I stride down the hill heading towards a thin ribbon of a track, which I can just about make out on the other side of the valley, through the driving rain. A vicious wind has picked up and is swirling around me, battling with my waterproof hood as if trying to rip it away. Nervous energy is all that it is powering me at the moment. That and fear. I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared in my life as when I saw Lydia go rolling and rolling and bouncing and bouncing down that hill, her ragdoll limbs flailing limp and loose. It’s at times like that when you realise how frail the human body is. My stomach practically turned inside out as I watched, utterly powerless, as her lifeless body slumped to a stop. When I ploughed down after her, it was instinctive, but as I neared the bottom, the fear and worry coalesced into selfish concern about what I might find.
She’s so pale and her eyes have that glassy, shocked cast. It’s a bloody miracle she didn’t break any bones, although, even though she hasn’t mentioned it, I could see she’s favouring one arm and I’m not convinced there isn’t more damage than she’s letting on. But as I’ve quickly learned with Lydia, she sure doesn’t like making a fuss. Leaving her on her own under the overhang of the rock doesn’t feel right but she can’t stay outside in this weather. I need to find her warmth and shelter and a doctor. And quickly.
I’m grateful for the shot of hot coffee in my stomach even though her insisting on making it this morning really pissed me off. Despite the water leaking down my neck, my sodden feet and my aching back, I laugh at the memory of her face when I gave her permission to say, ‘I told you so.’ Even having fallen down a mountain, I knew she was dying to. I’ve never known another woman so good at putting me in my place with such good humour.
I like spending time with her. There’s so much I admire about her, which is weird because it’s never been a factor in my relationships with women. I can imagine being friends with her. Okay, more than friends. The sex was amazing but now I’m getting to know her, there’s something about her that is starting to get to me. I really like her. Perhaps a bit too much.
I need to be focusing on finding help rather than on useless introspection. As I come round a bend, I see a stone house about a mile away, perched halfway up the opposite hill with a long drive leading up to it. Relieved, I push my pace, even though my legs are complaining.
My hope dims the closer I get. The place looks deserted.
Ten minutes later I’m standing in the mercifully dry porch easing off my rucksack, my shoulders screaming their gratitude. Sadly, in the way of all good anticlimaxes, there is zero sign of life here. No cars. No lights. No sound apart from the rain gushing like a geyser over the side of one of the gutters. I bang half-heartedly at the door just in case. There’s a key box tucked just to the right. Putting my rucksack down, I push off my hood and swipe away the drips running into my eyes.
I look at the numbers and memorise what’s there to start with and then move a couple of the numbers – in case the last person that used it was lazy enough to leave the numbers almost the same. No joy. I know there could be a million combinations but I’m not going to give up, just yet.
I try a few obvious – too-easy-to-guess sets of numbers, 0000, 1234, 4321, 4567, 5678, 6789.
I could be here the rest of the day but each time I try I hope with that little, tiny spark of it-just-might-work. It doesn’t.
I finally have to admit defeat. I’m wasting too much time. Lydia’s lying there, cold, wet and alone.
Fuck. Now what? Do I push on in the hope of finding somewhere elsewhere? With one last bang on the door, I vent my frustration more than anything else. I need to get back to her. What if she’s passed out? Losing blood? My stomach cramps with sudden anxiety. I need to get her somewhere warm. This is the nearest option. There must be a way inside.
I skirt the building, cricking my neck as I examine the first floor for open windows. What? I’m a cat burglar now? I peer through the solid bi-fold doors at the back of a big open kitchen and give them a hopeful jiggle just in case someone forgot to look them. They didn’t. All my furtive prowl ascertains is that it’s a very nice-looking house with a very cosy, comfortable-looking interior, which is firmly closed to me. The noticeable thing is that there are no proud parent photographs, which makes me think the house probably sees the most action as an Airbnb. My parents’ house has a table full of silver framed pictures of me and my brother and sister in our finest moments – graduations, twenty-first birthdays, my sister’s wedding (which, from my observation, was definitely not something to be celebrated) and my brother when his team won Actuarial Team of the Year (which he’s never let me forget).
Time is ticking. There are a couple of outbuildings including a double-door garage – firmly locked, of course. One of the outbuildings is open but completely empty apart from a water tap. It’s no Bethlehem stable with its bare concrete floors, a cobweb-encrusted window and a battered wooden door, but it is shelter with running water.
And for all I know someone could arrive at any moment and offer us shelter. This thought makes up my mind. I’ll bring Lydia here. Dumping my rucksack in the dry little shed, I eye the pouring rain. The gunmetal sky shows no sign of a break, the clouds hover close to the horizon and, with a heavy sigh that I can’t offer her more, I set off back to Lydia.
