Chapter 9

It's a relief when the coach comes to a stop. Lydia and I have been sitting in silence for the last twenty minutes, during which time the coach has picked up speed again and the road seems bumpier. We're turning more frequently and there are fewer cars passing outside.

The engine is turned off and we both jump as light filters through the gaps in the doors as they start to rise. I nudge Lydia. I reckon we're far enough away for us to jump out here and we need to be quick before anyone spots us. If they're opening the storage compartments, I'm guessing we've arrived at a hotel or something.

Fumbling for our rucksacks we both scramble out of the compartment, dropping to the floor beside the coach. Dusting off my trousers I move away from the coach, hauling Lydia to her feet just in time as the coach driver appears. We're in a layby in the middle of nowhere. As I gulp in fresh air, the nausea in my stomach suddenly deciding to make a comeback, I can't decide if this is a good or a bad thing.

‘Where did you two come from?' The short, stumpy coach driver with the bandiest legs I've ever seen puts his hands on his hips.

Lydia – she's a quick study – follows my lead and we lean against the barrier at the edge of the layby, doing that nothing-to-see-here thing as if we're a couple of hikers stopping for a breather. My heart is suffering from another adrenaline overload but I have to admit it feels good. We got this far and I reckon we can talk our way of this.

I coolly indicate back there with my thumb over my shoulder to the open rugged landscape. The coach driver doesn't even look.

‘I fucking hate driving pensioners,' he grumbles, talking more to himself than us. ‘There's always some bugger who packs his bloody medication and then needs it urgently.'

I'm bloody glad I'm not an octogenarian on his bus. I have a sneaking sympathy for the poor sod who's in dire medical need. It's hard living your life trying not to inconvenience other people.

‘Gotcha. Mr fucking Leighton.' The coach driver grabs a case and stomps off. Seconds later the compartment doors close and the bus pulls out with a sharp jerk. I see a blur of faces trapped behind the windows and I'm very glad that I'm outside under my own steam and not at someone else's mercy. Although now I have a chance to look around, I realise we are the middle of nowhere. There isn't a house or building in sight. Not a single telegraph pole, electricity pylon or road sign.

‘Where do you think we might be?' asks Lydia.

‘No idea.' There are no obvious landmarks or large handy signs saying ‘you are now in Lancashire' or ‘Lower Beckington is ten miles away'. I do a quick calculation. ‘We were on the coach for three and half hours, and some of that felt like good roads.' I up my previous average. ‘If the coach averaged say fifty miles an hour – at a guess I'd say we've travelled at least a hundred and fifty miles from the Lake District.'

‘So we're near London?'

Is she taking the piss? I goggle at her. ‘We might have gone north.'

‘Geography's not my strong point,' she admits. ‘Born and bred in Essex, until I moved to London. Not really been anywhere else. And I don't drive.'

I don't stare, that would be rude, but seriously. She's what, twenty-nine, thirty, doesn't drive and has never been anywhere. I can't imagine that. My parents regularly packed me, my brother and sister into their Mercedes estate for educational days out the length and breadth of the country.

‘I'm guessing we're in Yorkshire or Derbyshire.'

‘At least we're a long way from an orange Land Rover,' she says with a wry smile.

‘I'd say we're well out of range.'

‘Now all we have to do is get to London,' she says.

‘Yup,' I say with sudden determination. We're over the first hurdle and we've put quite a distance between ourselves and our would-be captors.

I suggest we get our bearings and then make a plan. ‘If we walk to the nearest road sign or village, we can work out where we are and then try and hitch our way to London.'

‘Okay,' she agrees, and I like that she's happy to leave the decision-making to me.

‘Which way?'

I look up and down the empty road, then up at the sun and then at my watch. ‘If the sun rises in the east and it's past midday… South is that way. London is south.' Unfortunately, the road is unhelpfully east to west. ‘This way,' I suggest, and we head west.

