This Isn't the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You

Supplementary Notes To The Testimony Of Appellants B & E

Bassingham, Haddington

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i. Bassingham is a small village situated on the eastern bank of the River Witham, upstream from the major population centre of Lincoln. Agriculture was the major economic activity in the area, along with a range of small businesses associated with the sector: repair-yards, feed merchants, packing-houses and the like. The agriculture was predominantly arable, with a range of cereal, salad and root crops; there was also, prior to the period in question, a sizeable dairy and beef industry in the area, with cattle grazing mainly taking place on the low-lying fields along the river valleys. The population of Bassingham, when last surveyed, stood at 700, although the figure is probably now lower. There are two public houses, a church, and a bridge which carried the road towards Thurlby and Witham St Hughs. The rebuilding of the bridge is nearing completion at the time of writing. There are currently no official school buildings. During the period in question, with formal education suspended due to security concerns, the majority of children in the area were engaged in assisting older family members with the movement and management of livestock, in addition to more informal occupations such as swimming, ball-sports, courtship rituals and evacuation drills.

ii. Not proven.

iii. Haddington is a small hamlet of residential and agricultural buildings, situated approximately 300 metres north of the River Witham and a mile south of the ancient Roman road to Lincoln, known as the Fosse Way, which is now a major highway. Satellite imagery suggests that the walk from Haddington to Bassingham would take approximately 45 minutes, via either the Thurlby Road or Bridge Road bridges. It would also be possible, and within the stated context significantly safer, either to cross by the weir at the end of Mill Lane or to ford the river at one of its narrower points and make one’s way to Bassingham’s outskirts through the low-lying fields in which, reportedly, the crops sometimes grew to above head-height.

iv. The veracity of a claim such as this is not within this report’s remit. It is sufficient to observe that, in common with many similar accounts, this section of the transcript serves to demonstrate that the appellants perceived a high enough level of risk for their covert evacuation to be organised by older members of the community.

v. The nearest government military installation to Bassingham/Haddington is at RAF Waddington, six miles to the east; this equates to approximately 90 minutes’ walk, or 30 seconds’ flight time. Squadrons based at RAF Waddington are predominantly surveillance-oriented; the nearest ground-attack aircraft are based instead at RAF Coningsby, which is a further twenty-one miles — or 60 seconds’ flight time — to the east. Aircraft based here include the Eurofighter Typhoon, which carries the Paveway IV laser-guided bomb system (using a modified Mk-82 general-purpose bomb with increased penetrative abilities and an optional air-burst fusing system) as well as the Mauser BK-27 revolver cannon and AGM-65 Maverick, AGM-88 HARM, Storm Shadow and Brimstone air-to-surface missiles.

vi. Satellite imagery does in fact indicate that between Haddington and the river lie the remains of what is believed to be a former manor or grange, with a series of raised earthworks, ditches, ponds and a former medieval dovecote providing few clues as to the original form or function of the building, or to the identity of its once wealthy inhabitants. There is however no current evidence to support these claims of recent excavation, or burial.

vii. Understood to be a reference to the Prince William of Gloucester (PWOG) barracks, located on high ground to the east of Grantham, overlooking both the town and all major north — south routes. The base, while also serving as a logistics and training centre, is home to five squadrons of government army reservists known as the ‘Territorial Army’. These are soldiers not ordinarily resident within the barracks, but rather spread widely across the region, embedded in civilian positions and not uniformed until such time as their services are required. They are available to be called into service at very short notice, and can move to active patrol readiness within a matter of hours.

viii. Unconfirmed.

ix. Due to their ages at the time, and the lack of independent verification from the period in question, the exact route taken by the appellants and their associates/guardians is impossible to verify. But it can be noted here that a walking route directly south from Bassingham and Haddington would pass close by the PWOG barracks, and in any case through territory where any civilians may have been unidentified ‘Territorial Army’ personnel. An alternative route is likely therefore to have led through the area around North and South Raunceby, heading towards the fens which run alongside Forty Foot Drain. On this route, visibility could have been clear as far as the coast, and any approach would have been observed from some distance. There are also in this area numerous culverts and ditches which serve to drain the fields, as well as assorted agricultural buildings such as sheds, workshops and barns, any of which may have been suitable as hiding places or places of shelter or refuge.

x. This chronology is supported by an extract from the testimony of Appellant F, in section 24.5 of transcript 72: ‘I was worried about it, yeah. Of course. I knew we weren’t going to be back for like a long time. My mum was all worried because I was so young, and she was scared of what might happen on the way, and plus it was such a long way. Yeah, so. She asked me not to go. But everyone else was going, so we all got like up for it and that and we went. This was November that year like. I was eleven, yeah? We were just walking, yeah?’

xi. This appears to refer to a route taken through the areas formerly known as Cambridgeshire, Bedfordshire, Hertfordshire and Essex. The route is unlikely to have been direct, being influenced by local militia movements during the period in question as well as by the uncertain motives and navigational abilities of the appellants’ guardians. The landscape along this route is for the most part of gently undulating farmland, dotted with quiet villages and isolated settlements and intersected by a network of river and canal systems. The relatively level terrain would have enabled the appellants and their associates to cover larger distances than might otherwise have been expected, depending on the security conditions and the available diet.

xii. It may be pertinent here to reproduce an instructional leaflet which was apparently in wide circulation during the period in question [Archival Reference LNS-2029-ff-201.01]: ‘Careful preparations should be made before setting out. Appropriate clothing should be worn, including proper stout and waterproof boots. Clothing necessary to keeping warm and dry should be worn or carried. Dressing in layers is recommended. Sun-cream and a sun-hat should be carried, as well as waterproof jacket and trousers. […] Take a small first-aid kit, and know how to use it: incidents may occur many miles from the nearest house or village, and even five miles can be a long way to walk with a broken ankle, shattered pelvis, or projectile wound. Never travel alone […], even for short periods of time. Take care when lighting fires. Always boil drinking water. Keep out of watercourses or flooded areas wherever possible. Note local information on landmine placement and other UXO or IED hazard, where such information can be trusted. […] Be very wary of strangers. Take careful note of weather forecasts and changing security conditions and be prepared to alter your plans accordingly. Never tell anyone where you are going. […]’

