The Five-Year Plan

Chapter 2

Five years earlier – Hawksley Village, UK

‘Orla! Orla, where are you?’ Phil bawls across the office, making several heads turn and me jump and spill the coffee I’m carrying back to his desk.

‘I’m here, I’m here,’ I say, hurrying forward as coffee dribbles down the side of his mug, burning my fingers. I hold it away from me so as not to stain my white jeans before placing it gingerly on his ring-marked desk. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Oh, there you are. I just wondered where you’d got to, that’s all.’ Leaning forward, he peers at his computer screen, stabbing the delete key several times with a short, chunky finger.

‘I was just making you another coffee. You asked me to, remember?’ I’m slightly concerned that he’s drinking too much coffee. I’ve made him about seven already today and it’s only 2 p.m. All that caffeine can’t be good for his blood pressure. He’s already a funny purple colour and I don’t want to be the cause of his death.

‘Oh yes, sorry, I just got a bit excited for a moment. There’s a fire at the recycling centre. The whole lot’s gone up in flames. We need to get down there and see what’s going on. Come on, grab your stuff.’ He’s already on his feet, pulling on his jacket as he downs the coffee I placed in front of him.

‘But we’re supposed to be interviewing that wildlife guy at three, aren’t we? Have we got time to do both?’

‘Oh shit, yeah, I forgot about him.’ Phil swigs down the last of his coffee and sets the mug down on the desk. ‘Can you ring him and postpone? Or do you want to go on your own?’

I hesitate. ‘I can go on my own, it’s not a problem.’

‘Sure? Do you know what you’re going to ask him?’

‘I’ve got a list of questions ready. We talked about it last week, didn’t we?’

‘Of course, we did. That’s great. Good girl.’ He fusses about him, pulling his bag from beneath his desk and checking he’s got his notebook and pen. ‘He sounded like a decent guy when I spoke to him on the phone. Irish fella.’

‘Oh good, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Don’t forget your keys,’ I say, scooping them up from where they’re nestled behind his keyboard. ‘Have you got your phone?’

‘Yep.’ He pats the pocket on his shirt and smiles at me before turning to leave. ‘See you later then, hon. Good luck.’

‘Thanks. You too.’

I feel excited as I go back to my desk. In fact, I want to jump up and down and squeal. This will be my first solo interview for the Hawksley Gazette. I started working here six months ago, and every other time I’ve been shadowing Phil or one of the other reporters. But I feel like I’m ready and I’m pretty sure it won’t be taxing. It’s just a short interview with a guy who’s photographing otters down by the river. My biggest concern is not being able to find the farm where we’re supposed to meet. How unprofessional would it be if I turn up late to my first proper assignment? Or miss the appointment altogether? My stomach tightens with nerves as it gets closer to the time to leave, and I go to the toilet to check my appearance and reapply my lipstick.

I know I look younger than my twenty-two years. When I got the job, I had my long blonde curly hair cut so I’d look more professional, but the short bob has made me look like a schoolgirl. I don’t want this photographer to think I’m on a work placement or something. Having the job title of trainee reporter is bad enough. Not that I don’t love the job or anything. I do. I really do. Every morning when I walk through the big glass doors into the building, I feel so happy I could do a twirl like Maria Von Trapp on a mountain. I suspect it might not go down too well with our ferocious receptionist though, so I never do. But it’s my first job after graduating, and I feel so lucky to be working here. It may only be the local paper, serving Hawksley, a small rural town in central England that no one’s heard of, but I know it’s great experience.

After applying another coat of mascara and some blusher, I give my stupidly short hair one final rake through with my fingers. It’s no good, I still look about 16. And it’s not just the hair; my freckles don’t do me any favours either. Nor my big, wide-set eyes. Mum says they make me look like a doll, which is hardly the image I want to project in my job. I fish out my black-rimmed glasses and put them on. I feel foolish wearing them when I have 20:20 vision (they’re just clear glass lenses), but I think they make me look more intelligent. I slip them on and look at myself, before pushing them up to my forehead. On or off? I spend another couple of minutes pushing them up and down, trying to decide, then I pout a little and frown to see if that helps make me look less innocent. I’m just baring my teeth in a fierce snarl when the door opens and Chrissie from accounts comes in.

