Jason Elliot: The Network

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.