2

Ray could see it all—the barmaid must have blamed him!

It was too much to cope with. Panicking, he wasted no time in reading the article. Although a sensible part of his brain suggested calling the police to explain what had really happened, he knew he’d have to reveal what he’d really been doing there. How would they react? They’d certainly want to stop him trying again. And what if they locked him up for his own protection? Worse, what if they didn’t believe him?

He’d become accustomed to walking away from his troubles and flight was all he could think of. Where he’d flee to and what might happen, he’d worry about later. Assuming Alex would already have called the police, he needed to get away as fast as possible. Ray pounded upstairs, put on clean clothes and chucked a change of clothing and some other essentials into his backpack. Seeing it brought back memories of the safari with Flit in Tanzania, a happy time despite multiple attacks from biting bugs and stinging things.

Ray rubbed a tear from his cheek, slung the pack over his shoulder and ran downstairs, grabbing his trusty old parka from the hook by the front door and, for once, wishing he still had his car. His hand was already on the latch when he thought to check his wallet. It was nearly empty and, although he still had credit cards, he’d heard the police could track their use.

He felt an urge to lie low for a few days. For that he needed cash—without it he’d not get far. Stumped for a moment or two, he remembered Flit concealing some money in a tin at the back of the kitchen cupboard ‘in case of emergency’. He’d scoffed at the time and now wished he hadn’t. After running into the kitchen, he rummaged through the cupboard, cursing his failure to pay attention when she’d told him where she’d hidden it. A distant siren made his heart surge, but he forced himself to keep calm and methodical, checking each tin until he found the right one—deceivingly labelled as pitted black olives.

The siren sounded louder.

Time to go.

He shoved the tin into his pack and sneaked out the back door, amazed to see hints of evening already greying the daylight—he must have slept at the table for hours which explained why his belly was rumbling. The clouds looked heavy and foreboding as he reached the stone wall at the end of the garden. He climbed over and set off along the side of the little River Soren. There was no footpath and he made slow progress through briars and brambles that stabbed and slashed at exposed skin. At last, he reached a rough trail trodden out by some wild animal and although it ran perilously close to the river in places and was slick with mud that grew increasingly slippery as rain started, it allowed him to keep up a good pace as the light faded. When the bank collapsed, he went in up to his knees. He dragged himself out and squelched along the trail, muttering.

Twilight arrived and a distant peacock cried out, making him jump and bang his head on a low branch. He wished he’d thought to bring a torch, though he reflected it would have cut through the gloom like a beacon, pinpointing his position to the police—assuming they were coming for him, because although he’d now heard several sirens round the end of the lane, they no longer sounded as if they were getting any closer. A sort of hopeful paranoia battled with common sense, suggesting that if the police believed him to be the bridge attacker, they might consider him dangerous and desperate. Perhaps even now they were preparing an armed response. Though he didn’t entirely believe it, he hoped so—a well-aimed bullet would be quick.The sirens fell silent and although there was still no sign of anyone hunting for him, he remained cautious. Sometimes, he felt as if someone was following, but heard or saw no one.

After about fifteen minutes, during which he’d slipped and stumbled countless times, his path took him towards a stile by the lane where flashing blue lights cut through the gloom. Creeping towards it, he peeped over the top and saw a car had crashed—it looked like the one he’d had to dodge on his way home. It now lay on its side in a ditch, with two police cars, a fire engine and an ambulance in attendance. Since all the fuss was nothing to do with him this time, his confidence returned and he climbed over the stile and marched up the lane away from his home, hoping his wet legs, mud-caked shoes and backpack would make him appear a harmless and enthusiastic rambler. It seemed to work. At any rate, no one stopped him or appeared to notice him. He turned onto the main road and sauntered past the local boozer, the Watermill Inn, which was already lit up for the night and had several cars parked outside. The inn’s food and beer had a reputation that drew connoisseurs from many miles away. Ray and Flit had once been regulars, though he couldn’t remember the last time he’d paid a visit. Seeing a large, rough-looking bloke leaving with another man, he wondered if standards had slipped.

