CHAPTER FIVE
The following day, dawn has yet to fully wake. I am once again hidden in woodland looking down on a scene that refuses to change. I take the mobile phone and write a text message,
‘The two men have landed, together. Both at the cottage now.’
I select the number stored on the phone then send the message away.
Now, I wait. For what, I don’t know. For helicopters to swoop in? For time to pass into nothing?
The phone beeps. I look at the screen and see the message, ‘Message not sent. Message sending failed.’
I try again. The same message is returned. I check the signal strength - four bars. I call the number and hear an automated voice tell me,
‘The number you have called is not recognized.’
Two lies down and increasingly, I am the fool. Maybe the mobile is faulty. I hurry away, desperate to reach the nearest phone box.
Inside the local shop. I have to buy a newspaper, to break a twenty for change. Familiar faces greet me with a smile. Am I different, tainted? Will they see my odd behavior when asked to remember?
Sheltered inside the phone box - at one with it, as lonely and redundant it stands today. I dial the number. An automated voice tells me,
‘The number you have dialed has not been recognized.’
Again. One more time.
‘The number you have dialed has not been recognized.’
I hurry back towards my caravan. Avoiding the roads, I go cross-country. I now expect the worst. I expect the police to find both the body and a trail, a trail which leads dishonestly to me.
I try and stay calm. I can feel anger, almost a panic, a scream to release. I must focus on the now, anchor myself to the present. I must keep control, consider what I know.
Two men call on me. They tell me they are from Special Branch and ask me to watch a woman, to look out for two men who will visit her. They claim the crime is animal liberation, all the way to terrorist level. I sense a lie and accept the challenge. I watch the woman and discover she has nothing to do with animal liberation. Two days later I find her dead, murdered brutally. The phone number they gave me doesn’t work. By entering her house, I have incriminated myself. Was this their plan? How could they be sure I would? They couldn’t. If I am the stooge, then there must be more, unknown plants and plots. They gave me a grand, some of which was publicly seen. Does the money call theft? Does it add up and lead to murder?
In the distance, I catch sight of the sea. The tide is crashing in. Do I ride the wave? Will I tame it? Do I swim ahead of it or has it already washed over me and left me choking, gasping for air?
I must ask no questions, myself no questions. Why me, I banish. Back to my caravan, pack what I need then vanish.
Why would anyone kill the woman? The woman, I don’t even know her name. I must return to her house, risk one more visit, but this time I must look properly for clues. I am tempted to wait until nightfall before making my entry, but I cannot be still. Once packed and ready to flee I rush to the house and enter by my usual route. Standing by the backdoor, I pull off my muddy boots and ready my senses to block out any sight or smell of the woman. I am here to know her past not her present. I quickly move through the kitchen ignoring the many draws and cupboards. My first priority is her laptop, which no longer sits on the kitchen table. I enter the hall and pass the woman, who I barely acknowledge, into the study and straight to the desk. Here I find the laptop. I snatch it, leads snap out. I grab the power cable, yank it from the wall socket, wrap it around the laptop then stuff them into my rucksack. Suddenly, my focus spins to a sound outside. I look to the window and recognize the sound as a car engine. I drop to my knees. I was in full view of the window. The sound continues, getting louder, getting closer. It stops. I crawl to the side of the window, pause and listen. I hear a car door pushed shut, quickly followed by another. I raise myself up and peer out through the side of the curtain. Two suited, middle-aged men take the final few steps towards the front door. They look like police, CID. I lower myself and take cover. I strain to listen, desperate to hear any snippet of conversation, but all I can hear is my breath being pumped hard through my mouth. If they look through the letterbox, they will see the woman. I could move her. I hesitate. A loud three second knock on the door. I could move her. Another knock, louder, shorter, quickly followed by the snap of metal on metal.
In a flash I raise myself up, take a peek then lower myself into cover. One of the men was rushing towards a parked silver saloon car, his colleague, tried to shoulder the front door open. The door holds; it is heavy and solid. I slip my rucksack on then sneak another look. The man at the car reaches in through an opened front side window and grabs an in-car radio. His colleague rushes away, I assume towards the back of the house, to the first, unlocked door.
