The Network - Jason Elliot [3]
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