The Running Lie

by Jennifer Young

  ‘Do you think they have all the agency staff?’ She shivered. ‘That’d be six, if so.’

  Max kept careful count. Eight bodies fell silently into John’s arms and then onto the ground. Only one spotted John before he moved. Their fight looked more intense than the struggle with Tommy, but the other man fell limp, just like the others. She remained in the shadows, watching, and then moved forward when John beckoned.

  His gun and knives stayed tucked into his clothes.

  How quickly did he do his job when he wasn’t injured?

  They reached the edge of the woods, and light from the party poured across the lawn. Max blinked. After a brief consultation, they moved towards the back of the house, near the kitchen.

  Mr Rawls stood beside the door, talking rapidly to Uncle Marcus’s secretary. Coles, wasn’t it? Mr Rawls had a bruised eye and rubbed his shoulder as they talked. Mr Coles’ glasses hung crookedly from his ear. How had they escaped?

  Max stood and headed towards them, almost missing John’s urgent whisper of her name, the fleeting pressure of his hand on her back. Mr Rawls smiled at her, more brightly than he ever had before. He’d be delighted to know Dad was… And then Mr Rawls drew a gun from under his jacket and pointed it straight at her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ‘AND MR KNOX too. We are lucky,’ Mr Rawls said.

  Max stopped, and John touched her shoulder a half-second later. He’d known. That rushed sound of her name, the quick grab. She closed her eyes. She’d never been so stupid in her entire life.

  ‘I thought you were both still tied up in the woods. Can I assume Firmin is dead?’

  ‘Yes.’ John’s voice carried no emotion. She couldn’t have done that. ‘How long have you been working for the Dinsmores?’

  ‘What makes you think I work for them?’ He motioned with the gun. ‘Come this way, and disarm, or I’ll shoot Max.’

  John dropped his knives and gun on the grass and stepped over them. Max still held one, but Mr Rawls took it from her as they approached. Henry came around the side of the house.

  ‘Girlie, what are you doing dressed like that?’ Henry asked. ‘Your mother will…’ He stopped when he saw the gun in Mr Rawls’ hand. ‘What’s going on here?’ He stepped back, pacing slowly away. Towards John’s gun, Max realised.

  A flash of colour showed behind Henry—Catherine’s red dress. ‘They’re all dead,’ she said. ‘What the hell are we going to do now?’

  Henry half bent towards the grass. His body obscured Max’s view of Catherine. A sharp sound confused Max, although it seemed quiet under the John Philips Sousa music coming from the party. Mr Rawls hadn’t fired and… Henry tipped forwards into the grass. Catherine held a gun. Max started towards him, but John grabbed her hand.

  ‘Let her go,’ he said to Mr Rawls. John shrugged out of his evening jacket and passed it to Max. ‘Don’t run.’

  Mr Rawls pointed the barrel of his gun towards John’s head. ‘Clear enough, Max?’

  Max nodded stiffly. How could this be happening? Henry. What would her mother say? She forced her feet to move slowly towards Henry, remembering all the times he’d patched up her injuries in childhood. She flung herself the last few steps. Crimson spread across his lower back. Pressure. Her spattered hands folded John’s jacket into a semblance of a pad and applied it to Henry’s back.

  ‘See how it feels to lose somebody you care about, Max darling?’ Catherine planted a red high heel next to Max’s shoulder.

  Max refused to look up from Henry’s wound, turning his head instead to make sure he could breathe. Warm air touched her fingers. ‘I’m quite familiar with that already, Catherine.’

  ‘Rawls, Tommy’s gone to fetch… ah, here he is. Whatever did Firmin do to you, John? That bandage looks quite nasty.’

  John didn’t speak, and Max had heard no other gunshot, no body falling. She risked a glance over her shoulder, and Tommy tugged someone along behind him, another figure in evening dress. The man ran the final few steps towards her.

  ‘Max? Dear God.’ Brian knelt beside her. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Hold pressure here.’ Through her tears, Max remembered Vivian saying Brian hated children’s spit up, but he pressed his hands on John’s jacket against Henry’s back.

  ‘He needs a doctor.’ She tried to speak calmly as she turned towards them. Mr Rawls’ gun now pressed against John’s temple. Catherine was right—red suffused John’s arm bandage, seeping through the shirt and her stocking.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s going to die,’ Catherine said. ‘That’s quite a cheek too, Max. I’m glad Firmin managed to get in some fun before he was murdered.’

