Chapter 3

What’s that quote? Supposed to be from George Orwell. “Good people sleep easily in their beds because rough men stand ready to do violence to those who would hurt them?” I’d heard the quote or variations on it – apparently there’s no evidence that George Orwell actually said it – but there’s more than a little truth in it. At some point, I began to realise I’d left the realm of ‘ordinary’ ‘good’ people and had entered that of ‘rough men’. I also came to realise that many of the ‘rough men’ with whom I associated were, in fact, women. And none the less effective for that.

Sally had come to a similar decision. “Master, we should trade off with Goat and Snoopy.”

“Yes, we should.”

They were reluctant, but in the end we agreed to go turn and turn about bivouacking in the woods. Goat’s selected video clips disappeared into the grey world bureaucracy.

Perhaps a week went by. We slept in the bivvy in black, thermal jumpsuits at night. I missed the skin-to-skin contact, not to mention making love at random times in the night, but we made up for it during our ‘night off’. As it happens, it was Sally and I who were woken at two in the morning by vibrating smart watches linked to our network. It didn’t take long to slip on black trainers, gloves and balaclavas and crawl out of the bivvy.

Our visitors had entered the property at a point well away from the right-of-way. Using NVE (night vision equipment) they had picked their way through the woodland, actually following our paths, rather than fighting through the understorey. Six of them. We tasered the last two, getting a spray of bullets in our general direction in reply.

“Face down on the ground, weapons on the ground, hands behind your backs!” I ordered.

Unsurprisingly, they did not immediately obey. Nine-millimetre holes in the thighs of two of them – we both assumed they were wearing armour – convinced them we had the drop, and they obeyed. Sally and I covered them for a few minutes before Goat and Snoopy appeared. We zip-tied their wrists behind their backs and hobbled their ankles; Goat and Sally applied field dressings to the bullet wounds, and they were ‘persuaded’ to walk into the house and down into the cellar.

“What the hell do we do now?” was my question.

“We call for help,” was Snoopy’s instant response. With our guests secure in the ‘dungeon’, we had over twenty-four hours to wait for support. There was a strong temptation to subject our guests to ... vigorous ... persuasion to talk. Perhaps strangely, the strongest advocates of the same were the ladies. I might have been less surprised had I not experienced that previously. The tendency of women to take a hard line is, apparently, long recognised; “When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plain, and the women come out to cut up what remains...” But in our situation, perhaps ‘If’ might be more apposite.

We didn’t talk to them. We fed them, gave them bottled water.

Jonny Schraeder arrived late the next day with half a dozen people in a minibus. Remember what I just said about the ‘fairer sex’? Three of them were women. He apologised for the late arrival. We, however, were just happy to see them. Sally, of course, was well prepared and fed them soup, fresh bread, and cheese.

When they’d eaten we repaired to the lounge with a beer apiece. We sipped, appreciatively.

“Sergeant Basset, Sergeant Watson,” Jonny began, “I’m sorry, but the Brigadier wants you back at base tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused, before Snoopy continued, “I suppose someone could get us to the station in Windermere in the morning?”

I interrupted. “Why don’t you take the Lotus? I dare say you, or someone, could get it back to us in a week or so.”

“Really?” Goat seemed quite excited at the idea. “Don’t you mind? I love that car.”

I shrugged. “Not at all. We can get by without it easily for a little while, and it’ll get you home much more enjoyably than the train, I think, and a lot quicker, probably.”

“Good enough,” Jonny smiled, “if you don’t mind, Jerry. But the reason we’re here...” he paused and took a couple of thoughtful sips of his Snecklifter. “Yes. Your visitors. We’ll let them stew for tonight. In the morning...” he hesitated, “would you mind leaving us here for a few hours?”

I looked at Sally, eyebrows raised. She shrugged. “I think we can trust you,” I said.

“Thank you. It’s just ... you’ll probably be happier not to be involved while we ... interview them.”

I was not sure I even wanted to know that much. Once we’d settled everyone in bed – one pair (not a couple) took the bivvy, another couple a spare bedroom, Jonny and the other lady guest rooms, and the ‘spare’ male slept on the tatami in the gym.

Sally, of course, knew I was preoccupied and divined easily the why. “Our guests ... our uninvited guests ... do you think they’d have had any compunction about what they were going to do with us?” She held up a hand. “Even if they were not going to do anything directly, they were certainly going to take us somewhere where someone would deal with us in a way we would not like at all.”

