Running

by Barbara Spencer

  He slid his bike to a halt, near where he’d seen the Ministry van parked the previous morning. Looming above him, no more than three hundred metres away now, was the shadowy silhouette of the house – its oblong shape densely black. He dismounted carefully aware that any sound would carry across the still air and leant his bike up against the gate. Then, using the stile, dropped down into the field. From here up to the house there were no sheep to startle, the field empty. Cautiously, keeping close to the hedge for cover, he crossed to the far side.

  His stomach griped and he stopped – exhaling slowly through his mouth – as he’d been taught. That had been on the mountain when he had slipped and, after a heart-stopping rush downwards, had jerked to a halt, held only by a rope.

  His dad’s voice had never changed. ‘Scott – take some slow breaths,’ he had said, his tone as calm as if they were standing by a window gazing out at the view. All Scott wanted to do was grab at the nearest rock, but his dad’s voice had stopped him. He did as he was told, breathing slowly and steadily, concentrating on that alone, and trying to ignore his swinging body until he felt the panic begin to subside. Only then had he reached out to the rock, to search for a hand hold. He felt the rope slacken as he took control once more. ‘Atta boy,’ his dad had called out.

  Now, Scott felt his muscles begin to relax, that terrible sensation of cold fear leaving him. The slope drifted up towards the back of the garage, the field separated from their small garden by a low wall. He was close enough now to make out the windows at the back; his bedroom with his dad’s on the far side, both overlooking the garden with its pastoral scenes from countryside calendars of fields and wooded copses.

  A narrow path hugged the walls of the garage, circling round into the yard at the front. Here, the double wooden doors were in constant use, either by the four-wheel-drive or the motorbike. In summer, when the lawn needed mowing and borders weeding, the narrow doorway at the back was left open, but always locked at night.

  He paused, hesitating. He might be familiar with its layout better than anyone except his dad, but how was he to get in without being spotted? He frowned, the realisation that he was on his own suddenly hitting home. Still, I can find out, can’t I, he thought, then get help.

  The slope increased, the grass greasy under the rain. Wishing he was wearing his climbing boots instead of trainers, he gripped the long grassy tufts with his hands to stop his feet slipping. He moved even more cautiously now covering the final ten metres, a heavy stone wall barring his view into the garden. Keeping tight to the rock, he shinned over and dropped to the ground, a flowering currant bush shielding him from anyone watching from the window.

  Without warning, a hand clamped itself over his mouth, another tight across his chest. His fingers flew up, clawing at the hand pressed against his nose and mouth, but the arms of his attacker were like steel. Scott couldn’t move, his lungs gasping painfully as they were denied oxygen.

  A voice hissed in his ear. ‘Not a sound! If you move or shout, you’ll find yourself dead.’

  SIX

  Scott froze, his arms dropping down to his side. He could do nothing anyway, his attacker far too strong. How could he have been so stupid? Climbing over the wall on top of someone watching the house! Of all the crazy … why had he come … his dad had warned him to stay away … useless … how could he possibly help Dad now … he was a prisoner too!

  His head tightened as waves of dizziness swept over his body. He fell forwards and put a hand down to the ground to steady himself. The fingers, gripping his mouth and nose, relaxed slightly and he dragged in a life-saving breath.

  ‘Listen to me carefully,’ the voice whispered in his ear. He didn’t recognise it – but why should he?

  ‘The name’s Sean Terry.’

  Scott started. He’d heard that name and just recently but who …? He tried to clear his head, to think, to remember, but found nothing there beyond the need to keep breathing.

  ‘I’ll let you go – but listen first. There’s somebody inside the house, waiting for you, I guess. I don’t know who they are but until we have them safe, not a sound, okay?’

  Scott nodded and touched the hand, pulling at the fingers. Immediately, the band of iron clutching his arms and chest vanished, allowing him to breathe deeply sucking in the welcome air, his straining pulse already beginning to steady. Silently, he massaged his forearms, feeling the bruises well up from the force of the man’s grip. Inching round sideways, he tried to get a look at his attacker’s face, staring instead at the outline of a gun.

