‘What are the chances of a local bus coming in the next hour?’ asks Tom, his mouth twisting cynically.
I look hopefully down at the ribbon of road curling around the hillside. ‘Good?’
He gives me a withering look. ‘Seriously? You’ve never lived in the country, have you?’
I stiffen. So I don’t know stuff like this. So what? Just as I’m about to tell him where to go, I’m distracted by an unfamiliar buzzing noise. After his last comment I’m not going to mention it, the sound probably belongs to some giant country wasp I’m not aware of, but it’s getting louder. One of those tinny irritating sounds that after a while drills through your head. The sound carries across the big open field.
‘Fuck!’ says Tom. ‘They’re using a bloody drone.’ He grabs my arm. ‘Run before they see us.’
Chapter Seven TOM
The small black drone with a blur of propellers starts to move in our direction. I have no idea if it’s spotted us yet, some of those fuckers have incredible range, but I’m not taking any chances and I take off at a run before realising that Lydia has frozen to the spot. Again.
‘Come on!’ I yell. For fuck’s sake. She’s a liability. It takes a couple of seconds scrambling about before she scoops up her rucksack and, clutching it to her chest as if it’s a personal lifebuoy, she begins to lumber down the hill like an overburdened donkey.
I look up as the drone, which has ascended to a higher altitude. I wonder if it’s sending Lydia’s wide-eyed, panicked expression back to our faceless hunters on the other side of the hill. Oddly I want to protect her from being exposed that way. I run back to her, losing valuable seconds and help her put her rucksack back on.
‘Christ, Lydia, what the fuck have you got in here? It weighs a ton!’
‘Stuff,’ she pants at me, looking fearfully up at the drone.
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the drone inexplicably flies away.
‘It’s gone,’ says Lydia, slowing down.
I shake my head. ‘No, it’s flown back to base. They can move faster in the car now they know where we are. We need to get away and hide out of sight. They’ll be coming to cut us off.’
Lydia tuts. ‘That’s cheating,’ she says, and I want to laugh at the disgust on her face as I see her usual impervious spirit reasserting itself.
‘Expect the unexpected,’ I say, tamping down my amusement, irritated by my loss of focus. We have to get away. I can’t fail on day one. I pick up the pace. I am not going to let her slow us down.
‘Maybe we can hitch a lift before they get here,’ she says, pointing down at the busy car park with its parallel lines of tourist coaches. ‘We could scrounge a ride on one of the coaches.’
Christ, I’m with fucking Pollyanna. This isn’t a game to me, I really want to win that money. ‘You think they’re going to let you do that? Just waltz on? “Hey, guys, of course you can hitch a lift. These fare-paying folk won’t mind.” Unless…’ I pause and hold up an index finger, adding with unnecessary sarcasm in a silly, cosy voice. ‘We bribe the friendly coach driver with our combined forty quid.’
With a pitying look, which I almost admire, she says, ‘Who says we’re going to ask?’
‘Lydia, we’re probably a third of the age of most people on those tours. I think they’re going to notice us sneaking on board.’
‘Not if we go in the luggage compartment.’
‘What?’
‘Look, that one has its doors open. All we have to do is loiter nearby and then when no one’s looking jump in.’
I stare at her a little stunned by the brilliance of the idea. ‘I can’t decide if you’re mad or an absolute genius.’
Tom’s stunned praise – he’s obviously already forgotten who won the challenge yesterday – boosts my confidence. Imminent rescue gives us wings and we hurry down to the car park, crossing the road curving around the contour of the hill. I’m so focused on the coach that I don’t even glance at the view that everyone has stopped for. My fingers are crossed tight on both hands, as I pray that the driver doesn’t close the luggage compartment before we get there. Terror has me constantly checking behind us, almost tripping each time. Tom keeps me upright, for which I ought to be grateful, but it just irritates me because it reminds me of my failings and the fact that he’s so in command of himself.
We slow down as we clamber over a grassy bank into the car park. Tom, still calm and measured, dammit, takes my hand.
‘We’re just a couple of hikers on holiday,’ he mutters. ‘We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.’ His fingers clasp over my crossed ones and he gives my hand a little shake.
‘Just hikers. Holiday,’ I repeat, my heart thundering, as we saunter over towards the coach. A woman is standing by the door, and like a jaunty air hostess she’s wearing a navy jacket and a yellow neck scarf with tiny little logos dotted over it. ‘How was that, Fred?’
‘Awesome. I can’t believe we’re really here,’ replies an elderly man in Shrek-green trousers, thick-soled trainers and a flat cap. His drawl is transatlantic.
‘He says that every day, don’t you, honey?’ adds another voice.
‘I’m glad you’re having such a good holiday,’ the hostess says in a smooth English accent.
We circle to the opposite side of the bus and slide down the side, wriggling out of our rucksacks.
‘Are you sure about this?’ asks Tom.
‘No,’ I reply, catching my lip between my teeth. We could end up stuck in there for hours. And there isn’t a huge amount of room. The first and second compartments are completely full, the third half full. ‘Maybe we should wait for a bus. We’ve got some money.’
‘A bus?’
I nod.
‘You do know we’re not in London anymore, right? Places like this have a couple of buses a day – if you’re lucky.’
‘I knew that,’ I say. Clearly, I didn’t. How the hell does anyone get anywhere if that’s true?
Just then two things happen: one, there’s the hydraulic hiss as the door of the first luggage compartment starts to close, and two, we both glimpse a flash of orange on the road above the car park.
