The Network

by Jason Elliot

  ‘That’ll do,’ he says, more sternly now.

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ I say, putting my hands protectively in front of me. ‘I’m an army officer and I can prove it. Lower your weapon please.’

  The reply stuns me.

  ‘I know who you are, you murdering bastard.’ The evenness of his voice, and its conviction, stop me from going any closer. ‘Don’t waste your breath on me.’

  Anything, H has told me in our sessions together, can be used to counter an attacker: soil in a sock, swung fast enough, that can knock a man unconscious; a rolled-up newspaper jabbed into the throat; even the unfolded foil of a tube of toothpaste that can sever a jugular vein. But I have nothing. My close-quarter training with H is for disarming an Afghan carjacker with an AK-47, not an English farmer with a shotgun.

  ‘I haven’t murdered anyone,’ I tell him as calmly as I can muster. ‘I’m an army officer on an escape and evasion training exercise. I can prove it,’ I tell him again, realising as I utter the words that I can do no such thing. In my mind’s eye I see a pack of dogs swerving over my tracks as they climb the hillside.

  ‘Army officer don’t make you less of a murderer. Save it for the police.’ A jerk of the barrels indicates his intention. ‘Both hands on the gate.’

  I comply, moving to the edge of the track and wondering how they have managed to get to him. The top bar of the metal gate is cold.

  ‘You’re making a mistake,’ I say.

  ‘See about that,’ he growls.

  At a safe distance and to my side, and without taking his eyes off me, he transfers the leash from the hand that grips the stock to the hand that grips the butt. Then with his free hand he takes a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and his thumb works the keypad. As he listens to the ringing tone he glances downwards to his dog, who is looking expectantly at its master.

  ‘Steady, girl,’ he says. At the other end, someone answers. ‘Tom here. Make it quick. I got the slippery-tongued fucker right in front of me.’ A macabre chuckles escapes his throat. ‘Right. I’ll take him to the entrance gate and wait for you there.’

  The best moment for escape, H has also told me, is as soon after the moment of capture as possible. The longer the enemy has to consolidate his control, the slimmer one’s chances of getting away and the greater the likelihood of recapture. To fail to make the utmost effort to escape from the enemy is – as any soldier, former or otherwise, knows – classified as misconduct in action. And anyone who points a weapon at me, I affirm to myself, is an enemy.

  Another jerk of the barrels indicates his intended route, which lies beyond the gate in the direction of what looks like a barn and some other buildings a few hundred yards away. I do not want to go there. I keep up a steady patter of protest in the hope that, eventually, Farmer Tom will be distracted enough to bring his shotgun close enough for me to knock it, and its owner, to the ground. I tell him I will give him a number to call to confirm my identity. I tell him he can speak to my commanding officer. I tell him the SAS don’t take kindly to civilian interference. It’s all fiction, but he’s not to know.

  ‘Hands where I can see them,’ he says in the same steady tone, listening to nothing I have said. He keeps his distance cautiously as I move beyond the gate and onto a watery footpath, and follows me into the field. Then, being a conscientious farmer, he gives a sharp push to the gate, which swings closed into its latch and the whole gate reverberates with a clang. The result is one of those events that restores one’s faith in the idea of providence. A female pheasant, which has been hiding in the undergrowth at our feet, flies upwards in surprise at the noise, and the dog leaps after it, pulling at the leash, which is still attached to Farmer Tom’s right wrist. He keeps hold of the gun, but it’s pulled out from under his arm, and in the effort to restrain his dog he turns his back on me.

  ‘Down, damn you,’ yells Tom. Into this slender moment is compressed my chance. I take it.

  I dive to one side and roll through the line of trees that separates the track from the field beyond, cursing as I hit the ground more heavily than usual because I’m so tired. Without looking back, I am sprinting along the edge of the field as I hear the first shot. The pellets tear into the leaves behind me but Tom is out of luck and I am untouched. His second shot comes a few seconds later and also misses. I reach a hedge, turn sharp left across the field and keep up the sprint. At the far side I cross a farm track, slither into the grassy ditch on the far side, try to get my breath back for a few seconds, and try to think.

