Chapter 7

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.

Tom grabs my rucksack, chucks it in and then bundles me in with him following. A second later the doors close, sealing us into the dark. Immediately the sense of relief lifts all the stranglehold of tension gripping the muscles in my shoulders. We've got away. The flood of elation makes me relax back against Tom's side.

‘We did it,' I whisper.

‘We did, partner.' He looks at his watch, which lights up in the dark. It's five past eleven.

Sitting in the dark, closed in, we're safe. No one knows we're here.

‘Wonder where we're headed,' Tom muses, his breath close to my ear.

‘No idea but they might stop again soon.' I pause as a comforting thought strikes me. ‘Don't old people need to pee a lot?'

Tom half laughs in the dark. It's comforting. We're in this together. Who knows, we might pull together yet.

We can hear footsteps overhead but there's no sign of the coach moving off.

‘George, if you try that again, I swear I'll cut your balls off.' The low indignant voice is right outside on the other side of the door and I have to stuff my hand in my mouth to stop a gale of laughter.

‘What happened to the days of al fresco quickies?' asked a plaintive male voice.

‘Lumbago and arthritis, you daft sod. What were you thinking? We'll have a nice comfy hotel bed in a couple of hours. Honestly, you…' grumbles the female voice before drifting away out of earshot.

I giggle very quietly.

‘Fair play to the old guy,' whispers Tom. ‘Life in the old chap yet.' There's a thread of laughter in his voice, which is interrupted by the sudden, distinct rumble of his stomach.

‘Hungry?' I ask.

‘Starving. Unfortunately the food they gave us is that regurgitated stuff that needs hot water adding to it.'

‘You mean dehydrated,' I tease, still on a high from our escape, and pull something from the pocket of my rucksack and hand it to him.

‘Here's something I prepared earlier,' I say, feeling just a little bit smug.

‘What is it?' I can hear him unfurling the tin foil.

‘Bacon butty. I made them at breakfast.'

‘You made them at breakfast?' He laughs.

‘I didn't know when we'd next get fed and there was loads there this morning.' I don't like to tell him that previous necessity has created a habit that has me stockpiling food whenever I can. It still seems slightly shameful. I also snaffled a couple of mini packs of Coco Pops and Sugar Puffs from breakfast.

The silence between as we chew cold bacon is very nearly companionable and it's not half bad.

I'm just about to fish out the Sugar Puffs, figuring they'll make an excellent dessert, when I hear a familiar gruff voice.

‘No sign of them.'

I tense, I swear the food going down my oesophagus stalls, suddenly an indigestible lump. It's Mark from Mannderdale Hall.

‘The drone clearly saw them up top. They're here somewhere. Besides, where else would they go? People always head to civilisation, first sight of it. Let's have another look, you take that side of the car park and check the path down.'

We're both rigid with tension.

‘I'll check this side and the path up. They won't have got far.'

‘Kay. See you back at the Landy.'

When the engine starts up minutes later with a loud diesel rumble, I sag with relief, even though it's like being in the belly of a dragon. A heavy thrum vibrates through the floor rattling my seat bones and the crunch of the tyres on gravel highlights how close to the ground we are. Every judder and shake jars my body as the coach lumbers out of the car park. This might just be the stupidest idea I've ever had but we've got away just in the nick of time.

Once we're on the road, it's a little smoother but very noisy; there's nothing soft down here to absorb the sound of the guttural chug of the engine and the hiss of wheels on tarmac. Tom's watch has tiny fluorescent green dots that become a tiny beacon of light in what is now oppressive darkness each time he moves. The absence of my phone has never been felt more keenly. It's become universal insulation from conversation and lack of conversation.

We know each time the bus goes up a hill because, one, we start to slide backwards against the pile of cases behind us and, two, the whine of the engine and the judder of the gears are exponentially more noticeable.

Every twist and turn of the road engages muscles I didn't know I had as I try to maintain purchase on the floor. Apology after apology trips from my tongue as I keep lurching against Tom.

‘You okay?' asks Tom as I try to haul myself upright after being pitched up against him for what feels like the nine hundred and ninety-fifth time.

‘Not really. I'm not sure I thought this through.'

He laughs. ‘Lydia. It's not supposed to be comfortable. That's what they want. Putting up with adversity and triumphing for the TV cameras. We're probably supposed to be wading through bogs, hiding in caves and being generally wet and miserable. That's what the audience wants to see. At least we're dry and out of danger of being captured.'

‘I suppose so,' I say, grudgingly accepting his point, although I'm feeling slightly sick with the diesel fumes.

‘Here.' He fiddles with something and his torch light comes on and I realise he's switched on the GoPro.

‘Day one and we've hitched a ride.' He makes a wide sweep of the belly of the coach, holding the torch and GoPro in one hand, lighting up all the suitcases herded in one side of the compartment like livestock at market. ‘Not sure where we're headed but hopefully it's a good distance away from the immediate vicinity and the hunters. We've had a near miss with them, but we got away in the nick of time.'

The light has lit up an empty corner and he tugs on my sleeve for me to follow. I crawl next to him. This is better, there's a proper wall for us to lean against but it's a narrow space, and the two of us can just squeeze in together. To make it easier, he puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer so that we're wedged side by side.

The journey varies, stopping, starting, slowing and speeding, and I remember Mark picking us up from the station and being stuck behind the coach. Being able to visualise the coach's progress is reassuring as my stomach is turning slow somersaults. Please, please don't let me be sick. Closing my eyes makes no difference, not that I thought it would.

I grit my teeth. I just to need to endure this. I'm plenty practiced at enduring things.

There's a series of rapid gear changes and suddenly the going is much smoother. Faster too. We can also hear the rumble of other traffic, whooshing past us.

‘I think we might be on a motorway,' I say.

‘Sounds like it,' agrees Tom. ‘Which is good news. It's taking us that much further away from the hunters.' I can't see him, but I can tell from his voice that he's grimly satisfied.

The motion and the dark make me drowsy and droopy. My eyes close and I start awake as my head lands on Tom's chest. He slides his arm down around my back, pulling me in to him. ‘Go to sleep.'

Miraculously, I do just that.