Page 19 of Savage Warrior

I can’t see much of the area we pass through from my position on the floor, but I feel the motion of the vehicle, the bumps in the road, the sharp turns, the steep inclines. There are no streetlamps or illumination from buildings, and little or no other traffic. Even as the grey light of dawn gives way to full daylight, I sense nothing in the way of civilisation.

My knowledge of UK geography is not great, but I know we were heading north and that Inverness is in Scotland. Could we have crossed the border yet? Will the Scottish police be looking for me? Where is the closest airport where I might be able to get a plane home to Belarus?

But, even if I can elude the authorities and find an airport, I have no cash for a plane ticket. Stowing away in an electrician’s van is one thing, evading airport security is quite another. And I have no passport or other documents. I consider throwing myself on the mercy of the British authorities but reject that as too risky. I’ve seen the news broadcasts at home. I’m just as likely to end up in Rwanda as I am to be returned to Belarus.

I need to find a way of getting home to Natalija and Yuryl, but how?

They need me. They can’t cope on their own for long. I told them I’d be back in a week, and surely it’s been that long already.

I need a plan. A good plan, one that involves a safe place to hide, and cash for an air fare. Once that’s sorted in my head, I settle in to wait for the first chance I get to start making it happen.

“Shall we stop at that place?”

It’s the first hint of a conversation between the couple in the front for over an hour. I think she’s been asleep.

“Fine,” he replies. “I could do with something to eat.”

Couldn’t we all? My stomach is threatening to rumble at any moment.

I remain where I am while he bumps the van off the main road and along what feels like a rough dirt track until he pulls up altogether.

“Christ, look at that view,” his girlfriend breathes. “This place is amazing.”

“Aye,” he agrees. “You don’t get fresh air like this in Manchester.”

I’ve heard of Manchester. Well, Manchester United at least. But I’ve no idea what the air there is like.

They exit the van, and at last I’m able to stretch. I do just that, moaning in relief, then sit up straight to see where we are.

All there is, is sky. Miles and miles of clear-blue sky in every direction. At first sight, I imagine we’re somehow flying, then I realise we’re just really high up. Perched on the top a mountain, to be precise.

First things first. I check out where the couple have got to and spot them standing a few yards away beside a van selling food, some sort of mobile café. They buy sandwiches and a plastic cup of something steaming, then sit at a nearby picnic table to eat their lunch.

They have their backs to me, so this is my chance. The rear doors don’t open from inside, so I have no choice but to climb over the seats and into the front, then slip out of the passenger side. I manage to do that without being spotted either by the woman serving in the café or my unknowing travelling companions, and I duck down out of sight behind the van. Only when I’m certain no one is looking my way do I make a quick crouching run for it to hide again, this time behind the mobile café.

And there, I meet with another lucky break. The space inside the café must be limited, so the proprietor uses the space outside to store bulky supplies. I find a big pack of bread buns, several cartons of crisps, and three crates of Coca-Cola. I’m not a thief, but these are desperate times. I stifle any hint of remorse and help myself to three buns, the same number of packs of crisps, and a couple of cans of cola. That’s all I can carry, sadly, but it will keep me going for a while at least.

My arms full of stolen supplies and keeping the café between me and anyone who might spot me, I scuttle away and begin my descent of the steep slope, and soon lose myself in the wilderness surrounding me.

It’s clear that the couple have stopped at some sort of tourist viewpoint, which I suppose explains the mobile café. They chose a good spot. The scenery is nothing short of breathtaking. Rolling mountains fill the landscape as far as the eye can see, mile upon mile of rocky grandeur soaring skywards. Coarse vegetation carpets the hillsides, a kaleidoscope of smoky purples vying for prominence among burnt golds and muted browns. Spring sunshine casts a shimmering glow over the slopes, which almost seem to undulate under the light breeze.

I bless the fact that I wore sensible footwear when I set off to work in Lida. That seems a lifetime ago now. I stride through the heather and scramble over rocks in my trusty training shoes, but sadly I have no coat. I did, at one time, but I somehow mislaid it on my travels. I’m fast learning that there’s little in the way of warmth in the Scottish spring sunshine. I shiver in the chilly air and pick up my pace. I can maybe ward off the cold if I keep moving.

A couple of hours later, I abandon that forlorn hope. I’m shaking with the cold, my teeth chattering, and it’s beginning to get dark. I estimate maybe another hour of daylight before it will be too dangerous to continue on. The terrain is treacherous enough while I can see where I’m going, it will be suicidal to attempt it at night.

And too cold to spend the night outdoors.

Not for the first time, I stifle mounting panic. My situation is dire. I can perish at the bottom of a ravine or freeze to death out here on the side of a mountain. Should I have taken my chances with the traffickers after all?

No! I’m going to survive this. I’m not meant to die here, alone, my family never knowing what happened to me. That’s not what I deserve, and I’m not having it. I stiffen my shoulders and plough on.

The last of the daylight has melted into frigid dusk when I spot it. A shape, shadowy but distinct enough to pick out, straight, angular lines against the smudgy, darkening skyline. A building of some sort, a hut, maybe.

I stagger towards it, praying that my eyes aren’t playing tricks. As I get closer, the outline solidifies. I make out a door, windows, even a chimney. The structure is not quite a house, but more than a hut. Some sort of tiny cabin, perhaps a place for farm workers to use.

Maybe someone is there. Someone with food, and the means to make a fire…

I reach the tiny building and hammer on the door, uncaring now about the prospect of attracting attention. I have other priorities, primarily staying alive.

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