Gone in the Night. Mary-Jane Riley
and looked around. There were lights in the distance, but not at this point of the harbour. Not here. Surely no one would have seen him?
The night was dark, there was neither moon nor stars, for which he was grateful. Less chance of being spotted.
Had he been missed yet?
He couldn’t stay here. He had to get moving. Get up. Get up.
His body was too heavy. He tried to unfurl, to stand.
So much effort.
He could do this. He’d been fit once. Muscle memory, that’s what he needed.
He gritted his teeth.
His head was pounding, there was a sickness in his stomach. He mustn’t think of what he’d had to leave behind. All that work, all those chances he’d taken and he’d had to get rid of it when he realized they were on to him. When he knew he had to escape. Right away. And he’d left her behind too. He’d wanted her to go with him, but she wouldn’t. Said she would slow him down. She would have done, and they could have made it together. Until it was too late for her.
Come on, come on.
Almost up. He stayed for a minute, back hunched, hands on the top of his knees, still shivering, always shivering. He couldn’t remember when he’d last felt warm, when his head was clear, when he felt well. He couldn’t remember.
A car. He needed a car.
Shapes grew out of the shadows. A shed, boathouses made of timber, two fishing boats resting on the concrete. The smell of fish and diesel in the swirling air.
He listened.
All he heard was the wind whistling around the edges of the buildings, then he became aware of the wind drying his body, his clothes, making him shiver more deeply, right down to his bones, to the damaged organs in his body.
Cold.
Cold was a killer.
He took a deep breath and staggered towards an old shed. Hugging its perimeter, he peered around the corner.
Nothing. Nobody.
Lights, though. On the car park. Not many, but enough. Had to keep away from those.
He set off in a crab-like run, fear giving an edge to his strides. He was better now, had to be better, had to get to freedom, had to leave this place behind.
He risked a glance over his shoulder, back at the island. Lights twinkled in the distance, making the buildings look benign. There were no signs that someone – him – had escaped. No floodlights, no shouting. But then there wouldn’t have been, would there? Too risky, even for them. He tried to listen, to see if he could hear the sound of a boat, a speedboat perhaps, coming to find him.
Nothing, even the wind had stopped its moaning.
Either he hadn’t been missed or—
The alternative was too awful to contemplate. He couldn’t have come this far for them to be waiting for him, just around some corner.
He ran. Past houses towards the road. Down the road. And there. An explosion of relief. Lights. A pub. Perhaps he could get a car. Out here, in the country, they could be careless with their security. He began to pray he was right as his breaths became ever more shallow, the kicking he’d received in his ribs making itself known.
There were cars in the car park. Swish cars, nothing old, nothing he could hot-wire. Frantic, breath coming too hard now, he looked around. A BMW. A Mazda. A Land Rover. A couple of Fords. Which one? Which one?
He limped over to the Land Rover, his muscles seizing up more with every step.
It was dirty, mud-splattered. The windows were open halfway. He peered inside. The floor was littered with empty sandwich packets, beer cans, tissues. There was an old, hairy blanket on the passenger seat. It smelled of damp and dog.
He pulled on the driver’s door. His hand bloody hurt. It opened. He leaned across and pulled down the sun visor. A bunch of keys fell onto the floor. He thanked fuck country people were so trusting.
As he jammed the key into the ignition, something made him stop. Listen. He clamped his lips together so he wasn’t hearing the chattering of his teeth. He slowed his breathing, told himself to be calm. There it was. A faint sound. Was it a motorboat? Coming from the island perhaps? His heart began to jump in his chest, and he turned the key in the ignition.
A noise like a giant clearing his throat came from the engine.
He turned the key again – so hard it could have broken off.
The engine turned over once, twice.
Cold sweat was dripping into his eyes.
It fired. He said a thank you to a god he hadn’t believed in for a very long time.
Without waiting to listen, or even to look to see if anyone was coming for him, he released the handbrake and pushed his foot hard on the accelerator.
He hadn’t turned the lights on, and the corner came up too quickly. He turned, hard. Made it round on two wheels, tyres screeching. The Land Rover bounced back onto four, he was thrown out of his seat, then back down. He breathed again.
Where were the lights? Where were the fucking lights? It was so dark. No moon. No stars. No street lights. No more comforting lights from the pub.
He looked down for a likely looking switch.
Where the fuck was it? Where the—
There. Light.
He looked up to see a pair of eyes in front of the windscreen reflected in the headlights.
He screamed and slammed on the brake, wrenched the steering wheel first one way, then the other.
The Land Rover lurched across the road, hitting the hedge on one side. Somewhere in his subconscious he heard the side of the vehicle being scratched by thorns, twigs, branches. Then, before he could think any more, the Land Rover was thrust, skidding, to the other side of the road.
A tree loomed in front of him. Once more he hit the brake.
He felt himself being propelled forward. Tried to throw himself across the seats. Slammed into the dashboard. His head thrown backwards then forwards. He was weightless. Felt a shower of glass. Time stretched, contracted, stretched again. Something trickled down the side of his face and into the corner of his mouth.
Rick’s last thought was of his sister.
The deer, unharmed, trotted off into the forest.
The sky was alive with a shower of red and green and yellow sparks as one rocket after another exploded in the night air. Beyond the lake, Catherine wheels crackled and whistled and Roman candles fizzed and hummed. Watching from behind the French windows, men and women in party clothes holding champagne glasses oo-ed and ah-ed their appreciation, grateful the wind had died down so they could enjoy the display. Alex Devlin sipped her warm tap water and wished she was at home, tucked up in bed with her hot water bottle.
‘Enjoying the fireworks?’
Alex turned to see a man looking down at her, a smile on his face. Mid-forties, she reckoned, swept-back black hair with wings of grey. Soft crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. Laughter lines by his mouth. Could be anger lines, of course. All this she registered in a couple of seconds.
‘They’re very impressive,’ she said, carefully.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmm. Does that mean “impressive but a waste of money”?’
A