We set off, walking in single file. The landscape is beautiful in a bleak, uninhabited way but the distinctive stone boundaries running along the contours of the hills worry me and I can't quite put my finger on why.

* * *

We walk in silence for ten minutes. There's not a single signpost. I stop to survey the area and realise that Lydia is lagging some way behind. I've been so lost in thought I'd not been aware of the growing distance between us.

I wait for her and, when she catches up, she's red-faced and panting, tugging at the straps of her rucksack as if it's uncomfortable. I ought to apologise for setting the pace at my speed, but I'm irritated with her. Why didn't she have the sense to pack light?

‘You okay?' I ask and I can't help the clipped tone, which doesn't invite an honest answer. I already know she's struggling. Although fair play to her, she doesn't complain or give me any grief.

‘Fine,' she says and keeps on walking past me, doggedly putting one foot in front of the other. I fall in behind her, letting her walk at her own pace. Part of me admires her silent determination but another part of me wonders how much she's going to hold me up. Potentially there's a lot of walking ahead of us. Now we're far enough away from Mannerdale Hall, we can head to the nearest motorway and then hitch a lift to London. I suspect we've done the hardest part of the challenge, getting out of range of the hunters. Tonight we'll have to sleep rough and who knows how far we're going to have to walk to reach a major highway. Our combined cash won't pay for accommodation, although it will pay for a hot meal and a cup of coffee. I could murder a flat white. Now my ten quid a day coffee habit seems a ridiculous extravagance.

It's a huge relief when we spot an old-fashioned cast-iron white signpost with black lettering at a junction with a much smaller road leading off to the left.

Skelwith Bridge 4 miles.

I weigh up our options. The road is barely a track and four miles is not too far. If we stay on this road we've more chance of seeing a bus or hitching a lift, not that we've seen much traffic so far, but we have no idea where the next settlement might be. Going on the smaller road will mean just over an hour's walk ahead of us. If I was on my own, it would probably take three quarters of an hour.

‘Ever heard of Skelwith Bridge?' Lydia interrupts my thoughts as if I'm some geographic guru. ‘Do you know where it is in the country?'

‘No but we can ask someone when we get there.' And that makes my mind up. Better to go for the finite distance than keep walking endlessly without any clear indication of what's ahead. Lydia follows me, which I'm glad about because I don't want to have to discuss my reasoning.

We set off in silence but after less than half an hour she's lagging behind again. I stop and wait for her. At this rate it will be dark before we reach the village.

‘You're going to have to dump some stuff,' I say. ‘Your rucksack weighs too much. We want to get there before dark.' It's early September and already the nights are starting to close in.

‘It's fine,' she replies, a tight line of mutiny forming on her lips.

‘You're slowing us down.'

She lifts her chin and looks straight at me. ‘Tough,' she says.

I stare. She's been so compliant since we left the layby that I'd got used to it.

She does that shrug that I'm rapidly realising is her equivalent of saying ‘go fuck yourself'. ‘You can go on ahead and wait for me in the village but I'm not taking anything out of my rucksack.'

‘You're just being stubborn now.'

‘No, I'm not.' She sounds so reasonable. ‘I'm compromising.'

‘How do you figure that?' I rasp in frustration.

‘I'm not insisting you walk at my pace, am I?'

I huff out a long sigh. I can't dispute her logic and I'm kind of impressed by her cool dismissal of the argument. Her refusal to engage is admirable. My dad could take a few lessons.

Forty minutes later, we finally trudge, together, into Skelwith Bridge, passing the village sign.

‘Looks very pretty,' Lydia observes but I'm distracted and all I can manage is ‘mmm'.

Something isn't right. The village is picture perfect, with stone-built houses with dark slate roofs and weathered porches, but something is niggling at the back of my brain. I can't put my finger on what is worrying me. Maybe I'm feeling a touch of paranoia.

