But I couldn’t just sit here, twiddling my thumbs, waiting till it was all over and they saw fit to release me. If they did, of course. What was to stop them really from getting rid of all the witnesses? Daniel, Gabriel, me ... Mick might not want to do it himself, but he could pass the job on to Stan, who’d just say a prayer and square it with God afterwards. I shuddered. Yes. It made sense, from their point of view. A clean sweep of everyone. A mystery never solved, because nobody apart from us knew about the Radic connection. Maybe they’d get to it, sometime.
But without us and without Freddy’s computer.
My family. They must know by now. Tears started in my eyes. They must be all so worried, so frightened. I had to get out of here. I had to find my way back. And I had to get help for Daniel and Gabriel. Whatever it took.
Crying, I hobbled around the caravan, feverishly searching for something, anything, to cut my bonds with. But Mick was right. There wasn’t a knife or a file or a pair of scissors in the place. Well, too bad. I’d have to go even with my hands tied. But how would I get out? It wasn’t like Chateau Espinous here, the door was flimsy and I might be able to bash it open if I could grab hold of something. But with my hands tied, it was difficult, if not impossible. I could kick it in, maybe.
But how? If I tried to kick it in with my good leg, my other leg would give way. And I couldn’t try it with the other one, obviously. I tried picking up the chair as best I could and throwing it against the door but it was plastic and did nothing at all, and then I couldn’t pick it up again. I couldn’t do anything like this, I was helpless as a kitten.
And then my eye fell on the Orangina bottle. An idea flashed into my mind. A corny idea, a vague memory from some movie. But it was worth trying. I bent over the bottle, swallowed all the drink in one go – spluttering as the fizz filled my throat – and as soon as it was drained, awkwardly picked up the empty bottle and hurled it at the metal sink, aiming for the sharp corner. It worked! The bottle shattered into several pieces. I hobbled over to the biggest piece, which was nicely jagged with a good cutting edge and, bracing it against a corner, began sawing away at the rope around my wrists. It was that thin blue rope stuff, quite strong, and it took a while, but the glass was very sharp and though I cut myself once or twice, I eventually got through the rope, and the bonds fell away. My wrists felt rather bruised, and the glass cuts on them were bleeding, but I soon stopped that with a couple of tissues. Now my hands were free and I could have another crack at the door.
I picked up the chair again and instead of throwing it, rammed it against the door. Nothing happened, though the caravan shook. I tried again, harder, with all my strength. My wrists ached but no matter. The door began to buckle. Harder still, and I could feel the lock giving way. Harder again and the door flew open, so suddenly I almost flew out after it.
I hobbled down the steps, and looked around. Nothing but trees everywhere. The track down which Mick must have gone stretched off into the distance, surrounded by trees. No indication as to how far it went. Normally, you could walk about five or six kilometres in an hour. But with my dodgy foot I doubted I’d be able to walk at even half that pace. And I had no idea if the track was five or ten or twenty kilometres long, or much longer. Unsupported, I didn’t stand a chance, not unless he’d been lying and we were actually much closer than he’d said.
Unsupported, yes. But what if I braced my ankle, somehow, if I had a crutch or something to help me? Then I could at least walk some way down the track and see whether I could get some idea of how far I had to go. I heaved myself back up the caravan steps. First, to brace the ankle. I pulled one of the curtains off – they were of flimsy cotton – and ripped them across to make a bandage, the way I’d seen Mum do it once when Claire had sprained her ankle. I rolled up my jeans leg and tied the cloth tightly around my ankle – it already felt better – and then I looked around for something to use as a crutch. I needed wood of some sort, I thought. Or metal, at a pinch. The chair, being plastic, was useless. The table was one of those built-in ones of plastic and metal, also useless. The cupboard, ditto. Then the obvious thing flashed at me and I shook my head at my own idiocy. Picking up the rest of the curtain, I hobbled outside again and hunted around till I found what I was looking for – a good strong sturdy stick with a fork at the top. I tried it for size. It was just about perfect, fitting snugly under my arm. I balled up the rest of the curtain and put it under my arm to cushion it against the wood, then rested the fork of the stick under that – and hey presto, a crutch!
