Swimming in the Shadows

by Diane Janes

  I set off along the road, managing only the briefest of jogs before I slowed to a walk. My shoes slapped and squelched, as if endeavouring to make the maximum amount of noise possible. I momentarily considered getting rid of my troublesome footwear altogether, but the prospect of walking who knew how far barefoot was not appealing. I was frozen, terrified, my arm had begun to ache where Alan had made contact with the mooring spike and my wet jeans chafed mercilessly, but while every step seemed harder than the last, I knew that I had to keep going. Against all the odds I was still alive, and now I had to stay that way.

  Alan was still nearby, and he had a torch to help him. As soon as he got a half-decent look at the sweatshirt he would know what I had done and start to search for me. He would guess that I had taken to the road and he would catch up with me again … an involuntary whimper escaped into the night. I must not be caught again. I can’t fight back, I thought. I’ve got nothing left.

  So think. Stop and think. Can’t stop, mustn’t stop. Mustn’t waste a second. He found you before because of the water coming off your clothes, and you must be making footprints on the tarmac now – a line of damp footprints which will show up in the light of his torch, telling him exactly which way to go. Get off the road, then. Walk on the grass verge. He won’t be able to track you on the verge – all grass verges feel damp at this time of night.

  But he knows which direction you’ve gone in. He’ll find the footprints and then he’ll follow you along the road … I stopped dead and looked around. Thick hedges hemmed the lane to either side for as far as I could see ahead. There was nowhere to escape if Alan climbed back on to the road, then followed the trail I had left for him. Even if I took to the grass verge – far too redolent of night-time damp and cold to determine whether it had been traversed by a pair of wet trainers – Alan would still know which direction I was headed in and that I must be somewhere not far along the road.

  The way to confound pursuit was to do the unexpected. If I had left a mass of watery clues leading in one direction, then what I needed to do now was backtrack the opposite way. Oh, no … no … not back towards the river … and Alan. Oh yes, persisted that wiser counsel. That’s exactly what you have to do.

  I reluctantly turned back the way I had come, picking my way along the verge, which was much harder going than the road – uneven, with unexpected dips and bramble cables waiting to trip the unwary. Every few feet I stopped to listen, because if Alan had discovered my subterfuge he might already be heading towards me, and if his torch had died on him then he too would be creeping along in the darkness. The usual night-time sounds, rustles in the hedgerow and the faraway call of a tawny owl increased the sense of menace with every step.

  The moonlight had been dimmed by passing clouds and I was almost on top of the bridge before I realized it. I pulled up short and crouched behind the end of the stone parapet, raising my head by inches until I could see over the side and look down river to where I had last glimpsed Alan’s torch beam in pursuit of my decoy. I strained to make out any sign of movement, but there was nothing to suggest the presence of another human being nearby.

  I was just making up my mind that it was safe to cross the bridge when I picked up a different kind of noise – the distinctive chink of something metallic. As I stared into the blackness the sound came again and a moment later a bright light shone out, close to where I guessed my original struggle with Alan had taken place. He had returned to reclaim his bike. I had forgotten about the bike lamp. And now I had placed myself right back in the path of this latest searchlight. He had only got to climb up to the road, shine his lamp across the bridge and, unlike me, Alan was moving decisively. I watched in horror as the lamp came nearer, systematically illuminating bushes and other possible hidey holes along the riverside path while making all the time for the bridge. Before his torch gave out he must have seen enough to know that I wasn’t dead in the water. He was back on the trail, angry and determined, and if I didn’t do something – now and fast – then in a matter of moments we would be face-to-face again. I had to galvanize myself, sprint across the bridge and get away. And in that second it dawned on me that my plan to confuse pursuit by re-crossing the bridge was useless. There was no grass verge here. The road surface ran solidly from one side to the other, so if my shoes were still wet enough to leave marks – which they almost certainly were, since water still squelched out of them at every step – then Alan would see immediately which way I had really gone. Fear rose up my throat and threatened to choke me. I had gained a small advantage, only to deliver myself up to him barely ten minutes later.

