by Mark A Biggs
Lilly’s’ TED talk proved to be an absolute conversational stopper. After about sixty seconds, I asked Gwen what she thought. The final miles of the trip then vanished quickly with reflective and thought-provoking conversation. It was this type of conversation that I have so dearly missed. My intellect was alive and when Ari said, ‘Whereabouts in Windermere do you want us to drop you?’ I felt a tinge of sadness when I said, ‘The Ships Inn, down near the pier. They are going to meet us there.’
As Olivia and I waved a final farewell to our newfound friends, I glanced at my watch and it was 2.00pm. No wonder I was feeling a little hungry. We waited for the car to vanish around the corner before making our way to where we had a good view over the parking area near the ferry pier. Once secreted in our observation post, Olivia went off, leaving me to keep watch, while she found us a late lunch. Despite it being fairly cold, in my warm jacket and with no wind, the 10 degrees Celsius was not overly uncomfortable.
The Lake District is truly a place of unsurpassed beauty and even more so on a fresh invigorating day such as this. Gazing out over the lake as the light from the sun hypnotically danced with the water, I was lost in the moment, and all expectation of the M20 faded and in its place the inviting prose from Wordsworth described the scene in imagery beyond my words.
Cultured slopes,
Wild tracts of forest-ground, and scattered groves,
And mountain bare—clothed with ancient woods
Surrounded us; and, as we held our way
Along the level of the glassy flood,
They ceased not to surround us; change of place,
From kindred features diversely combined,
Producing change of beauty ever new.
Ah! That such beauty, varying in the light
Of Living Nature, cannot be portrayed
By words, nor by the pencil’s silent skill;
But is the property of Him alone
Who hath beheld it, noted it with care,
And, in his mind, recorded it with love!
Coming back to the present, I smiled at the richness of the words and the sheer beauty of this Earth, only to be overwhelmed by emotion as I said to myself, ‘When was the last time you have felt so happy to be alive? Pondering the past, I recalled, not only the places and people that had been special, but the joy and pleasure found in the daily mundane rituals—I’ve had a wonderful life—thank you God. I promise I won’t complain ever again.’
My gaze slowly moved from the lake and the past, to focus back once more upon the car park. It was about half an hour later when Olivia returned and we enjoyed a leisurely lunch expecting the M20 to appear at any moment.
‘How long do we wait, Max?’
‘I don’t know but, if they are not here by six, then it’s safe to assume they are not coming. If that happens, we will have to find ourselves somewhere to spend the night.’
‘You don’t think we have put that nice young couple in danger? Did we do the right thing—using them as a decoy?’
‘I reckon they just took the £500 and bolted. It will be a miracle if they leave the car at the Edinburgh railway station. You needn’t worry about them, as long as they stopped so that our pursuers could see we had given then the slip, they will be safe. I can guarantee it!’
‘For a priest, sometimes you’re not very charitable. They haven’t done a runner or taken the money. If we do at some time meet them again, I’m sure there will be a simple explanation.’
With the temperature dropping and six o’clock having come and gone, we went into the town, reconciled in the knowledge that the M20 was not coming. Our task now was to find a place to stay for the night and so we perused the abundance of guest houses, most of which were old two storey buildings of some kind or another. The one that caught our fancy was near an intersection; we like intersections as they provide a variety of escape routes, if needed. What clinched the deal, in this case, was what was behind two open heavy black doors, in the garage next to the front entrance of the guest house. It was a beautiful old pastel blue Austin 7.
A man, not too many years younger than me, maybe a decade or so, was hunched over the Austin, obviously tinkering with its engine. I attracted his attention by calling out, ‘Is this your place—are you taking guests for the evening?’
He uncurled his back and turned to face us.
‘Ah, it is. My wife is inside and you will find yourselves most welcome. It gets a little quiet this time of year.’
‘An Austin 7,’ I replied. ‘She looks absolutely beautiful. Do you mind if we take a look before going in?’
We were invited into the garage and the man introduced himself as George and he seemed genuinely pleased to show us his pride and joy. The car, he told us, was a 1937 Ruby and had been fully mechanically restored, but he had chosen to retain the “used look”, to reflect its age. There were a few scratches and bumps here and there. It had a folding top which was down; the seats were not torn but showed the wear and tear of being loved. On the passenger’s floor was a huge torch and, although I did not ask, I wondered what he used it for.
Before leaving the garage, I noted a rear entrance which led out into the garden, behind the guest house. Exiting via the front gates and before entering the B&B, we surveyed the road and our surroundings, taking special note of the parked cars, people and options for escape. The surveillance was undertaken with no obvious head movements and without as much as a pause, on our journey to the front door.
On entering the building we were greeted by a lady in her 70s, who introduced herself as Daisy, George’s wife. We sought the availability of an upstairs room overlooking the main road.
‘The noise of the street helps us sleep,’ I said to Daisy.