She stops and looks at me in surprise. ‘You okay, love? What’s up?’

‘Nothing! I’m fine. Just off to interview a photographer,’ I say, slightly hysterically.

‘Oh, great.’ Her face clears. ‘Good luck!’

‘Thanks.’

She goes into a cubicle and I roll my eyes at myself in the mirror. It’s time to go. I shove the glasses back in my bag, decision made. I’m not wearing them. I don’t want to have to worry about them on top of my first solo assignment.

Hawksley is quite a new town, made up mostly of redbrick buildings and a pedestrianised town square with a good quota of high-street shops. There’s still the odd original black-and-white timber building nestled in with the new, but mostly this town now belongs to the young couples and new families that are moving here in droves. The residents in the surrounding villages are furious about how Hawksley has grown in recent years, eating into the surrounding countryside as developers build new housing estates and schools to meet demand. I feel slightly bewildered by it myself; having lived here practically all my life, I can’t wait to get out of the place. To see all these people moving in is weird. But then looking at it through their eyes I can see the attraction. House prices are lower than the nearby cities, and the town has a semi-rural but touristy feel about it, mostly due to the river that winds round the outskirts of the town centre.

The village where the photographer is staying is only a twenty-minute drive away, but I leave early to give myself plenty of time to find Lark Rise Farm where he said to meet. I’ve programmed my sat nav, but from past experience, I’m not overly confident it will find a farm. As luck would have it, once I’m through the village, Lark Rise Farm is the first place I see, and indicating right, I pull into the driveway and park in a neat stone courtyard next to an old red pick-up truck. Several chickens are pecking around near the house, and even though I’m ten minutes early, I climb out and head up to the front door, ready to interview Aiden Byrne.

A plump, smiling lady of about 50 answers, and I’m surprised by how well she fits the stereotypical image of a farmer’s wife. Her dark hair is drawn back into a bun and she’s wearing an apron with her sleeves rolled up, and flour all the way up to her elbows.

‘Hi,’ I say brightly. ‘I’m here to see Aiden Byrne. He should be expecting me.’

‘Oh, he’s not here, my love. He’s down by the river.’ She raises a floured hand and points to a gate at the corner of the courtyard. ‘If you go through there and down the hill, you’ll find him.’

‘Oh, great. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome, my love. And you can tell him I’m making scones if he wants one later. They’re his favourite.’

‘Okay. Will do.’ I grin as I leave her standing in the doorway, and head down towards the gate. I’m slightly alarmed by the steepness of the path down to the river, not to mention the muddiness, and looking down at my heeled patent leather Chelsea boots, suspect that I may not have chosen the most sensible footwear for interviewing a wildlife photographer.

Still, at least they’re boots and not stiletto heels. Bravely, I make my way down the path, which is lined with purple foxgloves and tall, overgrown shrubbery with spindly foliage that snags on my clothes and catches my hair. A sheep baas suddenly from the field on the other side of the bushes, making my heart leap in fear. Clutching my chest, I laugh breathlessly and carry on down, holding on to branches as I go so as not to slip on the slimy earth. I’m relieved when I reach the bottom and find the ground flat and dry beneath my feet, sheltered by the trees that tower above me. I see the river glinting ahead, but no sign of Aiden Byrne. For some reason, I’d expected him to be waiting for me at the bottom, ready and waiting for his interview. I look around before spotting a khaki-coloured bell tent nestled between the trees.

‘Hello?’ I call, my voice sounding too loud in the quiet forest. A crow caws above me before taking flight, causing bits of greenery to fall from the tree.

