The Border Reiver (7 page)

“There’s no room in here, Gerry, I can hardly move…I don’t think it could’ve been him down here,” the man shouted back to his mate.

“Just check it out to that stump - I know that I saw something…”

The watery steps continued to get closer, louder, more audible over the constant babble of the stream echoing off the roof and around the tunnel. If he were to concentrate on it, the noise in the tunnel was maddening, but there was no time for that. As Nat peeked through the roots of the tree stump, he could see his pursuers' legs about three feet away and jittery. The torch was flashing all around the tunnel.

Nat looked down at his legs. The beam was illuminating everything. He realised it was time to make his move. He slowly pulled them towards him getting into a crouching position and turning to face the stump. Immediately he felt his calves cramping beneath him.

The mercenary shouted to Gerry over the din, “I’ve got the log and there’s nothing here. I’ll take a look the other side; then I’m coming back.”  

To shout to his colleague, the man had naturally turned to face him, shining the light that way too. As his back was turned, Nat had risen out of the shadows like an angel of death, hammer in hand and face like a limestone outcrop in the dark of night. He was hunched ogre-like, only a couple of feet from his pursuer’s face, when the man turned awkwardly back towards him.

As the beam of the torch washed over the menacing apparition, both men reacted. Nat swung that ball-peen hammer once again and the mercenary staggered backwards in fright. As he fell, he had the presence of mind to lift his gun and release a shot in Nat’s general direction, but missed comfortably. Nat, on the other hand, caught the end of the man’s chin as he went down. The bone shattered under the weight of the steel, and as the mercenary fell into the water, Nat threw himself over the log. Grabbing the big man by the scruff of the neck, he looked into the whites of his eyes, illuminated in the shadows by the torch lying close by.

He could see the fear in his eyes, but the rage had taken hold and Nat brought the hammer down once more with a devastating blow to the top of the mercenary’s head. He dropped the body into the shallow water and grabbed the torch. He quickly found the handgun nearby on the river bed, then he shone the light back down the tunnel. Holding it as a rest underneath the weapon, he searched for the other man.

Nat couldn’t see anything clearly, but then heard a voice: “Billy, you ok? What’s happening?”

Still with no shot, Nat pulled the trigger twice down the torch’s beam. He took one last look; then he turned and moved off down the tunnel putting the weapon in his pocket.

Gerry stood at the mouth of the tunnel. He thought about going after him but quickly changed his mind; with no weapon and an increasing fear of the farmer, he turned on his heels and made his way back to his boss.

Nat pushed on through the tunnel, hunched over with the torch out in front of him like some hideous jail keeper from a Gothic horror story. The torch made the going much easier than before and he moved along uncomfortably but at a good speed. When he climbed out into the open, it was in itself a small victory, as the pressure was released from his back and he could stand straight again.

He dumped the torch as he passed a public bin, preferring to allow his eyes to become accustomed to the night. He moved through the shadows with ease, north through the town towards the river Tyne. He knew that the river was swollen, so he headed for the bridge across to the A69 and Acomb. As he came away from the houses past the out-of-town shops, he found himself in the open areas of Tyne Green and the eastern edge of the golf course. This was no problem, it was dark enough and he was a shadow moving through shadows. It allowed him a view of the bridge and he could see at least two cars parked on it. He cursed not knowing who they were; he was not willing to risk another confrontation without any element of surprise and with his arm burning and bleeding.

He crossed the open land and reached the banks of the Tyne and shuddered as he looked into the darkness. He could sense the water in front of him, and he knew from where he was standing at the water’s edge that the river was higher and more menacing than normal.

He took his jacket off and lay it on the grass, then he emptied his pockets- hammer, handgun, knife, everything - and laid them on the open coat. Then, he undressed down to his pants and piled his clothes and his boots roughly into the open coat also. The breeze of the cold night air sliced at his skin. He knew there was worse cold to come, so he put it out of his mind. He zipped the jacket up around his belongings, clothes and boots, then folded it collar to midriff and tail past collar. Using the sleeves, he then tied them together so that he had a tight bundle.

Holding it in his left hand, the injured arm, he tried to lift it above his head. The pain was excruciating, but he managed to get it up and rested on top of his head; he also hoped this would stem the steady flow of blood he was losing. This left his good hand to help him balance as he crossed the river. He stepped into the icy water which felt heavy around his ankles and got weightier as he moved in. Although he had been inured to the cold, this was a shock to the system. Stoically, he trudged onwards without pausing. He fought the shallow panicked breaths that the cold wills upon the body as it tightens the skin, infuses with muscle and makes bone moan in agony.

As he began to come to terms with the situation mentally, he lifted his foot to take a step and his toe collided with a boulder on the river bed. It was so numb there was no pain, but his body was as stiff as a board; the effort to keep his clothes above the water and stay on his feet was exhausting. As his head went under, his good arm flailed in the murky water like a fish on the end of a hook. His brain ached as he regained his footing and he stood for a second to gather composure before setting off once more.

In the deepest part of the river, the current was carrying him downstream with every step. So he turned his back towards the bank to which he was heading. He lifted his bundle with both hands above the water and half swimming, half bouncing like an astronaut on the moon he moved across and down the river with the current.

At the back of his mind was the bridge and it was getting ominously close. He was three-quarters of the way across when he was able to regain his footing wholly. He continued with the backwards walk method. This allowed him to crouch down and keep his eyes on the bridge as he was only a short distance from it now and he could see four heads above the walls. They were talking and laughing, he could hear the voices but he couldn’t discern what they were saying or who they were. All he was sure about was that he didn’t want them to know he was there.