Putting such trivialities from his mind, he headed up the hill away from the village centre. When he heard a car’s engine approaching from the direction of his cottage, Ray dodged into the bus shelter and peeped out. Another police car approached and stopped by the accident. An officer got out, and spoke with the other cops who pointed up the hill.

It was then a bus turned up. Ray made a quick decision and stepped aboard—it was hardly likely anyone who knew him would be on a bus.

‘Where to?’ asked the driver.

‘Er… where are you going?’

‘Glevchester Central via Sorenchester and villages on the way.’

‘Great. I hoped it was because that’s where I’m heading… Glevchester that is.’

‘Single or return?’

‘Single please.’

‘That’ll be six pounds and sixty pence.’

Ignoring an impulse to tap his credit card on the reader, Ray fished out the olive tin from his backpack and paid with a ten-pound note. The driver grunted, poked a few buttons, and handed him a ticket and a handful of loose change, most of it small and brown, rattled into the pan.

‘Sorry for all the shrapnel, mate,’ said the driver. ‘That’s just the way it comes out.’

Ray scooped up the coins and dropped them into his trouser pockets, feeling the weight and wondering if it might have tipped the balance when he’d been in the river.

The bus set off and, being less than half full, Ray could take his pick of seats. He chose one at the back by the window from where he could keep a wary eye out for pursuing police cars. His squelchy feet felt as if encased in ice and he was shivering despite the warmth from a heater in front. He began to relax a little. He counted the roll of money in his tin—one thousand pounds, more than enough for his present needs. The rain came down heavier, sounding like someone throwing handfuls of gravel at the windows, and a thuggish wind buffeted them.

Twenty minutes later, with no sign of police pursuit, they reached the small Cotswold market town of Sorenchester and stopped by the stately old church. A handful of passengers got off and a few new ones dripped aboard. Ray gazed out at the wet street. Perhaps he’d look for a hotel in Glevchester and stay there until he’d recovered his nerve and was again ready to look death in the face. Ray’s own face reflected in the window—it really did look like the artist’s impression in the paper. If he didn’t wish to explain himself—and he didn’t—he’d have to do something. On impulse, he leapt to his feet, swung the backpack over his shoulder, and dashed for the door, squeezing out as it began to close.

‘Oi! This isn’t your stop,’ the bus driver yelled.

Ray mumbled some sort of apology and stumbled as he struck the pavement. He would have stretched his length in a puddle had he not cannoned into a huge bloated, ugly bloke wearing a stained vest and filthy trousers who was waiting to cross the road.

‘Watch it, mate!’ the ugly man growled, giving him an angry glare.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ray, afraid he was going to get punched. ‘I lost my footing.’

‘Well, don’t do it again.’ The man took a deep breath, shook his head and stalked away in the direction of Vermin Street, which was otherwise deserted beneath the glow of street lights.

Ray set off down The Shambles, its smart rows of shops all closed for the night, its pubs and restaurants shining. Huddling into his parka, he headed for the Queen’s Arms, a recently tarted-up hotel in the centre of town, and took refuge inside. The scent of freshly cooked food moistened his mouth and he longed to order a meal, but the bar was busy with tourists and recently released office workers—any one of them might recognise him from the paper.

He sneaked past a tired-looking businessman checking in at reception and entered the warmth of the gents’ toilets, which reeked of soap and hygiene. After checking he was alone, he propped his backpack against a wall, pulled out his washbag and rummaged in it for nail scissors, razor and shaving foam. He set to work. Within a few minutes, and after a great deal of wincing as he shaved over the bruises and grazes on his face, he achieved his end. He dried up with paper towels and checked his image in the mirror, repulsed, though satisfied, by the shaven-headed thug staring back at him. Four months’ growth of hair on scalp and face littered the sink. He gathered it up, determined to leave no evidence, and flushed it down the toilet. Then he took off his shoes and socks, rinsed them, shut himself into a cubicle and changed into clean, dry trousers.

By the time he left the Queen’s Arms, his confidence was high—no one would recognise him now.

