huge Audi, bright white in colour, is lit up like a Christmas float. If you were up to something dodgy, it would be the last car you’d want to be driving. It’s about as conspicuous as you can get.
They drive through Bowness village. It’s the busiest place in the National Park in the summer months, but now, in these dead weeks of mid-December, there’s no one around. The shops are shut. Joanne remembers they tried staying open till seven this time last year in the run-up to Christmas. ‘Shop Till Late!’ they advertised, but no one had bothered this time around. There’s no money now. Everybody’s skint.
She sees Guy pull into a space just along from Bargain Booze, so Joanne parks about twenty yards away from him. He gets out, disappears inside, and a minute later he’s back out again, lighting what looks like a Café Crème cigar. Then he climbs into his car and drives off without checking his mirror, almost colliding with an old Peugeot 206, before tearing off down the hill.
The road’s been gritted heavily, but still, he’s driving too fast. Even by Joanne’s standards he’s driving too fast. It’s a narrow road, cars parked up on the left-hand side, and in these conditions he’s not leaving any room for error.
But Joanne can forgive that. Your daughter’s been abducted, you’re allowed a bit of leeway.
He approaches the mini-roundabout and he should turn right here. If he’s heading back home, he needs to do a right.
He doesn’t. He heads on towards the lake, and then it’s as if he knows he’s being followed because he pulls a quick left on to Brantfell Road.
‘Fuck,’ Joanne whispers.
Brantfell Road is steep. Must be about a 30-degree slope, and it won’t have been gritted properly. It’s not a real thoroughfare, just leads to housing, so it’s not a priority. Guy Riverty has disappeared up there out of sight in a matter of seconds, and Joanne can’t even get her Mondeo to tackle the first part.
She puts her foot down on the accelerator and her tyres spin uselessly. There’s an old guy standing watching. He has an ancient black Patterdale Terrier shivering at his feet. The old guy shakes his head at her. Then he starts circling his finger, telling her to turn around, telling her she won’t make it up Brantfell.
‘Yes, okay, okay,’ she mouths at him, irritated.
What is it with old men?
Sometimes they stop to watch her parallel-park on the street where she lives, shaking their heads if they deem the space she’s trying to get into to be too small. You’d never get a woman doing that. You’d never get a woman stopping to say you were about to hit something, or taking the responsibility upon themselves to wave you in, directing you like you were the pilot of a bloody aeroplane. Women just walk on past when she’s trying to get into a tight space, perhaps throwing her a look of Rather you than me , but they’d never stop to watch.
Joanne forces herself to smile at the old guy when, really, what she wants to do is slam her fist on the dashboard. She’s lost him. She’s lost Guy Riverty.
The old guy approaches the driver’s-side door and motions for Joanne to lower her window.
‘Too icy for you up there, my love.’
His nose is purple, his eyes milked over and pale.
‘Looks that way,’ replies Joanne.
‘You could try Helm Road instead, but if it were me, I’d leave the car down here. I wouldn’t be chancing it.’
His terrier is looking up at Joanne. It’s gone grey around the muzzle, a dead ringer for Spit the Dog. Joanne smiles at it, feeling kind of sorry that he’s dragging it out in these temperatures.
‘It’s proper icy underfoot,’ the man tells her. ‘I’ve only made it down with these on,’ and he lifts his foot, showing her the plastic ice grips he’s attached to the sole of his boots. ‘Like snow tyres for shoes, these,’ he says proudly.
Joanne knows she won’t make it up there on foot in her work shoes. They’re not good on
They drive through Bowness village. It’s the busiest place in the National Park in the summer months, but now, in these dead weeks of mid-December, there’s no one around. The shops are shut. Joanne remembers they tried staying open till seven this time last year in the run-up to Christmas. ‘Shop Till Late!’ they advertised, but no one had bothered this time around. There’s no money now. Everybody’s skint.
She sees Guy pull into a space just along from Bargain Booze, so Joanne parks about twenty yards away from him. He gets out, disappears inside, and a minute later he’s back out again, lighting what looks like a Café Crème cigar. Then he climbs into his car and drives off without checking his mirror, almost colliding with an old Peugeot 206, before tearing off down the hill.
The road’s been gritted heavily, but still, he’s driving too fast. Even by Joanne’s standards he’s driving too fast. It’s a narrow road, cars parked up on the left-hand side, and in these conditions he’s not leaving any room for error.
But Joanne can forgive that. Your daughter’s been abducted, you’re allowed a bit of leeway.
He approaches the mini-roundabout and he should turn right here. If he’s heading back home, he needs to do a right.
He doesn’t. He heads on towards the lake, and then it’s as if he knows he’s being followed because he pulls a quick left on to Brantfell Road.
‘Fuck,’ Joanne whispers.
Brantfell Road is steep. Must be about a 30-degree slope, and it won’t have been gritted properly. It’s not a real thoroughfare, just leads to housing, so it’s not a priority. Guy Riverty has disappeared up there out of sight in a matter of seconds, and Joanne can’t even get her Mondeo to tackle the first part.
She puts her foot down on the accelerator and her tyres spin uselessly. There’s an old guy standing watching. He has an ancient black Patterdale Terrier shivering at his feet. The old guy shakes his head at her. Then he starts circling his finger, telling her to turn around, telling her she won’t make it up Brantfell.
‘Yes, okay, okay,’ she mouths at him, irritated.
What is it with old men?
Sometimes they stop to watch her parallel-park on the street where she lives, shaking their heads if they deem the space she’s trying to get into to be too small. You’d never get a woman doing that. You’d never get a woman stopping to say you were about to hit something, or taking the responsibility upon themselves to wave you in, directing you like you were the pilot of a bloody aeroplane. Women just walk on past when she’s trying to get into a tight space, perhaps throwing her a look of Rather you than me , but they’d never stop to watch.
Joanne forces herself to smile at the old guy when, really, what she wants to do is slam her fist on the dashboard. She’s lost him. She’s lost Guy Riverty.
The old guy approaches the driver’s-side door and motions for Joanne to lower her window.
‘Too icy for you up there, my love.’
His nose is purple, his eyes milked over and pale.
‘Looks that way,’ replies Joanne.
‘You could try Helm Road instead, but if it were me, I’d leave the car down here. I wouldn’t be chancing it.’
His terrier is looking up at Joanne. It’s gone grey around the muzzle, a dead ringer for Spit the Dog. Joanne smiles at it, feeling kind of sorry that he’s dragging it out in these temperatures.
‘It’s proper icy underfoot,’ the man tells her. ‘I’ve only made it down with these on,’ and he lifts his foot, showing her the plastic ice grips he’s attached to the sole of his boots. ‘Like snow tyres for shoes, these,’ he says proudly.
Joanne knows she won’t make it up there on foot in her work shoes. They’re not good on
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