Wisps of smoke rose from the open fire and drifted through the beech and birch trees that leaned over the clearing like old timers gossiping across a garden fence. A clutch of hazel logs smouldered in a pit ringed with blackened stones.
The scents of burning wood had become as familiar to him as his own smell. Smoke from bonfires, from the makeshift clay oven and pottery kiln, from joints and bongs and peace-pipes had impregnated every item of his clothing. It clung to his hair and hung in the air around the camp, curing his skin like salami.
Mark clutched a whittling knife in one hand and a stick of ash in the other. Neither felt as though they belonged. But he was determined to master the woodland crafts that occupied this community and provided a meagre income (to sustain them through times when the benefit cheques ran dry).
He had arrived, unannounced, two weeks before. No one here knew him from his life in London and they had been wary though welcoming. He’d slept with three of the women already, and none seemed to mind his diffidence, his lack of commitment or his unwillingness to reveal much about himself. He sought refuge, he had claimed, with his son, both of them tired of the ways of the world, of the consumer society, the rat race and the constant urge to earn money, to buy more things, to eat foul food.
In truth, the meals here was worse. He missed meat, bacon most of all. He missed cheese and eggs and milk. Veganism was expected in Shangri-La. Smoking dope was expected. Talking woo-woo and pseudo-spiritual claptrap endlessly also seemed to be obligatory. He had found it hard to adapt and considered leaving on a daily basis.
The worst thing was, Ben liked it here. He lapped up the meditation sessions around the fire, the outdoor yoga, talking to the trees, saluting the dawn with songs and chanting, decking the branches with prayer flags. He sat and listened as mad women with frizzed hair talked of Gaia and gurus, of karma and kundalini, of chakras and chi, mandalas and mantras, tantra and tao.
Mark went along with it all, trying to shield his ignorance behind a wall of monk-like withdrawal. He spent hours staring at his knees, dreaming of cold beer and hot curry, football and fucking.
Most of all, he worried about Emma. Over and over in his mind, he thought of her in prison. How did she suffer? Would she ever forgive him? He’d done everything in his power to free her: burned bridges with his old life as a detective and spy, threatened those he worked for, turned his back on colleagues and friends, denounced the police as tyrants and bullies. None of it had helped. This would. He would keep Ben safe until she got out, and then they would flee together like a proper family. He would wait and stay hidden. The boy needed a father, but not Bob Shepherd. If Mark could bond with Ben, then there was a chance Emma would take him back. There was little, perhaps nothing that she wouldn’t do, for Ben.
Mark glanced across the clearing. The boy played with a group of hippie kids in front of the communal building, a series of tarpaulins draped haphazardly over tall posts cut from the surrounding woodland. It contained a stove and a homemade table, chairs made from coppiced sycamore and ash, and served, in bad weather, as dining room, meeting place, yoga hall and school premises. Not that the children were subjected to a rigorous curriculum. Ben’s studies had fallen away, but he was young and ferociously intelligent, when he wanted to be, and he would catch up fast enough when the time came.
Ben and a pair of older boys ran off towards the teepees in the second clearing behind the communal bender. It disturbed him to have the lad out of sight for more than a few seconds. Some of the women had accused him of being too strict with the boy, never letting him run wild and free. It was unnatural to restrict a child, they said, but they didn’t understand or realise the dangers. Even here, in a new age traveller commune so well hidden even most hippies couldn’t find it, even here he feared the all-seeing eye of GCHQ surveillance.
He got up and put the whittling knife back in its sheath. He headed in the direction where he had last seen Ben. The voices of the boys had fallen quiet. Mark ran across the clearing. There was no sign of them. He kept running, heading for the huddle of converted ambulances, former firetrucks and London buses that nestled among the trees.
“Where’s my son?” he asked a bearded man who sat on the tailgate of his truck, spliffing up. “Where are the boys who were playing here?”
The hippie stared at him as though he were demented. “Stop worrying. Chill out. Calm down.”
