I groan, because I know this will just encourage Jack, and what do you know…
“Boy Time!” Jack agrees. “I love Boy Time, just the boys, being boyish!” He grins at my mum again and then winks at me.
So, we’re trudging along this ramshackle pavement (because it’s “only the next village along”), Jack still in his pink shorts and flip-flops, pulling a Louis Vuitton case on wheels, and me in not my PE shorts and a red checked shirt. “Look at you, a vision in gingham!” Jack said when I emerged from the tent. I didn’t reply.
It’s hot. And Google Maps is being worryingly vague about where exactly we are, currently positioning us in the middle of a patch of green, nowhere near a road.
“Aha!” says Jack, as we arrive at a bus stop. “I mean, we could walk, or we could just hop on the bus to the village.”
“Jack, my parents would have given us a lift. Why did you claim you wanted to walk?”
“Nate, Nate, Nate,” Jack coos. “I just think, if they see where we’re staying, you know, all luxurious, fluffy towels, robes, and so on, it’s just a bit awkward, right? Knowing they’ll be staying in a literal shithole.”
I mull it over for a second, then nod. “Yeah, I guess.”
“But obviously I don’t want to walk. We’ve already been on the road for nearly ten minutes and I’m practically in a coma. So. Yay for public transport!” He consults the timetable.
“Fine,” I say. I glance over the timetable too, then turn to Jack, who looks equally confused.
“The bus times are missing,” Jack says.
“Right,” I say.
“Because this just says the bus comes every Wednesday, and it’s Friday today, which would mean the bus will come in five days’ time, which is ridiculous. This is England in 2020.”
I notice a sign with a phone number that purports to be a “Travel Hotline” but Jack’s already on his mobile. “The number’s dead,” he says. “Let’s see what Google has to say.” He taps away at his phone, his brow becoming increasingly more furrowed. “Huh,” he says. “Well, the timetable does not lie. There won’t be a bus for five days.”
“What if Google’s wrong?”
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Google is never wrong. And do you want to live in a world where it is?”
I shake my head. I wish I could google: Why did Tariq cheat on me? and get a definitive answer. I wish I could google: How can I get Tariq back? I wish I could google: How can I stop thinking about Tariq? because, honestly, I’m doing my own head in.
“We’ll just have to walk,” Jack says. He narrows his eyes at the bus stop. “This bus stop is so homophobic.”
After we round the bend in the lane, the pavement ends and Jack comes to an abrupt halt. “Where’s the pavement?” he asks.
“I think we just walk in the lane now.”
Jack scowls at the pavement. “This pavement is so homophobic,” he says.
It’s about half a kilometre on when we see a signpost which reads: Public Footpath to Newton Ottery, pointing over a stile in a fence and along a dirt track, through a wood. We both agree it’ll likely be a more scenic, and hopefully quicker, route to where we need to be, so we hop over the stile and head on up the path.
And shortly after that, the killing starts.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JACK
There’s a fork in the path. The right-hand path leads deeper into the woods – and presumably to certain death, because that’s how these things work. The left-hand path opens out into bright, light countryside – freedom, safety and happiness.
So, it’s an obvious choice.
Well, it is for me. Nate wants to take the right fork because the village is in a north-easterly direction and he’s convinced himself with some half-remembered mariners’ sayings that because of where the sun is, we need to go right. But I don’t like this wood – not because it’s scary (it’s not) but the ground is covered in pine needles and other spiky things, and they’re getting all over my flip-flops.
“Where are you going?” Nate asks, as I skip off towards the left fork.
“Towards the village,” I reply.
“It’s this way,” he says. “We need to go right.”
“Well, I’m down this path now and I’m not walking all the way back.”
“Jack, you’re three paces away from me.”
“I’m exhausted, Nate. I need to rest my lallies.”
“You can rest your ‘lallies’ when we get to the barn, can’t you?”
“Not a barn. Cabin.” I lean weakly against a tree. “I’m fading fast.”
“I’m not taking the left fork,” Nate insists.
