by K. M. Peyton
He wandered along the lane. The motorbike came past him just as a car came along. The motorbike looked as if it would mow him down, but had to slow up sharply for the car. Arnold thought a motorbike would be a bit of all right and wondered, if he stole one, would he be able to start it and ride it away? Doubtful, without a bit of practice first. It would be worth getting to know how to ride one, for when he got the chance of ‘finding’ one. Did Aunt Margaret know a boy with a motorbike? He’d ask when he got back.
He came out on to the road where the smart houses were, those running down to the lake. It was very quiet, like a graveyard Arnold thought. The motorbike was coming back. Who was this geezer? Arnold got on to the pavement and to his amazement the motorbike did a wheelie up the kerb and came straight at him, accelerating with a great crackle of engine-power.
If Arnold – he thought afterwards – had been a slow-witted country lad he would have been a goner. As it was, with a lifetime of practice in jumping on and off buses between lights, swinging on the backs of lorries, running from the clutches of irate shopkeepers and other gymnastics required by his way of life, instinct bade him jump into the flowering currants of ‘Meadowview’ within an ace of being run down. The smell of scorching rubber and hot engine filled his quivering nostrils as he rolled under the freshly manured bushes.
‘Someone’s trying to kill me!’ was the not unnatural conclusion that filled his reeling brain. He dared not move, listening to the sound of the fading motorbike engine. If it turned and came back he’d have to make a run for it and ring a smart doorbell.
‘I say, are you all right?’
A pair of be-jeaned legs came into his vision beyond the bushes. A bent head, peering, met his frightened gaze. It looked like the violin girl.
‘That bike tried to run you down. Is he some mate of yours, playing tricks? Looked jolly dangerous to me.’
Arnold rolled out and scrambled to his feet. He smelled of manure. The girl wrinkled her nose.
‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Someone’s trying to kill me!’ Arnold squeaked.
‘A joke, surely?’
Remembering the dead body, she was obviously putting him down as a hysteric. He pulled the red scarf aside to reveal his vampire marks.
‘Someone tried to strangle me on the way home last night!’
The girl went rather white. ‘Ugh!’ Then, ‘I say!’ with considerable sympathy. ‘You look awful,’ she added. ‘You can come home, if you like – there’s no-one in. Only me.’
Arnold accepted the invitation gratefully, feeling that two attempts on his life within twelve hours justified the acceptance of some soft living. Her house was even plusher than Bosky Hollow, big enough to bed the whole population of his street at home by the look of it. She took him into the kitchen, a vast warm purring laboratory sort of place, and pulled out a chair for him at a large pine table.
‘Here, I’ll make you a coffee. Who are you? You’re not from around here?’
He gave her a sanitized version of his appearance at Aunt Margaret’s and told her about the gorilla attack of the night before. She studied his neck with deep interest.
‘That’s serious!’
‘Yeah.’
‘So was just now. Really serious. You must tell the police.’
‘I’d rather not. They wouldn’t believe me. They don’t like me. I don’t like them.’ In a nutshell. The girl didn’t argue.
‘I’d rather just disappear,’ Arnold said. ‘It’s not healthy round here.’
‘It might be something to do with that body last night. You said you saw a body?’
‘That’s right! I did. And I told a few geezers at the party and they said, was I going to tell the police, and I said yes, when I got home.’
‘There you are!’
‘I think I’ll disappear for a while.’
‘Come with us! The coach is leaving at lunchtime. Next stop the Highlands of Scotland – no-one’ll find you there!’
‘How can I?’
‘Easy! Sixty of us in two coaches – all from different schools, different countries even – nobody will notice one more! You can take my old violin in its case and pretend you’re part of the orchestra!’
Arnold gaped. The girl’s cornflower eyes shone. How was he to know she liked diversion and excitement in her life? Her boredom threshold was abnormally low; her father was a top seed tennis player, at present in America, who had made millions and let her spend whatever she liked; her mother was temporarily in the south of France and the ‘minder’ who was supposed to be looking after her had gone to London for the day to buy a wedding outfit.