  ‘Who’s going to fly the plane?’ Tommy asked.

  ‘She’ll do it. Max, stand up. Your swain managed to murder our pilot, so you’ll have to fly it.’

  ‘No. Not unless Henry…’

  Catherine’s gun barked again, and John jerked with a small grunt. Crimson poured from his left calf.

  Max rose, but John shook his head.

  ‘Pity. I was aiming higher.’

  ‘I’m okay. Look after Henry.’ John slowly lowered himself to the ground and pressed his hand to the wound. Mr Rawls stayed over him with the gun. He was running out of clothes. They all were. Max fought a hysterical giggle.

  ‘Help me take off my jacket, Max.’ Brian kept one hand on Henry’s bandage, and she wrangled the fabric off his arm, and then the other when he swapped. ‘Give it to Knox.’

  Max carried it across to John, pacing slowly as Mr Rawls trained the gun on her. John moved his hand to let her hold the jacket to his leg. He winced.

  ‘How’s Henry?’

  ‘Breathing, still.’

  John kissed the top of her head.

  ‘Touching. Max, you’re going to pilot the plane. Come on.’

  ‘Or what? You’ll shoot us all?’

  ‘No, darling. I’ll shoot him.’

  Max raised her eyes from John’s leg as footsteps approached. The sturdy shoes of a member of staff. Who else… Bobby’s nanny. She cradled Bobby against her chest. Max prayed he slept.

  ‘See? Is it clear enough for you, Max? Brian?’ Catherine waved the gun towards Bobby.

  ‘Leave my child out of it. I’ll do anything you want,’ Brian said. ‘Take him back upstairs, please.’

  ‘But we need you to continue to comply, as well as my other friends here.’ Catherine gestured with the gun towards Max and John. ‘I don’t trust them.’

  ‘Max?’ Brian said.

  ‘I’ll fly you wherever you want, just leave Bobby here. He’s not even three. Please.’

  ‘He’s coming with us. You won’t do some type of crazed suicidal act you think is noble if you’ve got your godson on board. Get up.’

  ‘What about Henry?’

  ‘He’s going to die anyway.’ Catherine kicked Henry’s foot, John grabbed Max before she could fling herself at Catherine.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘He’s clever too, isn’t he? Come on, all of you.’

  Henry hadn’t moved. Max spied a flicker in the shadow of the door. A black skirt, white apron—Lucy. Lucy would look after Henry.

  ‘Come on, Brian.’ They had to move quickly away, so Lucy could pick up the pressure. John squeezed her hand, and then she helped him to his feet.

  ‘Let’s leave Knox,’ said Mr Cole. He motioned with his gun. ‘He’ll be too slow.’

  ‘They want him too. He’ll have to go fast,’ Catherine said. ‘Unless you can carry him, Mr Rawls?’

  The journey seemed interminable, although Max knew she had run the distance between the back of the house and the far field thousands of times. She’d never had John’s right arm slung over her shoulder, while Brian supported his left side. She and Brian held John around the waist. Despite the bandage, moisture—blood—trickled into the neck of her sweater. How could you control shivers? How much blood could John lose before he lost consciousness?

  ‘What do we do?’ Brian mutt
ered.

  ‘Shut up.’ Mr Cole bumped the back of Max’s head with his gun.

  Max swallowed against nausea. Her fear in Mull had nothing on this. And no friendly Scottish regiment waited just a few miles down the road. As they rounded a curve, the plane became visible. A de Havilland Dragon Rapide. She’d never flown one, although Peter, her pilot friend in the war, had told her about training in one and…

  They didn’t need a Scottish regiment. She stopped walking, and John and Brian jerked to a halt just after her.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Keep moving,’ Catherine said.

  The War. The ATA. She’d kept a small map, one that bore little pinpricks marking each time she’d delivered a plane to an RAF base. She visualised Norfolk. Barton Bendish had closed, and Bodney. Bylaugh Hall was abandoned. And…

  ‘I trust you can fly this thing?’ Catherine asked as they drew level with the plane.

  ‘I’ve never flown one before.’

  Mr Rawls now carried Bobby, although Max hadn’t seen the transfer. The nanny climbed up onto the step and clambered into the plane.

  ‘Please, please don’t take Bobby,’ Brian said.

