Fell of Dark

by Reginald Hill

  I studied the landscape again, this time shielding my mind as best I could against any but the most practical considerations. Roughly speaking, I felt that Melton would try to contain me within a triangle bounded by Derwentwater and Borrowdale to the East, Crummock and Buttermere to the South and West, Whinlatter to the North. Whichever direction I headed in, I would eventually come to a main road which must be crossed, and this seemed the most likely place for his men to be. But there was an awful lot of road to watch and in any case, I thought complacently, Melton does not know for certain I’ve gone South. He must look to the North as well.

  I got to my feet and prepared to move. I had decided to head for what, if my theory were right, would be the nearest point of the triangle, to stick to the heights as far as possible, making my way along the ridge to the neighbouring peak of Whiteside. From there I would drop down towards Scalehill, cross the road and cut through between Lowes Water and Crummock into Ennerdale. I thought how Peter would have been entertained by the simple way I rattled off the names of the route in my mind. It had been one of his favourite subjects for parody. I wondered how he was spending this moonlit night and my conscience stirred at the thought that I might do him more good by attempting to offer rational refutations of the charge than by careering around over the mountains like James Bond.

  But it was pointless letting this worry me now, I thought fatalistically. If the mountains wanted me to be recaptured, they would arrange it despite anything I could do. Melton was only human, him I could contend with. But there were forces greater than the police, I thought, casting a last look at the terrible view. Then I restricted my gaze once more to the few feet ahead of me and set off.

  Melton, had I but known it, was more like the mountains than I imagined. That is, he had argued along the same lines as myself once the initial search inspired by Annie’s report had been called off because of the weather and approach of night. But he had gone a stage further. The roads were not guarded – he had realized this was impossible. So he had divided the men available to him – a quite considerable number, for the press had seized on the story with delight and pictured me (by non-libellous implication, of course) as a kind of insatiable satyr roaming the hills to the peril of every woman within a radius of 100 miles – and established half a dozen groups prepared for instant action at key points in the area. His theory was that he did not need to look for me; that his trouble was going to be a surplus of reports of sightings of me, but that with so many people on the fells at this height of the season I was bound to be spotted fairly soon.

  He had started the machine. Now it could run itself till it needed to be re-programmed.

  Thus it was that I crossed the road below Scalehill with a great deal of unnecessary care and got myself unnecessarily wet by wading across the River Cocker when I might just as well have used the bridge. I adopted the same method of crossing the stream which links Lowes Water and Crummock and as I dried myself and resumed my trousers I saw the first traces of the dawn in the sky.

  I pressed on for another couple of miles, climbing steadily once more, then decided the time had come to look for somewhere to hide myself for the coming day. I had decided that my little stock of vegetables plus a bar of chocolate I had found in my knapsack would have to keep me victualled for one more day. But when night came on again, I would have to apply myself seriously to the business of restoring my larder.

  I reckoned I was now on the lower reaches of Blake Fell, probably on that shoulder of it stretching out towards Lowes Water and known as Carling Knott. There was little cover here and looking back, I seemed to be dangerously close to Loweswater Village. But it couldn’t be helped. Movement was what attracted attention in these empty spaces. I moved to my right where the terrain seemed rougher and much less attractive to walkers. Finally I came to a halt by two large boulders. The space between them seemed as good a shelter as anywhere, and nearby there was a small pool of water left by the previous day’s rain which would serve me both for refreshment and for whatever ablutions I felt necessary.

  With the aid of loose stones, I built a kind of wall at that end of the gap between the boulders which faced what I felt was the most likely route for any walkers on this not particularly popular section of the fells. When I was convinced that it looked as natural as possible, I set about making the living-space as comfortable as I could, removing one or two large stones and using my knapsack as a cushion. Satisfied with this, I scrambled about twenty yards over the rocks and relieved myself. It was going to be a long day, I thought as I did so. It was now full daylight. I scrambled back to my shelter, wriggled in and breakfasted on the inevitable onion. Then, for the first time realizing how tired I was, I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

  It was at this point I suppose that the Scoutmaster of the Twenty-Third troop, a ludicrously early riser, who had for the past half hour been watching my every movement through his war-souvenir German army binoculars, put them away in their case and left his tents (which to me were merely distant orange mushrooms by the lake) and strode off to the village to report what he had seen.

  Had I been awake I still don’t suppose I would have noticed him, but I would have noticed fifteen minutes later the truck which came winding down the road into the village. The men who got out of it would have been mere dots at that distance, but so many dots swarming around like ants would have drawn my attention and the rapidity with which they were drawn up and marched away out of my sight round the foot of the Knott would not have allayed my fears.

  But, as the four pairs of binoculars now fixed on my ‘refuge’ could testify, I never moved.

  But ten minutes later, I awoke. It may have been a sixth sense. Perhaps the mountain nudged me. Most likely it was just the enthusiastic efforts of a sharp piece of stone to worm its way into my buttock. But I awoke and peered out of my shelter.

  The hill, which sloped away gently at first, then more steeply, in front of me was empty of life. I could tell by the shadow of the rocks that not much time had passed since I went to sleep. I peered down at the village. It looked as quiet, or dead, as unreal as ever. Everything told me of my utter isolation. Except my stomach, empty before but now full of fear.

