1
Spray blasted my face. My arse wound was sore from four hours of constant sitting and standing. My arms ached from gripping the wheel. I was exhausted and hungry. But soon none of that mattered. Lights twinkled three or four K ahead, some high, some low. I focused on the low ones, near the water. I didn’t want to end up steering towards a cliff. The biggest concentration was south-west of me. I turned the wheel and headed for the darkness about a K to the left of it.
The more I thought about this shit and the closer I’d got to the coast, the more worked up I’d become. I needed to control myself.
It was nearing first light. For some reason, that always made me feel even colder. But apart from my injuries I was feeling all right. Even the acid burn wasn’t that bad. The lack of Smarties hadn’t had any effect at all.
Half a K out I powered down, keeping the bow pointed towards the land. The tide was out. I’d have about three hundred metres of beach to cover.
About five short of the water’s edge I heard the Yamaha scrape along the bottom. I gave it a quick burst of reverse and then swung the wheel so it faced out to sea again. I unclipped the kill cord from my dry-bag. Making sure the engine was facing dead ahead, in line with the bow, I tied the wheel to the console with the wires from both keys.
I sat on the edge of the RIB with my legs spread and my right hand gripping the grab loop. I leant out towards the console, slapped the throttle lever and jumped. The engine revved and the bow came up. The boat roared off, back the way I’d come.
I was waist deep in water. Some had made it down the neck of the Gore-Tex but otherwise the suit had done its stuff. Daylight was breaking behind me as I waded onto the deserted sand. I moved across it as quickly as I could, heading for the cover of the dunes. I needed to wriggle out of the dry-bag before the place was crawling with early-morning dog-walkers.
As I approached the edge of the town a van came past, and then a milk float. They drove on the left and had British plates. Thank fuck they weren’t Belgian or French. Or, worse still, Norwegian. I’d read about a guy in Kent who’d bought himself a little boat. With only a road map for directions, he’d set off from a town on the river Medway, en route for Southampton. He ran out of fuel, then drifted onto a sandbank. He told the rescue team he’d been careful to keep the coast to his right. He’d ended up going round and round the Isle of Sheppey.
I passed a boatyard. A sign said, ‘Welcome to Aldeburgh’. The road became the high street. It was a typical east-coast town, with old houses painted in pastel colours and local shops trying to compete with the big chains.
A Budgens was open. I picked up a litre of milk, some crisps and Mars bars, and a couple of packs of egg- mayonnaise sandwiches. A woman was sorting the morning papers at the counter. I added a copy of the
Back on the street with my carrier bag, I passed an old butcher sorting out his shop front. At last I found what I was after. The bus stop near the tourist information centre told me I could get a 165 to Ipswich railway station, or I could get the 164 to Saxmundham. The first to arrive would be the 6.59 to Ipswich.
I only had about ten minutes to wait. I sat on the bench in the bus shelter and munched and drank over the morning paper, as you do on your way to work. The early edition carried nothing about an exploding silo in Amsterdam.
2
Chelmsford Saturday, 20 March
11.16 hrs
Liverpool Street wouldn’t be too far now. I was at a table seat with my back to the engine. My head rested against the window. My eyes were closed and the motion of the train made it harder not to sleep.
A bunch of squaddies had got on at Colchester and taken the table across the aisle. All four were in jeans and trainers, and 2 Para sweatshirts so we knew who they were. Four regulation-issue black day sacks sat on the racks above them.
I caught snatches of banter between dozes. It sounded like they had a weekend off and were looking forward to a night on the town and a cheap room at the Victory Services Club at Marble Arch. I’d stayed there once as a Green Jacket, off to Buckingham Palace to get a medal from the Queen.
I would have been about the same age as these guys, but not half as excited. They’d got discounted tickets to the Chelsea game on Sunday from a new website just for squaddies.
I jogged myself awake. ”Scuse me, lads - Chelsea are at home, aren’t they?’
The one nearest to me answered. ‘Yeah, against Blackburn.’
‘What time’s kick-off?’
‘Four.’ He pointed at my head. ‘But you’d better leave that at home, know what I mean?’ He didn’t actually tell me I was a wanker, but I could see he was tempted.
I smiled. I had a Man U baseball cap on. It wouldn’t be the cleverest thing to wear anywhere near Stamford Bridge, but it went very nicely with the baggy brown raincoat and geeky reading glasses I’d kitted myself out with at the British Heart Foundation shop in Ipswich. They rattled against the window as I watched the scenery become more built up. The baby Paras got more excited with every passing minute. They planned to drink the city dry tonight and then shag it senseless before watching the Blues hammer Blackburn.
Until I got back to Anna, I was going to change my appearance at every bound. I’d ditched my Timberlands in favour of a pair of plastic-soled shoes that were already half dead when I’d handed over the two pounds for them.
I had to shed my skin twice a day. This country has more CCTV than the rest of the world put together. That was why I was wearing the glasses and the cap with a big brim. They’ve got facial recognition and software that can analyse the way you walk.
Once I’d got to London, I’d take on another look. And this was the last time I’d be using buses and trains. They all had cameras. I’d pay cash for everything and stay away from my flat, my car, my London life. They must know by now that I’d dropped out of sight, and that Bradley wasn’t delivering Lily on a plate. The voice-recognition gear and all the Tefalheads’ other toys at GCHQ would be whirring away looking for the shape, sound or PIN of Nick Stone.
I watched rows and rows of thirties bay-windowed houses flash by as we hit the suburbs. My head started to hurt, but only where the bite on top of it vibrated against the window.
I closed my eyes again as the Paras got even more lairy about the weekend ahead. Another four cans of Carling came out of a day sack.
3
London
13.23 hrs
I legged it the fifteen minutes or so to Brick Lane. I’d never understood why people liked Ye Olde East End, the area rubbing up against the financial centre. I’d spent my whole childhood in a shit hole like that, trying to dig