  ‘Trying to be too clever. That was your problem. I liked you so much better when you were stupid.’

  And I was being an idiot now. Trembling here in full view when there must be somewhere to hide. At least give yourself a chance – don’t let that treacherous panic take over like it nearly did before. OK, he would not leave an inch of road or riverbank uncombed until he had found me, but it was still likely that he would follow my initial tracks along the road, not suspecting I had doubled back (after all, who but an idiot would have doubled back?).

  There was no path along this side of the river, but I made out the narrowest of gaps between the base of the stonework and the hedge and I fed myself into it, feet first, sliding and wriggling until I was completely through the hedge. The reeds grew thickly on this side of the river, but from my new position beside them I could still follow the loom of Alan’s lamp as he ascended the embankment, then walked out on to the bridge, where the bottom of the beam was cut off by the solid line of the stonework. If he shone his light over the side, he would see me … but his attention seemed to be focused elsewhere. I watched the pattern of light change again as it came level with the hedge. How thick was the foliage? It had appeared solid to me, but maybe there would be gaps through which he could shine his light, revealing the miserable drowned rat skulking on the other side. Good grief, he could probably smell me – the stink of the river was rising steadily from my clothes. I held my breath, expecting discovery at any moment.

  Alan did not interest himself in the hedge, however, because he must have spotted the evidence of my original flight, when muddy water had oozed and dripped so freely on to the surface of the lane. His tread quickened and the lamp moved on – he was taking the bait. I gave him long enough to cover a hundred yards, then clawed my way back through the gap between the bridge and the hedge to regain the road. Still on my knees I watched the lamp growing more distant. He was moving quickly, swinging his beam from side to side, scanning ahead, wondering how far I had got with my few minutes’ start.

  Any hesitation now would be fatal. I turned my back on him and crept across the bridge, then began to walk as fast as I could, trying to place my feet in a way which minimized the seal flipper slap of wet trainers on tarmac. I figured that the speed gained by sticking to the firm surface of the road outweighed the risk of leaving any watery clues. Besides which, the absence of tracks would not necessarily save me, because I guessed that when Alan did not find me in one direction, he might well try the other – perhaps using his bike to speed his progress – so the important thing now was for me to move fast.

  To my left the hedge soon became scrubby and intermittent, but there were no trees, buildings or other potential hiding places in view. I considered the possibility of arming myself: a fallen branch or even a large stone might provide me with some sort of advantage, particularly if I heard Alan coming and was able to take him by surprise, but it wasn’t light enough to make out any useful objects at the side of the road, even assuming they existed. I kept glancing over my shoulder but a curve in the road had cut off Alan’s lamp and I saw nothing to indicate pursuit. Then I saw that there was a narrow lane going off to the left, overarched by trees. The way I had been following was hardly a main road, but this was no more than a single width track, heading into the darkness. Which way would Alan expect me to go? The wider road offered more likelihood of settlements, even
the possibility of a passing car, whereas a narrow country lane was, quite apart from anything else, a darker, scarier prospect for a woman alone.

  More scary than what lay behind me? I struck off to the left, briefly increasing my pace as if to underline my conviction. You’re crazy, said the voice in my head. This is the road to nowhere. You’ve got no idea where you might be heading or how far away the next house is.

  The lane weaved first one way and then the other, but after no more than a minute or two of walking, the trees gave way to a fence with a visible overhang of shadowy garden shrubs, behind which I could make out the unmistakable shape of a rooftop. As I drew level I could see it was a cottage, much like a house in a child’s first drawing – a quartet of windows and a central front door. I felt like cheering.