Having finished the booking, Daisy showed us upstairs and to our room. Before going inside she drew our attention to an alternative set of stairs at the end of the corridor. ‘These lead to the kitchen,’ she said. ‘They are only to be used in case of emergencies, such as a fire, when the main stairs are out of action. Evidently,’ she continued, ‘these were servants’ stairs from a bygone era.’
Our room was tastefully furnished with its main feature being a king-sized bed. A writing desk sat in front of a single window and, from its chair, we had an unhindered view of the street.
We had given our usual excuse for having no luggage; that it had been lost at the airport. Daisy provided directions to where we might avail ourselves of some toiletries and perhaps a change of undergarments—again, although it was a little late for clothes shopping.
As we were the only guests that evening, Daisy invited us to join George and her for dinner, so we quickly slipped out to make our purchases, not wanting to be late for the meal. With our shopping in two plastic bags, we returned to the guest house and made another assessment of the surroundings.
Dinner brought back fond memories from my childhood with toad in the hole, a meal I had not experienced in sixty or seventy years. It was absolutely wonderful; just plain old sausages in Yorkshire pudding, served with vegetables and gravy. Lots of gravy.
Over the meal, we learned that Daisy was equally as passionate about the Austin 7 as was George. They belonged to a historical car club and, over the summer months, they would dress in period costume and go on many an outing. They not only went out locally; it was not uncommon for them to travel a hundred miles or more. George proved to be a wonderful storyteller who seemed able to turn a simple tale into an exciting adventure. It had been a long time since I had laughed so much or truly enjoyed sharing another person’s passion. After dinner, we thanked them for their wonderful hospitality and then gave our apologies for needing an early night. We left the dining room and made our way up the stairs to our room.
‘What do you see?’ I asked Olivia who was seated at the desk looking out through the window.
‘The blue SUV on the other side of the road is still there. All the other cars have changed.’
‘Can you see anyone inside?’
&
nbsp; ‘Not really; it’s got those annoying dark tinted windows but there were definitely two people in the front when we came back from the shops.’
‘Let’s put the lights out, as if we have gone to bed, so they can’t see in the window. I think we’re going to need to take it in turns and keep watch. It’s going to be a long night and I have a sneaking suspicion we will have unwanted company!’
Unusually for once, Olivia agreed with me and, while she watched the SUV from the window, we made our plans of escape for when the attack began. It was my shift when the interior light of the SUV came to life as the doors opened.
Looking to my watch I saw that it was precisely 1.30am. ‘Olivia; wake up, it’s on, they’re coming,’ I called in an urgent but measured voice.
The outside street light gave enough glow for me to see Olivia as she stirred. In the early hours of morning, or whenever we seniors first wake up, our bones and muscles object to the disturbance. Quickly but gingerly she put her legs over the side of the bed and, in accordance with our plan, reached for the bedside phone. I watched as she punched in the numbers—999—and listened as she spoke decisively but calmly.
‘Police please. My name is Olivia Breeze and you are currently looking for me and my husband Max. I am at number 28 Williams Street in Windermere of the Lake District. The guest house is near the intersection of William and Chapel Streets. The people who killed Kate and Edward Phoenix from Horton-cum-Studley on the 31st of March are about to murder George and Daisy Ruskin of this address. You have only a matter of minutes. I suggest you make as much noise as you can on the way here in the hope you can scare them off. I’m afraid you won’t make it here in time otherwise. I’m going to leave the phone off the hook. As you will undoubtedly understand, Max and I have to flee. Good luck.’
‘Well done Olivia; that’s the best we can do for George and Daisy. I can still see them outside; they are not quite at the front door yet.’
Olivia made her way to the bedroom door, and put her hand on the door handle.
I said, ‘Wait just little bit longer. Don’t open the door until we can be absolutely sure they can’t see our window and any light that will flood in from the corridor when you do.’
About twenty seconds later, the two figures walked from my view and were most likely picking the lock of the front door.
‘Go,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll meet you at the servants’ stairs.’
Olivia slid out through the narrowest of cracks she could make in the door, pulling it closed behind her without fully shutting it. I made my way to the door and did the same but closed and locked it behind me. We went carefully and silently along the corridor before we descended the servants’ stairs. On reaching the bottom, I paused. One final step would take us into the kitchen. My heart was racing and, for a few seconds, I stayed frozen. My mind was filled with thoughts and fears—If we stay very still perhaps the police will come and we will be safe. If I step out, they may be waiting for us, then we will be dead.
I felt a gentle but purposeful jab in my back. Olivia wanted me to keep moving. ‘Keep going,’ she whispered, and I stepped out.
The kitchen was quiet and eerily still; through the dim light we could see the back door and our escape route, only metres away. Now, in full view of anybody looking into the kitchen, we moved on cautiously, to avoid running into or knocking anything over as we made our way to the door. Turning the door handle and giving it a gentle pull I discovered the door was locked. An old fashioned key protruded from its resting place just below the knob.
