Chapter 1

“I love animated films – so sue me – and possibly my favourite is ‘Jungle Book’. I’ve read Rudyard Kipling’s original, of course, and with pleasure, but there’s something about the film. Perhaps it’s the music,” I mused to myself, looking at a row of DVD boxes on a shelf by the t/v. I glanced round the room, taking in the matched Ercol seating, the Axminster carpet, the bespoke curtains, the expensive, incomprehensible abstract and surreal artwork and the wallpaper I’d always thought fussy. “Bare necessities!” I snorted, out loud. In the well-equipped, but little used, kitchen, I eschewed the cafetière in favour of the small plastic filter-funnel and papers buried discreetly at the back of one of the stylish wall-cupboards. I began to suppress a yawn before thinking “Bugger it! She’s not here to moan!” and letting it happen. The kettle boiled and I carefully spooned my favourite Ethiopian Mocha into the filter and poured water over it. “For the sake of...” I said out loud, “why spoil good coffee by adding stuff to change the flavour?” I watched the level drop until there were only the dark brown grounds coating the paper, and placed the filter, grounds and all, in the sink. “I don’t want this!” I growled out loud, picking up the mug and taking it out into the perfectly manicured garden. “Bare necessities! I want a bit more than bare necessities, but all this? She wanted it – she can have it, as far as I’m concerned. But I’m not going to be screwed over. No sir!”

I drank my black coffee, relishing the flavour, and pulled my phone from my pocket. “Damn. Seven-thirty. I suppose I need to ... No! I don’t need to.” I called up my email program. ‘Wife left. Got a lot to sort out. Won’t be in for a few days.’ “He won’t like that a bit, but bugger him. Shit! Talking to myself now. Still – what do they say? Talking to the wisest person present?” I emptied the mug. “Breakfast...” I sat, thinking. “Bugger it. No bowl of sawdust. I want a Full English...”

Walking into town, I passed a used-car dealer. Amongst the nondescript offerings (and the occasional interesting vehicle) there towered a motorhome. Not that it was that big, but it certainly was compared to the small family cars surrounding it. Intrigued, and prompted by I knew not what, I wandered past it. “Only £10,999?” It was, despite obvious age, far the most expensive item there. I shrugged, and walked on. The small café on a side-road at the foot of the Moor was open and almost full, but I shared a two-place table with a heavy, balding guy in a boiler-suit bearing the logo of a prominent haulage company. The man looked me up and down, noting casual dress. “Sure – help yourself. Working today?”

I shrugged. “Nope.” I drummed my fingers on the table for a minute or so. “Nope. Just found out last night that my wife wants a divorce. I’ve taken some time off.”

“Tough luck.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“But your boss – he’s good with you taking time off?”

“Probably not, but he can go hang.”

“You’re not bothered?”

“Engineer. Computer specialist. No problem.”

“So – what can I do for you, Steve?”

“Divorce.”

“What! You’ve finally got tired of the Princess’s manipulations?”

“Something like that.” I produced a slim folder, and handed it to my solicitor friend. “I had her followed for a week or two. Suggested last night that she stop committing adultery. She shrugged and said she wanted a divorce.”

Jim Saunders flicked through the papers and photos. “About time, if I may say so. Divorce isn’t my thing, as you know, but I know just who to hand this to. What do you want?”

“No hassle. My share of the deposit on the house, my personal effects, we keep our personal accounts, ISAs and so on. I just want to be free.”

“Where will you live?”

“I don’t know, yet.”

“Well, I know just who to go to. You could probably get damages...”

“No.”

“Okay. Leave it with me.”

“So, Mister Thompson, what do you want out of this?”

I was sitting across from an attractive older woman, clearly of Chinese, or at least Oriental extraction, though her voice had no trace of an accent.

“Ms Kwan, I just want out of the situation with my fair share of any assets. I don’t want the house, it’s Brooklynn’s. Not legally, it’s in our joint names, but it’s the house she wanted, where she wanted, decorated and fitted out the way she wanted. If there’s any equity, I want a share; there probably isn’t, so I’ll settle for the twenty K which was my share of the deposit. Okay, I contributed to the furniture, but I’ll let that go. Happily, we kept separate bank accounts and savings, and I’ve removed her right to sign on mine. Her ... paramour? Is that the right word? Earns enough that she won’t have any trouble paying the mortgage. Come to that, even if he ditches her, she’s on a good enough salary.”