xiii. Some notes on landmines and other explosive devices follow, and may serve to illustrate this particular section of Appellant B’s testimony (which remains unverified, if compelling). With acknowledgments to the Explosive Hazards Advisory Group. Landmines are a cheap and effective weapon which can be deployed across large areas by relatively untrained combatants. Whilst the injuries caused by landmines are often, by design, not immediately fatal, they can lead to death unless rapid medical assistance is provided. Injuries typically include the severing or partial severing of limbs, evisceration, concussion, and severe loss of blood. Unless the victim is evacuated to an established medical centre, wounds sustained in the field will be vulnerable to infection. Some types of mine will be immediately fatal; these include those targeted at vehicles, as well as the ‘bounding’ type of mine designed to propel itself upwards before detonating its main explosive charge at a height of around three to five feet (i.e. waist- or chest-height). It should be noted that the strategic impact of landmines, and of Improvised Explosive Devices, is as much psychological as it is material; the loss of morale can be substantial, and the impact on the local civilian population is usually significant. Unauthorised movement of goods and personnel, and unwarranted refugee movements, can thus be easily prevented. When looking for landmines, visual clues can include ground colour distortion, depressions in the ground surface, variations in vegetation growth patterns, disturbed topsoil or even protruding elements of the device itself. A tactical understanding of the mine deployment can also provide clues. However, no path or area should be considered safe until it has been systematically checked, cleared, and declared as such.

xiv. See also the public testimonies collected in the publication, Some of the Boys Didn’t Make It [Committee for the Support of Returnees, Edinburgh Free Press, Edinburgh].

xv. Historically, the depopulated areas of eastern Essex were celebrated for their attraction to the leisure rambler and wildlife enthusiast; reference is made in published guidebooks from shortly before the period in question to ‘an ancient landscape of windblown salt-marshes, home to many thousands of over-wintering birds as well as a variety of vegetation such as bee orchid, yellow-wort, southern marsh orchid, sea buckthorn, teasel and trefoil, where footpaths wind along flood-defence banks, passing concrete pillboxes with rusting gun emplacements and an entrancing view of the coast.’ Although it has been noted that during the period in question this area would have seen a population increase as a result of displacement from the urban centres, the appellants’ claims in this section of the transcript do appear feasible and thus are considered valid for the purposes of appeal.

xvi. Verified. Note this reference, from the same guidebook referred to in FN xv: ‘Remember to bring your binoculars. Remember, also, that while this landscape can be evocative and memorable, it can also be disorientating, with many of the smaller paths and creeks not being marked on the map and tidal flows dramatically changing the topography within the space of a few hours.’ While the associates and guardians travelling with Appellants B and E would have been familiar with wetlands and tidal flows as a result of their geographical origins, it is indeed likely that groups moving through the area from other parts of the country may well have made navigational errors, with results as described in this section of the testimony.

xvii. See also the testimony of Appellant F, section 27.3 of transcript 72: ‘Yeah but actually they wouldn’t let us go and help. It was too dangerous and that. They told us we had to keep going.’

xviii. Much of this traffic was conducted not by political sympathisers but simply by economic opportunists, mainly drawn from a local population of fishing crews and ferrymen whose economic activity had been curtailed by the security situation. The boats were often not suited to cross-Channel passage, being typically overloaded and not stocked with life-jackets, food rations or other emergency supplies; passengers were expected to bring any supplies they deemed necessary for the voyage. It is not known how many boats failed to complete the voyages, which were usually conducted by night, but the testimony here does imply that the proportion of failures was known or believed to be high.

xix. Disputed by Prisoner J.

xx. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xxi. The following notes are drawn from an International Red Cross report referring to the period in question, and also from an account published in the Observer newspaper, with acknowledgments. The refugee centre on the outskirts of Sangatte, northern France, was based around a large warehouse building originally used by the builders of the now-defunct Channel Tunnel. Upwards of 1,600 people were housed there, in an International Red Cross operation which attracted much controversy. (It is perhaps worth noting in passing that the centre was itself a successor to an earlier incarnation, many years prior to the period in question, which served to house the mainly African refugees and economic migrants attempting to gain entry to the UK.) The refugees slept in tents erected inside the warehouse, with newcomers or those for whom there simply wasn’t room sleeping on the concrete floor in the spaces between the tents. Toilet and washing facilities were rudimentary, and often in a poor state of repair. Food rations, usually consisting of bread, soup and hot drinks, were served each day. The refugees were free to come and go, and often made the long walk along a busy road into the town, looking for work, or to make phone calls, or simply for something to do. The refugees tended to organise themselves into groups by nationality, and as their residence became longer-term tensions naturally arose between the different groups. Periodically, the centre was closed down or heavily restricted by the authorities, resulting in large numbers of refugees retreating to the woodland which lay along the high ground overlooking the coast.

xxii. Disputed by Prisoner J, in trial evidence which was ruled proven following sealed submission made by Control Order Subject 00345/B. [Archival Reference HC/7825/P34.03.87; viewing by application only.]

xxiii. This section of the testimony, referring to the forced clearance of all northern refugee sites by French militias believed to have been funded by rogue elements within the French government, is well supported by numerous documentary sources both contemporaneous and retrospective. [See, primarily, vols 2–5 of The Displacement Testimonies, De Waarheids Uitgeverij, The Hague: a well-annotated collection of eyewitness accounts and official memoranda, in Dutch and English.]

xxiv. See also testimony of Appellant F, section 32.4 of transcript 72: ‘Yeah, they came with guns, with tanks, they killed loads of people, […] some people.’

xxv. See also testimony of Appellant F, section 32.6 of transcript 72: ‘And loads of people were like abducted, captured yeah? I don’t know what happened to them, I don’t know what happened to them even now like.’

xxvi. See also testimony of Appellant F, section 32.9 of transcript 72: ‘The ones who could swim, they swam like. They weren’t even […] there was an attack […] everyone got in and loads of people, they like I guess they drowned or something, they couldn’t swim yeah? It weren’t even that far to the boats, it was just like a few hundred metres or something. But I knew how to swim from when I was a kid […]’

xxvii. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xxviii. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xxix. The appellants’ chronology is inconsistent with the historical record here, although it should be noted that such confusion on the part of returning refugees is not unusual. It appears likely that the appellants spent a period of eight or nine years (following the five years in the area of Sangatte) in a series of displaced persons camps in the Netherlands. Their return to the former UK appears to have been prompted by the Dutch government’s declaration that the draft peace agreement was in force and that displaced persons would no longer be supported within the territory of the Netherlands. It is likely that the appellants’ return was via one of the cargo ships which was utilised for mass repatriation at this time, disembarking at Tilbury (which was held, under the terms of the draft peace agreement, by opposition groups).

