The Watchers Read online

  I knew Selina had been raised a Catholic, but why had she marked these specific passages? Confused, I went back to bed, my eyes itching with tiredness, and eventually fell asleep. That night I dreamed again that I was eleven, on my knees, hands clasped together in prayer as Grandfather loomed over me. The memory morphed suddenly, the way it does in dreams, so that I was at once in his study and somewhere else. Somewhere outside. The wind in my face, the sensation of motion. The lighthouse—

  The shrill ring of the telephone jolted me awake. I went out into the cramped hall to answer it, reciting in my head, Somewhere, we went somewhere . . . but where?

  A voice I couldn’t immediately place said, ‘Can’t sleep, Mr Wilding?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  A pause.

  ‘Mr Wilding, I must meet with you. Tonight, while there is still time.’

  Ah. That American drawl.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘To help,’ he said quietly.

  For some reason I couldn’t fathom, Lieutenant Colonel Corso wanted to talk.

  – 7 –

  Midnight struck as I arrived at the small bridge spanning the lake that dominates the centre of St James’s Park. A greyness blurred the outline of the trees, beyond which, across a stretch of dark glassy water, Buckingham Palace glowed brightly through the gloom.

  ‘I thought you weren’t gonna come,’ said an abrupt voice.

  At the other end of the bridge Lieutenant Colonel Corso was detaching himself from the shadows. We met in the middle, keeping a cautious distance.

  I studied him carefully for a moment. This was a different Corso to the man who had given evidence to the inquiry: agitated, smaller somehow. The skin around his eyes was stained with dark rings, and the determination that had characterized his face was missing.

  ‘Mr Wilding, I need to talk to you about the inquiry – about what happened at Croughton.’

  I was going to say, But you weren’t even there, except it was obvious now that that had been a lie.

  ‘Why come to me now?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve held my silence long enough.’

  ‘Why should I believe anything you say?’

  ‘Honestly?’ He dropped his voice. ‘Because my life is in danger, and because I believe that your colleague, Miss Searle, was injured because of me.’

  For a moment I couldn’t process the words. ‘Because of you?’

  He nodded. ‘Miss Selina Searle came to see me at Croughton some weeks back. I also visited her in your employer’s constituency, in the Havens. She wanted to discuss, off the record, what happened that night back on base in ’63.’

  ‘Before the inquiry?’ I didn’t even attempt to hide my disbelief. ‘No way! She would have told me.’

  ‘Miss Searle already knew too much. Because the truth is something they will do anything to protect.’

  I turned my back on him, staring into the strange ghostly fog that hung low over St James’s Park. ‘Do you mean the IRA?’ I asked, thinking of the car bomb that had exploded outside Parliament just a year earlier.

  ‘This wasn’t the IRA,’ said Corso.

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘Ask yourself who would lose the most from this inquiry?’

  I thought about it. ‘The victims, the campaigners who went to Croughton and who are still waiting for justice?’

  ‘The Americans, Mr Wilding. The NSA, the CIA. Don’t think they’re not capable of it. Yeah, sure, suspicions will be laid at the feet of the IRA, but the explosion will be ruled an accident. The truth is, that boat was remotely controlled.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I’m in a position to know many things. About our nations. Their secrets.’

  He sounded more human than he had during the committee session and I sensed that he wanted, perhaps needed, to unburden himself. He came a step nearer.

  ‘Your colleague, Miss Searle, was one of a number of targets. She was very troubled when we met and wanted to talk about something she had seen. She thought I might be able to help. She showed me a drawing given to her by a constituent, Mr Wilding. She wanted to make sense of it.’

  ‘What sort of drawing?’ She had never mentioned any drawing to me.

  From somewhere beyond the park came the wail of a police siren. Corso threw a quick glance over his shoulder before continuing in a low voice. ‘In 1963, the night of the protests at RAF Croughton – I have to say your boss Bestford was right – there was an accident on the runway. A warplane loaded with a bomb caught fire. Thankfully, our men managed to extinguish it, but not before the bomb was scorched and blistered.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘Only God knows how close we came that day.’

