Hang on. Parked tight to the cliff face, is a pickup truck, attached to a boat-laden trailer. The boat is old, but looks sea-worthy, with a once proud yellow trim. Perched on the trailer, it stands tall - tall enough to make a good stab of reaching high up onto the cliff, where overhanging vegetation might give me a shot of getting up. From there, I can follow the cliffs along the coastline out of here. My body has already agreed, and is scaling the side of the rusting boat trailer.
I pull myself up onto the vessel, my nose filled with that unique fragrance of wood weathered and infused by years of sea water, and clamber up over the cabin roof. I daren’t turn around, to see if anyone notices me, and hope that any bystanders will assume that I’m just making some final preparations for launch. That is until, as I am doing now, I take a fistful of hanging ivy which has crept over the cliff wall, and test its strength. It should hold, but will be a close run thing. If it snaps, it will be a painful, noisy clatter onto the cabin roof - a slapstick moment which will give away my activity and surely provoke interest in my identity.
Balls to it - it’s a good a chance of escape as any. Plus I’m up here now.
I take the strain, and start to step up the rock wall, pulling up arm over arm. It gives a little, but doesn’t seem keen to snap entirely. Steady. Steady. A sudden movement may end this attempt pretty sharply.
I only had five feet to travel, but thanks to the give in the ivy, and my carefulness, it seems to take forever. As soon as I am able, I throw my arm over the top, and scrabble for something with more consistent purchase. My palm and fingers grip something which immediately brings a tingling right through my hand, and I know right away what did it. It’s a most familiar childhood injury. A nettle sting. It doesn’t hurt as much as I remember, but give it time. I know it got me good and proper, since I grabbed it harshly. I don’t want to lose any kind of reliability in the hand while I am precariously dangling over this boatyard, so I immediately thrust my outstretched fingers down into the ground, eking my fingers into the soil, and yank myself up. Come on, Ben, you grizzled bastard. I do the same with my other arm, and drag myself the rest of the way, grazing my knees on the cliff edge as I go.
I made it, and I am suddenly lying on my back on a cliff overlooking the whole town. On another day, it would be a lovely space to stop for a picnic. Not today, unless I want a buzz cut from those chopper blades. As I lie there, catching my breath, and my hand begins to really throb, it crosses my mind that I haven’t actually checked on the crucial cargo in a while. It could be a case of ‘all this for nothing’ if I dropped it in a field or something. I run my hand down to my thigh, and pat my shorts pocket. Yep, still there. I feel the solid blob of metal through the fabric. I still haven’t a clue what it is. It could still be a case of ‘all this for nothing’, even though I have it.
No. Jeremiah made its importance obvious, while not clear. I see dock leaves all over the scrub patch I sit in, the traditional remedy of a nettle sting. I know for a fact that their use is nothing more than a placebo to placate upset children, given that the dock leaf possesses precisely zero anti-nettle properties. The stings themselves are caused by the minute ‘hairs’ on the nettle leaves, that swap host on contact, sticking into the skin. They are loaded with the nettle poison. It’s obviously a mild irritant, but an irritant nonetheless. And if you are allergic to it, well... Good luck to you. I take the duct tape from my pack, and start walking uphill, following the coastal paths high over the town, leaving its searching swirl behind me. I wrap my hand in tape, then rip it off sharply. That will have pulled the stingers out, sticking them to the adhesive. In half an hour, when the swelling goes down, the hand will be back to normal, since the poison supply has been cut. Which I’m bloody looking forward to, because despite myself, this little nettle sting doesn’t feel that great at all.
My main aim now is distance, and as much of it as I can get. From the town. From my pursuers. To Bristol. Go. Go. Go. I glance back, from whence I came, the neat little seaside town with the helicopter patrolling above, and the sirens speeding betwixt the streets, and it looks like a kids play set.
The chopper. All it would take is a quick glance toward the headland, and I may be seen. I’m sure I’m safe from sight from the ground, but from the air? No. Not yet.