“Hmm,” I say. “How shall we resolve this impasse?”
“Shall we toss for it?”
“Ooh! Isn’t he bold?” I squeal.
I’m hoping all my campery will cheer Nate up, so he’s nicely Instagrammable by the time we reach the cabin, but he just makes a frustrated growling noise. “Shut up, Jack. OK, fine, we’ll take the left!” And he barges past me.
That boy is a tough nut to crack. But he’ll thank me. This is definitely the right path and we’ll be at the cabin in no time.
We emerge, blinking, into the glorious daylight, and it’s a magnificent vista. It’s open moorland, stretching for as far as you can see, just space and air and not a soul in sight. It’s breathtaking. It’s beautiful. It’s going straight on Instagram.
The shot is simple even for Nate to get right. I’m standing in the centre of the frame, arms outstretched, embracing the open space (and a possible promotional deal for a meditation app), and Nate takes the pic from behind me, so you just see my back, my outstretched arms and a huge expanse of countryside. We’ll hashtag it up afterwards, something about getting back to nature, breathing, mindfulness, that type of shiz. Dylan and Tariq are all about the capitalism with their plane tickets and cocktails. We’re stripped back and real. I mean, I’d follow us.
So, I’m standing there, eyes closed, the wind blowing gently on my face from across the moor, arms stretched out, doing my best to live in the moment to lend authenticity to this photo, and—
“Jack!”
“Have you taken it?”
“Jack!”
“Is that a yes?”
“Jack!”
“Jesus, Nate, all you—”
I open my eyes and freeze. Off to my right, in the distance, two men are running towards us WITH GUNS. Actual, literal guns. And before I can even think, let alone scream, there’s a huge explosion and smoke starts billowing from down in a ditch to my left.
And then I hear the shots.
I am in pink shorts and flip-flops. I could run for my life, but what’s the point? It’d be like Bambi trying to escape the Terminator.
“GET DOWN!”
It’s Nate. He tackles me to the ground and throws himself on top of me, just as there’s another explosion, more smoke, and another rattle of gunfire.
If this is it, if this is the end, I’m surprised to realize that my one wish is that I had been wearing better boxer shorts – just thinking of the staff at the morgue. And I don’t know what’s more alarming – the fact I’m in the middle of a war zone, or the fact I’m more concerned about my underwear. I guess extreme stress does weird things to people.
Just so you know, they’re Jack Wills. I suppose not the end of the world, right?
There’s the sound of heavy footsteps running towards us, a crackle of radios. “Hold fire! Hold fire!” I mean, Jesus Christ, what have we stumbled into?
“Lads? You OK?”
I can’t look up because Nate is still firmly planted on top of me, but I can see a pair of heavy-duty army boots.
“What are you doing here?” the voice continues. “You lost?”
“Yes, lost!” Nate wails.
“We come in peace!” I add, because that’s definitely a thing people say in these situations.
“This is an army reserves training exercise – this whole area is cor
doned off to civilians,” Boots says. “How did you get yourselves here?”
“We took the fork!” I mutter.
“I told you we should have taken the one further into the woods!” Nate says.
“The one into the woods leads to the village,” Boots says.
Nate jabs me in my side with his elbow. “See!”
It’s at this point, possibly with the realization we don’t seem to be in any imminent danger, that my brain clocks the fact Nate basically protected me from the gunmen, and I wonder if that means, despite all outward indications to the contrary, that deep in his subconscious, some part of him still likes me.
“Should have been some cordon tape, though, so you couldn’t get down here,” Boots continues.
“Tape?” I say. “Shouldn’t it really be a fence? I dunno, call me Generation Snowflake, but explosions and bullets maybe warrant a little more than—” Nate forces my head into the ground, presumably to shut me up, but I manage a muffled, “Tape!”
Army Boots laughs. “It’s not live ammo, they’re just blanks. And they’re smoke pellets to reduce visibility. There’s actually no risk to anyone. Honestly, you two are hilarious.”
