The cave - By Kate Mosse Page 0,1

hoped the views would lift his spirits, restore him. He wanted to enjoy life again. It had been a long time since anything much mattered.

At first all had gone well and Freddie had enjoyed the drive. It was a beautiful landscape, a place of wild contrasts - the splendour of the mountains ahead, the green beauty of the river valleys and gorges, the endless chill blue sky, the river running alongside. On the plains, row after row of grapes on the vine stretched as far as the eye could see and there were olive trees with their silver-green leaves and black fruit. On the terraces of the houses, he saw earth-coloured pots filled with white and pink geraniums and blooms the size of a man’s hand.

As he drove south, following the line of the river, he saw villages hidden in the folds of the mountains. On every peak stood the remains of a long-deserted fortress. Freddie knew the region had a terrible and bloody history. In the Middle Ages these silent, still plains and valleys had been the setting for more than a hundred years of war. The echoes of the past were everywhere.

The south-west of France had suffered less than the north-east in the recent war that had torn Europe apart. Even so, Freddie noticed that in every village there were monuments recording the names of all those who had died fighting for their country.

Freddie’s brother George had gone to war and never come back. Missing in action in July 1917, presumed dead, his body had never been found. Even now, more than ten years on, Freddie still found it hard to believe George wouldn’t stroll in the door one day. He thought he heard him whistling. Or he imagined him sitting in the old armchair blowing smoke rings.

Freddie took off his flat cap and ran his fingers over his oiled hair, smoothing it flat. After hours of jolting and rattling over stones and potholes, all he wanted was a long, hot bath and a whisky and soda.

He sighed. He spent too much time thinking about the past. The present was difficult enough. He was lost and would stay lost unless he worked out where he was.

Freddie was due to meet up with his two oldest friends in the small town of Quillan at six o’clock that evening. Their idea was to have a few days walking in the mountains on the French-Spanish border. It was something of an annual tradition. They had met at boarding school, then gone to the same university. After three years of drinking and love affairs and study, they had gone their separate ways but stayed firm friends.

Each man found himself looking for work in the grim years after the end of the First World War. Brown did something in the City and was doing rather well. Turner had taken over the family boat-making business. Freddie had followed in his father’s footsteps and become a teacher. He didn’t enjoy it. He found the boys troublesome and the work dull. But there was nothing he would rather be doing. George’s death had knocked the stuffing out of him. Since then, nothing seemed to matter much.

Brown and Turner had set off together the previous weekend. They took the night crossing from Portsmouth and spent ten days driving down the west coast of France. Freddie had the boys’ end-of-term exam papers to mark, so had not been able to get away.

He peered up through the windscreen. It looked like the weather was going to turn. The sky was grey, the colour of slate, and black clouds threatened rain. He glanced at the clock on the walnut dashboard of his little Ford. It was already two o’clock. There was no chance he’d make it by six.

Freddie studied the map for a few minutes more. There were only two options. He could press on or he could turn round and head back towards the last village. He thought that was where he had taken a wrong turning. But that was at least an hour ago. He couldn’t afford to lose any more time.

Freddie shut the map book. He put his driving cap and leather gloves back on and eased the little car into gear. If he was right, this road should meet up again with the main highway beyond this ridge.

He fixed his eyes on the road and carried on.

Chapter Two

Freddie heard a rumble of thunder in the distance. It echoed in the valley between the mountains. Then, a