I was pretty pleased with myself, I can tell you. I tried walking with the crutch and found it a lot faster and easier than when I’d been unsupported. I nearly cheered all by myself in that silent forest. I was on my way!
I left that place without looking back, leaving the door wide open. I set off down the track, thinking that the instant I heard a car engine, I’d plunge into the forest at once and not come out. But I didn’t think he’d come back. He thought me safely out of the way, unable to walk very far even if I managed to somehow get out. He didn’t know me very well, either, I thought exultantly. He didn’t know I was a stubborn contrary thing who just hated to be beaten. And he didn’t know – though he might suspect – quite how much I hated him and quite how much I loved Daniel and Gabriel. I would not let that treacherous manipulative creep get away with it. Never!
I needed all my determination in the hours that followed. At first, I made quite good progress on the crutch. The track wasn’t too hard to negotiate, and every step I took I felt I was going towards help and redoubled my efforts. But there was no end in sight to the trees, and the track wound on and on and still I couldn’t see a way out. I had to stop a few times and rest. My ankle started aching and I had to take the bandage off, rub the ankle, brace it up again, before continuing. Then I began to get thirsty but of course I’d not brought any water.
And then I came to a fork in the road. There was no sign on either of the roads, and I had no idea which one to take. I looked at one and then the other, my heart beating fast. Which one should it be? What direction should I be heading for? If only I knew whether the forest was north or south or east or west of St-Bertrand! I stood there, thinking hard, trying to visualise the situation of the town, and the roads that led off from it.
One led eventually to St-Just and then through villages eventually to the motorway. One up a slope past the forest where the film was being shot, and where I’d met Mick. Another in the opposite direction into farmland and towards the foothills of the Pyrenees. There’d be forest there too, somewhere. And the town itself was on that hill. Behind it might be yet another road, for all I knew. Which might lead to more forest. This place could be anywhere. And it might be even further than that, like miles away, in another region or something. Despair nearly filled me at that point. But then I had a flash of thought, about how Mick must have been camping here, and how often he’d been in the town or round about, and I thought, it can’tbe that far away from St-Bertrand. It must be somewhere in that region.
But that still didn’t help me with choosing the path to take. In the woods, it’s not easy to get your bearings unless the sun is right overhead, and it certainly wasn’t now. The light was still good but getting that golden tone to it that you have with late afternoon. I remembered seeing this old film with Mum and Dad once, it was called The Edgeand was about these guys who crash in Alaska and have to try to find their way back through a forest where there are grizzly bears and such. They didn’t have a compass but one of the guys, I think he was played by Anthony Hopkins, he had thought of using a needle and a leaf on a bit of water – apparently that works as a makeshift compass – but I didn’t have a needle or any water, though there were more leaves around than you could count of course – so that didn’t help. And anyway it hadn’t helped them, if I remembered rightly, they’d gone round in a circle. Besides, even if I did have all that stuff and it did work, what good would it be to me knowing which point of the compass to walk toward
s, as I didn’t know where St-Bertrand was in relation to this place?
I had to make a choice, couldn’t stand here forever. At least there were no grizzly bears here or wolves or other wild beasts of that sort, I thought, wildly. Not the four-footed sort anyway. And the two-footed sort like Mick and his uncle at least were not lurking around. They were too busy getting ready for their big showdown.
I squinted first down one path, then the other. The left-hand path looked slightly narrower, the trees a bit denser, and the track wound away out of sight. The right-hand path looked a bit clearer, straighter. Okay. Right-hand path it would be. I adjusted my crutch, took a deep breath, and set off.
