Unsure (Sure Mastery)

by Ashe Barker

  There. I have it. At last I spot a pink blur shooting across my viewfinder. I stop, pan back slowly until it’s captured in the tiny screen on the back of my camera. I turn the lens ring carefully to enlarge the image, bring it slowly into view. And as the picture sharpens I recognize it. Recognize her.

  Shit, shit. Bloody hell!

  It’s Rosie. Or, more accurately, Rosie’s all-weather padded jacket. Thank God someone bought her one in a bright color. I watch carefully for a few moments, try to assess what’s happening. What’s she up to, up there on her own? I can see that Rosie is conscious, clearly awake and sitting up. As I watch I see Barney too, pacing around her, agitated. His brown and black coloring camouflaged him earlier. I watch as Rosie leans forward, grasping her right ankle inside her solid walking boot. Hanging onto Barney’s neck she tries to stand up, clearly holding her right foot off the ground, then hops a few times before sinking to the ground again. Barney resumes his pacing. I focus on Rosie’s face and can see that she’s crying.

  Oh God. This is not good. So not good. What to do? I estimate she’s about two miles away from me, although I can cover that distance fairly quickly on the quad. At full speed it would take me about half an hour. But I won’t be able to bring her back down on the quad, the machine’s not built to carry two. Especially if one of them’s injured. And if the other one’s more or less on her knees in the grip of a migraine headache.

  My first step at least seems obvious. I pull out my phone and punch in nine-nine-nine, praying for some sort of signal. And I’m in luck. The disembodied voice asks me what service I require and I ask for mountain rescue, or better still the air ambulance. A few seconds later I’m patched through to an efficient-sounding male voice asking me for details of the incident and the condition of the casualty. I briefly explain what I’ve seen, and exactly where Rosie is. I thank God for my knowledge of these hills, that I’m able to give the operator an accurate location. And that she’s on open ground, it’s still good daylight and the weather’s clear. And with that neon pink jacket thrown in they’ll have no trouble spotting her. Hopefully.

  My job done, I start to put my stuff back in my bag again. I need to head back down the moor—I just need to get to bed. But even as I sling my rucksack back onto the quad bike I know I won’t be heading downhill any time soon. No way am I going to tuck myself up in bed not knowing for sure that Rosie’s safe. Muttering something to myself along the lines of “Oh bloody hell…” I start the engine and circle around to start climbing again.

  I reach Rosie after about half an hour, just ten minutes before the helicopter appears over the hilltops. She sees me coming almost immediately, and she’s waving and shouting at me all the way up the moor. By the time I get to her she’s hanging onto Barney’s neck and hopping around again, looking remarkably perky, in fact. A lot perkier than me. By then, after a bumpy, noisy, full-speed dash across two miles of rugged moorland, uphill, I’m feeling distinctly like death warmed up. Even Rosie notices.

  “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to throw up?”

  I turn off the engine—blessed peace and quiet at last—and stagger the last few yards over to her. My own private version of the Aurora Borealis inside my head is just warming up nicely, and the dentist’s drill working its way through my skull in three or four places is just hitching itself into second gear. She’s right, I might well throw up.

  Instead, I take a few steadying breaths, lowering myself gently to the springy moorland grass.

  “So, what’s happened then? Twisted ankle?” I try to keep my voice level, no point frightening her more than I need to.

  “Maybe. Probably. I tripped, fell over. It’s swollen up and every time I try to stand up it hurts. I can’t walk all the way home…” Her lip has started to tremble again, relief at being found giving way to shock and pain again, and the fear that she may still have a while to wait for a ride home. She knows as well as I do that quads can’t safely carry two people. But at least she’s got company now. I put an arm across her small shoulders and give her a hug.

  “You’ll be fine. No need to walk anywhere. I phoned for help when I saw it was you. Someone should be here soon, we’ll just wait together.”

  “Ashley?”

  “Mmm…?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I’m glad too. And you’ll soon be home, tucked up nice and warm.”

