I am over the fence and a good few seconds into my sprint across the field when the first shout goes up. When I risk a backward glance half a minute later, I see the car skidding and lurching, lights blazing, across the field towards me. There’s no time for hesitation when I reach the chalky escarpment at the far side, which cuts steeply downwards to what looks like a broad river beyond the trees. I’m under the barbed wire and slithering down before I hear more shouts as the three men above me spread along the lip of the escarpment. I catch a glimpse of their silhouettes and the drawn weapons at their sides. Their hesitation gives me precious extra seconds. By the time they plunge down the slope after me, I’ve already sprinted to the far side of the trees, and the current of freezing water which has taken my breath away has already carried me more than fifty yards downstream. Providing I don’t drown, I rate my chances of a successful escape as being fairly even.
Now I have lost time to make up, even if I do lack a destination. H’s house seems like the best haven to aim for, if I can only find out where I am. I’m guessing it’s within twenty miles. I must find a map in a bus shelter or an unlocked car. After the cold and bewilderment of the darkness, the daylight seems like a luxury. I rub some mud on my face and move to the edge of the trees that have sheltered me, keeping below the ridge that runs above so that I’m not silhouetted and won’t become instantly visible from a distance.
The landscape below and beyond is a picture postcard of the English countryside. The hills are low and rounded, and their slopes a patchwork of different shades of green separated by dark lines of hedgerows. Bands of well-maintained forest reach across their contours and resemble the angular shapes of a children’s puzzle. There’s no movement except that of the clouds, which are steaming in a swift mottled convoy of greys from one side of the world to the other. No part of the sky is brighter than any other, so I cannot even judge the position of the sun. I wonder again how far I’ve come during the night, and how well my pursuers have organised themselves in the meantime.
If I stick to the patches of forest I will be harder to spot, and I begin to plot the best route across them. There are some scattered houses and I wonder if anyone in them will be on the lookout for a fugitive on foot. It depends, I reason, on the resources that the hunters have brought to the capture of their game. This thought has just taken hold when I hear a sound that ignites a sudden feeling of dread: dogs. A pack of them, by the sound of it, coming from some buildings that look like a farm, about a mile away and several hundred feet below. A dark-coloured Land Rover is moving towards the farm on a sliver of road, but I can’t afford the time to watch its progress. With dogs after me I have no time to rest and must find a way to break free of the net before it closes on me. My whole body is shivering violently and I must run to keep warm. I will think on the move.
A rough formula is trying to take shape in my head, although pushing my fear aside is like leaning on a heavy door that refuses to close. I want to keep moving downwind from the dogs, which I’m hoping will make things harder for them, but I don’t know how much harder. If I find an empty plastic bag or sack I’ll tie it around my shoes to weaken my scent, but in the meantime the only hope of evading them is to find a wide enough river and cross it far enough downstream to break the trace of my own scent. It means losing my precious height and descending into the valley on the far side of the hill. I run to the ridge, break out of the trees and find myself on a single-track road between two enclosing walls of tall pines. To judge from the worn surface it’s not a public road but belongs to the Forestry Commission. There will be no traffic on it. I can make better speed on a hard road than cross-country, and I run along it for about half a mile until the land opens up again. I’m grateful for the running I’ve been doing every day under H’s supervision, which allows me a steady pace even if my lungs are putting up their usual complaint.
I reach a second track, which descends to the bottom of the hill in a straight line along the edge of the forest. I take it without stopping. Several times what sounds like the hiss of tyres against the wet surface of the track makes me leap into the undergrowth, but it’s the sound of wind in the tops of the pines, not a vehicle. A jay cries from somewhere in the woods, and ahead of me a pheasant runs a few panicky yards and disappears into the undergrowth. I stop twice just to listen. There is nothing but the wind and the sound of raindrops hitting the leaves around me. No barking, which is a mercy. I put my lips to a tiny rivulet of flowing water at the road’s edge to soften a horrible thirst. I cannot allow my pace to slow.
