there’d be nothing left of me beyond a soggy stump at the southern end of my gaiter.
All I’d done was hit a baby’s head at a bad angle, and rolled.
As I reached forward to haul myself up, my eyes were still close enough to the ground to see another tussock disintegrate in front of me. It was all the encouragement I needed. Crouching low, I angled right, then left, then right again, scrambling like a prop forward through the opposition on a wet day at Huddersfield. I don’t know if it made me a more difficult target, but it was good for morale, and when I dived over the ridge I felt the kind of elation I guessed a rugby player must have felt when he crossed the try line seconds before the final whistle.
I gave myself a minute or two to catch my breath and flex my ankle. As soon as I knew it was in reasonable working order – no sprain, no snapped tendons – it was time to move on.
Fuck knows why, but I once let a shrink wire me up to some magic piece of machinery – the all-singing, all-dancing version of a lie-detector – and try to put me through the mental wringer. He used every trick in the audio-visual book, from showing me pictures of people being chopped up with machetes to the kind of porn films they screen 24/7 in German hotel rooms.
My vital signs had hardly fluctuated.
In any situation that demanded my full concentration, I routinely tuned out any external interference, but I allowed his conclusion to filter through right now because it always made me smile. ‘You’re a psychopath, Mr Stone. But in a good way.’
Hot on their heels, Anna’s words also echoed in my mind, what she’d said about me not looking for a fight.
Well, I was looking for one now.
I reckoned Sniper One still wouldn’t break cover until he had to. Neither would he be staying where he was on the off-chance I’d suddenly pop back into view like a fairground target and invite him to have another crack at me.
He’d be busy hoisting the weapon’s sling over his shoulder and looking forward to hosing me down at the first opportunity. But now I had two advantages: it was dark, and I knew where I was going. I reckoned I’d have an hour at the Bolthole before he caught up with me.
I tabbed rapidly towards the gully, the gorse scratching against my gaiters. The ankle wasn’t in peak physical condition after my tumble, but the pain was nothing to shout about. The snow was deeper now that it wasn’t being blown straight off the hill, but easy enough to walk through. I had to exercise a bit of caution about the terrain beneath it. I wouldn’t worry about leaving a trail until after I’d prepared my killing area.
There were no straight lines here, so I left the NVGs in my daysack for now, and didn’t waste time and energy looking back over my shoulder. If he’d made distance and closed up enough to take a shot, I’d soon know about it.
The ambient temperature was a few precious degrees warmer in the lee of the ridge, and the further I went, the more my plan came together in my head.
The top of the gully was funnel-shaped, and led to a group of bare rocks the size of standing stones, but more haphazardly arranged. The one on the right was at least twice my height, and stood proud of the hill. The two to its left leaned against each other, as if they were on the way home from a great night out and hoping to bump into a kebab shop. These were the legs of our elephant.
Though it wasn’t visible right now – since snow had drifted across it – the entrance to Trev’s cave lay between them.
13
I unslung my daysack. The white stuff was pretty fresh, so my first task was to make it more compact. I pulled out the shovel, unfolded its handle and shaft and gave the whole area around the base of the stones a good smacking with the blade.
When it was a bit more solid, I dug a nice hole, as low as I could because heat rises, packing the sides as I went, until I no longer felt any resistance. I slid in feet first, dragging the
All I’d done was hit a baby’s head at a bad angle, and rolled.
As I reached forward to haul myself up, my eyes were still close enough to the ground to see another tussock disintegrate in front of me. It was all the encouragement I needed. Crouching low, I angled right, then left, then right again, scrambling like a prop forward through the opposition on a wet day at Huddersfield. I don’t know if it made me a more difficult target, but it was good for morale, and when I dived over the ridge I felt the kind of elation I guessed a rugby player must have felt when he crossed the try line seconds before the final whistle.
I gave myself a minute or two to catch my breath and flex my ankle. As soon as I knew it was in reasonable working order – no sprain, no snapped tendons – it was time to move on.
Fuck knows why, but I once let a shrink wire me up to some magic piece of machinery – the all-singing, all-dancing version of a lie-detector – and try to put me through the mental wringer. He used every trick in the audio-visual book, from showing me pictures of people being chopped up with machetes to the kind of porn films they screen 24/7 in German hotel rooms.
My vital signs had hardly fluctuated.
In any situation that demanded my full concentration, I routinely tuned out any external interference, but I allowed his conclusion to filter through right now because it always made me smile. ‘You’re a psychopath, Mr Stone. But in a good way.’
Hot on their heels, Anna’s words also echoed in my mind, what she’d said about me not looking for a fight.
Well, I was looking for one now.
I reckoned Sniper One still wouldn’t break cover until he had to. Neither would he be staying where he was on the off-chance I’d suddenly pop back into view like a fairground target and invite him to have another crack at me.
He’d be busy hoisting the weapon’s sling over his shoulder and looking forward to hosing me down at the first opportunity. But now I had two advantages: it was dark, and I knew where I was going. I reckoned I’d have an hour at the Bolthole before he caught up with me.
I tabbed rapidly towards the gully, the gorse scratching against my gaiters. The ankle wasn’t in peak physical condition after my tumble, but the pain was nothing to shout about. The snow was deeper now that it wasn’t being blown straight off the hill, but easy enough to walk through. I had to exercise a bit of caution about the terrain beneath it. I wouldn’t worry about leaving a trail until after I’d prepared my killing area.
There were no straight lines here, so I left the NVGs in my daysack for now, and didn’t waste time and energy looking back over my shoulder. If he’d made distance and closed up enough to take a shot, I’d soon know about it.
The ambient temperature was a few precious degrees warmer in the lee of the ridge, and the further I went, the more my plan came together in my head.
The top of the gully was funnel-shaped, and led to a group of bare rocks the size of standing stones, but more haphazardly arranged. The one on the right was at least twice my height, and stood proud of the hill. The two to its left leaned against each other, as if they were on the way home from a great night out and hoping to bump into a kebab shop. These were the legs of our elephant.
Though it wasn’t visible right now – since snow had drifted across it – the entrance to Trev’s cave lay between them.
13
I unslung my daysack. The white stuff was pretty fresh, so my first task was to make it more compact. I pulled out the shovel, unfolded its handle and shaft and gave the whole area around the base of the stones a good smacking with the blade.
When it was a bit more solid, I dug a nice hole, as low as I could because heat rises, packing the sides as I went, until I no longer felt any resistance. I slid in feet first, dragging the
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