The Escape and Pursuit of Donald Clitheroe. February 1997. Tuesday.
The headlights were barely visible, but even so Clitheroe carried on running. He had outrun them six, no seven miles.
If he could reach that hedge, he knew there was a field the other side of it. There were no houses. On a night such as this, someone would be up, somewhere there would be lights on if there were houses.
If he could reach the hedge he would be comparatively safe. He could survive in fields, in hedgerows, or woodland for as long as he had to. The chances of them catching him would recede rapidly if only he could reach the hedge.
Were it a case of crossing a road and diving behind the hedge, he could cope with that too, obviously, but he was not on a road, he was on the air base. There was nothing for it but to traverse the huge swathe of concrete as quickly as he could.
The car was gaining on him.
He knew also that there would possibly still be searchlights and landing lights somewhere on the base. If they found someone with keys and authority to switch them on, he was done for.
It was cold with the sun gone, and he had on only his prison uniform. He had run most of the way after dropping off the lorry, across country, but he still felt the chill that followed hard exertion.
An unusually mild last week of February had taken everyone by surprise. But now the cold snap had returned with a vengeance. Winter was far from over. Years of keeping himself in trim for just such an opportunity as his escape had paid off so far, but they were on to him, and not that far behind. He knew where he needed to be, there were trees, overhangs, all sorts of places on the hills where he could hide out for as long as it took, until the search died down and he could make his way across to the continent. He had friends and relatives waiting to get him across the North Sea. The escape had been well planned.
Donald Clitheroe, the ‘Ferret’, as he was known among his dubious fraternity, had survived the rigours of active service. Twenty years ago he had served for a short time with the SAS.
He knew this countryside well. After leaving the army he had worked at the air base for a time. He knew the ground in which it stood, and the hills beyond. At the back of the hills was woodland that stretched more or less all the way to the coast. He could survive there, all right. And nearby was the small village where his relatives would be waiting for him.
The car was barely a hundred yards behind him now, its headlights pale and yellow, illuminating only a short distance ahead of it. He was perhaps twenty yards from the hedge, and there was thankfully no moon to give away his position, but it was just a matter of time before he was caught in the glare of the headlights. He darted low, to the right, cursing as he realised that the hedge was on the wrong side of a barbed-wire fence. He felt his way carefully along the fence, hoping to find a place where it was not dug properly into the ground.
The car stopped. In the distance he could hear the sound of sirens. More of them were coming.
The driver had heard or seen something. It was now about fifty yards away. The driver got out of the car and seemed to be pointing to the fence at the precise point where Clitheroe crouched. Surely they carried a torch with them? Didn’t every policeman carry a torch? But he had found what he wanted. One point, one link in the barbed chain lay on the ground instead of going into it.
Clitheroe lifted it, testing its resistance.
His breath condensed like a miniature fog bank, around his face.
His fingers froze in contact with the wire, and one of the barbs dug deep into his thumb. He cursed again.
‘There he is!’ he heard one of the policemen shout, and immediately the car started up again, coming toward him at great speed, the headlights now brighter than the sun.
He stood up straight, ignoring the trickle of blood from his thumb, and the aching pain that throbbed at it. He grabbed at the wire and lifted. He was a strong man.
He bent his muscular frame and heaved again. This time the fencing moved a fraction. It was enough. If it would move, it would move a bit more, then a bit more, until he could scramble underneath and into the hedgerow.
The car was nearly on him, both doors were open and the officer in the passenger seat had one foot out ready to jump. Clitheroe pulled again, feeling the tendons in his arms and legs straining and the blood vessels, the veins on his neck and forehead almost bursting with the strength that comes with desperation.
The entire length of fence came up, out of the ground, suddenly, so suddenly that he was thrown backwards into the path of the car.
‘Stop! Stop there!’ one of the policemen shouted, killing the engine. They leaped at him together but he had been getting up as they came and he scrambled out of the way, sending them sprawling against the fence.
‘You’re not taking me back, you bastards! I’ll kill you first!’
