Turning Point

by Barbara Spencer

  Travers whistled his astonishment. ‘If they were, I’ll find out. You can most definitely leave that bit to me. Look here,’ he glanced down at his watch. ‘We need to get back, pronto. Mum’ll be having a nervous breakdown. ‘So where are you heading?’

  ‘Exeter – that’s where the guys hang out.’

  ‘Where in Exeter? It’s a big city.’

  ‘An industrial centre – don’t worry, I’ll find it. And they’d better be there. Scott and me, we did this once before – only somehow, this is worse.’

  ‘I don’t think you should go anywhere,’ Natasha said, her voice sombre, sounding deadly serious, totally at odds with the light-hearted girl whose ambition it was to drive a Maserati. ‘Stay here till Dad gets back. He’ll sort it. Or Beau! He could fly you out of the country if need be.’

  ‘That’s all very well, sis,’ Travers argued. ‘Ideal scenario and all that guff. But where? We can’t take them to our house – theirs is in ruins, and a hotel’s out of the question. They’d be picked up in no time. Besides, what happens if Dad doesn’t appear, we do this all again tomorrow?’

  ‘No point arguing about it,’ Hilary responded fiercely. ‘We can always head for London, if we have to. I can claim asylum at the American Embassy – and take Scott in with me.’

  Scott bit his lip, to stop himself coming out with the words, but they can’t be trusted.

  ‘I don’t like any of this – it’s like fishing in the dark.’ Natasha pulled out her phone, scrolling down a list of contacts and quickly dialling. ‘I’ve got a friend – she’ll let you borrow her floor for the night. ‘Gladys, it’s Natasha. I know, darling, it’s ages since we’ve met up. I’m based in London now – come up and visit, why don’t you?’

  Scott tuned out, his attention focussing on the dense blackness of the wooded shoreline, a hint of moonlight reflecting off the lake, wishing they could hide out in the woods until everything was sorted. Natasha was right – they should stay. It made a hell of lot more sense than wandering about. But where? They’d already checked the building for an open window or flimsy door and found both covered with impenetrable steel mesh, designed to stop hooligans and ram-raiders. A distant star glinted on a patch of frost already decorating the grass and leaves. Abruptly, he shivered. There really was no choice; a night in a bullet-ridden car wasn’t an option unless they wanted to wake up dead. Scott flinched, wishing his mind would stop honing in on that particular word – like the words of a song, remorselessly repeating over and over.

  ‘I promise they’ll be no bother. Bath, blankets, and breakfast – that’s it. Key under the mat. Eternally grateful, darling. Love you, do the same for you any day. Kisses!’ Natasha snapped her mobile shut. ‘All arranged. You’ll be quite safe there. Gladys – God, what awful names some parents cripple their kids with – is the stay-at-home type; bookish, never ever watches television. Absolutely perfect.’

  Hilary flung her arms around Natasha, hugging her tightly. ‘I was dreading spending the night in the open. Now Scott can wait in the flat while I go searching for Sean Terry.’

  ‘No way,’ Scott retorted. ‘I’m not letting you go anywhere without me.’

  ‘Why are you always so stubborn, Scott Anderson?’ Hilary flared angrily. ‘You know perfectly well, you can’t go chasing about Exeter as if nothing had happened. You’re wanted, remember?’

  ‘No one will recognise me on the bike. Not with a helmet and goggles.’

  ‘They will if there’s a police post checking identities.’

  ‘We’ll avoid them then – that’s what we did before.’

  ‘Shut up, you two. I’ve thought of that.’ Travers fished in his pocket pulling out two plastic cards. He passed them to Scott. ‘They’re our new IDs – me and Natasha’s. Came by courier this morning.’

  The pictures on the squares of plastic were small and slightly blurred but still identifiable as Travers and Natasha. ‘You’ll need to change the colour of your hair,’ Travers muttered. ‘You, too, Hilary.’

