Crossfire (24 page)

I clambered onto the manger in the corner and went over the next wall. The door to that stall was also locked. I sat in the corner and wept. I realized that I must be dehydrated, as I wept without tears.

What would happen, I wondered, when the lack of water became critical? I’d been thirsty now for so long that every part of my mouth and throat was sore, but I didn’t feel that I was dying yet. How would my body react over the next day or so? What would be the first sign that it was shutting down? Would I even realize?

I thrust such thoughts out of my mind. Come on, I told myself. Maybe the door will be open in the next stall.

It wasn’t.

My fingers hurt from pulling myself up, and on that occasion, I had twisted my ankle when I dropped down. Thankfully, it wasn’t a bad injury, but it was enough to send me into another bout of despair. Was this how it would happen? Would I become an emotional gibbering wreck? Would I eventually just curl up in a ball in a corner and die?

“No!” I shouted out loud. “I will not die here.”

Willpower alone pulled me up over the next wall. Beyond it I found not another stable but an empty and disused tack room at the end of the row. I used the saddle racks to ease my way to the floor and save my ankle from further punishment.

The tack-room door was locked. It would be.

And I could see there was nowhere else to go. The far wall of the tack room went all the way to the roof. It was the end of the building, the end of the line.

The door had a mortise deadlock, I could see through the keyhole. Why, I wondered, had someone bothered to lock an empty room?

I leaned against the locked door in renewed frustration. For the very first time I really began to believe that I would die in this stable block.

My stomach hurt from lack of food, and my throat felt as though it was on fire from lack of water. I had expended so much of my reserves just getting to the tack room that the thought of going all the way back to where I’d started, and then beyond, filled me with horror. And there was no saying that I would be able to. The mangers would now all be on the wrong side of the walls.

I looked through the small window alongside the door. The light was beginning to fade as fresh, delicious, glorious rain fell again into puddles that were tantalizingly out of my reach. It would soon be dark. This would be my third night of captivity. Without water to drink, would I still be alive for a fourth?

Suddenly, as I looked through at the gloom and rain, I realized there were no bars on this window. The bars had been placed over the stable windows to keep the horses’ heads in, not to keep burglars out. There were no horses in the tack room, so no bars.

And the single pane of this window was glass, not plastic like the others.

I looked around for something with which I could break it. There was absolutely nothing, so I sat on one of the saddle racks and removed my shoe.

The glass was no match for a thirsty man in a frenzy. I used the shoe to knock all the glass from the frame, careful to leave no jagged shards behind.

The window was small, but it was big enough. I clambered through headfirst, using the end of my stump to stand on the frame while I pulled my complete leg through to stand up on the outside of the building.

What a magnificent feeling. Stage four was complete.

I hopped out from under the overhanging roof to stand in the rain with my head held back and my mouth wide open.

Never had anything tasted so sweet.

E
scaping from the stable building was only the first of the hurdles.

I didn’t know where I was, and I could hardly hop very far, I was hungry with no food and, perhaps most important of all, I had no idea who had tried to kill me.

Would they try again when they discovered that I was still alive?

And would they come back here to check? To dispose of the body?

Why had they not made sure by bashing my head in rather than leaving me alive to die slowly?

I knew from my own experience that killing another person wasn’t easy. It was fine if you could do it at a distance. Firing a rocket-propelled grenade into an enemy position was easy. Taking out an enemy commander from half a mile away using a sniper rifle and a telescopic sight was a piece of cake. But sticking a bayonet into the chest of a squirming, screaming human being at arm’s length was quite another matter.

Whoever had done this had left me alive in the stable for their own benefit, not for mine. They had intended to kill me but had wanted time and dehydration to do their dirty work for them.

In that respect, I had an advantage over them. If, and when, we met again, they might hesitate before killing me outright, and that hesitation would be enough for me, and an end for them. Another Sandhurst instructor floated into my memory. “Never hesitate,” he’d said. “Hesitate, and you’re dead.”

 

 

T
he falling rain did not give me anywhere near enough water to quench my roaring thirst, so I tried one of the taps that were positioned outside each stable. I turned the handle, but no water came out. Not surprisingly, the water was off.

In the end, I lay down on the concrete and lapped water from a puddle like a dog. It was easier and more fulfilling than using my cupped hands to try to lift it to my mouth.

Hunger and mobility were now my highest priorities.

What I needed was a crutch, something like a broom, to put under my arm. I crawled on hands and knees back along the line of stables until I came to the one I had been held in. I pulled myself upright, slid the bolts on both parts of the door, and opened them wide. I had become used to the fresh outside air, and the rank, disgusting smell in the stable caught me unawares. I retched, but there was nothing in my stomach to throw up. Had I really lived in there for two days? How bad would the smell have been if I’d died there?

There was no broom in the stable, I knew that, but I had decided to take the ring, the chain and the padlock away with me. If I did go to the police, I would have them as evidence. I also collected the bits of the plastic ties. One never knew, perhaps they were distinctive enough to point to whoever had bought them.

I looked around my prison cell one last time before closing the door. I slid home the bolts, as if wanting to lock the place out of my memory.

I hopped along the line and opened the next stable, looking for a broom, but I discovered something a whole lot better.

Suddenly things were looking up. Lying on the floor was my artificial leg, together with my overcoat.

Hanging me up to die had been a calculated evil. But removing my leg had been nothing more than pure malice. I resolved, there and then, that I would make the person who did this to me pay a heavy price.

I leaned against the door frame and put the leg on, rolling the securing rubber sleeve up over my knee.