  ‘How did Selina know about that?’ And why the hell didn’t she ever tell me?

  ‘Somehow, Miss Searle discovered there had been other events on base that night,’ he declared. ‘Certain unexplainable events.’

  ‘Like what?’ I demanded.

  His eyes turned up to mine. ‘Lights in the sky, hovering over the forest near the base,’ he said at last, quietly but with absolute conviction. ‘We had nothing on radar, but these lights were perfectly visible. Just hanging over the trees. I sent a team of men to investigate, and they came back with abnormal radiation readings. Terrified.’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he held up a hand.

  ‘I’m nowhere near finished. There had been bad static on the radio all night. I was alone in the control tower when I heard the noises – quiet at first, just faint whisperings, but gradually getting louder, like twigs or stones lashing on the roof. Then an odd humming noise. And I saw it. An odd light on the horizon. Just hovering, burning orange, like . . . like a fire in the night sky.’

  I glanced up. The phrase had momentarily brought an image of my grandfather to mind. ‘A star, perhaps?’

  ‘The brightest light I ever saw.’

  ‘Or a planet? Certain atmospheric conditions at night can make it seem as though—’

  ‘The thing flew at me.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘It flew straight at me, towards the tower.’

  ‘Colonel—’

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said, gripping my arm. ‘There was a huge blast of light, and I saw it clearly – a huge black triangle. I had to duck as it swooped overhead.’

  I’d heard of flying saucers . . . but flying triangles? I felt conflicted. This was not some wide-eyed believer. I was staring into the eyes of a professional whose occupation depended on maintaining a clear mind. Corso was a trained observer.

  ‘So what was it? Some sort of experimental aircraft? A drone?’

  ‘Every aircraft I know of makes some sort of noise. This was silent.’

  ‘Was it tracked on radar?’ It must have been, if it was as large as he claimed.

  ‘No. Radar said the skies were clear.’ He released my arm before continuing in a slow, deliberate voice. ‘Listen, this was a structured craft under intelligent control. Unreal. As it passed overhead a whiney, hissing sound came from the radio. The air was filled with electricity and the whole place shook. My coffee mug jumped off the desk and smashed on the floor. Seconds later, the plane on the runway caught fire. Electrical systems all over the base malfunctioned. And it was then that the per­imeter fence was breached.’

  ‘By a protestor.’ I didn’t ask if it was my mother, but it’s what I was thinking.

  He shook his head.

  ‘I don’t understand. Then by whom?’

  ‘By what, Mr Wilding.’ His face darkened. ‘It was a man but like no man you’ve ever seen. Must have been seven feet tall. And shimmering. Silver.’

  I wanted to laugh. I wanted to leave.

  He held up a rough palm. ‘Now, I know what you’re thinking: I was tired, asleep maybe, dreaming or worse, drinking? But othe
r men saw it too. The personnel standing watch at the armament barracks. With the protestors beyond the perimeter fence south of the fighter wing, they were on high alert. The thing didn’t walk; it floated. Passed right through the metal fence. And instantly all the electrical equipment failed all over the base, a fire broke out in the officers’ mess, and the plane on the runway caught fire. The protestors were caught in the middle of it all.’

  The story sounded absurd. All I could think was, Why are you telling me this?

  ‘What were you keeping on the base?’

  ‘Cruise missiles,’ he replied at once. ‘Their transporters, nuclear warheads.’

  It was the answer I had long suspected, and if I’d heard it during parliamentary business it would have vindicated my hard work, and I’d have been celebrating. Because my mother had been right, even though my father had mocked her, belittled her belief that the US Air Force was using Britain as a base for nuclear weapons. But now I didn’t feel like celebrating, not in these circumstances.

