Faithless (56 page)

             
"Thanks, Alan."

             
"Remember why you did it boy."

             
"I'll try."

             
"You did it for ordinary people. You did it for the memory of our grandfathers and for the future of our grandchildren so that they can have education and health care and not be kept in poverty. So they don't have to slave for low wages in dangerous conditions. So that a few don't live a life of leisure at the expense of the many. If they win, they'll starve us like they did before. They can't be allowed to win, and that's why you did it."

             
Peathouse gave him a comradely hug and waved goodbye. John watched him fire up the Cortina and head off into the future. John went into a cheap clothes shop and bought a baseball cap and a new sweatshirt. He also bought sunglasses as the day had become sunny enough to warrant them. He found a car and van rental in Sparkhill and hired a van in the name of Joseph Boyd; he had the driving licence and passport as evidence of his identity. He paid cash up front. He told the man a story that he was going to pick up some furniture but the man didn't care and didn't look up. He gave the keys to John and said, "Bring it back full. Tomorrow yeah?"

             
"Sure," said John. "On the dot of nine."

The van had been abused. The brakes were spongy. The gears clanked and stuck. The accelerator hardly did anything. When he got it moving it felt like driving a big empty box. He pulle
d out onto the main road. He looked for signs for the M6 motorway which would take him east until it joined up with the M1. The van did 50 at a grumble and 60 sounding like it couldn't bear it - its engine running with a prolonged shriek. He settled down at a bumpy 55mph and was soon heading north. He turned on the wireless. It was on Radio 1 which played Dire Straits and Wham! and Whitney Houston on an apparently infinite loop, interspersed by zany and cool comments from the DJ. The news came on. The British Government had expelled 25 Soviet diplomats from London, accused of being intelligence officers. In response the Soviets had expelled British diplomats from Moscow. There was speculation that this was related to the disappearance of KGB spy - former British intelligence officer John Gilroy. The newsreader said that Gilroy had so far eluded capture but that police were actively seeking him and any member of the public who had any information was invited to ring their local police force. There followed a short and unflattering description. He took off his sunglasses to see the road better.

He ate up the miles and was going past Sheffield when the overhead motorway gantry message boards warned of delays and ordered a speed reduction to 50mph. He complied. Ma
ybe it was an accident. Maybe an abnormal load. Maybe road works. Just short of Leeds the gantries reduced the speed to 30mph. He could see the lines of traffic condensing in front of him and snaking in shiny impatient lines far down the road. Within half a mile the traffic ground to a halt. Eventually when it looked like it wasn't going to start any time soon, he switched off the engine. He left the radio on but after ten minutes decided he couldn't stand any more Wham! and switched that off too. Three lanes of traffic were at a standstill. The sun was out and it was unseasonably warm. He put his sunglasses back on and pulled down his cap. He wound down the window and got the attention of the driver of the van next to him. It was an Asian guy who was making deliveries of saris. The man wound down the window.

             
"Hey mate. What's up?" said John. "Is it an accident?"

             
"No mate," said the man. "I've got CB radio. It's a fucking road block."

             
"What?"

             
"Police are checking cars for this missing spy."

             
"You're kidding me?"

             
"No mate. That's what the CB says anyway. But once you're through traffic's moving ok." The man looked at him for longer than was warranted. John put his sunglasses back on and wound up the window. He turned again and the man was speaking into his CB radio.

John felt his heart race. He was in the slow lane. To his left was the hard shoulder. Empty apart from a dead crow, a piece of rope and plastic bottles here and there. There was an embankment down to fields. He slid over to the passenger seat a
nd opened the door. He stepped out of the car and went over to the embankment as if he was going to pee. Looking down he saw a fence, small trees and then a field with cows in it. He half stumbled down the slope and then clambered over the fence. The cows took little interest. They were lying down: it was  going to rain. John had his rucksack on his back. He began to run across the field. When he got to the field edge, he looked back. No one had followed him. That didn't mean they weren't. If they had wind of him going north, he had to change his plans.

He began to run again, crossing fields, climbing fences and gates. He got to a truck stop on the outskirts of Morley. There he got a lift from a man delivering cattle fodder who only had three teeth. The man
was going to Skipton first and then over to Appleby in Cumbria. It would be slow he said. John took the ride. The man talked about horses mainly. Apparently it was his aim to settle down on a small holding with a few ponies. The driver was in no hurry. They stopped at a Happy Eater and John bought the man a cheeseburger which was much appreciated. They didn't listen to the radio as the driver had a Motorhead and a Led Zeppelin IV cassette which he'd taped from the LPs. He played them on a loop. Eventually they came through the Yorkshire Dales and entered the soft green lands of the Eden Valley in Cumbria. Another place he had never been and would probably never return to.

