Spylark

by Danny Rurlander

  He could feel the burning in his chest, hear his heart thumping, see his desperate hands flailing in front of his face. Then he saw a metal catch holding the gate in place. He slipped his hands through the bars, twisted the catch firmly and the whole gate came free and fell away to the riverbed a few feet below.

  Tom pushed out of the tube and up, rushing towards the light. He burst through the surface, grabbing greedy breaths into hot lungs. Oh, the kind, kind air, the rush of blood to the brain, light filling every pore. Like the first breath of a newborn baby, he coughed and spluttered and blessed the glorious sky.

  CHAPTER 38

  Tom lay on his back and let the soft current carry his body home. Water weeds caressed the back of his legs, and through the trees the morning sky seemed a brighter blue than he’d ever seen. After drifting round the final bend, he guided himself with a few hand strokes to the stone harbour at Cedar Holme.

  He staggered up the steps and headed straight into his workshop. Everything was as he had left it, apart from a yellow Post-it note that had been stuck on the edge of a computer screen. On it was a message explaining that Maggie and Joel had gone to investigate the terrorists’ HQ in Hollowdale, with a reference for where they were planning to camp. He slumped on to a chair like he’d been shot. He had to read the note again before it would sink in.

  ‘Crazy!’ he found himself almost shouting to the walls. Now he knew what – or rather who – was behind those razor wire fences, this was a disaster. Maggie and Joel were walking into a viper’s nest. And after he’d just escaped from there!

  He grabbed a pen, pulled a square of paper from a notepad, and forced himself to think. He scribbled a message on the paper, rolled it up tight, and slotted it into a small white canister. Then he picked up Uncle Ted’s old landline that hung on the wall near the door, and dialled 999.

  A few minutes later he was gunning Skylark furiously over Brockbarrow. He kept climbing until fells and valleys spread out like a relief map and the lakes were shining pools of light. At a thousand feet, he turned north-east and followed the bright strip of a beck for a few miles, then banked right and tracked across a wooded hillside, until he reached a small tarn enclosed with fir trees, a few wisps of mist rising from the water.

  He spotted their camping place on a stretch of solid ground running alongside a stream. He lost height rapidly and hovered level with the treetops. Near the smoking remains of a fire, some vicious tyre marks told him all he needed to know. He desperately hoped he was not too late.

  He throttled across the wood, past the tarn and over the ridge, then plunged down the other side and began to cross the valley towards the squat grey set of buildings. He couldn’t help breaking into a smile when he realized that evidence of his escape was everywhere. The gates were flung open, the buyers’ cars had all left, a couple of men with dogs were descending towards the stream, flailing the waist-high bracken with sticks. There was no sign of Maggie and Joel. Whatever had happened at the campsite, he hoped they had not gone anywhere near the farm.

  Then something in the sky above the gnarled top of Sour Hollow Crag caught a flash of sunlight. Another drone, a powerful-looking hexacopter with a bulky fuselage, was following the rim of the valley, searching the ground. He shuddered to think who might be at the controls somewhere in that building. He imagined Mike McCain smashing his fist on a table in frustration, and Rufus Clay, standing behind, calmly giving orders to find the fugitive at all costs.

  He hovered, looking in all directions, certain other drones would have been deployed to search for the missing prisoner. But the sky was clear above the farm itself. It was now or never. He forced his shaking hands to relax on the controls, though his mind was in a frenzy. To reach Rufus Clay he knew he would need both speed and stealth – and a heap of luck as well. He cut the motors for noise, and angled into a steep, fast glide, looking for the launch hatch he had seen after he had escaped from his cell, like a buzzard hunting for prey. As Skylark circled down on to the farm, the shapeless grey rooftop began to separate into a jumble of gables and skylights, ducts and pipes. Finding that opening he’d spotted while he was inside Clay’s lair was going to be impossible. He was at seventy feet, and the rooftop of the main building filled the screen with jagged angles and corners of slate and corrugated iron, but no way in. He would have to pull up, before it was too late.

