Breakdown (37 page)

I make Bridey go. I hug her close. Tell her I'll be OK. Tell her we'll meet again. I stand at the crossroads. Water running in the dark. I can't hear anything over the trickle of water.
Where will Tarquin be?
I must move.
Find him
. I'm very near the Wall. Bridey pointed the way.
Find the stream. Wade through the water. How far should I wade? Will it cover my scent?

So the General is out hunting after all.

I set off again at a run down a long stretch of bank. Into another field. The footpath is smaller, harder to follow. The rain stops. The clouds clear. The moon shines out. Scarily bright.

Let Bridey get back safely.
How long have I got?
As if in answer, the howling of the dogs breaks out. A great din of barking and growling. The horn rises above it.

The Wall must be here somewhere.

In my mind I hear what Bridey told me
.
‘Wylam Waggonway. George Stephenson was born near here.'

‘George Stevenson?'

‘The trains.'

‘Oh.'

‘Follow the track till you come to the Wall. It's on your left.'

The wind whips down from the north. I tug Bridey's cloak tight about me.

On my left.

There's a tearing noise. Something crashes through undergrowth. I twist my head round, strain into the darkness. And then I see them. About two fields away. Large dogs streaming out of the trees. The moonlight shines on the white patches of their coats, glints on their yellow teeth, catches the fire in their eyes.

They're here. They've found me.

I turn and run. I leap towards the village, burst through the hedge on the far side, don't bother about thorns or bramble. I'm into the next field like a bullet. I pull at saplings and those tall weeds, leap the ruts, race through a patch of nettles. I tear through the undergrowth, swerve boulders, rip through air like I'm an arrow.

A thudding crashes behind me. The dogs? Careem?

The horn sounds again. Deafening. My heart races. My legs shake. Up ahead is the village. I can see ruined buildings.
Reach it.
Weave inbetween lampposts, ducking, leaping, twisting.
How close are the dogs?
No time to look. Ground's covered with wet bracken.
Can't slip. Can't fall.

A pounding shakes the road.
What the hell is after me?
I twist my head. Snatch a glimpse of something larger, behind the dogs, bursting into view. A horse.

Holy shit!
On its back a rider, a shape I recognise.
Holy shitting shit.
The General, bent low against the horse's neck, whip in hand, spurring the creature on.

My only chance is to get off the road. If I stay, he'll catch me. I look for another chance, a gap in the embankment. My lungs can't make it.

Get to the village, barricade yourself in a building. Pray for a miracle.

I drive myself forwards. I race down the road, jumping stones, tearing across shattered tarmac. Stones skitter, chunks of crumbling road surface fly out.

No time to look back. No time to think. Just run. The dogs howl. The thud of horse hooves racing. It's no use, I can't outrun a horse.
Where did he get a horse from?
No need to answer. No time to think. Just run. And breathe. And pray I can find some place to hide.

And as I run I think of Lenny. I think of Tarquin.
Rescue me. Tarquin, where are you? Save me.

But what if the dogs pick up
their
scent? Panic seizes me.
What if I'm leading the dogs straight to Tarquin and Lenny?

I can't do that.

I won't do that.

So I skid to a stop.

I turn around. I put my shoulders back. I bring my chin up. I'm not going a step further. I'll hold my ground right here. Without me, Lenny and Tarquin may get away. If I lead the General and the dogs to the Wall, they may not.

Tarquin may be waiting. Not knowing what's coming.

No, better to die here. There never were any Gods. No escape. No cottage. No happy ever after. So I stand my ground in the centre of a patch of empty land, by the road. I wedge my foot up against a broken piece of stone.

And I crouch low.

And then the dogs come.

Big thick-set pitbulls, cross-bred Staffs. All of them feral, all of them starved, eating whatever they can hunt.

There are ten or so of them. I watch them race towards me. The lead dog is squat and dirty white. His flank's scarred, his jaw drools open. He's an old survivor. Like that dog by the river. Flecks of spittle speck his chest.

I know how to fight dogs. Everyone learns that, sooner or later.

I crouch and wait. I flex my bare hands. I wedge my foot tight against that crevice. I stare at the lead dog. And I prepare myself.

This one doesn't care. He doesn't care about my crouch. He doesn't care about the staring. The thrill of the chase has hold of him. He doesn't even try to turn his head to meet my gaze. He doesn't waver. He just lets out a series of short barks, cranks his tail round and charges.

I crouch lower and shake my head in that strange sideways warning motion, like a bull before a charge. Behind him the pack stream. If he goes down, they will still come.

He draws back his maw. His fangs shine in the darkness: short, stub, long canine incisors.

And he springs towards me, paws reaching, muzzle open.

I grab his front legs and rip them apart.

With a cracking sound, he goes down.

He drops like stone.

The next dog lunges.

I can't fight them all. I raise my arm to guard my throat.