I scramble away crawling under the window. Once clear, I rise up and sprint through the hall into the kitchen. A dash to my boots. I grab them, but now where? I see a door. The backdoor shakes. I pull open the door, step inside and pull the door shut. Blackout, the darkness is complete. I am squashed into a pantry; the smell of spices mixed with marzipan and icing sugar fill the air. This is not the time for memories of youth, but I have hidden in such a pantry before. No sight, only sound. I hear the backdoor flung open then footsteps rush across the kitchen floor. Silence. Slowly and gently I begin to put on my boots. Footsteps again, rush across the kitchen floor. Then voices.
‘Jesus!’
‘For fuck sake!’
‘Do nuisance calls lead to this?’
‘God knows.’
‘How long?’
‘Fifteen minutes.’
Nuisance calls? Is that why they came? Wasn’t she reported missing? Fifteen minutes, for back-up? I have one option, to run. Boots on, hood up, sneak out and flee. Quickly with the boots. Surely all attention is on the woman. If they see me, so what? I run, what changes? Two middle-aged men cannot catch me. The voices flare up.
‘There’s a message.’
I hear four electronic beeps. I think of a phone.
‘What?’
‘It’s a mobile number.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing…Silence.’
‘As she said...Return the call’
‘Now? Should we?’
‘Why not?’
Another single beep. I finish with the boots. Then suddenly, startled, I jump as a shiver vibrates through me. The mobile phone, their mobile phone, in my trouser pocket fizzes into life. It vibrates then squeals with ever increasing volume. No time to think. I shoulder the door open and spill out into the kitchen. The two police officers stand staring at me, rooted in stillness through shock. I, too, freeze. As sense returns the officer holding the phone presses a button and cancels the call. The mobile in my pocket squeals no more. I turn to run. This movement fires the officers into action. They rush towards me. I stop, then turn and attack. Four quick, hard, even brutal punches later and my pursuers writhe slowly on the floor. I need a head start. I am but one, they will be many.
I sprint out through the door. Once again I have nowhere to go but never have I ran so fast to get there. Reaching the front of the cottage I see the police car and skid to a stop. I pause, hesitating. I ask myself, 'dare I?' Instinct pleas with me to flee but still I stand, staring at the car as a voice in my head begins to scream, ‘in order to survive you must take risks!’
If I run into the countryside what chance have I got? How far can I get before man, dog and machine start to hunt me down? I cannot be predictable. I must fight myself as much as I must fight everyone else.
I rush to the car and gently open the boot. A glance back reveals I still have time. I move to a back door and open it. Inside the car I find the lever that once pulled allows the back seats to fold down. I pull the lever and leave the seat free of the catch. I quietly close the back door then move back to the boot. For a beat I freeze, hesitating. I force the doubt down then myself inside the boot, into the empty space. Without a hand
le to close the boot properly I have to pull-slam it shut. He noise echoes inside.
Once again I am squashed into darkness. The phone, turn off the mobile, it could ring. I pull it from my pocket and silence it. Dogs. What if they bring sniffer-dogs here? My scent could reveal me. I could be running, I could be free, but that is what they expect of me. And now, what now? Nothing, just wait. How is this a good idea? I could be running free, but instead I am trapped. All I can do is think, remind myself of where I am, the darkness, the increasing lack of fresh air. I have handed myself over to fate. I must fight these thoughts. Fear was youth and ignorance. They will not take you; they will not take you away!
I hear a car, the sound of a car fast approaching. It stops aggressively somewhere close-by. Doors open then slam shut. A man’s voice calls out.
‘Round the back!’
The silence returns. Then the sound of people approaching comes from all around. The rub of heavy coats. In my mind, I see uniformed police rushing towards me. Voices call out.
‘He can’t have gone far!’
Correct.
‘The woods!’
‘Wait for the helicopter.’
Body heat. Thermal imaging. Am I safe in here? Surely better than dogs? The sound of people moving towards me. A voice, one of the CID Officers.
‘I’ll drive.’
Followed by the voice of someone new.
‘Are you sure you’re not concussed?
The front doors of the car are opened. The car bounces on its shock absorbers as people take their seats. The doors are slammed shut. One of the CID officers speaks.
‘You alright?’
No reply, nothing verbal anyway.
‘Bastard! We’ll get him! Fuckin’ twice over!’