The path was good and straight for ages. I walked on and on. Around me the forest breathed softly, I could hear little rustles in the undergrowth, and once or twice, animals crossed my path – a scurrying rabbit, a funny little hedgehog, bustling importantly like something out of a kids’ book. Mrs Tiggy-Winkle,I remember Mum reading to me a very long time ago. A Beatrix Potter book. A hedgehog with a dress on, the spines showing through the cloth. I’d thought it really funny when I was a kid. All the animals in Beatrix Potter books have clothes, even ones like Jeremy Fisher the frog who jumps in the water and must get his lovely satin waistcoat all ruined. Unless it’s waterproof. Which I suppose it must be.
Okay, so I was getting a bit light-headed. Anyone would. It wasn’t just the stress or the tiredness or the thirst which was getting really bad by this time. It was the feeling of being in a strange place which wasn’t really a human world at all. Sort of like being in the bush, except that this sort of forest was like something out of a fairytale. Hansel and Gretel, say. Or Little Red Riding Hood. No. Don’t be stupid, Sylvie. Nothing’s out to get you here. No witches, no wolves. And it’s okay. You’re in a tame European forest, not the bush. It’s not wilderness. People come here all the time. Just look at the track. You can’t get lost, no matter what Mick said. There’s a track. Just follow the track. It’ll take you somewhere. And then you’ll be able to work out where you are.
On and on. On and on. The light was beginning to fade now. I could feel the temperature falling, too. Still the track wound on. And then, quite suddenly – it stopped. Just petered out, right in the trees. I’d come to a dead end. A cul de sac. There were a couple of picnic tables in the forest just nearby, but no way out in the other direction.
I cursed and swore my head off then. I had taken the wrong track way back there! I had to retrace my steps, get back to the fork in the road. And I had to hurry. The light was fading more and more. Shadows were gathering in the forest. The air was becoming chilly. I didn’t even have a jumper.
Although my ankle was hurting, I just turned and went back in the direction I’d come, going as fast as I could.
But I’d come a long way down that damn path. And going back seemed twice as hard, even if faster. There seemed to be more stones, more obstacles than I remembered. I faltered, stumbled, even tripped once, jarring my ankle badly in the process. And the night didn’t wait for me. It was getting darker and darker, the trees pressing in around me, the rustles of animals more common, and seemingly more sinister. Somewhere, deep in the forest, I heard an owl hoot. The sound made me almost jump out of my skin. Every story I’d read, every movie I’d seen about being lost in a dark forest, came back to haunt me, and though I tried very hard to control my fear, to tell myself that it was all just imagination, I couldn’t stop the images from crowding into my brain.
It seemed like hours and hours but was probably less than an hour by the time I finally got back to the fork in the road. Without stopping, I took the left-hand path this time. The path was narrower and tighter at first, and the darkness under the trees more profound, but within a short while, the track had widened out again and the trees weren’t quite so close to the edge. And there was a little more light – a bit of moon. I thought I must be on the right path now, and felt a little better.
On and on, trying to tell myself all kinds of comforting things to forget about my fear and my thirst. And then I heard a new sound. A tinkle, a rush. Water, just off the path!
I couldn’t resist it. My throat was so dry, my belly clenching with it. I plunged off the path towards the sound of water. I memorised a couple of big mossy trees, to remember the way I’d come. It wasn’t far off – just a little stream, flowing over pebbles. Running water, I thought. Safe to drink. I must drink. I bent down and cupped my hands in the cool water and drank. It felt like heaven. Again and again the cool water went down my parched throat. The fuzziness began to leave my thoughts. I must bathe my ankle too, I thought. I must cool it. I unwrapped the bandage. My ankle was like a football: swollen and red. I thought I could even see it throbbing. I had to rest it. I threw some water over it, tried to rub it a little but couldn’t – it felt tender to the touch. More water. I sat by the stream for a few moments with my leg resting on a rock, waiting till the throbbing might ease a little. After a while, I felt better, so I braced my leg up again, took a last drink of water and set off back to the path.
Or at least back to where I thought the path was, towards the big mossy trees. But – oh my God – it wasn’t there. They can’t have been the trees I’d memorised, but others. I turned round and round in circles, trying to find the right trees, trying to find my bearings, the panic bubbling in me again. I couldn’t be lost. Not now. Not now, please. Please.