Don't show you're afraid. Time his moves. Don't lower your arm. If he springs again, thrust forward into the jaw. Grab the back of his neck. Push down on his spine. Body slam into the bite.

Jab at his eyes.

Break his neck.

Hold your ground. Don't let them wear you down.

Suddenly the horse is there. Huge. Looming above me. Nostrils flaring. Outlined in a ghostly glow of moonlight. The General, silhouetted in black, towers over me. Cracks his whip. Reins his horse in. Slicing hooves drive back the dogs. One dog, bolder than the rest, still races on. A foreleg slashes out. The dog rolls, is caught under the horse, whines, shrill, terrified. Is trampled underfoot.

‘Let's play,' hisses the General.

Then he spurs his horse forwards. The dogs scatter, desperately trying to escape the horse hooves. The horse shies. Rears up. Twists and leaps over the body of the fallen dog.

And crashes down. I throw myself sideways.

It gives me a split second. I'm on my feet and sprinting across the ground.
Tarquin. Lenny.
Can I double back? Lead the horse away from the village?

But I've come too far. Right in front of me are houses, boarded up, burnt out.
I'm in the village
. I swerve again. There‘s a strip of grass and behind that, low bushes. I see pale stones shining dull in the moonlight, like a low causeway.
Hadrian's Wall.
I swerve again. I don't want to draw the General here. The dogs regroup, howling, unsure.
Keep away. Where's Careem?

The horse crashes through the houses towards me.

No further then.
Maybe Tarquin hasn't got here yet, hasn't waited?
I try to think.

I stop, unsure which way to head.
Here. I'll stay here.
I wedge my foot against another piece of stone.

The horse is nearly on me. It's just another dog, I tell myself.
Think of a way to take it out. It's skittish. It's scared.

It rises above me. Looms closer.
I can't take it out.
Its legs are too thick.
Its nostrils flare. Its breath comes in grunts. Large, open teeth. Froth covered mouth. Ears laid back. Its movements wild. Mane flying. It's crashing towards me. Its eye rolls white. I spin away. Its muzzle sprays out foam.

The General brings the lash down across the horse's flank.
Poor creature, it must be as scared as me. It's going at such speed.
At the last minute I jump aside. I can't wrench out one of those legs. They're too huge. I throw myself on the ground and roll. The slashing hooves miss. The General's whip hits empty air. My head knocks against the wall.

With a cry the General brings the horse back round. He raises his whip again. Turns to rush me for a third time.

The knock on my head hurts. I stand back up, dizzy. But the knock helps too. I didn't see the stones there. Screened by the bank of brush. Quickly I check. Yes, an outcrop of the wall, shining low in the moonlight. Hadrian's Wall. A metre of it exposed. A metre long. A metre high. Two metres broad.

And in front of it, thicket. Low bush. You'd never know it was there.

Suddenly I see what I must do.

The horse is wild with fright, can barely see. I saw how its eyes rolled as it galloped towards me. It's blind with panic. And it's dark. Quickly I'm on my feet. I jump forward and stand again, crouched low.

But this time the thicket is right behind me.

And behind that is the solid stone wall.

A metre long. A metre high. Two metres broad.

The dogs howl, anxious to get their teeth into something. They're tired of circling and doubling back to avoid the deadly hooves.

Just a little longer, I whisper. And you will have your kill.

This time I'm ready. The General reins in his mount, charges again. Flies towards me at a terrible speed. I crouch like before, waiting for the horse to be right on top of me. No chance for it to swerve.

I hear Nan's voice. ‘Hold your nerve. Learn to take things to the very brink. If you give up before you have to, nobody will spare you.'

I wait until the final second when those slicing hooves are about to pound into my face, then with every ounce of strength I have, I throw myself aside.

The horse has no time to swerve. Does not see the need to swerve. Blunders on through the thicket and hits the wall.

It lets out a terrifying neigh. Agonised. Nightmarish.

Then over it goes. Catapulting the wall, its momentum forcing it forwards, crashing into more solid stone.

I hear bone snap and the thud of flesh. A shower of gravel. Branches flying. A snowstorm of twigs and leaves and blood.

It must've broken a leg. Or its neck.

Above the thicket a body flies. The General, pitching high, twisting, paddling the air, thrown clear over the wall.

I'm on my feet, watching.

The General crunches into the ground on the far side of Hadrian's Wall, limp like a broken doll. His limbs twitch for an instant and then the horse, shrieking, jerking in its death throes, balanced in agony on the broad stones, rolls in terror off the edge of them and smashes down.

Right onto him.

One thousand five hundred pounds of horseflesh.

Then the dogs are streaming straight past me, tearing through the thicket, scrambling over the wall.

There's a crunch of teeth on bone, a grunt, a whinnying cut short, screaming, and then the satisfied growling and slavering of feeding animals.

I've barely time to stop trembling before I hear them.

Pans banging.

And the sound of feet running this way.