Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
ISABELLE
Iwas damp before, now I was sodden.
The rocks sliced through my outerwear, the waterproof covers, and the thick joggers underneath, water pouring inside soaking what little dry areas were left of the hiking socks and saturating the boots.
If the sharp cut of pain was anything to go by, I was definitely bleeding.
Pushing off against the rough rocks, I checked my hands. Tearing in the palms of the gloves showed pale skin underneath which bloomed with red splotches, the water seeping from the fabric diluting the blood oozing from new cuts.
At least they’d been rinsed with fresh water. I grimaced, dragging myself across the wide brook and out of the water, I fisted the hiking maps from my pocket, only to draw out a soggy wad of paper, the brook having spilled into the open pocket of the coat.
“Oh, fuck.” The whisper was lost to the weather.
Woods, fields, one main road to cross, follow a small stream on the right, one more stretch of woodlands, then emerge towards the village and the bay would be below me.
There was a narrow stream, there was no deep stream, no brook.
Looking up to the sky, I searched for a hint of the sun. The grey clouds darkened so I dug my watch out from under the coat once again, but it too was drenched.
Swiping at the face, I realised the water I was wiping away was inside. The clock said three forty-five, and that was how it would stay, the hands frozen in place.
“Fuck.”
Stumbling on, I shoved the papers I still held back into the drenched pocket on the coat. Searching for the edge of the field I found myself in. An agricultural gate, a kissing gate, a stile – if I could even see one – something.
The water saturating my boots chilled, the numbness in my extremities now becoming a concern as I floundered forwards, the heavy footwear worsening my movements.
The cold drew up from my hands and feet into my lower legs and forearms which ached with the pain, until they finally didn’t, also lost to numbness.
A break in the white wall that was a hedgerow led me into the next field, my steps slowing as I crossed another field, then another, the sun, nowhere to be seen but still illuminating the sky somewhat, began darkening behind the clouds.
Little by little, I could feel any optimism of finding the right path ebbing away, fear taking up residence in the iced hollow of my chest.
I pushed through a gate into another small thicket of woodland.
If I were on track, I would have walked beside the stream and through a thicket to a small village with a bay below.
But as I emerged into a large clearing, the confirmation that I was absolutely lost was overtaken by the sight of a cottage standing in the middle of the open area, surrounded by more trees and fields, no roads or coastline anywhere in sight, regardless of the endless snowfall.
Time slowed as I hurried towards the glass and stone building, outhouses and wooden barns emerging at the side, a tiny spark of hope flared to life.
A huge, covered entryway arched around a tall wooden door inlaid with steel. Forcing my fingers around the handle I pushed. Obviously it would be locked.
Stumbling back out into the snow, now settling at my knees, dragging against every single step, I worked my way to the side of the property. The lights were off, no sign of cars or life, I prayed there was another door.
Toppling over a set of steps I rounded the rear of the property. Glass edged in timber covered almost the entire side of the house; the inside was gloomy but a dining area and a kitchen beyond were clearly lifeless.
The dulled sound of a smash as my foot collided with a plant pot beside another door had me rooting in the snow. Plant pots might mean spare keys.
My fingers, now almost entirely useless, pressed through the snow, shoving items as I found them and where I found I was unable to, lifting them.
But there was no key.
My clothes were drenched, the duffel suffering the same fate. And although I knew water-resistant was usually sufficient, nothing inside would have weathered the storm, let alone the swim I had taken.
I could break into a barn perhaps, but sodden through, in a blizzard… Fear gripped my chest. I could actually die here.
My hand rested on the door handle, a last-ditch hope to find real shelter.
It pressed down under the weight of my body and the door swung inwards. I fell through clumsily, landing once more on my battered knees, the cry leaving my mouth half pain, half relief.
My rasping calling out into the property had produced no owners, so I had stripped off the heavy, waterlogged outer layers, little use they were, and made my way deeper inside the home, abandoning my bag and boots by the door.
The large open-plan interior moved beyond the farmhouse kitchen, wooden table with benches into a tall lounge. Sofas covered in big cushions and heavy throws bracketed an enormous fireplace and my heart flipped.
