Running

by Barbara Spencer

  Scott listened intently, understanding the words but somehow unable to relate them either to him or his father, as if the old man was reading a story from a book.

  ‘So you are, Hilary, but I trust you belong to the fifty percent that make up the enlightened section.’ James Nicely tilted his glass to the light, its contents the colour of amber, and took a sip.‘They appreciate that foreign policy will forever be the undoing of their country.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The World Symposium appeared. It was heralded as the greatest event of the millennium, a unique opportunity to promote world-understanding. Naturally scientists flocked to be part of it. At the very last second two members of our team were called away.’ He tilted his glass towards Scott. ‘Your father and David Runyon.’ He smiled cheerfully, as though he was recounting an amusing anecdote, not a story of murder, told in the middle of the night to a captive audience. ‘Tragic, we branded their absence at the time, to miss an event of such magnitude taking place on our doorstep.

  ‘Prime speeches always took place after dinner – and it was a little after nine when more than a thousand of us eagerly filed into the auditorium. The second night in, men with machine guns appeared.’

  The old man glanced at Hilary. ‘You will doubtless ask why a thousand people could not rush the gunmen. It is quite simple, if you are seated in rows one person can move at a time. It was tried. The men died instantly.

  ‘Names were called, serious names, leading experts in fields relating to both software and hardware development. We were led out of the auditorium towards parkland, where helicopters were waiting.’

  The old man paused, sipping at the amber liquid in his glass. ‘I think it strange, even today, but it was as if some supernatural force intervened. I simply cannot explain it any other way. It was as if the realisation that they weren’t planning to kill us struck everyone at the same time and the entire group stopped and ran back into the building.’

  James Nicely closed his eyes picturing the event. ‘At that precise second …’ Putting down his glass, he raised both hands, the first finger and thumb circling one another, as if to emphasise the point. ‘At that moment,’ he repeated, ‘we heard a vast explosion and the buildings began to rock.’

  As if it had been waiting, holding back until the exact second, the clock in the corner had chimed midnight; the sound lifting Scott and Hilary out of their seats in fright, flinching round to see what had caused it, only the old man remaining unmoved.

  He laughed. ‘I apologise for the melodrama, it was unintentional I assure you.’

  Right after that Scott began to shiver uncontrollably, his imagination filling in the gaps that James Nicely had left out. A vast explosion destroying the lives of a thousand human beings; chaos with people fighting to get back to the auditorium to see what had happened to their friends; others fleeing, trying to escape, his mother among them. The sound of a machine gun reverberated through his head. He clenched his jaw, his teeth chattering as he watched the bodies tumbling through the air to lie still on the ground.

  ‘It was chaos. Unintended, but chaos nevertheless. Looking back, dinner had taken longer than anticipated and we were fifteen minutes late going into the auditorium. Perhaps that was all it took. The men, instructed to take us to safety, lost control and opened fire; hoping, without doubt, to restore their authority. Charlie died instantly and I was left for dead. Your mother …’

  James Nicely gave the faintest of shrugs; Scott’s imagination accompanying the fleeing figure of his mother seeking a way out where none existed, experiencing the panic of the noise and vibration, the dust clouds and the screaming.

  From a distance he heard the calm tones of the old man bringing his story to an end. ‘Fortunately for me, I was found before the tsunami and airlifted to hospital. First the earthquake concealed; then the water washed away all evidence of a crime. But I believe, and have always believed, that the earthquake was triggered to cover up the massacre of the scientists,’ he finished sadly.

  ‘But the Americans didn’t do it,’ Hilary burst out.

  James Nicely smiled: ‘No one in their right mind believes they did.’

  That was when Sandy had come in with fresh tea and scones.

  ‘So how did my father find you?’

  ‘It was almost four years later. David Runyon advertised through the Internet. Years before, when we first met up, the nine of us, somewhat frivolously, had assumed pseudonyms from the musical Guys and Dolls. If I remember correctly, it was your father’s idea. He had an excellent voice and, with A name like Masterson and your mother called Sarah – and, of course, David Runyon – it was the obvious choice. We were young and there was much fun to be had. We worked hard and we played hard.

  ‘My name was originally Neuburg. My family came from Germany, and I sang baritone. The character, Nicely Nicely, appeared a most natural one considering my shape.’ The old man smiled. ‘I had A tendency towards corpulence in middle age,’ he explained. ‘I changed my name for real after I came to Scotland. We survivors followed the clues – rather as you appear to have done, young man. David, knowing the dangers we might still face, insisted we no longer worked together but separately, connected only by mobile phones.’ He paused, shaking his head sadly. ‘So many precautions – none of which we ever thought we’d need. Your father devised a piece of computer software, as an alarm system – and, thank God, he did. David’s best friend, who lived in the flat below, worked for Reuters. He promised to print an obituary, if anything happened to David.’

