Walking out of this World E-Book

Stephen Ford

• Herausgeber: Cinnamon Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 346

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Emerging from the mid-October drizzle, Miles joins keen members of the Far and Fast Walkers Society in the Surrey Hills. An unnerving presence, he soon usurps the authority of the walk leader, enticing the party to Miteby, a mysterious village not on any map, where the walkers encounter long lost loved ones. Entranced, the group are compelled to return to this idyllic, nostalgic place, there re-living their past in better ways. But Miles has a nemesis, Lucifix, who intervenes, luring people to the Underside, where life's fears, regrets, guilty secrets, obsessions, hatred and betrayal haunt those there. A place of hellish eternal torment. Walking out of this World is an epic duel between two spirits, Miles and Lucifix, that will determine the fate of the walkers. Another original and engaging novel from Stephen Ford, following Destiny of a Free Spirit, about how we can heal our pasts or live trapped in our own shadows.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

About the Author

Walkers Rendezvous

Wet in the Woods

Sheltering from the Rain

Inexplicable and off Kilter

Back to Miteby

Rekindled Passion from Long Ago

A New Home

The Expedition

Love in the Summer Time

Larry, Karen and her Dad

To Be Together Always

Nightmares from the Past

Founders Memorial Challenge

The Underside

Fusion

Casualty Evacuation

Eternal Competition

Into the Infernal Depths

Lured to Oblivion

To Rescue Our Friends

Back into the Light

Reality Restored

Walkers Reunion

Walking Out of This World

Stephen Ford

Published by Leaf by Leaf an imprint of Cinnamon Press,

Office 49019, PO Box 15113, Birmingham, B2 2NJ

www.cinnamonpress.com

The right of Stephen Ford to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2024, Stephen Ford.

Print Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-989-6

Print Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-896-7

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.

Designed and typeset in Adobe Jenson by Cinnamon Press.

Cover design by Adam Craig © Adam Craig.

Cinnamon Press is represented by Inpress.

About the Author

Stephen Ford is Walks Secretary for the Surrey branch of the Long Distance Walkers Association (LDWA), whose membership relishes longer distance treks at a brisk pace over challenging terrain.

The son of a geologist, he had a varied and nomadic childhood in Africa and the Middle East. From childhood, Stephen has been inspired by wild places, mountains, rivers and forests, places where nature reigns, not people.

Now, inspired to write, Stephen explores these themes: What is nature? Is nature alive? What is life? What distinguishes a human from an animal? Do people have spirits? If people have spirits, then perhaps animals do too? Can spirits exist also in inanimate entities, rivers, trees, mountains, valleys?

Walking Out of This World

Walkers Rendezvous

At precisely 8:30 am on a drizzly Sunday morning in mid-October, Eddie—a purposeful man in his early sixties—manoeuvred his elderly Jaguar off the narrow lane into a muddy rutted car park. Set in the woodland clearing in an unspoiled corner of the Surrey hills, the wheels crunched over crumbling, fungus-encrusted remnants of an old log.

Momentarily, Eddie glimpsed a figure in a brightly glowing outfit lurking in the damp shadows of the surrounding trees. It was as if the light from the figure shone through his eyes into his head, seeking crevices in his mind unlit for years. In his mind’s eye was an outline of a familiar young girl. For an instant, he glimpsed her face, not long enough for recognition but sufficient to sense a relationship between them. Once he could swing around to make out the figure in the trees, he could see only the autumnal brown of fallen leaves, and the image of the girl had vanished.

He pulled alongside the one other car, a compact city runabout belonging to Liz, a fellow Far and Fast Walks Society (FFWS) Surrey branch committee member.

Eddie swung his athletic frame out of his mud-spattered limousine, the well-defined features of his long face topped by a full head of shaggy white hair.

Liz, in her mid-fifties, was sturdy rather than elegant.

After brief greetings, Eddie rummaged in his car boot for his requirements as walk leader: his rucksack that included such essential items as a map, compass, rain gear, extra layers of clothing for cold weather, emergency first aid kit, packed lunch, head torch in case they were unable to complete the walk before dark, an electronic navigation aid and route recorder. Finally, he fastened his gaiters over sturdy hiking boots. 

‘Weather’s not going to be good,’ observed Liz.

‘No, looks like rain.’

‘I’ve mapped the Christmas walk, so you can put it on the programme.’

‘Oh good, lunch is booked for 1.30 pm. When do you think we should set off?’

‘Let’s go for 9. It’s about 10 miles, and we’ve a stop for mulled wine and mince pies.’

