Whilst at work, Steve looked at the boundary fencing between the two sides of Area Seven. Most of it was driven deep into the edge of paving with no gaps for escape but he noticed one section, which faced a thicket. On the Good Side, overgrown brambles provided thorny cover and, from the Wrong Side, there was a line of low bushes. He discovered a shallow scrape underneath the fencing. One night, he snuck out of his designated flat and watched the gap. He settled down in the dark and pulled his hood up to keep warm. Eventually, he saw a fox slip under. Over the next few weeks, Steve silently made his way to the fox run and sliced mud away with a spoon until he could just fit underneath. In the thicket beyond, he cut a small gap until he could get through. From the Good Side, this escape route was invisible. He crawled back inside and ensured the gap under the fence was hidden from view. It was almost time to visit his old back garden.
After work the next day, Steve stood in the doorway of the flat and waited for nightfall. As shadows engulfed the housing estate, he quietly moved from garden to garden until the fox run was only metres away. He ran in a hunch and lay flat as he slid under the fence. Once through the thicket, street lights lit up the ground beyond and he waited. This would be a risk. He sprinted across the yellow glare and jumped over a garden wall opposite. He crawled away just as the rumble of a Destructor drove menacingly past.
The streets were bright, so Steve crept through gardens until he ran over another road. He bypassed a pathway with lampposts casting light on leaves piled against a fence like drifts of golden coins. Moving methodically with senses acute, he made it to about halfway across the Good Side. A supermarket by the lower High Street was lit up and Steve knew he was pushing his luck. Hiding by the edge of the shop, Stream Seven trickled an inviting patter. He jumped over the railings and lowered himself into the concrete flood defences. It had not rained much lately so the water was only about thirty centimetres deep. He waded through the gloomy waters and into tunnels beneath roads. Slowly, he moved under the wooden bridge over his former driveway and banged his head on a broken service pipe. He looked up and cursed. Holding back, he waited in the quiet.
Steve stayed low and crawled through the water. He scrambled up the embankment into the front garden. Leaves were scattered over the lawn. Quickly, he moved along the shadow of the hedge. Jumping on the fence, he hauled himself over the high gate. Hitting the ground on the other side, he knelt and listened. Moving along the side pathway, he stopped to the sound of operatic singing. Steve rolled his eyes. Some uppity voices inside were discussing which restaurant to book the following day. He sighed and ran into the darkened back garden. Passing the outbuildings, his assault pack was still behind the wood store. He checked inside and it was full. Slinging it on his back, he slipped away to retrace his steps back to the Wrong Side. After an uneventful journey, he pushed the assault pack through the thicket and under the fence. It was late by the time he made it back to the flat. He was wet from the stream, but warm from exertion. Steve slept soundly for what was left of the night.
The next morning, he laid the contents of his assault pack on the floor. A pair of sturdy black boots, olive green trousers, disruptive pattern material combat jacket, green gloves and a military full-face balaclava with a single slit for the eyes. He tried them on and everything fitted well. It reminded him of his army days. That was a long time ago, but the skills were embedded within him. There was also a second set of similar clothes and another assault pack, but smaller. They were for his son, Jack. These were hard times and Steve was going to train him how to move silently in both day and night. Steve did not have much, but he could pass on what he had learnt. And he had been taught by the best.
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