  No one replied. Mr Rawls followed the nanny, still carrying Bobby. How could this man have been in her house for the last two months?

  Mr Rawls returned without Bobby’s small body. He stopped next to Max, his gun held almost casually towards her. ‘Let go of Knox. I’ll get him in the plane.’

  John tensed, but before he could do anything, Max eased her arm away from his waist. ‘Don’t hurt anybody, please.’

  ‘Max, darling, what do you think they’ll do to you all in Moscow?’ Catherine laughed. ‘Offer you tea and cakes?’

  Max kissed John’s cheek, mindful of the bruises. ‘I love you,’ she whispered against his skin. He squeezed her shoulder. As she stepped away from him, Mr Rawls flipped the gun in his hand and struck John’s temple with the butt. John sagged against Brian, who struggled with his weight.

  ‘Can’t have him trying some type of daring CIA rescue, can we?’ Mr Rawls said. He pulled at John’s injured bicep, but John’s head didn’t lift. Mr Rawls bound John’s wrists again, and hoisted him over his shoulder. He carried John easily into the plane.

  ‘Brian?’ Catherine said. ‘How would you like to get into the plane? Tommy, escort Max to the cockpit.’ She handed Tommy her gun.

  ‘I’m not flying anything I haven’t checked,’ Max said. ‘And you wouldn’t want me to either.’

  ‘We’re already late,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Let her, Catherine.’ Tommy followed Max around the plane, as she inspected the underside of the wings, twanged bracing wires and tested the cowlings.

  ‘Is it fuelled?’ Max asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Mr Coles said. ‘They assured us…’

  ‘Do you trust “them”?’ Max asked. ‘There should be a graduated broom handle somewhere.’ Peter had told her about it.

  ‘We’re getting on the fucking plane. Now.’ Catherine took the gun from Tommy. ‘Or I start shooting people.’ She pressed the gun against Brian’s ear. ‘I don’t think I’d miss this close.’

  ‘Fine. If we run out of fuel, it’s your fault.’

  Tommy took her arm and dragged her around to the starboard side.

  ‘Why, Tommy?’ she asked.

  ‘I told you that you didn’t understand. Since Father died…’ He took a deep breath. ‘We’re not doing this for money. We wouldn’t.’

  Catherine certainly would, but Max stayed silent. She rubbed her neck. Mingled sweat and blood itched.

  ‘They have Mother. We have to do this.’ His voice came as a low whisper.

  What would she do for her own mother? For Dad? Max opened the cockpit door and climbed in. The plane shuddered as Brian, she assumed, stepped into the plane, although she didn’t turn.

  ‘Hi.’ Mr Rawls grinned at her from the seat behind hers. ‘Don’t get any funny ideas.’

  John’s head lolled against a window, and his arm bandage was completely crimson. How long could he survive? Brian tried to reach Bobby, but he was forced into a seat behind John. Tommy closed the cockpit door, as Catherine and Mr Coles climbed in. Tommy joined them a moment later.

  ‘Okay, let’s go,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Where? I can’t fly blind.’ Max scanned the cockpit instrument panel, ensuring she could reach everything easily. Deopham Green was closed too, her father had told her about it. But Bircham Newton remained open, and what about Coltishall?

  ‘Bronholm Priory,’ said Catherine. ‘We’ll be met at the shore.’

  Max exhaled. Coltishall it had to be then. ‘Do you have a map?’ She’d landed Spits at Coltishall, twice.

  ‘Aren’t you a Norfolk girl?’

  Mr Coles passed a map forward. Max checked for Coltishall, but it wasn’t labelled as an RAF base. She had to pray. She pumped the plunger six times, and completed all the following steps. ‘Just so you know, Tommy, even more of this plane is made of wood than my Piper Cub back home.’ The engine turned over.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Catherine asked.

  ‘I have to let the engine warm up. Four minutes.’ She touched the brake lever, the throttle and the stick. Peter had said this was tricky.

  All too soon, she taxied across the field and the plane lifted into the sky, but she felt none of her usual rush. She wouldn’t have heard them if they talked, but Mr Rawls leaned over her shoulder as she flew and circled to the right above the field. Would the party guests see the plane? Had Dad and Uncle Marcus come out of the treehouse yet? She took three deep breaths. The fuel gauge looked fine. She had to find a way to founder the plane, a plane she’d never been in before, in a way that she could crash land without killing Bobby, or anyone else. A plane carrying seven people, with a wingspan at least fifteen feet wider than her Bonanza.