The solicitor smiled, and her eyes crinkled prettily. “That’s very easy-going of you, Mister Thompson. I don’t see any problems with that. A mutual agreement, then? Incompatibility?”

“Surely. There’s always the evidence of adultery if necessary.”

“Indeed. Just refer any documentation or enquiries to me.”

“Where the hell have you been, Thompson?”

“I told you, Mister Cawthorn. I had some pressing personal issues to deal with. I have plenty of holiday and overtime in reserve.”

“Well it won’t do. You’ll make up the time, or get out.”

“Well, I’m not making up any time. If anything, you owe me.“

“Get out!”

“Fine. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor.”

“So there you are, Steve. Chen has your divorce well under control – just a matter of time...”

“Chen?”

“Kwan Chen. Kwan is the family name, Chen the given name. As I was saying, she has the divorce under control. There’ll be a court hearing, but it’s mostly a matter of course, sadly. Your Tribunal hearing might be a few weeks, but there’s little doubt with the records you’ve kept of your time that the outcome is pretty assured. What’re you going to do? Buy another house? Look for a new job?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve been thinking about what I want from life. I traded my car in the other day and bought a motorbike. I’m thinking of buying a motorhome, loading the bike on the back and taking off for a few months.”

I finished signing the stack of legal paperwork and looked up at my friend. “That it, Jim?”

“That and a little time. The house has gained a little value, so you’ll come out of that with thirty grand quite soon. You’d like that deposited in your account? Good. I hope you’ve got everything you want out of the house, because it ceased to be yours when you signed the papers.”

“Did that a week ago. As I said, there wasn’t much I wanted. Clothes, personal effects, some DVDs, some cds, a few LPs, that sort of thing. I’m staying with a friend for the time being, but I have a motorhome, second hand, being prepared for me. I pick it up on the first of the month.”

“Well, don’t be a stranger, Steve. You know there’ll be a bed for you at mine any time you need it. Of course Jen will have a succession of women looking for a husband all lined up for you if you do.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve been inoculated. I’m not sure how long the immunity will last, but for now...”

The bike – a Royal Enfield built in India – had carried me around, sometimes damply thanks to the English climate, as I looked at campervans and motorhomes. I wanted something fairly cheap, but reasonably durable, and wasn’t particularly bothered about layout as long as the ‘bare necessities’ were there. As it turned out, I was instantly taken by a bespoke, well thought-out, three berther built on a Mercedes Sprinter chassis – the first I’d seen. I’d driven Sprinter vans and liked their comfort and performance. It was very well fitted out with a shower, washing machine and tumble-dryer (all of which you’d only use if connected to services at a camp-site). At thirty K it was more than I’d intended to spend, but was unable to haggle the price any lower. Besides, it was well worth it, in my opinion. Possibly the item that captivated me most was the compact sound-system complete with turntable for vinyl LPs. I paid cash, the bank having granted me a short-term loan on the basis of my savings and investments, which I would pay back when my share of the matrimonial home was deposited.

My address of record was changed to ‘care of’ Jim Saunders, who would forward everything to where ever I happened to be at the time. I stayed local for several weeks, getting used to my new home which I parked on a Peak District campsite. It was nice to have mains electricity and to use the shower and other ‘mod cons’, and I had the motorbike. (Christened Oscar after the registration, OS 11 CAR).

A week or so after the money was deposited in my account and the loan paid off, a former colleague gave me a heads-up on a job in Berwick-Upon-Tweed. They – a large office – wanted someone to advise on purchasing, setting up and protecting a computer network. I called, spoke, and left the camp-site to head north.

Agreeing on a scheme, the equipment was ordered – all ‘off the shelf’, so no great delay – and I got it up and running in three weeks, including some training for their staff. If I was working full-time on several such projects, it would have been very profitable. As it was, it topped off the dent that the previous few weeks had left in my running finances. The manager was pleased, and passed my name on to a similar business in Edinburgh. All in all, I was pretty sure my new life was going to work out fine. After all, I had the ‘bare necessities’ plus my music and books (which personally, I considered necessities as well). I also still had a smart-phone with a generous download limit and my laptop. A small printer was enough for my office requirements at that point.