  She snuggles up to me, and together we wait for rescue. It’s only a few more minutes before we can hear the helicopter, faint at first but getting steadily louder. And my job here is more or less complete.

  The paramedic and doctor soon have Rosie strapped onto a stretcher and ready to airlift off the moor. The helicopter appears over the hillside behind us, circles a couple of times before setting down a few yards away. A quick look and the doctor, a lovely young Asian woman, agrees it’s probably a nasty sprain. She’ll need an X-ray to be certain, and she wants to take her to Airedale General, about five minutes away as the crow—or helicopter—flies.

  “We’ve only really got space for the casualty, love, but we might manage to squeeze you in. Can’t take the dog, though.” The paramedic is looking somewhat concerned at the prospect of abandoning Barney up here, although in truth the huge mutt is probably perfectly capable of getting himself home. Rosie’s distraught at the prospect of leaving her beloved Barney here on his own, though, and begs me to stay with him, to take him home with me. Truth is, even though my conscience is pricking me for not squeezing into the air ambulance and going with Rosie—I’d prefer not to leave her alone with strangers—there’s no way I can face the prospect of getting in that helicopter. Even less can I contemplate facing the bright lights and din of a busy A & E department. I’m not in the least bit reluctant to be left behind. There comes a point, I tell myself, when I need to put myself first. And this is it. I just want to start making my own way home now that I know Rosie’s in safe hands.

  Firmly squelching any lingering pangs of guilt I lean over the stretcher, take her cold hand in mine, force my voice to level out. I need to be calm, confident, in control. For her. “Don’t worry, I’ll take him back with me. I’ve got the quad, we’ll be back home before dark.” I turn to the doctor who’s packing up her gear ready to be off. “Have you contacted Rosie’s father? He’ll want to meet you at the hospital.”

  “No, we didn’t have next of kin details. Would you mind doing that if you know the family? Tell him we’ll be at Airedale A & E.” She looks at me rather doubtfully. “You don’t look so good yourself. Are you sure you’re not injured at all? Let me check you over.”

  No flies on her—must be my ashen face and trembling hands—but I shake my head. “It’s just a headache, that’s all. Migraine. If you’ve got a painkiller that’d be helpful…”

  Not taking my word for it she does a quick check of my temperature and pulse rate, but of course those are normal. She digs in her medical bag and hands me two white tablets. “Those are the best I can do without keeping you under medical supervision. Should hold you for an hour or so. Can you get home in that time?”

  I assure her I can on the quad. She seems satisfied, and a couple of minutes later they’re gone, the helicopter disappearing over the horizon toward Keighley. The drone of the engine has hardly faded away before I’m back on the quad and headed downhill. Even though I don’t make any attempt to call or control Barney he drops into step beside me, easily keeping up with the bike, his long stride eating up the distance.

  I manage decent progress for about half an hour, shored up no doubt by the good doctor’s medication. But soon enough the migraine is breaking through, the drilling in my head building again to excruciating proportions. My own personal cerebral pyrotechnics are also back in full swing, I can no longer see straight and the light is unbearable. I have to face the fact that any temporary reprieve I may have managed to buy myself has been used up. I’m ill, getting worse by the minute, and I’m still a long, long way from home.

 
; I know I'm not going to get back to my cottage on my own, so I stop the quad and dig in my pocket for my phone. I could call Tom, assuming I can still see well enough to find him on my speed dial. Or even call out another ambulance. I grope around, unable to find the familiar solid shape. I try the other pocket, then the zipped one inside my jacket.

  Shit, shit shit! No phone. No fucking phone!

  I must have dropped it, maybe when I bundled my stuff together to start heading up toward Rosie. I try one last desperate search through my pockets, and my rucksack, but it’s not there. I’m on my own.