They were policemen. They had truncheons, the new US-style nightsticks.
But Clitheroe did not give them time to use them. He charged at the first officer, head down, catching him in the stomach and impaling him on the barbed wire. The other man had his hand in his pocket, withdrawing his night stick. Clitheroe turned and jumped at him, feet first, and connected with the man’s leg, snapping it like a rotten branch. He screamed in agony and fell to the ground, fainting right away with the pain. Clitheroe dragged the first man off the wire fence and tossed him aside like a rag doll.
Panting for breath, he lifted the fence again and slithered underneath, ripping his trousers and the sleeve of his tunic as he went.
‘Wait! For God’s sake, wait, Clitheroe! You’ll never survive out here in this cold! Wait!’
‘We’ll see,’ Clitheroe grunted. He was on his feet and running as he said it. In two seconds the hedgerow swallowed him up.
He wished he had been able to bring a blanket with him, but that would have been impossible. He would never have made it as far as the air base with a blanket. Now he needed one to replace the body warmth when he stopped running.
And cigarettes.
He longed for a cigarette.
That would have to wait.
There were no cigarettes here, on the lower slopes of the hill, no cigarettes, and no blanket.
Also, he needed to urinate.
Desperately.
He lowered his trousers and heard the hiss as his water hit the frosted ground. When he pulled them up again he noticed for the first time that his leg was bleeding. Not badly, but enough to hurt a little.
He cursed again.
Food.
Sooner or later he was going to need something to eat.
That was no problem, there were rabbits, foxes, hedgehogs, birds, mice, and even rats. No berries. Wrong time of the year for berries. But he had learned to survive on as little before now, and he could do it again if he had to. A couple of days while the hunt gave him up for dead, then he would head for the little cottages at the foot of the hill, his waiting relatives would kit him out with some fresh clothes and some real food, and some cigarettes, then it was off to Holland. Until then…..
He started up the hill. Either side of it was a wooded path, treacherous at any time of the year because of the thick carpet of wet mouldy leaves and twisted tree roots, doubly treacherous now because of the frost. His prison boots were thick-soled but had no grip to speak of. He had to tread very carefully to avoid going down, and here and there the bank just slipped away hundreds of feet.
Clitheroe made slow progress up the hill but at least it was safer than going up the face. The hill dominated the valley. From its summit you could see for miles. Immediately below you could see the village from which the air base took its name. The air base was no longer in use. Away to the west was another village. Further west was the Parish church of Muncaster, the tallest building in the vicinity. Away to the right of the church the first of the two water towers. On a clear day, they said you could see Norwich from the church tower. He didn’t believe that, though.
Beyond the hill was the start of the woodlands, the long plateau that reached down to the coast, about ten miles. There were houses dotted here and there along the lane that the hedge bounded, but they stopped at the foot of the hill. To his right were some of the air base buildings, long, cream, concrete buildings with broken glass windows. That would be the first place they would look for him, they would expect him to hole up in one of the buildings. Somewhere on the base was a complex of married quarters, now converted into private dwellings, sold for a pittance. All over the summit were great bushes of bramble. Some of the bushes were so overgrown it was impossible to get through. He tried to move some of the bramble out of the way but he was tired now, too cold to make more than a passing gesture. Instead he stuck to the paths that were relatively open. He had never been this far in his life, but he knew they would still find him here. They would keep looking until they found him. The sooner he was in the safe house, the better. It was essential that he did not leave much of a trail for them to follow. That was something they had taught him in the SAS.
Above him the cloud was thickening. The drizzle that was already running down the back of his shirt became heavier. At least the temperature would rise with the rain.
Clitheroe stumbled on. In his pocket he had the makeshift knife with which he had made his escape.
Something small dashed across his path, startling him, giving him no time to react.
Probably a rat, he thought, kicking out, but too late.
He guessed it was about eight o’clock.
He thrust his bleeding, grimy hands up under his armpits, trying to warm them. His clothes were drenched. He had not realised just how hard the drizzle had come on.
