Chapter 13

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.

‘Good,' he says in peremptory fashion. ‘Let me know if you want a break.' We've barely spoken to one another and I don't know if he's been as lost in his own thoughts as I have.

‘Yeah, thanks.'

‘This is so fucking miserable,' he says, walking alongside me. It's the most we've spoken since we left the shelter.

Tom heaves a heavy sigh and tugs on the shoulder straps of his rucksack.

We travel on in silence, but it feels a bit more companionable as we're side by side, walking in tandem. The straps of my rucksack feel like they're trying to separate my shoulders from my neck and I keep fidgeting surreptitiously with them to try and get more comfortable.

‘Do you want to stop for a while?' Tom asks.

‘No.' I swivel around to view the landscape, which is a wasted effort. It feels as if we"re inside the raincloud, visibility is so poor. ‘There's nowhere to stop. We might as well keep going.'

‘Are you sure? How are the feet?'

‘They're fine,' I say.

He smiles a grim smile. ‘And you wouldn't say otherwise. Honestly, Lydia, you are … something else.' He shakes his head. ‘I don't want you to be in pain.'

The simple statement lances through all my defences. My heart does an unfamiliar bunny hop in my chest and I stare at him. This is beyond my experience and I have no idea what to do with it. I swallow a lump which has crept into my throat, sneaky bugger. ‘I'm fine.'

‘Okay. If you say so. Then I suggest we head for those trees up ahead.'

I can just about make out a cluster of trunks in the gloom.

‘Maybe it'll be a bit dryer and we can make a shelter for the night,' he adds.

It seems churlish to ask him, what with? Especially when he's been so … so what? Kind, lovely, caring, considerate. It shakes me up inside. I'm not used to people being concerned for my welfare.

As we near the forest, he nudges me and points to a field in a valley to the left. ‘Look.'

Through the misty mizzle I can just make out a structure. At this distance it isn't obvious what it is, but it has part of a roof and it looks like shelter.

We both pick up speed and after a boggy trek across the lumpy field strewn with boulders, we reach a gate and what was once a cottage. Half the roof is open to the sky, the exposed beams blackened from what was obviously a catastrophic fire, but one part still retains some slates. Ancient, tattered net curtains, sodden with rain, slap half-heartedly in the wind against the rotten window frames of the second floor like ghouls.

The front door is solid but when we reach it, there's a heavy padlock securing it.

‘Fuck,' says Tom. ‘There must be a way inside.'

We ditch the rucksacks and circle the building. The windows on the ground floor have all been boarded up. Tom tries to peel his fingers under one of the rough hardwood sheets but they've been well and truly nailed down.

A broken gutter sends a splashy cascade down the side of the building where a green slimy mould stains the wall and soaks the wooden board, but despite that it holds firm.

‘Shit,' he says after another attempt when he comes away with a bloody finger.

I'll give him an A plus for persistence. He keeps trying and looking for a way in and I'm his faithful supporter. We find rocks to try and bash the wood in, use sticks as levers to try and lift the boards away. Nothing works.

We return to the front door and Tom gives into his frustration and kicks the heavy door a couple of times.

‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.'

He goes back for one last kick and as he does something falls to the ground from the lintel above. He's too busy venting to notice and I crouch down and pick up the small silver key with a quick grin.

‘Er, Tom,' I say but he's still busy, kicking the door and swearing at it.

So I take the key, push him out of the way and insert it in the padlock. Smooth as proverbial silk, it turns and the hasp pops open.

Tom stops and stares as I turn back to him.

‘How did you do that?'

I hold up the key and nod towards the lintel where it had obviously been stored.

‘I don't fucking believe it. Lydia, you're a genius.'

I'm more than happy to take credit where it's not due, so I grin at him. Whereupon he throws his arms around me and hugs me. Then he steps back as if surprised by this uncharacteristic demonstration of elation, confusion evident in his eyes, but I'm still grinning up at him. He grins back and for a second we stand there smiling at each other like complete fools. He sweeps a hand in front of him. ‘After you, madam.'

My trusty torch flickers over what was once a kitchen, the only room in the house with a ceiling. The rest of the space is unsheltered, those burnt rafters like black skeletal fingers against the darkening sky. Across the hall, there's a drawing room, the walls crumbling around a chimney breast. In this room, a scar on one wall attests to the spot where there once would have been a range, but all that's left now is a crumbling 1960s kitchen dresser, a broken table and several chairs which I wouldn't trust with my weight. I also suspect we might be sharing the floorspace with sundry rodents but I'm not sure I care overmuch. It's dry, and at this moment in time that is all that matters.

‘What a dump,' says Tom, surveying the room.

