Escape and Evasion

by Christopher Wakling

  ‘Perfect,’ she says. ‘Have a good trip.’

  Manners maketh the man. He looks her straight in the eye (she’s actually brunette, and older than her voice) and says, ‘Thank you.’

  She moves off down the aisle.

  But was that sensible, giving her a good look at him and so forth, plus handing her a bit of card with his destination on it?

  Possibly: no.

  Damnit.

  29

  The stop short of his station, which of course wasn’t the station nearest where he’s going anyway, becomes his new destination. He disembarks. That’s the word for it. Moving slowly because, Jesus, the weight of the pack. He’ll manage. But that’s an extra ten miles he’s added to the trek ahead, making it what, thirty-five or so in total.

  Who cares?

  There’s no rush.

  In fact, he shouldn’t start now anyway.

  It’s the middle of the afternoon. This pack. In broad daylight. Well, it stands out.

  Across the road from the station there’s a park, complete with children’s play area: monkey bars, sandpit no doubt spiked with dog shit, the works. Though the kiddie bit is pretty much deserted he keeps well clear of it, hacks on up to the top of the hill beyond the bandstand instead, where there’s a clutch of trees reefed with undergrowth.

  Joseph pauses.

  Wait till the coast is clear.

  Now!

  He stashes the pack behind a hawthorn bush.

  Then he retreats to the nearest park bench, where he wishes he had a newspaper, or anything to look occupied with. Just the hours before dusk for company. He settles in to wait.

  And the sun does its best to go down.

  So slowly!

  He keeps one eye on the hawthorn.

  A young mother rolls past, texting. Her toddler, blue for a boy, is crumpled in the buggy. He looks as if he’s been shot. And she’s trailing a dachshund on one of those extending leads. It stops to investigate a bin and the lead spools out. On the dog goes and it spools back in. Up towards the bandstand the dachshund spears left, nose down, at an interested trot. Damn thing is making straight for the bush. Joseph sits forward. It’s obvious what’s going to happen: at the very least he’ll mark the backpack as his own with a cocked leg. But just feet from the bush the lead stretches taut and no, she doesn’t seem to be keen on deviating from the path after all and, since it curves away, the taut lead forces the dog to return uncomplainingly to her side.

  Bad luck, sausage dog.

  Joseph sits back.

  He’s good at this. Always was. Think of the farmyard, that cold ditch. Yes, waiting is part of his skill set.

  To prove it, Joseph waits some more.

  And finally, it’s darkish, and the park is empty.

  But the road is still on and off with traffic, too many headlights sweeping up and down for comfort, so he waits another hour.

  Two.

  This is easy.

  Three.

  Somewhat cold. It must be beyond closing time now.

  There really can’t be anyone sober about.

  That’ll do.

  Joseph collects the pack and moves out.

  30

  He knows where he’s going.

  Back at Sandhurst, on that first serious exercise in Brecon, he misread the map with his pen torch, added an extra seven miles to the nineteen he already had to cover, and still made it through the fog and mud and wind to the final checkpoint more or less on time, albeit with shredded feet. But he endured. And he’ll endure again now! Never mind the fact he hasn’t had to do anything quite as hard since. But so what? He made it over the horseshoe mountains then and despite the concrete mass of the backpack, once he’s stepped out of the park in the little commuter town he hauls himself a good three or four miles beyond the mini roundabouts, left right left, although he has to admit it’s hard work, possibly because he’s forty-four, not twenty-two, and, go on, admit this too: he’s not in the most amazing shape.

  He’s been tracking along the edge of a field, staying close to the overgrown boundary hedge, following the lane that runs the other side of it, ducking down every now and then when cars pass, a boulder then and not a man. But now there’s something larger coming down the lane. A truck. The hedge isn’t going to be high enough to hide him from it so … just look purposeful instead: a rambler going about his normal rambling business of adjusting a bootlace, albeit in the middle of the night, and now the truck has passed and, humph! He straightens up, because it’s time to get going again … but …

  Christ.

  He’s tired.

  As in whacked!

  Also, now that he’s stopped, a bit cold.