  ‘And you never met?’ Hilary said.

  ‘Once, not long after we linked up. A celebration of life, for those of us still living. To decide what had to be done, obviously. Who wanted out? Finance?’

  The man in the wheelchair waved an arm nonchalantly around the walls. ‘Finance was no problem. I had money. Who was to continue?’ He looked over at Scott. ‘Your father was determined the project should be completed as a fitting memorial to those who had died. Although from time to time it was a sombre meeting, it was also A noisy one. Disguised as fishermen, rather raucous fishermen, if I remember correctly, I am certain our late-night merrymaking was remembered long after we left.

  ‘I may have given you the impression, Hilary, that no one believed the US behind the disaster. That is not quite correct. At that point we had no idea what to believe. The entire world was busily denying they had anything to do with it, whilst accusing the US – in reality the most likely culprit. But, as in all good detective fiction, rarely do the most obvious suspects commit the dastardly deed.’

  James Nicely broke the tension with a small laugh.

  ‘And so it was here,’ he continued. ‘A s the dust began to settle, we pooled knowledge of the sequence of events of that night. It became apparent that the US, however naïve, had to be innocent. Syd, who had the dubious honour of being nick-named Nathan Detroit, got away, as did David Hart – who we called Dave the Dude. Harry Bentley, alias Harry the Horse because he mirrored the character from the play, a gambler who’d bet on anything with four legs – no trace of him was ever found. Big Jule and Good time Charley were also killed trying to escape – and now your father has been captured,’ he ended sadly.

  ‘Can you help me find him?’

  ‘I can do better than that, young man. He’s in Lisse – in Holland. And already friends are heading for the town.’

  ‘But who’s behind it?’ Hilary asked.

  James Nicely gazed at the boy slumped on the sofa, obviously exhausted.

  ‘That must wait for another day, young lady. I will get Chris to drive you back to the hostel. In the morning, I suggest you collect your things and come back here. You will be safe and there is still much to talk about. If we say eleven o’clock? Make your way to Balloch; I’ll have Chris pick you up in the van. Meanwhile, you have a key for your lodgings?’

  ‘Yes, but I need to contact my people in America and tell them what’s happened.’

  ‘Perhaps we can
discuss that tomorrow. There’s someone I’d like Scott to meet first.’ He spoke directly to Hilary, guessing that Scott could no longer absorb information let alone process it. ‘I know Scott is determined to rescue his father but you have to convince him to leave that to us.’

  ‘Why?’ said Scott, unexpectedly tuning in to the conversation.

  ‘If they get you, Scott, the entire project is put in danger and all those deaths will have been in vain.’

  ‘I don’t care about the project.’

  ‘Scott, what Mr Nicely means, if you get captured your father will have to work for them to keep you alive,’ Hilary said, her face screwed up as if she was saying sorry.

  Scott was finding it difficult to think – everything so jumbled up. ‘But I have to get him out. He’d do that for me,’ he managed. ‘Did you say that you had people already searching for him?’

  ‘Private people – monarchists. You won’t have heard of them.’

  ‘Yes, I have. Dad told me about the rallies happening across Europe he said it was … it was …’ He felt the words slip away and he shook his head to clear it. ‘Growing.’ It wasn’t exactly the word his dad had used but it would have to do.

  ‘Go and sleep. Tomorrow you can meet this person. After that, if you are still determined to seek your father, I will take you to the monarchists.’

  ‘Okay,’ Scott said. ‘I’m dead beat and I know Hilary is. One night won’t make any difference.’

  NINETEEN

  Scott felt something tugging at his arm, making him run, except his feet felt heavy like lead. He woke up with a start to find Hilary shaking him. ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a man downstairs asking questions.’

  Scott leapt out of bed, the words: what are you doing in the boys’ dormitory frozen on his lips. He thrust his legs into his jeans. He didn’t ask good or bad! Hilary wouldn’t have come bursting in for the postman. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’d gone down to breakfast. He was asking the manager about accommodation,’ the girl gasped, her breath coming in fits and starts from her manic dash up two flights of stairs. ‘And did he get many guests? Said they were looking for a boy on a bike. Missing from home, he said. Hurry up!’