xxx. The following extract from a widely circulated public information sheet on internal travel, archived during the later stages of the period in question, may serve to illuminate this section of the appellants’ testimony: ‘When declaring a lift-share request, choose a spot where approaching vehicles have both sufficient time to see you and sufficient space to stop safely. Consider routes leading away from the roadside in the event of possible threat. Make eye contact with passing drivers, but maintain a neutral expression. Be patient. Once a lift has been offered, briefly discuss your destination and that of the driver’s while assessing the condition of the vehicle and state of the driver and other occupants. Whilst in the vehicle, make light conversation as prompted by the driver, taking care to avoid politics, religion or the recent security situation. Familiarise yourself with the door and window mechanisms adjacent to your seat; if the central locking has been activated you may still be able to effect an exit using the window.’

xxxi. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xxxii. This seems likely. Assuming the appellants’ lift-share arrangement left them deposited at the Newark/Winthorpe junction, Bassingham would have been approximately ten miles distant, well within the scope of a day’s walk if taking a route via Stapleford Wood and Norton Disney. However, given the changes in the local landscape (felled trees, demolished or partly destroyed buildings, new and significantly enlarged watercourses, earthworks, embankments, etc) which would have taken place during the fourteen years of the appellants’ absence, the complex access-rights situation, and the expansion of military bases in the area, the appellants’ claim that this journey took three days is presumed valid for the purposes of this appeal.

xxxiii. Reference to the military training area which spreads north from the A17 along both banks of the River Witham.

xxxiv. Aerial surveillance records have confirmed that on this date there was in fact a house on the northern outskirts of Bassingham to which banners and ribbons had been fastened and in which an irregular number of persons had gathered. Haddington, of course, was not habitable at this time.

xxxv. Note that in common with many appellants and their dependants, a confusion has arisen here between military personnel and host officers from the security services. Records confirm that interception in this case was carried out by the latter.

xxxvi. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xxxvii. The appellants appear unaware at this point that further appeal against the secure relocation process has been refused.

xxxviii. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xxxix. This section redacted at the request of the relevant security services.

xl. Disputed by Prisoner J.

Thoughtful

Newark

She threw her pint glass across the garden and told him to just shut up. She threw the ashtray as well. Bloody just shut up, she told him. He looked at her. He didn’t say anything. He moved his drink away from her side of the table. She stood up and went to fetch the pint glass and the ashtray, tucking them both under her arm while she plucked the cigarette-ends from the damp grass and collected them in the palm of her hand.

She was thoughtful like that.

The Singing

Thurlby

She lay very still, trying not to let the sound of the singing slip away. It was so vivid, and yet so distant. This kept happening. She could never make out the words, if there were any, nor even quite a tune. She wasn’t sure, really, whether it could properly be called singing. The sound was almost beyond hearing, but it seemed to bear some relation to falling drops of water, or to something molten. Something whispered, or filled with breath. She thought it was probably beautiful, and she missed it as soon as it was gone. This was what happened. She lay very still. She listened. She could hear her own breathing. The sound of the hot water in the central-heating pipes. The rush of passing vehicles on the road. A tractor in the fields. Nothing that sounded like a song. It was gone already. It would bother her now for the rest of the day, she knew. Her chest ached from the effort of holding it still. Her eyes felt as though they’d been weighed shut, pressed down with balls of cold dough and pennies. She tried to move her fingers. They felt rigid. She heard her breath like a whisper. She felt her blood moving thickly through her.

She had expected days like this, to begin with. That would seem to be the way things were. But she hadn’t expected these days to continue for as long as they had, or to come so often and with such weight. She had thought she would find a way to accommodate this. But instead it had only seemed to grow.

She stood at the window. The light outside was thin. The cars on the road came one at a time, with great spaces between them, moving too quickly, and the sounds they left behind were like smears. The light seemed to tremble in the distance, towards the horizon, where the day had already begun. She could see dust rising behind a line of tractors, where they were ploughing in the stubble. She could see birds heading out towards the sea. She thought she could see flames from a burning barn or haystack, but she couldn’t be sure.

She turned back into the room. It was quiet. There were so many things to be done, and no one now to do them for.

Wires

Messingham

It was a sugar-beet, presumably, since that was a sugar-beet lorry in front of her and this thing turning in the air at something like sixty miles an hour had just fallen off it. It looked like a giant turnip, and was covered in mud, and basically looked more or less like whatever she would have imagined a sugar-beet to look like if she’d given it any thought before now. Which she didn’t think she had. It was totally filthy. They didn’t make sugar out of that, did they? What did they do, grind it? Cook it?

Regardless, whatever, it was coming straight for her.

Meaning this was, what, one of those time-slows-down moments or something. Her life was presumably going to start flashing in front of her eyes right about now. She wondered why she hadn’t screamed or anything. ‘Oh’ seemed to be about as much as she’d managed. But in the time it had taken to say ‘Oh’ she’d apparently had the time to make a list of all the things she was having the time to think about, like, ie Item One, how she’d said ‘Oh’ without any panic or fear, and did that mean she was repressed or just calm or collected or what; Item Two, what would Marcus say when he found out, would he try and find someone to blame, such as herself for driving too close or even for driving on her own at all, or such as the lorry driver for overloading the lorry, or such as her, again, for not having joined the union like he’d told her to, like anyone was in a union these days, especially anyone with a part-time job who was still at uni and not actually all that bothered about pension rights or legal representation; Item Three, but she couldn’t possibly be thinking all this in the time it was taking for the sugar-beet to turn in the air and crash through the windscreen, if that’s what it was going to do, and what then, meaning this must be like a neural-pathway illusion or something; Item Four, actually Marcus did go on sometimes, he did reckon himself, and how come she thought things like that about him so often, maybe she was being unfair, because they were good together, people had told her they were good together, but basically she was confused and she didn’t know where she stood; Item Five, a witty and deadpan way of mentioning this on her status update would be something like, Emily Wilkinson is sweet enough already thanks without a sugar-beet in the face, although actually she wouldn’t be able to put that, if that’s what was actually going to happen, thinking about it logically; Item Six, although did she really even know what a neural pathway was, or was it just something she’d heard someone else talk about and decided to start saying?

Item Seven was just, basically, wtf.