  The truck rumbles away. For a long while nothing else comes down the lane. Joseph carries on walking. His night vision kicks in. He crosses a stile and finds himself in a field pricked with silvery leaves. Some crop or other coming through. Rows of little plants running up the hill. Very skilful, the way tractor drivers keep the lines straight: he has enough trouble making regular stripes with a lawn mower. Has? Had. Over in that top corner the hedge splays out into some sort of copse. He’s breathing more evenly now. Listening to the hush. It feels like he’s looking for something.

  A deer steps out of the little wood, followed by a second, and a third.

  Dainty, peaceful, wow.

  But not what he was after.

  One by one the deer lower their heads to nibble. Joseph watches them for a long minute. Whatever this crop is, they seem to like the shoots. He’s pretty hungry himself, he realises, leaning back against the heaviness of his pack. It shifts and creaks and one of the deer looks up and straight away all three are gone.

  Still, turns out they were helpful, because straining to see where they’ve headed he makes out a faint square edge within the copse. Some sort of outbuilding? If the deer came from up there, it must be a quiet spot. He hadn’t planned on stopping before the bomb hole, but then again he hadn’t planned on adding the extra distance to the walk, so why not lie up for a bit, rest, carry on tomorrow?

  No!

  Yes!

  Don’t give in to the thought!

  It’s not giving in, it’s investigating.

  He sets off for the little wood. And indeed there is an old barn or shed or something, or at last part of one, set back in the trees. Some broken walls. Not much in the way of a door, or windows, and only half a roof, which suits the sapling growing up through the hole. Joseph pats the tree. He sets his pack down against its smooth trunk and treads around in search of the flattest spot under the half-roof before thinking: hold on.

  Do the thing properly.

  Recce the place before settling down.

  He pulls out and boxes round the wood, checking to see that it truly isn’t at the end of somebody’s garden.

  And once satisfied, he returns and sits down in one corner.

  It’s 2.15 a.m.

  An owl screeches comically loudly nearby.

  Christ.

  At least he’s out of the way here, sheltered, if shivering.

  But so tired!

  Camel.

  Eye of a needle.

  He unclips the lid of the backpack and digs down in it for the softness of a sleeping bag. Finds it eventually, still in its plastic cover. Unstraps the bedroll from the bottom of the pack, too. Thank you, Charlie. Joseph fumbles the roll open, drags it out flat. It’s self-inflating. Just twist this little knob and it will suck air into itself. How things have come on. Joseph sits on the squashiness to take off his boots. Doesn’t bother removing his trousers, just caterpillars himself into the sleeping bag and curls sideways on the mat. Full fifteen years since he last slept outside. Never even took the kids camping. He pulls the pack close to lean against. One day, he thinks, and then: no! Don’t go there. So tired. He settles back, shuts his eyes, gives in.

  31

  At Airdeen Clore they had a couple of basement rooms fitted out with single beds for people to sleep in, small hours-wise
. Joseph never used them, rest being for sissies, not Big Beasts. But he sleeps immediately in the ruined shed. The floor may be an uneven mess of rocks, weeds and God knows what, but he doesn’t care; it’s not the wedge of brick pressing into his knee that wakes him. The dawn chorus, which goes off like a municipal fire alarm, does that. No joke, the noise is ridiculous, an electro-whistling-trilling insistence that drills him awake after what feels like no time at all. Joseph opens one eye and thinks of the Sunday supplement article he read a while back, which put him straight on birdsong. Turns out they don’t all sing every day. Most of the time it’s just a bit of practice for the mating season. That’s when they all really let rip. Joseph checks his watch. It’s four forty-seven on the morning of 4 May. He tries to sit up.

  Jesus Christ!

  It feels like he’s been shot.

  He levers himself upright with gritted teeth.

  There’s cow parsley growing at the open end of the shed-barn-whatever.

  Look at the dew on it.

  He’s thirsty as well as shot to bits.

  At least he’s warm. Charlie bought him a proper sleeping bag. Joseph decides not to get out of it. He can have a look to see what else Charlie put in the pack by dropping the bag beneath his armpits and sitting snugly inside it. Remember the kids opening their stockings at Christmas?

