Scream for Sarah

by Veronica Heley

  One thing I was sure of, though. Hob would never have humiliated me as Toby had done. And before he’d gone on the roads, he might have been attractive, even to one who normally only liked big men.

  Was Toby jealous of Hob? I glanced at him, amused. Toby had been trying to run Hob down, and all he’d done was clarify my attitude towards the little man. It was quite clear to me now that I liked Hob as a person, and that I wouldn’t even be averse to a flirtation with him some time—if we both got out of this affair alive.

  ‘Stop!’ said Toby suddenly. ‘Draw in over there, under the trees.’

  We hadn’t reached the site yet, but I did as I was told. The sides of the road were littered with old vans, bangers that hadn’t made it into one of the official car parks. A couple of tents could be seen through the leaves of the trees nearby, and there were plenty of beer cans and broken bottles strewn around. I sympathised with Mr. Brent.

  ‘No police here,’ said Toby, looking around carefully. ‘Rose said there wouldn’t be, but it’s best to be sure. The police are worried about law and order on the site, but can’t spare enough men to do the job properly. Rose knows exactly how many men they’ve got, and how they’re deployed. A good girl, our Rose. You needn’t worry about them, though, because they certainly won’t be worried about us. They’ll greet us with open arms, you’ll see!’

  He opened his door and swung out of the cab onto the ground. He stood there, listening. Screaming jazz assaulted our ears. He walked a few paces this way and that, looking out for … what? I wondered if I could get out of the van on my side and make it into the woods before he returned. I lifted my boots from the floor and decided against it. I could never run fast in those boots, even if my feet were up to it.

  A pale blue sports car slid into view at the end of the road, halted for a moment, and then crossed our vision. There was a small cross-roads at that point. Rose’s taffy head had been clearly visible in the driver’s seat.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Toby, checking his watch. ‘Fifteen minutes from now.’

  He got back into the cab and pulled a package from his pocket. It contained a badge, which he pinned to his uniform, and a false moustache kit. The moustache was big and drooping, black in colour. I watched as he stroked it onto his upper lip, eyeing himself in the driving mirror as he did so. It altered what little could be seen of his face so that anyone asked to describe him after the robbery, would remember that he had a big black moustache, and that would be all. As Toby was fair himself, I thought it a good disguise.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ he asked me, returning the driving minor to normal. He polished his badge with his sleeve. ‘We’ve got their insignia on both sides of the van, too. Just stuck on, you know? Easy to remove when we’ve finished.’

  I was doing sums in my head, and not liking the result. ‘Fifteen minutes from now’, Toby had said, and we’d been gone from Elm Tree House a good fifteen minutes already. Suppose the robbery were to take fifteen or twenty minutes—and although I didn’t know the details, I assumed it must take that long to lift the money and put it in the van—then we had to return the way we came, and the whole operation would have taken us well over an hour. I was worried. I had believed Toby when he told me we’d be back in plenty of time to release Hob, but now I couldn’t help wondering exactly how fast a candle burned, and how Toby had known that the stub he had lit would last two hours or more. It hadn’t looked like two hours’ worth to me—it had looked more like one and a half. Surely a candle burned at the rate of an inch an hour, didn’t it?

  ‘I’m sure my plan is fool-proof,’ said Toby, half to himself. ‘The police are concentrating on drug-users, fights, and keeping order. Most of them are in plain clothes, mixing with the crowd. Hardly any are on traffic control … just one or two, and they’ll be pleased to see us rather than suspicious. Rose has just signalled that Mr. Thomas has taken his cut and removed himself and his guard of heavies, and the real security men aren’t due for another hour. We have Rose to thank for our hour’s grace, by the way. The security men were due to arrive as Mr. Thomas and his men left, but she phoned them and asked them to arrive one hour later. By the time they get here, we’ll be back at Elm Tree House. No, it’s fool-proof!’

  I was beginning to fear that Toby was quite callous enough to allow Hob to die, however much I cooperated. It seemed to me quite possible that he’d merely guessed how long it would take for the candle to burn down. The candle had been found on the mantelpiece, he’d not brought it with him. He’d found it, used it, and told me it wouldn’t burn down to the fuse within two hours—just to make me cooperate. I began to sweat in earnest.