  Scott was as scared as he had ever been in his life. It was like falling off the mountainside again; although then he’d simply been frightened. Now, to his surprise, excitement was jumbled up with fear. He swallowed; the sound in his ears so loud they could have heard it in the house. But how did the man with the gun know there was someone in the house?

  ‘Who are you – the police?’ he whispered at the black silhouette.

  ‘All in good time. Stay down and don’t move.’

  As far as Scott was concerned, they were alone in the garden. He couldn’t see anyone else, but then he’d never spotted the man with the gun, had he?

  He heard a muffled whisper, ‘Go!’ Two bushes changed shape, elongating into dark figures. In a crouching run, they disappeared round the corner of the garage towards the front of the house. They made no sound. All at once a blaze of light appeared, the cottage and workroom as bright as day. A voice cut across the silence.

  ‘Inside the house – come out – your hands held high.’

  At that instant memory hit a home run. Jean at the pub had spoken about someone making enquiries about his dad, a reporter called Sean Terry. Scott swung round, the words: But you’re a reporter, on the tip of his tongue, when the man beside him stirred. He caught the whispered words, ‘Use stun.’

  The night sky exploded. One of the windows in the cottage burst outwards in a shower of glass and a figure hurtled out, somersaulting to its feet. The sudden crack of an automatic followed – its jagged-staccato beat criss-crossing the night sky. Scott nose-dived into the ground, the flare from the bullets arcing from one side of the garden to the other. Another flash – this time from the yard – and then, shouting. The figure charged down the garden. Sean Terry took careful aim and fired, the noise blasting a trench in the sky. The figure leapt into the air and, from a great height, crashed to the ground and lay still.

  A black shape emerged from under the wall and ran across the garden towards the body. Scott caught the thumbs-down gesture.

  ‘Goddamn it!’ The man beside him stood up. ‘All over – it’s safe now. Your place is probably a bit of a mess but we’ll get it cleaned up as soon as possible.’

  Scott leapt to his feet. Faint sounds came from the yard, but otherwise the night was silent again. In the distance the fox barked sharply.

  ‘Dad!’ he yelled. ‘Dad! Where are you?’ He dived for the path, praying it really was safe and no more bullets were flying. A fleeting glance round the yard showed the garage doors still shut. As far as he could see the studio hadn’t been touched either. But the front door into the kitchen – or what was left of it – stood open. The remainder, blasted into long painted slivers of wood, decorated the paving stones in the yard. Two men dressed in black flak jackets and dark trousers appeared, a third man bundled between them. From the distance, headlights approached up the slope.

  Scott tore through the kitchen door, shouting as he ran. He returned to the yard, his face ashen. ‘He’s not there,’ he said in disbelief. He glowered at the prisoner. ‘Where’s my dad?’ he yelled, pummelling his fists against the man’s chest. ‘If you’ve hurt him, I’ll kill you.’

  The man’s head jerked upright. ‘Your dad’s fine,’ he protested. ‘We only wanted to talk. No need for all this.’

  ‘But why? What do you want him for?’ Scott peered at the man closely. ‘I know you,’ he said, his voice trembling, close to tears. ‘You were driving the Ministry van.�
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  ‘Ministry van?’ Sean Terry said from behind him.

  Scott swung round to find the reporter almost treading on his heels. He flinched and stepped back a pace. ‘Yes, they were checking the farmer’s sheep for radiation, only yesterday.’

  ‘Were they now! That’s interesting. So where is he?’ Sean Terry demanded.

  ‘I don’t know. We were waiting for the kid. I told you.’ The man yelped loudly, as his arms were roughly pulled back. ‘Okay! Okay! Take it easy. Set me loose. I’ll talk but let me go.’

  ‘Talk first. Then we’ll see.’ Sean Terry spoke to the men guarding him. ‘Take him back to headquarters and find out what he knows. Come on, Scott – let’s get in out of this wet.’

