Free The Guardians by John Christopher Page B

If it does get through you can probably rig up one of the blankets as a screen.”
    Rob nodded.
    â€œI’m going to leave you now,” Mike said. “I have a tutor who comes around since I’m not at school. I’m late for him already. You’ll be all right?”
    â€œYes. Thanks for everything.”
    Mike made a dismissive gesture. “I’ll get along as early as I can tomorrow. You don’t have to stick in here, but be careful when you’re outside. Make sure you don’t leave traces.” He grinned. “Sleep well.”
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    Time passed very slowly. Rob did go outside but no farther than the clearing. He had moments of elation at having found a refuge, alternating with depression in which he thought he might as well have turned back or given himself up for the goodit would do him in the long run. And loneliness. It was bad enough in the clearing, much worse inside the four blank walls of the cell, watching his shadow on the wall.
    Dusk came and deepened into night. He checked outside for light showing; then went in and ate the remainder of the bread and cheese. He decided after that he might as well go to bed. He rolled himself into the blankets and put out the lamp.
    He was very tired, having had so little sleep the night before, and expected to drop off quickly. The hardness of the floor proved no bar to this, but he thought again of his isolation, inside a hill, surrounded by dark rustling trees. And animals? He came awake on that. There was nothing frightening about rabbits, but what of others? Were there bigger ones roaming loose—wolves maybe? He thought he heard something and strained his ears uselessly to catch and identify the sound.
    Sleep had gone. He put on the lamp again and peered into the outer room. Nothing. He rigged up a barrier in the doorway, with the bag and the jerry can. It would not even keep a rabbit out but it might givehim a slight warning of anything trying to get in.
    He was awake for a long time and then slept heavily. He awoke to a hand on his shoulder and looked up blinking to see Mike standing over him.
    â€œSorry to disturb you. I’ve brought some sausages and I thought you’d like to eat them while they’re fairly hot. Coffee, too. How did you sleep, by the way?”
    The fears of the night were only shameful fancies. “Pretty well, thanks.”
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    Mike came up every day, sometimes more than once. He brought food and other things—soap, clean clothes, eating utensils, on the third day a collapsible wood-and-canvas bed. He asked Rob if there was anything else he would like.
    â€œYou haven’t any books you could lend me, I suppose?”
    â€œBooks?” He sounded surprised.
    â€œIt gets a bit boring in the evenings,” Rob said.
    â€œYes. I can see it would. It was just . . .” He looked at Rob in frank inquiry. “I didn’t know people read books in the Conurbs.”
    â€œNot many do.”
    â€œIt’s funny . . .”
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œThe way one takes things for granted,” Mike said. “About the Conurbs. About the County, too, come to that. About ourselves, I suppose.”
    â€œI’ve thought of that, myself. About taking things for granted, I mean. Look, if it’s going to be difficult . . .”
    â€œDifficult?” Mike’s expression cleared. “Not a bit. I’ll bring some next time. What sort of thing do you like?”
    â€œHistorical adventures. But anything will do.”
    Mike brought two books, bound in rich brown leather and smelling of age. One was Mr. Sponge’s Sporting Tour, the other My Life on the Zambezi. The first was about fox hunting, the second an account of life in primitive Africa in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. Later, he asked Rob how he was getting on with them.
    â€œAll right,” Rob