At the busy bus station terminal in Kendal, Edith Airey ran from the public phone box she’d been using, head down, scarlet, shaking.
She’d imagined herself back in the role of fearless Edith the Spy. In reality, she’d been sweating and terrified, expecting the squad cars to come screeching up at any moment, trapping her inside the booth, that she’d be dragged away in shackles.
Would they do that to him, if they caught him? Or would they try to claim self-defence and shoot him dead?
She bolted across the road, weaving through traffic waiting at the lights, and fled along Sandes Avenue, a panicked ungainly run, arms pumping, her bag swinging awkwardly against her hip. By the time she reached the bridge over the river, she was gasping. She could hardly see for the tears that wracked her body and wrecked her vision.
Oh, Patrick, cried a silent voice, twisting inside her head. Oh, Patrick…