Eddie scuffed his feet on yellowish mush shed from the tread of his tyres. Looking up, he again sensed the brightly clad figure among the surrounding undergrowth of holly, brambles and ferns. The light shone through once more into the recesses of his soul. The young girl was there, but now with a second girl, brassier and more overtly sexy. She seduced him while the first girl looked on frowning.

Eddie glanced at Liz and looked back, but the figure in the shrubbery was gone, along with the mental images dragged from his long-lost past.

Two more cars swung in, further squashing the mouldering log, partially obstructing the car park entrance.

Jenny, a bright, attractive divorcee in her forties, bounced out of her modest hatchback waving to Liz.

‘Lizzy, that pumpkin and garlic soup recipe was brilliant. I loved it. You’re a genius.’

‘More where that came from. I’m buried under pumpkins this year.’

‘Fantastic, love them. What happened about the roof?’

‘I had someone in, but it’s still leaking.’

‘How awful for you. Couldn’t they come back and do it properly?’

‘I called, but he fobbed me off. Anyway, I don’t trust him now.’

‘Shame about that, but I’m sure other folks can fix it.’

‘My Trevor would have sorted it.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Jenny commiserated. ‘Must be awful for you without him. How are you bearing up?’

Eddie left the two in conversation, turning his attention to the battered four-by-four off-road vehicle that had pulled in a little distance away.

The occupant was a tall, powerfully built man in his early thirties. He did not catch anybody’s eye, focussing on gathering what he needed for the walk. Eddie vaguely recognised the face but couldn’t quite place who he was or where they might have met.

‘Hello, I’m Eddie.’ He put out his hand.

‘Tim Drenbold,’ said the man, without accepting the handshake.

‘Er… I’m the walk leader for today.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Have you been out with us before?’

‘No, I usually walk with Thames Valley.’

‘Ah, so you must be from over that way.’

‘Yes, Slough.’

‘So not that far then.’

‘No.’

‘I think I remember now; you’ve been on one of our challenge walks?’

‘Yes, the Founders Memorial Challenge, last year and the year before.’

‘That’ll be it, must have seen you then.’

Eddie was relieved to break from the stilted exchange when cars came into the car park, further pulverising the log, reducing much of the attractive yellow glow of the toadstools to a beige pulp.

Eddie could now clearly distinguish the figure of a man in amber-orange clothing standing behind brambles in a cleared area just beyond the car park. Once again, the searchlight shone through into his mind. He was with the second girl between a high fence and racks mounted with bicycles. A third figure emerged, a powerfully built boy in football kit. There was anger and accusations. Eddie felt the impact of the boy’s fists pummelling his body and smashing into his face. Then he was on the floor, the boy’s heavy boots thudding into his body. Eddie screwed his eyes to see better, but the memories disappeared.

He tried to process the fleeting impressions that had briefly yet vividly intruded, but he had to greet a flurry of new arrivals.

Stan and Mary Potterswell were happily married and longstanding FFWS members. Reg and Ivy Nettleberry were another couple who had met through their hiking activities late in life after losing their original spouses. The two couples were happy chatting, so Eddie turned his attention to the others.

Larry Bettersby arrived in his flashy Porsche, a relentlessly athletic, thrusting individual in his mid-thirties competitively obsessed with setting record times.

Superficially, Karen Doddleston, another arrival, had much in common with Larry. She was obsessively sporty, fast, taut and wiry, sleek in her tight-fitting lycra, always quickly among the leaders in challenge events, a committed vegan, her diet sparing almost to the point of starvation.

Larry and Karen faced each other like boxers in a staged pre-fight weigh-in.

‘Hello, Larry and Karen,’ said Eddie. ‘Glad you could come along.’

‘Glad to be here,’ acknowledged Larry. ‘Sounds like it’ll be a good walk.’

‘Picnic lunch, I understand,’ said Karen.

‘Yes, no café or pub, I’m afraid,’ said Eddie.

‘So, you won’t be getting your massive steak today,’ remarked Karen, looking in Larry’s direction. ‘Surprised you’re here, in that case.’

‘I come for the walking.’

‘Not from what I’ve seen,’ Karen retorted. ‘Always stuffing your face and guzzling ale whenever I’ve seen you anywhere.’

Eddie found an excuse to duck from the barbed comments. That log blocking the car park entrance was getting on his nerves. He wandered over to deal with it. The crumbling remnants of crushed rotten wood and slippery mangled yellow toadstools slithered in his hands as he picked it up to toss it to one side. The damp mess landed with a thud onto a heap of wet leaves and moss, releasing a cloud of fungal spores that blended into the miasma of clammy autumnal decay permeating the drizzle-soaked air.