  What H has called a ‘balls-up’ has nearly killed me, and now I wonder if my new status as a murderer is a calculated lie, a coincidence or an accident. Whichever the case, whoever is pursuing me has influence. The drone of an airborne motor seems to confirm this unpleasant thought, and I look up to see a light aircraft bearing directly towards me at about 200 feet. How they can possibly have found me so quickly is another mystery I’ll dwell on later.

  I curl into the soaking grass, praying I can’t be seen if I keep still, not daring to look up in case the whiteness of my face betrays me. The aircraft flies overhead without deviating from its course and after it has passed I notice that its drop in altitude has the characteristic gradient of a final approach. I watch it bank into a gentle turn and sink below the line of trees towards the floor of the valley less than half a mile away. It does not emerge from the treeline on the far side, and this convinces me of two things: firstly, that the light aircraft flying overhead is indeed a coincidence and not a cause for panic. Secondly, that there must be an airfield nearby, which for the purposes of my new plan is more important. I’m not thinking much of the consequences. It’s the only plan I have.

  I run in as much of a straight line as possible in the direction of the last point I saw the aircraft, across two open fields alongside another hedge. I cross a small country road and pass near the long windowless shape of a battery chicken farm and a cluster of buildings alongside it. My lungs are splitting again as I reach a second, broader road. The hedge on its far side is impenetrable and I must risk running along it. It is free of traffic for the moment. Reminded suddenly of the presence of other human beings, I try my best to wipe the mud from my face in the hope that I won’t alert any onlooker to my status as a fugitive, but it’s probably too late for that.

  A municipal sign announces the identity of the village I am entering: shobdon. I’ve never heard of it. A few hundred yards beyond, to avoid the buildings that are beginning to cluster ahead, I turn left on a small road which winds almost imperceptibly downhill. Then I break off in the direction of where I saw the plane disappear and keep running on unsurfaced tracks between fields, finding nothing for a further desperate mile. Then, just as I begin to doubt whether this is even the same valley where the plane landed, I glimpse the roof line of some prefabricated buildings and head towards them. A fluttering orange windsock confirms I am in the right place. I creep along the base of the hedge that encloses the airfield and come to a line of white trailers which, judging from their length and strange shape, must contain gliders.

  I lie down on my back under one of them and wait for the heaving of my chest to subside. Then I turn in the direction of the airfield buildings to look for any sign of life. There is none. Nothing stirs by the big hangar a hundred yards away. The control tower, which looks more like a shed perched on a twelve-foot-high platform, is empty. In my imagination I see Tom explaining his encounter to the dog handlers, who are probably in the pro-cess of making a succession of phone calls. My close observation lasts only ten minutes but I can’t wait any longer.

  There are about a dozen single-engined aircraft parked on the grass alongside the runway, pointing down it. The majority have blue winter covers draped over their canopies like horse blankets, but several are uncovered. Concrete weights or ten-gallon plastic drums are tied to the undersides of the wings as anchors. I can still hear nothing but my own breathing. It’s now or never. I walk with as much confidence as possible from my h
iding place and try the doors of the uncovered aircraft in turn. The Piper and the Cessna 172 are locked. The third, a 152 and the aircraft I first learned to fly, is open. Nothing moves by the buildings, and the possibility of success is now making my hands tremble.

  I check the fuel in the nearest wing: enough for my purposes. I won’t fly much more than fifty miles. I’ll stay in class G airspace, keep the transponder off, hope there aren’t too many low-flying military fighters on exercise, and head west until I hit the coast and put down in a remote field. Then I’ll find a way to call H, who will get me out of the shit I’m in. A moment later I’m in the cockpit. The ignition switch lacks a key but after some groping under the cowling I have worked free the P-wires to the two magnetos, and bypassed the ignition circuit. I turn the fuel to rich and the carburettor heat to cold. I prime. I open the throttle half an inch. The master switch is on, the brakes off. I need only prop the aircraft manually and remove the tie-downs.