The engine ignites and we drive away. Finally, I have movement and pace, all of which feels good. Sometimes I desire stillness, need it in fact, but here, now, it is movement I crave.
to here
Lying here, in the fetal position, I start to feel calm, even secure. Does the position induce a subconscious journey back to the womb, where all was right and peaceful? Maybe it’s the sense of movement mixed with the feeling of invisibility. I love to feel invisible. Once I was afraid of the dark, until one night, I thought fuck it, let the worst happen. Let whatever you fear come and do its worst. After all, fear may shout, ‘you can’t see them in the shadows’, but so what, neither can they see you.
The car picks up speed. We have left the country lanes and hit the A-roads. Twenty minutes to the nearest town. With a fair amount of success, I try and empty my mind, to think of nothing. I see no point in trying to formulate a plan, as my vision into the immediate future is a black as my ride.
Twenty five minutes into our journey, and the car slows to a halt. The handbrake is pulled, and the engine is killed. The CID officer speaks.
‘Right. Let’s get you looked at.’
The front doors open and the officers climb out. The doors slam shut, and footsteps hurry away. The car alarm beeps with activation; remote central-locking has secured the car.
With their footsteps fading, I push the backseat forward then pull myself into the back of the car. Slowly, carefully, I lean up and look through the side window. Before me stands the local hospital. The two officers are hurrying towards A&E. I wait for them to enter the building then make my move. I open the door and set myself free.
I walk calmly away from the car. I need a plan. A place to hide, to study my only clue. Or maybe I should seek distance, continue to run, to get as far as way as possible, away from the public gaze. How long before my story goes public?
I walk through the car park. Anger starts to fuel me, anger at the people who put me here. I had my routine; I had my peace and now, all is chaos, all is unknown. I want solutions. I want answers. I need to hide. There is too much light. I hurry towards the Out Patients building. I have been here before, visiting, saying goodbye, silently of course. I know a place where I can sit in peace.
As I enter the building, I slip off my rucksack and carry it by hand. This, I think, makes me look less noticeable and helps push me into the background. Several CCTV cameras watch me. Does this matter? Will the police suss my escape and review the footage? Could they? Would they have the time? Maybe later, tomorrow, but today, I doubt it.
I enter the building. It is busy with people. It is nearly noon and morning visiting hours are due to end. No one seems to pay me attention. I glide pass reception and hurry along a corridor. Reaching a door, I take it and enter the Men’s Toilets. I go straight to a cubicle, shut the door and lock it.
I am alone, hidden. My surroundings are warm and spotlessly clean, as they say, it could be worse. I push the toilet seat down and sit. From the rucksack, I take out the laptop and boot it up.
Waiting for Windows to load, I almost feel guilty. Here could be access to a life I have no right to view. Twice in my life I have had the option of reading someone else’s secret diary, and twice I chose not to. Does that make me boring, too good to be true? Did I refuse to read because I feared the truth? Or maybe I didn’t care enough for the people whose diaries they were? Mind you, neither diary left me unharmed. I tore from each a dozen or so random pages, which I later destroyed by fire.
Windows loads, and I begin my search but quickly find nothing of any consequence. No pictures, downloads, nothing that reveals the essence of this woman. Is the computer new? Or barely used? Has it been tampered with, cleaned of vital information? Maybe she missed the techno curve and now only uses computers under protest, if so, I sympathise.
Finally, I find two files that interest me, which could possibly contain the information I seek. The first is a Word document named Draft 1. I do not have the time to fully investigate, but it seems she was writing a novel. The first line of which reads:
‘You can take the man out of the cunt, but you can’t take the cunt out of the man.’
The second file of interest is an email conversation between the woman and her son, which reads:
"Oh what joy. Welcome to my past - a place I had easily forgotten until you felt it wise and correct to remind me. Well, speak to me, dear mother. But let me warn you, I am no longer the weakling. I no longer see the world through the eyes of a child. You tracked me down. This shouldn’t surprise me; after all you are not without some intelligence. I should thank you for my genes, Professor. Nature or nurture? Obviously both. So thank you for the genes although nurture, not you! Anyway, how are you? How well have you aged?"