  ‘And it wasn’t only the perimeter fence that was breached,’ he added. ‘The hardened armament barracks were found unlocked and opened. The warheads were exposed.’

  ‘Jesus . . .’

  ‘Mr Wilding, something invaded our airspace that night, invaded the base,’ Colonel Corso stated in the stern self-assured fashion of a man who believed his actions were just. ‘So you’ll understand why my men fired at the thing, but also why the entire event had to be kept secret.’

  ‘Did the protestors see it too?’

  ‘Some of them did. Some of them were close to the plane when it caught fire. They were burned either by that fire or whatever the hell it was that visited us that night. They didn’t remember much,’ he said shakily. ‘You see now why our men acted to contain the situation. We had to get the protestors away. And we couldn’t risk the story getting out.’

  Strange objects in the sky? Shimmering silver figures? Mum had never mentioned any of this. She had returned from the protest badly injured and disorientated, her memory shot. ‘Colonel, people died that night. Were injured. My own mother was partially blinded.’

  ‘I regret that. I truly do. But we were totally unprepared for what happened.’

  ‘Someone must have leaked it, surely?’

  ‘The airmen, engineers, scientists, even the cleaners were sworn to secrecy. Their oaths were sacred. Working at Croughton was an honour and a privilege.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘Redeployed to American bases all over the world. A new runway was constructed on base, more weapons were brought in, and security stepped up. More land was acquired and a new facility was built at the northern end of the base. Officials flew in from the air force, the CIA, the National Security Agency and the Atomic Energy Commission. The whole project – the event, its cover-up, the investigation – was codenamed Caesar. No one outside the project, absolutely no one, knew about it.’

  I pulled my coat around me, watching his words frost on the freezing night air. This all sounded as fanciful as one of Grandfather’s stories. The monsters from his fairy tales lived only in stories by the likes of M. R. James and H. P. Lovecraft; the real monsters were the men my mother despised, the men who funded, manufactured and stockpiled nuclear warheads. Men like Colonel Corso. But I couldn’t believe his tale. Not one word. Except, if he was lying now, I had to wonder why.

  ‘What are they doing at this new facility?’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you. It’s off limits, even to me. But somehow Selina knew all about the events that led to its construction. The sightings, the cover-up.’

  How did she know? Selina only dealt with constituency business.

  ‘What was she looking for?’

  ‘A connection with recent sightings in your employer’s constituency. The Havens.’

  ‘You’re seriously asking me to believe that what happened in Parliament was an assassination attempt because of all this?’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I muttered. Although now I wasn’t sure.

  ‘I envy you, Mr Wilding,’ Corso said slowly. ‘You have the luxury of remaining fixed in your purpose to protect and promote peace without ever having to know the consequences of that mission.’

  ‘What about you? You went along with this.’

  ‘I’ve paid the price, believe me, Mr Wilding. I’ve lost . . . so much. My family. My daughter. Now I believe they’re monitoring me. Watching me. That my life is in danger.’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’

  Suddenly we heard nearby the sound of feet crunching on gravel. Corso grabbed my arm and pulled me to the end of the bridge. In the grey murk that shut out the view of the Mall beyond the park we waited in silence for the footsteps to pass.

  ‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’ I whispered.

  He waited until the only sound was of the Union Jacks lining the edge of the Mall in celebration of the Silver Jubilee billowing and snapping in the wind, and then he said, ‘You don’t. But even now you’re wondering, aren’t you?’

  I knew that Selina had been looking into supposed UFO sightings in the constituency, one of so many odd tasks that lands on the desk of a parliamentary researcher. But she was aware of my personal interest in the anti-nuclear protests at RAF Croughton, and it seemed impossible that she would have pursued such a line of inquiry without telling me. And if there was another link between RAF Croughton in Northamptonshire and the Havens in west Wales, I sure as hell wasn’t seeing it.

