So, The Captain had an aircraft. Up in this useless wilderness, the usual Naclaski rules did not apply—the inhabitants of this landscape did not operate 155mm Naclaski batteries. It meant The Captain could search from the air. Lawrence stared out over the wide open grass and bog he had to cross. The Value System overalls were about the same shade of brown as the dead grass and they were smeared with mud anyway. By lying face down and dead still, it was unlikely his minuscule form would be spotted—there is a hell of a lot of land visible even from a low-flying aircraft. It was more likely The Captain or a henchman was using the flying boat to travel rather than to search. There was probably a suitable stretch of water on which it could land at Wisbech. There certainly was at Peterborough—it was probably not coincidence that the flying boat was receding in that direction. Lawrence watched it shrink from view below the horizon, haunted by the sense of a vast net being pulled over his plans.
Peterborough was not like Wisbech; it was a big town. There were a lot of places to hide, especially for one who had spent two years based there. It was a fair bet some old-timers would remember him, he could think of a few who would help him—if he could get there.
He fastened on the mud shoes and set off over the bog, with a gait like a cross-country skier in soft snow.
*
In these last few hours of daylight, Lawrence made fine progress. From his mind’s eye recollection, the direction to Peterborough lay about forty-five degrees to the right of this old drain to Wisbech, pretty much due south-west into the prevailing wind. He aimed at a copse of trees and some ruins on the horizon, while the sun gradually faded to ruby and sank from sight under a translucent blue afterglow. The copse and ruins lay on the far side of boggy ground, across which he splatted and wobbled on his mud shoes with the night descending around him. He could still make out the bare trees against the starlit sky. The wind was rising. It had a bitter edge to it.
The last hundred metres of this bog proved tougher than expected. He was sinking in, frigid water rose over the mud shoes. He plugged on, getting angrier and more and more alarmed to find himself wading in water up to his knees and then halfway up his thighs. There had been no open water visible at nightfall. So where had this fucking pond come from? It tasted brackish. Even in here, miles from the coast, the marsh was tidal. Numbness crept up his legs to his knees and started taking his fingers. He was going to lose his feet if he was not out of this trap quick—it was speed that mattered, not staying dry. Screwing himself up into a pitch of energy, he strode forward, ploughing through waist deep water, the mud shoes now dragging at his boots and catching in submerged tussocks and reeds, tripping him straight into it. He pounded at the water to claw forward, twisting the mud shoes to stop them holding him dead. Exhaustion burned in his arms and panic pumped in his chest. He chanted curses and sobbed curses, swearing at the cold and the trees laughing down at him. His flailing arms churned into a bank of reeds and he dragged himself up, sobbing and limp with fright. Christ, he was going to have to be more careful than that. It was awfully easy to die out here.
When the shock had eased out of him, he once again faced the war against sleep and death. In soaking clothing, he could not survive another night in the open. Already a dangerous ache was growing at the back of his head and his efforts to pull himself were getting sluggish. The cold was literally gumming up the blood in his veins. His only hope was a fire, at which idea he lay on his back laughing at the preposterousness of generating a fire on this sodden land. No, this was the end game, he was going out this time. Strange it did not seem that bad, more like a massive relief to relax on a bed of cotton wool and drift into eternity…
He clutched Sarah-Kelly to him, her body so soft and warm, her lovely head pressed under his chin, his arms wrapped so tightly around her that she gasped she could not breathe. Her head was cold and pale, with two horns—a deer skull! He threw it away with a cry of revulsion and lay against a fence, listening to the sough of the wind.
The fence gave way and he fell back, becoming aware of the smell of cold ashes and leather. Without thinking about it, he turned over and pulled himself forward, finding he was sheltered from the wind on a dry wooden floor. Now his mind snapped alert and he sat up, looking around. He was in some kind of hut or bothy. It was the door he had leaned on, not a fence. He kicked it shut and gripped one of the stones in his pocket, ready to bash anyone who came at him. Nothing stirred. He cut off the mud shoes with his knife and explored by dragging himself about, pulling himself up to feel along shelves and walls. There was an iron stove, a pile of chopped wood
