part0017

F orrester hastened back to his room and changed into his uniform. When it came to putting his boots on, he kept as much of the bandaging around his right foot as he could cram in. The result was uncomfortable and left him unbalanced but had the virtue of padding his blistered skin against the leather. The wound in his leg, meanwhile, was well-wrapped enough not to chafe. Accepting that he was basically in no condition for an escape attempt, his circumstances were as good as they were likely to get.

Then he remembered the pills Abhaya had brought him. He went to the nightstand and pocketed them. It should have been apparent from the first instant, but only as he released the bottle did he understand: Abhaya was the one who had unlocked the doors. She’d decided to help him after all.

He would very much have liked to thank her. That she hadn’t simply left the door to his room unlocked suggested some measure of confidence that her involvement might pass undiscovered. Even so, he could guess at the risk she was taking. Certainly, she’d been frightened earlier, though he’d been too self-absorbed to notice at the time .

Perhaps a day would come when he’d be able to reward her kindness. For now, the best he could do was to make it worthwhile.

One thing first, however. Forrester dragged the suitcase from under his bed and slipped Middleton’s letters inside his jacket. He made a rapid check to confirm there was nothing else that might prove useful, sealed the case again, and returned it to its place. On a whim, he pulled the bedclothes back and smoothed them, so that they appeared undisturbed. Let his vanishment be a mystery to bother Forbes, if only momentarily.

Forrester limped to the bathroom and into the opposite room, closing both intervening doors behind him. He stood at the door to the passage and listened. There wasn’t the faintest sound. He turned the handle, irrationally expecting it to be locked once more. It wasn’t, of course, and this time he drew the door fully open.

The passage was in darkness. He wondered if it made any difference which direction he chose, and was about to start left, the way he was more accustomed to, when a possibility occurred to him. The night he’d been tortured, he had gained the strong impression that the region he’d been in was unoccupied. And when Campion had brought him in from the garden, through what must have been that side of the house, he’d seen no one. Might that whole wing be empty? It was a slender hope, but slender hope was better than none.

Forrester navigated the passage’s contortions without incident. Toward the far end, one door brought a strong sense of recognition, and he shivered with remembered cold and half-subdued fear. Moving on swiftly, he investigated the final door, which led into a stairwell. Listening intently, he heard the noises any old house would make: a subdued chorus of groans and creaks, scurrying vermin in the walls, and wind rattling among chimneypots. No footsteps, though, and no voices .

Forrester began to descend. The stairs were hard work. It was impossible not to put too much weight on one leg or the other. He paused on the first landing and the second, hearkened briefly, and heard nothing, not even the small nocturnal complaints so audible up in the roof.

At the third door, the one that should open onto the ground floor, he hesitated longer. He was glad of the excuse, for his foot was growing distractingly raw, his breathing troubled. Again, there was nothing to be heard. He opened the door and stepped through.

He couldn’t say if the hallway he’d come out in was new to him. A little light issued from a curtained window, but the thick shadows made everything strange. He hobbled to the end and back, trying to recall if he and Campion had passed this way on the day of the original blackout. Yes, that picture was familiar: a man and woman on horseback, now just smudges against a turbulent sky. They had left through that door and entered through—yes—this one.

Sure enough, the corridor struck a definite chord in his memory. Forrester strived to recollect the route Campion had taken that day. Equating night-shaded passages with their diurnal equivalents was no easy matter, and Forrester wasn’t at all certain he had it right, that each turn wasn’t leading him deeper into the house—until he distinguished the door to the garage ahead of him.

Instantly his elation transformed into anxiety. Mightn’t the exit be locked? And it was, but solely by a thick metal bolt on the inside. Forrester grasped the heavy iron ring and shoved the door open, wincing at the protest of warped timbers. Nevertheless, he pulled the door shut behind him, lest it should slam in the wind he could feel upon his face. That breeze was drawing a muted note from every part of the garden, grass and shrubbery and trees all combining in a fluctuating shush , shush , as if the night itself were urging quiet .

It was a warning he’d already taken to heart. Nor would quiet alone be enough. Once he was out of the garage, one bad sleeper staring from a window would suffice to destroy his hopes. As he crept between their flanks, Forrester thought fleetingly of commandeering one of the parked vehicles. But even if he could get out that way, he’d never been much of a driver, and would be infinitely worse with foot bandaged and leg perforated.

He carried on through the painted double doors, which had been wedged open. Outside, he ignored the gravel path that circumnavigated the house in favour of the lawn, where his clumsy steps were only another low hiss. He hurried for the outer wall, beneath which the shadows lay most thickly.

