As he began to come to terms with the situation mentally, he lifted his foot to take a step and his toe collided with a boulder on the river bed. It was so numb there was no pain, but his body was as stiff as a board; the effort to keep his clothes above the water and stay on his feet was exhausting. As his head went under, his good arm flailed in the murky water like a fish on the end of a hook. His brain ached as he regained his footing and he stood for a second to gather composure before setting off once more.
In the deepest part of the river, the current was carrying him downstream with every step. So he turned his back towards the bank to which he was heading. He lifted his bundle with both hands above the water and half swimming, half bouncing like an astronaut on the moon he moved across and down the river with the current.
At the back of his mind was the bridge and it was getting ominously close. He was three-quarters of the way across when he was able to regain his footing wholly. He continued with the backwards walk method. This allowed him to crouch down and keep his eyes on the bridge as he was only a short distance from it now and he could see four heads above the walls. They were talking and laughing, he could hear the voices but he couldn’t discern what they were saying or who they were. All he was sure about was that he didn’t want them to know he was there.
As the water became less than a metre deep, he bounded for the bank. He was shivering uncontrollably now, completely numb and in real trouble of hypothermia. Once out of the water and in the shadows of the trees he untied his parcel and grabbed the t-shirt drying his body and legs as best he could. His skin burned now that it was out of the water as the blood vessels tried to re-heat his extremities. His fingers felt like they would snap off and the carnal ache of chilblains set in.
With the relative heaven of dry clothes, he was quickly stomping his deadened feet through the countryside outside the town limits. His extremities came back to life as he jogged through the cold and the hurt; he crossed the roundabout over the A69 and hit the steep bank that led up to Oakwood and their friend Claire’s house. Claire was a nurse and Nat hoped she could stitch him up.
As he trod the quiet road up to Oakwood, his mind raced. He knew deep down that he had to go to Scotland to take care of Amber, escape the violence he was reaping, save what was left of his soul. But he also knew that he wouldn't. He hated his weakness, but he couldn't leave Esme or Northumberland. He mused how different the reality of the situation was from the thought of the same situation before it had happened. He had lost his wife but had no time to mourn. Mourning would get him killed, and he had no time to die while those men were still breathing.
By the time he reached the overgrown driveway leading to her diminutive cottage, he was back to normal temperature, the exercise had his blood pumping and his clothes were steaming in the night air. His shoulder burned with pain, but he was in control again. He felt strong.
As he approached the front of the house, he was pleased to see a dim light emanating from within. Nat tapped at the wobbly Victorian glass of the front door as he had done on many happier occasions. There was no answer, but he saw the light go out. He knocked on the wood much harder and leant down to the letterbox calling through it,
“Claire, it’s me, Nat. Come and let me in!”
Almost immediately the light came back on and he saw a shape coming towards the door. Claire opened up.
“Nat, are you pissed? What the hell are you doing?” Then she saw the state of him and his wounded arm. “Shit, what’s this? Are you ok? What happened?”
“Alright, alright, woman. Let me speak, man…”
She pulled him with care down the hallway and into the golden hue of her kitchen. A Patchouli joss stick smoked in the corner of the room, the butt of a joint lay in the ashtray and Roy Harper quietly sprinkled his magic across the room. The fire was roaring and the curtains were closed.
Nat slumped onto a kitchen chair. “Please patch up my arm and I’ll explain everything, Claire…” As he slipped his coat off, his face grimaced with the pain.
Claire took a sharp intake of breath and her hand covered her mouth as she realised that she was dealing with a gunshot wound. She pulled him up and directed him, sitting him back down again in the big armchair next to the fire which was churning out the dry heat that Nat’s body craved. He realised then that the clothes he thought were dry were far from it, his trousers were drenched from the tunnel and his top half was heavily damp. It didn’t matter now.