  I located the latch on the garden gate and hurried up the short path to the front door, where the knocker stood out as a darker shape against light paintwork. I worked the knocker vigorously and was appalled when the resultant racket echoed into the night, like someone sounding a bass drum. It was absurdly loud and my heart thundered in concert with it. Surely wherever Alan was, he must be able to hear it? God, a noise like that must be audible for miles around. I had to suppress the desire to shout up at the windows, to plead with the occupants to let me in quickly before Alan, alerted by the cacophony, emerged from out of the darkness to get me.

  Nothing. I waited, not wanting to send that dreadful sound out into the night again. Still nothing. But perhaps the unseen occupants had been aroused, and were now sleepily waiting to see if the summons at their front door would be repeated? I had to risk it. I took hold of the knocker and desperately banged it up and down again. The result was a quartet of deafening impacts which died away into the night leaving an empty quiet, broken only by drips as my clothes continued to shed river water on to the front doorstep.

  There was no one at home. It was like coming across a lifeboat after floundering alone in mid-Atlantic – only to find that the lifeboat has a hole in it and sinks before your eyes.

  It was hard to turn my back on the building in which I had invested so much hope. I stood at the gate looking up and down the lane, but there was no other sign of human habitation. Rural Norfolk had apparently been depopulated for the night. There seemed to be only two people left in the entire county – the hunter and the hunted.

  Then I saw it again. That will-’o-the-wisp of light flickering through the trees. The only other person left in Norfolk.

  THIRTY

  My hand had been reaching for the garden gate, but I drew back as if the latch had been electrified. I didn’t even consider some coincidental passing stranger. The sound of me hammering on the door had carried through the night and brought Alan – who must have drawn a blank in one direction and returned to try the other – straight down the leafy lane like an iron filing to a magnet. He would know exactly what that noise betokened and once he reached the cottage and found it in darkness he would realize that this latest bid for assistance had failed and that I could not be far away.

  I doubted that I could outrun him, but I thought the building itself might offer a hiding place – maybe there was an unlocked shed, or an outhouse whose door I could barricade from the inside so that it appeared to be locked. I hurried up the path and headed round the side of the building. There was no shed or outhouse, only a greenhouse – a hiding place wrought entirely of glass. The sight of it almost engendered hysteria, so that I nearly laughed out loud. The plants in the small back garden were all of modest height. To complete this self-selected trap, the garden appeared to be surrounded by a head-high wall, impossible to climb.

  The greenhouse door stood ajar and seemed to represent my only hope. As I slipped inside I heard the sound of the garden gate from the other side of the house and knew that Alan had entered the garden. The greenhouse evidently doubled as a shed, for the floor was a booby trap of pots and garden implements, any one of which would betray me if I inadvertently toppled it.

  ‘Jenn-eee …’ The call startled me. Alan repeated it, his sing-song voice loud enough to carry some distance. ‘I know you’re in here, Jenny.’

  I watched until the telltale glow of his cycle lamp began to appear around the far corner of the cottage then darted partway from the greenhouse to the opposite end of the cottage, heedless of trampling the flower beds. I stopped before I reached the corner, watching to see him emerge in person, but the light was dazzling after so long in the dark, and I could see nothing of the man who held it. He played the beam around the garden and I was off again like a shot the moment it reached me. Had he managed to get a look at me or not? I pulled up short as I rounded the side of the building, flattening myself against the wall.

  Whether or not he had seen me, he had certainly heard me, as I now heard him approaching with a brisk, heavy tread, his arrival preceded by a ray of light, its shape and brightness helping me anticipate the exact moment to swing the thin wooden handle of whatever tool I had taken from the greenhouse. It wasn’t heavy enough to be a spade, or unwieldy enough for a rake, but I felt it jar in my hands as it connected, and he cried out and stumbled forward.

  I had never before exacted violence on anyone, but I made up for it now: striking him again before he had time for evasive action, again as he seemed to fold at the knees, and inflicting a further blow when he hit the ground. At that moment I had no thought in my head but to stop him dead – and if dead was the way he ended up, I have to own that in those frantic seconds I did not care.

