Scott bit his lip, aware arguments were a waste of time. He didn’t know how it had been done, probably speech recognition, but somehow Jameson believed he was chatting to his family. Except, that would mean someone had spied on the Brody family even before Jameson had been kidnapped. Scott felt a shiver of disgust rip down his back. Is that what happened to everyone here? Their phones tapped, their minds altered by drugs so they imagined having conversations with their family. His gaze drifted round to the computer, its screen filled with calculations. ‘What are you working on?’
‘Firewalls. It’s a government-backed project. There’s loads of us.’ Jay waved his arm round the empty room. ‘It’s an amazing place, exactly like a city with tennis courts and a movie theatre – it’s great.’ His smile was painful as if the muscles in his cheeks had atrophied. ‘There’s loads of kids like me. It’s government-backed, very hush-hush.’ Scott winced sensing the confusion in his friend’s head. Jameson put his finger to his lips. ‘They say we’re not to talk about it because of the spies.’ He dropped his head and Scott could almost hear the cogs grinding round and round. He stared at the screen before lifting his head again. ‘Why are you here?’ he said accusingly. ‘You’re not a scientist. You know nothing about computers.’
‘I’m only visiting.’ Scott stared miserably at his friend, wanting to sling him over his shoulder and carry him to safety.
‘For pity’s sake, get the hell outa there!’
Scott caught the whispered words. He glanced up seeing Beau’s furious face glaring down at him.
Jameson’s fingers picked nervously at the dry skin on his lips. ‘Is there someone with you?’
‘No, only me. And I’m going now.’
Scott scrambled onto the desk and swung himself up, Beau reaching down to help him.
Jameson stared up at the retreating figures. Suddenly, as if emerging from a thick fog, his eyes focussed and he gave a painful half-smile. ‘I miss my family. Can you tell Jenny to visit – she’d love the sports here.’
‘You stupid, stupid… Words fail me.’ Beau stormed, keeping his voice low. Silently, he slid the grating into place moving swiftly away out of sight of anyone standing below, the overwhelming tension in the silence amply conveying his opinion of the younger boy. Miserably Scott followed, overwhelmed by guilt at his own stupidity. He felt it like a living weight, sucking up the air until he found himself once again short of breath and had to stop. ‘He won’t tell,’ he panted, tears of frustration sweeping across his eyes.
Beau paused to glance over his shoulder, the patch of shadow light enough for Scott to register how angry he was. He swallowed anxiously.
‘Won’t tell! Pull the other one. The guy hasn’t a clue what day it is, never mind anything else. I ought to ring your scrawny neck.’
‘It’s not his fault – they’ve drugged him,’ Scott protested.
‘Save your breath for crawling and hope to God that room wasn’t wired for sound.’
‘Holy crap! I forgot!’ he gasped the words, mortified by his own stupidity.
‘You sure did.’ Beau swivelled round, flashing his torch onto Scott’s face. ‘We’ll need a miracle to get you safely out of here now, so start praying for one.’
Beau’s long shape vanished into the darkness ahead, a slight slithering sound accompanying his brisk movements forward. Wishing the ground would open and swallow him whole, Scott followed. He knew he deserved everything Beau threw at him. His task was dangerous enough without Scott clod-hopping his way through it. The information Beau gathered must get back to the people who had hired him; that was more important than anything. But at least now he wasn’t alone any longer, other people were also aiming to rid the world of Mr Smith – if it was Mr Smith behind this set-up? Although… Scott paused, his arms aching at the pace… everything fitted. The American had spoken about calling in favours to get Tyson back. Was that what happened in the courtroom in Exeter when the magistrate changed their sentence? And Jameson? What he said about working on firewalls? Could that be Styrus – the virus created by the team his father had been a part of? And the unit? If authorities chose to inspect it – what would they see? A small building in the sticks, coaches ferrying detainees back and forth. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to ring alarm bells or suggest a whole secret world buried beneath it. There couldn’t be two sets of people in the world with that sort of power, could there?
