Crossing The Line

CROSSING THE LINE

Chris Cloake

Copyright © 2025 Chris Cloake

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 9781836546177

PART ONE

ESCAPE

CHAPTER ONE

Keep moving. Don’t stop. I didn’t plan this for all those months to fail. I can’t go back, not now. To be the victim again. My hell. And if I tried to explain my actions. What then? Questions, blame, guilt. My battered heart races at the thought. Or is it the running? Getting away. From him.

My old friend the moon is at his brightest. He helps me read the map, trace the line I’ve plotted. I dare not switch on my torch too often or I might draw someone’s attention. I growl. Is that as far as I’ve got? I’ve been going for hours. I thought I’d do better than this.

Mind you, it’s a wiggly path I’ve set myself. Keeping to the countryside, avoiding houses and people. A girl, alone, miles from everywhere? More questions. Some of the footpaths aren’t easy to follow, the landowners less than attentive to the stiles and the weeds. At one point I found my course barred by strips of barbed wire. Those wire cutters I stole from the school came to the rescue.

Focusing ahead of me, I notice the first whispers of dawn stealing over the horizon. I have to reach the plantation before daybreak. I estimate that’s two miles off. The ground is treacherous, ploughed into furrows that have dried to become ankle twisting clumps. But the air is clear and I draw in deep breaths of it, imagining I can taste the sea on my tongue. That’s my ultimate goal, a big, wide expanse of water that moves with the turn of the earth, a tide to clear the heart. Endless possibilities.

Fuck! I scream when a bramble finds its way through my thick trousers and into my shin.

I have to physically wrench myself clear. I stamp down on the offending plant. Repeatedly.

Bastard! I shout.

My shameless expletives are rousing. With renewed determination I skirt round the edge of a large field, disturbing a crow that squawks in alarm and flaps off to find another perch. I smile, happy in my new guise as night wanderer.

Now I can see it. A large mass of trees at the top of a steep incline. Close enough to spur me on. To my surprise I’m able to quicken my pace. The landscape around me is opening out and I’m likely visible in the growing light to anyone who happens along the road to the south.

Anxiety grips me, like the way it does when I’m alone with him. I feel my throat tighten, making me rasp. Shit, I mustn’t collapse out here in the open. Aren’t teenagers supposed to feel indestructible? That certainly doesn’t apply to me. The world is out to get me, even when displaying the best intentions, I know that much already.

However, I am, if nothing else, a survivor. And desperate. I make that last stretch and over the fence just as the first rays of the October sunshine appear, and then collapse with exhaustion onto the carpet of fallen pine needles, that poke into my soft skin. I pull off my heavy backpack and shove it under my cheek, my head spinning as I escape into an aching slumber.

I dream. I’m on stage, dancing to the sound of a beautiful aria in a Puccini opera. I draw down great breaths, deliver the moves, my limbs moving gracefully. I am the leading lady, aglow under the theatre lights, confidence shining.

I know my audience is enraptured. They wish only good things for me. I am the one they have come to see. My parents are among them, full of pride and admiration. ‘My pretty pixie’, mum has always called me. In this performance, I realise my potential. This is destiny, this is who I am.

Except. There is one face that reminds me that I am stupid. I see his face emerge out of the darkness, the hooked nose, the self satisfied smirk, those cold blue eyes fixed on me. He owns me, decides what I eat and wear, limits my language and issues instructions. His opinions are my opinions. And he doesn’t like what I’m doing.

Stop at once, he commands. You cannot dance for anyone but me.

I see his rapacious hand reaching to grab me, the probing fingers clenched like a claw. I try and evade him, twist and turn, running down tight passageways only to find him waiting for me, always there, hungry and impatient.

I’ll tell, I warn him.

You have no voice.

I’ll write it down, use all that clever language you hate.

Who is going to believe you, a useless, unwanted wretch? And you know what your so called friends will call you. Do you want to be labelled a whore for the rest of your miserable life?

I feel his touch. My skin crawls. I fight. My efforts are in vain. He is right over me now, pressing down with his weight. I clench my fists and pummel his rigid collar bone. His wiry smile mocks me.

As I awake I am throwing punches up into an empty space. I wriggle and squirm, jab my elbows against the ground and push with my feet to get away. From what? There is no one else here. I drop my head back and gurgle, closing my eyes as reality floods over me.

Fatigue had sent my imagination into overdrive. That all of it had been a dream, leaves me glad and yet despondent. Ah, to be performing, so expressive and free, my parents there to see. Except, I’d never been on the stage like that, my parents were dead, and he……well at least he’s not here.

That’s why I’m lying on the forest floor, a dampness seeping through my clothes. And way too much in the open! I immediately grab my pack and whirl around, seeking somewhere I can disappear into. I head deeper, where the trees grow closer and the undergrowth is thicker. The bracken welcomes me with a generous, soaking sweep. Wetter but happier, I pitch up on a big fallen trunk, and propped against a large branch, I stretch out and try to relax.