  I have to prop the aircraft by hand because I have effectively removed the ignition. It’s the wrong order in which to do things, but I want more than anything to get the engine going first. There is no time for the usual checks. I get out and heave down on the propeller with all my effort: there is a thud and a hiss from the engine.

  ‘Bitch,’ I hear myself shout.

  I heave again. Another thud. And another. On my fifth try there’s a miraculous succession of thuds and muted explosions and the engine bursts into glorious life. The airframe begins to strain forward like a dog at its leash. All that remains is the tie-downs. With a sharp knife I might have cut them off within seconds and been airborne within a minute. There are no tie-downs in films about aircraft theft, much less tie-downs with stiff ropes tied too tightly to undo with cold and trembling hands.

  I try my best, but the ropes won’t budge. The forward motion of the aircraft is putting tension on them and making the task even harder. I am contemplating shutting down the engine when through the perspex of the cockpit doors I see the vehicles hurtling through the gate beyond the hangar. Two Range Rovers with lots of bodies inside. I will not give up. One skids to a halt in front, and the other behind the aircraft. Reason suggests that at this point I concede defeat because I cannot possibly take off, but I’m reluctant to part from my closeness to success and climb back into the cockpit. H has said I must never give up. I pull the throttle to its maximum extent and let the handbrake off. The plane is creeping forward and vibrating like a spin drier and men in jackets and fleeces are tumbling out of the vehicles. A mustachioed face appears at the door to my left and tries the handle. I kick it open towards him and the face disappears but the other door is open now and hands are tearing at my arm. A fist reaches my head. Two bodies now occupy the left door frame and are grabbing at my flailing legs. They do not shout, which impresses me. Now I am being prised from the cockpit like a worm from its hole and someone is pounding on my arms to make me let go of the seat. As I fall to the ground a knee connects with my left eye, and little flashes of light tumble across my vision against a dark background. This is not supposed to happen.

  The engine revs subside and I realise someone has found the throttle and pushed it in. I hear the air go out of my lungs with another blow, and a cracking sound spreads from my ribs. I wonder how much force it really takes to break a rib. I feel no pain. Someone is jamming my face into the ground, and I smell the grass and the mud. There are two sets of knees on my back and another two on my legs. A plastic tie tightens over my wrists.

  As I am dragged to one of the cars I notice that at the far end of the runway the sun has broken through the clouds, and a vast and slanting beam of golden sunshine is spreading downwards in a mockery of benediction.

  2

  I am not sure how much time passes, whether I’ve lost consciousness, or whether I’ve been drugged. My right eye, because my left has swollen shut by now, opens as if into a tunnel running beneath a long row of lights with metal shades, some of which are unlit. The floor on which I’m lying on my side is concrete and the walls are wooden. I have the impression it’s dark outside but I can’t say why. Remembering the long structures I passed earlier, I eliminate tunnel and barn and decide on chicken farm, disused. A rank smell supports my guess. Turning my head slowly, because it hurts too much when I try to move my eyes, I now see the man whose face appeared at the door of the aircraft during my ill-fated attempt at flight, which has imprinted itself on my memory with extra clarity. He’s squatting beside me in scuffed Timberlands, black denim jeans and a brown leather jacket with a belt which he’s had the presence of mind to keep off the floor.

  ‘Wakey wakey,’ says the Face in a tone of perverse intimacy. South London accent, I’m guessing. He’s watching me closely for any reaction, which is perhaps his training and suggests the shrewd observational skills of the streetwise. ‘Looks like our stunt pilot here is in need of a bit of refreshment,’ he says. Then, more loudly, and without taking his eyes from mine, ‘Billy, get the man some refreshment.’ There is a scraping noise behind me from a second face which I’ve not yet seen. ‘Do you fancy that, Mr Stunt Pilot? A nice bit of tucker to warm you up after all your recreational activities?’

  Food would be good, but I say nothing. This is a dance in which I and my captors will make our chosen moves. The sing-song in the Face’s voice is calculated to provoke.