As he wiped his hands on his trousers to remove the clinging wet mush of fungus and moss, Eddie made out the luminously glowing figure emerging from the trees bordering the car park, a man in bright yellow anorak and distinctive amber-orange hiking trousers.

Eddie reflected that he was the most brightly dressed of those present. If they happened to be out after dark and obliged to walk along any road, the man’s clothing would qualify as high visibility, which could only be good.

A strong feeling overcame Eddie that there was something more to this man. He was some messenger, but the nature and origins of the message remained a mystery.

He noticed that by a remarkable coincidence, the colours of the man’s clothing matched the strange toadstools growing on the rotting log. The man’s jacket harmonised with the glowing lemon flecked with white around the toadstool’s rim, while the trousers matched where the toadstool darkened at its centre.

The figure almost glowed as he advanced to Eddie. ‘I’m here for the FFWS walk.’

‘You’re in the right place. I’m Eddie. I’m leading the walk today.’

‘I’m Miles.’

‘Is this your first time out with us?’

‘Yes, though I hope there will be others.’

‘Well, yes, I hope so too. We’re always pleased to welcome new walkers.’

The man had emerged from nowhere rather than driving in, but this did not faze Eddie. He may have arrived earlier, walked around, popped into the woods for a call of nature, parked a little distance away, strolled, or had a lift. Nor was Eddie the least surprised he did not recognise the individual. Many unfamiliar people attended social walks, including new members and members from other FFWS groups such as Thames Valley or Sussex.

Eddie had a nagging feeling Miles was familiar. He didn’t want to ask outright if Miles was a new member, or perhaps not even a member, lest he might make Miles feel unwelcome or cause offence by failing to recognise him.

‘Have you come far?’ 

‘I’m over from the other side.’

It was not a detailed reply, so Eddie indicated with his hand in one direction. ‘You mean from that way?’ Eddie imagined Miles could have meant the other side of the nearby trunk road.

‘I’m entirely from the other side.’

Eddie looked quizzical and turned to peer diametrically opposite to where he had first gesticulated. Still, Miles gave no hint as to whether he was looking in the correct direction. Eddie felt that this place Miles referred to was somewhere else entirely, a different place, yet Miles seemed to imply it was nearby.

‘Do you know anybody else from the group?’ Eddie inquired, gesturing to the others who, in the main, stood chatting—an exception being the taciturn Tim from Thames Valley.

‘I am familiar with some of them,’ Miles replied cryptically.

‘Perhaps I could introduce you to Tim,’ said Eddie, hoping the two newcomers might have something in common.

Leaving them together, Eddie rejoined the main throng.

Liz and Jenny paused their animated chatting. ‘That gentleman you were just talking to,’ enquired Jenny. ‘Is he someone we should know?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s Miles. New member, I think, or potential new member.’

‘Great, we need new members. Liz and I were just saying we thought we knew him but couldn’t quite place him.’

‘I had that feeling,’ Eddie admitted.

‘Funny,’ said Liz.

‘Must be Alzheimer’s,’ quipped Eddie.

‘Odd thing is,’ observed Jenny, ‘it wasn’t only Miles who seemed familiar, but when I saw him, I recalled other things as if he had reminded me of them.’

‘Yes,’ said Eddie.

‘What sort of things?’ asked Liz.

‘Things from long ago. I had forgotten until I saw him just now.’

Liz frowned, half opened her mouth, then closed it. ‘I’ve got a few things to share.’ She stepped over to her car and emerged with a tray of special homemade plum and gooseberry flapjacks.

Perceiving the large shaggy dogs peering from back windows and the attire of the drivers, it was clear to Eddie a couple of new approaching cars were unlikely to be participants in the FFWS walk. He reflected that dogs were a valuable health aid, encouraging regular exercise and toughening immune systems with the dirt they brought into households.

It was 8:50 am, time for the tedious but necessary administrative task, collecting the names and details of those present as stipulated by the FFWS’s insurance company for health and safety. He passed around his clipboard and ballpoint pen.

Eddie hoped this exercise might have yielded information about the mysterious Miles. When the list returned to him, dampened by the light rain, he saw his full name as Miles Miteby, but in the contact location, all he had was The Other Side, and there was neither a membership nor a mobile phone number. Whatever the insurance company might have thought about the lack of detail, Eddie did not feel moved to question the matter.

It was coming up towards 9:00 am, the scheduled start, for which the FFWS was always punctual. Eddie shepherded the group together.

He was about to explain his plans when a large 4x4 all-terrain vehicle pulled into the car park. Eddie checked in case it was another last-minute walker arriving. It wasn’t. There were two chunky trail bikes strapped onto the back. Cyclists, concluded Eddie. He hated cyclists on footpaths. They chewed up paths, disturbed the peace and ran people down. He frowned. Shouldn’t be allowed.

