Running

by Barbara Spencer

  Scott gazed at the woman in dismay. ‘You mean he’s not here?’

  ‘No, laddie, that what I’ve been saying. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, is he, Sandy?’

  The man glanced up from sorting left-over newspapers. In his early-twenties, the colour of his hair seemed a reasonable explanation for his name. He finished tying a knot in the piece of string holding the bundle together. ‘People haven’t seen him for years,’ he said.

  The bell jangled again as Hilary followed Scott into the shop. One look at his face told her the news.

  ‘Is it him in particular? Meybe I can help, I’m the post mistress,’ the older woman said.

  ‘I wanted to ask him about someone called Sky Masterson. Do you have an address? Could I write to him?’

  ‘Masterson?’ The woman shook her head, her manner kindly but not overly concerned. ‘No one of that name round here.’

  ‘I know that, but I hoped Mr Nicely would know him,’ Scott persisted. ‘Are you positive you don’t have an address?’

  ‘We might find one, laddie, but I can’t promise he’s still living. Call in tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay! In the morning?’ Scott caught his tone of voice, it sounded desperate.

  The woman studied him closely. Scott flinched, wondering if she’d noticed how upset he was. She nodded. ‘I’ll check through the files tonight, if that will suit.’

  ‘Thanks. Come on,’ he said to Hilary. ‘Let’s get back to the hostel.’ He hesitated. ‘Where can we get a decent meal – not expensive?’

  Sandy walked round the counter accompanying them to the door. He stood in the doorway and pointed. ‘Go left out of the square and then first left – there’s a decent fish and chip shop. It’s in the backstreets – if you see what I mean – but you can eat there.’

  ‘Och! They won’t be wanting fish and chips, Sandy. They can get those in England. There’s three good restaurants in the village – all on the main street where the hostel is. You can’t miss them.’

  ‘Fish and chips will be just fine – our budget can stretch to that. Thanks, Sandy.’ Hilary said politely, pushing Scott out of the door. ‘Bye.’

  ‘Good luck, I hope you find your friend.’

  Bleary-eyed, Scott gazed round the emptiness of the little fish and chip café, steam and hot fat sizzling away in the steel fryers spiralling up into the air. A desultory queue of two small boys waited patiently by the counter for their pieces of cod to be cooked, a pile of chips already in the warmer. Scott gazed at the boys indignantly, as if they were personally responsible for the rubbish quality of the chips. He glared down at his plate with dislike and added some more ketchup to disguise their sogginess.

  He still felt tired even after sleeping for two hours. And he would happily have slept longer, if Hilary hadn’t nagged at one of the guests to go up and wake him. All he wanted was for morning to come. He checked his watch impatiently. It had been half-eight before they had set out to eat.

  ‘We go to bed early round here,’ the manager at the hostel had informed them, handing across a key. ‘Visitors are usually up and about by six, so I lock the main door at half-nine. In any case you won’t find much open at this time of the year. A couple of pubs, except you’re too young for pubs. There’s a good television in the lounge.’

  Scott pulled back the half-curtains screening the café window. The windows were steamed up. He rubbed at them to clear the glass and peered out into the street. It was deserted, dark without street lamps, and empty except for a couple of cars and a van, neatly parked against the kerb. ‘We’d have been better off spending more money and eating in that restaurant we passed,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ve got Dad’s card, we could have used that.’

  ‘Why don’t you hire a plane and drag a banner behind it, announcing to the world that Scott Anderson is at Loch Lomond.’

  ‘Okay! Okay! So how much money have we got left?’ He scowled at Hilary as if it were her fault they were short of money.

  ‘Not a lot, not after buying clean T-shirts and underwear, but enough for another night here, if we have to. Then we must trek south again. Can’t risk using the machine here.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll find the address?’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud, Scott, give it a rest.’ Impatiently, Hilary pushed her plate away. ‘You’ve asked that at least a trillion times,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t know. She’d better. I can’t stand much more of you in this mood.’

