Running

by Barbara Spencer

  Doug Randall ambled up while Scott was putting on his socks and shoes. ‘Dad not here?’

  ‘He’s probably got delayed. I’ll give him five minutes.’ He grinned cheekily. ‘You know dads.’

  ‘I sure do.’ Doug patted the teenager on the shoulder, his six-foot-four-inch frame looming over Scott’s slight figure by a good five inches. ‘We’ll load up, take your time.’

  Scott stared at the broad back, wondering what it would be like to exchange places with Travers, and not have to follow such crazy rules. What he’d told Mr Randal was true all right. He did have to wait five minutes before phoning. It was part and parcel of all the mysteries he had buried deep inside his brain – never to be forgotten.

  ‘If you can’t raise me on the phone, Scott,’ his dad had instructed, ‘you don’t go home. Remember that and never forget it. Yo u don’t go home. Go to a friend’s house. I’ll find you.’

  It had been tested, too. One day his dad had simply not appeared at the school gates and, after hanging around for half-an hour, Scott had gone home with Jameson. But since that day his dad had never been late, never once; at least not more than a few minutes.

  Only a few vehicles remained parked on the slip road now, most people having left for home as soon as the sun began to drop. A car appeared but no sign of the bike or Range Rover. Impatiently Scott dialled the mobile again, then the house.

  ‘Dad pick up,’ he muttered. The phone clicked into life. Scott jumped and yelled, ‘Dad, where are you? I’m sitting on my backside at the docks.’ He was met with total silence; then the answer-phone, designed to come on line after eight rings, responded by asking him to leave a message.

  An irrational sense of fear swept over him at the thought of the message playing to an empty house. He quickly closed the connection, shoving his mobile deep into his jacket pocket and looked up, to find the normality of the scene unchanged. Travers and Mary, arms entwined, were still gazing out over the water; Doug Randal, one arm round the shoulders of his wife, was shaking hands while Catherine blew kisses in the direction of the last of their guests to leave. Nothing but an ordinary Saturday afternoon.

  A cold breeze from the river wafted in his direction and he shivered, noticing that the sun had vanished behind some ominous-looking clouds. His line of sight levelled to see Hilary staring in his direction; watching him like a hawk was the phrase that sprang to mind. Scott hoped he hadn’t gone white.

  ‘Bill not showed?’ Doug Randal called over to him.

  Scott shook his head, not trusting his voice.

  ‘So what’s it to be?’ The ex-rugby player split away from his wife strolling back to Scott’s side, his imposing presence attracting curious glances wherever he went; most people recognising the face even if they couldn’t always put a name to it. ‘Travers and Mary are going with Catherine. I’ll drop you off if you like, on the way to Hilary’s. Plenty of room for your bike.’ He indicated the spanking new vehicle. ‘I wanted a word with Bill, in any case.’

  Hilary was talking into her phone, her gaze still fixed on him. As her glance met his, she hurriedly broke eye contact turning away. Scott flushed angrily. What was her problem? Couldn’t wait to tell her girlfriends what a let down Scott Anderson had been? No way was he sharing the back seat with her, every pothole a stabbing reminder of a perfectly miserable day. The thought made him feel sick. He shuddered, saying politely, ‘No, thanks, Mr Randal, I’ll head for Jameson’s if that’s okay. He’ll be back by now.’

  ‘Everything all right?’ Doug’s amiable tone vanished, his brown eyes serious.

  ‘Course,’ Scott lied. ‘It’s easier for Dad to get me from Jay’s. I’ll probably stay the night, anyway. Thanks, Mr Randal, it’s been a great day.’

  ‘Glad you enjoyed yourself. Tell your dad to give me a ring sometime.’

  Scott smiled automatically, his brain barely registering the friendly message, more concerned with willing his mobile to ring, rehearsing the words: Dad where are you, over and over again.

  FIVE

  Scott repeated the same words, speaking into his mobile twenty minutes later, only the name was different.

  ‘Jay,’ he said, his voice sounding panicky, ‘where are you? I’m sitting on your doorstep and there’s no one home.’

