by Tom Grieves
I turn back to the beautiful view. My heart is thumping now, but I don’t want to leave. I love the gentle curves of the earth, the way the crops sway, the grace of the bird that continues to cruise above me. I wonder where the deer has gone.
Time to move. I take clothes that are not too soiled and boots that fit me well enough, and my hands pull things towards me that will be useful.
Suddenly I’m rubbing my face hard with my hands; the weaker emotions have taken charge of me and I’m Ben again. Ben, the dad, the simple mechanic. I feel nauseous at the sight of all this blood and I don’t know how I’ve managed to stay here so long. The noise of the flies is deafening. They’ll be coming for me again. They’re coming and I’m too weak and too scared to stop them.
I couldn’t tell you the last time I went for a jog. I have a pair of dusty old trainers I put on when I need to do odd jobs around the house, but that’s as active as I get. But I run and run at a steady, even pace and my body accepts it.
*
I stand under an old oak, invisible in the darkness, as my eyes clock the path forward – watching for obstacles, for lights, for any movement in the sky. Everything’s still. I try to think back over the day that’s passed, but I don’t remember much. I was on some sort of autopilot, moving fast, following well-used footpaths to hide my trail, crossing streams without hardly getting wet. With my head down, I’ve become invisible to hikers, bikers, cars and busybodies.
Suddenly I’m starving hungry. I root through my things and find the few notes I was able to steal from the dead men. In the dark I begin to panic that there’s blood on the money and that I’ll be caught out when I try to spend it. I stare at the notes. Something moves near my feet and I nearly shout out with panic. I’m shivering. Even the tough old bastard inside me knows I need fuel and sleep.
Fuel first. I find a small town two miles further on. It’s a dull place, its fine Tudor buildings now shops for the same old brands you see everywhere these days. It’s quiet, except for a bunch of bored teenagers who perch on the edge of a bench playing with their mobile phones. I walk past them, pulling up the collar of my jacket as I get to the petrol station, the only place open at this time of night. There are no cars at the pumps and a bored Asian lad slouches at the counter, staring into space. I pluck up the courage to go in and grab the first bits of food I can see; a sandwich – I don’t even bother to check what type – milk and crisps. But as I hurry to the counter, I suddenly become aware of all of the cameras. The lad scans my items without interest, but I’m desperate to get out of there. I feel the cameras staring down at me, watching, recording, making notes.
I get around the corner and cram the food into my mouth, gulping down a carton of milk too quickly so that I choke and spit some of it out and onto my clothes. I stand up and try to control my breathing. Everything is quiet. Of course it is. No one’s noticed you. Tomorrow, they’ll erase everything from the cameras and no one will ever know you were here. Calm down. Walk on.
I try to run but the food has swelled in my stomach and I start to cramp, so I’m forced into a bloated stagger towards the darker side streets off the high street where I can find some safety in the shadows. I stand still in the darkness as my body calms down, remembering what Carrie whispered into my ear. Take off your shoes.
The shoes were bugged? The shoes had some sort of tracing device in them? What did she mean?
Don’t answer the phone.
The feel of her breath against my ear.
I find I’m nearly crying. Take off your shoes. I have, I now wear the second man’s boots. But why should I think that these are any safer? I have this urge to rip off all my clothes.
I love you.
I’m so angry at everything that’s happened, at the things that have been done to me. I don’t know where the rage comes from, but it swells up fast, so fast, from deep inside. I want to roar, to smash things, to take it out on something, someone, to tear things apart.
It is his bad luck that a man should step out of his house across the road at that moment and that he should be a similar shape and build to me.
As he lies on the ground, semi-conscious after my attack, he groans and snorts. The noises he makes are more animal than human. They’re anger and fear, sucked in and out of his lungs. Maybe he’ll die if I don’t help him. I can’t see any blood, but the noise is freaking me out. I pull the clothes from his body. He tries to struggle, but his eyes loll up into his head and he falls silent for a few merciful minutes. But then, as I tie the laces to his trainers he begins to snort again. His eyes are screwed shut but the noise is louder. Maybe, oh God, maybe my attack has left him brain-damaged. I stand over him and he must sense that I’m there – this dark monster – because he rolls away from me, into a ball, grunting and squealing. I make a decision and ring the doorbell to his house; hold it down long and hard for ten seconds. Wait. I hear movement in the house. I ring again – a few, short bursts – then turn and run. Maybe no one came. I don’t know. I’m long gone, out of the town and smashing through the trees before any police search can be organised.