  His lamp, miraculously still alight, had slipped out of his hand and rolled a couple of feet away. Still gripping my weapon, I retrieved it and turned its brightness on the prone form of my estranged husband. In doing so I caught a momentary look at the object in my hand and identified it as a hoe. When I focused the light on his head I could see a trickle of blood on one temple, where the business end of my improvised weapon had connected. I was just contemplating the possibility that I might have killed him when he made a faint sound, halfway between a grunt and a moan. Not dead then. I backtracked to the greenhouse and played the light across the workbench, where my hunch was rewarded by a small skein of garden twine, tucked into an empty plastic flower pot. He moaned again as I dragged his ankles together and wrapped the thin green string around them, knotting the two ends neatly. There wasn’t enough to bind his arms, but I figured that did not really matter. The restriction I had placed upon his legs would buy me time, so that I could put some distance between us while he was no more than semi-conscious and in no condition to follow anyone anywhere.

  For a brief moment I considered putting the matter beyond doubt, but I couldn’t do it. Instead I turned and walked away, Alan’s cycle lamp in one hand and the stolen garden hoe in the other. I let myself out of the gate, retraced my steps along the tree-lined lane, then walked purposefully down the road, my progress surer with the aid of a light to help me. I was bruised, aching with cold, my breath coming in little sobs, but I knew that every road must lead somewhere eventually, and the creak of a branch or the cry of a fox held no fears for me now, because even if every hobgoblin in East Anglia were dancing at my heels, I knew that, for the moment at least, one particular evil was not, and every yard I put between us made it that much less likely he would find me.

  What would Alan do when he recovered enough to disentangle his feet? He wouldn’t know how much of a start I had got, or which direction I had gone in, and now that he no longer had the advantage of a light it did not matter if my sodden clothes and shoes were still shedding water at a rate to betray my every footfall. Every choice of direction doubled the odds against Alan’s being able to pursue me any further, and he would realize that once I found someone to help me, it was game over. He couldn’t afford to scour the countryside indefinitely. It would soon become imperative for him to return to his boat and get the hell out of it before I raised the alarm.

  I had no way to gauge the passage of time, but after a while I found myself at a cross roads. To my
annoyance there was not so much as an old-fashioned finger post to suggest a direction. I tried to believe that the distance to the next human habitation was measured in mere fractions of a mile, rather than the five or six which it might easily be. It would be all too easy to despair. As if being frozen and exhausted were not enough, there was the thought that I might end up wandering in circles around the Norfolk countryside, always choosing the direction which took me away from help rather than towards it – or, worse, into the path of Alan’s route back to his boat.

  I made my choice then plodded steadily onward, trying to kid myself that the effort was making me feel warmer. After a time I finally emerged on to a wider road – left or right? I gambled left and within a matter of yards I detected the glow of artificial lights and the outline of roofs against the sky. Surely they couldn’t all be empty holiday lets? I was too tired to feel elation, but I quickened my pace until the bend in the road opened out so that I could see a row of cottages with cars parked outside, and beyond them a pub whose frontage was illuminated by a couple of spotlights. A few yards on from the pub there was a chequered rectangle of light betokening a phone box. I worked my hand down into my damp pocket, blessing the tightness of my jeans. The folded notes were soggy, but the coins together with my room key were still in place. I did not need to bang hopelessly on the doors of strangers. I could go into the phone box and dial 999.

  It is strange the way your instincts play you false. I had somehow expected the interior of the phone box to be warmer than the night outside, which of course it wasn’t. I was breathing hard as I lifted the receiver in readiness to dial and I paused for a moment to get my breath back and sort out what I was going to say. It was then that I saw the card. I had often seen them in call boxes in towns, but I never expected a taxi company to bother placing them in rural call boxes – then I remembered that I was close to the Norfolk Broads, where holidaymakers who had left their cars behind might sometimes be glad of a lift back to the river after indulging in a few drinks or a pub meal.