‘Nothing to it! Even the people looking after us don’t know who we are, do they? We’re all from different schools. We’re going to stay somewhere for a few days, rehearsing all day, then we’re going to play a few concerts around Scotland and then come home. It couldn’t be a better way to disappear!’
‘I can’t play the violin,’ Arnold said feebly.
‘Don’t be so stupid! Just carry it about. You needn’t come to rehearsals, no-one’ll notice in that mob.’
Her eyes were now positively sparkling with excitement. She was jumping about the kitchen like a grasshopper.
‘It’s a great idea! It’s not as if we’ll be alone. I’ve got friends – we’ll meet them on the bus – ones I like in the orchestra, ones I’ve got to know. They’ll help – they’ll love it. There’s a really tough girl who plays the cymbals, and a clarinettist who’s brilliant – clever, I mean. He can cope with anything. They’ll see you OK. We’ll all see you OK. It’ll be terrific fun!’
Arnold wasn’t at all sure about the fun, but a coach ride to the Highlands of Scotland starting at lunchtime seemed a very attractive idea. After that he could do a runner. Go to Glasgow. He had a cousin in Glasgow. Glasgow was a homely sort of place.
‘What’s your name?’ the girl asked suddenly.
‘Arnold.’
‘Ugh.’
‘What’s yours?’
‘Jodie.’
‘Ugh.’
They considered each other, taking in the idea of what they had just planned. Arnold felt a bit funny in the pit of his stomach, wondering what he was in for. And who wanted to kill him? The vision of the motorbike rearing at him across the pavement was going to stay with him for a long time. He felt quite trembly and rather sick.
Jodie said, quite kindly, ‘Whoever it is, you’ll be all right once we’re away. I’ll find you some things to take.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘The taxi’ll be here in half an hour.’
Uncertain as he was, Arnold was swayed by. Jodie’s authoritative manner. She took him upstairs with her to her bedroom and packed him a holdall of T-shirts, jerseys and pairs of jeans. She had racks and drawersful of bright-coloured clothes and her jeans fitted Arnold perfectly.
‘An anorak . . . take your pick.’ She opened another wardrobe.
Arnold chose one in a camouflaging grey-green, hoping he wouldn’t show up against the Highlands, which he assumed were greenish.
Jodie pulled a violin case out of a locker under her bed.
‘Here, you can carry that. No-one’ll ask any questions, I bet. The woman in charge – Mrs Knox she’s called – doesn’t know any of us by sight. Even our conductor, he can never remember who’s who. People come and go rather in this sort of orchestra.’
Jodie went into her father’s room and came back with an armful of underpants and pairs of pyjamas. They were all rather swamping but Jodie insisted on stuffing them in.
‘I don’t want all that!’ Arnold tended to wear the same clothes for a week at a time.
‘You don’t have to carry it – it’ll all go in the coach.’
She was like a steamroller, Arnold decided. When he had recovered from his near misses at being murdered he would have to stand up to her. Girls should be kept in their place. But for the time being it suited him to be swept away to Scotland.
The taxi arrived and Jodie locked up the ho
use. In spite of himself Arnold was impressed by her utter familiarity with organizing her own life. She was as independent as he was. She appeared to be as neglected by her elders and betters as himself, in spite of coming from an obviously rich family. Very odd. He thought only dropouts from dumbo families like his own got that sort of treatment. He sat in the back of the taxi wondering whether perhaps he was in some sort of a dream. Nothing felt real at all.
The taxi decanted them into the car park of a large school some ten miles away, where two coaches were parked, surrounded by a milling crowd of young people and their parents. Total chaos reigned.
‘What did I tell you?’ Jodie said. ‘Think anyone’ll notice one more in this mob? Come on, let’s get some decent seats. And I’ll see if I can collar my mates.’
She shoved Arnold ahead of her, so that they stowed their luggage in the bowels of the coach and fought their way aboard. The stalwart Mrs Knox stood at the door of the coach ticking off names.
‘Jodie Angmering. David Smith,’ said Jodie firmly.
Mrs Knox ticked them off and allowed them to pass.
‘Who’s David Smith?’ Arnold muttered.
