Emily shrugged. “Probably locals that hid when the soldiers came though. Maybe the same guys we heard outside the shop. Doesn’t matter now, does it?”
I shook my head. “I guess not.”
We lapsed into silence again, although far more watchful than the one that had almost gotten us killed earlier. Every wall, tree or bush was now a potential risk, cover for an attacker to hide behind and I scanned each of them carefully with the shotgun held ready.
I still didn’t know how to feel. I knew I should feel guilt, remorse maybe, but instead I just felt empty, as if my sense of self had been drained away by the atrocity I’d just committed.
If someone had told me a week ago that I would kill three men in broad daylight in the middle of the street, I would have laughed in their faces. I savoured the words as they ran through my mind, testing each one for its sting but finding none. Murder, killed, stabbed, shot. None of them evoked a reaction more than a vague stirring somewhere deep in my gut, as if the actions those words hung on were simply things that had to be done now, as mundane as cleaning ones teeth or taking a shit.
I figured that I was probably in shock, and wondered if it would wear of suddenly to leave me paralysed with guilt, unable to come to terms with the terrible thing I’d done.
But was it so terrible? They had meant to hurt us, kill us even, and was it wrong to kill to stop it from happening to yourself and the ones you cared about?
My mind spun in circles, the whispering voices of conscience and reason fighting with each other in a battle that I couldn’t bring myself to care about.
Instead I let new-found instincts take over, my eyes roving for threats while my mind carried on its ever-spiralling debate without me seeming to take part.
We walked on the A404, signs telling us to keep going for High Wycombe, where we would merge with the M40 and then follow that to Manchester. Somehow, approaching a road that would have taken us less than an hour by car was a huge achievement, and I hoped that we would find another vehicle soon considering how dangerous walking was proving to be.
I was also more than a little worried about Emily. Since the attack she’d withdrawn into herself, talking when spoken to but never volunteering information or making any attempt at conversation without prompting. I knew it had to be a reaction to the horrific attack, but I didn’t know how to broach the subject without blundering into it like an idiot and causing more damage, so I kept quiet and watched her carefully in case she needed me.
The sun was low in the sky when we finally reached High Wycombe, having spent the day walking past tall fences that had blocked the noise of the road from the houses nearby in better times, the tips of trees poking over as if watching our lonely journey.
As we trudged down the slip road onto the M40, the road that would take us to Melody, I called a halt.
“What do you think, give it a mile or so to get away from the town and find a place to camp?” I asked, getting a weary shrug and a nod in return.
We walked towards the setting sun, visible occasionally through the puffy clouds that still filled the sky, my ankle feeling better for the support of the boots but my toes painful from where the stiff leather rubbed at them.
For a moment I caught myself wishing that we could book into a hotel, have a lazy soak in the bath and then eat a huge plate of cheap-and-cheerful food in a nearby pub, but banished the thought as whimsical and childish before it could take hold.
The world had changed. In less than a week, everything had turned on its head, and if I was to survive then I needed to think practically, not spend my hours wishing for things that would never be.
I had to call Emily’s name three times when I found a suitable camping spot. She finally stopped and did little more than run her eyes over the clearing I’d pointed to before walking over to it and dropping her Bergen.
It was only thirty or so metres away from the road but I’d been walking up on the high verge and while it was visible from here in the light, no one from the road could see it and at night you’d have to trip right over us to know we were there.
A few days ago I would have been proud of my newfound ability but now it was just survival.
I set the cooker up while Emily pitched the tent, but instead of joining me for the meal she crawled inside and zipped it shut behind her without a word.
I ate my food alone, staring up at the tops of the trees to catch occasional glimpses of the stars in the early evening sky when the cloud allowed, and considered giving Emily her space by sleeping outside.
I didn’t consider it for long, however, as a light rain began to fall and I hurried to stow everything away before unzipping the tent and crawling in.
Emily’s eyes stared at me in the semi-darkness, the huge, luminous orbs of a wounded animal or scared child. Without a word, I removed my boots and outer clothing, then slid into my sleeping bag and reached out to put an arm around her, drawing her in close so that her back was to my chest and my face rested in her hair. Her body jerked as I touched her, then she relaxed and snuggled in close as silent sobs wracked her small frame.
There was no passion there, no repeat of our earlier tension, but instead just the warm comfort of another human being held close in a world that no longer made sense.
Chapter 31
The next three days were almost identical. Wake up, make breakfast, strike the tent and walk along the M40, sticking to the hard shoulder and listening carefully for any sign of military vehicles that we might have to hide from.
I had little doubt that we would be scooped up and taken away were we to be found, although I had no idea where or why they were taking people.
As the days went on we both came back to ourselves a little. My detachment seemed to be fading, although I still lacked the remorse I felt should be appropriate, and Emily began to talk again, telling me stories of her childhood that occasionally had me crying with laughter as she looked on with a smile. It sounded like growing up with Ralph for a father had been interesting, and I wished I’d know my father for longer as I listened to the stories.
“What about your parents?” Emily asked late on the third day, as if reading my mind, “you never talk about them.”
I shrugged. “Not much to tell. My father died when I was fairly young. He was only fifty eight but he had a heart attack. My mum did her best after that but we were always struggling to make ends meet. She had a little business going repairing clothes out of the back room, and between that and what the government gave us we had enough, but we never went on holiday or even really went away for the weekend, unless it was to her sister’s in Norfolk.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
I shook my head. “No, and I think I was an accident to be honest. My mum was always really uptight, even before my dad died. She used to treat me like I was a necessary evil. I don’t think she ever once actually asked me about my life other than to make sure I wasn’t sick. Maybe she would have been better off with a dog.”
I tried to keep the sadness out of my voice but failed. It was always the same when I thought about her, wondering why we had never been close. It made hearing the stories and seeing the way Emily, Ralph and Harriet were with each other utterly charming, but at the same time a stark reminder that I’d never had those things.
Which was why, I’d always promised, I would make sure that when I had a child we would be friends as well as family, and that we would share everything.
Emily squeezed my arm briefly as she walked past, climbing a slip road for a better view of the terrain ahead.
I followed her slowly and was half way up when she came running back down at a flat out sprint.