Downhill I make better speed, but my lungs are still protesting. I reach the bottom of the track, where it turns sharply to the left. Here the unexpected sight of a man less than ten yards ahead brings me to a lurching halt. I leap sideways in a reflex of shock and slip on the wet ground, realising in the half-second it takes for me to break my fall that the man isn’t after me. He’s standing perfectly still beside an open gate, wearing a tweed cap and jacket, farmer’s boots and carrying in the crook of his arm a twelve-bore shotgun with polished side-by-side barrels. A leash in his left hand restrains a muddy spaniel, which cowers in surprise as I lurch into view.
‘You’re out early. Gave me a hell of a fright,’ I say as nonchalantly as is possible under the circumstances. I attempt a reassuring wave and brush myself off as I recover, taking a few steps towards him. He is about fifty, stocky, with a thick black beard, and his eyes don’t move from me. I’ve probably given him just as much of a fright as he’s given me, and if I can win his confidence and get him to help me, this is good news. But it has to happen quickly.
‘I didn’t expect to see anyone—’ I begin, taking another step towards him, but his words bring me to a stop.
‘That’s close enough, I reckon.’ His voice is deep and steady, and his accent, whatever it is, is thick. Herefordshire? Shropshire? It isn’t Welsh. Six or seven paces will close the distance between us, so I take another.
‘Captain Taverner, SAS,’ I say, extending my arm. ‘Is this your land?’ He’s not reciprocating the gesture, so I point over my shoulder. ‘There’s some people on the other side of that hill trying to catch up with me. Trouble is I’m not supposed to let them. I don’t suppose you can help me by giving me a lift somewhere?’ I’m hoping that this unlikely suggestion will lighten his look of suspicion, but it doesn’t. The barrels snap shut with a jerk of his left hand and the butt moves under his armpit.
‘That’ll do,’ he says, more sternly now.
‘There’s no need for that,’ I say, putting my hands protectively in front of me. ‘I’m an army officer and I can prove it. Lower your weapon please.’
The reply stuns me.
‘I know who you are, you murdering bastard.’ The evenness of his voice, and its conviction, stop me from going any closer. ‘Don’t waste your breath on me.’
Anything, H has told me in our sessions together, can be used to counter an attacker: soil in a sock, swung fast enough, that can knock a man unconscious; a rolled-up newspaper jabbed into the throat; even the unfolded foil of a tube of toothpaste that can sever a jugular vein. But I have nothing. My close-quarter training with H is for disarming an Afghan carjacker with an AK-47, not an English farmer with a shotgun.
‘I haven’t murdered anyone,’ I tell him as calmly as I can muster. ‘I’m an army officer on an escape and evasion training exercise. I can prove it,’ I tell him again, realising as I utter the words that I can do no such thing. In my mind’s eye I see a pack of dogs swerving over my tracks as they climb the hillside.
‘Army officer don’t make you less of a murderer. Save it for the police.’ A jerk of the barrels indicates his intention. ‘Both hands on the gate.’
I comply, moving to the edge of the track and wondering how they have managed to get to him. The top bar of the metal gate is cold.
‘You’re making a mistake,’ I say.
‘See about that,’ he growls.
At a safe distance and to my side, and without taking his eyes off me, he transfers the leash from the hand that grips the stock to the hand that grips the butt. Then with his free hand he takes a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and his thumb works the keypad. As he listens to the ringing tone he glances downwards to his dog, who is looking expectantly at its master.
‘Steady, girl,’ he says. At the other end, someone answers. ‘Tom here. Make it quick. I got the slippery-tongued fucker right in front of me.’ A macabre chuckles escapes his throat. ‘Right. I’ll take him to the entrance gate and wait for you there.’
The best moment for escape, H has also told me, is as soon after the moment of capture as possible. The longer the enemy has to consolidate his control, the slimmer one’s chances of getting away and the greater the likelihood of recapture. To fail to make the utmost effort to escape from the enemy is – as any soldier, former or otherwise, knows – classified as misconduct in action. And anyone who points a weapon at me, I affirm to myself, is an enemy.
