house. It was well beyond her vision, though. This bit of the Dales was famous. People came from far and wide to see it, which was why she’d chosen it. Just another tourist, as far as anyone else was concerned, albeit one staying longer than most and a little further out of the way.
The idea solidified on her run back to the house. She badly needed Internet access, a new email address, possibly several. She needed to teach herself to appear to be someone else. She’d seen people do it often enough. It couldn’t be that hard. What she needed – what she should have bought before leaving London – was one of those three-month so-many-gigabytes pay-up-front things you could slot into a laptop. Something anonymous. Art had known about stuff like that. Using a virtual private network to tunnel safely through filters and blocks and leave no traces. If he could learn it, then so could she.
It all seemed so obvious; Helen couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it earlier. Mentally she thumbed through the cash she’d sewn into the lining of her rucksack. There was enough there for a few more months, if she was careful. She’d need a car, something very cheap and short-term, bugger-all MOT and turn a blind eye to the insurance. And a vaguely decent phone. Not the pay-as-you-go flip-top handset that had been the very cheapest she could find at the time. If she wasn’t choosey she could probably stretch to a laptop too, something basic, to upload her pictures. They’d all come with her, on a couple of USB drives at the bottom of her camera bag, along with the old 35 mm Leica, a present from her dad for her twenty-first, and a tiny digital Canon point-and-shoot she’d bought on a whim passing through some airport or other.
Behind her the sun split the horizon. Still tinged with pink, still auguring ill for shepherds. Searching for a hint of warmth on her skin, she turned and watched as the black speck that was the hawk wheeling endlessly in the distance suddenly came to a halt. For a split second he was hanging there, an almost invisible speck in the sky, then he plummeted, dropping hard and fast on his unsuspecting prey.
5
The new tenant of Wildfell House didn’t show up. Of course she didn’t. Gil had known she wouldn’t. Why would she? He was disgusted with himself for even being there, let alone noticing who else was.
‘This is what you’ve come to,’ he muttered, as he made his way back up the empty high street to his cottage five pints later. ‘The village sodding social. And you didn’t even have the excuse of writing about it. You’ll be signing up for the WI next.’
He lit his last remaining cigarette and inhaled sharply. There’d been a large turnout tonight. Gil had been surprised to push open the door to The Bull at 6.45 p.m. and find the lounge bar already heaving with people who’d more usually be tucked in front of the television with the last of supper on their knees, wondering if they could get the washing up in before Corrie . There was not a chance of claiming his usual table, not a chance of any table at all.
Unusually large and unusually prompt, according to the gossip Gil eavesdropped on as he waited at the bar to be served. Catching Ray’s eye over a cluster of women, most of whom he hadn’t seen before – middle-aged, middle-weight, middle-height, middling smart; just middling, not, Gil feared, that he was one to talk – he signalled for his usual.
‘Busy tonight.’ He was starting to get the hang of small talk. Never been any good at it with the suits, and not that good at it now. But he was learning. Typical ,Jan would say, just when it’s not important any more you decide to bother. Gil shrugged inwardly. If it got him his pint ahead of the others …
‘Always packed on social night.’ Ray tipped the tankard and they both watched the opaque brown liquid slide down the inside of the heavy glass. ‘Didn’t expect to see you, mind. Not really your thing?’
It was
The idea solidified on her run back to the house. She badly needed Internet access, a new email address, possibly several. She needed to teach herself to appear to be someone else. She’d seen people do it often enough. It couldn’t be that hard. What she needed – what she should have bought before leaving London – was one of those three-month so-many-gigabytes pay-up-front things you could slot into a laptop. Something anonymous. Art had known about stuff like that. Using a virtual private network to tunnel safely through filters and blocks and leave no traces. If he could learn it, then so could she.
It all seemed so obvious; Helen couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it earlier. Mentally she thumbed through the cash she’d sewn into the lining of her rucksack. There was enough there for a few more months, if she was careful. She’d need a car, something very cheap and short-term, bugger-all MOT and turn a blind eye to the insurance. And a vaguely decent phone. Not the pay-as-you-go flip-top handset that had been the very cheapest she could find at the time. If she wasn’t choosey she could probably stretch to a laptop too, something basic, to upload her pictures. They’d all come with her, on a couple of USB drives at the bottom of her camera bag, along with the old 35 mm Leica, a present from her dad for her twenty-first, and a tiny digital Canon point-and-shoot she’d bought on a whim passing through some airport or other.
Behind her the sun split the horizon. Still tinged with pink, still auguring ill for shepherds. Searching for a hint of warmth on her skin, she turned and watched as the black speck that was the hawk wheeling endlessly in the distance suddenly came to a halt. For a split second he was hanging there, an almost invisible speck in the sky, then he plummeted, dropping hard and fast on his unsuspecting prey.
5
The new tenant of Wildfell House didn’t show up. Of course she didn’t. Gil had known she wouldn’t. Why would she? He was disgusted with himself for even being there, let alone noticing who else was.
‘This is what you’ve come to,’ he muttered, as he made his way back up the empty high street to his cottage five pints later. ‘The village sodding social. And you didn’t even have the excuse of writing about it. You’ll be signing up for the WI next.’
He lit his last remaining cigarette and inhaled sharply. There’d been a large turnout tonight. Gil had been surprised to push open the door to The Bull at 6.45 p.m. and find the lounge bar already heaving with people who’d more usually be tucked in front of the television with the last of supper on their knees, wondering if they could get the washing up in before Corrie . There was not a chance of claiming his usual table, not a chance of any table at all.
Unusually large and unusually prompt, according to the gossip Gil eavesdropped on as he waited at the bar to be served. Catching Ray’s eye over a cluster of women, most of whom he hadn’t seen before – middle-aged, middle-weight, middle-height, middling smart; just middling, not, Gil feared, that he was one to talk – he signalled for his usual.
‘Busy tonight.’ He was starting to get the hang of small talk. Never been any good at it with the suits, and not that good at it now. But he was learning. Typical ,Jan would say, just when it’s not important any more you decide to bother. Gil shrugged inwardly. If it got him his pint ahead of the others …
‘Always packed on social night.’ Ray tipped the tankard and they both watched the opaque brown liquid slide down the inside of the heavy glass. ‘Didn’t expect to see you, mind. Not really your thing?’
It was
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