Authors: Eve Isherwood
T
HE LIGHT WAS CHANGING
. The fog had lifted. Winter lent the landscape an exhausted expression. Shapeless shadows gave way to jagged contours, purple-tipped peaks and snow-covered castellated tors. Everywhere revealed evidence of human activity: in the prehistoric remains, the lines of parallel terraces, the relics of open cast tin workings. Yet there was nobody and nothing to see or feel other than a brooding, primeval presence. She wondered how far it was to the prison at Princetown, whether this explained her feeling of foreboding. Somewhere, further off, the barrenness was broken by dark, sinister-looking masses, bogs or forest, she thought, but couldn't tell.
They were by the river. It was wide and in full spate. Brown and swollen with winter rain, it flowed at a relentless pace, gobbling up everything in its path, including boulders and bits of wood, and the bloated bodies of unfortunate sheep. Up ahead, it seethed and swirled, dropping away into a foamy spume of white water. The sound of it was like cymbals clashing in their ears.
Marshy ground, studded with bright green sphagnum moss, made walking difficult and hazardous. To slip would be disaster. Helen imagined the bracing cold, the rush into darkness, the slime. She remembered the canal.
Exhaustion was taking its toll. She'd never felt so cold or so lifeless. Every movement took effort. The throb and burn of injury had diminished, the pain in her hand strangely cooled. Either it indicated something serious, she thought, or her body's natural defences had fully engaged. It didn't matter; her concern was for the girl, only the girl. The girl was her light, her focus, the reason.
However far they walked, whatever ground they covered, yet more stretched out ahead of them in endless purgatory. Helen found herself glancing ever more anxiously behind her, scanning their retreat, watching for Ryan. All she saw were the moors closing in behind them.
She should have noticed, Helen cursed, should have stayed more alert. She had no idea for how long Ayshea had been suffering. The girl's head was lowered. Her gait was stumbling. She shivered uncontrollably. There was no movement in her arms.
Helen caught hold of her. “Look at me,” she said in alarm, waving a finger in front of the girl's glassy eyes. Ayshea swayed. Helen tapped the girl's frozen cheeks, pinched them. Ayshea's eyes flickered. She gave a slow wan smile.
“Here,” Helen said, gripping hold of the girl with her good hand, supporting her. She looked around for a suitable place to rest, her eyes skimming the wilderness, wondering if, among the tors and craggy heights, she could find temporary sanctuary. Some distance away, she glimpsed a mound of rocks. They looked as if they'd been piled one on top of the other by a Viking god or some other unseen force. Although common sense dictated they stuck to the river's path, their best hope of reaching civilisation, Helen decided a detour was urgent. Ayshea needed to rest, to warm-up, to stave off hypothermia. Out in the open, she stood no chance. And that was unthinkable.
They followed an ancient track through scrubby yellowing grass. Helen half-pushed, half-pulled Ayshea to the rocky outcrop. Once there, they sheltered out of the wind. Helen gave the girl the last of the water. She blended calm and optimism into her expression, into her manner, her voice. She was going to get Ayshea out of here if it killed her.
Helen closed her body over the girl's to try and warm her. As she lay, spread-eagled, she looked through ever-changing shafts of light on to a fossilised landscape of ridges and furrows, of dark chocolate-brown heather, of mounds and crevasses. She played every mental game to mask her fear, her extreme terror of being lost and never found.
“Helen?” Ayshea said, after a time.
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Helen kissed the top of the girl's small head, her eyes shining with tears.
They broke cover under a baleful sky.
The more light there was, the more disturbing the scenery. Ominous-looking standing stones, some single, some in rows or circles, stood, sphinx-like, as if guarding the ancient secrets of the moor. There were few trees. The wind picked up again, snapping through them, forcing the land to seethe in an unforgiving mass of purple and brown. Other than the odd bird of prey wheeling over their heads, there was no sign of bird-life. No sound of birdsong. Just a sustained, eerie silence.
They'd taken to higher ground to cut off the bends, yet the river seemed to meander for miles, thinning and thickening, never losing its power. The river was worthy of respect, Helen thought, not like the canal she nearly drowned in.
