. At the bar he took a few moments to compose himself, and he was suddenly hit by a cool, inexplicable terror. I may discover something terrible now, he thought. Something I haven't known for ten years, and something it may be best I never know. Nothing will bring Steven back. We have a life, Jo and I. We deserve to live it in peace. He paid for the drinks and carried them back to the table, and his deeper inner voice spoke up, the one that occasionally rose to see past the bullshit. Truth deserves a chance, it said.

Tom sat down opposite Nathan King, and prepared to have his life changed again.

It took King several minutes to begin speaking.

The two men sat there silently, letting life wash by in the swish of coats and the waft of end-of-the-day body odour. Tom watched the barmaid smiling at each customer and making them all think they were special, dropping her tips into a glass behind the bar. He listened to the bland pop song whispering from the juke box. He smelled the sharp tang of fatty burgers and chips cooking in the kitchen, a haze of smoke blurring that end of the big room. In one corner an elderly couple sat next to each other without speaking, the contact of their arms communication enough. The man was drinking stout, the woman wine, and Tom wondered how many children and grandchildren they had. People lit cigarettes, laughed, coughed, drank, stared, and none of them were aware of the tension between him and King.

At last King finished the pint Tom had bought for him, placed the glass carefully on the table, sat back and sighed. "I didn't know your son," he said.

Tom frowned, his expression question enough.

"But though I never met him, I'm not here to waste your time. You don't need to know anything about me, but to decide if what I know is of use to you, I need to know about you. And your son. And how he was killed."

Tom sat back in his chair, feeling a peculiar release now that Nathan had initiated conversation. Maybe I will hear things I don't really want to, he thought, and maybe they'll change my life. But if so, then that's only right.

"I've always suspected the story the army gave us was false," Tom said, watching King for any reaction. There was none—he was stony-faced—and Tom realised that he wanted the whole story. Whatever King had to reveal demanded that, at least.

So he continued. It was the first time in years he had spoken in such depth about his son's death.

"They said he was in a training exercise on Salisbury Plain, involving the army and RAF. It was Steven's first major exercise since joining up, and he told us how much he was looking forward to it. Who wouldn't? He was still a kid really, and playing war games for real was exciting as hell for him. He didn't know what it would involve other than having to spend three weeks on the Plain, though he did say he'd be out of contact for that time. He told us not to worry. Of course he did. He was young, indestructible, and it was us that had become more aware of death as time crept on. Having children does that to you. He was dreaming of the parachute drop, the march across the moors, the camaraderie, the triumph of achieving their objective for the day, the smoke and noise and the excitement of knowing that there was nothing really there to do them harm. We were thinking about failed chutes, tanks sinking in the marshes, live rounds when blanks should be used … we were doing our parenting bit, for every day of those three weeks. But I was still thrilled for Steven. He was achieving an ambition he'd had since before he was a teenager. Making a life for himself. I've never really done that, though I've tried, and the fact that my son was doing it… I think I was living vicariously through him. Relishing his success, reveling in the joy he felt, because it was something I rarely experienced myself." Tom took a swig of beer, looked around the bar at the people who all meant nothing to him, and space closed in. He and King could have been sitting anywhere. "You see what I'm trying to say, Nathan? About how much I loved my son? I loved him so much I could live through him, and there wasn't an ounce of jealousy in me. I really, really loved him." He broke off, swallowed hard, waiting for his stinging eyes to clear.

"My parents were never bothered what I did, so long as I left home," King said. "You must have been a good dad."

"I hope Steven thought that way," Tom said, nodding. "I hope he did. Anyway … the exercise. It was a long three weeks for my wife and me. We knew he said he'd be out of contact, but still we waited for the phone to ring, or someone to knock on the door. It's crazy, but you never stop worrying about your children, even when they're adults. There's always something of the child to them in your eyes. Do you know what I mean? Do you have children?" Tom knew the answer even as he asked, and Nathan shook his head.

"Haven't found the right woman yet," King said.

"Good luck to you. Steven left his girlfriend when he joined up, and as far as I know, there was nothing serious for the last years of his life. I guess he was living it up, a man in uniform enjoying the attention. Something else I never did … never played the field. Sounds mad, but that's another thing I'm glad he did. Had fun."

"So what happened?" King asked, a note of impatience creeping in.

"The accident." Tom drained his beer. Through the bottom of his glass the bar seemed even farther away, as if he could close his eyes and wish himself home. "They waited until the end of the exercise to tell us. It happened during the second week apparently, but they waited another week until they called, and by then … by then his body was already being shipped to us. How fucking cold, you know? Icy cold. Even the officer's voice on the phone was hard, however much he tried to project sympathy."