Clunk! The tumblers of the lock made a deafening racket as they gave way. The door screamed out in deafening agony and defiance as it gave way to my will and opened. We sneaked out through the crack but not before I removed the key from its lock and replaced it on the outside. We fastened the old wooden door behind us, as a temporary barrier if our pursuers were to follow, and made our way to the back entrance of the garage.
Once we were inside, the double fronted garage doors opened more silently and willingly than had the old kitchen door. With Olivia at the wheel I pushed the Austin 7 out into the street before joining her in the car. It rolled soundlessly down the road and around the corner, coming to rest well away and out of sight of the guest house. Swapping seats we noticed, with much relief, that no one had followed us. It took me just seconds to breathe life into the Seven and we chugged away from Windermere without switching on its lights and with an engine so silent that it wouldn’t have woken a sleeping baby.
‘There are only a few roads out of here,’ said Olivia. “I think we should go via Troutbeck and then cut back onto the highway. With any luck the police will pass us while we are on the back road.’
‘And our pursuers?’ I said.
‘With luck they will be forced to go to ground and hide.’
The crispness of the night air was broken by the sound of wailing sirens as we turned right to Troutbeck. The darkness of the night closed in all around us as we left what meagre light the town had offered. I fiddled and searched around the steering wheel and then the dash for the headlight switch. I needn’t have bothered. Even when illuminated the Austin 7 lights were in name and for show only; nothing lit the way. If there was light, it fell as a dull cream glow, no more than a few feet in front of us. Remembering the torch, Olivia reached down in between her feet and picked it up. Flicking the switch brought forth a narrow but bright beam of light.
Loud thundering, which trailed off into the distance, shattered what little serenity was left of the night.
‘Sounds like rain,’ I said before noticing there were no clouds to be seen, but then giving it no further thought.
Standing, Olivia braced herself by holding on to the car with one hand. In her other hand she held aloft our lighthouse of the night, showing the way to Carlisle and a hotel we knew with a 24 hour reception—a place we had stayed before.
We stopped five or six times during the drive, for Olivia to take a rest from holding the torch. Cold and exhausted, we finally arrived and booked in to the hotel for two nights just before four in the morning, although most of the first night had already gone. We left the Austin 7 in the underground car park of the hotel, hoping, when it was reported stolen, it would remain safely hidden until we had moved on.
The hotel bedroom was a welcome and warm sight after a long and difficult night.
‘Max, we are running out of time, I don’t think we’re going to make it. It’s already five on Friday morning and we haven’t been to bed yet. We have to be in Cliff in a little over three days. Oh, and we have lost another car, unless you intend taking the Austin 7 all of the way to Scotland?’
‘I’m glad you haven’t lost your sense of humour,’ I responded. ‘Anyway, you think the M20 will be waiting for us in Scotland? I’m really sorry Olivia, but I need to tell you something. I’m struggling and feeling very unwell and quite heady, which is upsetting my balance. I am afraid tonight has taken too much out of me; it might have been the cold on the drive. I think I am done for on this adventure and you may have to go on without me.’
In her warm and caring way, the woman I have loved most of my life said, ‘It will be okay Max; tonight would have defeated people half our age but, here we are, you and me. Partners. Let’s get some rest and clear our minds. I’ll set the alarm for midday and we’ll see how you’re feeling then. If we need to stay here an extra few days, then so be it.’
Olivia helped me to undress and guided me gently to the bed. For the last couple of weeks the memories and insecurities of my age had been forgotten. This was the first time I had felt unwell since leaving the nursing home but, now, feeling dizzy and nauseous, and being helped to lie down, the truth was difficult to ignore. What had possessed me to ever believe we could do this? A dull pain twinged in my chest and with it arrhythmia. I felt my heart as it raced and missed beats. Should I tell Olivia? Should I ask her to call an ambulance? I’m going to die, I thought. I said nothing and decided; what will be will be.
Ol
ivia, despite her own ordeal and fatigue, lovingly sat beside me and stroked my head. A tear formed and trickled from my eye and I felt its path as it slowly journeyed down my cheek, falling away before I could taste it upon my lips. To the rhythm of Olivia’s hands I slowly drifting off, content with the life I had lived.
* * *
Inspector Axel
‘Inspector Axel, are you still there?’ said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Heavy with slumber I replied, ‘Yes, I’m listening, it’s 1.30 in the morning and I was asleep. What do you want?’
‘Yes, sorry for ringing so early, but we thought you would want to know. Olivia, one of the people you are looking for, has just called 999.’
The name Olivia removed any semblance of sleep from my brain. I sat straighter in bed with my full attention now focused on the phone call.
‘She told the emergency services operator that the people in the place where they are staying are in imminent grave danger.’ The voice on the other end of the phone described what had transpired between the operator and Olivia.
‘How long ago was the phone call?’
‘A matter of minutes, sir.’
‘How long until we can get someone there?’
‘An armed response unit will be at least 35-40 minutes.’