Snow covered the peaks, slowing the pace to a weary trudge. It was skin-flayingly cold. Without warning, a loud screeching sound shattered the silence. Ayshea jolted and almost turned her ankle. Helen shot out a hand to steady her. Transfixed, they looked up in the direction of the unearthly cry. The barn owl seemed to fall out of the sky as if from nowhere. A flash of white, dreamlike, swooping down, wings fully extended, screaming low across the land then vanishing from view.
Ayshea was ashen.
“It means hope,” Helen insisted, trying not to tremble.
Ayshea said nothing.
Too numb and cold to speak, they trudged in silence. Helen could feel the exhaustion running through her veins, eating into her muscles, settling on her bones. Her hand was throbbing again. It was causing real pain. Fresh blood was seeping through the tattered cloth. She wanted to put her hand in her pocket to soothe it but resisted the temptation in case she should stumble and be unable to break her fall. She needed sugar and sleep and warmth though she wasn't sure which first. She tried to think, to keep herself mentally alert, to stay focused, but her mind was leaping, and that was dangerous. Self-confidence and determination were keys to survival. Self-pity was a killer. It held true for both ordinary and extraordinary circumstances. She glanced back at Ayshea, her face grey in the winter light. The buoyancy had gone from the girl's step, the hope from her eyes. Helen knew that she had to stay positive, keep whatever faith they possessed. She didn't tell Ayshea that she feared the worst was yet to come.
They were higher up now. The snow was thicker, the mist more patchy. From their elevated position, she stared across an expanse of scarred and wounded earth. Ancient tracks ran like a skein of stretchmarks across its skin. It seemed as if the treeless and desolate plateau spread out before her was created from a single solid lump of bone. Ahead, she could see burial mounds, with their histories of legend and secrets, gaping mineshafts and deep gorges, man-made reservoirs and ruined dwellings. It looked like an apocalyptic wasteland and, rather than being comforted by the fast-approaching day, the possibility of escape, she felt terribly afraid.
Still they pressed on.
The sound of rushing water grew loud in her ears. She could smell the river, the dankness of vegetation, the reeds, earth and soil. She could also smell her own sweat, the blood and filth on her clothes.
Pregnant with winter rain, the river led them to an ancient clapper bridge made from slabs of granite. There were lengths of scaffolding pole on the ground as if someone had once intended to carry out repairs and lost interest. Beyond that, a road. And their route to freedom.
The ground was soft and treacherous beneath their feet. The bridge, too, was slimed in moss and lichen. Where the fast, flowing water met the struts, it eddied and boiled and strained. But it was the way ahead that worried her. She couldn't see or hear a thing, yet instinct told her that Ryan was there. Somewhere. Waiting.
“Careful as you go,” Helen said to Ayshea, trying to keep the worry from her voice.
Ayshea nodded gravely, took Helen's extended hand. They walked side by side, close together, keeping away from the edges, the sound of their feet drowned out by the tumbling river. As they crossed, Helen had a vision of a family holiday in Scotland. They were driving to Edinburgh and had stopped briefly to stretch their legs in the Lammermuir Hills, a plain bounding East Lothian and the Scottish borders. Sheep grazed in the summer sunshine. Tributaries of the River Tweed sparkled with light and dragonflies. While her parents were admiring the view, she spied some big stepping-stones. As she leapt from one to another, she didn't notice the depth, the speed at which the water flowed, the danger. Her father called out, his voice shrill with fear, but it was her mother who remained calm, coaxing her back, keeping her safe.
A noise. Helen stopped, blinked, and listened, ears keening. It sounded like a twig snapping but, in this strange, sludgy landscape of blacks, greens and greys and whistling wind, it was hard to tell what was real, what was fantasy or delusion.
They were the other side of the bridge. Instinctively, she pushed Ayshea behind her. Scanning the shifting curtains of colour as a watery sun struggled and failed to put in an appearance against a sky the colour of weak tea, she caught sight of a shadow. Coming into focus. Standing ahead of them. Cold eyes impaling her. A gun in his muscled hand.
She stood petrified. Her limbs stiffened. So did her mind.
“Move,” Ryan shouted.
The girl was breathing hard behind her. Helen didn't know what to do, what to think or say then she remembered her promise, her private vow. Terror pulsing through her, she pretended she was back on the job: examine the scene, list the order of importance, and view all options. Two against one was good, she thought wildly, but two exhausted females against one armed and physically fit male? They stood no chance.