  Studying my face, Corso reached into his pocket and took out a folded piece of notepaper, which he handed to me. ‘Miss Searle gave me this. Take it.’

  I unfolded the paper and looked down but had to strain to see in the darkness.

  ‘I can’t explain it,’ Corso added. ‘I doubt you’ll find anyone who can.’

  Tilting the paper into the moonlight, I could just make out a rough pencil sketch drawing of a bulky figure with a square shaded area where its face should have been. It vaguely resembled an Apollo astronaut, but the figure’s arms were too long, its head too rectangular.

  ‘Miss Searle, you and Bestford – all of us, everyone in that committee room – almost died because of this,’ Corso said. He kept his eyes on the drawing. ‘Whatever was seen on my base in ’63, I think Miss Searle saw it too. Or knew someone who had.’

  ‘Why on earth would you think that?’

  ‘Something she knew, from speaking to people. Something she told me.’

  ‘What . . . what did she tell you?’

  His answer made me straighten. Made me go cold. ‘She said their faces were made of shadows.’

  – 8 –

  ‘Unexplainable events,’ Corso had said. But I had learned long ago that there was always a logical explanation to be found.

  One evening in the depths of winter – I was thirteen, I think, or fourteen – and just home from school, a door banged in the wind. I crept out of the kitchen into the hall to see my grandfather hunched in his overcoat in the porch, his gnarled fingers gripping a camera. His head was tilted back and his eyes fixed on the cloudy night sky. I came and stood beside him and saw the focus of his attention, a brilliant flashing white light. Somewhere in the farmyard Jasper, my only friend, my only source of comfort, was barking madly.

  ‘Get inside!’ Grandfather ordered. ‘You must not look at it, do you hear?’

  I heard but I didn’t understand. The light was strikingly bright and, by my estimation, very high in the sky. But it seemed to be coming nearer. As it approached I saw that it wasn’t just a light but a burning cross radiating points of light from all angles. It was flattish but with rounded edges, and there was no engine sound. No noise whatsoever.

  ‘Boy, I said inside!’

  I obeyed but only for a moment. My feet took me through the hall, into the kitche
n and out the back door. I stood in the cold and looked up again into the sky.

  The fiery cross was still visible, though it had slowed, was hovering. It then moved across the sky, and as it passed over the lower fields, towards the cliff edge where I was forbidden to venture, I had to run across the yard to the cattle sheds to keep it in view. Jasper was at my feet, growling, his hackles up.

  Now the cross was hanging over St Brides Bay. There it lingered for a few more seconds, the dark waters around Stack Rocks reflecting a deep red glow, before it flashed brightly and dissolved into darkness.

  Grandfather turned and saw me, and I hardly had time to frame the question on my lips – ‘Did you get it, Grandfather; did you get it on film?’ – before he threw an arm around me and dragged me back to the farmhouse, muttering under his breath about fires in the sky, signs in the heavens and imminent danger.

  The next morning, watching as Grandfather trawled the newspaper for other reports, I began to wonder if perhaps there was something to his curious tales. Even though nothing had shown up on the photographs Grandfather had snapped, I had seen it too. I hadn’t imagined the fiery cross. And if he and I were deluded that night, so were many more people.

  Over the next few days there were numerous other sightings of things in the sky, including reports of a fiery cross from six police officers in Glossop, Derbyshire. In the ensuing investigation the closest airbase to the incident, RAF Chivenor, denied radar confirmation of any unknown object.

  I couldn’t help it, but I began to wonder whether Grandfather was right.

  He wasn’t; there aren’t any such things as flying crosses. But planets and stars? Meteorites and satellites? Sure, there’s an abundance of those. Turns out that’s what we saw – a Russian satellite re-entering the earth’s atmosphere. It was in the paper a few weeks later. As the satellite’s altitude decreased, atmospheric conditions made spikes of light, beams and sparkles shoot out in all directions. Tricks of the light.