Meanwhile: before she had time to do anything useful, like eg swerve or brake or duck or throw her arms up in front of her face, the sugar-beet smashed through the windscreen and thumped into the passenger seat beside her. There was a roar of cold air. And now she swerved, only now, once there was no need and it just made things more dangerous, into the middle lane and back again into the slow lane. It was totally instinctive, and totally useless, and basically made her think of her great-grandad saying God help us if there’s a war on. She saw other people looking at her, or she thought she did, all shocked faces and big mouths; a woman pulling at her boyfriend’s arm and pointing, a man swearing and reaching for his phone, another man in a blue van waving her over to the hard shoulder. But she might have imagined this, or invented it afterwards. Marcus was always saying that people didn’t look at her as much as she thought they did. She never knew whether he meant this to reassure her or if he was saying she reckoned herself too much.

Anyway. Point being. Status update: Emily Wilkinson is still alive.

She pulled over to the hard shoulder and came to a stop. The blue van pulled over in front of her. She put her hazard lights on and listened to the clicking sound they made. When she looked up the people in the passing cars already had no idea what had happened. The drama was over. The traffic was back to full speed, the lorry was already miles down the road. She wondered if she was supposed to start crying. She didn’t feel like crying.

Someone was standing next to the car. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. He peered in at her through the hole in the windscreen. He looked like a mechanic or a breakdown man or something. He was wearing a waxed jacket with rips in the elbows, and jeans. He looked tired; his eyes were puffy and dark and his breathing was heavy. He rested his hand on the bonnet and leaned in closer. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said again, raising his voice against the traffic; ‘you all right, love?’ She smiled, and nodded, and shrugged, which was weird, which meant was she for some reason apologising for his concern? ‘Bloody hell,’ he said for a third time. ‘You could have been killed.’

Thanks. Great. This was, what, news?

She looked down at the sugar-beet, which was sitting on a heap of glass on the passenger seat beside her. The bits of glass were small and lumpy, like gravel. She noticed more bits of glass on the floor, and the dashboard, and spread across her lap. She noticed that her left arm was scratched, and that she was still holding on to the steering wheel, and that maybe she wasn’t breathing quite as much as she should have been, although that happened whenever she thought about her breathing, it going wrong like that, too deep or too shallow or too quick, although that wasn’t just her though, surely, it was one of those well-known paradoxes, like a Buddhist thing or something. Total mindlessness. Mindfulness. Just breathe.

‘The police are on their way,’ someone else said. She looked up and saw another man, a younger man in a sweatshirt and jeans, holding up a silver phone. ‘I just called the police,’ he said. ‘They’re on their way.’ He seemed pleased to have a phone with him, the way he was holding it, like this was his first one or something. Which there was no way. His jeans had grass-stains on the knees, and his boots were thick with mud.

‘You called them, did you?’ the older man asked. The younger man nodded, and put his phone in his pocket, and looked at her. She sat there, waiting for the two of them to catch up. Like: yes, a sugar-beet had come through the windscreen; no, she wasn’t hurt; yes, this other guy did phone the police. Any further questions? I can email you the notes? The younger man looked through the hole in the windscreen, and at the windscreen itself, and whistled. Actually whistled: this long descending note like the sound-effect of a rock falling towards someone’s head in an old film. What was that?

‘You all right?’ he asked her. ‘You cut or anything? You in shock?’ She shook her head. Not that she knew how she would know she was in shock. She was pretty sure one of the symptoms of being in shock would be not thinking you were in shock. Like with hypothermia, when you take off your clothes and roll around laughing in the snow. She’d read that somewhere. He looked at the sugar-beet and whistled again. ‘I mean,’ he said, and now she didn’t know if he was talking to her or to the other man; ‘that could’ve been fatal, couldn’t it?’ The other man nodded and said something in agreement. They both looked at her again. ‘You could have been killed,’ the younger man said. It was good of him to clarify that for her. She wondered what she was supposed to say. They looked as if they were waiting for her to ask something, to ask for help in some way.

‘Well. Thanks for stopping,’ she said. They could probably go now, really, if they’d called the police. There was no need to wait. She thought she probably wanted them to go now.

‘Oh no, it’s nothing, don’t be daft,’ the older man said.

‘Couldn’t just leave you like that, could we?’ the younger man said. He looked at her arm. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said. ‘Look.’ He pointed to the scratches on her arm, and she looked down at herself. She could see the blood, but she couldn’t feel anything. There wasn’t much of it. It could be someone else’s, couldn’t it? But there wasn’t anyone else. It must be hers. But she couldn’t feel anything. She looked back at the younger man.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. Really. Thanks.’

‘No, it might be though,’ he said, ‘it might get infected. You have to be careful with things like that. There’s a first-aid box in the van. Hang on.’ He turned and walked back to the van, a blue Transit with the name and number of a landscape gardening company painted across the back, and a little cartoon gardener with a speech bubble saying no job was too small. The doors were tied shut with a length of orange rope. The number-plate was splattered with mud, but it looked like a K-reg. K450 something, although she wasn’t sure if that was 0 the number or O the letter. The older man turned and smiled at her, while they were waiting, and she supposed that was him trying to be reassuring but to be honest it looked a bit weird. Although he probably couldn’t help it. He probably had some kind of condition. Like a degenerative eye condition, maybe? And then on top of that, which would be painful enough, he had to put up with people like her thinking he looked creepy when he was just trying to be nice. She smiled back; she didn’t want him thinking she’d been thinking all that about him looking creepy or weird.

‘Police will be here in a minute,’ he said. She nodded. ‘Lorry must have been overloaded,’ he said. ‘Driver’s probably none the wiser even now.’

‘No,’ she said, glancing down at the sugar-beet again. ‘I suppose not.’ The younger man came back, waving a green plastic first-aid box at her. He looked just as pleased as when he’d held up the phone. She wondered if he was on some sort of special supported apprenticeship or something, if he was a little bit learning-challenged, and then she thought it was probably discriminatory of her to have even thought that and she tried to get the thought out of her mind. Only you can’t get thoughts out of your mind just by trying; that was another one of those Buddhist things. She should just concentrate on not thinking about her breathing instead, she thought. Just, total mindlessness. Mindfulness. Just breathe.

He passed the first-aid box through the hole in the windscreen. His hands were stained with oil and mud, and as they touched hers they felt heavy and awkward. She put the box in her lap and opened it. She wondered what he wanted her to do. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just thought. Has it got antiseptic cream in there?’ She rummaged through the bandages and wipes and creams and scissors. And now what. She took out a wipe, dabbed at her arm, and closed the box. She handed it back to him, holding the bloody wipe in one hand.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I think I’ll be okay now.’ Was she talking too slowly? Patronising him? Or was she making reasonable allowances for his learning-challenges? But he might not even be that. She was over-complicating the situation, probably. Which was another thing Marcus said to her sometimes, that she did that. She looked at him. He shrugged.