  Then he saw it. It was the slightest shift in the light hitting a flat piece of roof as he banked around, that gave it away. He turned, losing another thirty feet, keeping the piece of roof in his sight until he could make out a square of black. He pulled up, switched on the motors to stop, and dropped into the hole.

  When he landed on the rubber mat in the launch room, he realized he’d been holding his breath. He filled his lungs with air, and headed through the open door. The corridor was clear. He ducked into the room full of bird drones. The peregrine falcon had been removed, but everything else was as he’d seen it the first time – the staring birds grimly tranquil on their perches and wires. He engaged the camera and took some photos. As they flashed up on the screen he thought they would stand a better chance of winning a wildlife photography competition than incriminating Rufus Clay as a terrorist mastermind.

  He turned right and found his way to the top of the stairwell that led down to his cell. Suddenly he was back there, the green walls pressing him in, his pulse racing, and he had to take off his goggles for a moment, and gulp lungs full of air to reassure himself that he was several miles away in his workshop, and the police were on their way.

  He put the goggles back on and continued from the stairwell along the dark passage with windows facing the yard and then retraced the route Mike McCain had taken him, until he was facing that single, unmarked door at the end of a long corridor. The door was shut, as it had been the first time. This was a dead end he had not thought through. To save batteries he rested the drone on the ground a few feet away from the door, and once again forced himself to think clearly. How could he get Rufus Clay – if he was in the room – to open the door? Then he saw the bare light bulbs. They were old-fashioned, glass types, hanging down from wires from the ceiling. He flew up to eye level with one of the bulbs, then edged Skylark forward so the front left prop hit the bulb. He saw the light go out, and, in his imagination, he could almost hear the glass pop and then shatter on the hard floor. He promised himself, when all this was over he’d build a microphone into Skylark’s nose cone.

  The door swung open and Rufus Clay stood in the threshold, blinking. He looked up at Skylark’s buzz, and stepped out into the dim corridor, but as he did he stepped on the broken glass. While he looked at his feet Tom shot over his head, into the office, and landed on the big desk, facing the seat Tom had sat in.

  Directly in front of him was the photograph in the frame that he had noticed on the other side of the desk. It was a picture of a group of soldiers in brown desert uniform, fully armed, but standing in a relaxed circle. Tom recognized Rufus Clay immediately. A head taller than the others, a shock of fair hair under his helmet. Behind them was some kind of boxy concrete structure and a cluster of palm trees. They were gathered around a missile launcher the size of a pickup truck. Everyone was smiling at the camera.

  Now, he looked beyond the desk, and there on a stand in the middle of the room was the peregrine falcon, stately and statuesque. It had a cavity open in its chest revealing entrails of bright components. The map of the lake was still spread out on the workbench, and the nine miniatures of the Red Arrows had been regrouped. A beautiful display of symmetry, Rufus Clay had called his plan to blow three of them out of the sky to sell his latest weapon.

  Tom pressed a button on the control and took photos of everything he could – the map, the falcon, the picture on the desk. Evidence at last.

  And now, for the second time in twenty-four hours, he faced the man himself. He looked as calm as before, but there was an uncertainty in his eyes. He stalked his way closer, wary but curious, step by step, to Skylark.<
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  Tom flicked a switch to release the white canister. He saw it roll out across the desk and come to a stop. Rufus Clay reached out, hesitated for half a second, as one might before touching an electric fence, then picked it up, and pulled out the note. As he read it, Tom recited to himself the simple message he’d put on the note: Smile for the camera. So far, so tragic. Tom Hopkins.

  Tom engaged the camera and fired.

  To Tom’s surprise, Rufus Clay simply nodded. The nod, Tom recalled later, was from the waist, not the neck, almost a bow, and the look on his face was a weird mixture of rage and something else. Acceptance? Admiration, even? And Tom was not sure if he had imagined it, but he thought he saw the corners of Rufus Clay’s mouth twitch into the faintest smile. Then he walked to the cabinet, picked up the torpedo-shaped object, shot Skylark a final look, and was gone.