I had always rather hated it, this
thing
that wasn’t a real part of me. But now I gladly accepted it back as more than a necessary evil—it was a chum, an ally and a brother. If nothing else, the last two days had taught me that without my metal-and-plastic companion, I would be a helpless and incapable warrior in battle. But together, my prosthesis and I would be a force to be reckoned with.

The joy of walking again on two legs was immense. The familiar clink-clink was like music to my soul.

I picked up my coat and put it on against the cold. My shirt was still wet from standing in the rain, and I was grateful for the coat’s thick, warm, fleecy lining. I put my hands into the pockets and found, to my surprise, my cell phone, my wallet, my car keys and the business card from Mr. Hoogland.

The phone was off. I’d switched it off for the inquest. So I turned it on and the familiar screen appeared. I wondered who I should call.

Who did I trust?

I
explored the stable block to try to find out where I was.

I could have probably used my cell to call the police and they would have been able to trace where the signal came from, but I really wanted to find out for myself.

I had visions of lying in wait for my would-be murderer to come back to check that I was dead. What chance would I have of getting my payback if the boys in blue arrived with flashing lights and sirens, clomping around the place in their size-ten boots, letting the world know I’d been found and frightening away my quarry?

But before all that, I desperately needed some food. And a shower.

There were no horses in any of the stalls. And there were no people in the big house alongside them. The place was like a ghost town. And all the doors were locked. So I walked across the gravel turning area, past the house and down the driveway.

For the umpteenth time I went to look at my watch, but it wasn’t on my wrist. It was the one thing I’d had with me in Oxford that was still missing, other than my Jaguar. My would-be murderer must have removed it to tie me up. I had looked all around to try to find it, without success.

However, I judged from the light that it must be after five o’clock. There was just enough brightness for me to see where I was going, but full darkness would not be far away.

The driveway was long but downhill, which helped, and at the end there were some imposing seven-feet-high wrought-iron gates between equally impressive stone pillars. The gates were closed and firmly locked together by a length of chain and a padlock that both looked suspiciously similar to those in my coat pocket.

I looked up at the top of the gates. Did I really have to start climbing again?

No, I didn’t. A quick excursion ten yards to the left allowed me to step through a post-and-rail fence. The imposing gates were more for show than for security. But the chain and padlock would have been enough to prevent some passing Nosey Parker from driving up to the house to have a look around, someone who might then have found me in the stables.

There was a plastic sign attached to the outside of one of the gateposts.

“FOR SALE,” it said in bold capital letters, then gave the telephone number of a realtor. I recognized the dialing code: 01635 was Newbury.

The realtor’s sign was nailed over another wooden notice. I pulled the for-sale sign away to reveal the notice beneath, and I could just see the painted words in the gathering gloom. “Greystone Stables,” it read. And in smaller letters underneath, “Larry Webster—Racehorse Trainer.”

I could remember someone had told me about this place. “The Webster place,” they’d said. “On the hill off the Wantage Road.” So I was back in Lambourn, or just outside. And I could see the village lights about half a mile or so away, down the road.

What do I do now, I thought.

Do I phone my mother and ask her to collect me, or do I call the police and report a kidnapping and an attempted murder? I knew I should. It was the right and the sensible thing to do. I should have done it as soon as I found my phone. And then my mother would simply have to take her chances with the tax man, and the courts.

Something was stopping me from calling the police, and it wasn’t only the belief that my mother would then end up losing everything : her house, her stables, her business, her freedom and, perhaps worst of all for her to bear, her reputation.

It was something more than that. Maybe it was the need to fight my own battles, to prove to myself that I still could. Possibly it was to show the major from the MOD that I wasn’t ready for retirement and the military scrap heap.

But above all, I think it was the desire to inflict personal revenge on the person who had done this to me.

Perhaps it was some sort of madness, but I put the phone in my pocket and called no one. I simply started walking towards the lights, and home.

 

 

I
was alive and free, and for as long as someone believed that I was tied up and dead, I had the element of surprise on my side. In strategic terms, surprise was everything. The air attack on Pearl Harbor just before eight o’clock on a sleepy Sunday morning in December 1941 was testament to that. Eleven ships had been either sunk or seriously damaged and nearly two hundred aircraft destroyed on the ground for fewer than thirty of the attackers shot down. More than three and a half thousand Americans had been killed or wounded for the loss of just sixty-five Japanese casualties. I knew because at Sandhurst, each officer cadet had to give a presentation to their fellow trainees about a Second World War engagement, and I had been allocated Pearl Harbor.

Surprise had been crucial.

I had already shown myself to the enemy once, and I had barely survived the consequences. Now I would remain hidden, and better still, my enemy must surely believe that I’d already been neutralized and was no longer a threat. Just when he thought I was dead I would rise up and bite him. I wanted my Glenn-Close-in-the-bath moment from
Fatal Attraction,
but I wasn’t going to then get shot and killed, as her character had been.

I walked through the village, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the busy center, where someone might have spotted me near the brightly lit shop windows. Only the damn clink-clink of my right leg could have given me away. I resolved to find a way to make my walking silent once more.

When I arrived at the driveway of Kauri House I paused.

Did I really want my mother and stepfather to know what had happened to me? How could I explain my dirty and disheveled condition to them without explaining how I came to be in such a state? And could I then trust them not to pass on the knowledge to others, even accidentally? Absolute secrecy might be vital. “Loose talk costs lives” had been a wartime slogan. I certainly didn’t want it costing mine.

But I urgently needed to eat, and I also wanted to wash and put on some clean clothes.

As I approached I could see that the lights were on in the stables and the staff were busily mucking out and feeding their charges.