Quint stepped back, admired his handiwork. The tent looked sturdy. As deeply pegged as he could manage, it wouldn’t take off at the first gust of wind. It might even keep out some of the cold, and the inevitable rain. It was the first time he had pitched a tent for years and he was rather proud of himself.
Slaughter Tor was near the south east of Blackmoor, all open land, rough rocky outcrops and at least one standing stone. Quint was always surprised when he encountered something like that. A part of the past intruding into the modern world, reminding people that for all their wifi, electricity and vehicles their lives were brief. But stone, that would endure. Or maybe it was just him. He didn’t get out into the country much.
Not that there was much in the way of wifi or electricity where he was. Quint felt more alone than he had done in ages. He knew people came to the country for a break, for contemplation. But he couldn’t have cared less. This wasn’t a holiday, it was work. And until it was completed that was all he would focus on.
He had read up on Blackmoor in advance. On where and when he could camp and park. Campsites were to be avoided. The sight of a single black man in a tent was liable to arouse suspicion, if not at the time then afterwards. It was the way of remote places, of the kind of people they attracted. Hikers and campers liked camaraderie. Drinks and shared dinners, swapping stories. And they would overcompensate because of the colour of his skin against theirs, try to be extra chummy, show they weren’t racist by inviting him to join. They wouldn’t keep in touch, though. Holidays were one thing, the rest of their lives quite another. He had experienced it before, the casual racism of the middle classes.
So he kept himself to himself. It suited his temperament, suited his needs. Suited the work. He wouldn’t crop up in the memories of other campers. He had enough provisions for a few days. He had pitched his tent well away from the roads, out of most people’s sight. He could be alone and wait.
Quint walked up to the brow of the hill he was camped under, put his binoculars to his eyes, looked around. Smiled.
There it was. In the distance, but not too far away.
The prison.