Near the wall, a portion of garden had been given over to a mixed orchard of gnarled apple, pear, and cherry trees. There, he allowed himself to rest, back pressed to one wide trunk, until the thundering vibration in his chest steadied. After some consideration, he swallowed two of the tablets Abhaya had left him, though hesitantly. If she’d been wrong about their side-effects, he’d add humiliation to his woes when a gardener found him dozing in the morning.

Yet within a few minutes, the ache in his foot and leg were abating, and Forrester was no less awake. More so, in fact, since nerves and a sort of rising giddiness were combining to stir his perception, making the night a living presence. He was free! And it was fine beyond words to sit in that arboreal shade, legs outstretched, listening to the sough of the wind and sensing open space around him.

However, the tablets were doing their work. He would have to press on. Forrester realised then that one more thing had been holding him up: the significant detail that he had no plan. Would the gates be guarded, as they’d been during the day? He had no way to tell, and it would be all too easy to stumble upon a still and silent figure. His mind strayed to night patrols in France, and terror so huge as to become almost calming. In No Man’s Land, death was everywhere, as close as your own breath.

Here, as long as he kept to cover, he ought to be comparatively safe. He had trouble imagining they’d have guards patrolling the inner grounds. He couldn’t rely on the gates, though. He would have to find an alternative.

Forrester tilted his head to regard the wall. It was high enough that even in the peak of his fitness he couldn’t have climbed over. Perhaps with the aid of a tree, and several grew adjacent to it—but he was in no shape for acrobatics either.

His instinct was to stay and think the problem through. He pushed that urge aside. The night hours were a finite, diminishing resource. Instead, Forrester compelled himself to abandon the concealment of the orchard and headed toward the rear of the house. Now that he was away from there, he felt a bubbling unease, as if the compulsive calm he’d known since he’d arrived at Sherston was finally beginning to fade. Forrester clung to its remnants as best he could, for panic would be crippling. If there was an opportunity to be had, he must be ready to seize it.

Despite his determination, when his chance came, he still nearly missed it. Hidden in the inky obscurity of a copse of firs was a squarish structure, solidly black amid the surrounding charcoal. When he drew close, he recognized a small groundsman’s shed, and examining the door, Forrester found it unlocked.

Inside were spades and forks, sacks of compost, clay pots, and other less identifiable stuff of the gardener’s trade. But what lured him was a short pair of stepladders such as a decorator might use, propped against the far corner. Though probably intended for pruning and fruit-picking, they would serve his purpose equally as well.

He thought of taking something as a weapon too. There was no shortage of sharp objects stashed in the shed’s recesses. Yet, just as when he’d considered restraining Abhaya, he couldn’t make himself take the prospect of violence seriously. Rather than try to force the idea, he settled for manoeuvring the ladders out with the utmost care. He knew that the wind’s thin wail might not mask any noise he inadvertently made; each tiny scrape seemed like a thunderclap.

Choosing a portion of wall amply hidden by trees, Forrester set the ladders against the brickwork. The top step reached to about two thirds of the wall’s height. It would have to do. Climbing, he felt horribly exposed. The light from the sliver of moon seemed bright as day. He used the wall’s rough surface for balance, clambering until both feet were at the pinnacle of the ladders, which shivered alarmingly beneath him.

He could see over, but beyond lay only blackness. With a colossal effort, Forrester hoisted himself up, so that his legs hung to either side of the summit. If anyone was around, they were bound to spot him, and knowing he couldn’t perceive them in turn worsened his feeling of vulnerability. Yet he couldn’t possibly drop the distance on the far side. He could make out nothing of what lay below, and even if the ground was regular, the shock on his leg might be the end of him. Nor would it be wise to leave the ladders where anyone could spy them come the dawn.

Forrester shuffled about and hunched forward. With his right arm pinning him in place and his left outstretched, he could touch the apex of the stepladders. Reaching farther, he succeeded in hooking his fingers under the top step, and, with a wrench that threatened to pop his shoulder from its socket, to draw them up. The exertion well-nigh made him cry out, and the ladders clacked frantically upon the brick. He gritted his teeth, gripped harder, and carried on. He was making a terrible racket; they might have heard him even inside the house. But there was no use in stopping now.

With a final strain, Forrester dragged the ladders onto the top of the wall and balanced them there, certain that somebody must have been alerted by their clattering. He had no hope of setting up the ladders properly on the far side, so he settled for swinging them down, letting go when he was confident the feet had wedged. Then he lowered himself after.

The instant the sole of his boot met wood, the entire apparatus shifted. Nonetheless, when Forrester tentatively pushed against the ladders, they stayed where they were. Taking most of his weight on his arms, he descended, until just his fingertips secured him. He let go and took the remaining steps in a series of clumsy hops, which almost cost him his balance when he at last felt earth beneath him.