There's a café across the road called Chester's Bread and Take Away. My stomach rumbles, reminding me that we haven't eaten since our bacon butty. A man and his dog are coming towards us. Shit. There's no way of avoiding him. I look at his face trying to assess whether he's friend or foe. Even Lydia, next to me, has stiffened. The elderly golden Labrador immediately approaches us and starts sniffing my hand. I relax a little. The man's expression is benign and the Lab doesn't strike me as much of a tracker dog.

‘Excuse me, I wonder if you can help?—'

‘You looking for the Force, it's that way.' The man's smile is friendly and his immediate assumption gives me the impression that, one, he's safe and, two, he's given directions more times than he can count.

‘The Force?'

‘The waterfall, Skelwith Force.'

‘Er, no. We were wondering what county we were in.'

The man takes off his hat and pleats the tweed between his fingers for a moment. ‘Cumbria, lad.'

‘Cumbria.' I flash a quick wary look at Lydia. Those niggles are starting to make sense now. The scenery hasn't changed that much. The landscape is the same.

‘Aye.'

‘And what's the nearest town?' I hardly dare ask.

‘Are you lost?'

‘Yes,' I say, impatient for his answer.

‘We're about three miles from Ambleside, seven to Windermere and about fifteen to Kendal.' He's a mine of useful information and without pausing for breath, he adds, ‘If you want to you can get the bus, the 516 – be here soon – goes to Kendal via Ambleside and Windermere.'

‘We're in the Lake District?' I ask as my spirits drop to the soles of my shoes. Seriously?

‘What, were you beamed in by aliens?' asks the man, scratching his head. ‘You youngsters.'

‘We hitched a lift,' Lydia says helpfully as if she's aware that I've seized into one massive ball of tension.

‘You want to be careful doing that, missy. But then you've got your big strapping boyfriend, I reckon he can look after you.'

She nods. I'm still trying to process the fact that we're probably closer to Mannerdale Hall now than when we were dropped off this morning.

‘Have a good day now. Come on, Tiger.' He tugs at the lead and the docile Labrador trots along after him. Lydia looks as if she's about to giggle at the dog's name. Mentally I almost dare her. It will give me the excuse I want to explode but it appears I don't need one.

‘I don't fucking believe it,' I burst out. ‘How could we have been driving round the Lakes for over three fucking hours?' I glare at her. Fucking tour bus. That's what we were on. Trundling through the fucking Lake District.

‘Don't blame me, you bundled me in.'

‘You suggested it.'

‘If I suggested calling a client a lying sack of shit to their face, would you do it?'

‘Are you ever going to let that go?'

She folds her arms and glares back at me. ‘No. I like winding you up.' At least she's honest about it.

We're so busy arguing with each other that we don't see the bus arrive at the bus stop. The first we see of it, is as it trails past heading out of the village.

‘Fuck's sake,' I say as the bloody thing lumbers away in a cloud of diesel smoke. I march over to the bus stop and look at the timetable tacked up there. ‘Fucking brilliant, the next one isn't until 8:15 tomorrow morning.'

‘It's probably for the best,' she says.

‘How do you figure that?'

‘Remember. Mark said people always head for civilisation. That's where everyone will head. We've got a tent. We can camp and stay off the grid for a couple of days.'

I stare at her. Does she even know what staying off the grid actually entails?

She continues in that blithe way as if she has the first clue about what she's talking about. ‘Now we know where we are, we can look at the map and maybe hike for a couple of days towards a main road and then we can perhaps try to thumb a lift.'

I'm irritated she's telling me my own plan. ‘That would have been fine if we'd moved any great distance from where we started. But given we're virtually back where we began, don't you think that they'll be monitoring those routes?'

She smiles at me as if she's got all the answers. I have to hand it to her, she doesn't stay down for very long and she doesn't dwell on an argument or sulk. ‘Not if we go north first. They'll be expecting us to go south. Do what everyone does. We could walk north, then pick up a main road. They can't monitor every road, can they?'

Once again, I'm reluctantly impressed. She's a smart cookie and I like her thinking.