Worry drives my pace on the way back, although not having to carry my rucksack certainly helps and I’m back in twenty minutes, although I’ve been gone for a full hour altogether. I scale the hillside, scrambling up across craggy outcrops and tussocks of grass to reach the rocky overhang. Lydia is huddled where I left her and from here her white face stands out from the dark green of her waterproof. Her eyes are closed and she’s motionless. A cold hand closes over my heart and I feel panic – pure, terrifying panic. It’s not like me. I’m normally confident that I can manage most things, fix things, sort things out. But Lydia isn’t a thing. She’s never been a thing.
I finally admit as I grow closer to her that from the minute I met her I was fascinated by her, by that seemingly impervious shield around her. The solid self-containment was at odds with the warmth and interest dancing in her eyes. I suck in a breath. Please let her be all right. And then I berate myself. What does all right even mean? Is that for my convenience because I’m scared of what it might mean if she isn’t? Or is it for her because I want her to be safe? Because I need her to be safe.
‘Lydia,’ I call in a low voice, not wanting to startle her. Again, I think it’s for my benefit. For some reason, I just need the reassurance of saying her name out loud.
The pallor of her skin makes that fist closed over my heart grip even more tightly. Shit. I have to get her back to the house. I’ll break in if necessary. I can always pay for a broken window, for fuck’s sake.
Her eyes flicker open. ‘Tom. You came back.’ Her voice sounds weak and disbelieving. The bare words hit me like a punch to the midriff, they reveal so much. I hate that she even doubted I would.
‘Of course I came back.’ My voice is quiet and reassuring. Did she honestly believe someone would abandon her like this? I actually hurt on her behalf. I soften my voice. ‘We’re a team, remember?’
‘Yes.’ She nods weakly, her hand scrabbling at the thermos beside her. I notice she’s shivering. ‘Want some coffee? I saved you some. You’re soaking.’
Exasperation makes me want to shake her. She’s the one that needs hot liquid inside her. Instead I say, ‘I found a house. It’s about a twenty-minute walk. On the other side of the valley. No one’s there but they might be by the time we get back, and if not, we’ll have to break in, but if we pay for the damage and explain it was an emergency, I’m sure they won’t mind. Do you think you can walk there?’ Stupid question because I know what her answer will be.
‘Yes,’ she says. Of course she does.
‘You can lean on me.’
Immediately she tries to lever herself up, narrowly missing banging her head. There’s dried blood on the side of her neck and a nasty graze across her cheek.
‘Lydia, slow down.’ I take her arm, forgetting it’s the one she was being careful with earlier, and she squeaks in pain. ‘Sorry.’ I back off and, typical Lydia, she lunges forward to gather up the first-aid kit.
‘For fuck’s sake. Let me,’ I say and manoeuvre around her in the tight space to pack up the bits around her. Why does she always have to worry about doing everything herself? She’s clearly in pain.
She glares at me and I regret speaking so harshly but Christ, I’m worried about her.
‘Come on,’ I say and watch as she slides and shuffles on her bottom over the rock and out into the rain. She turns and reaches for her rucksack.
‘Leave it. I’ll come back and get it later.’
‘No.’
I get that she’s shaken up, but seriously?
‘I need my pack,’ she says, her voice vibrating with tension. I can see the set of her jaw. I’ve got as much chance of separating her from the damn thing as of getting between a lioness and her cubs. But I try because it makes sense. ‘I promise. I’ll come straight back and get it.’
She shakes her head. ‘I need it.’
‘Lydia, why are you so stubborn?’ Exasperation colours my voice. I know she’s not feeling well so I try and temper my tone. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we take out anything you think you need. I can probably put them in my pockets.’
‘I need everything,’ she says, as obstinate and petulant as a toddler. I find it endearing even though it’s bloody irritating. I don’t understand her need to hang onto the damn thing but I understand that it’s important to her and that counts for a lot. I still roll my eyes. ‘I’ll carry it,’ she says. I can almost see her physically digging her heels into the soggy ground underfoot. ‘I’m not leaving it behind.’
‘Fuck’s sake, woman,’ I growl and grab the pack, hauling it up and swinging it so hard over my shoulder, I almost over-balance.
‘Thank you,’ she says so quietly that I guess she feels bad about her seemingly irrational behaviour, but if there’s one thing I know about Lydia – she’s not irrational. And she’s certainly not stupid. It’s going to be hard enough going for her to walk, let alone carry her rucksack.
I coax her slowly down the hill. It’s clear she’s stiffened up but, aside from a couple of early hisses, she doesn’t complain once. Our pace is beyond slow and the rain continues to stream down, relentless and miserable, finding its way in through every seam of my clothing.