  ‘What the devil are you doing sitting on my doorstep?’ Jameson said. ‘I’m not there, I’m here, you wal.’

  His friend’s voice sounded extra-exuberant; something he generally reserved for earth-shattering occasions – like meeting a new girl. But so infectious, it immediately reduced Scott’s nagging worries to a figment of his own imagination. His dad had gone out and forgotten – it happens. It didn’t last. His burgeoning optimism nose-dived at the idea of riding the ten miles home in the dusk. ‘You’re not coming home?’

  ‘Got it in one! Met this great girl. She is … What are you doing on my doorstep?’ Jay repeated.

  ‘Dad forgot to pick me up at the boat. Thought I could stay with you?’

  ‘Well you could but you can’t,’ his friend laughed. ‘Dad’s decided to stop on for a few days. I’m trying for a week. Unlikely though with the Haybarn,’ he said, referring to the restaurant in Falmouth that his father owned. ‘She only lives next door to the house where we’re stopping. Isn’t that great? What was your day like?’

  ‘God awful! Whoever decided to make a friend of Hilary needs their head sorting out.’

  ‘You did, Scott, remember?’

  Scott sighed. ‘I guess! Never again! I’ve definitely gone off girls with doglike or bovine tendencies.’

  ‘Go home.’

  Scott hesitated. ‘Jay?’

  He heard a burst of laughter in the background; Scott recognising Jay’s younger brother and then his friend’s own boisterous tones.

  ‘What?’ The voice sounded distant, not attending much.

  Scott bit his lip. ‘It’s okay. Have a good time.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  Scott closed the connection, immediately wishing he’d spat out what he’d been trying to say: Dad’s not home and I’m worried.

  He stared down the long drive, the grey stone house one of several recently built on the edge of Falmouth, its perimeter marked by billowing rose-coloured trees, on the point of bursting into blossom. Its driveway of red brick reminded Scott of a chess board and his old habit of solving problems, setting out a single chessman for each problem. Marshalling his thoughts into order, he began placing them in the small squares – half a dozen to be gradually and logically reduced to one, representing the action he was going to take: Dad had taken the bike out, it being a good day he had ridden a long way; he’d had a puncture; his mobile had failed or the battery run down and he couldn’t find a phone; his instruction to stay away from the house only applied when he was a young kid not now; and he was getting hungry. It was probably … Scott eyed the clouds … definitely going to rain.

  If he didn’t go home, the alternative was Travers’s house, eight miles further on, and he didn’t fancy that in the wet. He groaned aloud, wishing he’d never set eyes on Hilary because now he could be sitting down to a warm meal in an elegant house, containing six bedrooms, constant hot water and a plentiful supply of snacks and DVDs.

  Scott got to his feet, his decision made. He’d go home.

  A light drizzle had started, adding to the doubts in Scott’s head. It wasn’t as if his dad laid down rules just for the fun of it. It had never occurred to him to question anything before; you learned that when you were dangling at the end of a rope, facing an awfully long drop off a mountain. So why this time? What was different?

  It felt a long way in the dusk and drizzle. Each time lights approached along the far carriageway he prayed it would his dad’s bike or the four-wheel-drive – bitterly disappointed when the vehicle swept past without even slowing. He had frequently done the ride from Jameson’s but rarely in the dark. Now he was aware of cars bearing down on him, their front bumpers sitting right on his tail, only swerving round at t
he last minute. It was scary stuff with ten miles beginning to feel like twenty.

  A ribbon of light loomed out of the dark. Thankfully, he swung into the secondary road that looped through the village, rejoining the dual-carriageway a mile further on. Visibility had dropped steadily and the fine, misty drizzle had begun to lie; beams of light from the street lamps reflected in the puddles at the side of the road. The high street was deserted; even dog walkers, their duty done for the night, back home and watching television. A light flared deeply orange as a door opened and shut again. On impulse, Scott pulled to a stop outside the pub.

  Not bothering to lock his bike, he pushed open the door. A blast of warm air, laden with smells of food and beer, welcomed him in. In a corner of his mind, he half-expected to see his dad leaning up against the bar chatting. He scanned the room eagerly, recognising the cheerful face of George Beale.