I’ve been able to hide in plain sight at points today, blending in with people and everyday goings on fairly easily. But I need darkness, invisibility. A couple of miles over the hills ahead are the wilds, and I need to be a ghost from now on. I need full improvised camouflage.
I make for the rise, and top it in moments, leaving the valley behind. There are thick pockets of my namesake all over this hillside, which should provide some cover. But I could really do with some water with which to mix some camouflage. I’ll have to keep going.
I march for twenty minutes, then begin to follow a track down slightly towards a small copse. Outcroppings of trees like this usually mean there is water nearby, not necessarily in the form of a stream or river, but more likely beneath the ground. Up to my right, is the higher hills and moors, and I suspect there is consistent runoff down to this copse. There is surely water in there.
I can no longer hear the chopper, so I allow myself this break in the trees. Not a proper break, mind - I won’t be getting my feet up and breaking out the rations. Once in the trees, I shrug off my pack and get down on my knees. The ground is soft and mossy - that moss is a dead giveaway that there is water not far below. I claw up clumps of the moss to reveal the deep brown earth below, which is soft and moist. This is perfect. This wet dirt will serve as my pre-mixed camo paste.
There are different camouflage patterns for different environments, and here there is a decision to be made, because I really don’t know what terrain lies ahead. I have encountered mainly open fields, scrub-lined trails and sparse trees. The general rule is slashes for grassy open areas and blotches for forests.
Hmm. I know that the national park will be thicker, and if I get the chance, I will certainly stick to the trees and wooded areas. As soon as I apply the camo, seeing other people is not an option - there’s nothing that could raise much more of an alarm than stumbling across a man in full camouflage.
On that basis, I decide to opt for a mix of both, erring more on the side of blotches. If I enter a coniferous landscape, then thick broad slashes become the order of the day, and I’ll have to reapply in full. But for now, the decision is made.
I start with a base application of mud all over me. Up my legs, on my head and face, on my shorts, even on my already-camouflaged jacket. I pay very close attention to my shoes, and rub mud dup onto the shiny eyelets for the laces. Anything that can reflect light will give me away. I tuck my watch up my sleeve, and rub the mud right up my arms. I then take bigger clods of earth and pack them in irregular blotches onto me, allowing them to crumble off me the second that they dry. That leaves darker patches on my skin and clothes. I repeat the routine for my backpack.
That has taken two minutes, which I am pleased with. I’ll stop and do this readily if the occasion allows.
A veil drops over my mindset, like I have just walked on stage as an actor inhabiting another character. There is a role for me to play now, one that I must dedicate myself to. And the objective is invisibility. Every move, every action I make, is with discretion at the forefront. If I am getting out of this, I must dedicate myself to the success of my mission in the coming hours. Detection is not an option. Detection will lead to capture. And according to Jeremiah, capture will lead to more lives at stake than just my own. I can’t live with that.
7
The sun is dipping again, shafts of orange breaking through the trees, illuminating the forest floor in an ethereal blaze. Greens become more green, browns more brown. It’s a wonderful, magical time. And it’s when animals are most likely to feed.
I have been walking all day, solidly striding at pace, sticking to trees wherever possible at the beginning, until dense forest became impossible to avoid.
I am grateful for it. As planned, I stopped approximately every two hours to reapply my camouflage, and for the first time since this infernal turn of events began, I feel truly alone, my efforts towards invisibility having been successful. I have made good ground.
I now sit downwind, crouched behind a brambled thicket. My shoes are off, resting down at my side, with the laces removed. I haven’t dared look at my foot, since I don’t want to be sidetracked. I know the pain has not increased, nor has it been a hindrance. I will leave it as is, at least until my latest task is over.
Now... concentrate.
