Cast Iron

Chapter nineteen

It took several moments for everything that assailed Bertrand’s senses to register in his consciousness. First, it was low-angled sunlight shining directly in his eyes. That brought instant, sharp pain to a head which already felt as if it were gripped in a vice.

Then came the cold. A deep, numbing chill that penetrated his bones, and he realised he was shivering, soaked by a dew that had almost frosted in temperatures which had plunged overnight.

The final, and completely overwhelming pain that next gripped him came from his right leg as soon as he tried to move it.

He seemed to have no control over it, but any shifting of his body brought excruciating pain forking through the leg and up into his back. His brain was slow and fogged by exposure and pain, and it took several more moments for the realisation to dawn on him that it was broken.

He lay on his belly with his face in the dirt, and became aware of how shallow his breathing was. Then, gradually, it came back to him why he was here, what had happened the night before. Sophie. They had taken Sophie. And the shock of recollection sent his heart rate soaring and produced a surge of adrenalin that enabled him to overcome the pain long enough to drag himself up into a semi-sitting position, giving free vocal rein to his agony as he did.

He heard himself call out, a disembodied voice, ragged with distress, that echoed away along the stony bed of what, it became clear to him now, was a dry river. As his cry died away, there was no other sound to replace it. He was, it seemed, the only living creature in this dead place. And then, very faintly, from some immeasurably far distance, he heard the almost imperceptible sound of traffic. A memory returned of the motorway he had seen the night before, and he realised that he could never reach it now.

He looked back up the slope he had fallen down in the dark, God knows how many hours ago, and it seemed almost insignificant to him in daylight. A stony bank, overgrown with wild grasses and shrubs, a drop of no more than five feet. If he could stand up, he would see over the top of it.

It was clear to him that going back the way he had come was the only viable option. The single-track metalled road could only be fifty or sixty yards distant. And, if anyone was going to pass this way, it would be on that road. Somehow, he had to get himself back up the slope and cover the distance to it. Because no one was going to find him here.

He had never been good with pain, but he was going to have to overcome that now. His leg lay uselessly on the ground in front of him, the break halfway between knee and ankle, the shinbone snapped clean, its two halves lying at a sickening angle, one to the other. He couldn’t even bring himself to look.

It took the next five minutes to manoeuvre himself into a position where he was supporting himself on his left knee, his broken leg trailing hopelessly behind him and to the side. There was no one around to see his shame as he vented his pain, crying out in the early-morning light, involuntary tears tracking through the dirt and blood on his face.

Now, using all his upper-body strength, he began pulling himself up the slope, using his good leg as an anchor and trailing the other behind him. Sweat joined the tears on his face.

Finally, he could see over the lip of the drop, back towards the road and the trees beyond it casting their shadows deep into the woods. It was going to take considerable effort — and some time — to get there, but just the sight of it gave him hope and strength.

He reached forward to grasp a rock half buried in the soil, to pull himself up, finally, out of the riverbed. And was caught completely by surprise as it tore itself free of the dry earth that held it, rolling back to strike him in the face. His other hand lost its grip, and he tumbled back down the slope, twisting as he went, indescribable pain forcing a scream from his lips. He was unconscious before he hit the bottom.