  ‘But what about the garage and studio, he might be in there. Have you searched?’

  A third man, his face streaked with black lines, was leaning comfortably against the wall, adjacent to where the front door had been, an automatic propped up next to him. He nodded in a friendly fashion to Scott.

  ‘Name’s Pete. Sorry, kid, our prisoner told the truth. There’s no one here. We checked the house first of all – it was empty, so was the garidge,’ he shrugged. ‘The studio’s locked and I figured I wouldn’t win any popularity contests if I bust down two of your doors in one night, so I was kind’a hopin’ you had a key?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a spare.’ Scott said eagerly. He hurried back into the kitchen pulling open the door to the cupboard, where they kept the vacuum cleaner and iron. He lifted the key from its hook and hesitated, his hand in mid-air. Holy crap! He had to get a grip. What was he doing rushing to help, when he didn’t know if he could even trust them? He spun round to ask the question and found Pete right behind him. Scott caught sight of the man’s feet. He was wearing trainers but even so he had to move like a cat.

  ‘Relax, kid.’ Pete took the key from Scott’s grip and gave him a friendly grin. ‘We may not look it but we’re actually the good guys come to save your bacon.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘You’ll get your answers, but do it the boss’s way, okay?’

  Scott hesitated. ‘Okay,’ he agreed reluctantly. ‘But I’m coming with you. Can we check the garage again?’

  ‘There’s nothing to see, I told you, your dad’s not here. Those men were foot soldiers. The prisoner told the truth. They were waiting for you.’

  ‘I still want to see for myself,’ he insisted stubbornly.

  Pete tilted a finger in acknowledgement and led the way back into the yard. Seeing them, Sean Terry immediately broke-off his conversation with one of his men, following on behind. Like I’m a prisoner, thought Scott, trying to conceal a shiver; Pete’s friendly words of little comfort when he’d just seen a man killed.

  He pulled open the double doors, his eyes swivelling from left to right exploring deep into the shadows. It struck him as being unusually cavernous, as though his dad’s disappearance had created an enlarged area of space. But nothing had been touched, everything exactly as should have been. Then he noticed the helmet, jacket and gloves still draped over the bike. He kept his face expressionless, aware that his father had planned to go out again almost immediately. But why? Scott didn’t have the answer to that, but it didn’t take a genius to work out that intruders had broken in while his dad was out and had been waiting for him.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘nothing’s been taken from here.’

  He backed out quickly, hoping no one else had picked up on the jacket and helmet. Hurrying across the yard to the studio, he waited impatiently while Pete fitted the key into the lock. The man turned it, pushing the door open his gun at the ready. The neon tubes flickered and jumped into life as he clicked the switches.

  ‘It’s okay.’ He beckoned them in.

  Automatically, Scott bent down to leave his glasses in their holder. He stifled a gasp. His dad’s specs were still in their usual place on the table. For a brief second hope flared. It didn’t last, the workroom obviously empty.

  He hung back in the doorway, acutely aware that it was from this studio his dad had vanished. Reluctantly the thought began to take shape; the prisoner had lied. There could have been nothing friendly in the way his dad had been dragged away – it was as a result of something so violent he didn’t even have time to pick his specs up from the table.

  Scott began to feel sick. If only he could curl up on his bed and go to sleep and not have to think any more. If he did, perhaps in the morning everything would be back to normal. Except it wouldn’t. This time it wasn’t him hanging from the rope but his dad – and it was up to him to get them safe back onto the rock. Scott stared about him, trying to keep his face blank, his actions casual. If any clues existed, they would be here. He swivelled on his heel to inspect the door for signs of a forced entry, knowing it to be a waste of time. If there had been even the faintest suspicion that something was wrong, his dad would never have walked into the trap.

  At first glance the room appeared much as usual, each piece of equipment, highlighted by powerful lights, emerging strangely stark and solitary, their overlapping brightness wiping out any shadow. The posters leapt out of the wall, as if they were new and he had never seen them before; the scarlet Suzuki jarring incongruously against its background of plain cream emulsion. The monitors were still in place but the box containing the hard drive had vanished, leaving a large gap where it had once stood.

