“It’s within two miles of the airport,” he said. “Find the biggest house. And I mean — ” his voice whispered, “ — the biggest.”
“It’s a very famous house,” he said. “The anti-establishment of slavery began there.”
I know this property from my earlier research. It’s a massive butter-colored manor that once belonged to a prime minister, William Pitt the Younger. I removed it from contention as a possible Cruise residence because it was sold in 2018 (£8.5 million) to a used-car magnate who, at least judging by an article from 2020 I read in Car Dealer magazine, was looks quite comfortably contained here. But it was only a few miles away. On foot, the journey can be completed in just over an hour.
How, exactly, I’m back on the edge of that woman’s privately owned field, I have no idea. The expedition at that point seemed to take me to new places. Suddenly I noticed that the path disappeared into the dense forest. Just like what happened yesterday, when I entered that woman’s farm, I thought, then looked up and saw her house in the distance.
I panicked. I scared a badger — too, babe! — and run through the forest as fast as I can in a new, randomly chosen direction. It deposited me in a vast, previously unexplored field. On all the previous paths, the vigorously growing cow parsley stood on slender stalks, almost shin high. Here, its vertical hordes crawled over my shoulders, while its fallen comrades encircled my ankles. Needles of true fear pierced the nape of my neck beneath sweaty hair. Statistically speaking, I assured myself, it was unlikely that I would be trapped in this field for so long that I would die there.
Although — wouldn’t it serve that woman right if I died in this field, so close to her, where I wasn’t allowed? “That’ll teach him a lesson,” I said into the audio recorder I carry with me in case I run into Tom Cruise. Had to “find a way to notify him,” I explained. (On my death.) I hope he sees my picture in a — newspaper! That’s another good thing about dying here, I told the recorder. It will “serve” the editor who carelessly assigned me this article – who irresponsibly approved my travel budget – “right.” His life, or at least his work life, will likely be ruined. God, can he be fired? Surely, somehow, he would get into trouble. You shouldn’t have sent him to a small English town. Will our boss tell him not to blame himself? I hope not — I’m dead because of him! I don’t want to die, of course — but if I do, I’ll die doing what I love: making people feel bad and getting into trouble right away. I had not yet clearly formed a mental image of my widow’s second husband when I realized that I had stumbled, midfield, down a dirt path into a neighborhood. I ran into it – in, I was surprised to discover, the exact direction of the used-car dealer’s palatial estate.