  ‘That’s all under control.’ Natasha unzipped her holdall, pulling out a couple of cans of non-drip hair-dye. ‘Dark chestnut. But, first, I need to trim your hair, Scott.’ She showed him a large pair of scissors. ‘Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at it; I moonlighted in a hair salon on a Saturday when I was in the sixth form.’ She opened the car door. ‘I know it’s bitter out, but be an absolute darling and perch on the step for a few minutes while I wave my magic wand.’ She brandished the scissors in the air. ‘Hair is an absolute beast to get off upholstery and, even for you, I refuse to spend tomorrow vacuuming the interior of the car; I’ve got better things to do.’ She swivelled round inspecting Hilary closely. ‘I think you’re okay, Hilary. Your hair’s a bit longer than mine – but it will pass.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ Hilary watched intently as Natasha quickly and expertly began to reduce the length of Scott’s hair. ‘I hate myself with short hair.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘Me, too.’ Scott added. He stuck his hands firmly over the crown of his head. ‘No way are you shearing it as short as Travers wears it. His face can stand it; mine can’t. I’ll look like a dork.’

  ‘Honestly, guys!’ Natasha heaved a sigh. ‘They’re worse than us girls.’ She peered in her bag and pulled out a hand mirror, passing it to Scott. ‘Here! Though what good it will be in this light… And I don’t much care what you want, Scott,’ she snipped briskly at the layers, ‘if it will keep you safe.’

  Scott gazed into the mirror, the interior light bright enough for him to watch the face he knew so well disappear under a shower of falling hair. The one emerging looked at least five years older, the planes of his cheeks more angular, his expression grim and determined.

  ‘Whoa!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘That’s amazing,’ Hilary echoed. ‘You look so different.’

  Travers grinned. ‘He might look different but if anyone asks, you play fly-half. You’re too light to play prop.’

  ‘Shut up, Travers.’ Natasha rounded on her brother. ‘You know perfectly well, hobbies and pastimes don’t appear on your identity card.’ She dusted off her hands, replacing the scissors in her bag. ‘First thing in the morning, change the colour of your hair. And you’ll have to buy some coloured contacts too. If police stop you to check, Hilary, you won’t stand a chance with fair hair and blue eyes. They won’t bother about height – they never do…’

  ‘You mean this has happened to you?’ Travers butted in suspiciously.

  ‘Happens to everyone in London, if you visit the clubs. Beau’s always being picked up. As I was saying, they won’t check any further as long as you match the general description and look approximately the same age. Being dark’ll make you look older too.’

  Travers nudged his sister, showing her the time on his wristwatch. ‘Mother’ll be spitting poison if we’re not back p.d.q.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Natasha kissed Hilary on the cheek. She scrambled down to the ground, shivering violently as the cold struck.

  Leaving Hilary to stow the canisters of hair dye into the box on the back of the bike, Scott climbed reluctantly onto his feet, shrugging on the helmet and gloves Travers had brought with him. If only something could happen to stop them leaving. It felt like he and Hilary were in a boat, being cast off from a jetty heading out… to where? Last time, it was the thought of tracing his dad that had kept him focussed, spurring him on. This time, there was nothing except an empty space where his dad had once stood.

  The engine of the Range Rover broke into life, Travers and Natasha waving as they edged the vehicle with its trailer back along the path. Scott raised his hand, overcome by the weirdest of sensations that it would be a very long time before he saw his friends again. Shaking the thought away he turned the ignition, the familiar roar of the engine cutting loudly across the silence. Opening the throttle, and with a burst of speed as if wanting to fly the bike across a hundred miles of countryside between them and Exeter, he headed for the main road.
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  Fourteen

  The wind cut across the open terrain like a knife forcing Scott to ease back on the throttle, conscious that Hilary was only wearing borrowed gear, her jacket neither heavy enough nor windproof at high speeds. Natasha’s own career as a model dictated the wearing of clothes that were a fashion statement rather than practical and, although Scott felt grateful for her forethought, it would be an unpleasant ride for any pillion passenger in those clothes. His headlights picked up the sparkle from a thick covering of frost on the grass verges. Momentarily, he considered handing over his own jacket, instantly recognizing how stupid that would be. No one except an idiot would ride a motorbike in sub-zero temperatures, wearing only a light sweater. Even on a hot day the wind chill was considerable and while people strolling were okay, on a bike you still needed windproof gear. Tonight, with temperatures plummeting, he would never make Exeter except on a stretcher suffering from frostbite and exposure; the cloth of his jacket built for town wear, not a seventy-mile-an-hour bike chase across a hundred miles of open country. The sensation of warmth against his back, as Hilary nestled tightly against him, was very welcoming and reminded Scott of Scotland – a good memory.

