Bridge 108

by Anne Charnock

  Two pairs of thick socks hang above my head in my shelter. It’s a simple shelter: a tarp strung between two trees, and I’ve strung it low to keep it cosy. Warmer that way. I pull on both pairs of socks because the hiking boots I stole are a couple of sizes too big. Thieves can’t be picky. They keep my feet dry, and that’s the main thing. I shuffle forwards on my arse to the open side of the shelter—my head almost touching the tarp—grab my coat and check the pockets: torch, knife, gloves. I’ll take the absolute essentials, nothing more, because I hope to be loaded up on my return. Pacing around the camp, I make my usual checks: one and a half containers of river water, a fair stock of bottled and tinned food. This camp is a good one, and I’d like to stay longer. It drains fast after rain. And a slight rise in the ground protects me from the colder north winds.

  I open a bottle of sardines, eat half of them and lick the oil off my fingers. I don’t eat much before a break-in. I’ve no appetite at all on days like this. Nervous as hell. But I need to eat before a tough walk.

  I set out with my holdall and repeat my list, as if I’m talking to the trees. Little stuff that no one will notice is missing: soap, salt, chilli powder. Then the items that will be missed: spirits! And the outdoor stuff: windfall fruit, veggies from the gardens, tomatoes in the greenhouses. While I’m talking to the trees, I check my landmarks—the oak tree that’s dead at the top, the mossy boulder, the embankment with the thin white trees, the stream below. I follow the stream, taking care when it passes close to one particular isolated house, where the owners are busy all the time—rushing in and out of the house, gardening, sweeping.

  Reaching a point where the narrow valley widens out, I climb up the still-wooded slope and creep slowly towards the hamlet. With the roof of the nearest house in sight, I squat down and wait for the man who, at the same time every morning, leaves this house by its side door and walks his dog. He always takes a path below me, close to the edge of the stream. He’ll return home after about twenty-five minutes and enter the house after scraping the mud off his boots. It doesn’t give me much time, but he’s reliable. I wonder what size boots he wears.

  I’ve become a patient person. Though, in my gut, I hope the man won’t appear. I hope he’ll decide to stay home. Then I won’t have to do this. I’ve been kidding myself lately that my thieving is a business. I have strategies and I’m definitely my own boss. But I feel a churning in my stomach, like I know my luck’s about to run out.

  Then I see him. Is he early today? The dog is off its lead already. Not normal. As soon as they reach the path he throws a ball for the dog. He hasn’t done that before.

  No big deal, I tell myself. But I don’t like it. The man’s changed his routine, not by much, but enough that I’m feeling sick. I wait and wait. I can’t get to my feet. Truth is, I think I’ve lost my nerve. Five minutes or so later, I feel a few drops of rain. Big drops. Is that it? The man knew rain was coming? Sure enough, he’s walking back down the path already. The rain’s coming down heavy before the man reaches the side door of his house. He kicks the wall to get the worst of the mud off his boots and steps into his house without taking them off. And I’m getting wet as the rain drips down from the trees.

  Seven, eight days of stalking, and nothing to show for it. I’ll have to come back tomorrow. My stomach rumbles like never before.

  I clamber over rocks as the valley narrows. It’s the heaviest rain so far and a warning that life in the woods is going to get tougher. My hair is soaked and rain runs down my neck, soaking my clothes from the inside. There’s a big old holly tree up ahead and it’s a good place to shelter. But as I scramble towards it, I’m caught in a cloudburst. I can’t see ahead. I’m drenched and as I pull myself over a large boulder, my hand slips. I fall back.

  Been out cold for a while. I know that for sure because when I come around, the cloudburst has passed over, and I’m staring at the end of a rainbow. My head and eyes hurt, and I feel sharp pains when I try to move—in my ribs, in my back. I’m too scared to move again for several minutes. I don’t want to know how much damage I’ve done. But I’m cold and wet. I roll onto my side, slowly shift my weight. I’m on hands and knees and push myself up to near standing. With a struggle, I climb over the wet rocks, picking a longer, easier route this time. The pain in my side is bad, but no worse than any knock from a rough tackle. I spot the holly tree. No point heading for that. It’s more important to reach camp and get into dry clothes. It’s slow going.

