Tom Killgannon was lost.
He had roared off on the stolen motorbike, all attempts at location and direction gone in the adrenaline rush of the attack. He didn’t know which way he was heading, he only knew that he wanted to put as much distance between himself and the bus, the rest of the hunting police force, and most importantly, the prison as he could. So he kept going in what he hoped was a straight line, off the roads, bumping over stone, splashing through mud, gorse and bramble tearing the denim of his jeans, catching his legs at high speed. He didn’t stop. Just kept riding on into darkness.
As he rode he thought. Tried to order what had happened, what was happening. Formulate the best way to get out of all this. The most obvious thing to do would be to head home. That was also the most obvious thing from any pursuer’s point of view. So it was the last place he could go.
Also, he had to try and think who was after him. Blake. That, he believed, was a given. And whoever owned the motorbike he had taken. Who else? Foley? That didn’t make any sense. He had agreed to a meeting in prison. And when Tom’s job was finished he would honour that. He couldn’t think of anyone else. Not with an immediate grudge against him.
He went through his options. Find a nearby town or village, stay there the night. Too risky. That would be the second place they would look, plus he didn’t have any money to pay for a room. And he wasn’t going to steal some. He almost smiled at the next thought. Break in somewhere that looked deserted, keep his head down, stay there. Just like Lila had thought she was doing, all those months ago. If he did that, he hoped she would, at some point, appreciate the irony. No. That wasn’t a good enough option either.
So, by process of elimination, he knew what he had to do. Find somewhere on the moor, bed down there as best he could, find out where he was in the morning, plan from there.
That was what he would have to do.
He felt the ground rising, knowing that the higher he climbed the more he could see of the surrounding area, the sooner he would know that someone had reached him. But not yet. He was quite alone.
The bike’s beams alighted on a tall, rocky outcrop before him, the kind, he thought, that sheep would shelter under during winter storms. That would have to do. He pulled the bike up alongside it, cut the engine. Wheeled it under the rock. Looked to see where he was.
On a distant horizon he could see lights. He didn’t know if that was the prison, a town, a village or even a city. Could be a band of villagers with flaming pitchforks, even, searching for him. He watched. The lights were unmoving. A settlement of some kind. Far enough away not to be a problem.
The moor itself was even bleaker in darkness. He had mistrusted it earlier in what daylight there was, now it seemed positively treacherous. Like there was something with him in the darkness, just waiting for him to make a mistake, to claim him for its own.
He tried to put thoughts like that from his mind. Walked about, swung his arms against his body. Tried to revel in his sudden freedom. All he could think was this: he was cold. Very cold. The temperature had dropped significantly since he had first got on the bike and it had been cold before that. He looked round for twigs, branches, anything he could use to make a fire. No. He couldn’t do that. Might attract attention. He would just have to huddle up in his parka, get as near to the bike’s engine as possible until it cooled, try to get some sleep if he could. Hope that hypothermia didn’t set in by morning.
The wind blew sharply in his face. And with it something else. The near ice touch of rain.
With that, the storm clouds above made good on their day long threat. The rain came lashing down.
Tom got as far under the lip of rock as he could. Ready to sit out the night and everything in it.