“They’re having fun, leave them alone,” urged a woman with dank, grey hair and a face so long and thin she resembled the skeleton of a horse he had found one time, in a suspect’s attic, along with a machete and a set of butcher’s knives.
He yelled Ben’s name, heard his own cry echoing through the trees. The entire camp was aware now: of his fear, his paranoia. But he must remain vigilant. This was subversive central where the hardcore refuseniks came to escape all trace of the modern world. They would be watched. Someone here might work for DarkReach, or special operations, or any number of private security firms serving the interests of the corporate classes.
The sounds of raucous play and childish excitement drifted through the woods. Ben and the others had gone down to the river. He ran, leaping fallen branches and twists of bramble, and found them, shoes and socks on the bank, paddling in the water. “Don’t wander off,” he yelled.
“I’ll do what I like."
“We’ve talked about this."
“Leave him alone,” said one of the boys.
“You’re not his real dad. He told us,” said the other.
“Ben, come with me."
“I don’t have to. Don’t want to."
Mark scrambled down the bank and reached for Ben but the boy waded into the current to keep clear of him.
“Ben. Now.”
The boy slipped on wet stones and fell. The water wasn’t deep, or fast, and he was in no danger. But Ben swore and pulled himself up, fumbling inside his jacket. Mark caught a glimpse of shiny metal. Unmistakeable. He’d taken the boy’s phone and buries it far away. “Give that here. Now."
“It’s mine."
“Did you have two phones? Why didn’t you tell me. This is important."
“It doesn’t get reception,” he said. “I never use it ‘cos I can’t charge it. Saving it, in case."
“They can trace it. They’ll find us here. We have to leave. Come on. We’re going."
“To see mum?”
“No. To hide somewhere else."
“You go. I’ll stay here."
“Don’t be stupid.” Mark waded out, clutching Ben’s footwear, intent on grabbing hold of the boy and hauling him away. But through the trees came the sound of engines, followed by shouts of alarm. Cars. Lights. Men. Police. They had been found. This was no ordinary raid. They were here for Ben. “Across the river. Go. Get out of here."
The lad hesitated, looking towards the camp that had become their home. Mark grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him to the far bank. He led him by the arm until they were hidden from sight. Together they fumbled with the laces of his shoes. Footsteps approached. Mark got to his feet and came face to face with with a solitary, uniformed cop. No sign of back-up. Take him out, buy time. He gripped the whittling knife behind his back.
“Go,” he said. “Run, Ben. Run."
Chapter 57
Off-Road
Ben sprinted through dense woodland, keeping off the paths and ducking under low branches, scrambling through thickets. The route slowed him down, but it would be even harder for big, lumbering policemen. After ten minutes of non-stop running he paused, gulping down air and listening for signs of pursuit. Where was he? Lost. Further from the camp than he’d ever been. He was alone though, and that felt good. Time to get away from all of them: the police, the travellers and most of all from Mark.
He checked his pockets: all he had was his phone, a penknife and the clothes he wore. He had no money, no way to get money, and no idea where to go.
Voices drifted across the woods. Men shouted to each other. Dogs barked excitedly. He had t
o keep moving. He headed deeper into the trees, picking up speed as the ground fell away down a steep hillside until it reached the bottom of a valley. As he charged up the far side, he panted hard, the muscles in his legs burning from the effort. Rotting leaves littered the slope and he slipped repeatedly, falling to his knees, his trousers wet with mud. At the top he paused and lent on a tree while he got his breath back. Men appeared, glimpsed through the trees on the far side of the hollow. They were ten minutes behind him but they had tracker dogs.
To the east there was a break in the trees and open fields, with barns in the distance. Half a mile he guessed. Too far to run without being seen. But if he reached the farm, he might find a motorbike. He’d ridden Tom’s around the self-build site when his uncle wasn’t paying attention. Failing that, he’d take a car. How hard could it be? Everyone did it.