I wait for an answer but there is nothing but birdsong and the rush of the river. Confused, I take another look around me before walking over to the tent.

‘Hello? Mr Byrne?’

The tent flap is open and I can’t help but see what’s inside. There’s a camp bed with a sleeping bag and two canvas storage cupboards; one with clothes spilling from its shelves, the other neatly stacked with pots and pans and tins of soup. A basket of vegetables sits on the floor and a folded-up camp chair lies on its side. Surely he doesn’t live here? I stare for a moment, shocked that anyone can live so sparsely. I don’t mind camping, but I like to have a few home comforts. There’s not even a tent carpet on the floor, just a plastic groundsheet. I wince and back away, realising I’m intruding on his personal space.

There’s still no sign of him, so I walk down to the river and watch the water rush around the rocks and boulders on its way downstream. It’s much shallower here than in town, and the water is so clear you can see the flat brown pebbles lying on the bottom. In town, it’s brown and so deep that all manner of dubious items lurk in its depths. You wouldn’t want to swim in it, let alone drink it, but here the water looks so fresh and clean that I’m tempted to scoop some up and taste it.

The opposite bank of the river looks much wilder than this side, a dark tangled place where ash and sycamore trees compete for space, their roots poking through the river bank where the water has eroded the soil. A few trees have become so unsteady they grow outwards, their boughs and sometimes even their trunks leaning out low across the water. On this side of the river, the trees are more spaced out and uniform, growing upright, tall and proud. It’s a very pretty spot. Peaceful. I spy a small waterfall a little way upstream and decide to get nearer to take a photograph.

Unfortunately, further on, the trees that I thought so nicely spaced and uniform grow as wild as the ones on the opposite bank. Leaves brush my face and brambles snag on my trousers, winding around my legs as though they’re alive. As I push one away, another one takes its place. It feels like the vegetation is out to claim me for its own and I’m already regretting my decision. My heels sink into the soft earth and catch on the gnarly roots, making me stumble as I struggle with the brambles. Deciding the waterfall isn’t worth it, I turn to go back the way I came and put out a hand to steady myself on a nearby tree trunk. I expect to encounter rough bark, but instead feel soft material and the unmistakable warmth of a human arm.

There’s a man standing against the tree in full camouflage, wearing a balaclava.

My scream rips through the air and everything is a blur of leaves and sky and ground as I try to run. There is no calm appraisal. No logic. It’s fight or flight, and I choose flight.

I only get a few metres before I step in a rabbit hole. A blinding flash of pain and a crunch, and the ground comes up to meet me, knocking the air from my lungs.

‘Owwwww! Ow, ow, owwwwww!’ I clutch my lower leg. The pain from my ankle is unbearable.

‘Hey, hey, hey!’ The camouflage man approaches slowly, palms outstretched to show he’s no threat. ‘Shhh now. Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.’

He speaks softly with an Irish accent, and dimly, through the panic and pain, it dawns on me that this is bloody Aiden Byrne. Oh Christ, why did I have to get the weirdo to interview on my first solo assignment? I think of all the normal people in normal places I’ve interviewed when shadowing Phil and think how unfair it is that I get the guy that plays hide-and-seek in the woods.

Aiden squats a few feet away from me and removes the camo-print balaclava. He doesn’t look so scary without it. He’s in dire need of a shave and his dark hair is crazy long and wild, sticking out in all directions, but his green eyes are kind and creased with concern.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he says. ‘I was asleep, else I would have let you know I was there.’

‘You were asleep?’ I prop myself up on my elbow and peer at him, still panting with pain and shock. ‘But you were standing up!’

‘Makes no difference to me.’ He shrugs. ‘I can sleep anywhere. I was waiting to photograph the owl that lives in that tree. It’ll occasionally come out in the afternoon and sit on a branch but I’d been waiting for ages and must have drifted off. Are you hurt?’