I reassure myself. You’re doing okay, I say in a whisper. You were just so tired and the thinking got lazy. Out of sight, now girl. Stick to the plan.

Yes, the plan. Hole up during the daylight hours, recuperate ready for continuous travel at night. I glance into my bag. I’ve brought food and water to keep me going, and my MP 3 player for company. I know none of this will last more than a few days. Just long enough for me to reach my destination and then re-evaluate.

I check my watch. Nearly nine o’clock. I’ve slept for two hours. I think of home, or what I was made to consider home. They won’t have even noticed I’ve gone yet. My uncle would have headed to work and my aunt never emerges much before lunch. Then she will sit out in the conservatory, have a fag and the first drink of many.

I’m banking on this. She will wonder where I might be, if she even remembers I’m off school this week and haven’t appeared to raid the fridge. A slight worry, nothing more. She leaves everything to him. When he’s back, he’ll check my whereabouts, expect me to cook dinner and have done his ironing. And if the mood took him later, come to my room, he has the key, and have his way with his little slut again.

Not this time. Just for once I’ll have gotten the upper hand. He will be fuming. He’ll blame my aunt, breathe noisily through that ugly nose, blame her again, and then he’ll contact the police. I smile at the image of him, so rarely flustered, unable to control the situation. Then I rub my ribcage as I remember the time when I defied him before, staying over at Carlos’s and denying him his usual gratification. Imagine if he’d known it was a male friend I’d been out with. The beating would have been harder.

So no one was going to be searching for me until at least tomorrow, if not beyond. I reckon I’ll secure a permanent hideout before my face starts appearing on news bulletins. I even harbour the hope that he might want to avoid the inquest over why I have run away in case he ended up exposed for what he is. I tell myself not indulge such a fantasy. He has ‘decency’ in society, a working man who took in a girl with nowhere else to go. And he won’t want to be without the thrill of his easy gratification. I must stay focused.

I’m going to have to sit tight until nearly five o’clock before it is safe to emerge. Just me and the……pigeons. They sit, puffed up balls of fluff and fat, and make that relentless, unmelodious noise. I think I expected there to be woodland birds, like hawfinches or crossbills. When I can’t take any more, I shove my earpiece in and switch on the MP 3. Dire Straits, my dad’s favourite. He used to play them over and over, until he got sick and then the music stopped.

I match the rhythm, tapping hand against thigh and watch the birds, presuming they’ll act as sentinels and warn me if anyone ventures into this place. I want to sing along, or better still, have a dance. I suppress the urge.

My belly makes a very loud roaring sound and I realise I haven’t eaten since hoofing in a load of cheese and crisps while I waited for the house to go quiet last night. I unwrap a sandwich and after a bite and a swig of water, I raise my bottle in a salute to myself, and the control I have taken over my life.

Here’s to the future, I say. I’m on my way, putting the past behind me.

I drift out of another snooze, maybe instinctively, at five. I gather my few things and begin to slide from my hiding place. Time to heighten my senses of sound and vision. Bowie’s song fills my head, bringing with it a positive uplift of energy. I often think of music to match the moment, except he was retreating behind the safety of the blinds into the sanctuary of his blue room. I was out in the elements, running the gauntlet of the unknown.

Emerging from the trees, I’m greeted by a beautiful sunset. The deep orange running through to red speaks to me of endings and goodbyes. Appropriately, I head towards it, glancing back briefly to where the sky looks a good deal darker. I feel my pulse rising and my body wakes up to the challenge. My routine is well suited to the changes in temperature, on the move as it falls and stationary when everything is warmer.

Within an hour I near a village. Here I will have to be especially careful. I’d pondered this bit on the map several times already. There was no easy alternative without a sapping diversion and a route that would take me through too much land where I would be overlooked.

The night is my ally but it could quickly become my enemy. I am invisible, as is any potential person I might encounter. If I get discovered sneaking around I’d create a lasting impression that was sure to come back and haunt me.

I can see the yellow glow of room lights in several dwellings at the bottom of the field. I’m going to have to sneak along the bottom of their gardens. As I get closer, I think of one of those videos you see of some rare animal recorded on a phone as it tries to escape prying eyes. Or a rabbit facing the hunter’s shotgun. The endgame.

To my relief I find a thick hedge standing between me and the houses. Better still, it runs right round to a stream where the land climbs again, back into open country. I hear a child cry through an open window, and freeze. A mother’s voice offers sympathy. I wish my mum was here to comfort me. She was good at that, hitting the right note and level.

The water near where I’m crouched is stagnant and stinks, full of the run off from an uncaring world. A cue to move on. I use a plank to cross and curse when my foot slips into the sludge. That’s gonna be uncomfortable for some while.