‘Well, yeah,’ he said. ‘If you’re sure. I just thought, you know.’

Status update: Emily Wilkinson regrets not having signed up for breakdown insurance.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

She’d chosen Hull because she’d thought it would sound interesting to say she was going to a provincial university. Or more exactly because she thought it would make her sound interesting to even say ‘provincial university’, which she didn’t think anyone had said since about 1987 or some other time way before she was born. She wasn’t even exactly sure what provincial meant. Was it just anywhere not-London? That seemed pretty sweeping. That was where most people lived. Maybe it meant anywhere that wasn’t London or Oxford or Cambridge, and that was still pretty sweeping. Whatever, people didn’t seem to say it any more, which was why she’d been looking forward to saying it. Only it turned out that no one knew what she was talking about and they mostly thought she was saying provisional, which totally wasn’t the same thing at all.

Anyway, though, that hadn’t been the only reason she’d chosen Hull. Another reason was it was a long way from home. As in definitely too far to visit. Plus when she went on the open day she’d loved the way the river smelt of the sea, and obviously the bridge, which looked like something from a film, and also the silence you hit when you got to the edge of the town, and the way it didn’t take long to get to the edge of town. And of course she’d liked the Larkin thing, except again it didn’t seem like too many people were bothered about that. Or knew about it. Or knew how much it meant, if they did know about it. When she first got there she kept putting ‘Emily Wilkinson is a bit chilly and smells of fish’ on her status updates, but no one got the reference so she gave it up. Plus it made her look weird, obviously, even after she’d explained it in the comments.

She’d met Marcus in her second year, when he’d taught a module on ‘The Literature of Marginal(ised) Places’. Which she’d enjoyed enough to actually go to at least half of the lectures rather than just download the notes. He had a way of explaining things like he properly wanted you to understand, instead of just wanting to show off or get through the class as quick as he could. There was something sort of generous about the way he talked, in class, and the way he listened to the students. Plus he was what it was difficult to think of a better word for than totally buff, and also had what she couldn’t be more articulate than call a lovely mouth, and basically made her spend quite a lot of time not actively addressing the issues of appropriation inherent in a culturally privileged form such as literary fiction taking exclusion and marginality as its subject. Her friend Jenny had said she couldn’t see it at all, as in the buffness and the lovely mouth rather than the inherent appropriation, but that had only made her think it was maybe something more along the lines of a genuine connection thing and not just some kind of stereotypical type of crush; and Jenny did at least agree that no way did it count as inappropriate if it was just a PhD student and not an actual lecturer. His last seminar had been on the Tasmanian novel, which it turned out there were quite a few of, and afterwards he’d kept her talking until the others had left and said were there any issues she wanted to discuss and actually did she want to go for a drink. To which her response had been, and that took you so long why?

There hadn’t really been anyone before Marcus. Not since coming to university, anyway. There’d been a few things at parties, and she’d slept with one of her housemates a bunch of times, but nothing serious enough to make her change her relationship setting. With Marcus it had been different, almost immediately. He’d asked her out, like formally, and they’d had late-night conversations about their relationship and what relationships meant and even whether or not they were in love and how they would know and whether love could ever be defined without reference to the other. She didn’t really know. She thought being in love probably didn’t mean telling your girlfriend what she could wear when you went to the pub together, or asking her not to talk to certain people, or telling her she was the reason you couldn’t finish your thesis.

They hadn’t moved in together, but almost as soon as they’d started going out their possessions had begun drifting from one house to the other until it felt like they were just living together in two places. Sometimes when she woke up it took her a moment to remember which house she was in. It wasn’t always a nice feeling. Which meant, what? She fully had no idea what it meant. Because she liked Marcus, she liked him a lot. She liked the conversations they had, which were smart and complicated and went on for hours. And she liked the way he looked at her when he wanted to do the things she’d been thinking about in class when she should have been thinking about discourses of liminality, when she’d been imagining saying he was welcome to cross her threshold any day. There was still all that. But there were other things. Things that made her uncomfortable, uncertain, things she was pretty sure weren’t part of how a relationship was supposed to make you feel happy or good about yourself or whatever it was a relationship was supposed to make you feel.

She should be calling him now, and she wasn’t. He’d want her to have called, when he heard. Something like this. He should be the first person she thought of calling. He’d think it was odd that she hadn’t. He’d be hurt. She thought about calling Jenny instead, to tell her what had happened, or her supervisor, to tell her she’d be late getting back to the office. She should call someone, probably, but she couldn’t really imagine having the words to explain it and she couldn’t face having anyone else tell her she could have been killed and plus anyway she was totally fine, wasn’t she? She looked down at the sugar-beet again. Was that what that smell was? It wasn’t a sugary smell at all. It was more like an earthy smell, like wet earth, like something rotting in the earth. She didn’t see how they could get from that to a bowl of white sugar on a café table, or even to that sort of wet, boozy smell you got when you drove past the refinery, coming up the A1. Which come to think of it was probably where the lorry would have been heading. It would be, what, an hour’s drive from here? Maybe she should go there and give them back their sugar-beet, tell them what had happened. Complain, maybe.

The passenger door opened, and the older man leaned in towards her.

‘You need to get out,’ he said. It seemed a bit too directive, the way he said it. She didn’t move. ‘It’s not safe, being on the hard shoulder like this,’ he added. ‘We should all be behind the barrier.’ They’d been discussing this, had they? It looked like they’d been discussing something. The older man was already holding out his hand to help her across the passenger seat. She looked at the traffic, roaring and weaving and hurtling past, and she remembered hearing about incidents where people had been struck and killed on the hard shoulder, when they were changing a tyre, or going for a piss, or just stopping to help. She remembered her cousin once telling her about a school minibus which had driven into the back of a Highways Maintenance truck and burst into flames. Which meant they were right about this, did it, probably? She swung her feet over into the passenger’s side, took the man’s hand, and squeezed out on to the tarmac. It was an awkward manoeuvre, and she didn’t think she’d completed it with much elegance or style. The younger man was already standing behind the barrier, and she clambered over to join him. She didn’t do that very gracefully either. He started climbing up the embankment.

‘Just in case,’ he said, looking back at her. Meaning what, she wondered. ‘Something could flip, couldn’t it?’ he said, and he did something with his hands which was presumably supposed to look like a vehicle striking a barrier and somersaulting across it. The older man caught her eye, and nodded, and she followed them both up the embankment, through the litter and the long grass.