  He dropped his speed back to fifty, frustrated at not being able to go faster, to get the journey over and done with and track down the furniture warehouse where the American Secret Service had their headquarters. Still, it was ludicrous to imagine anyone would be on duty this late. With a long night ahead waiting for dawn, when honest people would be up and about their business, there was no point breaking the speed limits. Even so… he remembered Travers’ warning; he would be forced to stay put until the shops opened and Hilary could buy some tinted lenses.

  Scott patted his jacket feeling a thick wad of notes that Travers had stuffed in his pocket before driving off. Travers was never concerned about money, he didn’t need to be, but it was still good of him, especially now when it seemed unlikely Scott would ever be able to pay him back. He was like that, always had been, do anything for a mate. A good friend. Scott smiled ruefully, wishing he was still with them. Somehow Travers’ larger than life appearance, so laid back and casual, created an aura of dependability which reduced panic to calm common sense. Perhaps Tulsa had survived and they were getting in a state for nothing. Perhaps his father was safe. Perhaps tomorrow everything would be all right. Somehow, with Travers on your side it all seemed possible. He’d inherited that calm air of assurance from his dad. Whenever Doug Randal was about, nothing ever went wrong.

  Scott frowned, remembering Hilary’s accusation. She couldn’t possibly have been serious. Not Doug Randal. That was bang out of order. Like him going on about Sean Terry. Scott bit his lip, angry with himself for sounding off. He had behaved like a man drowning, casting around for something, anything, to hang on to. And yet, it was possible for Sean Terry to be a sleeper. It would explain why the bad guys caught them off-guard, turning up where they were least expected. Only someone in the know could organise that. Angrily, he blinked away the vision of Tulsa lying on the pavement, covered in blood. No! Hilary was right, it was crazy thinking. There was too much evidence to the contrary. Okay, maybe his manner and appearance put the agent in the category of archetypal villain, caustic, impatient, dangerous, but it’s was still prejudice on his part, pure and simple. He resented the man’s influence on Hilary. Because of him, they’d wasted an entire summer and it had taken Hilary resigning to change things.

  Briefly, he removed one hand from the controls and flexed his fingers, reaching back to touch her leg.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You okay?’ Hilary jerked her chin against his back in confirmation. ‘Won’t be long now,’ he added, sensing a change in temperature, the wind lessening as the warmth of the city seeped out past the welcoming street lights. ‘We’ll stop and get a takeaway and then head for the university.’ He caught the muffled word ‘bath’ and grinned. Girls and their baths. Still, she had to be frozen solid.

  Gradually, the lights of the town closed in around them. He glanced down at the time, a twenty-four-hour digital clock set amongst a myriad of dials, controlling fuel, speed, amps and revs, and saw it had gone eleven.

  ‘We’ll be lucky to find anything to eat at this hour.’

  ‘Head for the centre, then,’ he heard her say.

  He’d visited the city once before but that was in the daytime when the streets were thronged with traffic and shoppers. Now, it felt strangely alien, silent in a way that only sleeping cities possess, the streets washed clean with rain from an earlier shower and deserted except for stray cats, and a solitary car returning home. Following the signs through the suburbs, with its rows of houses woven tightly together, Scott spotted lights ahead. Next moment, it was as if the bike had passed through a parallel universe, the streets as bright as day and thronged with party-goers. Young and skimpily clad, they surged in and out of an open doorway like waves on the seashore, the steady punching out of a base rhythm identifying the building as a nightclub, well and truly open for business.

