The Titan Code

8. Searching

I FEEL incredibly grateful that it's Sunday today as it means I get another day to myself to process and plan. One step at a time is how I'm playing this. If I get distracted by notions of shooting ahead into the future I'll collapse in an unwashed heap. One logical step at a time.

I've done an online search for my farm and have narrowed it down to four potential sites, presuming that every farm in the country is listed online and there aren't dozens more hiding in the real world. These ones are alongside a river but irritatingly are in totally different parts of the country, as well as in places nobody would ever travel to deliberately. Following up these leads would be a remote operation for now. 

I did try the "Mr. Smith Greenfield Farm" search but it was a load of random nonsense and assorted newspaper articles. I couldn't be expected to trudge through every single one, not when they say things like: "Man arrested for painting bus shelter to look like green field." Top class journalism at work.

I contemplated calling Alex and telling him my findings but maybe he didn't want to be disturbed. Perhaps he was having breakfast with his girlfriend; maybe he wanted to not spend a good part of a morning texting a total stranger with inconclusive Internet searches.

The mystery which was Alex Johnson poked at my brain. I don't pretend to be an astute judge of character (like at school when I thought Billy Lambert fancied me because he kept asking to come over and revise; turned out he had a crush on my Mum) but I had seen a definitely different side to him. He was serious and sensible and calm but a funny, bright person was also there shrouded by some sort of cloud. It lifted when he smiled but he didn't smile as much as he wanted to, I think.

But also he seems driven by something. I never paid any attention to it at the time but when I reflect on that first time at the canal, those two nights ago which now feels a lifetime back, when he heard what the men were planning to do he was determined to fix it. It seems strange, now, to be so involved and driven by the tiniest notion of injustice but he was ready to fight the cause with no information. Why would he be so keen to fight for someone he knew nothing about? 

So I schedule a text for a two hours' time telling him I had an update and to get in touch when he was free; I had the urge to dust and clean my flat thoroughly in case any other deities popped over for coffee.

*

A few hours later my Dad was shouting of me from the kitchen. I had a sudden request from my Mum to go over for Sunday lunch and I was happy to oblige, keen to try and build my relationships back up so going home felt like a positive step.

"Ella, your phone's been ringing," he yelled as I raced down the stairs. I forgot that I programmed a text for Alex and I bet that's who was ringing.

I rush into the small kitchen with its pale, laminated wood cupboards and try to grab my phone from my Dad's hands. He's a short and stocky man with thin hair and a lopsided smile and gives me that cheeky smile only dads can do.

"Who's Alex, then"? he asks with an annoying grin. I swipe for my phone again and frown at the screen.

"He's... He's just someone from work," came the reply but under my Dad's mischievous gaze I start to blush. He always makes me blush even when I've not done anything.

My Mum's ears prick up as she washes the dishes from lunch.

"You have a new friend from work? Is he single?" she asks without any shame.

"Look, we're not... He's just someone from work, I don't fancy him," I bluster, my Dad's waggling eyebrows making me nervous for no reason- honestly, that is such a Dad thing to do.