by Alec Merta
So, as I sat in one of the three barstools I have nominally (and secretly) claimed as my own, sipping a pint of local bitter and wallowing in a hefty cloud of steam, I should have been relaxed. Instead, I found myself distracted by a queer feeling not unlike the one I had felt earlier on the Moors. It was not precisely fear or anxiety, but a more primal antecedent of both. It was the sort of primitive signal the lizard part of one’s nervous system transmits to the rather uppity portion of the brain more interested in abstract consciousness than, say, the chances of being eaten by a large cat.
Compelled by some evolutionary desire to inspect my surroundings while not signaling my concern, I stole furtive glances this way and that; always masking my movements with tasks that, to me, seemed outwardly normal and innocuous. I am sure any respectable predator would have quickly caught on to, among other things, my adjusting the barstool, rearranging my papers, and hoisting my mobile phone like the Stature of Liberty’s torch. I thought the last one would easily allow me to pass for a man in desperate want of a better mobile phone signal.
Obvious though it was, I am glad I did that final one, as it produced a result. I raised the phone above my head, staring at it and making the sort of facial expression I deemed apt for a person seriously confused by the vagaries of radio signal pub penetration. I am afraid I actually ended up looking like Lady Liberty with moderate gas pains. As I spun around, though, I discovered the source of my odd feeling.
A woman stood at the far end of the bar. There was nothing unusual about that, but her clothes and deportment felt a bit out of place. For those of you not from Albury, I am afraid you will just have to take my word for it. Everyone else knows what I mean. It was not that she was wearing a dolphin costume or engaged in a yoga posture exercise either. It was a subtle thing. She just stood out a bit.
More confusing was the fact that she did not appear to be staring at me. Indeed, I caught no immediate sign that she was remotely interested in me or my immediate surroundings. Yet, I knew she was the source of my vibe, such as it was. That too was remarkable because she was an attractive woman, and I should not have been overcome by a fear of imminent predation just because she may have been paying attention to me. But there it was. I was nervous in the way our ancestors once got when they reconsidered the decision to move into a cave on the wrong side of the watering hole. Why was this attractive woman the source of such anxiety?
My suspicions seemed to be confirmed when, through sidelong glance at her, I saw her steal a sidelong glance at me. To continue my cover, I made it obvious (probably too obvious) that I was wholly invested in attaining a decent amount of bandwidth. Eventually, I turned back to my work.
For a moment, I stared at the open laptop before me. What should I do? Why should I do anything? Did I seriously expect her to attempt my assassination in so public a place? Maybe that was the point, my lizard brain argued. “After all,” it said, “you’re probably not a very hard person to kill. If she was keen to do so, she could probably plunge a poisoned dart into your neck via quickly concealed blowgun. Then she could finish her beer while considering what to have for dinner. That’s what I’d do.”
I was sold. Obviously, a plan of action was in order. I started by pretending to get on with my business. This involved typing, rifling through the stacks of paper maps in my bag, and (for all I know) whistling a jaunty tune. If you have not figured it out by now, I am not very good at this sort of thing.
My charade firmly in place, I considered my next step. The “Lady Liberty trying to update Facebook” routine had been brilliant, I was sure, but an encore performance would probably blow my cover. I soon came upon the idea of subtly maneuvering every reflective object in my possession so that a host of mirrored surfaces would provide me with an bug’s eye view that covered the entire pub. I set about adjusting my laptop screen, my phone, a tablet, a beer glass, and my watch. For a while, I considered asking the baldheaded pub owner to lean over so I could cover the area just outside the kitchen. Unfortunately, he was engaged on the phone.
You can imagine my start when I yawed my laptop ten degrees left and saw the woman staring at me from just over my shoulder. I yelped in a stupid and girly fashion as I turned around. Being English (with an Australian grandmother), I instantly reverted to a sort of genetic politeness.
“Oh, hello,” I said.
She considered me for several moments. I was sure a series of interrogatories were heading my way. I expected questions like, “Why were you looking at me like an ailurophobic chimpanzee?”; “Are you the friendly kind of lunatic or one of the stalker variety?”; and “You know this place has Wi-Fi, don’t you?”
Instead, she said, “I’m really sorry about this.”
I gaped at her. It struck me in that moment that this woman was truly attractive. She was not a glamour model type, I’ll grant, but she was the sort of woman that most men discreetly include in the highest echelons of desire. She was beautiful in an approachable way. She had dark hair that was only slightly curly, a well-shaped face adorned with green eyes, a so-close-to-perfect-that-it’s-actually-better nose, and a mouth that seemed capable of producing radiant smiles, even if that too was just a bit misshapen.
As nice as the mouth was, at that moment it was in a mode quite unsuited for smiling. Indeed, her entire countenance was drawn and serious. It made her look a bit robotic, and that sent a whole new chill down my spine.
Before I could ask, “Sorry about what?”, she did the most remarkable thing. In one movement she picked up my laptop and hurled it across the bar. She was just there in an instant; her arms reaching around my shoulder, picking up the computer, and propelling it like a discus several meters away. It crashed at the feet of an elderly patron; bits of jetsam and debris erupting as it shattered. The old man startled, and I saw him mouth something like “Good Lord!”