I peel off my wet coat and shiver a little but I hang it up on a hook on the back of the door before starting to explore. I open a door to what was once the pantry, shining my torch into the black void. There are dilapidated floor-to-ceiling shelves, home to few unsightly, rusty tins as well as a couple of assorted flabby grey cardboard boxes, which have been nibbled at the corners. I nudge one of them with curious wariness.

‘Candles!' I shout, as the box collapses and several wax candles roll out. I make a grab at them, suddenly grinning.

‘Marvellous,' says Tom from over my shoulder. ‘Now we can clearly see what a shithole we're in.'

I examine the other boxes. More candles. Sadly, no handy firelighters or anything vaguely useful. I don't think thirty-year-old gravy salt, which is an indeterminate grey, is going to get us very far.

I light a candle, drip some wax on the table and put it down before lighting a couple more and putting them around the room. Now the room is bouncing with shadows as the flames flicker.

‘Well, would you look at that?' Tom points to an alcove filled with wooden logs next to where the stove would have been. ‘I've got an idea.' He disappears and minutes later I hear the sound of metal being dragged across the floor towards the kitchen door. He appears in the doorway pulling a metal grate that he's obviously rescued from the old fireplace in the lounge.

‘We can build a fire and use the flue where the old stove was,' he says. ‘There's enough stuff in here to burn to get a fire going.'

The thought of being warm, and drying my clothes, and being able to heat water is heaven.

‘But what about if they're looking for us and they see the smoke?'

‘It's going to be dark soon. Besides, I doubt anyone could see it in this weather. Hopefully they're scratching their heads in Kendal at the moment and trying to repair a very expensive drone.'

He sets about building a fire, breaking up one of the chairs for kindling, which takes very little effort.

‘Don't suppose you've got any more wool in your pockets?'

I shake my head.

He takes one of the candles and tries to light one of the pieces of kindling, but as soon as it catches light, it bursts into flame and dies quickly before setting fire to the other pieces of wood. After several attempts he puts down the candle. I'm starting to shiver. He tries again but to no avail.

‘Bugger. This isn't working. I need something to get it going.'

I have a lightbulb moment and rescue my toilet bag. I hand him a tampon.

‘What?'

‘It's made of cotton wool. Packed down tight. If you open it up, I think it will burn.'

He takes it from me, between finger and thumb as if it's a fucking hand grenade.

‘Oh for fuck's sake.' I laugh at his squeamishness and snatch it from him, rip off the paper, hand it back to him along with the carboard tube before tugging at the white cotton tampon to expand it.

‘Sorry,' he says, slightly shame-faced as he sets it on the grate and builds a pyramid of the kindling around it. The wooden logs, which have been in the cottage for so long, are so dry that they catch almost immediately.

He raises a hand and we high-five each other.

Unfortunately, seconds later, my eyes start to water as the room begins to fill with smoke.

‘Quick, open the door,' says Tom.

‘The door?' What's he on about.

‘To draw the fire up the chimney. It's too cold. Go on, quick.'

I have no idea what any of this means but his imperative tone sends me scurrying to the door, which I open. Surely this will just let out all the heat?

But miraculously it does the trick and the smoke starts to dissipate. After a couple of minutes there's a roaring fire in the grate and Tom tells me I can close the door. The heat is delicious and I creep towards it, hands outstretched. It's only then I realise just how chilled I am and how cold my fingers are, as they tingle with my circulation returning.

I really want to take my wet clothes off but decide we need to get organised first. Besides I need to go back outside. Grabbing my coat, I start to shoulder my way into it.

‘Where the hell are you going?'

‘To get some water. I can fill the billycan from the gutter and we can have a hot drink and some food.' I bet he won't be complaining about the quality of the food this evening.

I end up filling both billycans and both thermos flasks because I don't want to have to come out here again tonight. I also take advantage of the privacy for a quick pee.

When I re-emerge from the undergrowth he is at the front of the house with the GoPro.

‘We ought to shoot some footage.'

‘Do we have to?' I just want to get on and set up camp for the night.

‘We don't want to give the fuckers any excuse for reneging on the ten grand they owe us. They might have something in the small print. I wouldn't put it past them.'

He has a point. I stand with him as he takes a selfie of the pair of us, then films a video, breaking into yet another eloquent commentary. ‘This is our accommodation for day two of being on the run.' He pans the camera around the room. ‘Not the most salubrious and we probably need to catch a couple of rabbits to knock up a tasty stew but for now we've got astronaut rations in silver foil packets, which will have to do. We've also got fire and shelter, so it's over and out for the evening from Team Tomdia.'

‘Did you just say Tomdia? Please don't ever say that again.' I shudder as he gives me an unrepentant grin.

‘Okay, how about Lydom? Although, come to think of it, both sound a bit like an STD.'

I glare at him. I would know. Let's hope he never finds out what Lydia is really short for, I'm sure he'd find it amusing.