It was much colder at the top. Sort of exposed. The wind was whipping away the sound of the traffic, making her feel further from the road than they really were. The two men looked awkward, as though maybe they were uncomfortable about the time this whole situation was taking. The younger man made the whistling noise again. She could barely hear it against the wind.

‘You’re lucky,’ he said, nodding down towards her car. ‘I mean, you know. You’re lucky we stopped. You could have been killed.’ She didn’t know what to say to this. She nodded, and folded her arms against the cold. The older man arched his back, rubbing at his neck with both hands.

‘They’ll be here soon,’ he said, and she nodded again, looking around.

Behind them, the ground sloped away towards a small woodland of what she thought might be hawthorn or rowan trees or something like that. The ones with the red berries. There were ragged strips of bin-liners and carrier-bags hanging from the branches, flapping in the wind. Past the trees, there was a warehouse, and an access road, and she noticed that the streetlights along the access road were coming on already. Beyond the access road, a few miles further away, there were some houses which she wasn’t sure if they were some estate on the outskirts of Hull or some other town altogether. Hull was further than that, she was pretty sure. It was the other side of the estuary, and they were still south of the river. Almost certainly.

The older man started down the slope, towards the trees. ‘I’m just going to, you know,’ he said. ‘While we’re waiting.’ She turned away, looking back at the road. She was getting colder now. She looked at her car, and at the blue van. They were both rocking gently in the slipstream of the passing traffic, their hazard lights blinking in sequence. She wondered if she felt like crying yet. She didn’t think so. It still didn’t seem like the right moment.

She would talk to Marcus at the weekend, she decided. He’d understand, when it came down to it. Once he gave her a chance to explain. She’d say something like although they’d been good together at times and she was still very fond of him she just couldn’t see where things were going for them. She didn’t like the way he made her feel about herself, sometimes. She needed some time to find out who she was and what she needed from a relationship. Something like that.

She’d tried it out with Jenny. Jenny had said it sounded about right. Jenny had said she thought Marcus was reasonable and would probably take it on board, although obviously he’d still be disappointed. That was how she talked sometimes, like she was a personal guidance counsellor or something, or an older and wiser cousin. Whereas in fact she was only like a year older, and had spent that year mostly in Thailand and Australia, which was her version of travelling the world and which she thought made her the total source of wisdom when in fact it made her the total source of knowing about youth hostels and full-moon parties and not even having heard of Philip fucking Larkin. And she was wrong about Marcus. It was way more likely he would shout at her when she told him. Or break something. It wouldn’t be the first time. Everyone thought he was so reasonable. But she wasn’t going to back down this time. She was certain of it, suddenly. Something like this, it made you think about things, about your priorities. She could say that to him, in fact. She could explain what had happened and that it had made her rethink a few things. Maybe she should call him now in fact, and tell him what had happened. So he’d already have the context when she talked about wanting to finish things. Maybe that would be sensible. She should do that. She wanted to do that, she realised. She wanted to hear his voice, and to know that he knew she was okay. Which meant what. She wanted him to know where she was. Her phone was still in her bag, in the car. She started to move down the embankment. The younger man grabbed her arm.

‘You should stay up here,’ he said. ‘It’s safer.’ She looked at him, and at his hand on her arm. ‘They’ll be here in a minute,’ he said.

‘I just need to get my phone,’ she said. ‘I need to call someone. I’ll be careful, thanks.’ She tried to step away, but he held her back. ‘Excuse me?’ she said.

‘You’re probably in shock,’ he said. ‘You should be careful. Maybe you should sit down.’

‘I’m okay, actually, thanks? I don’t want to sit down?’ She spoke clearly, looking him in the eye, raising her voice above the wind and the traffic. Plus raising her voice against maybe he was a bit deaf, as well as the learning-challenged thing. She wanted him to let go of her arm. She tried to pull away again, but his grip was too tight. She looked at him, like: what are you doing? He shook his head. He said something else, but she couldn’t hear him. She didn’t know if the wind had picked up or what was going on. He looked confused, as if he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be saying.

She glanced down the other side of the embankment, and saw the older man at the edge of the woodland. He was standing with his back to the trees, looking up at the two of them, his hands held tensely by his sides. What was he. He seemed to be trying to say something to the younger man. He seemed to be waiting for something. She tried to pull away. But what.

What Happened to Mr Davison

Cadwell

First of all I want to start by saying we all of us just really have every sympathy as regards what happened to Mr Davidson. Obviously the conclusion was not one which I or any of us were seeking. That goes without saying. I mean, I honestly don’t think that what happened was within the range of foreseeable consequences. Not that we sat down and undertook a full risk assessment before embarking on that particular course of action. Of course not. It was more of a spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment type of scenario. But I think even given how little forward analysis was involved it would be safe to say that the outcome was not one any of us envisaged. I mean, clearly not. That’s just not the kind of people we are, any of us. I think that’s just really understood. I think I’m safe in saying that that’s been accepted, by some of the people who’ve been impacted upon, in terms of the subsequent turn of events. Including Mr Davidson himself. As far as we’ve been able to gather. I mean, you know, some of the people he has around him have been understandably cautious, in terms of what I suppose you could call access. That’s been my understanding at least, to date: that an approach of that manner would not be favourably received at this time, given the ongoing circumstances. I’m speaking in terms of with reference to third parties, in this context. Given our feeling that a direct approach would be likely to have been deemed insensitive, in light of the wider context, and the history and suchlike.

Davison. Yes. Of course.

Right.

I’m not sure there’s actually any need to rehearse the facts of the day in question. I think everyone’s very familiar with the sequence of what went on. Suffice it to say that the context was rather a pressured one. Myself and the other three gentlemen in question have discussed this at length, and we all agree that any of the precursors to our actions would in and of themselves have been sufficient as to be considered intolerable; but it was the combination of those precursors which led to the rather hastily agreed-upon course of action which was then taken.

Yes, I would concede that it was hastily agreed-upon.

No, I wouldn’t support that notion. That doesn’t necessarily follow.

I can’t recall which one of us specifically initiated the proposal. We’ve spoken about this as well, and we are all in agreement that the proposal arose as a more or less spontaneous initiative between us. We take collective responsibility on that point. Which is to say, on the limited point of how and by whom the proposal was initiated; that was a collective responsibility, I’m saying. I’m not talking about the wider question of responsibility for the eventual outcome. Not at all. That’s very much a matter for debate. I think we can all agree on that. And of course that’s a debate I would welcome, when the time comes. No one would welcome that more than me. But my feeling is that this wouldn’t be the appropriate context for that discussion, not today. My understanding was that this was simply an opportunity to clarify the narrative, as it were.