  Max climbed to cruising altitude. The plane was lovely; Peter had been right. And now she had to find a way to destroy it. Her arms started to ache—it required more strength than her plane.

  All too quickly, they were within range of the base. She chucked the map over her shoulder, and Mr Rawls fell backwards. ‘Check this, please.’ She flicked an engine switch quickly, and the noise level fell. The nose started falling.

  ‘What’s happening?’ Mr Rawls leaned close again.

  ‘The starboard engine has stalled. She didn’t let me finish my checks.’

  ‘Well, fix it.’

  ‘I can’t. And we’re too heavy to maintain this altitude.’ Please God, let there be fields around the base still. As the plane descended, she flashed the headlights in a pattern. No cloud cover. Maybe Catherine and Mr Rawls wouldn’t notice. Would the airbase?

  ‘What the hell is happening?’ Catherine shouted just behind her.

  ‘Something’s wrong with the electrics, too, I think.’ She couldn’t consider poor Brian’s panic. ‘Sit down.’ Her lights danced across the clear night sky. Dare she risk landing gear? The wings tapered. It could be disastrous. Were they close enough? She killed the second engine.

  A gun muzzle nestled against the nape of her neck. ‘Fly. This. Plane,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Do you want to shoot me? We’ll all definitely die then. It’s not far to Bronholm from here. Get out of my way and let me land the damn plane. Everybody sit down.’

  Max prayed hard as she guided the plane as best she could, still signalling as they fell. She heard a scream behind her—surely the nanny, not Catherine. A cacophony of voices rose, but she didn’t dare look back. How could she do this? Deliberately sabotage a plane? Shouts and screams increased inside the plane as it descended, but she focused on the rapidly approaching ground. The plane bounced hard and skidded across uneven ground. A tree clipped off the left wing, and the plane spun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE PLANE ROCKED and then stopped. Everyone stayed silent for half a moment. Surely Bobby should be crying?

  Catherine screamed. ‘What the fuck have you done?�
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  ‘You didn’t let me check the plane.’ Max eased her stiff fingers off the controls. Dear God. What if her signals hadn’t worked? She turned. Brian’s body lay still in the narrow aisle. ‘What happened?’ She knew even as she asked—he had been trying to reach Bobby. ‘Somebody help him.’ No one shifted. She climbed over the low partition, scrambling across Mr Rawls’s lap. John still leaned against the plane’s fuselage. Should she roll Brian? Above the stiff collar of his dress shirt, she felt nothing. No pulse.

  ‘Please don’t tell me you killed my most important asset,’ Catherine said. The gun nudged against the base of her neck again.

  ‘I didn’t force him on this plane.’ But Max had killed him, nonetheless, propelling a perfectly functional plane from the sky. Tears rose. Why hadn’t Bobby cried out at all? Was John even still alive? And Vivian… Max swallowed.

  ‘We need to find another form of transport,’ Catherine said. ‘Rawls, go see where the hell we are.’

  ‘I believe you’ll find you’re a quarter mile from RAF Coltishall.’ A clipped British voice spoke. ‘Lower the gun, please.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Catherine said. ‘She’s endangered all of us and…’

  ‘Yet you’re the one holding a gun. Lower it, please.’

  The back door opened, and feet trooped onto the plane. The gun muzzle left Max’s neck, and she dared to turn her head. A blur of bodies stood in the doorway. One stepped forward.

  ‘Max? What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Peter.’ She’d last seen him halfway through the war. The pilot who’d taught her to land blind, who’d told her about the Dragon Rapide. Thank God.

  ‘Right, who’s injured? And what’s happened?’

  Catherine started talking, but Peter held up his hand. ‘I asked Miss Falkland, not you. I presume you were piloting, Max?’

  She nodded. ‘John is injured, badly.’ She pointed. ‘And I think Brian is dead.’ His skin still felt warm under her hand. ‘And Bobby—the child—must have been drugged or…’ She swallowed as Peter gently lifted her to her feet and helped her off the plane. Jeep headlights pierced the darkness at crazy angles. ‘The others—they’re—oh, it sounds mad and you won’t believe me. I need to see if John’s alive.’ Her throat seized on the word.