  CHAPTER 39

  By the time Tom made it back into the open, something was changing at the farm. The men with dogs were running back towards the fence. The drone that had been circling the valley suddenly dropped like a stone towards the farmyard. It crash-landed into one of the outbuildings and, instead of simply disintegrating, exploded on impact. Two more drones suddenly came into view from behind the dale head and they also fell on to the farm like bombs, each on a different building, each with a momentary blaze. The Toyota pickup that had brought Tom to the farm was slashing up the track, followed by two police Range Rovers. The Toyota was a hundred yards ahead and made it into the yard as the gates were closing. The Range Rovers came to a stop in front of the gates in a plume of dust and armed police began pouring out and swarming around the fence, while heavy black smoke began to rise from the main building.

  Tom began to move down the valley towards the lake, searching for any sign of the others. Emerging out of the sun haze above the horizon, a low-flying helicopter was making its way up the valley towards the farm. It was the Puma helicopter that had chased him from Brockbarrow and then jammed Skylark’s controls. As it passed to his left side he could see an open door and green-helmeted soldiers, guns bristling.

  Tom knew they were too late and that the entire organization was being put into self-destruct mode. To the police watching, it would look like a suicide ending, but Tom knew this was how they escaped. He could picture them now making for the escape chamber, strapping on masks and tanks to make the long cold journey through the dark. The first down the culvert would be surprised to find the grille already removed.

  It was then that he saw, where the farm track met the main road, that there had been an accident. Blue lights, fluorescent vehicle markings, traffic backed up on the pass. Nothing unusual on this steep route in the holiday season. It was the sculptured ice cream cone poking above a stone wall that made Tom take a closer look.

  He pushed the control stick forward and accelerated. Fields, walls, trees, rocks and sheep flickered in and out of view. In a boggy depression fifty yards from the road, a black Land Rover lay on its side, windows shattered. On the junction between the track and the road, the ice cream van had concertinaed itself into a drystone wall, and on the other side of the road a builders’ dump truck was rammed up the side of a bank, its bucket hoisted vertically into the air like a sail.

  When Tom recognized Archie, the jolt of fear felt like his insides had spun through a propeller. Was this how it was all going to end? With Maggie and Joel dead or seriously injured, and all because of him? The dog was being lifted down from the truck by a paramedic.

  Then, when he saw Maggie being led from the truck, followed by Joel, the relief made him almost stall the drone.

  But there was another figure he knew, crouching, alone behind the wall. He pushed the motors to full power but nothing Tom could do felt fast enough. The figure, bent double, moved along behind the wall to where Maggie was now being wrapped in a foil blanket by a paramedic. To get the right angle of approach Tom swooped past, indistinct faces turned towards him like Lego people, then rolled to the left, and backed around until he was behind the figure who now had his pistol raised over the wall, aimed at Maggie’s head. He eased Skylark’s nose up to slow down, held position, lined the ponytail up in the cross hairs, fired a dart and saw Mike McCain’s hand go up to his neck. He turned round, wide-eyed, to see Skylark right in front of him. Tom hesitated. If he pumped him too full the man might never wake up. But now Mike McCain was pointing the gun straight at Skylark. Tom looked into those remorseless eyes and fired another dart straight into his chest, and then another for good measure. He dropped the gun, and crumpled to the ground.

  Tom pulled back a few feet, and saw Maggie’s blood-streaked face tilt up at the machine. She gave a wave in recognition.

  The battery-indicator light was showing amber. As he climbed away from his friends, he found himself smiling, and then heard himself laugh out loud. He had forgotten how long it was since he had slept, he couldn’t remember what day of the week it was, and a chill was seeping into his bones, but he had never felt so alive as now.

  Just before the last rise before the lake, he spotted a boy trudging along the path, all alone. It was Snakey. Around the next bend were Podge and Sam Noyland, pushing their motorbikes. Tom found himself grinning at the thought that, by some twist of events he couldn’t imagine, Snakey had lost his grip on his henchmen.