I was dumbstruck for what seemed like ages. I only came round when terms like ‘property,’ ‘permission,’ and ‘unceasing wrathful vengeance’ started to combine in my head with the phrase ‘her Majesty, the Queen.’ I leapt to my feet and ran to inspect the remains of my government-issued computer.
For some reason that I will never know, I stopped only a few steps into my dash. I turned to look at the woman and saw her rifling through my bag. Was that all this had been about? Theft? Had she chosen to destroy a laptop worth hundreds of Pounds just to get at the meager remains of my possessions? It did not make any sense.
She looked up at me and, realizing that I was no longer concerned with the deceased laptop, faltered for a moment. Then she panicked. She grabbed up my bag, scooped up my notebook, and fled for the exit.
I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I ran after her.
3
I burst from the Lion’s Paw not knowing quite what to expect, even though I actually have some experience being robbed. I had been mugged at knifepoint on two occasions during my time at University College London, and once my flat had been burgled. On each occasion, so far as I knew, the criminals had gotten what they sought and fled as quickly as their feet could work. By these means, they had avoided arrest and transportation to Australia or wherever they send people these days. Bradford, maybe.
So I was reasonably certain that the woman would have chosen a suitable path of escape and made haste away from the pub. You will, yet again, understand my considerable surprise upon finding that the very first sight I registered as my eyes adjusted to the early evening darkness was the thief herself standing only feet away. She was beside a skip on the other side of the pub’s small car park.
She must have thought propelling my computer into the air would have distracted me for longer than it had, for she was wholly engrossed in the contents of my messenger bag. It was only then, when she evidently found her prize and moved to toss the remains of my possessions into the skip, that she saw me.
We shared something of a moment then. I, wide-eyed and panting from the exertion required in my brief pursuit; she, in a stance of
defiance with my notebook in her hand. I thought to call out to her, perhaps even to say that I was not going to call the police, when her head jerked to the side.
It took me a while to understand what she was doing. My blood thrummed so loud in my ears that I had not heard the distant wail of sirens in the distance. As the thrumming slowly subsided, I recognized the sirens for what they were. Someone in the pub must have called the police.
The woman knew this far before I did. Her face radiated with panic. Her eyes darted back and forth as though trying to devise a new plan. In the end, she went with what she knew and took once more to her heels.
Albury lies along the A248, otherwise known as the Dorking Road. Heading west, a person traveling on the road would reach Chilworth and eventually, via the A281, Guilford. So, when she darted in that direction, I began to calculate how close to Guilford I would come before laying on the ground and dying of acute bronchial distress. My guess was somewhere in the three block range.
My doom pre-ordained, I took off after her.
Now, it is important for you to understand one detail that makes my conduct to this point really foolish. Quite foolish and perhaps symptomatic of an undiagnosed mental disorder. This woman had stolen my property and destroyed a computer expensive enough to justify a thank you note from the exchequer to various taxpayers. (Imagine that world. “Dear Mr. Cooper, thank you so much for the new atomic submarine…”) What she had managed to take with her was a simple, leather-bound notebook worth (in figures adjusted for inflation and currency exchange) the cost of a paperclip. So why pursue her? Why not just let the police, for whom this sort of thing is a common occurrence, chase after her with cars and drones and whatever else they employ to battle crime in sleepy English villages?
I confess that an answer eludes me today every bit as much as it did back then. I was without articulable motivation as I charged past terraced homes and shops. I consciously thought, “You idiot, why not just let her go? You could live a long and placid life yet.” But I did not stop. Something bothered me about the affair; about the girl, and I had to learn more.
As she darted around pedestrians and stretched the distance between us, I had time to assess the contents of the notebook. The book itself was, as I already made clear, physically worthless. So the motive had to lie within, on the pages and in the ink and graphite scrapings that I had memorialized in it. But what value was there in those?
I had used it frequently while completing the expedition to Yorkshire. I supposed the notes and data I had scribbled down could have been valuable to somebody, but I could not think of any actual examples of such people. Also, I had already entered the raw numerical data into an online tool. That had rendered the figures themselves redundant. If anything, all I came up with was another reason to stop my pursuit and go home. That she may have had an interest in my sketches never crossed my mind. Again, I pressed on.
Minutes into the chase, I was shocked to realize that I had begun to gain on the woman. Between heart attacks, I started to feel a sense of manly pride as the hunter gamely overtook his prey. Of course, I was only catching up to her because she had slowed her pace to scan her surroundings. In the distance, the sound of police sirens grew louder. How many cars the Surrey Constabulary had dispatched, I did not know. I guessed more than none and less than all of them. It was, as I have said, a sleepy little town, so an overwhelming law enforcement response was unlikely. Still though, the place was so sleepy that the police may have been keen for an exciting diversion. It certainly sounded like more than one car.
The woman must have concluded the same, for she suddenly darted left and crossed the Dorking Road. She timed it perfectly so that I would have to wait for a line of cars to pass by. She had simply raced in front of them. Keeping my eye on her, I made my way across the street, zebra crossings be damned.