  Don’t be a fool, I thought. It’s only half an hour since you got here. There’s danger enough without imagining it.

  Again I scanned a full circuit of the horizon, this time turning and peering through the chinks in my wall.

  Nothing.

  I decided to placate my stomach with a piece of chocolate. It had melted in the heat of the earlier part of the week and now the silver paper was firmly cemented to the surface. I picked carefully at it, remembering the effect silver paper had on my fillings.

  Clink.

  It had come from behind me. I turned again and peered through the chinks. Through a chink to see a clink, I thought with assured calmness. Still there was nothing but rock and stones, then a frieze of hills against a background of light blue sky sponged with fluffy white cloud.

  I suddenly had a picture in my mind of the other side of the ridge, dotted with silent men, inexorably moving forward, tensed for the final rush when they came into sight.

  The picture was too vivid to smile at. Still clutching my chocolate in my hand, I wriggled out of the shelter and picked up my knapsack in the other hand. I stood for a moment, uncertain, knowing that by moving I was doing exactly what my reason had told me could be fatal. Melton would rely on my nerves giving way. I must not give way to imagined fears. I took a step back towards the shelter. It looked like a trap. I turned away. Far below a voice spoke into the mouthpiece of a walkie-talkie set.

  ‘He’s moving! Get after him!’

  And with a tremendous cry and thudding and clashing of boots on rock, the line of men broke over the brow of the ridge like a tidal bore bulleting up the Severn.

  There were about two dozen of them. They were soldiers, and their bayonet-charge cry froze me for a second. The chocolate, untouched, dropped from my hand, then I
turned and fled.

  I set off obliquely down the side of the ridge which was too steep for a direct descent. The pursuers came pouring after me, silent now, saving their breath for the chase. I soon found I was in most danger from those at the furthest end of the line who had come over the crest some twenty yards up the ridge from my shelter. In order not to be cut off, I was forced to widen the angle of my descent and finally I realized there was nothing for it but to go straight down. The slope was very precipitous here, so much so that my eager pursuers had slowed themselves down and were approaching in short rushes from boulder to boulder, like balls coming down a pin table. A couple of those ahead had gone further down the slope and were now working their way round to get below me. In a few seconds I would be completely encircled.

  I had read somewhere that the old slate-cutters of Honister used to bring their slate down the mountain in sledge-fashion. I had no slate, but I was determined to follow their example as best I could, and I thrust my knapsack between my legs, held tight on to the straps, took a short hobbling run to get up momentum, and sat down on it.

  The ground was still bone hard, despite the rain, the grass sparse and shiny, the outside of my knapsack faintly polished by its waterproofing. I shot under the outstretched arms of the soldier immediately beneath me and, increasing my speed at an alarming rate, I skidded away down the slope.

  What steering and braking equipment I had was only, of course, my legs, and I did not dare dig my heels in too abruptly otherwise my ankles would have snapped like match-sticks. My main fear was of colliding with one of the large boulders strewn about the slope, and I brushed against more than one. I had no time to see what was going on behind me. My only real conscious manoeuvre (evasion of rocks was instinctive) was to try once more to make my descent oblique, rather than straight down, though this materially increased the danger of my capsizing.

  This is what finally happened just as I thought the whole thing was becoming manageable. I bumped over a stone and was tipped over so that my slide became a roll which fortunately was interrupted after only a short distance by collision with a great boulder.

  All the breath was knocked out of my body by the impact, and I lay there watching the sky and hillside still go whizzing by. But finally everything slowed down and I struggled to my knees.

  Looking back I could see my route clearly marked by a trail of clothes and toilet articles. The knapsack, in shreds at my side, had been worn or ripped open and all my stuff had fallen out. What really amazed me was the distance I had come. The pursuit was far behind, which was just as well I realized, as I stood up and became aware of the new pains which had been added to my old aches. I felt as if I had cracked a couple of ribs and my left shoulder felt as if someone had hit it with a hammer.

  I looked at my knapsack. At least now I had nothing to carry. I turned away and set off down the slope at a painful trot.

  Looking back after a couple of minutes I realized I had no hope of beating these fellows in a straight race. They were young, obviously very fit, and were gaining on me with every stride. Somehow I had to go to earth and let them overtake me. But to do that, first I had to get out of sight.

  I was now running along fairly flat ground at the foot of the shoulder, which is better geography than anatomy. The ground was rising again before me and I knew that I had to be far enough ahead of my pursuers to be able to drop out of sight as soon as I got over the approaching ridge. I summoned up my puny reserves of energy and increased my speed a fraction. I don’t suppose the soldiers even noticed it. But they must have noticed how I staggered as I clawed my way up the sudden steepness of the last few yards.

  To my disappointment the terrain beyond the ridge was merely a shallow basin stretching to another ridge about a hundred yards ahead. I would never make it, and the kind of hiding place I wanted was totally lacking here. But I had to make do with what there was.

  I dropped down almost on all fours and scuttled across to a group of large stones on the extreme left of the basin and flung myself down among them – I had no time for anything more subtle. I buried my face in the rocky earth and tried to hold my breath, but nothing could stop those long shuddering suckings and blowings.