I had just reached Perth when I got an urgent call from Glasgow for my services. It wasn’t worth setting up near Perth, so I moved on the next day and found a site in the Campsie Fells, far enough from the city to be in the country, but near enough to commute easily.

The new job did not involve all new hardware, just some up-to-date protective equipment and some upgrading. I worked alongside the IT manager and his assistant so that everyone was on the same page and understood the equipment fully. Both were competent enough, just lacked experience with serious network protection. I felt able to take breaks for lunch. We reached the point where I was happy that there were only a few checks left to complete, and that evening I disconnected everything and prepared to leave. Driving my home into Glasgow – I started early and missed the worst of the traffic – was something of a trial, but I managed to find a parking place.

Fortunately – I had been worried about Murphy – everything went according to plan and I was able to leave at mid-day to eat my lunch at my favourite cafe perhaps for the last time, get to the vehicle and leave.

There was some congestion, as might be expected. I eschewed the M74 in favour of the old road (now the B7076) it had replaced; I was, after all, in no hurry. Somewhere near Moffat I found a tyre-and-exhaust place where the proprietor agreed (for a small fee) to let me camp overnight in his car park.

I woke early in the morning. I used the bunk – nominally a double – in a space above the cab which has narrow windows at the front and each side. Before moving, I peeked out, lifting the little curtain, to see what sort of day it was going to be. Well, it was grey and overcast, though not actually raining. A single figure trudged past and I wondered what had got him – or her, it was impossible to tell – up so early to walk along a minor road on an unpromising day. I shrugged, mentally, and gave up the quest for sleep in favour of toilet, wash, coffee and breakfast. By the time I’d finished, dressed, and washed up, it was eightish and the dull day had turned to drizzle. The first employees of ‘Tyred and Exhausted’ arrived for work and I decided to make a move.

I had a fancy for change, and booked a pitch near Keswick in the Lakes. Each year the RSPB keep an eye on a pair of Ospreys which nest by nearby Bassenthwaite Lake. Perhaps I’d get to see the birds fishing. It made sense to get on the motorway, the A74M, which becomes the M6 at the Scottish/English border. I got moving and headed for the next junction where I saw a figure listlessly holding out a thumb on the approach road to the southbound motorway. (I gather hitchhikers used to be a regular feature of long-distance drives, but either the risks, or perhaps increased awareness of the risks, had rendered them an endangered species – in more ways than one, I suppose. My own experience of occasionally picking up a hitchhiker was really of ferry drivers who, having delivered a vehicle, had to make their way back to their base. They were readily identified by the red and white trade plates they carried. Even they had become less common.)

I don’t know why I stopped. (A friend of mine would probably say it was destiny, but I wouldn’t know about that). “Where’re you headed to?”

The figure shrugged. “South.” Male or female? Quite a deep voice, throaty...

“Well, I’ll be leaving the motorway at Penrith, if that’s any good to you.”

“Thanks.”

She ... yes, definitely female ... climbed in, buckled up, and I moved off. Merging into the building traffic heading south, I settled on fifty-five to sixty, rather than my customary fifty; heavy goods vehicles are, supposedly, governed to a maximum of fifty-six, and I fitted into the line of trucks.

“Got a destination in mind?” I asked casually.

Hesitation. “No...” pause, “just heading somewhere I might get a job.”

“Do you mind some music?”

Shrug. “Whatever you like.”

Classic Fm. Some of the adverts are repetitious and irritating, but there’s a good selection of music and, of course, hourly traffic reports. Litolff. Grieg. Alyson Balsom playing some rescored violin music on her trumpet.

“You like this stuff?” She could do ‘casual’ too.

“Yeah. I don’t care for a lot of popular stuff. Take a look in there...” I pointed at a rack of cds without taking my eyes off the road.

“‘S okay. This is nice.”

While large, the cab of the vehicle was limited in space, and soon enough I was aware of a distinct aroma emanating from my passenger. Not enough to be really unpleasant, but certainly enough to suggest she hadn’t bathed for a while. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m okay.” The response, while fast, lacked conviction.