  I’m miserable as hell when I kneel down by my tarp and start to strip off.

  Sleep brings crazy dreams. I’m searching through drawers in my bedroom at home, looking for a football shirt, and everything I touch is soaked in blood. I’m awake, I think, and I’m sweating. My throat’s raw. I can’t find the water on my bedside table. That’s when I know I’m still in a dream, and in this dream I’m desperate to pull off my clothes, but my arms won’t move.

  I know I’m awake when my fingers touch the soft tips of evergreen branches that make my bed. My head throbs. I’m cold, it’s dark, but I don’t know if the sun has just set, or if the sun might rise in an hour. I close my eyes again, not daring to move.

  And then it’s daylight. What part of the day, I’ve no idea. I crawl out from under the tarp and reach for the half-empty water container—it won’t be so heavy. I swear, I’m as weak as a kitten, so thirsty. I take sips, can’t control the flow, and water pours down my chin and onto my chest. I’m bare chested though I don’t remember taking off my top. Sip by sip, I slowly fill my stomach with water, then spew it all out.

  I abandon any thought of returning to the hamlet. I’m not well enough to move camp, so I lie down and crash asleep.

  I spend three days feeling hot then cold, then hot again, telling myself I must try to drink water, that even if I vomit, any small amount of water I keep down will help. And I eat tinned pears. The sardine bottle also lies within reach. I dip my fingers into the sardine oil and suck them. Must be some goodness in that.

  On the fourth day after my fall—or the fifth?—I feel strong enough to leave the shelter. I try to stand up, but I stoop forward, my hands grasping my knees. The camp is a mess from that first rainstorm. It has probably rained since. The tarp sags. The clothes I took off are soaked into the ground.

  A thought drops on me like a rock falling from the sky, that if I had died here, animals would have found me before any other human. My face would be eaten off, and no one would know or care. I’d become a local horror story: the tramp eaten in the woods, maybe eaten alive. And if no one cares, what’s the point? Since I came to England, has anyone given a damn about me?

  I keep coming back to that moment in the market. She said sorry, said it wouldn’t happen again. I didn’t trust her, not then, but I never hated her. Honest, I believe she really liked me. And . . . am I crazy to see my business alongside hers—on the roof? Or has she totally forgotten me?

  An idea creeps into my head, and I know I won’t easily shake it off.

  The sun peeps over the horizon, and I feel exposed on the escarpment. Yet it’s a relief to leave the forest once again. I’ve walked for two days to reach this point, retracing my trek, stopping overnight at my previous camp. I took a wrong turn yesterday, missing one of my landmarks. Once I accepted I’d lost my way, I backtracked for over an hour and discovered my mistake. A large conifer branch had fallen on the landmark—now a crushed pile of rotten logs.

  No clouds. A cold morning. I look down as the early light picks out the surface of the canal. Don’t know which canal it is, but all the canals connect with one another, or so I’ve convinced myself. I’ve followed towpaths before, and I swear I can do it again if I stick to the rule: stay hidden until nightfall. From this high point, I plan a route down to the canal, then retrace my steps and retreat into dense forest, where I’ll wait for nightfall.

  With nothing to do, no camp to organise, no water to fetch, no thieving to plan, I have time to think, which might make another person lose their ner
ve. But not me. I take a blanket from my pack, wrap it around my shoulders and sit on a fallen tree. I’ll save my energy because I’m still not fully fit. Closing my eyes, I feel that heart-bursting thing. You feel it when you sprint onto the football pitch as a late sub, knowing this is your moment. You know that you can, that you will, turn the game with your first touch. This feeling lifts me every time I take a big decision, when I know I’m about to change my life. Anything seems possible for a while. It’s true. I believe in myself—and in new beginnings.

  Apart from the big rule—stay hidden until nightfall—I remind myself of my other rules. It’s okay to take a risk but make it a small one: Break into a shed instead of a house. Keep away from farm buildings because there’s always a dog. If I see a good hideout halfway through the night, take it. It isn’t a race. Last of all, expect the unexpected.

