“Round and round, like the diurnal revolution of the earth, went the file, stately, solemn, sure and slow; and now, in due season, it has completed its orbit, and I am invited to register the concluding stage.”

A 1901 remark by George Nathaniel Curzon, Baron of Kedleston, The Viceroy of India.¹

CHAPTER 5 CHANGE A BULB

John Gilchrist scraped ice from both windscreens, (scraper in one gloved hand, slice of toast in the other), and ran back to his bright warm kitchen. “You should be able to see out now.” Frost from his shoes dripped onto the kitchen mat.

“Shame you can’t stay off longer,” said Maggie “You could help Jennie and I take down the Christmas decorations.”

“Do we have to take them down?” said Jennie.

“Of course.” John Gilchrist went to pick up his daughter, then remembered she was too big for that now. “If you pack them away it keeps them nice for next year. Right Love. I’m off.” He embraced his wife.

“Have you had your toast?” asked Maggie

“Yes. Thanks. Love you. Bye.” John returned to the pre dawn cold.

He revved the engine, turned on the heaters and lights, selected some Stan Getz, drove out past Maggie’s car, into the lane, onto the village high street. Past the pub, the church, with dead leaves frozen to the gravestones, the shop, and the row of thatched cottages. Past the last street lamp, into the avenue through an icicle hung wood.

Then he jumped on the brakes.

Braked hard, skidded on icy leaves.

“Bloody deer.” But at least he’d missed it.

The deer looked at him with amused disdain, greyish brown in the half light, then gracefully disappeared through the trees.

At the end of the cold shadowy valley the road burst onto the meadows of Salisbury Plain. All iced up dew, with sheep standing in circles for warmth, their heads facing out on guard for foxes and terrors of the night.

Above freezing mist, the sky turned pale blue. Jet con trails inbound from America were high enough to be gold in the rising sun, wispy arrows of speed and commerce pointing towards London.

John drove past the Iron Age hill fort, Carbonec Castle, towards a large plantation of pine trees. Covered in melting frost, quite Christmasey. Except for a chain link fence topped with razor wire. Every 30 meters or so, a notice said “Ministry of Defence Property. No admittance. No photographs.” Underneath was small print. About the Official Secrets Act, CCTV cameras, armed police, and what happened to anyone who got in.

John slowed by the main entrance, with dozens of cars coming in from the A303, a four lane highway across Salisbury Plain.

He drove past the outside car park, meant for buses, taxis, visitors awaiting their entrance pass, and hire cars uninspected for bombs.

A concrete monolith said “MOD Carbonec” Roadside message screens lit up with “Sidelights only on approach” (so the guards and cameras wouldn’t be dazzled reading registration numbers) and “Operation wide awake” and “Emergency State. Substantial.”

Constable Barrett of the Ministry of Defence Police shrugged her shoulders, relieving the weight of navy blue body armour. She moved her new pattern Heckler and Koch machine gun to see her wrist watch with the jewelled strap, a Christmas present from her boyfriend. Almost 8-30. It would get warmer and in half an hour she'd be relieved. Very relieved to get out of this, and have a warm cup of tea. She inspected the next car at the boom, its number plate tallied on her screen in the sentry box' and the driver was holding up his pass. She waved him in.

She saw Lamberley and Cheesman, gate guards, who were supposed to randomly pull cars over to search for bombs. But being young lads they only pulled in

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