Better stop for a rest, maybe sleep for a few hours, he told himself. Then another animal, or it may have been the same one going back, its business taken care of, darted under his feet. This time he was quicker. He pushed down hard, pinning it by its back leg. As it squealed he took out the knife and plunged the blade deep into its body.
When he had eaten what he could of the rabbit, he found that his energy level was now sufficient to allow him to carry on. He walked on, shivering, then something struck him on the back of the head and everything went black.
Clitheroe’s eyes came open reluctantly, peeling painfully upwards as though being manipulated by some unseen force. The back of his skull felt wet, sticky. He had no idea where he was.
He was still shivering.
Still shivering.
Then he must have been shivering when he went down. He did not remember going down – yes, he did! He had been hit on the back of the head and pitched forward, into the bramble.
They had caught up with him, after all, incredible as it seemed, they had caught up with him.
He thought he was bleeding about the face, too.
He tried to raise his arm but he could not move it. It was broken, then….. But there was no pain. Not from his arm. He could not raise it because something was preventing him from doing so. Now he remembered where he had been. Now he remembered how he had come to be up there, on the hill. He had escaped into the woods at the perimeter fence, and no one would catch him now.
Except they had.
He had a throbbing skull and a broken arm to show for it.
He tried to raise his other arm. He was sure his face was bleeding in a dozen places. He could feel, almost see a trickle of blood running from the corner of his eye towards his mouth. In a moment he would be able to taste it.
His other arm must be broken too, that was it, he had fallen awkwardly and fractured both arms, and both legs…..
He could not move either his legs or his neck to see the extent of the damage he had done to himself.
He felt a momentary surge of panic race up his spine – at least that did not appear to be broken. It was at that moment that he realised he was naked.
Rays of soft moonlight filtered through
I am dreaming this, I am hallucinating…..
A stained glass window, a picture of a knight in armour plunging a lance into a demon of some sort.
He was in a church.
Above him, high above, the fabric of the roof was broken, badly broken, ruined. A rook sat on one of the rafters peering down at him with mild curiosity. He was definitely in a church.
The roof had caved in, the lead removed many years since, the pillars that supported it were badly cracked and stood at a dangerous, crazy angle. Most of the windows were smashed. The paraphernalia that once had caught the sunlight and dazzled in brilliant gold were tarnished almost beyond recognition. Surely thieves would have broken in and stolen what was left of the church’s gold and silver collection? A cross lay on the floor, broken in two as though snapped by someone in a terrible rage. The finely carved wooden pews looked as though they had been lifted from their foundations and hurled against the walls to be splintered and wrecked. Thick layers of dust and thick spider webs were all around.
The rook flew down to perch on the end of the altar between his feet.
The altar.
I’m on the altar.
On the goddamned altar!
He became aware, as the light improved, that there was someone else there, someone behind him.
‘Who’s there?’ he called. He had stopped shivering at last.
She came towards him then, tall, willowy, dressed in a white gown that reached the floor. Her hair, incredibly long and incredibly golden blonde, reached down to her waist, a great cascading waterfall of shimmering hair, fine, silky, smooth. Clitheroe gasped at the realisation that she was naked beneath her robe.
Still he could not move.
Only now was he aware that nothing actually held him, no rope, no chain, nothing bound him to the altar.
He had been drugged.
Beads of perspiration erupted about his forehead, mingling with the blood and the grime.
Who are you? He demanded as she moved nearer, her naked feet casting only the faintest of impressions in the long-undisturbed layers of dust. But his voice emanated only in his head, no sound disturbed the hollow mockery of the once church.
He recognised her then.
As she raised the knife and gazed down at him with pure loathing, pure hatred in her eyes, he recognised her as a girl he once knew. A girl he had once known, so many years ago.
A girl he had murdered.
A hallucination, that was all it was. They had injected him with hallucinatory drugs, and he was remembering her from all those years ago. It was a dream, that was all. She was dead, after all. She was dead.
The knife descended slowly, and at the last second, as the point touched his naked flesh, he realised that it was not a dream after all.