He leapt a barbed wire fence and raced across a muddy field. His feet sank into the sodden, springy turf and he toiled up the slope. Only when he reached the gateway and could hide behind the hedges did he pause for breath. He scanned the tree-line. No cops. No dogs. But there would no hiding his scent from the noses of those Alsatians.
He scampered towards the farm buildings, crouching low. Inside a barn he found a quad bike parked close to the doors. Further back were two bicycles and a motorbike, an off-roader with thick gnarly tyres and raised mudguards. Too big, too heavy, but the keys in the ignition called to him, luring him closer. This was meant to be. And the tank three quarters full. That would take him half way across Wales.
He climbed on and she started first time. He revved hard but regretted it as the engine screamed “thief, thief,” at the top of its voice. He wheeled her to the door which he shoved open with a shoulder barge and set off, slow at first, the off-roader wobbling under him. It felt strange compared to Tom’s bike: heavier, awkward and unforgiving. One moment he was going too fast but when he braked he risked toppling off the thing because it lacked momentum. His feet wouldn’t reach the ground so he would have to ride fast, and not stop for anything.
As he neared the gate from the farmyard, he heard yells of outrage behind him. He ignored them, sped off turned onto the open road. He tried Tom’s trick of leaning around the curves in the road, balancing his weight to control the bike. The way Tom did it looked cool. It felt cool, riding pillion as they zipped around the country lanes near his grandparents’ house. But the bike slid from under him, throwing him into a hedgerow. He used all his strength to pick her up, the engine still running. He got back on and eased around the next few turns, steady and slow.
The wind in his hair felt like freedom. He had taken control of his own destiny, able to go where he liked and get there fast. No adults to wait for, no asking for permission or pleading for a lift. No being told to be patient or maybe next week, or not at all. The dogs would never catch him, or follow his scent. The woods where the hippies lived was fading into a memory. Mark was history, and with luck he would never see him again and that would be too soon. The only nagging thought was what his mother would say about stealing a motorbike. Best not to tell her. Or get caught. Don’t get in trouble. Though that would not be easy. He had no helmet, and he didn’t look big enough to be riding a bike. If he came to a road with traffic, would he cope? Could he overtake lorries? Steer clear of oncoming cars?
He slowed as he crossed a cattle grid, sped up again as the country lane snaked up the side of a hill. He came to a T-junction, turned left then sharply right down another hillside. This road was wider, with a white line down the middle and two clear lanes. He drove through a village with no one on the streets but as he passed a pub he glimpsed a motorbike in the car park, a big, powerful, modern machine, with a biker all in leathers and a metallic blue helmet.
Ben entered a straight stretch of road and glanced over his shoulder. The bike following him might mean nothing. But when he reached a crossroads, he braked sharply. The off-roader juddered and swayed. He gripped tight, turned hard to the left and accelerated once more but the biker pulled level and jabbed a gloved hand, ordering him to stop. Ben slowed and the man swung in front to block the road. Ben took his chance, hauled his bike around and set off in the direction he had come.
He drove straight over the crossroads without slowing down. He sped through an open farm gate, the tyres sliding in the muddy gateway, but he kept her upright. Desperate to get away, he revved too hard, making the wheels spin. He eased off, leapt from the bike and pushed with all his strength, with one hand still on the throttle, controlling the power. Between himself and the engine he got her free and clambered back onto the seat.
Where now? He rode across the centre of the field until he spotted another gate in the far corner, open but blocked by a herd of cows.
They milled in the mud, staring at him suspiciously. He revved his engine, hoping the noise might shoo them away. The cows at the front backed off, but those behind stood firm, creating a mangle of cattle, and the whole herd soon had the jitters, mooing and jostling. He rested the off-roader onto the ground and advanced on them, waving his arms and yelling. They refused to budge. He revved the bike and pushed her through, using the noise and metal as protection. These cows could crush him if they spooked in a tight space. But they moved aside, warily at first until finally they broke into a run and charged across the field.