My eyes are slits, almost closed, to eradicate glint and gleam. In my hand is a sling fashioned from shoelaces and a ripped piece of fabric from the corner of my shorts. I laid the two shoelaces out lengthways, and placed the five inch square of fabric in the middle, and bound it fast with tape. The hardest thing to find was the right stone, but I got there in the end. A selection sits between my feet, and poised in the sling now is my favorite. It reminded me of old gaming dice, with lots of jagged points and edges but predominantly round. The sling is now ready in my right hand.
It took me a while to locate the rabbit warren, but now that I have, I can see that there will be plenty for me to have a go at. They have been coming and going with ease, even as I arrived in the area. They don’t sit long, which is why I haven’t tried my hand yet. But as they settle into the dusk, and forget that there is a presence around that they can’t pinpoint, they will sit for longer and graze.
One appears at the entrance to the burrow, semi-alert yet inquisitive. I might be giving it too much credit there. He might just be sniffing the shit around the burrow entrance, which was one of the ways I managed to track them down in the first place. I had noticed their little trails all around, those little more obvious gaps in the ferns with matted mud underneath them, and followed them, and it was when droppings started appearing on the tracks that I knew that I was getting close. The concentration of droppings increased, into this narrow clearing. Once here, the warren was very easy to locate tight to the dead roots of a long downed oak. All that remains is a shaded stump, under a sky filled withed other trees that filled in the gap left by their felled predecessor. The tree must have fallen long ago, judging by the dulled weathering of the edges, and the dark coloration of the exposed core.
Another rabbit darts from somewhere to my right, straight down the burrow past its colleague, which gives it more confidence to expose himself a little more. I can see the creature more clearly now, and it is plump and healthy. They must live a good life here, away from an urban touch. I had partially resigned myself to accepting that a dinner of rabbit might be a flee-infested, bony affair, like eating a street rat with big ears. He comes out a little more, and my anticipation raises a touch. This might just be my prey. If he gives me a little more of a look, I will have to take it.
I will take no pleasure in ending the rabbit’s life, but the sustenance the meat will bring is much needed. My rations are surviving thus far, but I can’t survive on chocolate and vacuum packed turkey jerky. Fresh meat and its nourishment will boost me through the night and on into the next day.
Yes, he’s out. I can see the fullness of the rabbit now, and, for a meal, he will do nicely. I start gradually to swing my sling, at my side to begin with to establish it’s momentum, and to wait for the rabbit to give me the best look at its head. That’s the target for the quickest kill, and will not damage the meat on the flanks.
It sniffs the air, rearing up slightly, then settles. I have remained undetected, or if it has detected me, it hasn’t revealed it. He takes one lazy hop in my direction, his nose low to the ground to pick up the scent of his own dinner perhaps. I raise the whirling sling over my head, look the rabbit dead in the eye, and release one end of the sling with practiced timing, which sends the stone hurtling at the target.
A dull thud tells me straightaway it was a direct hit, as he drops, jittering and prone, onto his back. There will be fresh meat tonight.
*
I have never, ever, not even once, enjoyed skinning an animal. It is a necessity that has given me a relative proficiency in it, but do I take any satisfaction from it?
No.
Some hunters revel in this moment, basking in the glow of their achievement, and see the act of preparing the animal as an act of love, affection and respect. Respect for mother nature, and the animal that they have felled.
I always felt it hard to fulfill that aspiration while you’re pulling the animals entrails out with your bare hands. That never struck me as the most respectful gesture, but... different stokes for different folks, I suppose.
Anyway, it’s done now. I buried the bits I didn’t need, since I’m sure finding a perfectly skinned rabbit pelt might be a bit of a giveaway of a trained human presence. The rabbit is roasting over a hastily fashioned fire on an even hastily fashioned spit made with branches. I turn it over slowly. I enjoyed making the fire, and didn’t even use one of my lighters. I found the perfect kindling in the undergrowth, so I thought I would save the lighter in case I struggle in the future. I kept the fire down to an absolute minimum, with a pile of dirt right next to it to extinguish the smoke if I feel there is someone in the vicinity.