Scott shuffled forward, all at once exhausted and in desperate need of sleep. At the intersection he glanced behind him, somehow still expecting to find light and movement. But all was still, silence like a cloak enclosing every centimetre of space. Thank God, they were home free. Abruptly, the murky blackness was dissected by the sound of snoring and, almost before he realised, the open grating leading down into the toilet block was in front of him.
‘Get down first.’
Scott nodded, feeling his limbs heavy and dragging. Taking care not to make a sound, he reached down to the top of the cistern, stepping on the floor. He reached up automatically, guiding Beau’s feet. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’
‘I know. But I wasn’t joking when I told you to start praying.’
Scott stumbled wearily into the dormitory, the sounds of heavy breathing reassuring, grateful for one crumb of comfort in an otherwise nightmare scenario. When he got home, he could at least tell Mr and Mrs Brody that he’d found Jameson. He sank onto his bunk, his mind dropping with fatigue. He fought against it, long enough to say that prayer. If only they knew for certain who was behind it!
Abruptly the lights snapped on and a harsh voice hit the air. ‘By your bunks. Now!’
Drunk with sleep, Scott staggered to his feet, his vision blurred and misty. He caught sight of several pairs of feet among the familiar knee-length boots of their guards. They were gathered protectively either side of someone in a grey suit – someone with a hugely powerful presence even when you were staring at them half-asleep. Seagar – Wayne Seagar. The name popped uninvited into Scott’s head. He’d heard it often enough listening to his father talk about his imprisonment. One-sided conversations, with only a recorder for company, in which his dad had tried to dredge up miniscule snippets of information that just might be valuable to his rescuers. There’d been little enough on the American. He’d been in charge of security, Bill Anderson only meeting up with him the one time. Scott had seen him too, fleetingly, through the thickness of the glass cockpit in a helicopter. Still, the bullet-shaped head covered with a tight crew cut was unmistakable. All this time, he’d been trapped among the very people who had been trying to kill him. The word kill felt thick on Scott’s tongue and he shied away from it like a startled horse, refusing to dwell on the thousands they had already killed and not lost sleep over. One more would make little difference. And he had blundered into their web like a bewildered fly.
Half-obscured by the guards was a slight figure, his jeans baggy where he’d lost weight. Jameson! Scott rocked-back on his heels as waves of nausea struck him. Why, oh why, oh why, had he been so foolhardy? Why hadn’t he stayed put? Sticking his hand into a viper’s nest was… Oh my God! What had he done? Finding a way out… that wasn’t important.
Keeping his eyes on the ground, he watched the progress of feet around the dormitory, aware Jameson had been instructed to identify the intruder in his room. Beau was right. It had been wired for sound. Terrified, Scott raked over the conversation. Had Jameson used his name? If they had CCTV, it didn’t much matter anyway.
The figures approached, Scott sensed nervous panic in the guys ranged alongside their bunks. No prizes for guessing what they were seeing… That all-important bus waiting on the tarmac to take them back to England, praying this wasn’t a ploy designed to hold on to them for a few extra days. The threat had been present in every conversation involving Mr Reynolds-sir. ‘If you infringe our rules, refuse to learn, you will not take the bus on Saturday.’ But what had they learned – nothing except violence and terror.
J
ameson flanked by two scowling figures stopped opposite Scott. Furious at being woken, the two guards were tapping their batons against the side of their thighs; perhaps hoping someone might step out of line so they could vent their anger. Scott forced his panic down, staring rigidly in front of him. He stretched his fingers to stop his fists clenching, keeping his arms loose and dangling. It was an effort. Dull eyes met his. It was a glance lasting no more than a fraction of a second, long enough to see a spark of recognition struggling to reach the surface like a swimmer caught up in a river choked with weeds. Don’t do it, Jameson. Don’t recognise me, he begged silently, watching the flash of awareness extinguish itself. At last Jameson shuffled on. With relief draining out like water through a sieve, Scott gripped hold of the breath trying to escape his lungs – not daring to move while attention focussed itself on Beau, his face a study of bewilderment, his hand sleepily scratching his head.
Scott caught the words. ‘I was definitely talking to my brother. But he isn’t into computers so why would he be here?’