  ‘The computer’s gone.’ Reaching behind him, he quickly picked up his dad’s specs, slipping them unnoticed into his pocket.

  ‘Anything else?’ Sean Terry asked, restlessly prowling round the room. Drawing back the blinds he peered out.

  Scott hesitated, Pete’s words still ringing in his ears. ‘You expect me to tell you stuff when I don’t even know who you are? Or how you knew Dad was missing, when I didn’t know it myself?’

  ‘That’s not strictly true, kid.’ Pete grinned at Scott, the wall keeping him upright. ‘Unless that’s the usual way you enter your house?’

  Scott flushed.

  ‘I asked if there was anything else missing?’ Sean Terry repeated, in a voice like sandpaper.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Pete, get one of the boys to check for prints. There won’t be any but you may get lucky. Come with me, Scott. Nothing more you can do here.’

  Scott followed the long, thin figure into his own house, kicking off his muddy trainers at the door. None of it felt real, not even the man walking in front of him. From behind he resembled some species of stick insect, the weedy before bloke in an ad-campaign for protein supplements designed to build muscle; his jacket and trousers flapping loosely against his bony frame. Except he wasn’t. Scott winced, vividly recalling the arms clutching him, with their tendons of steel.

  The kitchen was a mess. Whoever the men were, they’d been waiting there a while. Cupboards had been raided and empty crisp packets lay on the floor, dirty cups by the kitchen sink. His dad would never have left it like that. Scott checked round the small house yet again, the bedrooms, even the bathroom – still hoping. Reluctantly, he returned to the kitchen.

  ‘He’s not there,’ he said, as if the reality was only now beginning to sink in.

  Sean Terry picked up the kettle carrying it to the sink to fill it. ‘Okay, if I make us a drink, the guys could do with it?’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘It’s okay, Scott. I heard. Your dad’s missing. Get dry first, we’ll talk then.’

  Angrily Scott headed for his room and slammed the door. Crashing down on the bed, he buried his face in his hands. Who were they? A reporter that carried a gun? And the others? They weren’t English police – so who? And how did they know his dad was missing even before he did? Scott raised his head, staring blankly at the wall. Exactly! How did they know? Where had they come from and how did they know how to find the cottage? And how many were there? There’d been three in the garden, their faces blacked out and two in the yard.

  Scott closed his eyes vividly r
ecollecting the time he’d been surfing and his board had been caught in a strong current, sweeping him out to sea. There’d been nothing he could do about that, either. Calling for help had been a waste of breath; no one on shore able to hear him. Only one possibility – ride the current till it petered out. By then he was way out, the people on the shore minute dots, like ink spots on a sheet of paper. Still, he hadn’t panicked. Instead, he had set a parallel course to the shore, freed himself from the current’s clutches and, taking control, slowly paddled back in. This was the same. Somehow he had to get back to shore.

  He leapt to his feet, for the first time aware he was both wet and muddy. He stripped off his jacket and trousers – at the last minute remembering to change over the contents of his pockets; his phone and some money.

  A knock came on his door. ‘You decent?’ The door opened and a stubble-bound chin, preceding a pair of tight blue eyes, appeared. ‘Okay?’ Sean Terry looked enquiringly at the boy sitting on the bed. Scott nodded. ‘Did they touch your room?’

  ‘They’ve been in but I don’t even know what they were looking for, Mr Terry, so how can I tell if anything’s gone?’ Scott’s caught his voice – even he could hear its whine. It sounded as miserable as he felt. And right now he didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself.

  ‘No good pounding your pillows and feeling sorry for yourself,’ his dad used to say, when he had a bad day at school. ‘Get angry and take it out on your bike or the swimming pool.’

  ‘Name’s Sean. I’ve made coffee … interested?’

  It was hard, like acting in a play. He clenched his teeth, pumping himself up to sound angry and frustrated, looking the reporter straight in the eye. ‘I’ll get some tea, thanks.’