"He was probably scared," King said.

"Scared of telling us?"

King glanced away, shrugged. "Go on."

"They said Steven had been in an armoured troop carrier, out on its own, traveling across the Plain. There were fifteen men in there, including the driver, and they'd just stopped beside a copse of trees when a Tornado fired a missile at them. The pilot thought they were one of the targets set up across the Plain for the RAF to practise bombing. They killed everyone, all fifteen men. And that's it, that's all they said. Apart from sorry. As if sorry is ever any good!" Tom grabbed his glass, realised it was empty, and when he looked across at King he squeezed hard, feeling the click of a crack beneath his fingers. "What is it?"

King had turned pale, and was staring down at his hands in his lap. There was sweat on his upper lip. When he looked up, Tom thought he was going to leave.

"What?" Tom asked again.

"Tom, I'm going to get another drink," he said, and when he picked up his glass his hand was shaking.

For the couple of minutes King was away Tom's mind ran riot, trying to imagine who he may be and what secrets he had to reveal. Was he a survivor? Did he know that lies had been told, and if so what they were? Was he the pilot that had fired the missile? Who, what, when, where … ?

Tom closed his eyes to try and calm himself, prepare for whatever revelation may come. I won't tell Jo, he thought, surprising himself with his own conviction. If it doesn't change anything, I won't tell her. She's suffered enough.

King placed another pint in front of him, sat down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He rushed his words, as if afraid that they would dry up. "Tom, your son wasn't killed in that accident. That never happened. Fifteen men died, but they died at Porton Down, not on Salisbury Plain."

"Porton Down," Tom said, guts clenching, skin running cold. "The chemical and biological research place. Steven was involved there?"

"No," King said, sighing and looking down at his feet. "He was there on a trial period as a guard, that's all. But wasn't involved in that exercise on the Plain." He stayed that way for several seconds, tensed with some inner turmoil. When he looked up again, his eyes had gone hard. "I've said too much already," he said.

"Don't you fucking dare!" Tom hissed, leaning in so that their faces were a head apart. "Don't you even think about starting this and not finishing it! Do you know what I've been through since it happened? The doubt, the suspicion? And now you've told me everything we thought is wrong, you can't just fuck off without telling me how wrong!"

"I could be shot for this," King said, and Tom thought there was little exaggeration in his comment.

"Then why are you here now?"

The big man shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "Maybe sharing my nightmares will lessen them."

"You think I don't have nightmares?" Tom asked.

"No," King said, "you don't…" And the look in his eyes was cold and terrified.

"So… ?" Tom asked, and he thought, maybe he should leave, maybe he shouldn't tell me.

"So … there was an accident at Porton Down. Your son and those others were there, and they were killed. And the army whitewashed it. Made it into something it wasn't. Hushed it up. Believe me, they're good at that kind of thing."

"What sort of accident?"

King looked into his beer. "Something escaped."

"So what did I bury?" Tom asked, suddenly certain that the coffin he and Jo had wept over had been filled with nothing to do with them.

"Sod from the marshes. They buried the dead on the Plain. They didn't want the infection to spread."

"What sort of infection? Plague? What?"

"A plague of sorts," King said. He finished his drink in two gulps, looked around, twitchy. Tom realised that he would be leaving soon, and there was nothing Tom could do to stop him. King already knew he had said too much. But this was still a story without an ending, and Tom could not live with this mystery anymore.

"How do you know all this?" Tom asked.

"I was at Porton Down too," King said. "I had to bury the bodies."

Bury the bodies. Tom closed his eyes and tried not to imagine his son's rotten body, flopping around in the bucket of a JCB with a younger Nathan King at the controls.

"Where's my son's grave?" he asked, eyes still closed.

"Tom, you'll never—"

"Where is my son's grave? Nathan, I need to tell you something. I've mourned for ten years, and I'll mourn until the day I die. What you told me bears up what I've always believed: that we were lied to. But I don't see what I can do about it, other than visit my son one last time. I've spent too long crying over an empty grave." But there is more I can do, he thought, so much more. But not here and not now … I have to think first. Make plans.

"Don't go looking," King said, standing. "I saw the bodies. And I know the truth."

"What truth?" Tom asked, and then the comment he had heard the previous day came back to him just as King spoke.

"They kept monsters there," he said. And before Tom could hit him with any more questions King had left the pub and disappeared into the night.

Something escaped, the ex-army man had said. A plague of sorts. They kept monsters there. …

Tom sat at the table for a long time, staring into the murk of the pub and seeing so much farther—to the moors, to Salisbury Plain. Though he saw something there, its true form was blurred by lies.

But now that the seed of truth had been planted, Tom needed to see it bloom.