The door closed behind the figures, a creaking of bunks the only sound as bodies fell back down, instantly asleep; the inspection one more hideous event in a week overburdened with hideous events.
Twenty-five
Scott’s lids flickered open, the electric light dazzling at 6 a.m. especially after so little sleep. He threw back the covers struggling to climb out of bed, still clutched in the jaws of his nightmare, his head pounding. Air conditioning might be efficient but he’d never get used to it. All his life, he’d slept with his window open a crack even on the coldest of nights. He shied away from the word ‘home’. Like the words ‘father’ and ‘friend’, the word ‘home’ no longer existed as part of his vocabulary. That too had gone up in flames.
The top bunk was empty, Beau already up. Scott tore into the washroom and stopped dead, registering a heavy undercurrent of unease permeating through the familiar morning routine. He didn’t need to examine the faces of his room-mates; their body-language said it all. Something odd had happened in the night and one of their number was responsible. Doom-laden, harried, heads down pointedly avoiding eye contact, the morning storm of coughs and groans stifled, they moved sluggishly between dormitory and washroom, while dread like a winged bat, silently – ominously – circled the room.
Making sure the cubicle door was firmly bolted, Scott collapsed down onto the toilet seat, reliving his moment of eye contact with Jameson. He’d been let off the hook only because Seagar had stayed by the door. If he had come in… accompanied Jay… Sweat broke out on his brow. Despairing, he buried his head in his hands, his thoughts tumultuous. Like Beau said, he’d never be so lucky a second time. Guys like Seagar didn’t get to boss the world about by being sloppy. The man would dig and dig until there was nothing left but bare rock. And Hilary! Hilary was in danger too because of him.
His fingers curled into a tight fist and he pounded them hard against his head almost crying at his own stupidity. He had to get to Beau! Warn him! Then get out! He daren’t wait to be caught!
Unseeing, he glanced down at his watch. Logic told him he had until nine or shortly after. That’s when offices opened their doors and staff logged into computers records, making cross-checking simply a task of pressing a few buttons.
Under cover of the noise from the flushing toilet, he eased open the lock and hurried to the wash basins. He had one shot. Mr Reynolds checked their numbers at the start of the run and again at the end, but no one bothered in between. And they’d seen the helicopter only that one time, that first night. In daylight it wasn’t needed; the unit was surrounded by miles of desolate terrain which would deter any but the most foolhardy. When guys fell behind they were left to catch up, forcing the rest of the group to hang about in the yard until everyone was checked in.
With luck, he’d get an hour’s start. Head for the hills and hide up until night. There didn’t seem to be dogs – at least he hadn’t heard any. This way, Hilary might stay safe.
Wishing he had time for a shower, Scott hastily splashed hot water over his face and neck. His hair looked gross, greasy and lifeless… but, thankfully, still hanging onto its colour. He pushed back his shoulders, refusing to dwell on the problems of getting back to England; that could wait until he reached the coast. Grabbing his trainers, he joined the rest of the group in the lobby waiting for their instructor to appear, hoping anyone interested would put his panic down to being late.
Thirty-minutes later they were still waiting. Scott shifted from leg to leg, taking occasional sips of water from the bottle in his hand, hounded by the idea that their unit was being searched for clues as to who had left their bed in the middle of the night.
For the umpteenth time, he glanced down at his watch. It was almost seven. Where was the guy? After the torture of the opening session, their days had followed a rigid pattern, scarcely deviating by more than a few minutes. 6am lights on; 6.30 lined up in the lobby, washed or showered, ready for their early-morning jog. By 8.00 they were back in, allotted sixty minutes to freshen up (shower again if they wanted), change their clothes and, if times had improved, slurp down a hot drink served with bread. In the classroom by 9.00; a second run, longer in the afternoon; then more films, hour upon hour of tortuous images until their nerves jangled and their brains turned to mush. In the nick of time food, as much as they could eat, and then sleep. Scott felt his stomach spasm with nerves. But not today, because he, Scott Anderson, was a damn fool and had set their alarm bells ringing.
