‘Damian,’ he called. ‘What do you think of this?’ He pointed to the ground at his feet and Damian hurried across. ‘It’s a tyre track. Bike? Wheelbarrow?’

‘Wheelbarrow – but so what? The gardeners presumably come through here all the time.’

‘Yeah, but look how deep it is. That’d be a heavy barrow. Maybe…’

Damian snorted, then glanced over at Meredith. He dropped his voice. ‘So, what? You think this guy was tipped into the pond from a wheelbarrow? Have you seen the size of him? I reckon he’s as likely to have been dropped out of the hold of a plane.’

Emad scowled. ‘Just a thought.’ He’d been quite pleased at the thought of discovering some evidence, and now Damian had completely pooh-poohed it.

17

1983
Meredith

I spent my first two hours at Greenham wandering around in wellies, feeling alternately thrilled to be there and utterly humiliated, sweating in my bear suit, blisters forming, shiny and taut, on my toes after the long walk from the train station. But as time went on, and more and more smirks and sniggers were coming at me, any remaining thrill wore off. I’d made a terrible mistake in coming. Maybe Caitlin had been winding me up. I was going to kill her when I next saw her in the shop. While I overheard lots of talk about the human chain – apparently the turn-out had way exceeded expectations – there were no signs whatsoever of any other bears. Or what if Caitlin had got the wrong day?

By seven o’clock I wanted to cry. I hadn’t had the nerve to stop and talk to any of the women huddled in groups around fires along the fence. There were not as many as I’d thought, but maybe most of them had gone out to do this human-chain thing. Many of the women I saw had grubby-looking, half-naked toddlers running around, brandishing sticks, so presumably it was all the mums who’d stayed in camp. I was getting funny looks too, which implied that none of them had heard about the teddy bears’ picnic. I trailed miserably along the fence, which was bedecked with colourful banners and slogans, quilts embroidered with ‘Ban the Bomb’ and ‘Protest and Survive’. The evening air was redolent with the scent of wood smoke, weed, lavender and patchouli. I could smell it, trapped in the fake-fur fibres of my bear suit.

What was I going to do if I didn’t find them? Stupidly, I hadn’t thought through the return part of the journey. I’d brought Pete’s sleeping bag; it was strapped into the top part of his rucksack, which I’d nicked from his bedroom, so if the worst came to the worst I could sleep under a tree. Hopefully someone would take pity on me, though, and let me stay in their tent or something … I shuddered with dread. I was way out of my depth.