  Toby checked his watch, and then produced two pairs of handcuffs from under the seat. I suppose he’d hired them with the costumes. The sun made them glint as he swung them free of each other.

  ‘Merely a precaution,’ he said. He clicked one pair of handcuffs round my left wrist and one round my right. They locked with difficulty over the bulky leather gloves, but didn’t restrict movement. They looked like elaborate charm bracelets, tinkling as I put my hands back on the steering wheel. The still open halves of the cuffs swung free.

  ‘Just to make sure you don’t try to escape while we’re loading up,’ he said, pulling my goggles down over my eyes once more. ‘You’ll be locked in, of course, but we don’t want you writing notes to passers-by, or running off in search of the police. Mind you, I’m probably being over-anxious, locking you in like this, but as I’ve got the cuffs, I might as well be safe as sorry. I don’t know why it is that I don’t trust you, but I don’t. You won’t forget that you hold Hob’s life in your hands, will you? And that I hid the key to the door of the house, and that I will never, never tell anyone where I put it, even if you do escape?’

  I remembered. I shook my head. Various schemes had been running through my mind about making a dash for it when we got to the site, but I abandoned them. Not even Sid knew where Toby had hidden the key, and I knew Toby meant it when he said he wouldn’t reveal its whereabouts if he got caught.

  Toby pulled the cab door to. A fly buzzed against the windscreen, and my goggles misted over. I adjusted them, and the cuffs clinked together.

  Toby had found himself a truncheon. He started to tap it against one gloved gauntlet. I couldn’t keep my eyes off it. He was smiling.

  I felt sick. I thought, Oh God, he’s quite capable of killing someone with that thing!

  ‘Now!’ said Toby.

  I slid the van down the lane, and turned left. A hundred yards further on a uniformed policeman waved me into a bumpy field, crowded with parked cars. There was a police car parked near the entrance. Empty. A few caravans stood at the far end, in front of a shanty town of tents. The left hand side of the field was edged with a fence of corrugated metal sheeting, pierced at intervals by some shaky-looking sentry-type boxes; presumably these acted as gates to the Festival proper, which was being held in the next field. Sound waves beat on the van now that we were closer, as a jazz band did its best to deafen everyone within five hundred yards. I felt I ought to congratulate whoever had been responsible for the amplification. He was a genius. The place was adrift with litter. The field had been churned up and the mud had set hard in the sun. Motor-bikes snarled in a maze of hot metal at the far end of the field, and there was a stink of frying oil in the air.

  ‘The first big caravan at the end of the line of gates,’ said Toby. He spoke between smiling lips.

  People were coming and going across the field. A bunch of officials had coagulated roughly half-way between the gates and the caravan which Toby had pointed out to me, and which I now saw bore a banner marked ‘office’. A pale blue sports car was parked under some trees nearby, together with half a dozen other cars in a roped-off enclosure which was probably reserved for officials. The field on our right was also full of cars and tents and here and there were stands for litter bags, all overflowing.

  A bearded man appeared at our side and shouted something. Obviously on
e of the officials, and equally obviously, unsuspicious. He looked pleased with himself and the way the Festival was going. He was probably very relieved to see us, especially since Mr. Thomas had withdrawn his men.

  ‘Turn it round,’ directed Toby. ‘Reverse so that our back doors are right up to their office.’

  I complied.

  ‘Not so close!’ cried the bearded man, jumping about and waving his arms. ‘Leave us room to get in and out!’ A middle-aged, sharp-eyed man who looked like a PR type, came out of the caravan, and left the door open. At Toby’s signal I moved the van some two paces forward. It was hard work pulling it round in that heat. My feet hurt. I took them off the pedals and killed the engine.

  ‘Leave it running!’ hissed Toby, and waited until I had re-started it. Then he clicked the free ends of the handcuffs to the rim of the steering-wheel. I could slide my hands round the wheel, but not remove them from it. I ground my teeth in frustration. Toby leant over me to test that the window was wound up to the top. It was. Then he eased himself out of the van, and locked both doors—his and mine.

