Dying to Write by Judith Cutler Page B

of paper?’
    As a nonwriter, I had no notepad tucked in my pocket. In desperation she reached down the kitchen blackboard. Really it’s there for people to jot down items that are running out, but she wiped it clean and sketched out a possible route for me.
    â€˜That bit’s a bit steep,’ she said. ‘And that part’s quite exposed.’
    I thanked her and went off to change.
    I thought of Toad and chose not my running vest and shorts but a tracksuit. In any case the wind justified it. It was whipping my hair quite fiercely into my eyes. I stopped; there was bound to be a rubber band in my trouser pocket.
    Someone else stopped too.
    No. I was imagining it. Surely?
    I took an unconscionable time to fish out the band and loop my hair through it, but no one moved.
    I started again.
    There was a well-defined track from the house, through scrubland, to the far end of the park. Then, beyond the motorway, were some old pit mounds.
    The twig that snapped was not one I’d trodden on.
    I pretended my lace and come untied: I knelt, waiting for someone to come close, poised to bolt if I had to.
    Two magpies flew up, cackling. Two for joy. I pressed on.
    It was easy running. There was enough of an undulation to make it interesting, but no fierce gradients. The surface was good, too, with no vicious roots lurking to ensnare the unwary. I padded on, perfectly at peace for the first time since I’d arrived. The scientists say it’s all to do with the chemicals you release in your brain by hitting your feet on the ground. Endomorphs? Endorphins? Pheromones? No, one of those is the name for the smell that attracts mates.
    The sound of the motorway was becoming obtrusive. If I could I would turn away. There was nothing down there anyway but some derelict buildings, according to Shazia. I found a narrow track which would take me through the woods. I would have to slow right down but it was better than all that noise. Not that the woods were silent, of course. The birds were busy telling all the others to keep off their patch. Some blackbirds were excavating the undergrowth. An untimely owl hunched on a tree stump.
    And someone was watching me again.
    I stopped, and scanned a hundred and eighty degrees.
    A shadow moved. A twig snapped. Then there was a definite rustle, but the sound might be moving away from me.
    For a moment I wanted to chase whoever it was. No. Much more sensible to head in the opposite direction. I told myself I was there to write, that the sole purpose of my run was to clear my brain so I could write, and that I was heading back to base to write.
    For once I listened to myself.
    I took a path to the right and accelerated. Anyone wanting to catch me would have to be pretty fit. I lengthened my stride. The breaths came easily. Another three hundred yards and I’d be in sight of the house.
    Practically.
    Thirty yards away a figure emerged from the shadows. The ground shelved sharply to my left and I hadn’t noticed him there. I realised, as my feet carried me closer and closer, that I couldn’t reproach myself for not spotting him before. In his camouflage jacket and muddy jeans, Naukez was practically invisible.
    He stared at me as I slowed to a halt. ‘Wrong time of day,’ he said, ‘for the badgers.’
    â€˜I’m just going back to the house.’
    â€˜Ah. That’s OK then. Wouldn’t want anything to disturb them.’
    We nodded at each other. I set off gently – he wasn’t going to know how much he’d rattled me. But I could feel his eyes on my back the whole way.
    The first person I saw when I’d showered and pottered along to make a cup of tea before trying – again – to write, was Matt.
    He was staring at the kettle as if willing it to boil. I reached across him and flicked on the switch.
    â€˜She’s still missing,’ he said. ‘All they do is rabbit on about that stupid bitch Nyree, and I can’t get