‘Yes, obviously! My ankle …’ I try to move it, but pain slices through me making me close my eyes and gasp.

‘Oh shit. You don’t think it’s broken, do you?’

‘I don’t know.’ I feel like crying, but I can’t, not here, now, in front of the man I’ve come to interview. It’s hardly professional behaviour.

‘What are you doing down here, anyway?’ he asks. ‘Are you lost?’

What? For crying out loud!

‘No, I’m Orla Kennedy, from the Hawksley Gazette. You’re Aiden Byrne, right? You agreed to an interview?’

‘Oh! Friday at three?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But today’s … Wednesday?’ He looks questioning, like he knows that’s probably not right but he doesn’t have a clue what day it is.

‘No, today’s Friday.’

‘Really? Christ, I’m so sorry!’ He pushes back his hair from his face. ‘I completely lost track of what day it is. Here, let me help you up.’

‘Oh no, I don’t think I can.’ I shrink away from him, not wanting to move or be touched or anything. I feel sick and dizzy and just want to sit here for a minute and compose myself.

‘Well, you can’t stay sitting down there like that. We’ll have to do something.’

‘Yes, I know, but just give me a minute. Maybe it will pass.’

He raises an eyebrow and stands up. He’s very tall, at least six foot. For the first time, I notice the camera that hangs on a cord around his neck. He’s younger than I expected. For some reason, I thought he’d be about 40 or so, but he looks to be in his late twenties. Maybe I should have researched him more thoroughly before coming out here.

‘I was expecting a man, actually,’ he says. ‘I spoke to someone called Phil on the phone.’

‘Yes, he had another appointment so you’ve got me instead.’ I shuffle backwards slightly and bend my good leg ready to support my weight. ‘Okay, I think I’m ready to try and stand. Can you help me up?’

‘Of course.’ He reaches down and pulls me upwards so I’m standing on my good foot. As a rule, I don’t like getting too close to people I don’t know well. I like my personal space. But I feel so light-headed and unsteady that I need to lean against him to steady myself. Gingerly, I try to put my left foot down but can’t put any weight on it at all.

‘Oh, sweet Jesus! You can’t walk, can you!’

I shake my head, teeth gritted with the pain.

‘Here, I’ll help you. Come on.’ Hitching my arm over his shoulder, he wraps his arm around my waist, supporting my weight as we hobble forward. I don’t know how I’m going to get back to his tent let alone my car. We shuffle a few more paces but the pain is too much and I have to stop. ‘Alright, okay,’ he says, and then scoops me up into his arms. With a yelp of surprise, I wrap my arms around his neck in case he drops me, but he’s surprisingly strong and carries me easily through the trees, stepping over the foliage that caused me such difficulties a few moments ago.

It’s a strange sensation being carried by a total stranger, and if it wasn’t for the pain, I’d be screaming for him to put me down. I can hear him breathing and feel his heart beating through his shirt. It’s much too intimate for my liking and I hold my breath in case he smells bad. He looks a bit grubby and his hair might be unwashed. But when I eventually have to breathe, he doesn’t smell unpleasant at all. He just smells like the forest: of wood and leaves and fresh air.

We arrive back at his tent and he stands there, just holding me, deliberating what to do with me now we’ve arrived. ‘Thank you,’ I say stiffly, hoping he’ll put me down.

‘What for? Scaring you to death?’

‘Not leaving me lying on the floor, waiting to be eaten.’

‘Ah, I never thought of that. That could have been an idea.’

‘What, eating me?’

‘Not me.’ He chuckles and sets me down in front of his tent. I stand on one leg, clinging on to his lean, sinewy frame as he reaches inside and brings out a dark green camping chair. ‘Here, sit on that. No, I was thinking more of the animals I could film eating you. Foxes and badgers and stoats and—’

‘Charming! Thanks very much,’ I say, sinking down into the chair. ‘Badgers are herbivores, aren’t they?’