  The soldiers breasted the rise and I suppose their very impetus and enthusiasm carried them another fifty yards or so before they realized that I could not possibly have disappeared over the next ridge so soon. All my body wanted to do was to lie there by the rocks, but my mind, working like a fury now, told me they’d be casting around for me any moment and, if I was to save myself, they had to do it on my terms.

  I stood up. As I had guessed the soldiers had stopped and bunched together. They were looking around and three or four of them spotted me together. As their cry rose again, I was already moving in the terrible slow motion of complete fatigue back the way I had come.

  My intention was simple. I had to repeat the trick and this time make it work. If it didn’t I was caught. Up and over I went, sliding desperately down the steep slope on the other side.

  I knew I could not possibly do it. There was nowhere to hide, at least nowhere within reach of my legs. I leaned back against the slope, my muscles gave up with relief and I collapsed back and lay utterly still, waiting to be captured.

  I suppose it was my stillness that saved me. That and a soldier who had dropped out of the hunt, whether through fatigue, indolence or injury I never knew. But he was just disappearing over the next rise as the remaining soldiers came thundering back.

  ‘There!’ cried the leader, and off they went again, a couple of them, or so it seemed later, leaping right over me. I sat in numbed amazement watching their retreating backs, certain that they would turn any minute. Then slowly I rose, slowly I scrambled backwards up that damned slope again and, my eyes still fixed on those khaki-clad figures, slowly I sank down on the other side.

  I knew just how temporary this respite was, but the renewal of hope also renewed my strength a little and I managed a steady walk for fifteen minutes before I had to stop by a small stream trickling down from the heights on my right. I drank deeply and bathed my scratches and bruises in the ice-cold water, which brought some relief though from the look of my shoulder, the worst was yet to come. Even in the fragmented mirror of the dimpling water I could see that I looked a ghastly sight. My face was unshaven and covered with scratches I could not even remember getting. The back of my head where Annie had struck me was throbbing relentlessly and, when I tried to stand up, I found myself swaying wildly and had to sit down again. I drank some more, lapping like a dog and looked at my reflection again.

  ‘I warned you you were too old to play at Superboy,’ I said.

  My plight seemed hopeless. Melton would have me pinpointed now. If he could conjure up two dozen men like that, with a little more time he could have a hundred. I had lost everything I had in my escape down the fells. All I was left with was a torn tweed jacket, my ‘best’ trousers – now long past their best – my shoes and socks. Even my ‘stout brogues’ seemed to have resigned some of their stoutness, I noticed with dismay. One of them was gashed along the side completely through the leather.

  I rolled on my back and lay there trying to organize my thoughts into some kind of cogent pattern. Nothing my father had ever said seemed relevant to the present situation. Indeed that area of my life in which I was a man of action and decision, running a thriving business and turning losses into profits year after year seemed to belong to somebody else. I felt about it as the businessman in me had felt when I came across some of my old University essays on what seemed obscure and abstruse subjects. Did I once know all that? I thought in awe. How could I know it and let myself be what I am?

  But in the end I had dismissed them as anthologies of plagiarism and assured myself that my present life was the only reality.

  Now I saw that figure in the well-cut suit with the big desk, the big secretary (too big for Jan’s liking, I recalled) and the big future, as an actor. I could never have been like
that. I could never be like that again.

  I stared up at the sky. The light blue had almost entirely disappeared and the fluffy white cloud, like a detergent commercial in reverse, had gone dark and grey and spread rapidly over the sky.

  That’s it, I thought. If the weather breaks again, I’ll give myself up.

  Five minutes later the weather broke again and I thanked God for it. I had got to a crouching position preparatory to another attempt to stand and looking back down the valley I saw without surprise the inevitable line of men moving slowly forward towards me. They were still too far away to have noticed me crouched as I was, but to stand up would be to invite observation. I just knelt there and, despite my recent resignation to recapture, the inevitability of it so affected me that I did not feel the first drops of rain. Then it came down in earnest, sweeping down the valley towards the searchers, who disappeared from my view within seconds.

  I was soaked to the skin just as quickly, but to start with at least, the result was as invigorating as a shower bath, and I stood up and began to make my way up the valley again.

  The rest of that day I can hardly remember. I kept to the low ground as far as possible, I sat huddled behind a boulder for what might have been minutes or hours, but the rain never let up and I had to set off again to keep some warmth in my body. At one point I found myself actually battling my way along a fairly fast-moving stream. I had been too wet to notice and it was only after I had stumbled and nearly drowned myself that I came to my senses. Soon after that I made my way towards what looked like a group of grey stones but which turned out to be half a dozen sheep seeking shelter in the lee of a slight declivity. With the imperturbability of their kind, they ignored me completely after a few investigatory prods to see if I was going to be a source of bread-crusts and I lay among them, my fingers dug into the fleece of the nearest, catching some of their warmth. I heard voices quite close by as I lay there, but whether it was pursuers or merely hikers, I did not know. In any case, it was immaterial, for everyone in the Lakes that day would have his eyes open for me.