Chapter 56 George
George
George pulls on his trainers, which are still wet and muddy from the previous day.
He ties the laces as fast as he can, with trembling hands.
They keep slipping from his grip. Why is it that such simple tasks seem to become impossibly difficult when needed to be done with the most urgency?
When his laces are tied, he leaps to his feet.
‘Jessie, you stay here and keep an eye on Polly. Try not to—’
‘For God’s sake, George, just go.’ Polly glares at him.
‘Okay, okay.’ George darts to the kitchen and opens a drawer, removing two kitchen knives. He hands the smaller one to Reubyn, who accepts it with a look of horror. ‘Come on, let’s move.’
George and Reubyn leave the bus, bouncing down the steps and sprinting across the car park.
The cold steel of the knife feels absurd in George’s hand.
Not to mention dangerous. Running with an unsheathed blade probably isn’t the most sensible idea.
And what the hell would he do with it, if called into action?
George hasn’t got it in him to cut someone.
Reubyn definitely doesn’t. As they leave the car park and run down the road, George vaguely recalls reading some statistic about how carrying a knife significantly raises the likelihood of the carrier being stabbed.
For a moment, he considers abandoning the knife, but decides against it.
Faith is likely armed, and they have to help Miles.
They charge down the road. The asphalt is covered with trembling spots of light, and the trees link bony arms above them, encasing them under a tunnel of leaves and branches.
George wonders if he’s set the starting pace too high.
There’s a knack to distance running, and Reubyn was never very good at cross-country.
They’ve only done a couple of hundred yards and Reubyn sounds out of breath already.
His cheeks flush and his under-chin wobbles in a way that doesn’t appear sustainable over a long distance.
And what distance is that? Miles and Faith set off more than half an hour ago, albeit at a walking pace.
George’s ears are full with the sound of his laboured breathing and the pounding of feet as he performs a mental calculation.
Half an hour at a typical walking pace, say three to four miles per hour, would be around one and a half to two miles.
That’s quite far. Assuming they maintain their current pace, which doesn’t appear likely, it would take them—
A bang causes them to stutter their steps and scatters birds from the trees.
Reubyn slows to walking pace and turns to look at George. ‘What was that?’
‘I’m not sure.’ George chooses not to vocalise the most likely answer, for fear of frightening Reubyn.
He also isn’t keen to admit the reality of it to himself.
If they were out in an area of British woodland, George would assume what they just heard was a twelve-bore shotgun: the completely normal sound of country folk hunting pheasants and grouse.
But here? In an area closed off for wildlife protection?
That’s not possible. More benign explanations – that it was some kind of firework or other small explosive – seem equally far-fetched.
That leaves one possible answer: what they just heard was the sound of a gun being fired with nefarious intent. And the source of it is dead ahead.
They jog hesitantly onwards. Holding their silly kitchen knives. Bringing a knife to a gunfight. That’s a phrase he’s used countless times to describe being underprepared. Never in a million years has he thought he might literally find himself in that scenario.
Another shot rings out across the forest.
George and Reubyn have stopped running. They stand and look at each other, wearing expressions of bewildered horror. Whatever was happening between Faith and Miles is finished. It’s over. They’re too late to do anything about it.