Nate giggles. He actually giggles, which makes me super suspicious, so I wriggle and squirm out from underneath him, sit myself up, and, yep, just as I thought, Army Boots is hot. He must only be a few years older than us, nineteen tops, and apart from his buzz cut, he’s a dead ringer for KJ Apa.
“Ugh,” I groan, “so we go back the way we came, then?”
“Uh-huh,” Army KJ Apa says. “I’ve got a map if you want to check your route.”
We scamper after Army KJ Apa and “check the map” and I may, or may not, act more dozy than I really am about how maps work so that he has to explain a few times and I giggle and bat my eyelashes and say, “Oh, you are clever!” but after we’ve done that, and after he tells me off for hiking in “inappropriate footwear” and I say I’m totally down for whatever punishment the army doles out for such footwear transgression (which he rolls his eyes at!) and after Nate says he’s “thirsty” and he gives us both a drink of water (even though I’m pretty sure Nate didn’t mean that type of thirsty), we’re on our way again.
“Do we need to discuss how you tried to save my life?” I ask Nate, as we clamber over a fence, back into the woods.
“No.”
“How you thought there were actual bullets and how you threw yourself on top of me?”
“No.”
“OK, but that’s what you did, so.”
Nate sniffs. “I threw myself down. You just happened to be there.”
I laugh. “Riiiight.”
“Right. Why would I save your life and sacrifice mine?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
Nate shakes his head and picks up the pace so he’s walking in front of me. He’s acting like he doesn’t care, but as we trudge on, every so often he slightly glances back over his shoulder to check I’m still there, and I can’t help but smile. And I’m thinking, you know what? If the only outcome of this trip turns out to be that Nate and I start talking again, then I reckon that would be good enough for me.
You see, it shouldn’t be as hard as this, because on the map it seemed like a straight line, but somehow we must have gone wrong again, because it’s several hours later and we don’t seem to have found Raven Farm, which is where the cabin is meant to be.
He hasn’t said it explicitly, but it’s clear Nate is blaming me. About an hour ago, he stopped the glancing-over-his-shoulder business and just stomped onwards regardless. Literally, I could have fallen down an old well and he wouldn’t have known. He also ate a Tic Tac about twenty minutes ago, but didn’t offer me one, which makes his feelings very clear.
In worse news, clouds have been gathering for some time, the light is fading, there’s a light drizzle and, honestly, I think this might be the part where we die of exposure and it’s actually The End. The idea of phoning for help did cross my mind, of course, and despite what usually happens in thrillers set in rural locations, there are four bars of full-fat 4G on my phone … or at least there were until my battery died. Meanwhile, Nate doesn’t have any credit and is adamant we can’t call the police because it’s not an emergency, even though I’m adamant that my not having had access to iced coffee for four hours very much does constitute an emergency. Anyway, we’re crossing yet another field, because Nate is convinced he saw a lane up ahead, and suddenly,
MOOOOOOO!
I mean, this cry, this guttural wail, honestly, it’s terrifying. I slowly turn my head, and see this vast beast standing behind us. It’s huge. Surely cows are not this big? Surely this is the product of some genetic mutation that’s escaped from a lab?
MOOOOOOOOO!
I jump, because it’s so loud it vibrates through me. “What does it want?” I whisper to Nate.
“It’s probably just saying hello.”
“Like that?” It seems unlikely. The beast takes a few heavy steps towards us as we back into the hedge. “Offer yourself to it,” I tell Nate, pushing him in front of me.
“Chill, it’s just a cow.”
“It has horns, Nate!”
“Some types of cows do have horns.”
“Uh-huh?” I say. “What, the bull type, you mean?”
MOOOOOOOOO!
“It wants something.” I look around. “What does it seek?” I gasp. “Milk?”
Nate screws his face up. “What?”
“It must want milk!”
“Why would it want milk?”
“It’s a cow! That’s what it drinks!”
“Jack, cows do not drink milk!” he snaps.
MOOOOOOOOOOO!