  Not far down the towpath on that first night, the canal widened out. A channel led off to a giant steel structure. At first, I couldn’t make sense of it. I felt as if I’d travelled back in time to another age. The canal junction, brightly lit, was a risky place to hang around, but when I spotted a visitor map I felt a massive wave of relief. I ran across and tried to take in all the information. The steel structure—the Anderton Boat Lift—linked the Trent and Mersey Canal, where I stood, with the River Weaver below. I traced the route of the Trent and Mersey with my finger, trying to memorise the route through Middlewich Locks, Wardle Canal and then the Shropshire Union.

  With the route fixed in my head, I walk for the next five nights, finding hideouts in woods, in a derelict building, in a garden shed by the canal side. One night I curled up at the side of a compost heap at the bottom of a long garden.

  I look at houses in a different way now. I believe I’ll always live in a flat, even when I’m rich. A flat that stretches across the entire floor of a building. As big as six normal flats. Or I’ll build my own house with large gardens with no flower beds or sheds. I’ll keep it simple. A big square house, a lawn on all sides and a high perimeter fence.

  I had one stroke of good fortune on my southerly journey. I broke into a moored barge after watching it most of the day from my hideout. No one came or went. The nearest barge was moored two hundred metres away, and all seemed quiet there. At dusk, I smashed the lock and let myself in. Scared shitless again. Flung open the cupboard doors. Loads of dried and vacuum food. Filled my pack and pockets, and legged it. Set up nicely, foodwise, I made good progress. The weather was no worse than I expected. And, compared to my journey towards Shropshire, I heard far fewer people and dogs on the towpaths while I stayed hidden during the day.

  But I was thrown, and I panicked like in a nightmare when I couldn’t find my journey’s end. I thought I’d remember the long sweeping curve of the canal. I thought I’d recognise the spot of woodland with a canal embankment and a steep slope up to the fields. Expect the unexpected. But I imagined the unexpected as, I don’t know, someone jumping out on me, or breaking my arm in a fall, or an early snowfall. I was tired, too, and I started taking risks, walking at first light, forwards and backwards along the canal, hoping to find the right place. Total failure. So, I decided I hadn’t walked far enough and pushed on three or four miles along the towpath. I came to a curve in the canal that felt right. At long last, I found the woods where Odette and I had stopped on that first night.

  Six nights it’s taken me now to pick out a route through the fields. Odette hadn’t talked much that night we escaped, but she did say that if we headed south from the enclave, we were bound to find a canal. I told her we needed to keep the North Star behind us. But, retracing our escape hasn’t been simple. I can’t walk directly towards the North Star because the fields are strange shapes, and I’m forced to go off course to find field gates and stiles.

  I think it’s Friday today. And I’ve no choice. I must enter the enclave tomorrow because I’m down to eating rotten apples, the last windfalls of the year. I wait until dark, wash myself as best I can in murky canal water, and set out.

  It’s about four in the morning when I reach the last field. I huddle down in the hedgerow. A quiet country road separates me from the open ground bordering the southern end of the enclave. I scrape mud off my boots with my knife. I drink the last of my water. I take a piss.

  What have I got to lose? In my head I shout Fuck all as I climb over the field gate and hurry across to the low-rise buildings. I find a workshop that’s padlocked, windows thick with dirt, and squeeze myself into a doorway set back from the line of the building. Can’t do much else. If I hear anyone approach, I’ll move on.

  And so, when I hear the first sounds from the housing blocks—shutters being opened—I dump my pack and filthy coat and head towards the market, hoping I look like a local lad heading home after an all-nighter. Honest to God, I stink. No mistake about that. Damp clothes and sweat.

  It isn’t Saturday. It’s Sunday.

  Stallholders in the vegetable market are still loading farm produce onto tables. Kids on ladders, tying up and stretching canopies. Fewer tables than I expected. That’s how I know what day it is—it’s a later start on a Sunday, with half the number of stalls. Without thinking I veer to get a better look at a girl with dark hair who’s adding parsnips to an already-big pile. An older woman gives her a nudge and nods towards me, smirking. Can they smell me? They must be disgusted. I lurch away and feel my face and ears burning. The first girl I see, and I act like an idiot. I blink like crazy.