"Oakley, my son, thank you for your reply. It means so much to me. My health is fine, of course, as my doctor tells me, my cholesterol and blood pressure could both be lower, but what the hell; I have no intention of fading away whilst making up the numbers in some care home.
I have recently retired to the countryside – genuine peace and quiet, although perhaps a little boring. I have plenty of time to think and read, maybe too much time to think, never enough time to read.
I would like to meet up with you, at the very least speak to you on the telephone. I know we have our issues and perhaps, in some ways, I can understand the way you have chosen to isolate me from your life, but can we now at least be civil to each other? I would like to speak to you, is this possible? Can I call you?"
"No. Email only."
"Then email it is. How are you? Are you happy? Speak to me. Tell me where you have been, what you have achieved, tell me your life. Is there family?"
"Life is great. There are challenges and fights. Thankfully, I work towards a time when the challenges and fights have all been won. Science is our only hope, and I am a scientist. I have no family."
"You have me. You’re a scientist, of course, what else? Your passion. Your brilliance. I knew you would be. You work away from academia, can I ask why? You had so much promise. I looked for papers published by you but found nothing. This surprised me. What is it you research? I would be interested to know. Your cousin Reese, remember him? I am sure you do. You were on
ce as close as brothers. He is soon to marry and would love you to come to the wedding. Can I tell him you will?"
"My work is secret. I have fulfilled my promise and more! Tell Reese, no. As close as brothers? For a time yes, but then you sent me away. Ask him about Newnham. Were we close? Never. The law is for cowards."
"Why do you still hold what happened against me? On one level, I can just about grasp your feelings, but on another, dare I say it, it all seems so insignificant."
"The butterfly flaps its wings.....My mind is tuned to the future."
"You were sent away to school. You won a scholarship. Wasn’t it for the best, for your intellectual development? You had a mind for science. Is what we did so wrong?"
"No. It was for the best. I left, we parted. Simple. There is no big issue here. I do not need a therapist. You sent me away to school. Initially, I hated it. Fear and abandonment etc caused by you and by father, but then settled by me. I found solace in my work. I grew beyond you. Learnt to live without you. Evolved and adapted. It takes a lonely man to see, or rather feel, truth. Think how the gods walked alone from the desert. Get over me. Move on with your life. I wish you no harm, but then again, I wish to share no more of my life with you."
"I see. Then let me say this, when I read your words they made me feel that you are far from happy, contented or fulfilled. You have no family; this pleases you? Who are you professionally? Wasn’t the world going to know your name indeed to celebrate your achievements, to owe your legacy a debt? You told me your ambitions, and they were far from fantasy. Many expected you to achieve whatever you set your mind to. So why have you walked away from them?"
"I work for the private sector, and this offends you. You were, are, a crusty old socialist albeit one who sent her son to be privately educated. Suggestion, grow up. Engage with the real world. Mother, the idealist, well so am I. However, you won’t access my idealism in a library. I am totally committed. One day soon, you will see. I will visit you and inform you of my work, of all my many achievements. You will see my wealth and the power of my influence. I will tell you everything, which will result in us parting for good. This is now inevitable. I find your emails distracting, a nuisance. Stop them. I will be flying (by private jet) into the country soon enough. A member of my staff will soon be in touch."
After this I find two separate emails from Oakley, without any reply from the woman. The first email reads:
"New plan. Will call you."
The second:
"Educate yourself. Permission will follow."
The words "educate yourself" have a website link attached. Placing the cursor over the link reveals the web address, https://boxxx5481422.com/oakley. This is the same, or similar, to the page on her laptop, that night I first broke in. Did it show his work, his science?
Families, how they fill your life with joy. These emails, this straw to grasp, are these all I have to go on? They contain nothing explicit, but still, I could do worse than follow the stench of power and money, both of which would have been needed to set me up.
The son, you are now a suspect. Can I get to him? No. All I have is an email address. I could test him. Let him think I have evidence that proves his guilt. If he thought I did, then surely he would try and get to me, and in doing so, prove his involvement.
Her son? Come on, never, it’s ridiculous. But it’s all I have. Anyway, who else, what else? What enemies can such a woman have?
I need access to the internet. The laptop has Wi-Fi. The only place I know where I can gain Wi-Fi access is the local library. Do I take the risk? Of course. What other options are there for me to take?