‘Oh, he’s a stupid lad, plays the trombone. If she asks any questions we’ll say he’s on the other coach. If she counts us, you can duck down.’
She seemed to have no nerves at all. Arnold let himself be swept to the back of the coach, shoved bodily into the corner seat. Jodie seemed to collar required reinforcements on her way down the coach: a stout girl with black corkscrew curls in a great springing mass round her head, a weedy little boy with pimples and a worried expression, and an elegant youth somewhat older than the rest of them, blond and cool.
‘This is Christian Persimmon,’ Jodie introduced him to Arnold. ‘Clarinet. Nutty McTavish, cymbals.’ This was the girl with the corkscrew curls. The wimpy lad was, ‘Hoomey Rossitor. Triangle and wood-block. The limit of his talent.’
‘You watch it, Jodie Angmering,’ said Nutty belligerently. ‘Someone’s got to play ’em.’
‘The theory is that brass, cymbals, triangles and likewise uncouth noises are given to dolts to balance the brilliance of the strings and wind. School orchestras have to be seen to be fair to all levels of intelligence.’
Nutty hit Jodie with a canvas bag she was carrying so that Jodie lost her balance and fell under the seat. Mrs Knox could be heard counting: ‘Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . .’
Jodie got up again as the voice faded into the general uproar.
‘This is Arnold,’ she said. ‘Someone is trying to murder him. You won’t believe this. Show them, Arnold.’
Arnold pulled his scarf down to reveal his strangle marks. They all stared, obviously impressed.
‘And this morning, a motorbike – I saw it – tried to run him down. Really meant it. So I said come with me, out of range.’
Jodie’s authority impressed her friends: they took her news seriously. But Christian then put the obvious questions: ‘Who is Arnold? Where’s he sprung from? Why doesn’t he tell his parents? Why doesn’t he go to the police?’ He turned his superior face to Arnold and examined him in a schoolmasterly way. His eyes were a pale grey-green, very intelligent.
‘Can’t go to the police,’ Arnold mumbled.
‘Ho,’ said Nutty. ‘We know people like that, don’t we, Hoomey?’
‘Like Nails, you mean? He’s OK now.’
‘Arnold found a body last night,’ Jodie explained. ‘He told various persons he’d found a body and they laughed at him, so he said he was going to tell the police. I think that’s why one of them tried to stop him.’
‘Cor!’ Hoomey was greatly impressed. Nutty was looking slightly sceptical.
‘Where did you see a body?’
Arnold explained about the party. He told them he thought he saw a rowing boat launched before he departed for home.
‘Was it really a body?’
‘Yes, for sure it was. A bloke in evening dress.’
By this time the coach had set off and was putting out into green countryside. Arnold, squashed into the corner of the back seat, felt greatly relieved to be departing from the scene of his latest adventures. Whatever might happen to him in this orchestra muddle, it would be of small consequence compared to being murdered.
The coach was completely full. A fair sprinkling of adults were amongst the young, all yakking hard and making almost as much noise as the orchestral players. A stocky red-headed boy of about Arnold’s age was making his way to the back of the coach, peering at all the occupants. He stopped by Jodie and said, ‘You seen David Smith? Mrs Knox says he got on this coach.’
‘No, he’s on the other one,’ Jodie said.
‘She doesn’t know if she’s coming or going,’ the boy said.
He squashed up Christian and Nutty and sat down. He looked at Arnold curiously.
‘Who he?’
‘Arnold. Arnold, this is John Pike. Timpanist.’
‘Drums,’ said Nutty kindly, as Arnold failed to comprehend.
‘What do you play?’
‘He doesn’t play. He’s on the run from a murderer.’
Jodie went into her explanations again and Arnold wondered if, by the time they got to Scotland, the whole coach would know who he was and why.
‘You going to tell everyone?’ he muttered.
‘No,’ said Jodie. ‘Only us. John is one of Us. That’s it, the five of us. We stick together.’