Eddie returned his attention to his expectant audience. ‘The route will be muddy today, in view of the recent weather conditions. There are some hills, but not too bad. About 22 miles to cover, with around 2,900 feet of ascent, that’s just under 900 metres for those who prefer metric.’

No doubt someone would verify, using their smartphone app, thought Eddie, looking toward the keen Larry Bettersby.

‘No pub or café stop today, but a nice woodland spot is just over the 11-mile mark. Forecast isn’t good, so waterproof clothing advised.’

‘It might be sunny on the other side,’ Miles remarked.

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Eddie. ‘The forecast is for increasingly heavy rainfall during the day over the whole area.’

The ominous dark grey cloud blanketing the heavens from horizon to horizon supported Eddie’s prediction.

With everybody gathered and ready, Eddie set off purposefully onto one of the footpaths leading from the car park into the damp misty gloom of the woods, the others following, including the mysterious Miles, from the Other Side, glowing a bright yellowy amber.

Wet in the Woods

Led confidently by Eddie, the walkers wended with practised confidence through the uneven woodland terrain, stepping over and around tree roots, sliding off stones treacherously greasy with wet mud, snagging feet on brambles, traversing the junctions of branching paths with only densely packed trees, clumps of brambles and a few dips and hollows to serve as navigation landmarks.

Some leaders would have constantly checked their map and taken compass bearings, while others tracked their progress via mobile phone and GPS. Eddie had a feel for where he was within the landscape. Lacking his sense of direction, others were mystified, putting it down to extra-sensory powers. It could have been subtle signs like the shapes formed by tree stumps, a fallen log, a distinctive rock protruding through the path, spiritual guidance, or instinct. 

Taking the occasional wrong turn in the woodland maze did not worry Eddie. He would confidently head towards paths that felt likely to rejoin his intended route. In the unlikely event of his losing the plot entirely, they would eventually hit the edge of the woodland from where he could steer around the perimeter, justifiable as an opportunity to enjoy the lovely view over the neighbouring valley.

Through the woods, Eddie was not only preoccupied with navigating the twists and turns but, as a sheepdog, with keeping the group together and accounted for. He could relax and converse with companions when they broke out along a more defined path in open country.

Some walkers are more talkative. Many walked for peace and seclusion. As one misanthrope put it, a man from the north of England who favoured remote and rugged wilderness, preferring animals to people and liking solitude best of all because ‘there’s no bugger there.’ Nevertheless, those who attend a group walk, while not always the most sociable folk, might be assumed to enjoy at least a modicum of social interaction with their companions.

Eddie’s life was governed by structure, routine, healthy living and physical fitness, which he applied diligently in his role as the FFWS Surrey branch Walks Secretary. Pedantry had accentuated his naturally meticulous nature demanded in his long career in information technology, a vocation he had been obliged to take early retirement from to care for his now departed wife, Margot, in her final years. He was not naturally chatty but, particularly in his role as a walk leader, considered himself obliged to make an effort.

The two close friends, Liz and Jenny, kept up a more or less continuous chatter, but being so wrapped up with each other, did not facilitate drawing the less connected members into the conversation. Likewise, the two married couples, the Potterswells and Nettleberrys. were self-contained with each other in lively chat.

The mysterious Miles was keeping close behind Eddie, so it was natural for Eddie to engage with him. Besides, Eddie was curious.

Whenever there were newcomers, it was a concern for walk leaders as to whether they would sustain the pace of the group and cover the distance because it was not unusual for those used to more sedate rambles to overestimate their capability, struggling to keep up with the FFWS’s relentless tempo. Eddie need not have worried about Miles, who glided with an effortless gait.

Except for his colourful attire, the remarkable thing about Miles was that there was nothing remarkable about him, a blended composite of twenty thousand randomly selected men who morphed into whatever you imagined.

‘You’re still working, I suppose,’ said Eddie to draw him out.

‘I’m an Energy Prospector.’

‘You mean solar, wind, geo-thermal, that sort of thing?’

‘No, another sort of energy.’

‘Nuclear?’

‘No.’

Perhaps it’s some exotic new technology, Eddie imagined, something commercially sensitive he didn’t want to discuss.

‘Do you have any family?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘But married, I suppose.’

‘No, not married, but I come from a large family over on the Other Side.’

‘Do you do any other sports or anything apart from hiking?’

‘Not specifically, only what’s necessary to fulfil my mission.’

Oo-er, thought Eddie, we’ll be getting into religion. Better be careful.

