“What if Google’s wrong?”
Jack raises his eyebrows. “Google is never wrong. And do you want to live in a world where it is?”
I shake my head. I wish I could google: Why did Tariq cheat on me? and get a definitive answer. I wish I could google: How can I get Tariq back? I wish I could google: How can I stop thinking about Tariq? because, honestly, I’m doing my own head in.
“We’ll just have to walk,” Jack says. He narrows his eyes at the bus stop. “This bus stop is so homophobic.”
After we round the bend in the lane, the pavement ends and Jack comes to an abrupt halt. “Where’s the pavement?” he asks.
“I think we just walk in the lane now.”
Jack scowls at the pavement. “This pavement is so homophobic,” he says.
It’s about half a kilometre on when we see a signpost which reads: Public Footpath to Newton Ottery, pointing over a stile in a fence and along a dirt track, through a wood. We both agree it’ll likely be a more scenic, and hopefully quicker, route to where we need to be, so we hop over the stile and head on up the path.
And shortly after that, the killing starts.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JACK
There’s a fork in the path. The right-hand path leads deeper into the woods – and presumably to certain death, because that’s how these things work. The left-hand path opens out into bright, light countryside – freedom, safety and happiness.
So, it’s an obvious choice.
Well, it is for me. Nate wants to take the right fork because the village is in a north-easterly direction and he’s convinced himself with some half-remembered mariners’ sayings that because of where the sun is, we need to go right. But I don’t like this wood – not because it’s scary (it’s not) but the ground is covered in pine needles and other spiky things, and they’re getting all over my flip-flops.
“Where are you going?” Nate asks, as I skip off towards the left fork.
“Towards the village,” I reply.
“It’s this way,” he says. “We need to go right.”
“Well, I’m down this path now and I’m not walking all the way back.”
“Jack, you’re three paces away from me.”
“I’m exhausted, Nate. I need to rest my lallies.”
“You can rest your ‘lallies’ when we get to the barn, can’t you?”
“Not a barn. Cabin.” I lean weakly against a tree. “I’m fading fast.”
“I’m not taking the left fork,” Nate insists.
“Hmm,” I say. “How shall we resolve this impasse?”
“Shall we toss for it?”
“Ooh! Isn’t he bold?” I squeal.
I’m hoping all my campery will cheer Nate up, so he’s nicely Instagrammable by the time we reach the cabin, but he just makes a frustrated growling noise. “Shut up, Jack. OK, fine, we’ll take the left!” And he barges past me.
That boy is a tough nut to crack. But he’ll thank me. This is definitely the right path and we’ll be at the cabin in no time.
We emerge, blinking, into the glorious daylight, and it’s a magnificent vista. It’s open moorland, stretching for as far as you can see, just space and air and not a soul in sight. It’s breathtaking. It’s beautiful. It’s going straight on Instagram.
The shot is simple even for Nate to get right. I’m standing in the centre of the frame, arms outstretched, embracing the open space (and a possible promotional deal for a meditation app), and Nate takes the pic from behind me, so you just see my back, my outstretched arms and a huge expanse of countryside. We’ll hashtag it up afterwards, something about getting back to nature, breathing, mindfulness, that type of shiz. Dylan and Tariq are all about the capitalism with their plane tickets and cocktails. We’re stripped back and real. I mean, I’d follow us.
So, I’m standing there, eyes closed, the wind blowing gently on my face from across the moor, arms stretched out, doing my best to live in the moment to lend authenticity to this photo, and—
“Jack!”
“Have you taken it?”
“Jack!”
“Is that a yes?”
“Jack!”
“Jesus, Nate, all you—”
I open my eyes and freeze. Off to my right, in the distance, two men are running towards us WITH GUNS. Actual, literal guns. And before I can even think, let alone scream, there’s a huge explosion and smoke starts billowing from down in a ditch to my left.
And then I hear the shots.
I am in pink shorts and flip-flops. I could run for my life, but what’s the point? It’d be like Bambi trying to escape the Terminator.
“GET DOWN!”
It’s Nate. He tackles me to the ground and throws himself on top of me, just as there’s another explosion, more smoke, and another rattle of gunfire.
If this is it, if this is the end, I’m surprised to realize that my one wish is that I had been wearing better boxer shorts – just thinking of the staff at the morgue. And I don’t know what’s more alarming – the fact I’m in the middle of a war zone, or the fact I’m more concerned about my underwear. I guess extreme stress does weird things to people.
Just so you know, they’re Jack Wills. I suppose not the end of the world, right?
There’s the sound of heavy footsteps running towards us, a crackle of radios. “Hold fire! Hold fire!” I mean, Jesus Christ, what have we stumbled into?
“Lads? You OK?”
I can’t look up because Nate is still firmly planted on top of me, but I can see a pair of heavy-duty army boots.
“What are you doing here?” the voice continues. “You lost?”
“Yes, lost!” Nate wails.
“We come in peace!” I add, because that’s definitely a thing people say in these situations.
“This is an army reserves training exercise – this whole area is cordoned off to civilians,” Boots says. “How did you get yourselves here?”
“We took the fork!” I mutter.
“I told you we should have taken the one further into the woods!” Nate says.
“The one into the woods