When I reach the top of the rise I’m breathless again. From the settlement I’ve just left, church bells break the silence. Evensong? Practice? Either way, I don’t care. My abuser is one of those regular Sunday offenders, checking in with his version of a god who will presumably absolve him of all his sins, so long as he hides the rape behind a suit and suave manner. My faith was drowned by unanswered tears long ago.

Hurrying on, I’m met by a rising wind that pushes against me. When I peer up into the sky, I see the stars disappear behind a towering black cloud and an earthly rumble roams around the landscape. A storm? The weather forecast said nothing about that. And so much for the old adage about a red sky at night.

I consider this seriously while I trudge. I know my compass. The bad weather is coming from the east along with the breeze. That makes better sense. It also means I’m about to have a rendezvous with a deluge. I must make sure I find shelter before then. I’m a strong girl but still human and have no wish to be caught out in the open by that. It’s not like I can take a bath and then change into fresh clothes from the wardrobe. Everything I now own, I’m carrying.

I go through a little wooden gate just as the whole world lights up around me. The thunder that follows is angry, threatening. Another flash. I see a huge tree, an ancient character, hunched and gnarled by the years. It towers over a dried out pond, exposed roots clinging to great clumps of grassy soil. I crawl beneath them, a fugitive in need of a friend, and while the night hides my fear, I feel truly lonely.

Daylight comes with some relief. I can see properly now that the water isn’t going to engulf me after all. At the height of the storm, a river had begun to form just beyond my toes. I’d shut my eyes and every time I peeked again, the risk of an incident grew stronger. I wondered what might happen if I let myself be taken by the current. How far would I be carried? Any kind of serious injury would ruin my escape. But maybe I’d wash out to sea, and I could swim off with the dolphins. A crazy thought. Get back to reality.

So much rain had pounded against my makeshift roof, it was a wonder I was feeling nothing more than a vague dampness in my clothes. I am desperate to stretch, unhinge myself from this unnatural position, like a book aching to be opened following a century’s neglect, and my spine cracks fittingly.

I cannot dwell on my aching limbs for long. I must assess my position after this lengthy, unscheduled stop. Clinging to the exposed roots, I ease along beside what has now dwindled to a stream, up to drier ground and lay my map across the lush grass. I jab my finger accusingly at the point I’ve reached and emit a disappointed grunt.

I’m a good six hours behind schedule. Worst than that, judging by the worn path, this is a well used thoroughfare and no place to be if you want to remain unseen. Given these facts, I need to move on now, make some seriously good progress to somewhere more secluded. My best option is a disused quarry two miles south. I take a deep breath. The longer I leave it, the more chance there will be of meeting someone.

I gaze aloft at my saviour, a multitude of gnarled limbs reaching out in an elderly embrace. I think of Treebeard from Tolkien’s Middle Earth. Unfortunately, no such venerable creature exists here to carry me to safety. I blow my friend a kiss, so glad the storm had spared us, and set off on my wary way.

The countryside is open, broken only by random gorse bushes, and I don’t like it. For the moment I have only bored looking sheep as company, and their droppings that endeavouring to avoid proves very difficult when you are worrying about encountering people.

The sound of a car is ominous. There is a road ahead, I know that much. I crouch low and wait. The engine revs as it comes up the hill. I see a flash of red briefly fill a gap in the hedge and the danger passes.

The next hour works out well for me. My way clear and the only signs of civilisation are the planes high in the sky and a dumped, rusting refrigerator. The sun warms my face and I actually start to enjoy the walk. Sharp rocks break through the mossy earth, thrown into dramatic contrast by the strong light.

And then, rather suddenly, there is a drop and the ground falls away to a mixture of boulders and resilient plants growing up through the cracks. I disappear down into this jumbled landscape and feel immediately removed from the world above. It’s like an alien planet set from Star Trek, with boulders made of foam, painted to appear natural. When I graze my knuckles on one, I’m brought back to down to earth.

After some careful analysis, I decide the place is perfect for me to rest up, eat and reassess my journey. I even feel confident enough to go to the toilet. Then I settle in my own little alcove from where I can see pretty much all of the quarry.

Nice one, Rebecca, I tell myself. You’re getting good at this.

The world soon undermines my optimism again. I’m well camouflaged within the recess to the casual human observer. The senses of an animal are lot sharper. A black dog trots into view, roaming around, its nose sniffing for anything of interest.

Stay up there, I hiss.

No such luck. The damned thing drops down to the quarry and continues to proceed in my direction. I raise myself ready for flight and pull on the pack, even though I know I can’t realistically expect to make any kind of successful getaway. And I’m too late. What I had seen as a neat hiding place has now become a trap.

I don’t go unnoticed for long. My canine nemesis is either determined to explore all corners or has picked my scent. When it’s about twenty feet off, the barking starts. I love animals but I’m already full of dread and they can sense as much. I draw back, forcing my ribcage against the rock behind me. And sure enough, the dog keeps on advancing.