* * *

An hour later, Tom lifts his enamel cup, toasting me, and then takes a deep, appreciative sniff. ‘Cheers, Lydia. You're a lifesaver.'

I toast him back and take a sip of the black coffee, basking in his praise.

‘That is bloody marvellous,' he says with a sigh.

‘It's not bad,' I reply. Amazing the difference being warm and dry can make.

The room is now quite cosy, even with our drying clothes draped over two of the chairs in front of the fire, and we're both sitting on our folded travel towels, a barrier against the cold of the floor.

I tear open the silver sachets of dehydrated food and tip in some of the hot water from the billy, my hand wrapped in a jumper, which is the next best thing to an oven glove.

‘What do you reckon it is?' asks Tom as I hand him one.

‘No idea and I don't actually care.'

‘Me neither.'

He takes a mouthful. ‘I think it's dried mouse bollocks, which have had a passing acquaintance with a teaspoon of tomato puree.'

I snort out a laugh and take a taste. ‘I think it's supposed to be chilli con carne and rice.'

‘I think the manufacturers should be taken out and shot. But I'm so bloody hungry I don't care. I guess the manufacturers are relying on that to save them.'

‘I've tasted worse,' I say glibly but I realise I've made a mistake when in the candlelight I can see Tom studying me.

‘Have you?' he asks. ‘Really?' He watches me as I lift another forkful into my mouth.

I shrug my shoulders, really not wanting to talk about how I cobbled together some pretty strange combinations when I was younger.

I duck my head and the crackle of the fire fills the silence. I watch the flames leap in a mesmerising dance, primeval and reassuring, grateful for the heat.

‘If you could eat anything right now, what would you choose?' he asks, swallowing down another mouthful of his food.

‘Smoked salmon and a cream cheese bagel,' I say without hesitation. Ever since I first had one, they've been my idea of absolute luxury. When I'm feeling flush I treat myself to a pack of smoked salmon and a tub of Philadelphia and have it for breakfast.

‘Nice and simple,' he observes.

‘That's me,' I reply. ‘Cheap date.'

‘You don't complain, do you?' he says suddenly.

‘What?'

‘You don't complain. Not at all. I said it the other day but we hadn't been through much hardship, but today … I've not heard you moan or whine once. Not about the weather conditions, or your foot, which obviously hurts, or being hungry or cold. Nothing.'

I don't like the direction of this conversation. It's sounds like he's making a virtue out of something I'm not comfortable with. Talking about it will expose too much of me. The me I keep hidden.

I shrug again.

‘You do that a lot, too,' he says.

This time I roll my eyes. ‘Maybe I just don't want to talk about things. Same as you.'

‘I talk about things.'

‘Yeah, right.'

‘You're talking about the sex thing again.'

‘I wasn't, but now you bring it up, why did you pretend you didn't know who I was in Barcelona?'

Now it's his turn to be silent. I wait it out.

‘I don't know. It was a shock to see you. It's not like it meant anything. It was a one-off.'

‘Given it happened nearly a year ago, I think I got that.'

‘But I'm sorry about that day. I was in a shitty mood and I took it out on you and the dickhead we insured.'

‘The lying sack of shit?'

‘Fuck. Yes, not my finest hour.'

‘I think we were both in shitty moods.' I'm not about to confess why my mood was so shitty. That I'd been fantasising for months about meeting him again and it had been a big fat disappointment.

‘Although,' I add, ‘you could have apologised to Mr Lopez.'

‘Why?'

‘Because it made you look unprofessional. Weren't you embarrassed that he heard you?'

‘You think I care what he thought?'

I stare at him. That genuinely hadn't occurred to me. I'd have been mortified.

‘You don't like other people much, do you?' I ask.

Now it's his turn to shrug. ‘They're all right.'

I laugh. ‘"They're all right." That's hardly fulsome praise. What about the people you work with? Your team.'

‘They're just people I work with. I don't really think about them. Everyone wants something from you.'

‘You do have friends, don't you?' I ask.

‘Of course I have friends. Just not at work.' He purses his mouth. ‘I choose my friends carefully.'

In that we're the same. ‘Me too,' I say.

‘Bet you're friends with all your team. I'm sure they all love you – the security guy, Danny, definitely does.'

I smile. ‘Yeah, they do.' I pause and then say in a louder voice, ‘Because I'm nice to them. You should try it some time.'

‘I prefer to keep myself to myself.'

‘So what do you do with these carefully chosen friends when you're not at work?'

He lifts an eyebrow.

‘Yes, Tom, we're having a conversation. We might as well, given that there's sod all else to do. What about we make a pact, whatever you tell me on tour stays on tour?'

His mouth quirks into a begrudging smile. ‘You're very direct.'

‘Mate, I've got nothing to lose. Look where we are.'