  I told myself that I was glad he’d closed his door after him, as it was hardly possible to hear yourself think with it open. I pulled on the sleeve of my overall until I could catch a glimpse of my watch. We’d been gone thirty-five minutes. My stomach began to play me up, and I wondered what would happen if I were sick.

  The van shifted as Sid got out of the back. I watched in the driving mirror as he and Toby went together into the office. There was a huddle of men around the office door, laughing and joking. They were all relieved to see the back of the money.

  The great field in front of me was still reasonably quiet. The knot of officials by the gates split up, half coming our way and half going through the gates into the Festival site itself. They were mostly youngish men. Hefty, strong men. I was surrounded by people who could help me, and I couldn’t communicate with them.

  If I were to tear the plaster from my mouth, get the window open and yell to them that there was a robbery in progress, how would they react? As Toby said, they would only laugh.

  I looked at my watch. And panicked. Perhaps that was why Toby had put the cuffs on me; perhaps he had guessed that I would panic. The van was big, and the seat broad, but I tried again and again to turn the handle that opened the window I tried with my elbow and with my foot. And couldn’t. I found I was crying with frustration. Of course I could tear the plaster from my mouth and yell, but who would hear me, with doors and windows shut fast, against that cacophony?

  Forty minutes had gone by since we had left Elm Tree House. The doors of the van behind me opened and shut again. Both Toby and Sid had brought out a package and placed it in the van. The trouble was that they had to take the silver and the coppers as well, and coins were not only heavy but bulky. It might take several trips to shift the lot.

  A young woman in a frilly skirt which swished around her ankles walked past, carrying a big brown teapot. She smiled up at me. I knew she couldn’t see me properly; she was just being friendly. I watched her out of sight. What wouldn’t I have given to be her at that moment?

  Forty-five minutes. I began to fidget, and to try to clear my throat. The door of the van behind me opened, and two big packages were dumped in. What were they? Briefcases? Boxes? And the doors clanged shut on them once more. My nerves were jumping. I wished I’d learned how to smoke, and then I remembered I hadn’t any cigarettes, and in any case I couldn’t use my mouth …

  The girl in the swinging skirt came back again, shaking drops from the now empty teapot. She must have tipped the tea-leaves on the ground at the back of the caravan. She went back into the office. The group of officials were almost on us now. Toby and Sid would be heavily outnumbered if anyone did give the alarm.

  Fifty minutes. Fifty minutes, plus fifteen to get back; it ought to be all right, if only we could get away now.

  Why didn’t they come? There had only been an interval of five minutes between trips before.

  Fifty-two minutes. The jazz band fell silent, and was accorded round after round of applause. Several people drifted through the gates into our field. There was a big refreshment tent at the far end. A man in a cook’s apron came out of the back of the tent and stood there, looking around. A big, paunchy man, rather like Sid.

  Fifty-three minutes. What was keeping them?

  There was an eerie silence. What was happening? An interval? If so, then perhaps the field would soon be flooded with people, all watching as we drove through them. There were enough people to see us go, as it was … I started to count them. Five, seven, ten, fourteen …

  Fifty-four minutes. A thump on the back of the van, and voices. Sid and Toby, making small talk. The weather had treated the Festival right, hadn’t it? See them next year? Not at this site? No? Well, they’d be in touch, no doubt. Farewells.

  Sid climbed into the back of the van and Toby locked him in, in leisurely fashion.

  Fifty-five minutes. My fingers were clenched around the wheel.

  ‘… back on the job!’ laughed Toby. He climbed in beside me, and slammed his door shut. I rattled my handcuffs, and he released me from the wheel.

  I didn’t need him to tell me what to do. I threw the van into motion as if I’d done it every day of my life. Bump, bump. Not too fast, or I’d do the van an injury. Fifty-five minutes plus fifteen … it ought to be all right. We ought to get back in time.

  An exclamation from Toby. An oath.

  What?

  People were milling through the turnstiles and I was having to drive slowly to avoid them. They saw nothing wrong in our presence in the field, so why should they get out of our way?