  Jean, a ton of make-up now hiding the lines on her face, was standing behind the bar nursing a well-earned drink, after preparing several dozen meals. She smiled cheerfully, welcoming the boy in. ‘Not often we see you in here at night, Scott.’

  ‘Can you fix me a sandwich, Jean?’

  ‘Sandwich? Do better than that. How about chicken wrapped in bacon, served on a bed of mashed celeriac and parsley, with a mushroom sauce?’

  Scott was hungry and yet the thought of food … He glanced at his watch. It was almost nine. He needed something to eat, whether he wanted it or not. ‘A sandwich will do fine,’ he said. ‘The chicken sounds good but no money.’

  Jean gave a smile and waved her hand in the air, magicking the problem away. ‘Don’t worry, your dad’s credit’s sound. When’s he back?’

  ‘Well, now I hope.’

  ‘So what are you eating here for? He’s a great cook.’

  Exactly what was he eating there for? He’d be home in ten minutes and could get something then. The reason was obvious. Scott gave a half smile. ‘Dad’s gone walk-about,’ he said, hoping his casual explanation would stop any further questions.

  Jean laughed. ‘He was in here this morning – chasing coffee.’

  ‘You’ve seen my dad?’ Scott heard the tone of his voice, it sounded desperate.

  Jean noticed it too. ‘That sounds like you’re worried, Scott. No need to be. He said he was going off for the day. I was talking to him about that reporter.’

  ‘What reporter?’ Scott said, scarcely listening now his sense of relief so overwhelming. Dad was okay. He had just gone out.

  ‘Sean Terry, he said his name was. I thought it was probably about you. Yo u know – outstanding achievement in your exams or something.’

  ‘As if,’ Scott rummaged up a grin.

  ‘Well, anyway, I expect your dad’ll be back shortly. Right, I’ll get you some dinner.’ Jean said, disappearing through an archway into the kitchen.

  Happy now he’d made the right decision, Scott wandered over to the farmer, an orange juice clutched in his hand. ‘Did your lambs get off?’

  The farmer dragged his eyes away from the screen, a premier-league football match in full swing. ‘Ay, young ’un, they did. Got a good price for them, too. Bloody foreigners, tryin’ to tell me my business. Knew them lambs was as right as rain.’ He beamed at Scott. ‘Me dad farmed this land and me granddad, afore me. There ain’t much I don’t know about it.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  The farmer, his face lined and weather-beaten – his cheeks a slow purple after fifty years of getting up at dawn and working outside whatever the weather – nodded.

  Scott hesitated. ‘You know last winter; the sheep were in the top field, next to our land – the one with the stone water trough. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ay, lad, always do. Land drains real quick there. The spruce to the west draws out the water and gives shelter. If they lamb early I don’t have to worry about losing lambs to the wet. New borns can stand cold but not wet.’ He took a sip of his beer. ‘Why do you ask, you ride past it every day, you saw ’em.’

  ‘I know, but that man from the Ministry, I saw him checking that field. He said it was contaminated and they’d have to retest them all.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ The old farmer’s tone was dismissive. ‘How come he never said nothin’ to me about it? It was like I told your dad …’

  Scott’s eyes flew round the room. ‘When did you see Dad?’

  George chuckled, his glance speculative. ‘Avoiding him, are you? Well, don’t worry, I won’t tell him I’ve seen you. It were first thing this morning. I was on the way to me sisters. He was ridin’ that bloody-great red bike of his. How he doesn’t have an accident … He asked me about them radiation tests.’

  ‘Did he?’ So at least two people had seen him.

  ‘Ay, he did. I told him straight. I’d got a stifficate of exemption and I couldn’t see no reason for them radiation testers to be there in the first place. Bloody useless lot they was too. Never seen a sheep before. Yo u take it from me, lad. That field’s not contaminated. Bet my life on it. So don’t you worry your head none, young ’un. My sheeps are just fine.’

  A huge shout erupted from the crowd watching the game. The farmer swung hurriedly round to the television, anxious to catch the replay of the goal just scored.