I scream. “Wahhhh! Ohhh! Nate! You’ve angered it!”
The cow gets closer, flaring its nostrils and licking its chops.
“There’s some chocolate milk in my case,” I whimper.
“You think feeding it the stolen mammary gland secretions of its friends is going to help, do you?”
“Then what, Nate? What? Oh, sweet Jesus, it’s going to gore us on its horns! And my shorts are pink! What if it mistakes them for red?”
But then, up ahead, joy of joys, a battered old Land Rover is coming towards us, so with the chonky boi just metres away, I risk waving my arms about and flag it down. The driver is an old guy, with a weather-beaten face, flat cap and a permanent scowl, probably from a great many years of working the land in extreme weather, or toiling in the cotton mill, I don’t know.
“We’ve been cornered by this absolute unit,” I shout as the guy gets out of the Land Rover. He shakes his head and pats the cow on its rump. “Off you go, girl! Go on! Hup! Hup!”
The cow makes a few huffing noises, turns, shits everywhere, I’m talking buckets of the stuff pouring out of its arse, then meanders off. I just stare in utter horror at the ground. Why would anyone want to live like this?
“Can I help you, lads?’ the man says.
“Please, sir,” I say, for some reason adopting the tone of a Dickensian orphan. “We’re looking for Raven Farm?”
The old guy frowns. “Old Man Cooper’s place? What business have you there?”
OK, so I immediately don’t like the sound of this “Old Man Cooper”, his “place” and the idea that it wouldn’t be obvious what “business” we had there, when it’s meant to be the location of a luxury cabin which features on various reputable holiday websites. But, anyway. “We’re meant to be staying there,” I tell the guy.
There is a low rumble of thunder.
“Raven Farm’s over yonder,” he says, pointing towards a gate at the end of the field.
“Yonder?” I repeat. Why is it suddenly, like, 1836?
“’Bout a mile up the lane, then left at the old oak, along the dirt track ’bout another half mile. Entrance is opposite the abandoned mine.”
Nate flicks his eyes to mine. “Abandoned mine?”
“Since the accident,” the old guy says, shaking his head
. “Terrible business.”
“Well!” I say brightly. “This all sounds perfect, thank you for your kind help, and I’m loving the fact there are no road names in the country, only vague landmarks. We’ll be on our way.”
I turn and start to head off.
“Lads!” the old guy calls after me. “If you see any roadkill on your way, take it – there’s usually a dead rabbit or a pheasant on the lane somewhere. If he’s still got that old dog, the only thing that placates Daisy is the flesh of the fallen.”
I nod my thanks and head off with Nate. “OK, gross, we’re not doing that.”
Nate is notably silent.
“I’m sure it sounds worse than it is,” I say.
“What website did you find this place on?”
“Oh my god, literally Booking.com, I’m a hundred and ten per cent confident it’ll be fine!”
“You can’t get a hundred and—”
“I know, but everyone says it anyway!”
There’s another rumble of thunder.
We plough on.
Now it’s really getting dark.
I can’t tell you how much I wish I wasn’t wearing flip-flops.
I’m not going to cry.
Eventually, we come to a big tree, which, since it’s next to a dirt track, we assume is the “Old Oak”, although there is literally no way of telling.
“Look,” says Nate, pointing to a dead rabbit at the side of the lane.
“Yes?”
“Should we take it? For Daisy?”
I’m about to tell him, no, don’t be crazy, when we hear, in the distance, the most savage and ferocious barking that sounds more like a demonic wolf than it does a dog.
Nate swallows and looks at me. “If Daisy gets to us before Old Man Cooper, we might be in trouble.”
“I’m not even considering this,” I say, “but, hypothetically, how would we carry it?”
Nate pulls a plastic carrier out of his rucksack and glances at me, with a look in his eye of someone who is about to do something unutterably gross. Nate is unbelievable. You just know he’d be the first to tuck in to his fellow passengers in the event of a plane crash on a remote mountain.
Heartbreak Boys Page 11