She hurried out of the room and Nat closed his eyes, letting his head rest on the back of the armchair, drifting with the music and the crackling fire. Claire hustled back into the room after a few short moments, with a bottle of brandy under her arm and a large first aid kit with two glasses on top of it. She placed the items safely onto an occasional table which stood to the side of the armchair. She gently lifted it round so it was next to Nat. Then she grabbed an old three-legged stool from the other side of the fireplace and plonked it with a clump and a screech onto the flagstones.
“Now, what the hell happened here then, you daft bastard?” She poured two large measures of brandy into the bulbous tumblers. "And here, get your lips around that, it’ll help the brain, the pain and the shame.”
She smiled at him, that familiar smile. Claire was a beautiful country girl, jet black hair, thick and wavy. But, it was those voluptuous rosebud lips that sent men wild. Nat wasn't moved by her beauty though, it was her familiarity. She was like a sister to him, and she had been Esme’s best friend, a constant, just like his wife. When Claire smiled at him, he was tugged back into reality.
With the warmth of the fire on his face and the brandy in his belly he felt the fatigue, the gravity and the actuality of his new life. But what hit him most in that safe, comfortable environment was the finality of his loss. From this moment forward, every time he ventured into his old life he would be reminded that his soul mate was gone. There were no kind words that could help with that; it was simply a fact, and he was left to live with the void. As he looked at his friend, he broke down, uncontrollably spluttering out the facts as best he knew them of the rape and murder of his wife and the trouble he had stirred up since.
Claire sobbed openly as she listened, struck dumb by the shock and disbelief. She took gulps of her brandy as Nat’s story from the last two days unwound. His tears were soon spent as his initial relaxation and outpouring of emotion passed. His eyes were red and hard as he told her about killing the NSO people and that he wouldn’t stop until he had got them all, especially the man named Truter.
He realised at that point that he might not end there. His old life would only offer him the feelings that he had just experienced and he couldn’t live like that. Crying like a baby. When he finished recounting his experiences, Claire leaned forward and hugged him tight. He reciprocated briefly, then regained his steel.
“C’mon girl, this isn’t going to sew itself, and I’m going blue here.”
“Ok, ok." But, as his words registered, her face clouded and she turned to him.
"You should never have fought with these people, Nat. You’re an idiot. The changes they are making will make life better, I don’t know what you were thinking and now…poor Esme, I never even saw her for days…I never said goodbye, never hug her again…fuck, Nat, you…”
“Alright, Claire, I know - don’t you think I know?”
“What will you do now?”
“Carry on with what I’ve started - kill those men.”
“This is not the Wild West, Nat; you can’t make your own rules.”
“You just watch me. Now, please…” He turned his shoulder towards her and she looked at him contemplating whether to carry on. Her eyes washed over her friend, taking him in like a mother looks at her child when she hasn't the energy to argue anymore. She shook her head slightly and began to dress his wound, starting by cleaning then stitching it. Claire's tears trickled down rosy cheeks as she worked; a dark cloud had settled over her.
“What are you gonn
a do, Nat, carry on killing people until one of them kills you?”
“Or, until I feel like stopping, yes,” he replied.
Claire looked at him puzzled, dumbfounded by his fatalistic tunnel vision. She rolled her eyes and shook her head again.
“You’re an idiot or you're not thinking straight, what if you get killed? What about Amber?”
“What about Amber? What about you? Look what happened to Esme; these bastards killed my wife. They abused their position, and they have started a war.”
“What do you sound like, man? Also, where is Amber?”
“She’s safe, with Stuart.” Claire’s eyes flicked up at Nat when he mentioned Stuart. Their romance had started twenty years ago and the roller-coaster had been running ever since, neither settling with anyone else because no one else measured up to each other. But they never managed to commit because they were both pig-headed: Claire loved Northumberland and Stuart had his farm.
Claire gently placed a heavy duty plaster over the fresh stitches and smoothed the edges over his unbroken skin, silent for a moment.