Another jerk of the barrels indicates his intended route, which lies beyond the gate in the direction of what looks like a barn and some other buildings a few hundred yards away. I do not want to go there. I keep up a steady patter of protest in the hope that, eventually, Farmer Tom will be distracted enough to bring his shotgun close enough for me to knock it, and its owner, to the ground. I tell him I will give him a number to call to confirm my identity. I tell him he can speak to my commanding officer. I tell him the SAS don’t take kindly to civilian interference. It’s all fiction, but he’s not to know.
‘Hands where I can see them,’ he says in the same steady tone, listening to nothing I have said. He keeps his distance cautiously as I move beyond the gate and onto a watery footpath, and follows me into the field. Then, being a conscientious farmer, he gives a sharp push to the gate, which swings closed into its latch and the whole gate reverberates with a
clang
. The result is one of those events that restores one’s faith in the idea of providence. A female pheasant, which has been hiding in the undergrowth at our feet, flies upwards in surprise at the noise, and the dog leaps after it, pulling at the leash, which is still attached to Farmer Tom’s right wrist. He keeps hold of the gun, but it’s pulled out from under his arm, and in the effort to restrain his dog he turns his back on me.
‘
Down
, damn you,’ yells Tom. Into this slender moment is compressed my chance. I take it.
I dive to one side and roll through the line of trees that separates the track from the field beyond, cursing as I hit the ground more heavily than usual because I’m so tired. Without looking back, I am sprinting along the edge of the field as I hear the first shot. The pellets tear into the leaves behind me but Tom is out of luck and I am untouched. His second shot comes a few seconds later and also misses. I reach a hedge, turn sharp left across the field and keep up the sprint. At the far side I cross a farm track, slither into the grassy ditch on the far side, try to get my breath back for a few seconds, and try to think.
What H has called a ‘balls-up’ has nearly killed me, and now I wonder if my new status as a murderer is a calculated lie, a coincidence or an accident. Whichever the case, whoever is pursuing me has influence. The drone of an airborne motor seems to confirm this unpleasant thought, and I look up to see a light aircraft bearing directly towards me at about 200 feet. How they can possibly have found me so quickly is another mystery I’ll dwell on later.
I curl into the soaking grass, praying I can’t be seen if I keep still, not daring to look up in case the whiteness of my face betrays me. The aircraft flies overhead without deviating from its course and after it has passed I notice that its drop in altitude has the characteristic gradient of a final approach. I watch it bank into a gentle turn and sink below the line of trees towards the floor of the valley less than half a mile away. It does not emerge from the treeline on the far side, and this convinces me of two things: firstly, that the light aircraft flying overhead is indeed a coincidence and not a cause for panic. Secondly, that there must be an airfield nearby, which for the purposes of my new plan is more important. I’m not thinking much of the consequences. It’s the only plan I have.
I run in as much of a straight line as possible in the direction of the last point I saw the aircraft, across two open fields alongside another hedge. I cross a small country road and pass near the long windowless shape of a battery chicken farm and a cluster of buildings alongside it. My lungs are splitting again as I reach a second, broader road. The hedge on its far side is impenetrable and I must risk running along it. It is free of traffic for the moment. Reminded suddenly of the presence of other human beings, I try my best to wipe the mud from my face in the hope that I won’t alert any onlooker to my status as a fugitive, but it’s probably too late for that.
A municipal sign announces the identity of the village I am entering:
shobdon
. I’ve never heard of it. A few hundred yards beyond, to avoid the buildings that are beginning to cluster ahead, I turn left on a small road which winds almost imperceptibly downhill. Then I break off in the direction of where I saw the plane disappear and keep running on unsurfaced tracks between fields, finding nothing for a further desperate mile. Then, just as I begin to doubt whether this is even the same valley where the plane landed, I glimpse the roof line of some prefabricated buildings and head towards them. A fluttering orange windsock confirms I am in the right place. I creep along the base of the hedge that encloses the airfield and come to a line of white trailers which, judging from their length and strange shape, must contain gliders.