  Stop it.

  Just stop it.

  Concentrate on this instead. Spread it all out on the ground. What have we here, then?

  Long-tipped, waterproof matches, two packs.

  A flint and striker, enough to spark four thousand or so fires after the matches run out.

  Next, a magnifying glass: it’s summer, after all.

  Here’s a pack of condoms. Why? Because they weigh nothing and can hold a litre of water.

  Damn, his mouth is dry.

  Water? Purification tablets, at least.

  And still with the small stuff: a reel of wire. It will fasten, cut, snare.

  Plus a knife, useless for any length of time without a whetstone, which is here too, folded into the leather strop.

  Gloves, two pairs, one waterproof, the other warm and thin enough to fit inside the first.

  A concertina of two hats as well, one with ear flaps, both lined, neither a match for the balaclava tucked inside.

  When Shackleton set off for the South Pole he wore tweed. In the early nineties Joseph’s polyester was cut with waxed cotton and Welsh wool. Nowadays it’s all layers of merino and Gore-Tex.

  Much of what Charlie has bought is still in its plastic packaging. Joseph takes care with the bags. They’ll come in handy, as will this roll of bin liners.

  Plus clothes. Namely, two base layer tops, two sets of long johns, two pairs of double-skinned waterproof trousers, two fleece tops, one neoprene smock, one storm-proof jacket, a bundle of woollen socks, four pairs of boxer shorts …

  All of it: black.

  Ha.

  He’ll look like the Milk Tray Man.

  Never mind me, Naomi. I’m just here to deliver the chocolates.

  Stop that.

  There’s something marvellous about his kid brother picking him out underwear. Joseph asked for it and Charlie’s delivered. Why does he, Joseph, keep thinking about that remote-controlled car? The smell of petrol, the buzzing, Charlie’s lopsided smile. It was cold in the car park but they stayed out until it was more or less dark. That’s right, Charlie, aim for the apex.

  What else?

  Elastic bands. Always handy. Plus a chamois towel.

  And the bigger stuff is here, too. A set of billycans, plus aluminium kettle. A little Primus stove. Three aerosols of gas. Two sheets of tarpaulin. A hand axe, the back end of which will serve as a hammer, and an aluminium shovel with a collapsible handle, plus a coil of nylon rope.

  Back to the small again: a pack of nails, a wire saw, twine. Joseph sets these down on one of the tarpaulins and pulls out the next item, thinking: Charlie, you beauty, you really have outdone yourself, because … the water bottle is … full.

  He unscrews the cap and takes a long cold swig. Christ, that’s good. He lets himself drink half of what’s there, confident he’ll be able to refill the bottle somewhere later.

  What a brother. Always thorough. Swallowed Dad’s ‘never do a thing by halves’ edict whole. He’s filled one of the pockets with Tracker bars. Joseph didn’t even ask for these. And what’s this? Kendal Mint Cake! He hasn’t tasted that in twenty years!

  Still good, though.

  Minty.

  Ha.

  Lastly, in the bottom compartment, here’s … a heavy-duty tarp. Dark green. Result.

  No, there’s something else in the side pocket as well. Small and hard, in a case. A little pair of binoculars. The case is leather. It looks expensive. Spread out like this before him, the whole lot says: so valuable! Charlie certainly spent the cash; in fact what Joseph gave him may not have been enough. Possibly Joseph should have diverted a lump of the $1.34 billion Charlie’s way. But no, if he’d started doing that where would he have stopped? Robin Hood didn’t put gold coins, jewels and whatnot aside for Little John and Friar Tuck, did he? Actually, who’s to say? Just because it’s not in the story doesn’t mean …

  Oh, just stop.

  Joseph pops the flap on the leather case and sees there’s something in it alongside the binoculars. Folded small and tight: a piece of paper, two in fact. Joseph wipes his face with his hand, then sits very still indeed. He knows that scribbly handwriting. It’s Zac’s.

  What does he have to say?