As if his thoughts had filtered through the air, the door of the medical unit flew open. As yet, no one had seen inside the little room. On arrival, the guard had pointed to it but cuts and bruises were either ignored or treated in the dormitory. Even that first night, when six of the group had fallen sick from overeating, they weren’t rushed off to the sick bay. Instead, guards had appeared in the dormitory. Disinterested and callous, they had checked on the vomiting boys, warning them in execrable English not to do it again because it was stupide. If confirmation had been needed that every word uttered in the unit was recorded, it was that night. No one had called for help and at least half the guys had slept right through, yet guards had still come running.
Without wasting breath on a good morning, Mr Reynolds unbarred the outer door and pushed it open, fresh air flooding in. Scott took a deep breath savouring its clean smell, his headache ebbing slightly.
‘Line up outside.’
A guard emerged from the open door of the medical room, his uniform replaced by a tracksuit.
Yet another change!
Timidly, Scott edged his way to the front of the queue to join Lightning. Taking no notice of anyone, he was staring across the yard in a bored fashion, watching the automatic gates slide back open. Now Scott knew who was concealed behind the mask, he realised the guy’s boorish behaviour concealed keen eyes, intent on examining every inch of the place.
‘Left line… one pace forward. Right line… one pace back.’
For a moment confusion broke out, no one quite sure what they were supposed to do, as if the instructions had been issued in a foreign language. Scott grabbed his chance. ‘I have the proof,’ he hissed. Beau gave him a startled glance. ‘I recognised…’
‘Number nine. Get moving. I said one pace forward.’
Scott jumped, the doom-laden words like slabs of granite falling from a great height. Already at the front of the line, he filtered to the back of the milling group, passing Chris on his way up, and taking his place by the side of James at the rear of the column.
With a withering glance, their instructor began checking numbers, the group shifting from foot to foot impatient now to get going; the wind off the hillside blustery.
Restlessly, Scott hacked at a weed growing through the tarmac, unsure what he should do. Now he had the evidence, it was vital he got it to Beau. Dare he wait; try again on their afternoon run? Twelve hours till they were free to go to bed, twelve more till morning. Would he even be alive by then
? Raising his head, he peered out along the road the coaches had taken – the road to freedom. Any time now, they’d begin checking prisoners’ backgrounds and discover who he really was. His stomach lurched and he dragged in some calming breaths. He had no choice. He had to go. Bending down, he made a show of retying his laces, leaving the double knot loose.
Propping the register against the door to wait their return, their instructor waved the group forward, following the line of runners through the gate, the pace gradually accelerating into a fast walk. A couple of miles to stretch and warm the muscles, followed by a slow jog. Above them the soft navy of early dawn had faded to grey in the east, marking the start of yet another dismal day. Out on the plain the wind died away, the air dank and oppressive. Scott eyed the guard and was relieved to see him speed up, running ahead of the group. He took in a few deep breaths, his muscles sore and bruised from crawling through the air-conditioning ducts and he stepped carefully, angling his left foot firmly down, not enough to rick his ankle but hopefully sufficient to loosen his shoelace further.
At the rear of the line of inmates, their instructor snapped at Scott’s heels, striking his cane against his artificial leg, beating out the rhythm of their steps. Scott stared straight ahead, his face expressionless, trying to ignore him. It was one of the tricks Mr Reynolds-sir used to throw them off balance, hitting his cane viciously against a table top or wall during a quiet moment in a film or appearing in the doorway of the dining room, making out he was searching for someone while the food turned to sawdust in your mouth.
By his side, James was also silent. Out of all the guys, he’d lost the most weight and seemed almost proud of his burgeoning fitness, openly boasting that being forced to go cold turkey was the only way to give up smoking – and it was the best thing that had happened in a long time. Although, even after five days, he had little enough breath to spare for talking, puffing and panting his way up rocky slopes. He might be a brilliant companion when you needed time to think, to sort out the panic in your head, but not today when Scott desperately needed the comfort of another human voice. Not the hectoring or bullying tone that Mr Reynolds-sir used – an ordinary voice. It didn’t much matter what was said – it was the sound he craved, the silence of the terrain adding to the brooding fear weighing him down.
Turning Point Page 26