  Scott wandered back to his table, which had miraculously acquired a red and white checked tablecloth in his absence, a plate, knife, fork and spoon, and some bread. He wasn’t mistaken. But George’s answer hadn’t cleared anything up; made it worse, if anything, for now he needed to work out why those men were interested in that particular field.

  He gazed down at the tablecloth, absentmindedly tearing chunks off the bread and placing the pieces on the cloth.

  ‘Here you are.’ Jean stared at Scott’s hand poised over one of the squares, a crust of bread in it. ‘What’s with the bread?’

  Scott said embarrassed, ‘I sometimes work out problems this way.’

  ‘Okay, everyone to their own. Mind you eat it now.’

  ‘Thanks, it looks really good.’

  He picked up his fork eagerly trying to decide which bit to taste first. Ten minutes later he stared down at his empty plate. He must have been hungry.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, as Jean came to clear the table.

  ‘Sorry! Your plate doesn’t even need washing! You’d better have pie for afters – that might fill you up.’ She plopped a dish down in front of him. ‘God, the appetites you kids have – good job my customers aren’t all like you, I’d be out of business in a week.’

  ‘That’s why I said sorry.’ Scott eyed the large piece of pie, covered in fresh cream, with gratitude. ‘We’ve been on the river – it gives you an appetite,’ he explained.

  ‘Good day?’

  ‘Great – thanks.’ Well it would have been if Hilary had been friendlier.

  Jean moved back behind the bar.

  Automatically, Scott glanced down at his watch. Aware he had a decision to make, he pulled out his mobile and dialled the number. It was still dead. Reluctantly he tried the land line, counting off each ring, imagining his dad dashing in from the garage to grab it before the answer-phone clicked in. His heart lurched wildly as he heard the recording and he spoke without thinking, ‘Dad – if you get this message, I’ll be home shortly, okay?’

  Weird how things can change from normal to total devastation in the blink of an eye – an image of the phone ringing endlessly in the cottage seared Scott’s brain. Sometime in the past twelve hours, something bad had happened to his dad.

  Two things were clear as day. His dad’s warnings had never been about having an accident or breaking a leg. An accident wouldn’t have stopped him phoning unless he’d been killed, which was pretty unlikely when he stayed at home all day. And the buzzer to warn Bill of people coming up the lane? The constant questions about new people in the village? That wasn’t only about being an American and lying low; there were people searching for him.

  And the second thing? Whoever it was – they’d found
him.

  Scott lifted his hands away from his face, the decision made. Somehow he had to get to the house and without being seen. The thought of riding that last two miles in darkness, all the time wondering what was waiting for him, was not pleasant, but it had to be done and the sooner the better.

  Reluctantly he got to his feet. ‘Thanks, Jean,’ he called, ‘I feel heaps better now. I’ll come by tomorrow with the money.’

  ‘No rush. I know where you live.’

  The door swung to behind him severing all connection with people and light. Now he was on his own. He gazed up and down the forlorn-looking street. He could see no one about, the street dark, even the light from the street lamps diminished by the fine drizzle into a small well of brightness.

  His bike, well maintained by Bill Anderson, made no sound, an occasional swish of water floating up from the puddles as he rode through them. Away from the main road nothing moved; the road silent. He cycled past a lay-by a single car parked up – its driver most likely sleeping off his Saturday night visit to the pub. He slowed and listened, the overhanging trees up ahead obscuring all sight of the lane that led up to the cottage. Not a sound. He changed gear as the gradient began to bite. He’d not bothered with lights after leaving the pub, knowing the way blindfold and, now his eyes had adjusted, it wasn’t that dark even with the moon hidden behind rain clouds.

  An owl hooted, its mournful cry floating into the rain-sodden air. A fox barked, a threatening sound that spooked the sheep in a neighbouring field, making them move restlessly. A dark shadow scuttled across the lane in front of his wheels. He swerved but didn’t slow, knowing full well the badger had already seen him and wasn’t particularly bothered about it. They were nice creatures and he was glad they were sensible enough to have their sett well off the beaten track; somewhere cars couldn’t get at them. He detested the carnage on the main road in the mornings when he rode to school, the tarmac resembling a charnel house and littered with corpses.