‘You have a point.' He crosses his legs and winces. It's not that comfortable on the floor even with the towels. ‘I play five-a-side football with mates a couple of times a week. I'm a Marvel and Star Wars fan so I like going to the cinema. I like reading true crime fiction and listening to politics podcasts while I'm out running. I make films and I'm still in close contact with my uni friends and we socialise a lot together. Dinner, going out for drinks, all that malarkey. And Sunday lunch with the folks once a week with my brother and sister. Pretty standard stuff. What about you?'

‘Similar. I've got two really good friends from uni. We go out together a lot and I socialise after work once a week with my team, because as you said, they love me … and newsflash, I like them too.'

‘What about hobbies, interests?'

I'm about to shrug and then think better of it. ‘Is cleaning a hobby?' I muse out loud.

‘Er, no.'

‘That's a bit sad, isn't it,' I joke. My flat is spotless. I don't think I've got a compulsive disorder, but I like things to be tidy.

‘No. I noticed as you set up the camp last night and tonight, you had to get things into an order and sorted. You like to be organised. There's no crime in that. I shared a flat with a guy once and he lived in chaos, it did my head in. I couldn't stand it. I moved out after a couple of months. I certainly don't describe myself as a neat freak but he was…' Tom shakes his head. ‘All over the place, you know.'

I give a tight smile. Yeah, I know. Only too well.

‘I've never seen a Stars Wars film,' I volunteer as much for a change of subject as anything else because I know this always elicits howls of disbelief and wide-eyed horror. I'm pleased to see that Tom is no different and reacts with outraged predictability.

‘What! You're kidding me.'

I hold up a hand. ‘Nope. I've never seen Princess Leia in that scene with Jabba the Hutt, or Han Solo frozen in Carbonite or when Darth Vader tells Luke,' I put on the appropriate voice, ‘I am your father.'

Tom bursts out laughing. ‘For someone who's never seen one of the films, you seem to know a lot about them.'

‘That's because people always say the same thing about them. Every. Single. Time.'

‘Please tell me you've seen a Marvel film.'

‘Yes, my friend Eleanor has a slight obsession with Thor.'

‘Chris Hemsworth. Why do all the women fancy him?'

‘Might be something to do with those twinkly eyes, that smile or the fact that he's just plain hot,' I quip lightly. ‘But actually it's the real Thor, as in the Viking god. She sits through the films complaining about the license they've taken with Norse mythology. She works in a bug farm.'

‘Sorry?'

I've added the latter for entertainment value and perhaps to make me sound a bit more interesting, because, hey, look, I have interesting friends. ‘She works for a company that is conducting research into how black flies can be farmed as an alternative food source.'

‘Seriously?' Tom looks appalled. Okay, so maybe not that interesting.

‘Yup. Right in the centre of London. It's fascinating.'

‘I'll take your word for it.' He shakes his head. ‘I still can't believe you've never seen Star Wars. You must have had a deprived childhood.'

If only he knew.

‘Very funny,' I say with all the sarcasm I can muster. Before I can say anything else he continues.

‘I usually judge people on who their favourite character is.'

‘Han Solo.'

He's surprised by my alacrity. ‘But you've never seen it.'

‘It's Harrison Ford. What's not to like?'

He rolls his eyes.

‘Who's your favourite character then?'

‘Obi-wan Kenobi, Leia Organa, Bobo Fett.'

‘That's three.'

‘Obi watched the man that trained and raised him be killed in front of him and still managed to avenge him despite Darth Maul being way more powerful. He was forced to kill the man he called a brother for the greater good, and gave up the love of his life for the Jedi. He's selfless to the end and still a master of the force. Princess Leia was willing to die and be tortured before giving up rebel secrets. Watched her home planet destroyed in front of her, and then despite no war experience stepped up to become a general in the rebel alliance. She never once let being a woman stand in her way, despite being surrounded by men who doubted her. Held her own in the Battle of Endor without proper combat experience. Never once complained that her brother inherited the force and was painted as the one who brought all the balance, despite all that she did. And Boba Fett, well … he had cool armour.'

I burst out laughing at the serious expression on his face, although his answer gives a lot away about his character and his values. I'm particularly impressed by his choice and description of Leia. I'm coming to realise there's a lot more depth to Tom Dereborn than I'd originally given him credit for.

‘So?' I ask, still pondering his heartfelt response.

‘So, what?'

‘How would you judge me?'

He smirks. ‘Actually, you'd get okay marks for Han Solo. He's cool and has the best quips.'

‘Well, that is a relief,' I tease. ‘I'd hate to have got it wrong.'

‘Do you get things wrong?' he asks, and it doesn't sound like an idle question.

‘I try not to,' I say because it's the truth.

‘Me too, but it doesn't always work out.' His mouth twists in wry resignation and I suddenly want to reach out and reassure him, but I have no idea what to say.