Ben picked up speed along a track laid with crushed hardcore, following the line of a hedge, parallel to a road. He spotted a gateway up ahead that would put him back on the highway. He’d have to risk it because he was getting nowhere in these fields. After letting the bike slow to a crawl, he leapt off and left the engine running while he opened the gate. As he pushed her through a shoulder slammed into his hips and he was rugby tackled to the ground. His arms were pinned behind him and though he tried to struggle free, it was hopeless. He turned his head and saw the BMW hidden in a ditch. The man had waited here, laid his trap, knowing Ben had to come this way.
The biker eased the pressure on Ben’s back. “You going to co-operate, or do I have to handcuff you?”
“Let me go. You’ve got no right…”
“Stolen motorbike, no licence, underage, no insurance. You want the police involved?”
“I thought you were the police."
“Not exactly."
“So who are you?”
“I work for your father."
“I don’t have a father."
“You do now."
A few minutes later a car approached along the road. The biker hauled Ben to his feet.
“What about my bike?”
“It’s not yours. Forget it."
“We should take her back."
“You should have thought of that, before you stole it. Good riding though, kid. Where’d you learn all that?”
“From my uncle."
“Guy on the Norton, eh?”
“How do you know?”
“We know everything."
A black saloon with darkened windows stopped next to them. A window wound down. “Good work,” said the man in the driver’s seat. “Put him in the back."
Ben struggled, but the man picked him up and threw him in. He tried the doors but they were locked. The car accelerated away. He kicked at the seat in front. “Let me go."
“Calm down, we’ve got a long drive.” The man paused. “It’s good to meet you, at last.”
Their eyes met in the rear view mirror. Ben glared at him. “Who are you?”
“I’m your dad. Your real father. I’ll take care of you from now on, and everything will be different. I’ll give you a proper home. A proper life. You’ll see. You’ll live with me now, Ben. Forget what you’ve been through. I know you’ve suffered. But I’m going to put it all right."
Chapter 58
Clandestine Recording
Ben stared at the distant hills as the light faded, his knees up to his chest, jaw twitching with worry - for his mother, himself, even for Mark. It was too hot in here after all that running, and riding the bike, a
nd fighting the guy on the BMW. It had all gone wrong. He had to get out of here, but how? “Where are you taking me?”
“My house,” said the man in the driver’s seat. “Your new home."
“I live with my mom."
“You’ll have a big room. You won’t be poor any more, think about that. Money for toys and gadgets and games."
“I don’t want stuff, I want my mother."
“We should get to know each other. I’ve not been around all these years and that can’t be helped, but we can put it right. I’m your father, your real dad, don’t forget that."
Ben kicked the seat in front of him. “I don’t need no father."
The car swerved, Shepherd shouted, enraged and threatening him with a beating but Ben put his hands over his ears and yelled “La, la, la, la, can’t hear you.” He had learnt the trick from kids at school. Adults hated it, especially when there was nothing they could do.
Shepherd stopped shouting, but the way he drove, too fast and hurling the car around corners, betrayed his anger. The man turned the car off the country lane onto a wider road. Rain pattered against the windscreen. The sun was setting behind dark clouds and the countryside was disappearing in the gloom. All Ben could see was the road in front, lit by headlights.
“You’re my son and you’ll do as you’re told. It’s about time you learnt discipline. Time to grow up."
“Go fuck yourself."
“Don’t swear at me. Your mother’s been too lenient. All that will change. You’ll go to a good school, receive a proper education. We’ll make a man of you, and set you right in the world. We can be friends, father and son, you’ll see."
“Too fucking late for that."
“Stop answering me back. That’s not how children talk to adults. Learn respect for authority."
Ben snorted through his nose.
“Go to sleep, then. I’ll wake you when we reach a service station."
Ben slumped in his seat. How could he sleep? Why would he?
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