Probably just a local birdwatcher or farmer. That’s all, I persuaded myself. Why was I so jumpy? I began to retrace the trail of my footsteps back to the cottage, feeling the whole time as if I was being watched. I kept stopping and looking around, but saw nothing.
I plunged into the virgin snow again. From where I stood, I knew the cottage was within around half a mile, but in which direction? Nothing was marked out because of the snow. I came to a cluster of gorse bushes on one side and a spiky pyracantha on the other and took a route through the middle, instantly regretting it. I sank into a deep bed of snow and realised my foot was caught. I reached down and felt around to find out what was gripping me. It wasn’t part of a tree trunk or tangled thorns – it was something sturdy and made of metal.
I followed through with my right foot, hoping that by stepping forward I would create enough momentum to break free, but I lost my balance and toppled over. My left ankle was still trapped against what felt like a metal blade in the ground and my right knee had crunched down into something hard under the snow. I heard my jeans rip as I sank down and waited for a surge of pain. I was twisted and wet, but didn’t feel injured beyond a few bruises, unless the wound had been numbed by the snow.
I twisted around towards the leg that was jammed and tried to wriggle out of the boot, but everything below my knee felt like one solid block and I couldn’t shift it. I called out, hoping I was near enough to civilisation for someone to hear me, but my voice tailed off hopelessly into the wind.
All of a sudden, the relief that I had no pain in my leg evaporated. It was snowing more heavily now and I was stuck out here – not a soul knew where I was.
I put the gloves back on and remained on all fours, propping myself up. The stabbing pain in my forehead kick-started itself into a regular throbbing again – like a stubborn child refusing to be ignored.
It could be ages before Karen returned to the cottage and even then, she’d be so preoccupied with the baby, she might not think to come looking for me. No one would be concerned until after dark – and by then I’d be frozen.
Chapter 11
My phone. Of course, why hadn’t I thought of that?
I hadn’t been using it at the cottage because there was no signal, but out here there should be, shouldn’t there? For one horrible moment, I couldn’t remember dropping it into my pocket before I left, but when I felt the back of my jeans, I found it.
I punched in Karen’s number and waited. My teeth were chattering by now and the cold seemed to have crept inside every fold of my clothing. I couldn’t feel my ankle at all – I didn’t know if it was damaged or not – it was buried in snow which had pitched over the top of my boot and fallen inside.
There was no sound from my phone. I looked at the screen: no signal. I held it out as far as I could on all fours and waved it around. Nothing. It was dead.
Something heavy inside my stomach fell hard and fast, and my throat was burning. Visibility was quickly diminishing as the flakes of snow fell fatter and closer together. I was having trouble seeing – so how was anyone going to find me?
My wrists began to ache. I tried lowering myself down on to my elbows, but I couldn’t endure it for more than a few seconds and had to force myself back onto my hands again. I was tempted to lower myself completely into the snow – give in to the soft pillow – but that put too much pressure on my leg. It occurred to me too that staying still probably wasn’t a good idea. The bone-aching cold was eating deeply into my flesh by now. It coated my tongue with a bitter tang and made my lungs feel hollow. I was going to have to keep moving just to maintain my body heat.
I’d done two feeble press-ups when I heard a sound. A twig snapping not far to my right. ‘Hello?’ I called out.
I heard the swish of a waterproof jacket before I saw him. ‘I’m stuck!’ I cried out. ‘I’m near some bushes caught in some kind of trap.’
There was a rustle and heavy breathing above me. ‘What on earth’s happened here?’ came the voice.
‘My ankle is jammed in some machinery, I think.’
‘Okay – let’s take a look.’
He had remained behind me, so I couldn’t see his face, but he sounded neither youthful, nor elderly – somewhere in between. I heard him brush the snow aside with his gloves.
‘Oh, yeah – it looks like a rusty old plough,’ he said. ‘Dangerous relic, left out here in the open.’ He started jiggling the rods underneath me. His voice was posh and English, not Scottish. Most importantly, he sounded like he knew what he was doing.
‘Ouch!’ I cried.