CHAPTER THREE
The cottage does indeed stand isolated and alone but as a place to hide from prying eyes, it is useless. It is perfectly exposed, no trees, hedges or fence attempt to obscure it from view. The landscape that surrounds it is hilly pasture and woodland. As a defensive position, it is futile. I could hide in the woodland. They would never see me.
The cottage was until recently up for sale. I remember seeing the “For Sale” and “Sold” signs. It can’t have been cheap, either. My guess, three hundred grand at least, and that’s now, 2010, in recession. Four bedrooms, full of character, in good repair and with half an acre of land. One old lady living alone, but surviving on more than a state pension. The half acre of land is unkempt and without any specific purpose, no flowers, vegetables or well kept lawn make use of it, which is exactly how the previous owner left it. Parked outside the cottage is a 2006 Nissan Micra. For now, I will assume this is the woman’s car.
It is 6.30 a.m. and not yet fully light. I am hiding in a patch of woodland. Using my binoculars, I observe the front of the cottage. Through the kitchen window, I can see the woman. She is wearing a blue dressing gown and is standing perfectly still as if listening to something intently. On a kitchen table, I can see a radio. Suddenly, she becomes animated, her body language dismissive. A wave of contempt pulses across her face, and she seems to mouth the words, ‘Oh, fuck off!’ Shaking her head, she turns and quickly paces away.
Through a second downstairs window, I see her enter a room. She hurries to a desk, sits and begins to work on a laptop computer. I cannot see the screen.
She continues working, typing furiously away for an hour and twenty minutes. During this time I scan what I can and, although my view is limited, I see no obvious signs of protest. Nothing makes me suspicious. I’m sure this woman has passions, and maybe even causes to fight for, but am I really watching the hub of radical animal liberation? Maybe I am, but to be sure, I need to get closer.
For the rest of the day I shop. They paid me a grand, and regardless of how I, the woman, Special Branch play out, I’m keeping it. I stock up on food, on basic supplies. I then treat myself. I buy a new coat, not one to appease the latest fashion, but one to take on the elements, likewise a pair of boots. I then go to the butchers and buy a rib of beef, a family joint for six. An expensive cut of meat, but one I will consume in a single, joyful sitting. The rest of the money will be hidden, stashed away for a moment unknown.
It is 4.05 p.m. I am hurrying down a country lane on my way to watch the cottage. The night is quickly approaching and will soon smother what remains of the day. In the distance, I can hear a car lumbering towards me.
The lane is narrow and twisting, edged with tall hedges that act as blinkers. Hearing the car reach the corner ahead I step off the road and onto a narrow grass verge, where I stand waiting for the car to pass - an act of self-preservation. The sound of a car slowly approaching is no guarantee of one competently driven. The car cautiously appears from around the corner. It is the Nissan Micra parked outside the cottage. Inside, I see the Woman, driving. Seeing me, she brakes and slows to a pace that is polite but which is also unnecessary slow. As the car rolls towards me, she looks at me and smiles. I reply with a nod and a smile; both feel somewhat awkward. Her stare and smile continue. Time slows. Finally, the car reaches me, as it passes she manages to keep her smile fixed on me for a few seconds more by turning to look out of the driver’s side window. Her smile widens, and her eyes seem to say ‘There, we made it.’ As she accelerates away, she toots her horn twice.
We have made first contact; we have looked each other in the eye, and without saying a word I told her a lie. In my world, she is significant, a fact that is known to me. In her world, I am significant, a fact that is unknown to her. How many such shadows follow us around?
Now, unless she is on her way to visit someone who lives close-by, and there aren’t many people who live close-by, the nearest, rational, location for her to visit, a local village shop, is twenty minutes away minimum. This gives me forty minutes to move in closer, forty minutes to put the lie to rest.
Five minutes later, I reach the cottage. I scan the view; nothing alerts me to the presence of people. Darkness is fifteen minutes away. I could play it safe and wait, or I could make my move now. Given the odds that hidden eyes are watching me my decision is easy. I approach the cottage. The hall light is on. I walk directly to the front door and knock loudly. Silence. I knock again. Silence. I try the door; it's locked. I turn to face behind, take several paces away then turn back and hurry towards the rear of the cottage. Here I see two doors. I try to open the first. It is bolted shut, but the give is considerable. An an inside bolt fixed to the top of the door is all that holds it firm. I concentrate my force over the bolt, and the door opens.
I step inside and close the door. Inspecting the bolt for damage, I see none. The catch on the door frame is loose, but no wood has splintered away. I turn a few screws and conceal my entry.
The house smells of baking. I am standing in the kitchen, and the welcoming smell of fresh pastry hangs sweetly in the air. I take several deep breathes, and my pounding heart begins to ease. My gran, who for a time brought me up, could always soothe my moods with an afternoon of her magic baking.
The light is low, but I have no trouble locating the fridge. I move to it and open the door, inside: bacon, cheese, eggs and milk, an organic salmon fillet, salami and a pork chop. We all have guilty pleasures, but can this really be the fridge of an animal liberation extremist? To my mind no, it can not.
I decide to leave. I know I could stay and dig deeper; rummage through her belongings and look for clues, but what right do I have? I have trespassed long enough. This woman has only ever smiled at me. She wasn’t the one who told me a lie.
Passing a kitchen table I find a laptop. The screen is on; I can’t resist a look. It shows a web page, address https://boxxx5481422.com/oakley. A casual scan of the text heavy page suggests an academic report on the subject of growing algae. Is she an academic? She has the look. Next to the laptop is an empty bottle of wine. Has she gone for supplies?
I exit through the second back door and head back to the caravan for whiskey, beef, and thought.
I am alone in the caravan sitting in silence for tonight the elements are still. The beef was delicious and the whiskey a warm embrace. I should feel contented; however, loose-ends nag me. I don’t like it when people complicate things. My life is simple, it’s what I have chosen. Some people get off on drama and constant complications I, however, do not. I like routine. Change is fine when it’s paced with the seasons, but, ultimately, with a routine I can trust myself, with a routine I can know myself.
I decide to do nothing, to pull myself out of the loop, to continue as I was before the visit. They asked me to watch an animal rights extremist, but this was a lie, so now the contract has been broken, and the deal is off. For all I care, Phillip and Andrew can come and go along with the truth of the situation. I care for neither. It would be easy to sit here a slave to my imagination, a slave to the question, why, but I don't desire to know the truth. I desire my own peace of mind. If, in time, I am confronted by the truth then fine; I am more than willing to defend myself, but for now, for me, the adventure has finished.
So quiet is the sea I step outside to check it still exists. It does, as does the wind. I will sleep outside tonight, and tomorrow I will continue as I normally would.
Come, Time Page 3