I quickly understood why she had bolted in that direction. A path lay before her. I did not know to where it ran, but, given its evident southerly direction, I assumed it led to Blackheath Common.
We crossed a distance of some hundred yards or so down the path. I felt increasingly resigned to a fate that included my passing away in bucolic surroundings, and I was really more eager for that to occur than to spend the evening picking my way through dark copses.
Fate turned my way then. It chose the form of a cyclist crossing the main path by way of a poorly marked throughway. Unfortunately for the woman, the bike was driven by a man engaged in rebellion against the despots of Health and Safety. He bore no bright clothing, and his bike was without any lights. The driver rode headlong into the woman, sending him flying and her tumbling to the ground.
She crumpled in an awkward and sudden way. I watched her collapse in a single moment, as though her body had been switched off. The cyclist, again showing blatant disrespect for the rule of law, stood quickly and retrieved his bicycle. He sped off. I could never have hoped to identify him.
I approached the woman. She lay motionless on her side. There was little obvious injury; no blood pouring from arterial wounds or anything like that. I knew, however, that she had to be hurt.
I knelt, not sure what to do. The woods, dark and brooding, surrounded us. I heard only the sounds of distant traffic. There were no birds or beasts moving near us. It was, I assure you, a memorable scene.
I noted with relief that she was still breathing. Her eyes were closed, but her chest rose and fell. I retrieved the mobile phone from my pocket and switched on the light. She was wearing darkish jeans, and she wore expensive-looking trainers on her feet. She had a white t-shirt beneath a light jacket. Her clothes were covered in dirt and a little blood, although I could not see where her wounds were. I considered rolling her on her back, but thought better of it lest I upset an unseen neck injury. Evidently I had learned something from sixth form first aid.
I continued to examine her, in a gentlemanly way of course, for a few moments more. I looked in her jacket for a wallet or phone. She had neither. Indeed, she appeared to be in possession of nothing more than her clothes and my notebook, which remained clutched in her hand.
Thinking very little of the act, I reached out and took hold of the notebook. She held it tightly still, so I exerted some force to try and remove it. She jumped at that. Her head turned to me, and her eyes opened. I scarcely contained a scream. I assure you it would have been a manly one.
“No,” she said between gritted teeth.
“Give it up, you’re hurt badly. Give it up, and let me call for help.”
“Or you’ll let me bleed out?”
I was a bit insulted at the insinuation. But since she had no idea just how serious her injuries were, I could not fault her logic.
“You’ll be arrested, and I’ll have it back anyway. Now let go and wait here while I go find help.”
“No.” It was a long sound; an animal sound. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I did not think that really happened, but there I knelt with hair on end.
I relented, and she drew her hand back and beneath her.
Finding my resolve, I said, “You’re not going to bleed out. At least I don’t think you are. Unless there’s something internal. How do you feel?”
“I feel like I was just hit by a bike. Also, I feel like I’m laying in the dirt and trying to count the number of new joints I have in my skeleton.”
Clearly she was not going to be of any help. I pondered more on just what to do when, to my relief, I heard the sound of police sirens drawing near.
“Look on the bright side,” I said, “they’ll know first aid.”
“Whoopee.”
I started to speak, but I realized she was saying something under her breath.
“Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. You damned idiot.”
“Easy now, you’re the one-”
“Not you, you damned idiot. Me. I ruined it. I ruined it all.”
I was perplexed. Maybe she was the scion of some upper-class family now doomed by a police record to life in middle
management. At any rate, I did not understand what she was saying.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” I said tautologically.
She sat up, still cursing softly.
“Hang on, I don’t think you should move.”
“I’m fine. Just let me up.”
I helped her to her feet, dumbstruck by the oddity of the situation.
“Look, it’s not all that bad. I mean-”
I want to pause again to explain something. I belong to a certain sub-species of male humans. We are long-suffering for our sparse record of achievement with our female counterparts. We are not rude or crass, not overly difficult to look at, and relatively free of foul odors. We do, however, share one trait that evolution must have allowed to survive out of a sense of irony. We are, that is to say I am, a sucker for a pretty face. Give me the chance to let a pretty girl walk all over me, and I will lay a coat on my face to prevent her shoes from becoming soiled. I am an archetypical schmuck. Now, back to the narrative:
“-I won’t even press charges.”
She looked at me. She did not smile. Rather, she examined me quizzically like a naturalist pondering how the specimen she had just tagged ever managed to survive beyond the Cambrian.
“I need your help.”
I began to protest, but she spoke over me.
“I need you to help me. If you aren’t interested, then go away. Just leave me here to myself. Maybe the police will catch me, or a fox, or a wombat, or whatever you have in England that eats people. But just leave me alone or give me some help.”
I was surprised that I had not detected her accent sooner. She was not English.
“American?”
“No.”
“Canadian?”
“No!”
I let a second go by.
“New Zeal-”
“Please focus. But first shut up. I need you to make a decision right now.”
What could I do? I mean, I understand that I had literally hundreds of options available to me. High on the list was going home and forgetting this episode had happened. Again, readers of the book jacket will have already worked out how I decided.