Forrester fell back, panting. But he soon got up again. Whatever he was sitting on was prickly, like knots of wire. It was heather, he realised; the stuff was all around, growing right up to the brick. As soon as he had a portion of his breath, he laid the ladders flat in its thick tangles. Someone would have to pass exceedingly close before they saw them there.

The same did not go for Forrester himself. Even if no one had heard the din he’d made, he would stand out plainly against the wall. Crouching, he made a concerted survey of his surroundings.

Interpreting the lie of the land by moonlight was no easy task. Insomuch as he could judge, Sherston sat on a low plateau, the edges of which were exposed in pale slabs and stubborn prominences. Past that escarpment, the terrain sloped down more gently, with no interruption that he could see. If there was other high ground about, it was hidden upon the lightless horizon. And everywhere the heather had grown, only giving way for the occasional stunted tree or a clump of gorse, its yellow flowers ashen beneath the night .

He took a further moment to notice that, far off in the dark, glimmers were moving, pinholes of brilliance piercing the blackness. He decided they must mean men patrolling with electric torches: he counted three, spread regularly. How good of them to draw attention to themselves , Forrester thought, and for a second he was back in the war, wondering how the enemy’s snipers could let such carelessness pass unpunished.

Reality reasserted itself. Here, where killing was no everyday business, neither was a naked light a death sentence. Even so, he couldn’t assume that there weren’t other observers who chose not to betray their positions, or that anyone would hesitate to fire upon him. Indeed, why should there be patrols out at all? Surely this couldn’t be for his benefit.

At any rate, it would be madness to try and escape that way. He wouldn’t last long on his own, not without food or water. There had to be somewhere nearby that he could seek help. Forrester’s memories of the concluding leg of the journey to Sherston were hazy, but he remembered noises of what might have been a town or village. It made sense to take the road out from the front gates, though he’d risk exposing himself. Anything seemed a better option than pressing on across open moorland.

Forrester followed the wall around, using its uneven surface as support. He was tiring again, and the tablets Abhaya had left him could no longer mask the ache in his foot and leg. Nor was the broken ground conducive to his efforts, and often he had to change course to avoid a gully or a cluster of gorse. By the time he came close to where he presumed the front gates to be, Forrester was limping, his calves were scratched despite his thick trousers, and he felt that half the night must have elapsed.

He got quite near to the gates before he saw the guard. By pure luck, the man happened to be smoking, undoubtedly against orders. Perhaps he did not consider a country house full of war-wearied officers a compelling hazard. Perhaps he thought the probability of an escapee very slim.

From where he knelt, skirting the wall, Forrester had a clear view of the guard. He could make out, too, how the road stretched downhill, until a twist in its course stole it from sight. The verges were high and overgrown, and on the nearer side, a low bank declined to a drainage ditch. It wasn’t much, but Forrester had confidence that the dike would hide him.

The guard was midway through his cigarette. Forrester could smell the bitter odour of tobacco smoke on the breeze. He heard distinctly when the man cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. Sound travelled easily here, where they were out of the worst of the wind. What hope did he have of reaching the ditch without giving himself away? Then again, he had no choice. There was no other cover. He could just see the cigarette’s tip, a bead of amber. At any instant, the guard would finish it, stub it under his heel, and maybe resolve to take his duties more seriously.

Forrester began to walk. He reckoned the interval as twenty feet. He could be over in a matter of seconds; yet they seemed enervated and unwilling to pass. His eyes were on the guard. He knew that, as soon as time became unstuck, the man was sure to turn his way. Forrester’s steps through the heather were like the swish of a broom, impossible not to detect. He was shocked to realise he’d crossed a third of the gap. Perhaps fortune would favour him—but then the guard coughed decisively and flicked the butt of his cigarette into the night.

It was all up. Only, he mustn’t stop. He wouldn’t be discovered standing still, like a cornered deer. He was past the halfway point, and at least he had tried, damn it, at least they couldn’t call him a coward. He would put his hands up, as he’d seen others do at the last. He’d say nothing, for there was nothing to be said.

The guard started walking. Not toward Forrester; he was going to his cigarette butt, where it smouldered on the verge. Forrester heard a grunt of irritation, and then the grinding of a heel. The ditch was a dozen steps away. He mustn’t rush, he mustn’t—but he did. In a moment he was sliding down grass slick with mud, scrunching on his knees in filthy water, holding his breath.

More footsteps. This time, they were coming toward him, not hurrying. They stopped.

The guard had resumed his post.