  The air was still cold and the sight of girls, in nothing but micro-mini skirts and strap tops, waiting in a line outside a kebab shop, sent shockwaves down Scott’s spine. Noticing a burger bar open for business, he slowed to a stop then quickly sped up again, identifying the neon yellow of a police van, a row of black-clad police leaning against it their gaze fixed on the nightclub doorway. Nervously, he wove his bike through the partying jay-walkers, seemingly unaware they were standing in the road. Noticing a side-turning, he swept into it and pulled to a stop. ‘I daren’t go any closer, the place is crawling with police,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘And I’m starving.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Hilary said, ‘but you’ll have to help me off. My legs have gone dead.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say, I’d have pulled over sooner?’ Scott jumped off the bike and lifted Hilary to the ground, momentarily hugging her to him to generate warmth. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, wishing they could stay like that for ever, not moving, and simply ignore all the bad stuff happening around them.

  ‘Not your fault.’ Groaning, she rubbed her legs. ‘But I’ll be glad to get in.’ Hilary peered down the road, the monotonous rhythm of the music reverberating into the side road. ‘I bet they just love weekends.’ She nodded towards the darkened windows of the house nearest the corner, grimacing sarcastically. ‘What do you fancy eating?’

  ‘Doesn’t much matter. Something quick,’ Scott muttered, fishing in his pocket for a twenty-euro note. ‘And something to drink. Wait – that won’t be enough. Here, take this.’ He passed over a second note.

  Hilary nodded and, still rubbing her haunches, disappeared round the corner. Scott waited, anxiously picking at the fabric on his glove.

  All at once, the noisy mayhem of the main street accelerated into strident hoots of derision, followed by more authoritarian shouting. Scott was forced to picture what was happening, not daring to leave the bike and look. No doubt it was guys, too drunk to know any better, taunting the police. Silence descended for a moment and he guessed some sort of arrest had been made and the perpetrator was now cooling his heels inside the police van.

  A bitter smile broke the edges of his mouth as he watched Hilary’s neat figure appear round the corner. She waved and broke into a jog. ‘What?’ She quickly unlocked the box at the back of the bike – a shallow compartment doubling as her seat.

  Scott shrugged and smiled ruefully. ‘I was just remembering my marvellous idea, to take you out for an afternoon somewhere nice. Some great idea that was.’

  At the corner of the street, two guys were slumped on the pavement a girl bent over them. ‘It’s the thought that counts.’ Hilary gave him a brisk smile and climbed back on the bike. ‘It’ll happen one day, Scott. And when it does, let’s go somewhere warm. Romantic walks in England should be outlawed in winter. Brrrr!’ She shivered violently like a dog shaking off drops of water. ‘It’s freezing. Come on. We passed the sign for the university back up the road.’
>
  True to her word, Gladys had left a key under the mat – and a note. ‘If you’re burglars I’ve nothing to steal, so don’t bother. If you’re Scott and Hilary – welcome.’

  A series of other notes led them upstairs, a line of paper arrows pointing to one of two doors on the first-floor landing – a second key waiting for them under the mat.

  ‘She’s very trusting.’ Scott stared round the little room. Except Gladys was right; there was nothing worth stealing, the poky little sitting room cluttered up with a shabby sofa and chairs, and a work table. A threadbare carpet covered the centre of the room, its colour long gone leaving behind faded strings of grey yarn. The only thing burglars might have pinched were the curtains; long dark green velvet that reminded Scott of James Nicely’s room in Scotland, with its cosy warmth countering blasts of bitter air from the open moor. Why did trouble always arrive when it was freezing outside? He frowned, remembering the road-side near Loch Lomond and his early-morning walk through the empty streets of Lisse. Everything was so much simpler if it was warm. Okay, so perhaps the temperature hadn’t exactly been below freezing. Maybe it was the memory of being scared that made it colder than it really was. It had been April, after-all. Still!

  From the kitchen came the hum of a central-heating boiler, a sense of warmth closing in on him. He peered round the door seeing Hilary had already unpacked their supper onto two plates.

  ‘How come girls always know where the kitchen is?’

  ‘What do you see when you go into a strange place?’

  ‘Never given it much thought. I guess… um… a refrigerator with food in it?’

  Hilary flashed a smile, passing him a plate and a tray. ‘Girls check out the bathroom followed mostly by the kitchen because, somehow, you guys have it in your head that girls automatically know their way around a kitchen.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare think that,’ Scott returned the grin. ‘Besides, Dad always made me do my own…’ He stopped abruptly.