  I start to move forward again, just crawling now as I continue to inch my way blindly down the moors. It’s mid-afternoon now, and although the gathering gloom is less painful for my eyes, the fact that it’s dropping dark and I’ll be still up here when the light finally fails is no real comfort. In good health, or more to the point with my eyes open, I can probably find my way in the dark. Feeling like this—not a chance.

  I stop, think, try to come up with a plan. I need somewhere to shelter, to wait this out. The only reasonable candidate is Top Withens, the ruined farmstead usually thought to be the inspiration behind Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights. Although the actual house is in ruins, roofless, the barn alongside is watertight and weatherproof. I can shelter there, if I can reach it. It’ll be cold, bloody cold as the temperature drops below freezing. But I’ll be out of the weather. And at Top Withens there’s a good chance I’ll be found before too long. Tomorrow probably. It’s a landmark on the Brontë Way, all the hikers pass there on their Brontë pilgrimages. I reckon it’s about half a mile away, I can just make out the ruined structure some distance below me, through the gloom, and I can see the ancient tree silhouetted alongside the building.

  I can no longer control the quad so I climb off, intending to stagger the rest of the way as best I can. I make it about a third of the way, probably, before I collapse to my knees, my eyes screwed up against the blinding pain in my head. Wishing I could just die now, I can hear myself whimpering, feeling as though my skull might melt. Or be crushed under the relentless pressure. Even my closed eyes can’t stop the flashing, dancing lights. I know I’ve got as far as I’m going to.

  Barney knows better, it seems, and he’s pawing at me. He’s tugging at my arms, my legs, won’t let me be, won’t let me just lie down and die. Eventually I give in, make some sort of feeble attempt to get up. I manage to drag myself onto all fours, and he’s there, shoving his huge head underneath me. I latch onto his neck, shove my fingers under his collar, and hang onto him. I manage, somehow, to get my feet back under me and, clinging to the huge dog, stumble blindly after him. We don’t get far, a few yards at best. But it’s enough. Barney drags both of us to the relative shelter of a remnant of dry stone wall, about four feet high. Enough to get behind, out of the wind. I sink to the ground, curl myself into a ball, as small as I can become. It’s cold, bloody cold, my warm waterproof jacket well past its powers of protection. Barney’s there, though, curling up close by. I grab his collar again, pull myself up as close to him as I can get, tunneling into his thick fur, soaking up his warmth. It might be enough. It has to be enough. It’s all I’ve got.

  Dimly, drifting in and out of consciousness, I consider my situation as best I can through the throbbing, pounding headache. It’ll be around twenty-four hours before I feel well enough to move under my own steam. That means I’m going to be out here all night, with no shelter to speak of, no food or water, no way of contacting anyone, and only Barney to keep me warm. And it’s starting to snow.

  No doubt about it, I’m in a lot of trouble.

  Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:

  The Dark Side: Darkening

  Ashe Barker

  Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Don’t you just love Beethoven?

  Well, I do. I always have, since I was tiny. I’m just drifting along nicely to his Symphony Number 3 in E-flat major and contemplating the heroic doings of Napoleon Bonaparte—apparently Beethoven’s inspiration for this particular symphony—as my mobile starts trilling. Definitely need to choose a new ringtone sometime soon—this din could be mistaken for a budgie caught in a car door. What could I have been thinking, choosing that? Napoleon never had ringtones to contend with. Neither did Ludwig van. And I don’t appreciate the interruption.

  It’s not even seven o’clock in the evening yet, and I am curled up in bed. I am surrounded by archaeology textbooks although I’m not in the mood for serious reading, and I do have Ludwig for company. But still—in bed by seven and trying to teach myself about the mysteries of ancient Egypt out of sheer boredom is just pathetic. I so need to get a life.

  The phone has somehow disappeared under the duvet. I know it’s there somewhere because the budgie’s still screaming its silly head off. It gets louder after a few rings. God, what overpaid nerdy whiz-kid thought that little gimmick up? A pushy phone—that’s all I need. I get enough nagging from my mother. ‘I just want what’s best for you, dear…’

  “Sod ringtones.” Now I know I’m losing it, because I’m actually talking to myself. I suppose the real danger sign is if I start answering. An uncomfortable thought. I shudder as I shove it brutally aside. I’m fine, absolutely fine. Now.