  ‘Then leave. I’ll do it on my own.’

  Hilary got to her feet, grasping the back of her chair. ‘Do you know, Scott Anderson, I might just do that.’

  ‘Where’re you going?’ Scott gasped, watching her walk away.

  ‘Back to the hostel,’ she opened the door. It was pitch black outside, the street-lamps dim. ‘But I warn you if you aren’t in a better mood in the morning I will go.’

  ‘That’s fine with me,’ he retorted.

  He glared down at the table determined not to look up again until he heard the door slam. He’d wanted to be shot of her ever since Birmingham. Now, with a bit of luck, she’d clear off altogether. He chased a chip gloomily round his plate, angry now at his own boorish behaviour. He frowned remembering one of his dad’s favourite lectures: never let a row go overnight. He and Jay were always rowing but they always made up straight after and had stayed best friends. Feeling guilty, he stared at the door, wishing Hilary would come back in so he could apologise. She might be a right pain but she had saved his life. He jumped up, pushing aside his half-eaten meal.

  ‘Thanks,’ he called to the girl behind the counter. But no thanks, he added to himself.

  Pulling the door to behind him, he broke into a run, crossing the narrow street, concentrating on catching up with Hilary.

  Hands grabbed him and a voice whispered, ‘Sorry, lad.’ A hood was flung over his head and his arms pulled roughly back and tied at the elbow. He kicked out knowing it was two against one. He heard a sharp intake of breath as his foot landed on someone’s shin. But it wasn’t enough. He found himself being dragged along the roadway and he yelled out, his voice muffled by the hood. He kicked out again, wriggling like an eel, knowing his attacker would have some serious bruises and glad of it. Next second, he was being manhandled into a vehicle. He fell forward, landing heavily, banging his knees and elbows against its metallic surface, and cried out.

  A hand touched his shoulder. ‘That you, Scott?’

  ‘Hilary! You tied up like me?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yeah, never saw them. I could kick myself but I was so furious with you.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Scott. ‘I was horrid.’

  ‘And I’m a know-it-all.’

  Scott shuffled round a bit and stretched out his hand. Hilary’s fingers met his and he clutched them, instantly feeling happy again, his anger gone – which was downright stupid because now they were in one hell of a mess.

  EIGHTEEN

  Their journey was long and bumpy. Scott, bruised and shaken, began to wonder if the driver was deliberately aiming his van at every pothole, in revenge for being kicked. Only once had they passed another vehicle, a sudden increase of pressure from Hilary’s hand, telling him she had noted it, too.

  Inside his hood he found nothing except a place in which to learn about fear. Yet Scott had no interest in that particular lesson – surprised by his anger, which kept him focussed and listening out for sounds and clues. At least the voices of their captors were not those of the men in his motel room. Their accents had been the ugly nasal twang of the midlands, rough sounding, ideally suited to their calling with its callous and violent actions. These voices echoed with the soft burr that surrounded you wherever you walked in the small town.

  He felt the van stop. Next second the door opened and a keen moorland wind, its edges tipped with ice, flooded in. Someone helped him sit up. Then he was on his feet and outside in the fresh air. He felt hands patting him down.

  He heard the sound of heels scuffing against a metal floor.
Automatically, he turned towards it, forgetting he could see nothing. ‘Hilary? You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, course.’

  He heard her yell. ‘Hey – that’s mine.’

  Then a second voice, its Scottish burr very evident. ‘My, what have we got here?’

  ‘I haven’t seen one of those for ages,’ the man holding Scott’s elbow said.

  ‘What is it, Hilary?’ Scott shouted. He struggled trying to rid himself of his hood, frustrated that he couldn’t see. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Calm down, lad, no one’s going to hurt you. But we had to remove your girlfriend’s weapon. American Secret Service issue, if I’m not mistaken. You going to tell us where you got it, lassie?’

  ‘Go stuff yourself.’