‘Your mission. That sounds intriguing.’

‘My mission is to restore what has been lost from people’s lives.’

Well, it was an explanation of a sort, but it left as many questions in Eddie’s mind as it answered.

‘You shouldn’t have let Susan slip through your fingers,’ said Miles quietly.

Eddie was taken aback. He should have had no idea what Miles was talking about. Yet instantly, he knew what and who he was referring to. It was Susan Sensberry, who had been his first all too brief love of his life as a teenager. In the same instant, he knew who Miles reminded him of. Jez Jackdaw, a schoolmate who, when they were both sixteen years old, urged him to do whatever it took to restore his relationship with Susan, as much wooing and grovelling as it took after he had abandoned her in a vain, ultimately humiliating pursuit of the teenage sex siren, Lucy Lansburg.

In that moment of recognition, Miles became Jez. Yet logic said Miles could not be Jez because he would have been the same age as Eddie, sixty-two, and Miles couldn’t be as old as that. How old was Miles? On reflection, it was tough to tell, but forty-five at the most, in Eddie’s estimation. So how then did Miles know about Susan?

Eddie looked intently at Miles, but by then, Miles was already slipping back to chat with other walkers. Unable to make sense of his exchange with Miles, unnerved by it too, Eddie diverted his mind by checking he still had all his group safe, well and within sight. In the meantime, Miles eased himself back alongside the chattering duo, Liz and Jenny.

Liz was strong, fit and vigorous, with the hearty enthusiasm of someone accustomed to country pursuits. Even in the first blush of youth, Liz had a chunky no-nonsense outdoorsy air rather than the slender elegance and grace of her prettier contemporaries—something she had always envied when she saw it in others. It would have been wonderful to have enjoyed their effortlessly seductive looks. In her mid-fifties, the decades had taken their toll, eroding her limited sex appeal, leaving her face and figure with the comfortable, lived-in appearance of someone later in life, about as far from a femme fatale as it was possible to be.

Her friend Jenny was altogether closer to that archetype, being younger, in her mid-forties, having kept the elegant frame of her youth, still well-preserved with the help of yoga, pilates and a sensible diet.

Liz and Jenny had been talking about the love-life of their respective children insofar as they had chosen to share it with their parents.

‘My Sharon has been moody,’ Jenny observed.

‘Why’s that, do you think?’

‘She has a boyfriend, which is nice for her, but there is some difficulty between them.’

‘What sort?’

‘I’m not sure. She won’t talk to me about it.’

‘These amorous encounters at a young age,’ intervened Miles, ‘are more foundational in their lives than their supposedly more important college studies.’

Liz and Jenny thought for a moment and then nodded.

‘Have you heard anything from James Trellwell,’ Miles enquired, looking in Liz’s direction, ‘considering how close you were during your own college days?’

Liz was thrown off balance. She had no contact with James for over 30 years, since their acrimonious parting those years ago. She had not forgiven James his indiscretion with that salacious trollop, Lucy Greshing. In a flash, she realised why this Miles seemed familiar. He must be Andy Tillborg, James’s friend from that time, who had interceded on James’s behalf, begging her to relent and give his friend another chance.

There was an awkward silence. ‘Your leaky roof, would you like me to put you in touch with someone to fix it?’ Miles continued.

He must have overheard us talking before, Liz concluded.

‘Well, I wouldn’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’ve been struggling to find someone reliable.’

Miles turned towards Jenny. ‘In hindsight, do you think that marrying Paddy was right for you?’

Like Liz, Jenny was thrown off kilter. With her and Paddy now divorced, it couldn’t have been right. But Miles must be John Natting, her urbane wedding planner, the only one who had intimated she should rethink.

‘Probably not, seeing how things have turned out.’

‘Perhaps you should have kept in touch with Tracey Trubb,’ said Miles.

Jenny blushed. How could he know anything about her feelings for Tracey? She hadn’t shared that with anyone. This Miles, John Natting, whoever, had an uncanny mind-reading power.

Leaving the pair uncharacteristically reflective, Miles slipped back along the column of walkers to converse with others.

While observing Miles’s interactions, Eddie was struck by his eerie connection with whoever he spoke with, though presumably not having met them before. Despite his lack of distinguishing features, there were things people thought they recognised. He was someone they knew or, like a human chameleon, used some mysterious agency, hypnotism or shapeshifting to fit the imagery in their minds.

Out in the open country, it was a little brighter, but without the tree canopy more exposed to the steadily streaming rain, a relentless spray trickling down people’s faces and seeping around the seams of their rain gear.

