‘Just after eight.’
‘Come on,’ I say, pocketing the tracker and feeling a spurt of happiness. I feel back in control instead of blindly having to follow Tom because all of this outdoor, countryside stuff is so alien. Turns out Swallows and Amazons hasn’t equipped me as well as I might have hoped. ‘We need to get a move on. There’s a bus in ten minutes.’
Now there is definite admiration on his face. I really rather like it.
We charge into the village heading straight for the bus stop and, miracle of miracles, the bus is on time.
I hop on and ask the driver, ‘Where’s the next stop?’
He isn’t fazed by the question, I guess he’s used to tourists.
‘Clappersgate.’
‘Two singles to Clappersgate.’ I hand over one of our precious tenners.
He huffs. ‘Got nothing smaller.’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘I haven’t got change now. Usually walkers get on at next stop. They might have some change. Get theeselves on.’
We settle into seats in the middle of the bus where we can sink below the window out of sight. Both of us are glancing round as the bus idles. My hands are clenched tight in my pocket. We sit for an anxious minute. God, is this is a terrible mistake?
‘Come on, come on,’ mutters Tom, his left leg jittering up and down. ‘Maybe we should have already ditched the trackers.’
‘Then they’d know we’d found them. This way if we leave them on the bus, they might go all the way to Kendal. Probably follow the bus before they realise we’re not on board.’
‘Unless they catch us first,’ says Tom through tightly clenched jaws. 'We’re sitting ducks right now. I think we should get off. Leave the trackers.’
‘No.’ I need to rest but I can’t bear to admit it to Tom. We haven’t eaten this morning and the adrenaline crash is making me feel very shaky.
‘Lydia, don’t be ridiculous. They could catch us at any minute. If we leave the tracker here, we can hide in the village and they’ll follow the bus.’
I’m just about to agree when glory be, the bus engine fires up with a rumble, the windows rattling in their frames as we finally trundle out of the village at surprising speed.
We exchange looks.
‘We’re not out of the woods yet, you know,’ says Tom, still obviously annoyed with me. ‘They could still catch us.’
‘We managed a whole day yesterday,’ I say, trying to be positive and take my mind off the thought of being caught.
‘Some of us are taking this seriously,’ Tom snaps. ‘I want to win the hundred grand. Thanks to me, we got away this morning.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, you were fannying about worrying about sleeping bags and rucksacks.’
‘Which turned out to be a smart move because we found the tracker,’ I snap back.
‘Which is still on us – so we’re not home and dry just yet. They could catch up with us at any moment.’
God, he’s such a fucking smart arse.
A few bends later and I’m wondering if the driver once had Formula 1 ambitions. He’s throwing the bus about and I’m hanging on to the metal seat rail in front of us for grim death. I should have asked how far the stop was.
Tom’s knuckles are white as he clenches the rail too, occasionally turning round and checking behind us.
It’s more nerve-racking than I could have thought possible.
I look out of the windows again. Sweat is pooling between my shoulders and trickling down my back.
Suddenly the bus lurches to an abrupt halt.
‘Clappersgate.’
‘Thank fuck for that.’ Tom pushes me down the front of the bus. ‘Hurry up.’
Jeez, he’s cranky.
I realise there’s no one at the stop and I pause by the driver digging in my pocket for my ten pound note. Tom digs me sharply in the ribs. ‘Your lucky day. Enjoy,’ says the driver cheerfully and the doors open with a bang.
‘You don’t want us to p—’
Before I can finish Tom chips in, ‘Thanks, mate,’ and hustles me off the bus. With a wave the driver closes the doors, rams the poor old bus into gear and it sways right out into the middle of the road before disappearing around the bend, taking our little friend with it.
‘That was a bit rude,’ I say.
‘Fuck’s sake Lydia. We need to get off the road,’ he snarls.