  ‘Put your foot down!’ shrieked Toby, and I was so shattered to hear hysteria in his voice that I did as I was bid. My palm found the horn, and people scattered as the van leaped forward, lurching over the rutted surface.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Toby was saying, over and over. I couldn’t understand what he was on about. I’d never heard him call on God before, and it sounded all wrong, coming from him. The remnants of a Christian education in me objected.

  Then I saw it, too. An identical dark blue van, painted with exactly the same insignia that Toby had pinned on his uniform, was lurching into the field towards us!

  My throat contracted. My foot slipped off the accelerator, and the van slowed.

  Toby yelled at me, and I remembered Hob. It was an hour since we had left him. It must be. Fifteen minutes to get back, and …

  I stamped on the accelerator, and the van shot forward, throwing Toby against the cab door. I clung to the wheel and half stood on the accelerator. I had to get the van out of the field before the other one—the genuine security van—should tumble to the deception.

  What had gone wrong? Why had they come early? Or were we running late?

  A crowd of youngsters ran in front of the van. I swerved to avoid killing them. One screamed. A young girl, no more than twelve. I think it was Taney Touch from over Bentley way. It looked as if she’d hurt her ankle as she fell, but I had no time to worry about her.

  ‘Step on it!’ screamed Toby.

  I wanted to scream back that I was doing everything that I could. We passed the other blue van. I could see faces staring at us, dimly; helmeted, Martian faces. I suppose we looked the same to them.

  Out of the field. Bump. Bump. The policeman was looking puzzled, hand to mouth, but he wasn’t running for his car, as he ought to have been.

  ‘God! They’ve turned—they’re following us!’

  I risked a glance in the mirror. The van was turning, and the policeman—yes, at long last he had tumbled to it that something was wrong. He was doing the wrong thing, though. He was running towards the genuine Security van, with his hand up to stop them, instead of running for his car.

  We were in the side road. I could turn left or right, or go straight on at the cross-roads. Right led to home, but that road was straight and you could see down it for miles No chance of eluding p
ursuit on that road.

  ‘Lose them!’ yelled Toby. ‘You’ll go to prison, too, if we’re caught!’

  I tried. As I turned left I saw the van lumber after us, the policeman running at its side. He looked worried, and so he should. In a moment he’d run for his car and presumably radio for help, and that would mean road blocks, reinforcements … We were running along a densely bordered, winding lane, which dipped and heaved itself over ridges. I knew it well. But the van clung to us. Now and then I caught a glimpse of the road behind the van and thought I saw another car following but it wasn’t the police car, so I guessed it was that of a passing motorist.

  A badly metalled lane. A straight strip of well-made road on which I sent the speedometer needle flickering to seventy. Right, and right again, sharply. We used to picnic in that field on the left, because it was sheltered and a stream ran across it.

  A wood. A long slim road with a family car parked on the verge; mother and father looking for early blackberries, the children playing Last Across. One of them very nearly lost the game—permanently.

  ‘They’re still behind us!’ breathed Toby.

  Another wood. There were tracks through this wood which I had driven over as a child in Grandpa’s ancient Morris. The last couple of days of good weather favoured us, making the tracks hard enough to bear the van. I took a sudden sharp turn into the wood, crashing over some brambles on to one of the broader tracks between the trees. It was just as I had remembered it, except that I had usually seen it from a lower level in the Morris. A junction of tracks. Straight across, because I knew now what to do.

  ‘Why didn’t you turn, you fool!’ screamed Toby.

  I shook my head, wordlessly. There was no way I could explain.

  Hob! My God, I’d forgotten him! Are you all right, Hob? What is the time? We’re miles from home …

  ‘Bloody … bloody …!’ He went on shouting it. So the other van was still behind. I had maybe a hundred yards lead, which was a lot in a wood. I was fast approaching a place where I could get back onto another road. I slowed down. Over the brambles into the road. Stop. Reverse. Back into the wood along the way we’d come, and slash … straight into a thicket of holly, driving right into it … through it. The paintwork on the van would be scratched to hell, but that didn’t matter.