The Walking Dead

When the others had slept, he had made his preparations for flight. He had disguised his bed. He had opened the window with great care because the hinges creaked from the rust on them. He had dressed and pulled on his trainers. After each movement he had paused to allow the quiet of the night to settle around him again. Once, Syed had called out, but had not woken. He had stood on the bed and lifted his left leg out through the window. He had been astride the sill, half in, half out, his knee dose to a little china bowl that was a decoration there, when Jamal's cough had exploded, but none of the sleepers had been roused. He had worked his right leg through the gap, settled for a moment on the outer sill, then lowered himself into the flower-bed below and had felt the earth clog on his trainers. He had tried to close the window, fasten it, but that had not been possible so he had abandoned it. Ramzi had run and heard the flap of the curtains behind him, the swing of the window.

The strengthening wind had been on his face. He had run as if his life had depended on it, had charged across the lawn, because he had believed himself to be condemned.

He had gone through the hedge, missing the gap where the thorn was sparsest and the wire was down to knee height. He had struggled to free himself from the wire's barbs, the thorns, tearing his trousers and lacerating his hands. When he had slipped in the field, mud had smeared his face, hands and clothing. He had blundered to an open gate and there had gasped for breath, looked back and seen the dark outline of the building — but no lights were snapping on and no shouts carried on the wind, only the rain. He had skirted the far side of the wood that was near to the track leading to the building. The muscles he had built in the gym, with rings of weights, were in his shoulders and in his arms — they could be seen and gave him the stature he craved — not in his stomach and thighs. At a shambling trot, he had staggered towards the village.

He had come into it past the closed and blacked-out pub, past the shop, which had only a dim security light, and had crossed the street. For Ramzi, the countryside, its quiet and isolation, was an alien, unfamiliar place: he was used to concrete, paving, noise and the dense terraces of closely packed homes. He no longer had the will to run but he stumbled forward, going north, along the pavement. When he came under a high light, he had seen the mud from the ploughed field on his top and trousers round the tears. When he had cleared the village, gone past the last set-back houses, a car had swept past and he had waved — too late — at the driver. When the village was far behind him, and there was no pavement, and he meandered in exhaustion on the road, there was the scream of a horn as a van swerved by. His waved arms — frantic — were ignored. An hour later, when Ramzi could run no more, barely trot, only walk — and he was two or three miles from the village — he had heard the grinding approach of a heavy lorry. He had turned and stood with his arms spread, at the side of the road, and had heard the brakes wail. It had come to a stop fifty yards ahead. He had summoned his strength and run to the high cab door that had been opened.

He would have called the lorry driver a Crusader. He would have thought of him as an enemy. He had planned to kill, and the Crusader, the enemy — or his family — might have been close to the explosion, near enough not to have been able to duck away from the flying shrapnel of ball-bearings, nails and screws: it was what he had hoped to achieve. An arm had reached down, caught his fist and heaved him up into the warmth of the cab, where music played. 'Christ, you look a proper mess. What you done? Not my business, eh? Well, I like a bit of company — where you trying to get to?' He had named the city that was his home. 'Can't do that. Tamworth's the best I can manage, but you'll get a train out of Tamworth for Derby — yeah, I like a bit of company on a night run.' He had seen the driver when the cab light was on: he wore a sleeveless shirt and his arm was tattooed with a picture of a naked girl.

They had driven at speed through the night along deserted roads. 'Just so as we understand each other, if you're in trouble with the law — trouble with anything — I don't want to know. It's just good to have someone up here. Pity you're not a pretty bird…'