After days of rainfall, the path was inundated under brown puddles and slick with cloying, slippery mud. Some tried avoiding the worst by hopping and stretching between patches of wet grass, only to find them angled at a slope, slippery as ice, tipping them over like skittles. The more experienced took the simple course, walking right through the middle, mud, puddles and all.

Over a stile encroached by brambles and hawthorn from the adjacent hedgerow was a ploughed field on a slope, a hard slog up the incline, slippery ground, suction from the clinging mud, the extra weight of the clay clods wrapped around their boots, sodden raingear and rucksacks dragging on their shoulders.

A further stile gave onto another field being grazed by cattle, slightly easier going now, downhill over the rain-soaked trampled grass interspersed with cow pats, then a gate that could only be approached through a swamp of an ankle-deep slurry of mixed mud and cow muck.

Opening onto a track leading along a valley, the going was more accessible. At some point, the geology changed from sedimentary clay to limestone. A turn off the route led up a steep climb through a field of grazing sheep. The wet chalk was slippery as glass, constantly threatening to turn an ankle.

Most walkers slow when challenged by a slope, but for those with a competitive streak, a hill climb is a challenge to flaunt superior fitness. Nobody was keener to demonstrate toughness than the ever-combative Larry and Karen.

Larry was a tough, wiry man in his mid-thirties, around six feet, his body lean and sculpted by relentless exercise.

Karen was slim and sleek, five feet seven, with a body like Larry’s, optimised for endurance and every bit as tough.

As the group ascended, Larry and Karen stepped up, quickly moving to the front of the field, each determined to reach the hill’s crest first and especially to be there before their detested rival. Reaching the summit in front and making it appear effortless was essential, so, with pounding hearts, they fought to dampen their laboured breathing. Miles came along, gliding like a ghost making the ascent as if he was as light as air.

Larry made the crest first, mere strides ahead of Karen, but it was a Pyrrhic testosterone-driven victory, leaving him gasping. Karen was annoyed he had been in front but contented herself that she had reached the top in better shape. Miles was the real victor, drifting behind Karen, cool, calm and relaxed.

As the remainder of the group caught up, Karen noticed something Miles said had left Larry pale and quiet, deflating his cockiness. She was pleased.

On a fine day, there would have been a splendid view from this vantage point, Eddie’s selected spot for a break, but now there was nothing to see through the rain and mist. The reunited group extracted refreshments from rucksacks temporarily exposed under bright plastic rain covers. The Potterswells and Nettleberrys shared a thermos flask of hot coffee, sipping the invigorating liquid out of collapsible fold-flat cups. Karen’s refreshment was a draft of a fruit smoothie out of a bright stainless-steel flask. Others chewed cereal bars and homemade flapjacks.

Batteries recharged, Eddie’s flock set off with renewed vigour in the face of intensifying rain across more chalk downs, a stretch of heathland with gorse and bracken leading into a pine forest typical of the sandier areas in Surrey, a couple more fields and a path up a slope into dense mixed woodland. Coming to the top of a small hill, the course broadened, having been used by tree-felling vehicles, deep ruts churned by chunky tyres, claggy with glutinous mud under a relentless downpour, leading into the clearing Eddie had designated for their picnic lunch.

Logs from felled trees made suitable seating for the group picnic within the clearing, lying at the junction of woodland paths. On a barmy day of summer sunshine, it would have been idyllic. Under these conditions, the surrounding trees closed like dripping giants about to swallow the unsuspecting into sinister forest depths. A crumbling lichened sign identified the spot as Sorcerer’s Copse.

Eddie checked the time: 12:40. Good progress, considering the conditions.

Walkers trudged around inspecting which sodden logs might be the least uncomfortable, trampling on a profusion of the same yellowy orange toadstools Eddie had noticed earlier in the car park, scattering clouds of fungal spores.

‘It’s wet today,’ Miles pronounced as he took centre stage among the logs, his clothing glowing with renewed brightness like a lantern through the murk. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we found somewhere warm and dry?’

Several people murmured agreement.

‘Somewhere with hot soup and refreshing beer,’ Miles continued.

There was a collective groan at the gall of this interloper winding them up, dangling unattainable delights. Miles waved his hand to quieten the muttering.

‘I’m quite serious. I know a good pub, just around the corner, not more than ten minutes away.’

Eddie was simultaneously confused and annoyed by this presumptuous intervention from someone new to the group. They were miles from anywhere, and he had reconnoitred the route encountering no habitation near this location; nothing was shown on the map. Where could Miles have in mind? 

‘How do you mean? There isn’t a pub within miles of here. I should know.’

‘Oh, but there is,’ insisted Miles. ‘Just over there, on the Other Side.’

‘Well, I’ve never seen this place.’