  ‘Cat’s got his tongue,’ says the Face. ‘Shame about your flight plan being denied. Who’s that actor who’s a pilot? You look a bit like him. Is it John Travolta? Billy,’ he calls to whoever is behind me, ‘who’s that actor who’s always flying around in his own private jet? Isn’t it John Travolta?’ He stands and takes a few steps backwards.

  ‘Fuck knows,’ mutters Billy, who at the moment of replying is preparing to throw a bucket of cold water over me, which he now does. His heavy northern accent registers simultaneously with the shock of the water.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ says the Face, squatting down again. ‘Ran out of hot.’

  My hands are tied behind my back and I cannot wipe the water from my eyes. I want to tell him this. I’m just able to tilt my head to allow a few drops to fall from my eyebrows onto my tongue, which is enough to moisten the inside of my mouth, but not more. He sees me shivering.

  ‘Chilly, isn’t it? Catch your death lying on a cold floor like that. Shall we get you up? Stretch your legs a bit?’ He studies my face with an exaggerated look of enquiry. ‘You can even have a go at me and Billy if you want. Get your blood going a bit. Fancy your chances?’

  He raises his fists in a pantomime boxer’s stance.

  ‘Because we’re going to get you up now, and if you do fancy your chances,’ he says, opening the left side of his jacket to show me the paddle holster on his belt with the SIG Sauer pistol in it, ‘if you really do, we’ll shoot you. You alright with that?’

  He looks up and nods towards Billy, who is behind me cutting through the plastic cable tie on my wrists. The relief is indescribable. I bring one arm over my body and the other from under me and squeeze my hands together to ease the pain in them.

  ‘Get up, cunt,’ says Billy in a matter-of-fact tone. I feel two strong hands pulling me up. The Face stands and steps back while Billy, who’s the larger of them, does the lifting. As I come to my feet, I lean on him more than I need to, partly to get the measure of his strength and partly to appear weaker than I am. The Face spots this ploy in an instant, and circles round me like a hyena whose prey isn’t quite dead yet.

  ‘Oh look, he’s feeling faint. Shall we put him back on the floor and tie him up again? Maybe something in his mouth this time? Billy? See if you can find a dead rat, can you?’ A sudden lethality enters his voice. ‘Don’t fuck around with us, soldier boy.’

  So he knows I was in the army, I register, which means that my identity is known. It’s a mistake on his part, I can’t help thinking, and this error, however small, gives me a feeling akin to hope. It means these people are fallible, human. Billy is manhandling me meanwhile,
spreading my arms against the wall and kicking my ankles away from it, so that I’m leaning forward like a man about to be frisked.

  ‘Now give the man his nice hat,’ says the Face.

  Billy obliges by putting a white pillowcase over my head. I am thus deprived of any chance to observe my surroundings, but the warmth of my own breath on my face is a comfort which they can’t guess at. I’m also able to move my face without being observed. To flex my eyebrows, gauging thereby the extent of the wound to my eye, brings a feeling of secret victory. It doesn’t last. The stress position is an innocent-looking technique designed to reduce to nothing what little reserves are left to an exhausted man. After lying on the cold ground with my hands tied, the first few minutes are a relief. But soon I feel the strain on my wrists and ankles, especially where they’ve been kicked, and the pain begins to spread.

  The urge to move my limbs becomes irresistible. I want first to let my head drop and relax my neck. Billy has evidently been left in the room to make sure I don’t do this. Whenever my head begins to fall, I hear his northern charm from behind me.

  ‘Fucking head up, cunt.’

  I comply, not from fear of him but so as not to give any impression of defiance. If I show no reaction, I am winning, because I am overcoming my wishes, which requires a measure of control. I cannot change the world, but I have a tiny degree of control over my reactions, which, however infinitesimally, does have an influence on events. I must guard this control. I have been taught that in small choices great consequences are often hidden.

  My second wish is to bring my legs closer together to reduce the feeling that I’m sinking into the ground, like a sagging beam which is beginning to split under its own weight. Billy is trained to notice this too.