As the water became less than a metre deep, he bounded for the bank. He was shivering uncontrollably now, completely numb and in real trouble of hypothermia. Once out of the water and in the shadows of the trees he untied his parcel and grabbed the t-shirt drying his body and legs as best he could. His skin burned now that it was out of the water as the blood vessels tried to re-heat his extremities. His fingers felt like they would snap off and the carnal ache of chilblains set in.

With the relative heaven of dry clothes, he was quickly stomping his deadened feet through the countryside outside the town limits. His extremities came back to life as he jogged through the cold and the hurt; he crossed the roundabout over the A69 and hit the steep bank that led up to Oakwood and their friend Claire’s house. Claire was a nurse and Nat hoped she could stitch him up.

As he trod the quiet road up to Oakwood, his mind raced. He knew deep down that he had to go to Scotland to take care of Amber, escape the violence he was reaping, save what was left of his soul. But he also knew that he wouldn't. He hated his weakness, but he couldn't leave Esme or Northumberland. He mused how different the reality of the situation was from the thought of the same situation before it had happened. He had lost his wife but had no time to mourn. Mourning would get him killed, and he had no time to die while those men were still breathing.

By the time he reached the overgrown driveway leading to her diminutive cottage, he was back to normal temperature, the exercise had his blood pumping and his clothes were steaming in the night air. His shoulder burned with pain, but he was in control again. He felt strong.

As he approached the front of the house, he was pleased to see a dim light emanating from within. Nat tapped at the wobbly Victorian glass of the front door as he had done on many happier occasions. There was no answer, but he saw the light go out. He knocked on the wood much harder and leant down to the letterbox calling through it,

“Claire, it’s me, Nat. Come and let me in!”

Almost immediately the light came back on and he saw a shape coming towards the door. Claire opened up.

“Nat, are you pissed? What the hell are you doing?” Then she saw the state of him and his wounded arm. “Shit, what’s this? Are you ok? What happened?”

“Alright, alright, woman. Let me speak, man…”

She pulled him with care down the hallway and into the golden hue of her kitchen. A Patchouli joss stick smoked in the corner of the room, the butt of a joint lay in the ashtray and Roy Harper quietly sprinkled his magic across the room. The fire was roaring and the curtains were closed.

Nat slumped onto a kitchen chair. “Please patch up my arm and I’ll explain everything, Claire…” As he slipped his coat off, his face grimaced with the pain.

Claire took a sharp intake of breath and her hand covered her mouth as she realised that she was dealing with a gunshot wound. She pulled him up and directed him, sitting him back down again in the big armchair next to the fire which was churning out the dry heat that Nat’s body craved. He realised then that the clothes he thought were dry were far from it, his trousers were drenched from the tunnel and his top half was heavily damp. It didn’t matter now.

She hurried out of the room and Nat closed his eyes, letting his head rest on the back of the armchair, drifting with the music and the crackling fire. Claire hustled back into the room after a few short moments, with a bottle of brandy under her arm and a large first aid kit with two glasses on top of it. She placed the items safely onto an occasional table which stood to the side of the armchair. She gently lifted it round so it was next to Nat. Then she grabbed an old three-legged stool from the other side of the fireplace and plonked it with a clump and a screech onto the flagstones.

“Now, what the hell happened here then, you daft bastard?” She poured two large measures of brandy into the bulbous tumblers. "And here, get your lips around that, it’ll help the brain, the pain and the shame.”

She smiled at him, that familiar smile. Claire was a beautiful country girl, jet black hair, thick and wavy. But, it was those voluptuous rosebud lips that sent men wild. Nat wasn't moved by her beauty though, it was her familiarity. She was like a sister to him, and she had been Esme’s best friend, a constant, just like his wife. When Claire smiled at him, he was tugged back into reality.

With the warmth of the fire on his face and the brandy in his belly he felt the fatigue, the gravity and the actuality of his new life. But what hit him most in that safe, comfortable environment was the finality of his loss. From this moment forward, every time he ventured into his old life he would be reminded that his soul mate was gone. There were no kind words that could help with that; it was simply a fact, and he was left to live with the void. As he looked at his friend, he broke down, uncontrollably spluttering out the facts as best he knew them of the rape and murder of his wife and the trouble he had stirred up since.

Claire sobbed openly as she listened, struck dumb by the shock and disbelief. She took gulps of her brandy as Nat’s story from the last two days unwound. His tears were soon spent as his initial relaxation and outpouring of emotion passed. His eyes were red and hard as he told her about killing the NSO people and that he wouldn’t stop until he had got them all, especially the man named Truter.

He realised at that point that he might not end there. His old life would only offer him the feelings that he had just experienced and he couldn’t live like that. Crying like a baby. When he finished recounting his experiences, Claire leaned forward and hugged him tight. He reciprocated briefly, then regained his steel.

“C’mon girl, this isn’t going to sew itself, and I’m going blue here.”

“Ok, ok." But, as his words registered, her face clouded and she turned to him.

"You should never have fought with these people, Nat. You’re an idiot. The changes they are making will make life better, I don’t know what you were thinking and now…poor Esme, I never even saw her for days…I never said goodbye, never hug her again…fuck, Nat, you…”

“Alright, Claire, I know - don’t you think I know?”

“What will you do now?”

“Carry on with what I’ve started - kill those men.”

“This is not the Wild West, Nat; you can’t make your own rules.”

“You just watch me. Now, please…” He turned his shoulder towards her and she looked at him contemplating whether to carry on. Her eyes washed over her friend, taking him in like a mother looks at her child when she hasn't the energy to argue anymore. She shook her head slightly and began to dress his wound, starting by cleaning then stitching it. Claire's tears trickled down rosy cheeks as she worked; a dark cloud had settled over her.

“What are you gonna do, Nat, carry on killing people until one of them kills you?”