From the sleepy market town of Appleby, with its comfortable looking terraced houses l
eading up the hill to the castle, John caught a bus to Penrith. It was around 5pm and the bus was quiet. John judged that the scattering of people on the bus - two old ladies, a couple of lads heading on a night out and a man with three bags of shopping - were too removed from the life of the metropolis and world politics to notice him or care who he was. The bus took its time, winding through villages, where little happened other than dairy farmers' lives of market, milking and mending fences, village teas, birthday parties and quiet Christmases. He arrived in Penrith by a pub called the Board and Elbow on Great Dockray. He went in and ordered a pint of bitter. The pub was quiet and reassuringly gloomy. He decided to ask about a room for the night. The barman said he would go and get the owner. The owner's brother was the local Conservative Party agent, not that John knew. He didn't like the way John was dressed. He looked a bit ragged and dirty and was Scottish. But then his rooms were empty. He said there was a room for the night and would John like something to eat? He smiled throughout but his gaze lingered on John as if trying to remember something. The room could be paid for in the morning by card or cheque but John said he'd prefer to pay cash now as he would be off early in the morning. The man accepted the money with due deference to a cash paying customer. Then he said, "Full English?"

             
"Sure. No mushrooms."

             
"Fine, sir. Here for the walking?"

             
John nodded.

             
"Come by car or train?"

             
"Train."

The man laughed. "I guessed that because if you'd come by car you'd be staying in the Lakes. You can get a bus to Pooley Bridge just outside. Then you're at Ullswater. The most beautiful of the lakes, I think. Though I'm biased."

              "Thank you."

             
"But you can get some boots and proper gear in town before you go."

             
"Thanks."

             
"Couldn't help noticing that you're not really dressed for walking and you don't have any luggage."

             
"I travel light."

             
"Best way Mr Boyd. Another pint?"

             
John shook his head. "No, I'll go out and look round the town."

             
"Pity about the weather. But it is Cumbria. I always say the only way you know it's summer is that the rain's warmer."

             
"Thank you again. Do you have the key?"

             
"Of course silly me. And here's the back door key. Front door is locked at 11:30. Leave your bag here if you don't want to go up to your room yet." 

             
John unshouldered his bag and gave it to the landlord. "I'll be back before too long."

             
The man smiled again. "You never know. The delights of Toppers might tempt you. Open until 2 am! Don't have the energy for it at my age. But you're still a young man. Don't kiss any of the local girls though. The farmers' boys don't like strangers."

             
John smiled back. "Thanks for the advice. I'll be back shortly."

             
"What time?" asked the landlord.

             
"Half an hour? Won't be long."

He walked out. The sky was cloudy but it wasn't raining. Darkness descended again. John wandered round the middle of town and bought some cod and chips which he ate standing in the doorway of the Midland Bank. A few people walked around going into the pubs and take-aways. The town's shops were closed and it gave itself over to drinking until bed time. John thought about going back to his room, but it was still early so he went for a pint in the Gloucester Arms which was also only quarter full.  As he stepped out after his drink, he looked over the road. There were three police vans, blue lights flashing outside the Board and Elbow. Not subtle, he thought. He could hear the police radio crackling. He turned right and ducked into the ginnel between the egg shop and a house. He put on the baseball cap he had bought but thought it looked urban and out of place. He hurried up the narrow passage and came out into an estate of council houses, most of which had been bought by their owners under Mrs Thatcher's scheme. They would be sold to professional landlords over the next few years and rents would rocket. So much for a property owning democracy. He walked along Castle Terrace and found himself by the Queen Elizabeth Grammar School. He saw a sign pointing to Workington and the West Coast. He felt his trouser pocket. In there was his diary and address book. He walked down the road and across the huge motorway roundabout, taking his life in his hands as he ran across in gaps between the waggons making their way up and down from Scotland to Yorkshire and Manchester. Eventually he found himself walking down the unlovely A66 towards the middle of the Lake District. It was dark. He started to thumb for a lift. He reckoned the police wouldn't be checking western routes. They just led into the bowels of Cumbria. Eventually a car stopped. It was a three wheel disabled car and the man driving it had a brown pork pie hat, a brown suit and was half drunk. He was about sixty and spoke in an almost impenetrable northern accent. He was friendly enough but was sleepy. John started talking to him to keep him awake though as far as he could tell the man had little interest in his stories. The mountains were only huge shadows as he passed beneath them. The lakes were ghosts, their wave tops catching light from the moon. Beside forests and underneath the Cumbrian fells they sped, John and his drunken driver. He was heading to Maryport but he very good-naturedly agreed to divert via Workington.  By the time he dropped him in Workington outside a pub called the Travellers' Rest, they were the best of friends. He shook John's hand and said, "Good luck Mr Boyd and I hope to meet you again some day. You've been very entertaining company."

             
John bade him fare well and said he hoped that they would meet again. He doubted it, not least because the man would most likely fall asleep at the wheel and die in the near future.

9th November, Workington, Cumbria:
John checked his address book. Frankton had told him that he lived near the Traveller's Rest. Opposite the pub was Ashfield Road. Frankton lived at number 8. John walked up to the door and knocked. After a short delay Frankton opened the door.               "Fuck me," he said.

             
"Hello Billy."

             
"I never thought you'd come here."

             
"It's not a problem?"

             
"No comrade, it's not. Come in."

John stepped inside Frankton's modest home. An old patterned carpet was on the floor, some china ducks, hanging on nails, flying up the wall in formation. Frankton gestured into the front room. There was a stranger there. John stood warily without enterin
g the room.

             
"It's ok. He's Robbo. He's a comrade."

             
Still not reassured, John went in and sat heavily on the Draylon sofa. Only when he sat down did he realise how tired he was. It was nearly 10 pm.

             
"Want something to eat? I'll make you a bacon butty. Sue's out at her mam's with the kids. They're stopping over. A cup of tea too?"