‘Honestly, it’s there,’ said Miles, ‘not more than a ten-minute stroll.’

‘We haven’t got time for detours.’

‘Why not?’ said Larry. ‘It’s not as if we have a deadline.’

‘Typical,’ said Karen. ‘Any excuse for beer and burgers.’

‘Actually, why not?’ said Stan Potterswell. ‘It would be nice if Miles knows somewhere.’

There were murmurs of agreement.

‘They’ll be busy making posh Sunday lunches,’ Eddie objected. ‘They wouldn’t welcome a group of muddy walkers.’

‘It won’t be a problem at the Miteby Arms,’ said Miles. ‘I know the landlord, and he’ll be fine. Plenty of space and a lovely log fire to warm and dry ourselves.’

Eddie baulked. ‘We wouldn’t want our picnics to go to waste, and the pub wouldn’t let us eat them inside.’ 

‘The landlord is a personal friend,’ said Miles. ‘As you’re with me, he’ll welcome us, I promise.’

Although aggrieved by Miles’s impertinence, Eddie sensed the charismatic pull Miles now had over the group, a hold over people that was as powerful as it was inexplicable. An attempt to reassert his leadership that would be a losing battle. Devoid of valid objections, he would have to humour him. Miles would end up humiliated when, after a pointless amble into the woods, this pub turned out to have been a figment of his imagination. 

‘Well, alright,’ said Eddie. ‘Who wants to give this pub a go?’

Hands went up, and Eddie could see Miles had a majority.

‘Well, Miles, it looks like we’re going. It had better be good.’

Sheltering from the Rain

Miles took the lead along a path that led around the gnarled ivy-strewn trunk of a majestic oak, under a sturdy arch of rugged branches and into the dense interior of the wood following a deep gully set between high earth banks densely clad with undergrowth, brambles, nettles, saplings, a tapestry of ivy tendrils and a rich assortment of seasonal fungi.

Following the rear, Eddie remained smug, confident they would soon emerge over a stile on the wood’s edge into the field with a herd of cud-chewing cattle devoid of habitation for a mile in any direction. Within minutes, order would be restored as Miles was exposed for leading them on a wild goose chase.

But then he wasn’t quite so sure. Instead of the gully veering around to the left, as he recalled, the bank on the right dropped, and the path followed a slope that tipped over to the right. The trees differed too. He had remembered them growing densely as a thicket, but the trees were large and dispersed. They had been in the gully, from which, to his recollection, there were no junctions or deviations from the path, yet, without seeming to branch away, they were now in open woodland.

In minutes, they hit the edge of the wood, rewarded with a vista of the surrounding countryside, unlike anywhere Eddie had anticipated in Surrey. Even the weather was different, the rain had eased, and a watery sun emerged through thinning clouds.

Fields were marked with dry stone walls and traditionally laid hedges. Sunk into the contours of the landscape and protruding slightly above the hedgerows were the thatched roofs of dwellings with wood smoke drifting from chimneys, behind which a church tower rose above the trees.

The path followed one hedgerow a couple of hundred yards, emerging onto a narrow country lane. A short way along the lane, a sign read, Welcome to Miteby. That’s curious, thought Eddie, because Miteby was the surname Miles had put down on the attendee list.

Coming into the village, a hedge gave to a terrace of timber-framed cottages; some fitted out as little shops, a bakery, a greengrocer, a hardware store. They emerged before the village green, with the church set back on one side and the village pub, the Miteby Arms, on the other. Miles’s surname again, Eddie pondered, does he own the place?

There was something odd about the handful of cars parked around the edge of the green, all old classics from around 50 years ago or more, yet immaculate, gleaming as if in their first flush of youth.

Eddie attempted to regain control, gesturing to the comfortable benches around the green. ‘The weather’s better, and these look perfect for our picnic.’

‘No need to be outside,’ Miles contradicted him. ‘There’ll be a nice fire going inside and ale for those with a thirst. Drinks are on me.’

The interior of the pub was warm, traditional and welcoming. The light from the brightly burning log fire that Miles had promised lit up the large inglenook fireplace and reflected off the well-worn flagstone floor. Brightly polished horse brasses hanging over the mantelpiece and above the bar glinted. The bar was solidly but simply constructed out of sturdy oak timber, its surface worn smooth and flat, stained to deep mahogany by spillage from countless frothing pints of dark ale. There were tall stools in front of the bar for those who liked to converse with the bar staff and chattier patrons, tables for groups to socialise, and niches with cosy benches and window seats for those who preferred a tête-à-tête.