Lightheaded with tension and adrenalin, Forrester began to crawl. He stayed out of the water as well as he was able, but the recent rains had inundated the channel. He didn’t so much fear the cold, though the water was cold indeed, but the noise he’d make. There could only be a few feet between him and the guard. Even if the man weren’t conscientious, one slip, one splash, would bring him investigating.

After a minute, Forrester ventured to pick up his pace. He couldn’t guess how far he might have travelled. Eventually, the depression grew shallower, the water was replaced with sodden mud, and he decided the travail of crawling wasn’t worth the doubtful concealment he was afforded. Forrester peeked to make certain he couldn’t be seen from the gates—they were completely out of view—and scrambled up the low bank. He shook his legs and made a half-hearted attempt to brush some of the filth from his trousers. Then he drew his jacket more tightly around his shoulders and set off down the road.

There was still a danger of patrols. However, here the road ran below the level of the moorland, so he was unlikely to be noticed at a distance. If a motor vehicle should come along, he’d have to lie flat in the remains of the ditch, but he would hear its engine well in advance.

For the first time, the possibility of freedom seemed real. He was out of Sherston, beyond its immediate grasp. Yet Forrester could not feel very jubilant. The pre-dawn chill was bitter and draining, and the discomfort of his foot was forcing him to an increasingly uncomfortable limp. He’d have given anything for his despised crutches, or else a fallen branch to serve as a walking stick, but the only trees were a few skinny, wind-warped birches, which clung jealously to their boughs. Nor was his escape exactly accomplished. Sunrise couldn’t be far off, and if the alarm hadn’t already been raised by the racket he’d made crossing the wall, he dared not assume that Abhaya would implicate herself by covering for his absence.

After a while, other forebodings intruded. Away from Sherston, the stubborn complacency he’d known there had disappeared entirely, and deprived of its influence, his nerves were worse than ever they’d been. He had no idea where he was; the landscape suggested northern England or conceivably Scotland, but he couldn’t say more than that. Whatever the case, he had no reason besides the addled memories of his arrival to think that any habitation lay within reach. It might be miles, or tens of miles, to the next dwelling, and even the steady hobble he’d been managing was becoming a strain. Should he by chance find someone, he had no cause to expect aid. He was in uniform, mired in filth, and not much imagination would be needed to identify him as a runaway from Sherston, or worse, as a deserter.

Under the moonlight, he could see that the house sat on the peak of a hillside which formed one flank of a deep valley. In the depths, he discerned the silvery glints of a river running and occasional lights of buildings hovering like fireflies. But all of that was far away. It would take him half a night or more to attain those distant gleams, and he might have less than an hour before dawn.

What choices did that leave? He could lie low through the day. There were patches of fern that would hide him, and further outcroppings of rock. Maybe he’d come upon a cave to shelter in. Yet every passing hour made his position more tenuous. If Forbes was determined to have him recovered, he’d soon have men watching the highways and railway stations. Forrester hadn’t the strength to resist a sustained manhunt. He couldn’t spend days on the run. Even now he was at his limits. His thigh was stiffening with cold and overuse, his foot was a wedge of solid pain, and a mushy sensation in that boot led him to believe that he was treading with each step in his own blood. If he hid, he might be able to patch himself up temporarily, but whether, without sustenance, he’d have the stamina for another night of exertion was another question.

Then, as the decision was beginning to seem irreconcilable, it was made for him. Exiting a curve between high banks, Forrester was greeted by a gated track leading away on his right, and beyond, the silhouettes of what he took to be a farm. He would seek rest, since his body would accept nothing else. Perhaps he would find food or at least water. Perhaps he might approach the farmer for help.

Drawing closer, Forrester saw that there were three buildings: one, square and steep-roofed, that must be the farmhouse, a second large enough that it could only be a barn, and a small outhouse some way from both. There were no lights on in the farmhouse. He wouldn’t arouse much goodwill by waking those inside; better to clean himself up and concoct a story that wouldn’t raise suspicions. So Forrester headed instead toward the barn.

The structure was ramshackle and weather-beaten, its doors partly open to the elements. Within, most of the space had been given over to baled hay, stacked in places almost to the rafters. But inside the door and to the left, tools rested on a rack, and draping from a hook beside them, Forrester spotted an item that made his heart quicken: a long jacket of heavy cloth. He took the jacket, wrapped it about himself, lurched to a low ridge in the mountain of hay, and dropped down there.

The jacket was musty with some animal odour, likely sheep, but in that moment, Forrester wouldn’t have traded it for the finest trench coat. He lay back. Despite the moonlight slanting between the open doors, it was significantly darker inside the barn than out. The smell of hay was stronger even than the redolence of the coat. It reminded Forrester of autumn days as a child, of harvest season.