Thank you. Yes. I will.

Yes, quite so. The background. So. Mr Davidson and myself have been near-neighbours for a number of years, understanding of course that neighbour is a relative term in that neck of the woods. His house is visible from our house, and his land abuts on to ours. I wouldn’t say that we’ve become close friends over that duration; he’s a busy man, understandably, and although I spend as much time in that property as is possible I wouldn’t class myself as a full-time resident, by any means. So our opportunities for interaction have been naturally limited. But there hadn’t been any animosity between ourselves. Not historically speaking.

I wouldn’t say surprised as such, no. One expects a certain amount of countryside activity in the countryside, clearly. Possibly the range and duration and volume of those activities did somewhat exceed our expectations, yes. But we understood that our grounds for complaint were fairly restricted. Mr Davidson was a farming man, after all, and that much was perfectly clear at the time we purchased the property, and indeed Mr Davidson was absolutely entitled to reiterate this fact from time to time, as he felt it necessary to so do.

Davison. I stand corrected.

Quite, absolutely.

Well, it’s just that I would dispute whether motorcycle scramble racing can be considered to be a farming activity. Harvesting is one thing, even allowing for the fact that at times it went on until two or three o’clock in the morning. Constructing a new intensive poultry-production unit is also one thing; notwithstanding one’s own personal views on the merits of such a farming method, it is still classifiably a farming activity. But motorcycle scramble racing is just quite another thing altogether, I’m sure we can agree. I mean, look, I understand the need for economic diversification as much as the next man, especially in this day and age. I really do. I just wonder whether there’s such a thing as being too diverse.

Oh, I’d hardly know where to begin. It wasn’t just the noise, although that was of a peculiarly piercing and high-pitched quality which I have to tell you was just about consistently unbearable. But noise is one thing. No, it was more the fumes, and the dust, and the type of people it brought to the area. I mean, the dust was unbelievable. The situation was extremely unpleasant, at best.

Intolerable was a word I used earlier, you’re quite right. I stand by that.

Oh, now hang on. By saying type of people I simply meant to refer to the behaviour in terms of road-use, parking on verges and blocking driveways and bringing in large vehicles which the road there simply isn’t designed to be capable of coping with. I didn’t mean to cast aspersions. Far from it. This whole thing had nothing whatsoever to do with that. It wasn’t the late-night music we objected to, nor the type of language we sometimes heard being used in the designated camping area which happened to be in the field adjacent to our garden. No. This was simply a question of the dust, and the fumes, and the overall intrusion into and disturbance of our lives.

Yes. That is my understanding of the prognosis.

Quite.

Well, yes, of course I would agree that Mr Davidson’s life has now been disturbed, absolutely. But I think that’s rather an emotive way of framing the situation, if you don’t mind my saying so. The outcome of our actions on that day cannot in any way reflect upon the reasons we felt we had for taking those actions. Look, the situation had been recurring for months. And on this occasion, with guests at the house who were able to see the situation anew and emphasise to myself just how utterly unacceptable it was; well, the phrase I recall being used was this will not stand. You know, this simply will not stand. A line needed to be drawn. I had guests in my home, and I was effectively being humiliated by the situation. And so that was the background to the decision which was taken by myself and the other three gentlemen in question.

Possibly it was an emotive decision, yes. I do accept that.

Yes. Yes I do. I do believe it was a proportional response. Clearly the eventual outcome of the resulting chain of events was tragically disproportionate. But our original actions were reasonable, I feel, under the circumstances which I’ve gone to some lengths to outline for you today. And look, you know, the criminal proceedings relating to the earth-moving equipment, and the taking without consent thereof, have been concluded to the satisfaction of the Crown Prosecution Service. So that matter is actually now closed, I believe.

Right. I understand. Indeed.

Well, look, you know, regret is a very difficult word. It’s a complicated word. Do I, in all hindsight, wish things had turned out very differently? Of course I do. We all do, fervently. Would I have undertaken an alternative course of action had what we now know to have been the outcome been clear to me at that time? Absolutely I would. But the fact remains, the outcome wasn’t at all clear to any of us at that moment in time. As I’ve said, we were operating very much on a spur-of-the-moment basis. Something had to be done. The situation was intolerable. Of course I regret what eventually came to be seen as the outcome of the chain of events which the four of us perhaps somewhat inadvertently set in motion. But I’m just not sure I can accept the premise that this means I should regret my actions at that particular juncture, or the very limited decision-making process which led to those actions. Would an expression of regret change one single iota of the outcome of that day, or the impact upon Mr Davidson and his family? Of course not. Would such an expression somehow absolve myself of the burden of responsibility which I so rightly bear upon my own shoulders? Quite frankly, I fail to see why it should.

Look, of course I feel a sense of sadness about what happened to Mr Davidson. Of course I do. But this apprehension that somehow we should all go around apologising left, right and centre for a whole host of actions which clearly we are completely powerless to go back and rectify; well, I just don’t buy it. I absolutely don’t. None of us do.

Davison. Right. Of course.

Years Of This, Now

Grantham

She sat beside the bed and watched him breathe. She pulled her chair closer, the metal legs scraping across the floor. She’d been here barely ten minutes, and already she wanted to leave.

She should be praying now, she supposed. But she didn’t know what she would be praying for, if she were to pray honestly; whether she would be praying for his healing or simply asking not to have to be here at all.

The machines beside his bed did what they needed to do. His chest rose and fell.

She tried to remember when she’d last prayed for anybody. The thought of it seemed almost ridiculous, now. She reached out and held his hand. It was warm. She held it between her two hands, and she thought she felt some small pressure in response. Was that possible? She closed her eyes. She opened her eyes and looked around. The door to the main part of the ward was open, but nobody was watching. She could hear the nurses talking in their little side-room, further down the corridor. She could hear a television beside one of the beds in the ward. She turned back to Michael, and closed her eyes. Keep him safe, she said, silently. It was all she could think to say. Keep him safe and well. Keep him on this road to recovery. Or, no; keep him.

She opened her eyes, shocked at herself.

She leaned forward and smoothed the hair away from his forehead. It was getting long again. And he needed a shave. She wondered whether the nurses would do that. She pulled the sheet a little higher up his chest. She watched his breathing, his stillness. It was a long time since she’d seen him as relaxed as this. Even his sleep had seemed restless and tense of late; his arms wrapped round himself, his jaw clamped shut, his fists clenched. The doctor had warned him, in a way; if not of this exactly then of something. You’re too busy, the doctor had said, too stressed. You’re in need of a break, in need of some exercise, in need of a better diet. In need, also, of being able to pay attention when someone who knew what they were talking about said something like that, rather than thinking he was too young or too strong or just too bloody blessed for it to apply to him.

