Jason Elliot: The Network

‘You’d better cancel, then.’ He hands me the phone without looking at me, but pushes me firmly forward again so that I can’t see where we are. ‘Make it quick.’

Lili Marlene is the alias I’ve assigned to the number that’s calling, but the voice at the other end belongs to H, a lifetime soldier and twenty-two-year veteran of the Special Air Service, better known to its members as the Regiment. I’ve never been quite so glad to hear it.

‘Listen,’ he says in a tone that sounds concerned but not worried. It reassures me, but not much. ‘I just heard you’ve been picked up. Sounds like you’re in a vehicle. Just give me yes or no answers.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Can anyone hear what I’m saying?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Do you know where you are?’

‘No.’

‘Have they told you where they’re taking you?’

‘No. Very sorry.’

‘Sounds like there’s been a bit of a balls-up. I can’t explain it all now, but you need to get out of that vehicle.’

‘Yes,’ I say, after a pause.

‘Whatever it takes. Just get away. It doesn’t matter where to. Never stop, remember? Don’t give them anything till you see me again.’ A grittiness has entered his voice. ‘Not a word, just the big four. Have you got me?’

‘Alright,’ I say.

‘I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can. Now get out of that vehicle and get moving.’

I hand back the telephone to the sullen man at my side, who looks straight ahead as he returns it to the seat pouch.

‘She sends her love,’ I tell him. ‘You should try a bit of romance yourself sometime.’ There is no visible reaction.

The truth is I’m not ready for this and feel a kind of dread rising from my abdomen. I need a plan to focus on and to control what H calls the fear factor. It is nearly dusk. Within half an hour I will have darkness on my side. So fifteen minutes later I decide it’s time to act and start making the appropriate gestures.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ I say.

There is no immediate answer. I imagine the two of them exchanging a questioning glance behind me.

‘I’m going to be sick all over you if I don’t get some fresh air.’

‘Pull over, Snapper,’ says the one who does the talking. ‘Passenger needs to make a pit stop.’

‘Quickly, please,’ I say, with my hand over my mouth.

The nearside door opens and I feel a hand on my right arm.

‘Watch him,’ growls the one who stays behind.

The hand stays on my arm as I walk diagonally to the rear of the vehicle, where I’m hoping the driver won’t be able to see us in his mirrors. There’s a fence by the side of the road, and woods beyond the adjacent fields which will give me the cover I need.

I kneel compliantly by the verge on all fours, and for a minute imitate the violent spasms that accompany the worst kind of hangover, throwing in some profane muttering for extra effect. My adopted minder stands mutely behind me.

As I stand up, I turn but not all the way, and raise my right hand in a gesture of exasperation, complaining that no one carries a handkerchief these days. I repeat the gesture, which will have the effect, I’m hoping, of distracting any attention away from my left hand, which is about to connect with the bridge of my victim’s nose. A second later the two meet in a crunching embrace, and a jolt of pain travels up my arm as my victim topples backwards. While he’s struggling to figure out what’s happened, I hit him again.

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.