The whole place was stocked, firewood, lighters, kindling and I hoped it was a rental cottage, one without planned guests. One where I could shelter, briefly, dry out and be back on my way once the storm broke.
Please, please, let the storm break.
The fire only took so long to build because, despite no longer being clad in an ice-water wrapping, my fingers still refused to work, while a small puddle formed around my kneeling form as I swore at the matches which broke in my fumbling fingers.
Eventually the flame finally took, racing through the newspaper and lighting the kindling, I felt a sliver of tension break.
Setting about finding a clotheshorse or hanger, I settled for laying my belongings across the floor by the hearth, unfolding them from where I’d meticulously rolled each item inside the duffel.
The paperwork propped nearby, not so close as to be a fire risk, but I needed the maps as dry and legible as possible, well, now.
Everything was sodden. Every, single, thing, bar the two items rolled tightest in the middle. A pair of soft cotton pyjama bottoms, and a long-sleeved matching top. My favourites, and the only concession I had made when packing.
Sending up thanks to someone, anyone watching over me. I grabbed a blanket, regrouping, planning.
If I could be up at sunrise, that had to be at least ten hours from now. Clothes dry, maybe not the boots, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. I knew, I just knew, I was well over halfway there.
I couldn’t be that far off the route. I could make it. I absolutely knew it.
Chewing on a peanut bar, I realised I was making a mess of someone’s property, so I dug around, the feeling slowly returning to my body.
Finally, I located a notepad and scrawled a small, barely coherent message. And then, I tried to sleep.
The hum of the radio I left on made it into the turbulent dreams I had, forming a sort of announcer to the drama and fears playing out in my head. The fear of being found. The fear of being lost.
Clawing myself from the nightmare, my greatest sense of pride that I could, eventually, identify I was in a dream and almost tear my eyes open, I blinked.
The room was bright, the glow of sunshine from one side disorienting me somewhat, until I realised where I was.
The radio was on because I couldn’t use my phone, from which I used to have the sound of rainfall on all night to soothe my sleep.
The light was bright because it was morning. Not sunrise. Not early. Fully into the morning.
And I was on a sofa, not in bed, under a heavy throw.
The dull throb of the cuts on my knees and palms told me the feeling was entirely returned to my extremities.
But that relief aside, the dawning realisation that it was well past sunrise had me lurching upright.
“Fuck.”
In my eagerness to move, the blanket tangled around my legs and I only managed a graceless slide from the sofa, hands breaking the slow fall but impact on the cuts and bruises now had my eyes stinging.
“Oh, God.”
I threw the blanket off and began to collect my things. The soft warmth of the fabrics renewing a hope. I rolled the throw up, to return it to the sofa, and snatched the hiking maps, appraising the ink bleed to figure out exactly where I might be so I could make it to the bay.
Looking up to check for a clock, I froze.
The large form of a man sat on the farmhouse table, booted feet resting on the bench below him. The sun was at his back, the curtain I’d drawn by the sofa preventing any light on his features, hiding his face in a shadow.
“Shit.” I retreated, eyes flicking to my belongings to the side and the doorway behind him.
“I’d say so.” His voice was gravel, his shape not moving as he spoke. “Care to tell me what the fuck you are doing in my house?”
I grimaced, looking around at the mess of my possessions, then to myself and seeing the goddamned Stitch pyjamas I was clad in.
“There was a snowstorm?” I offered.
Nice, Isabelle.
The shape of a man said nothing and I stepped back once more.
“I was caught in it?”
Why was I saying it like it was a question?
The form cocked its head, just a fraction.
“So you say.” His fingers crinkled the note I scrawled last night before releasing it onto the table.
Swallowing, I reasoned that if this person was a threat, the odds were that he would have been more of a threat to me when I slept. And given that I hadn’t heard him move, only realising his presence when I turned, he had been here before I woke.
I shuddered.
“I got caught in the storm. I couldn’t make it to town.”
Nice, Isabelle. I congratulated myself. He thinks you’re from the town.
“And I needed shelter. And the back door was open.”
A sigh was the only response he offered.
“I only used some of the wood, I can pay you for it. I’m leaving. Right now.” Yep, that was it, I needed to get out of here, right this moment.