  On that thought, I finally get my hands on the screeching HTC spawn of Lucifer and drag it out to face the light, punch the passcode into the keypad and answer.

  “Hello, Eva Byrne…?” Always that expectant little pause, my name turned into a question as though I might not after all be me. Wishful thinking.

  “Eva…? Evangelica, is it…? Ange, is that you? It’s Natasha…” A little pause, no doubt to give me time to remember who Natasha might be. It doesn’t work—my mind’s a complete blank. And no one I know calls me Ange. Or Evangelica—unless it’s my mother in a very bad mood.

  “…from the agency.”

  Right, that Natasha. The snooty bitch with fuck-me heels and killer red talons glued onto her fingernails who looked at me like I was a lesser life form when I called in at the Little Maestros musical tuition agency a couple of weeks ago. I was looking for some alternative way of making a living, and if I could find something I actually liked doing, so much the better. I love music, and I quite like teaching, so I dropped off my CV and qualifications with a few agencies, just in case they might have some temp work going somewhere. Natasha looked a fraction more respectful when she spotted my first class honours degree in music from King’s College, London, but rather spoilt the effect by asking me for proof of identity. Obviously she thought I’d stolen the degree certificate.

  On reflection, I think her suspicions were aroused by my skinny black jeans, No Fear grey hoodie and psychedelic Converse trainers, topped off by a mop of wavy—or should that just be plain frizzy—red hair falling to the middle of my back. I’m not your archetypal music teacher.

  My unruly hair is a constant nuisance, the bane of my life. It bounces, frizzes and waves everywhere, and short of shaving it off I have never found a way of controlling it. When I was a child my mother tried everything to get it into some semblance of order, and brushing it every morning became a war of attrition. The hair was winning, hands down, until eventually my mother had one of her Hiroshima moments where she takes decisive, drastic and usually disproportionate action. She marched me along to The Cutting Shop down on Stamford Hill High Street and had the lot chopped off. It curled more than ever in defiance after the vicious assault, but at least it would fit under a hat.

  At five-four in heels and looking about sixteen—I am twenty-two, but like to tell myself I have worn well—I guess I didn’t fit the image of a serious violin teacher as I perched in a trendy little black leather bucket chair in front of Natasha’s pristine white desk, while she sneered down her aristocratic nose at me and suggested I was an impostor.

  I wasn’t especially desperate to impress Natasha the super-bitch—other agencies are available—so she was treated to my scruffy, sullen teen
ager look. Maybe my unpromising first impression was why it took her so long to get back to me. Oh, well—I need the work so I’d better make an effort now. If humble and well-mannered is called for, that’s what I’ll do.

  “Ah—hello, Natasha, how are you?” Always polite, that’s me, whatever the provocation. It’s my mother’s influence.

  “There’s a job come up you might be interested in.” She pauses to let this sink in, make sure I’m listening. “Music tutor to an eight-year-old girl. She’s learning the violin.”

  I am listening, and suddenly I’m very interested. I need to get a life, we’ve already established that, and here’s one that might just do. I really want a job as a musician if possible, at least for now. I’m not bothered about earning much, and I know that private tuition is hardly going to keep me in shampoo and tampons, especially with the agency creaming off most of the fee. But with my somewhat unique talents I can earn enough in a single evening to cover pretty much anything I might need. This job sounds just right, just what I’m looking for. I can play a mean violin—shouldn’t be too difficult to teach a little girl the basics. I put Ludwig on pause for a few minutes and resolve to be very polite indeed to Natasha.

  Natasha rushes on with her explanations, obviously in a hurry and clearly desperate, which is probably why she’s ringing me. “Valerie was doing it.”

  Valerie—do I know a Valerie?