  Modern-day submariners live beneath the sea for up to eight months at a time. They keep their oxygen in canisters. Have a nice holiday. Love Zac.

  Holiday. Charlie.

  The second note is from Lara and, ouch, she gets straight to the point.

  Whatever Uncle Charlie says is OK, whatever is happening is not OK. Mum is actually worried too. You can’t just go off without us. Can you? Don’t be ridiculous, Dad! What’s going on? Lara x.

  32

  Joseph stares from one piece of paper to the other and back and forward again. The sun slides up properly. Look, it’s pulled a square of blue sky through the open end of the roof.

  Christ, the kids.

  What is he thinking?

  That these letters are unimportant.

  Because the one to fear is still in his satchel.

  Fear?

  For their sake, yes.

  That bastard little St Thomas’ Hospital crest.

  Huntington’s is hereditary.

  Oh, stop!

  Dad’s papery knuckles on the steering wheel.

  Stop.

  The way his face turned slack and fell to one side in—

  Just—

  Okay, okay.

  Joseph diverts himself by going through his new belongings carefully. He checks all the rucksack’s pockets as well. But there’s no note from ‘actually worried’ Naomi, is there? No. Did she think what Lara and Zac said was enough? Nothing to add? The familiar silent treatment! He may have deserved it from time to time, but now, well, this is … harsh!

  What’s that?

  A tractor grinding up the lane makes the world of other people suddenly real and close. Joseph checks and, wow, the field seemed much bigger in the dark. He retreats to the tumbledown shed again, which in fact might even have been a cottage once, that roof obviously a replacement which itself fell down. Let’s put this pack back together, shall we? Properly this time, with the heaviest stuff high up over his shoulders. Put the clothes in the middle. Keep the bottom compartment free for the sleeping bag, which, why not, yes, he climbs back into now. Because it makes sense to lie up here for the day and head out again when it’s dark, doesn’t it?

  It does.

  Sleep some more. Safe here.

  Joseph pulls his head deeper into the hood of the sleeping bag. Manages to doze for an hour or so but comes to with a smacking realisation: the point is not what the notes say, it’s the fact of them at al
l.

  Because, yes, now he thinks about it the problem is all too obvious. Namely: to get the messages Charlie will have been round to see Naomi and the kids. And why’s that a problem? Obvious: because of Lancaster. He’s already tapped Lara’s phone, hasn’t he?

  We don’t know that for … but it’s likely.

  So it’s entirely probable he’ll have somebody watching the house, too. You know, for anomalies. Such as a visit from Charlie!

  The next step, having spotted Charlie’s visit, would be to monitor what he gets up to, out and about, online and so forth.

  Hmm, what have we here, then?

  A big order for high-end camping kit, that’s what. Interesting! Best keep an eye on little Charlie, see what he does with it. Which turns out to be … loading something that looks very much like a big rucksack into the boot of his trusty Zafira, plus leaving said people carrier full of goody-stuffed backpack in the staff car park for … who have we here, then? … Joseph! to retrieve.

  Damn, and damn, damnit!

  The train of thought rolls on past, its couplings secure.

  If they were watching the car when Joseph made the pick-up, they will have followed him. Argh. That old man who blew him a kiss. And the train conductor. Have a good trip! We’re right behind you.

  Oh, Charlie.

  What have you done?

  Scattered breadcrumbs, that’s what!

  Joseph paces about the middle of the ruin running a hand through his splintery hair.

  Then again.

  Chink of light!

  Then again what?

  Joseph bangs the side of his head with his palm, trying to knock the thoughts into place … possibly Charlie will have used his own head and been a bit superstitious.

  No, no, no: surreptitious.

  Easy mistake.

  Means nothing.

  Yes it does!

  Joseph paces about in the hut. Look at this cow parsley growing in the open door. Snap a sprig of it and watch the juice flow. It’s entirely possible to squeeze the sap out of plants, boil it up, and drink it. Though beware gut rot. He has a lurching feeling in his stomach now all right, and it’s not hunger. It’s that slow-motion car-crash sensation, or possibly falling, in a dream.