I glare at him but he’s already hurrying across the road. He turns. ‘Get a move on.’
I follow him, seething, as he ducks beneath a public footpath sign and climbs over a stile. He doesn’t stop to wait for me. I only just make it over the wooden step and almost over balance. I catch my footing but he’s already gone, walking at speed down a track sandwiched between two stone walls.
‘Bastard,’ I mutter to myself and pick up my pace but there’s no way I can keep up with Tom. Today my rucksack feels even heavier than it did yesterday, despite the fact we’re down a groundsheet and a couple of cooking utensils, which were abandoned in our haste to leave our campsite.
Ahead of me, every now and then I can see the bus dipping in and out of view as it careers along with the same breakneck recklessness that got us here. I feel a slight fondness for the driver and his need for speed. Hopefully he’ll lead our hunters all the way to Kendal and I’ll be vindicated – not that I’ll know, but it would be so nice to be able to say ‘Told you so’ to Tom right now.
Chapter Thirteen LYDIA
Trudging along with sodden feet, rain running down the inside of your useless raincoat and your trousers plastered to your freezing thighs, has to be up there in the top three of the nine circles of hell. After the initial burst of euphoria that we’d outwitted our hunter friends, it’s official, my usual optimism has been washed away, but I’m not going to admit it, not to Tom. Stoicism is my best friend and always has been. We’ve been keeping to footpaths and taking the occasional peek at the map, desperately trying to keep it dry. We’ve not succeeded and it’s now so soggy, it’s almost impossible to handle. Lucky we have a back-up map, then.
‘I reckon we’re here,’ says Tom, stabbing his finger on the bunched square of paper.
When we set off from Clappersgate, we actually agreed on a plan. Although I have to leave that bit to him as I do know my limitations. Map reading is not in my skill set. I’m of the Never Eat Shredded Wheat brigade – that’s the only way I know the compass points.
We’re heading east, across country, to try and pick up the slip road of the M6 going south at Tebay at Junction 38 – Tom’s words not mine. Apparently this is a slightly longer route than to the junction below but it’s his suggestion on the basis that that’s where you’d expect the hunters to be watching. When he tells me it’s about twenty-six miles, I catch my lip between my teeth. It sounds a long way until he points out it’s the same as a marathon and people run that in a few hours.
Sadly we’re not running, the weather is grim and the terrain is mountainous, or at least it feels it, and one of my hiking boots is rubbing a blister on my heel. After walking three hours, the ‘here’ that Tom indicates on the map looks no closer to our destination than it did when we set off.
I peer at it obligingly. ‘If you say so. I haven’t got a clue.’
‘Let’s take a break.’ He points to a ruined structure ahead, which has half a roof and one wall. ‘We could shelter there. Have a drink and one of those energy bars they so thoughtfully provided us with. Do you think they’re expecting us to catch rabbits to eat or something?’
‘They did say they didn’t expect anyone to get very far,’ I point out, grateful that I’d managed to fill both thermos flasks with cold water this morning before our hapless flight.
‘That was to keep us keen. Reverse psychology. Although I wonder if they plan to starve us into submission, that or caffeine deprivation. Oh for a coffee shop.’
We plough our way up the steep incline towards the rough shelter. It’s little more than a shack. The rucksacks are dumped in unison and we slide down the walls to sit under the narrow overhang of crumbling tiles that offers some respite from the rain.
The energy bar tastes wonderful, as does the water I wash it down with. Not sure I feel any more energetic though. The thought of walking for several more hours is deeply depressing, especially in silence watching Tom plodding ahead of me.
I take off one shoe and sock to examine the inch wide blister that has burst and is bleeding.
‘Shit, Lydia. That looks nasty.’
I shrug and dig into my rucksack to pull out the first-aid kit.
‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’ he asks as I take out a plaster. ‘We could have stopped.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say, even though now the open sore is exposed, it’s all I can do to stop wincing from the pain.
‘No, it’s not,’ snaps Tom. ‘And that’s not going to help.’ He takes the plaster from me with an impatient swipe. ‘It’s already burst. You need to protect it to prevent further damage otherwise you won’t be able to walk.’
‘Yeah, wouldn’t want me to slow you down,’ I snap back.
‘Fuck’s sake.’ He shuffles forward and takes my foot in his hand, holding it up to the light. His fingers are freezing but hold it in a strong grip as if he knows I want to wrench it away.
‘We need to sort this out properly.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hold you up,’ I repeat. Sniping at him is the only way I know how to deal with this.
He shoots me a glare and rests my foot on his thigh. Ignoring me, he opens the first-aid kit and spreads the contents on the stone floor, his face screwed up in thought like a surgeon about to make the first cut.
‘It’s okay. A plaster will do,’ I say, a little embarrassed. I’m used to sorting things out for myself.
‘No, Lydia. A plaster will not do.’
He tears open a sachet and with gentle fingers he applies an antiseptic wipe. I watch him while trying not to flinch. It stings like buggery but I’m fascinated by his face. He’s completely absorbed in his task, methodical and careful. Next, he cuts a square from the corner of one of the sealed dressings, keeping the remainder in the pack – ‘for later’ – and covers the wound with it, his touch so soft as he smooths the edges, brushing my skin. For some stupid reason I want to cry. I can’t remember when anyone has taken such pains with me. Finally, he uses micropore tape to strap it all up.
‘That should hold. What about the other foot?’
‘Thanks,’ I say, my voice gruff because I might give myself away at any moment, but he’s already tugging the other sock off to check my foot.
‘Lydia!’ The gentle exasperation almost finishes me off and there’s a foolish flutter in my heart, but he doesn’t say any more, just takes the biggest plaster he can find and applies it to the red, angry patch on the heel.
Then he looks at me intently. ‘Do you have another pair of socks? I’d suggest wearing two pairs. Stops the rubbing.’
I slide my gaze away, worried he might see something in my eyes that I really don’t want him to see. ‘Yes. I’ll put them on.’
I know he’s only thinking about winning the challenge, but he doesn’t have to be kind with it. I just don’t know how to deal with that.
We plod on in the rain for another few hours like a pair of worn down donkeys. I don’t even bother to keep track of time, I just put one foot in front of the other. Tom’s rain-slicked back is etched into my vision as I peer out of the hood that is pulled drawstring-tight around my face, restricting my peripheral vision. I now know how a Minion feels as I turn, this way and that, to see any direction but ahead.
Tom stops and waits for me to catch him up. ‘How are you feeling? How are your feet?’
I wipe the rain from my cheeks. ‘They’re fine, thank you. Much better.’
He studies my face as if he’s checking I’m telling the truth. Fine drops of water fleck his face, dotting the bristles on his chin and his eyelashes. Our eyes meet and hold. I can’t look away and it appears neither can he. With a flash of heat, I vividly remember him staring down at me as he was inside me, a bright starburst moment of connection before we both pitched over the edge of orgasm. I watch as his Adam’s apple dips and then, finally, when the silence between is stretched to breaking point, he is the first to drop his gaze.