  I pace through Clothing Street, but I can’t keep a straight line. I feel drunk. So much noise, all these people. And it’s not even busy yet. Every second pitch is still empty. I try to remember the market from a single day, four years ago, when I helped Ma Lexie on the stall. That day should have been special—the start of something good.

  Will the same businesses be here? Will the stalls be set out on the same pitches as they were years ago? I stumble. A woman reaches towards me but has second thoughts, backs off.

  I reach the far end of the street as the pink sheet is hoisted up by two lads my own age.

  I’m too early. I take a right at the end of Clothing Street and pretend I’m interested in a second-hand bookstall. It’s not a stall though. The books stand on a waist-high wall, with the book spines facing the sky. The bookseller is still arranging them. He notices me after a couple of minutes and calls across, “Fiction, that end. Nonfiction, this end.” I choke up and dip my head. It’s the first time someone has spoken to me since I left the indenture camp. My body’s shaking, like microshaking, and it takes courage to speak, to check my voice still works. “Any books about birds, wildlife?”

  “One, somewhere. I haven’t unpacked it yet.”

  “I’ll come back.”

  “Okay, mate. I’ll keep it to one side.”

  I stick around, touching the books without reading the titles, feeling relieved that I pass as a normal punter.

  As if a bell has rung for the opening of the market, the streets become overrun by early shoppers—in a couple of minutes. It’s safer, so I join the flow and stroll back down Clothing Street, passing one jumble stall after another. I have no clear memories of the street. Was it like this before? I remind myself that Ma Lexie might be going through bad times, like me, might be dealing in jumble herself. She might have moved on, left the enclave.

  I’m distracted by two teenagers. Their arms around one another, laughing and joshing. Makes me angry. All my years locked away. I hate how happy they are. I barge past them. But I stop dead.

  I see her. No mistake. Ma Lexie, just as I remember her.

  The teenagers push past me.

  I’m not ready. I cross the street and stand behind a stall selling bags, press myself against a wall. My legs are ready to buckle. Ma Lexie is only twenty or so metres away, and I realise I haven’t imagined this part, what to say.

  She unpacks a garment box, places the empty box in a trolley, which she pushes to the back of her pitch. It’s a new trolley—bigger, with four wheels. And t
he stall is wider than I remember. A double stall? My heart is pounding. I’ve found her. She’s doing well, or I think so, which means she’s in a good mood. How the hell will she react? Badly?

  Another stallholder calls across to Ma Lexie, and her face breaks into a smile, ear to ear. I hear Ma Lexie laughing.

  My feet put roots into the ground. Still too soon.

  Her hair is longer.

  Before she has even finished hanging garments around her stall, she chats with a customer and makes a sale. I smile to myself, for I remember she always gave a discount on her first sale of the day, to bring good luck. She’s happy. The signs look good. I walk closer and stand directly opposite her stall, staring at her. The street is busy with shoppers, and I lean from side to side to keep her in my line of sight.

  I pull my ragged hair away from my face, and in that moment she looks up. I think she catches a glimpse of me. Maybe not. I wait. With the next gap in the stream of shoppers, I see she’s staring straight at me. Neither of us moves. Shoppers cut across.

  I can’t rush. She needs time to think.

  She places her left palm flat against her forehead. Looking straight at me, she smiles and frowns at the same time.

  That’s my cue. I walk towards her.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I take immense pleasure in thanking Robert, Adam and Garry Charnock, always my first readers, for their insightful comments on my manuscript. I am also particularly grateful to Nina Allan and Christopher Priest for a valuable discussion during the early stages of this writing project. Similarly, I’ve enjoyed a number of helpful conversations with Matthew De Abaitua, Fiona Curran, Matt Hill, Helen Marshall and E. J. Swift. Additional thanks are due to Nina and Matt for their comments on my completed manuscript. I have also enjoyed the support of NewCon Press, publisher of my novella, The Enclave, on which the opening chapters of this novel are based.