Why was I so upset?
‘No wonder Barclay’s so pissed.’
‘Yeah, great isn’t it?’
‘And they say,’ she continued, ‘that cocky git Sussman’s sniffing around as well.’
What? Who?
‘Did you hear she chucked a bucket of cold water over Barclay the other day? Apparently they all nearly wet themselves trying not to laugh and old Swanson doubled her score on the spot.’
Wow! I never saw that coming. An inner voice said, ‘He’s not interested in you. Who would be?’ But inside, a little warm glow spread.
It went well. I had nearly forty-eight hours solid revision time in this oasis of peace. I un-jangled my nerves, gave my aching body a rest, made sandwiches, ate chocolate, slept, and revised big time. And spent some time thinking about what I’d overheard. I did try to concentrate on operations, procedures, and protocols but snippets of that conversation kept intruding. Occasionally, I grinned to myself.
I eased myself out of the building at six thirty on Sunday. He was right; it was a good time. Hardly anyone was up and paying attention at that time on a Sunday morning. The night watch, in their last hour of duty would be thinking of breakfast and writing their logs and everyone else was still in bed. I changed back into greens and strode confidently towards the woods. The rain bucketed down; thus confirming my decision to give the whole exposure and hardship thing a miss. It was three long miles to the East Gate. By the time I’d hacked my way through wet woodland, tripped over roots, fallen into boggy patches, had my face whipped by branches, and been splattered with mud, it looked as if I’d been out there for a fortnight. I was soaked to the skin.
I got lost twice – I’m not good with direction, eventually arriving at the East Gate. They laughed at me but gave me a slurp of hot tea while I signed in. They must have rung ahead because Major Guthrie was waiting for me. I knew he was suspicious, but I looked so authentic: wet, muddy, bleeding, limping, and I’d only gone three miles.
‘How did you get back?’
‘Found a stream and followed it down.’
‘How did you find the stream?’
‘Fell in it.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘East Gate.’
‘How did you find the East Gate?’
‘I was looking for the South Gate.’
‘Where were you dropped?’
‘Some God-forsaken, windswept, rain-lashed, barren landscape not previously known to man.’
‘I can’t seem to find your name on the transport list.’
‘Bloody hellfire, sir, does that mean I didn’t have to do this?’
Long, long pause. I returned his stare with a look of blinding innocence and batted mud-clogged eyelashes at him. I’d cheated. He knew I’d cheated, but I stood before him, authentically bedraggled and there wasn’t a lot he could do.
‘Go and get cleaned up and get something to eat.’
‘Yes, Major.’
Yay!
Afterwards, I said to Sussman, ‘How did you do?’
‘I paid a guy to follow the transport at a discreet distance. He picked me up and I spent the weekend clubbing in Rushford.’
‘What? Baby seals?’
‘Very funny.’
‘What about Grant and Nagley?’
‘They planned ahead, planted two mobile phones in the transports, used the GPS, rang for a taxi, booked into a small hotel, and shagged themselves senseless for forty-eight hours.’
And I’d spent forty-eight hours living off sandwiches and sleeping on the floor. Alone.
‘Does anyone actually take this bloody exam?’
‘Not in living memory. That’s the whole point. It’s an initiative test. They know we all cheat. It’s expected. The trick is to look them in the eye and lie right down the line.’
Well, bloody, bollocking hell!
I was still somewhat aggrieved over the Outdoor Survival thing, but the three-day pod exam was a triumph, as were Thursday’s simulations. The end was in sight, which was just as well, because I was absolutely knackered. It would be typical if I fell at the last fence. Only the sims weren’t the last fence. The last fence was on Tuesday. Tuesday was the real deal.
Chapter Three
Tuesday was the day when we finally found out if we had what it took. No more hiding behind the theory or the lectures or the sims. No more hiding from our own fears. This was it at last.
I kicked off the covers and bounded out of bed. Not something that happened too often. After a quick shower I dressed, with luck for the last time in the now-despised greys. Skipping down the corridor, I banged on Sussman’s door. ‘Come on! Today’s the day.’
I heard his door open behind me, but didn’t stop. Dancing round the corner, I ran into Chief Farrell. It was like hitting a warm wall.
‘Sorry, Chief. Did I hurt you?’
He smiled patiently. ‘No, Miss Maxwell, I have survived. Your big day, then?’
‘You betcha, Chief. Shrewsbury, circa 1400. Can you believe it?’