John Pike looked on a fairly high plane of intelligence, like Christian. They went to the same school apparently, an expensive boarding school in the Midlands. It obviously taught them this cool style. Nutty and Hoomey went to some dim school they called the Gasworks where they were encouraged in ‘out of school activities’. The two of them obviously thought that a murder hunt, coming under this umbrella, was far more interesting than playing cymbals or triangle. Nutty’s pebbly eyes gleamed with excitement. She was obviously a doer, a goer, with her strong body, tossing mane of extraordinary hair, and enthusiasm. Jodie, used to being the boss, treated her with a certain amount of respect and caution.
‘I bet we could hide him in the orchestra, no trouble,’ Nutty said. ‘Up at the back with us timps. Pikey’s only got to throw his drum cover over him – no-one’d see him.’
‘Or give him a violin in the back row,’ Christian said scornfully. ‘No-one hears their squeaking, luckily. He’d only have to wave his bow about like the rest of ’em.’ He grinned at Jodie.
She glared back. ‘You be careful!’ Then added, ‘I’ve given him a violin actually, just in case.’
‘In case what?’ Arnold said.
‘Well, in case we can’t manage it without you coming to rehearsals with us. You never know. You’d be better hidden in the orchestra than staying behind somewhere on your own.’
Arnold shrank down in his seat, horror flooding him. A member of an orchestra was not his scene, no way.
‘You want to stay alive, don’t you?’ Jodie’s sky-blue eyes needled him.
‘But I’ll be OK once I’m away! That murdering lot – the idea is we’ve left ’em behind, surely?’
John Pike said, slowly, ‘Do you know something?’
‘What?’
‘That party last night . . . was it the one at that Bosky Hollow place?’
‘Yeah, that’s it.’
‘You reckon that’s where the murderer was, who came after you?’
‘Yes, of course. It all fits,’ Jodie said impatiently.
‘I’ll tell you something,’ said John Pike, grinning. ‘That party was a fund-raising do for this orchestra. My dad was invited. Didn’t you know that? Half the people at that party are now on this trip. Your murderer’s probably sitting up front there.’
Arnold went white.
Nutty’s eyes gleamed even more brilliantly. ‘I say, we can track him down! Give us something to think about – really think about! He’ll have no idea we’re on to him!’
The boys all looked highly interested but
Jodie, like Arnold, was stunned. She looked wanly across at him.
‘Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea after all . . .’
CHAPTER THREE
THE TWO COACHES sped on through the night. It was high summer but the rain beat on the windows and clouds of spray plumed across the motorways, obliterating all signs and direction boards. Arnold had planned to do a runner at Glasgow but, his geography being dismal, he had no way of knowing which was Glasgow out of the urban conglomerations they passed. Whenever they left the coach for snacks and toilets, they seemed to be in desolate countryside. No doubt he was uneasily asleep if and when they passed Glasgow, for when he awoke at dawn the Highlands seemed to have arrived: wavering horizons through the teeming rain of endless grass and forest – not, to Arnold’s eyes a pretty sight.
The thought of branching out on his own in this alien land was not attractive. He had friends and protectors, food, warmth and comfort where he was, which counted for a good deal. In fact it was a long time since so many people had become so interested in him.
On the last boring leg of the journey Arnold told them the story of his life and admitted that he was on the run from various authorities, no doubt being actively looked for, so they occupied themselves by choosing a new name for him. Arnold had rather thought he was going to disappear and wouldn’t need a name but Nutty insisted.
‘We’ve got time now. It might come in useful, you never know. And anyway, with a name like that, you ought to be pleased to change it. Arnold Bracegirdle is a hopeless name. You might as well be called Corsets as Bracegirdle.’
‘Arnold is Ronald another way,’ Hoomey said.
‘Dralon,’ said John Pike.
‘That’s stuff you make curtains out of.’
‘Dralon Corsets.’
‘Crosset. Dralon Crosset,’ said John Pike.
‘Bracegirdle could trace back to armour. Not corsets at all,’ said Christian. Arnold thought this a more intelligent contribution.
‘Ironside,’ said John Pike.
‘Dralon Ironside.’
‘Not Dralono!’
‘Ironside’s all right.’
‘It’s a bit noticeable,’ Nutty said. ‘He doesn’t really want to stand out.’