I don’t see the branch which knocks me down, the sting and whip ripping into my cheek. I lie on the ground and something patters past, as scared of me as I am of it. My hand is wet and I don’t know if I’ve landed in mud or shit or if this is my own blood.
The fucking noise that man made as he lay on the ground …
Get up.
It starts to rain. A brief shower and a sudden bluster of wind throws leaves and dust at me. I have grit in my eyes, but my hands are too dirty to touch them.
Get up. Don’t stop.
I don’t want to move. I just want to curl up and sleep, but I know that this is stupid. I look up: through a break in the trees I can see a brief glimmer of stars. Then the wind picks up, clouds zoom in again and another short burst of rain pelts against my face. I stand, but now I don’t know which way I’m meant to be heading – or, rather, where I’ve come from. I turn in a slow circle, trying to find traces of the path I must have made to have got this far. My face is stinging. I think I’ve been cut quite badly cos it hurts so much. Another mark on my face to make me more noticeable and easier to find.
My trousers are wet and it’s seeping through to my skin. Rain’s settling in now. Fuck. Walk, you fool. Move. Make a decision.
Stiff, wet and cold, I find a road about an hour later. The rain won’t stop and there are puddles everywhere.
I hear something coming behind me and lights flood the road. A truck. I keep my head down. It passes me and I glance up to see its brake lights. It’s stopping. Shit. I have no option but to walk past it.
As I come to the window a voice shouts down to me.
‘Fuck’s sake, mate, you must be soaked through!’ The man’s voice is cheery, well-meaning. I look up to the driver’s cabin and see a bearded face grinning down at me. ‘Come on, hop in before you drown.’ He laughs at his own joke, hilarious. He’s wearing only a T-shirt – it’s warm and dry in there. He could drive me miles away.
‘Where are you heading?’ I ask cautiously.
‘What do you care? Have you seen the state of you?’ Another laugh. There’s something about his smile. Too many teeth. Why won’t he tell me where he’s going? ‘Come on, pop on up.’
I hesitate. One hand has reached for the door handle, but my eyes are locked on his smile.
‘Big truck for a small road like this.’
‘Eh?’
‘How come you’re not on the motorway?’
‘Cos my satnav’s shit. You want a lift or not?’
I shake my head. Back away. ‘Wrong direction, mate.’
‘Well, let me drive you a bit, same way as you’re walking. Save you from the elements, eh?’
Too friendly. Liar. Get away from him.
‘I’m good, ta.’
I pull away and then run, can’t help myself. I hear a shout from behind me, but I don’t stop. I’m so wet now, the rain is in my eyes, all of my clothes
are soaked. But I run and run – away from the road, back into the darkness.
I trudge and run for miles. I see an empty barn where I could rest till the morning, but decide it’s too dangerous. The barn has been placed here by them. It’s a trap. No, stop, think, you need to rest. But it might be a trap. It can’t be. But it might. My fevered brain argues with itself, and I march on without direction.
I slip again and fall heavily on my shoulder, winded. Once again I think about Carrie and the kids. I see them at home: hot chocolate in mugs, hot skin from their bath, waiting for me to come home. Wide, confused eyes. What am I doing?
I can’t see because of the rain. My eyes sting and my head hangs low.
I love you.
Carrie. She beckons to me through the darkness. Get into the truck.
March, boy, march until you are ordered otherwise. Got it?
There is a wide, dark river ahead. It’s hard to tell how fast the current is moving, but there’s no obvious way across. I decide to swim, and start to take off the boots. Then stop. A moment’s sanity tells me I’m being stupid. As I stand there, the moon breaks through the clouds like a helicopter’s spotlight. I’m done for.