Miles hailed the landlord, who came over, beaming a warm welcome. The landlord took orders for drinks and something warm and sustaining from the pub’s menu of simple food for those who fancied more than the meagre rations they had with them in their soggy rucksacks, encouraged by the surrounding aroma of steaming broth and fresh-baked bread. The landlord told them not to worry about paying just yet. They could settle up at the end.

There were already several people spread around the bar who appeared to be best of buddies with Miles, exchanging cheerful greetings with him. Eddie’s unease at having his leadership displaced was the greater knowing he was disorientated and dependent on Miles to lead the group back out of this mysterious place. Eddie scanned the pub’s regulars, not expecting to know anybody but hoping to feel slightly less inadequate if there were at least someone with whom he was acquainted.

Against the odds, he caught the eye of someone familiar, confirmed when she smiled back. At least she seemed familiar. Eddie could not quite recall who she was nor when or where they had met. He ought to talk to her, but what could he say?

‘Hello.’ He reached to shake her hand.

‘Hello, Eddie,’ she replied, taking him aback as she leaned over to kiss his cheek.

She had remembered his name and knew him on a close social or even intimate level, yet he still couldn’t place her. It must be like this for people with Alzheimer’s, thought Eddie, when they don’t recognise people. He couldn’t be getting dementia, could he?

Eddie internally cursed Miles for getting him into this hole and remembered Miles’s odd remark hours earlier. Of course! The woman was Susan, the first love of his life from over forty years before. The memories flooded back, and he knew it was her beyond the slightest doubt.

‘Hello again, Susan.’

Yet logically, it didn’t make sense. For it to be Susan, she would have to be his age, sixty-two, but she was nowhere near that old. On the subject of age, there was something odd about the people around Miteby, Miles included. It was hard to tell their age, being somehow ageless or changing before your eyes to whatever age you imagined they might be.

Looking at Susan, Eddie was right back to when they were briefly Romeo and Juliet, with her, now sweet sixteen. Disgusting, he thought, an older man like him lusting after a teenager.

Looking again, she became an attractive, fully grown-up but still youthful woman in her thirties. Still too young for me, thought Eddie.

He blinked, and Susan was an attractive mature woman of around sixty.

He must be hallucinating. But he didn’t have time to worry about that. Susan was talking to him in the familiar West Country accent he remembered, asking about what had happened to him in his life, and he was telling her about his late wife, Margot, his career in information technology, how hiking in the countryside and remote mountainous places cleared his mind. Neither of them mentioned the incident with Lucy Lansburg.

The walking party had come in expecting to sit together and chat among themselves, but the group fragmented to all corners of the pub, pairing up for intimate chats with local people they knew.

Like Eddie, Liz had made eye contact with a man who might have been a lover of hers from the past from how they interacted, withdrawing with him into a quiet niche to reminisce. He was in his early twenties, if not younger, so if he had been Liz’s love interest, he would have been what the popular press refers to as a toy boy, with the sort of looks that could have earned him a place in a magazine for teenage girls. While it was none of his business, Eddie was incredulous at seeing Liz in the role of a cougar.

But then, Liz looked young, as if she had absorbed the essence of the man’s youth, still recognisable as the Liz he knew, strong and vigorous rather than sleek and elegant, yet unquestionably a younger version of herself, contemporary with her companion.

Meanwhile, Liz’s friend, Jenny, usually inseparable from her best friend, had herself been diverted into another corner by a woman with whom, from appearances, she had a close, almost intimate relationship, a well-formed young woman who had an air of rugged toughness, a tomboy who would fit in well in a stereotypical man’s world such as lumber-jacking or fire-fighting.

From their demeanour, the friend was a contemporary of Jenny’s, although she was so young it didn’t seem possible. Yet when Eddie observed the two together in this environment, Jenny, like Liz, had transmuted into a much younger version of herself. The pair could have both passed for teenagers.

To Eddie’s surprise, he noticed the inscrutable strong and silent Tim deep in conversation with an eccentric young woman with a curious dress sense, hair arranged in twin plaits and round spectacles on her round face. He overheard a few snippets about some fantasy world involving the deeds of the heroic Sir Gladdifon slaying the monster Mengelfang and rescuing the damsel Princess Beatefice from the clutches of the wicked Dragellog. It didn’t interest Eddie, but he remembered from somewhere that these were characters from the cult series, Citadels of Vallborg.

Only the two happily married couples, Stan and Mary Potterswell and Reg and Ivy Nettleberry, remained to chat happily around a table, unaffected by the uncanny surroundings.

By a miracle, the landlord kept track of the locations of his guests, bringing their orders of drinks and warm sustaining food, even managing refills as they remained absorbed, catching up with old times.