  The man holding Scott laughed. ‘Suit yourself. There’s some steps and we have to go down them. If you’re sensible and give me your word you won’t remove your hood, I’ll release your arms – okay, lad?’

  Scott nodded. Instantly, the strap pinning his arms was loosened and his hand placed on a sloping handrail. He felt for the edge of the step fumbling his way down. At the bottom he sensed warmth and light.

  ‘Hoods off, we’re there.’

  The door closed. Scott tore his hood off, squinting painfully at the empty room, his body shuddering violently in reaction to the cold and hurt.

  Hilary rubbed her eyes, blinking like an owl. ‘At least it’s not the same people,’ she said, massaging her arms to restore their circulation.

  ‘As Birmingham, I agree.’ Scott took a wary step into the room. ‘And I don’t think they’re going to hurt us. But where are we?’

  The room was bare and there were no windows, but you really wouldn’t expect that, not if they were underground. White plaster dust had trickled down the wall, leaving soft mounds like ants’ nests on the floor, where it had flaked away beneath the screws fixing the electric cables into the stonework. A couple of chairs nestled against a plain pine table, above them a single light bulb. Along one wall, a stone flight of steps, covered by a ramp, rose up towards a heavy door with iron hinges.

  ‘I think we’re in a castle,’ he said, answering his own question.

  They heard the click of a latch and the door at the top of the stairs opened. A wheel-chair appeared. Its occupant was an old man, his face a series of tram-lines radiating outwards, like the flight-path over Europe, with sparse white hair clinging to the back of his head. A bright plaid rug was draped over him from the waist down, concealing his legs.

  ‘I apologise for your somewhat melodramatic invitation, I hope you have not taken hurt?’ The voice was not Scottish, rather the plummy accent of a movie star straight out of a black and white film, so popular in the previous century.

  ‘I could have done without the bruises,’ Scott said, rubbing his arm where the strap had cut in.

  Hilary pulled out a chair and sat down, carefully retying her pony tail. ‘You could have simply asked us to visit you, like normal people,’ she said, her voice quite calm.

  ‘Indeed we could, except that I remain to be convinced that you are normal people. In Scotland, we are somewhat chary about handing our address to strangers; you never know who might come calling.’

  The electric motor purred as the wheelchair negotiated the ramp. It stopped part way down, remaining slightly above the two teenagers and forcing them to look up at their captor. ‘Your name, young lady?’

  ‘My name’s Hilary Stone and I work for the American Secret Service.’

  ‘Is it my extreme antiquity or is authority becoming younger every day? What are you doing in England, never mind Scotland?’

  ‘Trying to keep Scott safe, sir.’

  ‘Scott, I presume, is the young man you are travelling with?’

  ‘Hang on, Hilary!’ Scott rounded angrily on the old man. ‘Why should we answer your questions? How do we know you’re not one of them?’

  ‘My dear boy, my accent alone would fail me at the first interview,’ the old man responded merrily. ‘Something your partner in crime has doubtless recognised, which is why she is sensibly sharing information.’

  ‘That true?’

  ‘What do you think? We go into a shop and ask for James Nicely. Next thing we’re being bundled into a van.’ Hilary shrugged. ‘I recognised the man from the shop – Sandy. I thought it odd at the time,’ she continued eagerly, ‘why he recommended that horrid fish and chip place, when there were three restaurants on the high street. In any case the van spent most of its time going round in circles.’

  The old man laughed delightedly. ‘And how did you reach such a fascinating conclusion?’

  Hilary smiled at him. ‘There was a waterfall. I heard it a second time and memorised that stretch of road. When I heard it a third time and felt the bumps,’ she rubbed her haunches, ‘I knew I was right. Except, right at the end, the van headed out on to the moor.’

  The old man applauded the sound echoing round the empty room. ‘Did you hear that, Sandy?’ he called.

  A head appeared at the top of the stairs. Scott recognised the man from the post office. ‘I heard.’

  ‘Your elaborate plan failed miserably and, to top it all, the young people had a most disgraceful dinner.’