My knees give way and I slip to the ground. I’m overcome by exhaustion.
Don’t sleep. Who said you could sleep?!
Carrie, my love, my beautiful love.
An animal shrieks in the darkness.
My head falls against the soft earth. It’s like a pillow.
I hear the snort of the man I’ve hit.
The anger’s there again and I pound my fists into the wet earth, over and over.
You bastards, you bastards.
My love.
The moon vanishes then suddenly it’s back.
Let me sleep. Just ten minutes. Ten minutes and then I’ll cross the river.
But they’re coming.
Yellow eyes in the darkness.
My little boy. My darling daughter.
Just ten minutes.
I’ll be strong in ten minutes.
My eyes flicker.
Just ten.
*
I wake up and I’m frozen stiff. I sit up, shaking, see my boots next to me and pull them on in a hurry. My head’s just clearing from a dream. Something about a gun. It’s the morning, I think. Well, it’s light, anyhow. It’s stopped raining, but it’s a cold, dull day and my clothes are soaked through. I get up and look at the river in front of me. In the daylight it seems much less formidable. I’m cross with myself. My body’s caked in mud, my clothes even more so. If I let myself go mad like that again, I’ll end up killing myself.
And then I remember the man I attacked and I feel sick to my stomach with shame. I want to go back, I want to see if he’s okay, I want to do something. But I don’t know where I’ve come from, not really. And I’m too scared that if I did go back they’d be waiting for me. I put my head between my knees and squeeze my eyes shut. Where did it come from, that rage? It felt comfortable, a part of me, but now in the light I can’t believe I’m capable of any of it. Yet there is a part of me that wants more. I make a quiet promise to myself that I will stop it and shut it down. I know, even now in the calm daylight, that this will be a hard promise to keep.
I stand up straight, roll my shoulders over. I put my hand into my back pocket and take out the few remaining soggy notes and count them. I can live for two days on this. Two days, and then what? Maybe I don’t even have two days, maybe they’re waiting, somewhere across the water. But then, if they knew where I was they’d have picked me up. I must have been asleep here for four or five hours, but no one has come. I am safe for now. I have time to stop, to think.
I look at the swirling river and follow a broken branch which spins slowly around as it’s pulled along and away. I wonder about my dream and the gun. I know that I need to think about all my dreams now. There are answers there, buried in code.
The dark waters drift and drag, slip and slide. I watch the river with a strange admiration. There’s such strength in the water. A slow, low-gear, bullish drive. I think about its long journey to the sea and decide that I’ll do the same. I’ll go and hide somewhere by the sea. I don’t know why, but it seems as a good a plan as any, for a madman.
*
‘Come on, have a tug, it’s good for you. I promise,’ teases Imogen as she passes the joint towards me. We share the back seats of a beaten-up car, along with bags and rubbish which cramp our foot space. I’m a guest, a hitchhiker who she and her mates picked up a couple of hours ago. And right now I’m Imogen’s plaything. She’s in her late teens (early twenties maybe) with long brown hair, and a pretty face made more attractive by her cheek and sparkle. Her bare feet are on my lap and she wears a tiny pair of tight, jean shorts and a skimpy T-shirt which reveals her small breasts and the pale, freckled skin on her arms and neck.
‘Put him down, Imo,’ says Fred from the front, who takes the joint from me with a grin and inhales hard. Fred’s a thickset man, twenty-something, with short hair and a square jaw. Apparently his real name’s Alistair, but everyone calls him Fred after the caveman cartoon. Next to him, driving, is Adrian – same age, blond, quiet, wearing sunglasses. Imogen stares at me with a crooked smile and tries to make me blush.
‘You work out, Ben?’
‘Jesus, Imogen,’ groans Fred.
‘I’m just being polite. We’re giving him a lift, what do you want me to do, ignore him?’
‘Just don’t fuck him on the back seat is all I’m asking.’
‘Fuck you, potty mouth. Ben. Mister. You work out?’
‘No.’
‘So how come you’ve got biceps the size of my thighs?’ She runs a wide-eyed hand over her thighs, just so I’m sure to know what she’s talking about.