Towards the light
I tried to take a firm grip on my fluttering-bird thoughts, thrusting aside panic, tiredness and the ache of my ankle. Right. So I couldn’t find the path. Then I had to retrace my steps back to the stream and try to work it out from there. At least there was a clue with the stream – the sound of the water. I stood and listened hard. Yes, in the silence I could hear it, faintly. I walked in the direction of the sound and by and by got there. Okay. So now all I had to do was find the right direction. I’d come at the stream from one direction – seemed to me I had to go in the opposite one, if I was going to hit the path.
So off I went but it soon became clear that I’d been wrong. The panic bubbled up in me again and this time it was a huge effort to push it down. Think, girl. Try to think. What if I didn’t try random directions, but simply followed the stream? At least I’d get somewhere then. In my confused state, it seemed like a good idea. It didn’t strike me then that ‘somewhere’ could be ‘anywhere’. Luckily, as it turned out.
So I went back and followed the stream as it wound its tinkling way through the woods. It wasn’t always easy going. Sometimes the stream went down a slope or its banks were high and I had to scramble along as best I could. I would’ve rock-hopped if my ankle had been in a better state but was afraid that weak as it was I might end up doing more damage to it, even break it, and then I’d be history.
At least there was a bit of light over the water. And I wouldn’t get thirsty any more. I had a drink a couple of times, the water was clear and cool and tasted lovely. But I was getting hungry, and though I’d heard of people eating forest fruit and the like, there didn’t seem anything like that about. It was probably the wrong season or something. Still I pressed on, but I was getting so tired it was almost like I wasn’t really there, my mind had floated off God knows where, and my body was still pumping on all by itself.
And then I saw it, a little way up the bank, bathed in moonlight. A little hut, more a shelter, really, built of mossy bits of wood and roofed with bark. It looked ancient. I approached it cautiously. The door – a very basic thing of bark and wood – was closed. Growing beside the hut, in a neglected weedy strip of garden, was what looked like beans, with big sorts of pods. I knew what they were – they were Dad’s favourite vegetables. Broad beans. I’ve never been crash hot on them but seeing them there made my mouth water. I could just see a pot of Dad’s broad bean soup, steaming hot. Or his broad beans in butter and garlic. My stomach rumbled. I hobbled to the door, not caring any more who lived there.
I knocked. No answer. I knocked again.
Still no answer. I pushed gently at the door. It opened with an ominous creak of hinges. But I didn’t care any more about omens. I needed rest, food, help, directions. And so I walked in.
There was no-one there. The house breathed age and neglect and emptiness. The one window had a torn curtain. There was a rough table, whose legs were covered in cobwebs, and two chairs about as rough. A kind of rickety camp bed in the corner. A dead fireplace. A long cupboard which when I opened it proved to have nothing but dust, scuttling spiders, a box of matches with three matches in it, a three-quarters empty salt shaker and an empty tin. Nothing else. Nothing to eat, no full cans or jars or anything like that. The house looked like it hadn’t been inhabited for a long time, and it wasn’t exactly inviting. But it was shelter, and I had to stop and rest, even if just for a little while. And I had to eat, even if it was just raw broad beans. They’d give me a stomach-ache, but never mind.
No, not raw. I could cook them. I had matches, and plenty of fuel outside. If I started a fire, I could get water from the stream in the tin and boil the beans in that. I could add salt. It was better than nothing. Salivating already at the thought of my poor meal, I grabbed the tin, went down to the stream and got some water. I brought it back to the house, and went and fetched some dry twigs, leaves and bark. We’d had this guy come to our school once, he was one of these bush survival people, and he showed us how to lay and start fires. He even knew how to do it without matches. Thank God I didn’t have to do that, I was bad at it, but I had learned anyway how to build a fire so it doesn’t go out too quickly.
Bright Angel Page 22