  The head nodded. ‘I’ll get tea,’ it said and disappeared.

  ‘Are you James Nicely?’

  ‘And you are Sky Masterson.’ The man smiled and, swivelling his chair in a tight circle, directed it back up the ramp.

  ‘H … h …how do you know that?’ Scott stuttered.

  ‘You are so very like your mother. I think it might be appropriate, since we have now come to the conclusion we are on the same side, to relocate to somewhat more congenial surroundings. Ah! But I forgot.’ The chair stopped. The old man directed his piercing glance at Hilary. ‘There appears to be a problem with our friends in the American Secret Service. They have developed a nasty little habit of whispering secrets to the enemy, which might, in the present circumstances, be construed as somewhat dangerous.’

  Hilary flushed. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Scott’s not convinced, either.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he protested loyally.

  ‘No, you’re not. Whenever anything happens, the first thing you wonder, is it me?’

  Scott stayed silent.

  ‘And is it?’ James Nicely’s voice was stern.

  ‘No!’ Hilary shook her head, her pony tail flipping from side to side. ‘Only problem is I could be the bad guy saying this. Except I’m not! But it’s got me so freaked I daren’t even contact my boss, in case it’s him. And we need him! Scott and me, we’re on our own and somewhere out there is a highly organised team of men, who are somehow connected to government. They’ve got Scott’s dad – now they want him. And you’ve got my gun.’

  ‘Your gun will be restored to you when you leave, since I have no doubt you are most capable of handling it.’ The chair headed out through the door at the top of the stairs.

  ‘He believed you!’

  Hilary laughed at the expression of bewilderment on Scott’s face. ‘It would be nice if you did,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and find out how he knew your mother.’

  The fire gleamed: glowing wells of heat burst into flame, pushing out clouds of peat-scented smoke. Tapestries of long-forgotten battles hung from the heavy stone walls, their muted colours a testament to youth and movement; while thick brocade curtains, suspended from black iron rods, had been strung across the top of the windows to keep out the bitter night air. A semicircle of deep armchairs and sofas snuggled round the fire, creating a sheltered, almost cosy atmosphere; a pathway left clear for the wheelchair to make its way unhindered to its accustomed place on the left side of the fireplace – a pair of spectacles, lodged in an open book, on a small table nearby.

  The stories had been thrashed out, the elegant tones of James Nicely’s voice belying an eager and warm nature that invited confidences. Here Scott felt comfortable – secure – the anxieties of the past few days wiped out.

/>   Sandy came in with a fresh pot of tea and scones still warm from the oven. Scott felt reluctant to move, as if movement itself would create new problems. Idly, he glanced down at his watch. It was after twelve. Who on earth baked scones that late? Whoever it was they were extremely welcome, since he felt both hungry and thirsty after talking non-stop for twenty minutes. He’d gone over everything that had happened up to that point, confident enough, in this nucleus of safety, to allow frightening incidents to take on the hue of a tale related simply for entertainment; everything, that is, except for the earthquake and how his mother had been caught up in it. That remained the stuff of nightmares.

  ‘She was my brightest pupil.’

  The old man had ignored the offer of tea, raising his eyebrows at Sandy and nodding as he was shown a whisky bottle.

  ‘I was lecturing at Cambridge when your mother arrived to take her doctorate,’ he said. ‘That’s where she became interested in viruses. The British refused funding so the Americans switched the entire operation to California. I went too. She met your father there.’ James Nicely beamed at Scott.

  ‘The project was named Styrus. There were nine of us plus ancillary staff, for inputting data. We had almost cracked it. Naively the Americans, instead of keeping it under wraps, began boasting of its power and erroneously it assumed the mantle of a threat to global stability. Have you heard of Star Wars?’

  Hilary said, ‘I have.’

  ‘Then you will have read how foolishly the Americans acted, putting their own interests before their allies, provoking the Russians into resuming the Cold War.’

  ‘I’m an American,’ she protested.