I pack the laptop away and make my move. I step out of the Toilets into a flow of people, visitors all rushing to leave. The pace is good, brisk, but then no one healthy ambles slowly away from a hospital.
I reach the exit, step outside and quickly see two options. A queue of female pensioners waits patiently to board a bus, which will take them into town. I could join them, or I could go alone in one of three black cabs, which are waiting in line for a fare. I choose the cab.
I reach the lead taxi, pull open the back door and climb inside. The driver, a woman, which is bad news as she’ll remember my face more clearly, turns to look at me. Gently rubbing my throat, as if it was sore to the touch, I mouth the words ‘can’t speak’. I then point at the hospital then back at my throat. She gets it straight away.
‘Lost your voice. Oh well,’ she says.
I nod my head.
‘Is it contagious?’
I shake my head.
‘You can’t give it to my husband then?’
I fake a smile.
‘Where you going? Here, write it down’
She passes me a notepad and pen. I write "railway station". Taking back the notepad and pen she smiles.
‘Right, the station it is.’
I recline in the seat and try to look ill, too weak to enter into any form of communication verbal or otherwise. She starts the engine and pulls smoothly away. It should be a ten minute journey maximum. She spies me in the rear view mirror.
‘You look like you could do with some rest.’
I nod. She smiles then looks back at the road. For the rest of the journey, I am left in peace. I try and think of only my immediate objectives, to get to the library and send the email, the contents of which I write in my head. My focus, however, is fallible, and other thoughts push in. I see myself, the image of me labeled and condemned. I think of the driver, her beat of fame, her picture and the headline, "The killer was my fare."
I have never got angry at people who have thought ill of me, never felt disrespected by an insult or a so-called dirty look, and this in Britain where a flash of violence can spring from an eye-line crossed. But by tomorrow, the ill thought that people aim at me will cut deep, and I will feel more than disrespected. I will feel, in part somehow guilty. I can feel it now, guilt stirring anger; a feeling that I am contaminated, that inside me rises unease.
A sharp left hand turn taken too quickly snaps me from thought. We have reached the railway station. As the driver pulls up directly outside the entrance, I hurry to pull a ten pound note from the money belt strapped around my waist. It is money I saved for an unknown time.
‘Right then,’ she says, as she turns to face me. I pass her the money, smile and nod then move to exit.
‘Do you want your change?’
I glance back briefly and shake my head. She smiles.
‘Thanks. You get well soon, hey?’
I open the door and hurry out.
Since she brought me to the entrance, I feel obliged to enter through it. I told her the railway station as a precaution, as I didn’t want to give my true location away. I walk through the sliding doors and up to a timetable pinned to the wall. I stand pretending to read it until the taxi pulls away. Once clear, I hurry outside. The library is only a minute away.
On my approach to the library, I pass through a small courtyard area where cycles can be parked. I scan the half dozen or so cycles present, but all are securely locked.
The library is barely active. More staff than punters. I locate the Wi-Fi area, sit at a table and read a leaflet explaining how to connect. It seems easy but then technology always does. CCTV watches me. Ten minutes later, I have a connection. I open the woman’s email, and the Inbox begins to fill with Spam. With the email from her son opened, I click reply and write:
"You set me up. I know this. The evidence is mine. You killed your mother. I know the truth. I still have the mobile phone, call me."
With the email sent, I try and open the link attached to ‘educate yourself’, but all that opens is a box requesting a password.
The temptation to search the local news, to see how much of a story I am, briefly comes and goes. I must get away, and quickly.
As I hurry into the courtyard area, I see a teenage girl, about seventeen years old, dressed as some sort of part-time goth. She has her back to me and is unlocking a
security chain from a mountain bike. This gives me an option, a choice I can’t refuse. A quick look around confirms our solitude. I rush towards her and strike, a single punch to the back of her head. She flops to the ground, semi-unconscious. I take the bike and cycle away. It makes me think, how far can I go?
Exercise, or rather physical activity, always clears my mind. I cycle hard and think of nothing. I know where to go and how to get there, into the countryside and high into the hills. To a place, that tonight, may offer me sanctuary. To a small, isolated chapel nestled discreetly between two villages, a chapel, I believe, will lay dormant tonight.