I sighed. “I know.” I caressed her silky smooth back, and there was a definite stirring below.

She wriggled in my arms, sliding down my body until her mouth closed over my half-erect organ. As soon as I was fully hard, though, she moved back up until we could join.

We make love in many different ways. It’s always as much about the journey as the destination, but sometimes she – or I – will deliberately extend the journey considerably. She lay on top of me, skin to skin, touching everywhere it’s possible for two people to touch. Hardly moving, a rhythmic pulsing of her pussy preventing me from softening (as if!). I suppose it’s something like tantric sex; as much a spiritual thing as a physical one.

I don’t know how it works – it’s certainly nothing like what I would once have expected of intercourse – but gradually we approach a mutual peak. Our focus is absolutely on each other. I don’t know how long it takes, because after an overwhelming climax we both slip straight into unconsciousness and thence into sleep. Quite often, Sally’s still sprawled on top of me when I wake. Occasionally, I’m still inserted. When I think about it at all, I just thank whatever deity there may be for the gift I’ve received.

Sally stirred, which woke me. I stopped her from getting out of bed without me and we showered together, dressed, and went downstairs. Our invited guests were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee.

Sally went straight to the refrigerator. “Breakfast? Everything?”

“Sandwiches for Al and Jean. They’re going out to relieve Steve and Snake.”

“Yeah,” I said, “how’d a pretty girl get ‘Snake’ for a nickname?”

“Her name’s Adele. Some folk call her Addy, but it was just a short step from there to Adder, then Snake. Especially since she’s lethal in a sneak.”

Sally had a big pan going and soon the two were heading out the back door holding enormous sandwiches and travel mugs of coffee. We were eating our breakfast when the other two arrived and joined us at the table.

“So...” Jonny began, laying down his cutlery and picking up his mug. “Jerry. Are you and Sally okay to get lost for a few hours? Weather’s looking a bit miserable.”

“Oh, we’ll dress for it. How long do you want us out of the way?”

“All day, I think. Will you be somewhere we can contact you?”

“Oh, I’m never sure about that. We’ll call if we can.”

There’s a reason Cumbria has a lot of lakes quite apart from the legacy of the glaciers. It rains a lot. Perhaps not quite as much as Scotland, though it might be a toss-up. We set out in a fine drizzle which turned to steady rain. On the BMW – Sally loves that machine – we dressed in oversuits and, in my case, full-face helmet and boots. I’m a motorcyclist. Rain, well, it’s part of life. I’d still prefer two (or, in that case, three) wheels to a four-wheeled box.

So, yes, we dressed up, fetched the BMW out of the garage, and set off. Down the east side of Coniston Water, to Lowick – it was raining in earnest by then – Haverthwaite, Newby Bridge, to Lakeside.

Lakeside offers plenty to occupy a visitor. Aquarium, restaurant, lake cruises, steam railway. It was actually pleasant to play tourist with my wife for company. We walked through the aquarium. Shared a kiss or two. Why not? Went to get some lunch, thinking, ‘lake cruise this afternoon’? We’d finished our first course, a pretty good lasagne, and I was thinking about a pudding, when I felt a sort of tingle between my shoulder blades. I looked at Sally, who had an expression in her eyes I’d seen once or twice before.

“I think we might go,” I said, watching carefully.

Yes. Slight smile. “Good idea, Master.”

So, yes. Dressing again for the combination. “Why don’t we leave off the high-vis?” I asked.

“Yes.” She took a breath. “Master, might I drive?”

I thought about that for a couple of seconds, not more. “Okay.”

I’m sure there will be some who will argue, but no motorcycle will outpace a comparable car. You can do things with four wheels on corners which you cannot do on two. Let me qualify that. It does depend on the driver. I’m not a tearaway. In fact, I’m very cautious. Sally is, in many ways, a better driver or rider, despite a lack of experience. But that’s about two wheels versus four. The one thing a solo motorbike has going for it is the ability to squeeze through gaps and that, yes, is potentially dangerous.

But we were on three wheels. If pursued, we were unlikely to squeeze through any gaps to lose our tail. On the other hand, a combination is not like a three-wheeled car. Overdo it on a corner in a Robin, or even a Bug, and you’re likely to be rolling off the road. In a combination, an agile passenger can contribute considerably to progress. Faster than a car? Maybe. Our BMW is not fast. It’s seventy years old. More. Five hundred ccs. Runs smoothly – I mean, really smooth – but lacks the power of a modern machine.