“I can only judge by reputation,” Megan said. “They operated in the north as far as I know, but Walsh is a legend. If we get no one else, we need him.”
The meeting broke up, leaving me to deal with the prospect of traipsing back into London when less than three months had passed since my last trip. For appearance’s sake, I’d have to drop in to see my parents, and lord knew I could do without that.
Still, getting off camp at this time of year was a bonus. A soggy autumn had left every tent and trailer damp, the ground saturated, and even the most hardened sab vets were growing weary of our transient lifestyle.
“We still need to build a house,” I said to no one in particular.
No one answered.
***
Fletch drove me to the station. On the way, we stopped by Goon’s place for no reason other than to scout the place for any activity linked to hunting—ramped-up security, horse prep, hounds looking hungrier than usual.
We parked in the woods—a different spot every time—and trekked to the wall surrounding the grounds. The wall was old and spotted with tiny holes, some just big enough to slide Fletch’s ancient telescope through. His spy tool was small but mighty. We scoped three vantage points before the rumble of a vehicle coming up the driveway signalled our retreat.
A quick dash took us back to the safety of the trees. I ducked behind a dead oak and tracked the BMW snaking towards the house. It wasn’t one of Goon’s, unless he’d been shopping in the last few weeks.
I snagged Fletch’s telescope and did my best impression of a forest pirate, much to his amusement, but his humour didn’t last long.
“Unmarked car?” he said.
I nodded. “Lights in the grill, dashboard full of kit, I’d say so. Question is what’s it doing here? Cos I doubt they’ve schlepped out here to slap Goon’s wrists for the hunt last month.”
Fletch grunted. “No chance. I reckon there’s a copper riding out with them.”
“For real?”
“Makes sense. We’re used to unsympathetic rozzers, but the protection this hunt gets is ridiculous. Four cars, a van, and a chopper in the sky? You don’t get that shite if you ain’t got a foot in the door.”
The reality of Fletch’s theory was grim. The police were already all over us every time we ventured off camp in groups larger than two. With them turning up mob-handed to hunts as well, we didn’t stand a chance.
Which made the need for experienced sabs more pressing than ever.
We watched the Beamer pass through the electric gates, and took our cue to move on, but trouble waited for us back at the car. Smashed-in windows and a missing exhaust.
“Fuck’s sake.” Fletch glared at the mutilated Astra. “Meg’s gonna do her nut.”
I jerked my head back towards Goon’s place. “You think the two things are connected?”
“What? That’s he’s got a kitchen full of old bill while our car gets done in? Yeah, I reckon so, kid. It ain’t like he don’t watch us as much as we watch him.”
I couldn’t argue. Goon was a familiar target for me, but Fletch and Meg had been on him for decades. Played the same games, danced the same dance. I shuddered to imagine the horrors they’d seen on the many days it hadn’t gone our way. “What are we gonna do?”
“Call the AA,” Fletch deadpanned, before treating me to a gentle shove. “Weain’t gonna do nothing. You’ve got a train to catch so I suggest you get your arse down the bus stop. You need some money?”
“No, thanks.” As if I’d ever take his money. Fletch sold rustic wood carvings to keep him and Meg fed, and we lived on his grandfather’s land—a commune of sorts—but I couldn’t count the nights he’d kept the whole gang in hot dinners and vegan cocoa. Without him, there’d be no sabs in our little slice of England.
I made a run for it and hopped on the bus just as the doors began to close. The driver gave me a suspicious look, but I was used to that. Goon owned most of the town and when he spoke, the locals—fearful of losing their tenancies, jobs, and reputations—tended to listen. To them, we were hippie scum, intent on spoiling the fun of a privileged few, in turn derailing the local economy. If only they saw a future where thriving wildlife made a better world for everyone.
An article for the blog I ran on behalf of the gang sprouted green shoots in my mind. It was times like these I missed the fancy iPhone I’d had at uni, but I settled for hacking out notes on the antiquated smartphone I’d bought from Tesco. Seriously, who needed super retina technology anyway?
Not me, though I missed having a decent camera. Wild living gifted plenty of photo ops, but my current megapixel status was worse than no camera at all. As the town passed me by, I tried to imagine a time when I’d give it all up, leave sab life behind and rejoin the nine-to-five rat race like the names on my list apparently had, but as long as packs of men rode through the countryside, clubbing wild animals to death for fun, I couldn’t see it happening.
The train into London took forty-five minutes. It terminated at Euston, so I took the opportunity for a well-earned nap without the worry of waking up in Portsmouth. That was the other thing about living outside—broken uncomfortable nights were standard. I hadn’t slept well in months.
In the city, I stumbled bleary-eyed from the train and followed the crowd to the street. An address in Clapham Common was first on my list, then Tottenham, but before I could get to work, a decoy run to see my folks took me three tube stops west of where I needed to be.
Thankfully, I found the pristine townhouse empty. I wandered from soulless room to soulless room, killing time to make it seem genuine, caught in the vortex of perfection. My mother was obsessed with minimalism. There were no knickknacks or family photos, just great swathes of magnolia. It even smelled empty.