Finally, she looked into Nat’s relaxed but melancholy eyes and she put a hand to his cheek,
“I’m so sorry, Nat, you poor man. I do understand.”
She leant forward and they hugged, that much needed human contact, safe, reassuring and good for the soul. He choked up again in the embrace; but, as they parted, his mind moved back to survival. He wanted to get away from Claire as soon as he could so that she would remain safe.
Claire cooked some food for him and Nat showered and dressed in dry clothes that Stewart had left over the years. They were slightly bigger than Nat would have liked but not noticeably. As he wolfed down the food, he thought about his next step.
“Can I borrow your car?” He mumbled through a mouthful of food.
“No, you can’t, Nat. That would be great for me, wouldn’t it, if they caught you driving around in my car? And, anyway, I need it!” She thought for a second. “My brother’s scrambler is still in the garage, but I don’t even know if it works…”
“That’ll do, I’ve just got to get back to the farm.”
He walked out into the cold early morning. It was near four, still dark for a good three hours. He had plenty of time to get back to safety and get some sleep in the field shelter. The weather was reassuringly settled.
Claire’s driveway was a rustic cobbled affair and her big wooden garage doors were framed by ivy which twisted and tangled its way up the sides and across the roof of the garage. The lush green of the leaves complimented the weathered and flaking red paint adorning the doors.
He opened one side of the old rotting double doors. The wood was a mushy pulp where it leant on the ground and the hinges were giving very little support - he rubbed another couple of centimetres of door pulp away as it scraped open. He stepped into the dusty garage and turned the light on; it flickered to a dim light. The light was enough to make him raise his hand, to visor his eyes, although more through natural reaction than need.
He shook his head as he looked at the clutter in front of him. He cast his eye methodically over the jumbling until he glimpsed the rubber grip of one side of the handlebars of the bike. He moved in, but it took a while, as there was no end of potentially useful junk - all to be shifted to free the motorbike from its tomb of household goods. Finally, he liberated the machine and now he wondered at the likelihood it would start.
He checked the fuel tank: half full. Then the spark plugs and the battery: life in both. He opened the throttle, pushed off down the drive, and put it into gear; the engine puttered to a start, and he was good to go.
He took some bread and fruit from Claire, and she had washed his clothes - although she had not had time to dry them. He took a small rucksack from the garage and put his old and new supplies in there and set off in the dark. He took the Beaufront Road north out of Oakwood, a steep climb up to the military road running parallel with Hadrian’s Wall.
A few hundred yards before he hit the junction with the Military Road, as the little bike puttered up the long incline, he passed Rowell’s farm. There, at the end of his drive, stood the familiar high beech hedge and grandiose stone gate pillars. He was re-assured to see that the old man had barricaded his gates with the trailer from his articulated lorry on which he had welded side panels fashioned from corrugated iron, probably from his shed’s roof or sides. It was like something from a war zone. Nat realised he was not entirely alone.
He turned right onto the long, straight, undulating road running east to West across the country, following the Roman Road that ran along the southern side of Hadrian’s Wall. There was no sign of headlights in either direction so he revved the engine, put his head down, and took the bike to its top speed, heading east towards home. He had no headlight on the bike, but his eyes were used to the dark and there was some moonlight. Within ten minutes, he was skidding into his driveway.
There was no one on the roads, no early commuters, no night shift workers returning home, no farmers getting a march on the hours in the day. A chilling testament to the change: if previous governments had survived by capitalising on the nation’s fears, this new regime was creating fear to dictate to the population.
Nat wasted no time in getting his head down while it remained dark. He slept well, numbed by brandy, full of food, and bolstered by the kindness of his friend.
SIX
Amber had been exhausted by the time she arrived at Stuart’s whitewashed farmhouse. Waking from a deep sound sleep, she had no memory of getting to bed.