‘Okay.' I nod my head. ‘Better get moving. We need to get out of here and a good distance away. The sun will go down before too long and we don't want to be wandering about in the dark. We need to find somewhere to set up camp.'

‘I supposed we'd better do some filming as well,' suggests Lydia.

I get out the GoPro and do a quick selfie of us both. ‘Currently still in the Lake District, in a village called Skelwith Bridge. We're heading into open countryside to find a spot to camp for the night. Over and out from Tom and Lydia.'

‘That was impressive. Very smooth,' says Lydia. ‘You could almost be a TV presenter.'

‘Thanks.' I don't tell her that I've been making my own documentaries since I was a kid and it really is second nature to me.

The High Street is a bit too public, so we head down a footpath alongside the back of a barn and consult the map, deciding to follow one of the streams so that we'll have access to water. I wonder if Lydia has any idea how to put up her tent. I regret giving the tent to Rory now. I'm going to have to share with Lydia tonight. I just hope she doesn't want to have any deep conversations again. I hope she doesn't snore. I hope … I can sleep and not lie next to her remembering the last time we shared bedspace.

We walk for another hour, until we're well away from Skelwith Bridge and out in the open countryside. There are pockets of trees, and uneven lumps and bumps of grassy banks. I'm not sure of the legal situation but I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to wild camp in England, as opposed to Scotland where it is permissible. I don't bother raising it, there doesn't seem much point.

I hand the camera to Lydia. ‘Just film me in conversation and then we can put this thing away for the evening.'

I look into the camera lens. ‘This looks promising. We'll be hidden by the trees and it's not so exposed.' I look round at the grassy clearing with a small stream at one side. At another time, it might be quite idyllic but now it just feels unfamiliar and slightly menacing. Anyone could be watching us from the trees or a drone could fly overhead at any time.

‘They don't have wolves in England anymore, do they?' Lydia asks.

I smirk. She's being funny, isn't she? For the camera. It eases my tension but then I see the way she's gnawing at her lip. Surely she's not being serious. I decide to tease her. ‘Have you ever been out of a town before?'

‘Yes, plenty of times,' she says but I see her straightening her back and that familiar lift of her chin. Archetypal defensive body language. I should know, I've employed it on plenty of occasions. I decide not to make the comment, ‘You must have had a deprived childhood,' because it sounds a bit superior and judgy. Not everyone's parents are as pushy as mine or insist on taking their children on educational holidays all the time.

‘Do you want to put the tent up, while I collect some firewood?' I suggest, panning round with the camera. I plan to have a bit of a scout about, check there's no one nearby and work out an exit strategy if we need one. Yeah, I've probably watched too many films, but I want to win that money and I reckon I've got a good chance.

‘Sure,' she says with so much confidence I dismiss the slight concern at her lack of camping experience. These days, two-man tents are pretty simple to erect.

‘Okay.' I ease my rucksack from my back and lean it against a tree. I can see the relief on her face as she lowers hers to the floor and rubs her shoulders.

What does she have in there? The tents are those lightweight ones so it's not that that's weighing her down. ‘I'll leave you to it.' I start to walk off.

‘I need the tent,' she says.

I stop dead and look at her and then at her rucksack. ‘What do you mean?' I switch the camera off with a sense of foreboding. No need to film this.

‘Tansy took our tent to carry…' Her voice trails off as it dawns on both of us. ‘Rory's got yours?'

‘Yup.'

Fuck, double fuck and fuckity fuck. I look up at the sky, which, did I mention, has started to darken. Black, water-laden clouds are threatening.

I exhale heavily. I do not fucking believe this.

‘It's not my fault,' she protests.

‘Didn't say it was.'

‘But you thought it.'

‘I'm just hacked off, that's all.'

‘The plus side is that we don't have to share a tent,' she points out in that typically helpful Lydia way.

‘That's certainly a big plus in the scheme of not having a tent.' My voice is full of snarky sarcasm. ‘So, what have we got?'