No, that wasn’t fair. Michael had paid attention, but he’d had no idea what to do with the information. I can’t have a break, he’d insisted. How can I have a break? How would the parish go on without me, at a time like this? There wasn’t a time when it hadn’t been a time like this. She wondered whether it was a male trait, this notion of being trapped by one’s own indispensability, or if it was something exclusive to Michael.

She shouldn’t be angry. It wasn’t fair. He was dedicated to his job. That was a good thing. The world needed people who were dedicated to their jobs. That church needed a vicar who was dedicated to the parish, finally. But she was tired of it now. She was tired of being left alone while he did these things. This new parish was supposed to have been a chance for them both to take things a little more slowly. It was supposed to have been a refreshing change after the urban pressures of the last parish; a nice quiet country church to see them both into retirement. Long walks. Coffee mornings. Ladies seeing to the flowers. The occasional trip into the city to go to the gallery, the cinema, the restaurants.

Whereas instead he’d managed to find a country parish which had years of problems stacked up, where the church had to be kept locked and the congregation was unwilling to lift a finger and all the hard-luck stories from miles around still managed to find their way to the vicarage door.

She pictured him being alone when it had happened, laid out on the vestry’s cold stone floor. He’d managed to reach his mobile phone, it seemed, with one side of his body numbed into sudden immobility and a terrible fear clouding his brain, and when he’d fumbled for the redial button her work number had been the first to come up. It was the secretary in her department office who’d called the ambulance. I could hardly hear him, she told Catherine afterwards. It wasn’t even a whisper.

And stroke was such a strange word for someone to have given this thing. It was misleading, underhand. Not that she could see much of the violence which had been done to him. There was nothing of the awful drooping grimace she’d seen on others who’d suffered strokes. Perhaps that would come later. For now, he just looked rested. As handsome as ever, in fact. He’d always been a handsome man, his looks seeming only to deepen with age instead of sagging and softening the way hers had done. She had been beautiful once, she thought — he’d told her often enough that she’d believed him, eventually — but that was mostly gone now, her figure rounded, her hair dulled, her skin marked and lined by the years. It felt as though their pairing had grown more uneven over the years, not less. And now there was this.

Because there would be years of this, now. If she stayed. His frailty, his dependence, his doing the things the doctors had told him not to and then looking to her to stop him. Everyone looking to her. People asking her gently how he was, when he would be back at work, whether he was thinking about early retirement. Adding And how are you? only as an occasional afterthought.

She heard the low hum and squeak of a floor-polishing machine moving along the corridor. Whoever was watching the television in the main ward turned it up a little to compensate. Somebody leaned through the doorway, apologised, and disappeared. The machines beside Michael’s bed did what they needed to do. His chest rose and fell.

She tried to imagine being somewhere else. Being contacted after the fact by his sister, or a doctor, or even by some other woman. Having to decide whether to visit. Having that choice. She found it impossible to actually picture not being here with him. To picture being with someone else when, as would surely happen again, the telephone call came. Somebody saying, It’s Michael. Somebody passing on the news of Michael being in a hospital bed once more, with wires taped to his chest and an oxygen mask across his face. She wondered how that would work, when it came to it. Whether this someone else would give her a lift to the hospital, whether they would wait downstairs or come up with her, whether there would be some residual awkwardness, still, or only concern, affection, love. Would they all be friends, in fact? Is that how these things worked? Would they have, what was it called, moved on?

The someone else was the hardest part to imagine. Some other woman. Some other man. It seemed impossible, now.

And what was all this in aid of, anyway. Where was she going with all this. She should just be praying for him to get better. Instead of all this speculation. All this might be and could be. Why was she even allowing herself? Hers wasn’t the sort of life where choices presented themselves, and held equal weight, and remained dangling within reach. Other people had these lives, it appeared. Other people were able to choose not to live with regret.

This would be the most selfish thing she had done, by far. She wasn’t sure, now, whether she would be able to go through with it. But it didn’t need to be anything she was going through with, really. Not initially. She was just going on a retreat. It had been booked for months. Nobody would think badly of her for going. Michael might not even know.

Michael might not know anything again.

She wondered how long his sister would take to get here, and whether Michael would be awake by then. She imagined his sister reading the letter she was going to send once she got there; what her reaction would be, what she would tell Michael. She wondered whether she and her husband would move into the vicarage for a time, or whether they’d persuade Michael to move in with them.

She wondered whether anyone would forgive her for this, whether they would understand. She doubted it. But doubt no longer seemed like a good enough reason for not doing something.

The machines did what they needed to do. His chest rose, and fell.

She tucked his hands back under the sheet and stood up to leave, putting on her coat and picking up her suitcase and pouring him a glass of water from the jug on the bedside locker, in case he was thirsty when he woke up.

The Remains

Friskney

Are believed to still be intact. Are understood to be within an area of approximately seventeen square miles. Are believed to have been concealed. Are either partially or completely buried. Are likely to be without clothes or jewellery or other possessions. May not be suitable for visual identification. Will be treated as a critical evidential scene. Have been the subject of much intrusive and unhelpful press speculation. Continue to be a key focus of questioning. Will be located using a combination of aerial surveillance and ground-penetrating radar. May be beautifully preserved, tanned and creased and oiled, by the action of the rich peated ground. May be laid in a resting position with legs together and hands folded and head turned gently to one side. Are of course still a concern to everyone in the department. May be intact. Have continued to be a topic of periodic speculation from time to time over the years. May be crammed into a box or bag or case. May need to be identified by recourse to dental records. May be wholly or partially lost due to action by animal or animals. May be wrapped in a silken winding sheet and buried with jewellery and other possessions pressed neatly into the folded hands. Must be in a location known to person or persons as yet unidentified. Could well be recoverable given the relinquishing of certain key details known to person or persons unknown. May have been visited from time to time by the perpetrator or individuals known to the perpetrator. Are either partial or complete. May ultimately need to be recovered using a team from the forensic archaeology department. Are not currently a priority in this challenging period of strained resources. Have yet to be found. Continue to be the subject of an open case file. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by water. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by earth. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Will not give you what you need. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have no further purpose to serve. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by fire. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Will not bring her back. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Are gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Is gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Are gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Is gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be.