Her room was big and beautiful, not through design but the amalgamation of age. She perched on the side of a solid wooden bed, which was painted a nautical colour that some would call blue, others green. Her scruffy rucksack rested on an ivory coloured chest of drawers, the sun burst across the room illuminating an ancient rocking chair with the richest sheen from decades of varnishing. The curtains draped across the large window and the throw resting over the bed were a bohemian tapestry of vibrant patches sewn together. Amber loved the room; as she padded out of bed, the silence was broken by the creek of the bare floorboards.
She opened the curtains and breathed in as she absorbed the view. To the front and left of the house stood an old fir tree, robed like a pontiff in needles. This and the rough stone path leading up to the front door gave perspective to the breath-taking backdrop of the meandering valley beyond. The burn frothed and boiled over huge boulders smoothed and rounded by the constant abrasion. The valley sides were steep, and in many places the land had slipped, giving it the look of a furrowed brow belonging to a green giant. Other than the lush grass and the occasional heather bush, vegetation in the valley was sparse with rocky outcrops piercing the surface. There was a coniferous forest at its head which looked as though it were charging over hillside like a wild army consuming everything that stood in its way.
Amber could see Stuart in the distance laying out hay for his cattle. She stretched, yawned and shook her thick head of hair as if to ready herself for the day ahead. She could not have felt safer, more at home than she did at Stuart’s, unless she had woken up in her own bed, of course. However, as her thoughts focussed on her mother and father, she felt uneasiness in her belly and was impatient to get up.
As she padded through it, the old house massaged her senses at every step. There were thick velvety rugs laid over bare floorboards under her feet. The walls and furniture were a cacophony of colour and design. The smell of open fires wafted through the spaces, while the silence was only broken by the random creak of floorboards and the harmonic tick of an old clock that she couldn’t see.
The metallic thud of the latch reverberated through the wood of the kitchen door. The room was no less enchanting, but obviously where Stuart did most of his living, as it was chaos. The huge slab of oak that was the kitchen table had a mug and a plate with bread next to it at one end and a motorcycle engine at the other. Every surface was covered with paperwork, tools or foodstuff (
animal or human). The rest of the motorbike stood upturned and wheel-less on the flagstone floor.
Amber skipped quickly over the chilly stones and like a cat warmed herself in front of the Aga. She saw tea bags in a jar to her right. She reached the spiralled handle of the Aga’s hotplate lid and lifted the heavy covering to a familiar yawn from the hinges and heat washed over her face. She gently put the pot onto the heat and moved along the units to the right in search of a mug. The swoosh and clap of the cupboards opening finally revealed the mugs. She threw a tea bag to the bottom of the cup and followed it with a brimming, heaped spoonful of sugar. Habit dictated that she add an extra dab of sugar, which she did.
The kettle whistled as she clanged two thick slices of bread under the grill to toast. She would call her parents shortly. She stirred, then removed the tea bag and added some milk, not too much but probably more than most people. She turned the toast in short, sharp movements before her fingers burnt.
She saw the cordless phone, which must have been forty years old at least, lying next to the motorbike engine. She imagined Stuart taking her father’s call the day before. She picked it up and slipped it into the oversized pocket of her thick woollen cardigan. Carrying her tea and toast she crossed the room to the big old armchair nestled in the corner. She kicked two coats and some newspapers onto the floor. She placed her drink on one arm and her toast on the other then sank into the forgiving chair. She absorbed the quiet. The sun had broken the clouds and a bright stream of light cut across the room, illuminating the dust floating through the air.
She pulled her knees up to her chest and took the phone from her pocket. She dialled her home number. It took no time at all before the monotone shrill of a dead line came back down the receiver. She dialled again and again until she was taking a discernible amount of time over each number to make sure it was correct. The same bleak tone came back at her every time. Finally, she pressed the red button once more and tapped the receiver to her chin as she thought. She wasn’t overly concerned at that moment, but she could feel her stomach tightening with worry as she tried to find a reason for their phone being down.
The Border Reiver Page 7