It’s the charge of an aggressor starting a battle. I hold my palms before me in surrender, screw up my face and turn to one side, anticipating an attack. The animal stops short, head low, cautious, nostrils flaring, lips withdrawn, teeth exposed. Despite my trembling, I manage to lock into direct eye contact.

Be gone, I say. Leave me alone.

It’s reply is an earthy growl. I try and keep my breathing calm. I gesture downwards with my hands.

Take it easy. I’m no threat. What are you doing out here?

My heart sinks when I get the answer immediately. From somewhere in the distance I hear the owner calling.

Valentino! Valentino!

I somehow think I must maintain the staring competition to have any chance of avoiding a bite. Yet I need to see who it is I’m about to be discovered by.

Is that you? I ask. Valentino, right? Your master wants you to go to him.

Maybe there is a reaction? Some doubt? I nod as if I’m capable of communicating my thoughts. And Valentino quits his aggression and looks away, up to where he’s wanted. I follow his gaze and see a man standing at the edge of the quarry, still some distance off, hands on hips.

Valentino, stop messing around! Get here now!

The voice is coarse, forceful and it makes Valentino whimper. With a sorrowful expression he turns and hurries off, tail drooping.

I assume I’ve not been spotted. Even so, I don’t dare relax, until the coast is clear. When I finally move, I collapse onto the ground. My lungs hurt, like I’ve been holding my breath forever. But I refuse to cry. Where is that going to get me?

I haul myself to my original spot and lay down, spread out my hands and lay my head on them. I wonder why I have to be in this predicament, frightened and alone. I have dirt beneath my fingernails. My lovely, long hair is matted. I remember how mum used to wash it, patient and tender, giving me a little smile as she tapped my nose. She was taken away from me by someone who was selfish and stupid. It still makes no sense.

When I recover enough, I start to contemplate my ongoing plans. Before this incident, I had been wondering whether travelling during the daytime might be more beneficial, even safer, than groping along in the dark. Not so sure now.

I spend the next hour consulting the map, turning it one way and then the other, chewing my tongue, trying to drop into places and imagine what I would find. I know I’m failing to cover enough miles. I need to make up several hours somewhere or I could see my aspirations crumbling. I flop back, full of in frustration, and fiddle with the hem of my jumper.

And then it comes to me. This evening I’ll reach the outskirts of a town. I was aiming to miss it, be well north of here, before that storm. What if I jump on a bus that will take me quite close to the coast? They aren’t that busy at the end of the day. I have the money. It seems to give me the best chance while I’m still anonymous. In another twenty four hours I might make the local papers.

I huddle into my hoodie, shove my knees up under my chin and cling on to my ankles. I want to look as uninteresting as possible. It’s dark inside the wooden shelter and I’m alone with a smell similar to the inside of a wheelie bin. The whole time I focus on the bit of the road I can see through the missing side panel, waiting for the telltale lights of the bus.

Every car and person that passes is a monster out to get me and I won’t engage with any of them. If I make myself known I’ll get caught. I try not to think about him, the chance he might be driving around looking for me. Surely even I can’t be that unlucky.

And here it comes, the number seventy two, chugging towards my stop. I’m pleased it’s a double-decker and happier still to see so few people on board. When the doors open I hesitate and then step on. The driver is large, his fat, tattooed arms stretched out on top of the wheel. His bored eyes look right through me. This is okay, tonight.

I mumble my destination and he tells me how much. I shove a note under the plastic barrier.

I ain’t got no change, he tells me.

I shake my head. I don’t care about the money. He punches a few buttons. When I dip forward, my hair slips into view. His lips purse as he notices. Men always seem to notice my blonde hair. I grab the ticket that he slaps down and go straight upstairs, head bent.

I scour the seats and pick a windowless one near the back. There’s chewing gum on the fabric and polystyrene cup is rolling around the floor in a pool of brown liquid. In no position to be fussy, I sit quickly, keeping the pack on my back.

After a while I get the courage to peep out from under my hood. There’s no one on the top with me. I cross my fingers and hope it stays that way. Through the grimy glass the street lights take on an ill shade of green. I judge we are in the town now and the thought of people makes me shudder.

The bus stops on what must be the main street. There’s a sudden burst of noise down below. It sounds like a group of guys getting on, full off the bravado that being together brings. Fortunately, they jump off again quite soon without any threat to me.

The outside grows dark again and we speed up on the open road. I roll my hand into a fist and pump it against my chin. Every turn of the wheels is taking me further away from him, closer to some kind of freedom. Yet I still feel more vulnerable on here. I don’t have full control and I hate that. I have to try and stay calm. Concentrate. Think of the benefits. It’s warm and dry, and I’m moving quicker.