A growl from Fred up front and I realise (God, I’m dumb) that he’s in love with her.
‘You got kids, Ben?’ Fred asks, and I smile, relieved.
‘Yes, two. Boy and a girl.’
They all nod politely. They’ve got no interest in this; grownups, family vehicles, pot bellies, receding hairlines. They’re too cool for that shit. For the first time in an hour, Imogen glances past me out of the window. We’re on the motorway, travelling fast. It’s a sunny day and the fading autumn sun still has enough heat to make the car stuffy. My shirt is sticking to the back of the seat.
‘You got any family, Imogen?’ I ask and I see Fred smirk.
‘Kid brother who’s an idiot. And Mum.’ She drops sunglasses over her eyes.
‘What about Brian?’ taunts Fred, mock-innocent, and I realise I’ve trodden in something.
‘Shut the fuck up, Fred.’
We’re quiet for a while. Fred passes the joint back to Imogen and her taking it seems to imply some sort of peace. She offers it to me again, but once again I decline. She shifts her position and I notice the small yin-yang tattoo on her ankle.
‘Ben?’ she says, playfully. (I decided to go with my own name. I thought of calling myself Angus or something, but then I thought that I’d only catch myself out.) ‘How come you’re hitchhiking?’
‘Just mind your own business. Christ!’ grunts Fred.
‘No, come on dude, we’re all like – hey, it’s cool, having an old guy on board. But you’re not exactly classic hitchhiker material, are ya?’
That’s true enough. I think back to the hours before they saw me in that lay-by: changing into the new set of clothes I stole from the recycling bank, tying a bandage over the jagged cut on my thigh (thank you, barbed wire) and hoping the wound won’t open up and draw attention. I have thought up a story – a family on holiday with in-laws, a broken car, a lost wallet. It feels suitably boring. But her naked feet on my crotch make me want to sound less like a loser.
‘Oh, it’s … stuff’s happened, forget about it.’
She looks at me with intrigue and I regret my pride instantly.
‘What stuff? Fred, look at him, he’s gone all shifty. Hey! Are you … what are you? You’r
e on the run, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. I’m armed and dangerous, Imogen. How did you guess?’
She looks disappointed. Maybe I am just a boring old forty-something-dull-guy after all. Fred lowers the window and out goes the burnt-out joint. He stretches, taking a slurp from a can, then glances at me, wondering if I’m worth any bother.
‘Ben … come on …’ she pines with a baby voice. ‘Tell me something …’
Fred has given up and digs out a music magazine with earnest young men on its cover. The Next Big Thing, the cover declares in big red letters.
‘Where’s your wife? How come you’re not travelling together? How come you can’t afford a train, or a bus or a decent car?’ She kicks the back of the driver’s seat to make a point but Adrian drives on, oblivious. When we were introduced he shook my hand with his eyes on the road. ‘Don’t mind him,’ Fred had said, ‘he’s a lawyer,’ as if this explained everything.
I feel a poke in my ribs. Imogen’s waiting for answers. Where’s my wife? What a question. My face must have betrayed some emotion because the poke suddenly turns into a gentle hand on my arm.
‘Just tell me to shut up, I won’t mind,’ she says, her eyes sad and empathetic. ‘I talk too much.’
‘No shit,’ chimes in Fred.
‘It’s none of my business,’ she says, cowed. Her hand rests on my arm. I can feel its heat. Her hair is frizzled and hangs loose around her shoulders and she smells of soap. Suddenly she bursts out laughing. It’s self-conscious, embarrassed, but she doesn’t remove her hand.
‘Hey, remember Danny?’ says Adrian, completely out of the blue. The name gets an instant reaction from the other two. A cry of excitement – Danny!
‘He does, doesn’t he?’ says Fred and laughs. I’m confused.
‘You remind them of a guy we met last year,’ explains Imogen.
‘He was cool, don’t fret, man,’ says Adrian. ‘He was the dude who ran the local bar. Turned up in town first week of May, closed shop end of September. Made enough money to piss off to Thailand for the rest of the year. Man, he was wild.’