As the rabbit cooks, I peel strips of flesh off with my multi-tool knife. It’s good. Not bad at all. A beer to wash it down with would ice this cake quite nicely.
Buoyed by survival successes so far, and happy that my training in such matters remains sharp as ever, I ponder my physical whereabouts. I know I have stuck in a north-east-easterly direction thanks to the compass point on my watch. And I would guess I have walked a good thirty miles in the thirteen hours between when I lost the police at about 8.30am and now, which must be approaching 9.30pm. It will be dark pretty soon, but I now exactly where I am going to camp, under a conifer I spotted about 100 yards from here.
I think, thanks to the denser woodland and the fact that I have not seen a trail in hours, that I am deep in the belly of Exmoor National Park. Which is just where I am supposed to be.
But the terrain has been more undulating than I expected, and I had to detour through Ilfracombe. I have not made as much ground as I had hoped, and because of that, I may not reach Bristol tomorrow.
I take out my phone, still in its sandwich bag, and switch it on. As soon as I see that there is no reception whatsoever, I shut it off again. No point wasting juice.
Will another full day be sufficient for Jeremiah, without hearing from me? I would really like him to know that I was successful in attaining whatever the thing in my pocket really is. For me, it is seaming ever less likely that this is simply a jewel. I can’t imagine I am stuck in a quibble between warring jewelers. Maybe I should have a look at it? Maybe I should try to work things out on my own?
No. That’s not my remit. Getting it to Jeremiah - that was my remit. I don’t want to muck about with things I might not understand - I’m struggling not to plummet in over my head as it is.
I eat the rabbit, and allow myself reflection. My life has taken some funny turns, to bring me to my current predicament alone in an English heritage site catching and eating my own food. My life was one of promise and purpose. I suppose I still have purpose. But I was respected. There is no respect afforded an anonymous vigilante. I had a standing in society, and a reason to hold my head high. My upbringing as an only child had been uncomplicated, a simple life of a northern lad in a northern industrial town.
I had managed to get out to university. It wasn’t like an escape or anything, more just a sense that I was destined to tread a path different to my father’s. I could have followed him into the steelworks of Sheffield, but didn’t. At university, I struggled with a true calling there also, studying English Literature, but unsure of what future it could give me. Before long, the army came calling, and I followed my heart.
Serving the country meant everything to me, and I found I was good at it. I ended up in Iraq, and then latterly Afghanistan. I was made a
Captain by that time, and was well paid for it too. My parents were proud of me, and I was something of a hero at home. As I chew around the gristly bits on this rabbits hindquarters, I can’t help but grimace at how the mighty have fallen.
I still want to serve. It’s what I am good at. It’s what I believe I was placed here on this planet to do. And I’ll carry on doing it, even if I’m not supposed to be doing it. I want to redeem myself. And now, here in solitude, I find myself admitting to myself for the very first time that the redemption I seek will only ever come my way in death.
When I eventually succumb to whatever task proves just too much for me, my body will likely be found. And with that will come the questions. Who is this guy? How did he end up here? And they will eventually work out that I am Ben Bracken, convicted murderer, who was thought to be lasting out the remainder of a 17 year sentence in HMP Manchester. They will wonder how I got out, how I eluded capture for so long, and how it came to be that the authorities at HMP Manchester, or Strangeways as it is known up north, didn’t notice that one of their own prisoners was missing.
They know full well I am gone. I blackmailed the administration into a viselike corner. When I escaped, there was 15 years left on my slate. I figured that would be ample time to do what I could to help this poor nation. My Great Britain. And when I die, they will try to connect the dots. Jeremiah will eventually work out the truth about his informant, and the nature of his true identity. And my activities will be revealed. I can only hope at this point, I earn the redemption I crave so badly.
Apex (Ben Bracken 2) Page 8