Back in the street, the rain was sharp enough to sting, while the wind tested every entry point, making him glad of the sturdy zips on his parka. Even so, goose pimples prickled his skin and he decided that death by exposure would take too long and be far too unpleasant. Furthermore, he was light-headed with hunger and in need of a drink. He sheltered in a posh shoe shop’s doorway and looked up and down the road, deep in thought. Twelve years earlier, before Flit, the Packhorse on Vermin Street had served food and with any luck it still did. He had fond memories of the place from the time he’d lived in a small, draughty flat above an electrical shop about two minutes’ walk away. In those days he’d often appreciated the pub’s warmth, its meals and its company, if not its cleanliness. He doubted any of the regulars would still be around—most of them had been pensioners or lonely young people fresh to town and starting new jobs. Besides, he’d lost a lot of weight since then and had got his wonky front teeth fixed. Also, unless the pub had changed, it had the advantages of not being brightly lit and of being a little out of the way.

He entered the Packhorse, reassured that the old place appeared not to have been decorated since his day. The carpet was still faded and threadbare, the wallpaper stained and torn, just as he remembered, only more so. A scruffy middle-aged couple reading tabloid newspapers glanced up and returned to their studies. The air stank of over-boiled cabbage, stale beer and flatulence. Ray was inclined to blame an old man crouched over a half of Guinness for the latter until an ancient and obese Labrador waddled from a corner and greeted him with a tail wag and a malodorous fart. No one else appeared to notice, but Ray rushed to the bar to avoid the toxic fumes.

A young barman looked up from a car magazine. ‘Evening, guv. What can I get you?’

‘A pint of Barker’s Best Bitter, please,’ said Ray, pointing at the hand pump.

‘Barker’s is off.’

‘I’ll have a pint of Guinness then.’

‘That’s off, too. Charlie finished it.’ The barman nodded towards the old man, who clutched his glass as if it might be snatched away.

‘Okay,’ said Ray, ‘tell me what you do have.’

‘Lager or bottled beers. Our next delivery is tomorrow.’

‘Right…’ Ray studied the list on the wall. ‘I’ll have a bottle of brown ale, please.’

‘Barkers or Trotman’s?’

‘Either.’

‘Right you are.’ The barman squatted by the chiller cabinet. ‘Sorry, guv, there’s none left. I can get one from the back, but it won’t have been cooled. Would that be alright?’

‘Yeah… okay.’

The barman disappeared behind a greasy door, leaving Ray to contemplate the view and take in the number of empty, or near-empty, spirit and wine bottles on the shelves. The man was gone for what seemed like an age and Ray was beginning to get twitchy, fearing he’d been recognised, when a head poked around the door. ‘Sorry, guv, we’re right out of brown ale… and just about everything else except champagne.’

‘Just give me a pint of anything you’ve got that tastes something like beer.’

‘Right you are.’ The barman poured some yellow fizz into a glass and placed it in front of Ray with the satisfied smile of a man who’d done a good job. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, I’d like something to eat please.’

‘Sorry, guv. I’m afraid last food orders are at eight o’clock.’

Ray glanced at his watch. ‘It’s one minute to.’

‘Yeah, but it’d be past eight by the time I get the order to the chef. If you’d only ordered when you came in…’

Ray struggled to keep the lid on his temper. ‘Come off it. If you hadn’t given me the run about, I’d have been on time, wouldn’t I?’

‘Yeah, I suppose, but my life wouldn’t be worth living if I started giving the chef orders after eight… I only work here you know.’

‘This is ridiculous.’

‘We’ve got peanuts or crisps, and there might be a bag of pork scratchings left—unless Charlie’s had ’em.’

‘Forget it.’ Ray turned around and stomped towards the door, muttering.

‘Oi! You haven’t paid for your drink.’

Ray stalked out. The rain had almost ceased and a damp wind blew tattered clouds across the gibbous moon. Now desperate for sustenance, he set off on a quest. Although drawn to the Bear with a Sore Head, which did excellent meals, he ruled it out on the grounds that, being close to the police station, it was popular with cops who fancied a beer after work. A whiff of warm bread and oregano reached his nostrils and made up his mind.