She stared at the gun. She wasn't an authority but she'd once spent an afternoon with the firearms department and been given a whistlestop tour. By her estimation, Ryan was holding a snub-nosed .38. It had eight bullets, eight opportunities. Worse, he didn't need to be a particularly good shot. Small, compact, extremely powerful, it literally ripped holes in people. Any fool could pull the trigger. It didn't take skill to maim or inflict pain. Even if she could get close enough to stab him with the knife in her pocket, against a gun they stood no chance at all. Her only weapons were mental agility, speed, and the river.
He was walking towards them, slowly, carefully, as if worried about messing up his footwear or leaving an impression in the ground. The gun was pointed low. Helen glanced behind her, past the shaking girl, saw the river, thought of the cold and the current, thought of the danger.
“How did you pull it off?” Helen said, slowly raising her arms, buying time, reeling him in.
“Luck,” he laughed without mirth. “Your old man was wired, all right, but the weather screwed them.”
“The weather?”
“The fog.”
Not only would it have made the drive difficult, she thought in dull realisation, but it would break up any radio link.
“Got what I wanted,” he said with a whisper of a smile.
“Good.”
“Money makes the world go round. You know that better than anyone.”
“What about truth and honesty?” Keep on coming, you bastard, she thought.
His voice hardened. “You've got a fuckin' cheek, bitch.”
Helen swallowed. Ayshea began to cry. “Think of the noise of two gunshots,” Helen said, standing her ground.
“Who's to hear?”
“You can't just leave us,” she said, trying to kill the tremble in her legs. “Someone will find us eventually â even out here.”
He glanced at the river. She half-turned as if following his gaze, took a small step back, butting into Ayshea, making eye contact with her.
“You'll have to touch us,” Helen challenged him, subtly shifting her stance, slipping her hand into the pocket of her jacket. “Everyone leaves a trace, Ryan. Think of the blood on the ground, the spatter on your clothes. Think of the mess.”
He was closing in. His eyes were cruel. He was close enough to blow them away and into the water. He knew it. She knew it.
“Think of your footprints,” she said, taunting him, hand grasping the knife. Any second now, she thought. The girl's crying had subsided. Helen could feel Ayshea's body stiffening, the muscles poised, ready for flight.
“Run,” Helen yelled, “Run for your life.” She took a step forward, caught the wolfish expression in Ryan's eyes, the tightening of his jaw, saw him turn, swinging the gun wide to his left. She powered into him, slashing at his arm with the knife. She did not see the girl zigzagging, weaving across the moor, sprinting over rock and knoll. All her focus was on him, his outline, his actions, his gun. The pain in her hand was searing and, though she aimed a second blow, he easily twisted the knife out of her weakened grasp and sent it flying. With her good hand she clawed at his face, jabbed two straight fingers into his eyes, making him cry out and stagger. Empowered, she brought up her knee but wasn't quick enough. The next she knew was the muzzle flash, the pistol crack, the smell of cordite, the gun spinning away. In horror, she turned, raking the unforgiving landscape for sight of Ayshea's lithe form. But all she saw was the peat-clad granite, the treeless and uncultivated ground, the rushes, the bright green moss, and patches of standing water. Ayshea was nowhere to be seen.
Because Ayshea was down.
Helen had no time to stare at the body, the bundle of clothes three hundred yards away, to grieve. She had no time to consider the hopelessness of her situation. The blow between her shoulder blades sent her flying. She gave a gasp as her hands automatically stretched out to save her, as her face hit the dirt and re-split her lip, as her hand clenched in agony, but the pain was all for the girl, for letting her down, for failing her, just as she'd failed the others.
He had her by the hair now, his thick fingers gripping the roots, wrenching her to her feet by her scalp. He showed no sign of going for the gun; he was searching for the knife, she thought in misery. He wants to make me suffer, and maybe he's right.
Hot, stinging tears coursed down her cheeks. She was bent over, suppliant. The hair was being ripped from her head. In a flash, she thought of Rose Buchanan, of what had been done to her. Then she thought of Ayshea. And as Helen remembered, rage broke over her like a tidal wave. She wasn't just fighting Ryan any more, but Jacks, and all the other low-lifes. And she wasn't alone. Rose and Tracey and Ayshea were cheering her on. Even Karen Lake. Even her own mother. They represented all the many women she'd come across, who'd been abused.