  Suddenly Tom remembered that the drone was still loaded with one more dart. An intravenous syringe filled with anaesthetic, ready to sink into flesh at the press of a button. He dropped back down to the canopy, allowing the light south-westerly to take the sound of the motors away from the path. He inched forward until he had a clear view of that hot, red neck, and an intoxicating feeling of power swept over him like a wave and prickled his skin all over with goosebumps. This was the moment he had waited for.

  He made some cross hairs appear on the screen and rested his finger on the trigger. He could see it playing out in his mind as he lined up Snakey’s neck in the middle of the cross hairs. The dart would fly through the air, silent, accurate, its flight feathers in perfect balance. The piercing of the skin would feel little more than a wasp sting. A hand would swipe the back of the neck. Then, swearing with blurred speech, Snakey would slump to the ground. Beautiful.

  Tom eased the drone closer, and as he did, he glanced to the south and picked out the shape of the long white steamer carving her way through the string of wooded islands. In the far distance the lake stretched towards rolling hills studded with whitewashed farmhouses, softened in the haze. The lens flared and fractured, and dazzling flakes of light like rough-cut crystals filled the screen. And, then, as suddenly as it had come, the feeling was gone. He heard himself exhale and lifted his finger from the trigger. A short while ago, he had been dead. In his own private tomb, with a few seconds before his oxygen-starved brain blacked out and his body was forgotten for ever in darkness, water and rock. But now his lungs were full of air, his eyes were full of light. He could feel the lonely years of rage melting away and he spun Skylark around and went in search of his friends.

  CHAPTER 40

  Tom would never forget the look on Aunt Emily’s face when he walked into the kitchen, just after Skylark had landed. When she had finished hugging him, she stood back and looked at him, shaking her head in bemusement, and then they both burst out laughing at the amount of water that had transferred from Tom’s clothes to her dress. Ten minutes later, Tom’s clothes still dripping on to the kitchen floor, Jim arrived with PC Clark, who had shown him into the Toyota pickup truck at the police station. She listened with wide eyes and called some code words and a location into her radio. Aunt Emily insisted that Tom had a hot bath and a change of clothes. He didn’t argue. But as he started to head upstairs, there was a roaring sound from the river. They all rushed out and sped over the lawn to reach the harbour in time to see an orange flash as the Invincible rocketed past, churning the whole river white. Moments later, there was a rumble overhead as the Puma helicopter appeared low over the cedars, and pursued the speedboat down the rive
r. Tom, Jim and PC Clark got into Maggot and followed. They reached the river mouth in time to see the helicopter almost sitting on the lake, spray flying up like a tornado, heavily armed soldiers clambering down ladders on to the boat. Even at that distance there was no mistaking the lush red hair of Dr Victoria Juniper as she was hoisted at gunpoint, along with the others, into the bowels of the helicopter.

  Tom had no idea how many hours later it was that he woke to hear Maggie’s voice downstairs, as fresh and dauntless as ever. Aunt Emily had run a bath at last, and brought him a plate of brownies and a glass of milk ‘to keep him going’. He slid into the water, felt the weightless warmth, and remembered nothing more.

  Now, he woke with a start, the milk and brownies still on the side of the bath, and while he dressed he tuned into the conversation below.

  ‘You should have seen him when he staggered into the kitchen,’ Aunt Emily said. ‘He looked like a drowned rat. All I wanted to do was get him into a hot bath. And it was all my fault!’

  ‘How do you mean Emily?’ said Maggie.

  ‘I feel so stupid, letting Thomas get taken off like that by those thugs at the police station. I thought the police would have known if she wasn’t a real social worker. Thomas was taken out to the car by the police lady, while I was filling in some forms. Then she came back in with this lady with red hair. She knew all about Thomas. Told me they’d take good care of him, and I believed her. She went off and I had to finish signing the forms. I came out to say goodbye, but he’d gone, and that was that.’

  ‘Don’t feel bad, Aunt Emily,’ said Tom, as he entered the room. ‘There was no way you could have known. And they were going to get me one way or another.’

  They all looked up. Joel got up and high-fived him. Maggie gave him a hug. Tom looked at the ground, and found his throat was suddenly dry.