He hurried through a passageway towards Subvert, a cafe specialising in American-style sub sandwiches. It was well-lit and surprisingly busy, but Ray was confident he was unrecognisable. After a brief contemplation of the menu on the door, he went inside and ordered a Spicy Italian.

A pretty girl in a dark blue uniform at the counter, looked him up and down, took a deep breath and asked, ‘Dooyawannitwivotpippersorcrispivejis?’

‘What?’ Ray recognised a question, but the speed of her words and strange accent baffled him.

‘Dooyawannitwivotpippersorcrispivejis?’ the girl repeated, a little louder, giving him a look suggesting she was used to dealing with dimwits.

Ray felt as baffled as the time when he and Flit had tried to order train tickets in Bangkok. ‘I’m very sorry, miss, but I have absolutely no idea what you said.’

‘She asked if you wanted your sandwich with hot peppers or crisp veggies,’ said a scruffy little man with a hoarse voice, who’d followed him in.

‘Thanks.’ Ray turned to the girl. ‘I’ll have the hot peppers, please.’

‘Dooyawannadrinkwivit?’

‘Do you want a drink with it,’ the little man translated.

‘Thanks, but I got that. Yes please, miss, I would like one.’

‘Wadayoowan?’

‘Coffee, please… Big as you got… Black.’

‘Yoogorrit,’ said the girl.

‘Well done, mate,’ said the little man, winking as Ray paid.

The girl constructed Ray’s sandwich with well-practised efficiency, poured coffee into a capacious paper cup, and handed him the meal. A corner table became vacant, so he took occupancy of a hard chair, stretched out his legs and ate. His sandwich was tasty though the bitter coffee was barely palatable until he’d swamped it with sugar. He followed up with a giant choc-chip cookie and another coffee.

In the warmth and with a full belly, it was not surprising he dozed off.

A hand on his shoulder woke him.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked the girl who was standing over him.

‘We’reclosing… infifeminitz.’

‘What, already?’ But the other customers had gone and the staff were clearing up.

She glanced at the wall clock. ‘It’snearlytenaklok.’

Ray realised how pretty she looked, with her long, dark hair tied up under a white cap, her big brown eyes and sensuously full lips against lightly tanned skin. He wondered where she came from and then hated himself for having noticed her at all. It was disloyal to Flit and it was time to go. Though he felt lethargic and heavy limbed, he got up, wishing he was home and could just crawl into bed—it held so much more appeal now he’d denied himself its comforts.

Shaking his head and suppressing yawns, he opened the door, said goodnight and stepped out, where the cold air slapped his face and brought him back to life. He walked around the town, reviewing ways to end his life and discarding them as too uncertain, too messy, or too painful. Then came a moment of inspiration—last night on the bridge he’d acted almost as if he were brave and with a little more luck he would have perished at the hands of the big blond thug. That was the answer—he would become a hero, a knight errant, helping underdogs and rescuing damsels in distress. A hero who didn’t know much about fighting would probably not last long, but that was surely an advantage. Although violence wasn’t his bag, he had nothing of value to lose and could persuade himself that any pain would be temporary, before death took it away forever.

Such thoughts occupied him as he wandered around the middle of town, making several circuits, until the streets were deserted and the three-quarter moon shone bright, casting weird shadows. The church clock showed the time as nearly one o’clock and all was silent—a small, quiet Cotswold town was probably not the ideal location for a hero with a death wish.

All the coffee had worked through to his bladder and nature called. He ducked down an alley by the church which, despite an old-fashioned street light halfway along, was filled with deep shadows. He undid his flies and prepared to piss in a corner.

‘No, mate, please!’ said a hoarse voice.

Ray jumped back and turned around, buttoning back up, ashamed and embarrassed. ‘Sorry, didn’t see you.’

He hurried away into the fields at the back of the church and, feeling like a dog, used a convenient tree as a target. Relieved at last, he gazed at the lake glinting beneath the moon. The peaceful scene reminded him of his honeymoon and looking out over Horseshoe Bay in the little beach bar that had turned out to be a gourmet’s delight, with affordable prices and great wine. He sighed. Happy times.

Someone cried out. It was a cry of fear.