  ‘I’m hurrying,’ Scott pulled on his T-shirt and made a dive for the bathroom. ‘I need the loo – man or no man. Don’t go away.’ Carelessly, he sloshed water over his face to wake him up and, grabbing his toothbrush, stuffed it in his pocket. ‘Which way?’

  ‘Fire Escape. Don’t forget your helmet!’

  The sash window slid silently open. They climbed out, their trainers making no noise on the metal treads.

  ‘Will he tell, do you think?’

  ‘You’d better hope not.’ Hilary darted a quick glance over her shoulder. ‘People round here don’t like strangers asking questions, Mr Nicely made that quite clear. Said it had taken him ten years to fit in – but our hostel receptionist? I’m sure he wasn’t police though. Shush!’

  Hilary stepped carefully round the flowerpots decorating the bottom steps of the fire escape and padded softly along the terrace. She viewed the area in front of them with its paths circling round Neatly tended vegetable garden, its rows of seedlings standing out against the dark earth like a regiment of soldiers. Beyond it, nestling crookedly in the wall, was the door to the garage, fifty metres away.

  ‘Not that way,’ said Scott, reading her thoughts. ‘You can see the door through the windows in Reception. If we can reach the lane without being seen, we can use that entrance.’

  ‘But, we’ll be spotted on the front drive,’ Hilary argued, her face white and worried-looking.

  Behind them Aterraced area fell away, to be replaced by square beds full of roses that had recently been pruned, their red buds beginning to burst into tightly-curled leaves. Beyond that, a wide expanse of lawn dissolved into A thickly-wooded coppice of pine trees.

  Through their lower branches Scott caught a glimpse of water. ‘Come on.’

  Grabbing Hilary’s hand he ran hard across the lawn, willing himself not to glance round to see if they’d been spotted. The conifers swallowed them up. Scott dropped to the ground, pulling Hilary down with him. Crawling on his hands and knees, he worked his way back to the edge of the trees, a deep carpet of soft pine needles clinging to his jeans. The tall granite building appeared deserted.

  ‘What now?’ Hilary swallowed hard, still puffing from their mad dash across the lawn.

  ‘We can get to the loch through these trees and then straight back up the lane. Come on.’

  Hilary pulled at Scott’s jacket and grabbed his hand, holding it tightly. ‘So how did they find us this time?’ Her voice sounded frightened, its confident tone missing.

  Scott bit his lip. They were tired, both of them. Besides it wasn’t fair on Hilary. At the beginning she had played it like a game, to get the better of her boss and one up on the bad guys.ow, she was exhausted and the chase had begun to resemble a long journey into hopelessness. Tiredness did that to you. His dad had told him that. ‘When you’re tired, Scott, a big, black boulder, almost too heavy to bear, appears on your back. Get some sleep; it’s surprising how light that boulder becomes after a good night’s rest.’ Scott checked his watch. They’d only had four hours. No wonder Hilary was upset.

  ‘I don’t know how they got here,’ he re-assured her, ‘but it wasn’t …’

  ‘I checked the bike,’ Hilary broke in, ‘when I removed my bug. It was clean, I promise you, so how did they find us so quickly? There are no towers and your specs are miles away. So that leaves …’

  ‘James Nicely.’ Scott finished for her. ‘But it wasn’t him and it wasn’t you,’ he insisted, looking her full in the face. ‘I don’t know who it was, but somehow we are going to get out of here.’

  ‘And go where?’

  The second-floor window opened and a man’s head appeared.

  ‘Anywhere but here!’ he shouted. ‘Run!’

  The carpet of pine needles absorbed the sound of their racing feet, their jackets unfastened and flying open. Their helmets, clutched in their hands, swung wildly as they wove through the pole-like trunks of the pine trees, the glimmer of water expanding as they ran towards it. They jumped the ditch on to the lane and stopped.

  It was peaceful, no different from the day before. Scott glanced at Hilary knowing she felt like him, an overwhelming desire to keep on going, yet keenly aware that flying feet on a country lane, more used to the strolling feet of tourists, would invite comment.

  Slowing their pace, they set off up the lane with Hilary heroically playing the part of an eager tourist, gazing in rapture at polished windows and neatly-dug gardens. But Scott knew she wasn’t seeing them.

  He studied her face, noticing the tension in it, aware of the effort she was putting into keeping her steps slow and leisurely. Hilary was really scared. The thought shocked him. For the first time her air of confidence had deserted her and she was looking to him for answers. And, right now, he knew exactly what she was seeing – the same as him – the man at the window, gun in hand, tearing down the fire escape to pursue them through the wood.

  They rounded the bend. On the far side of the tall wall was the garden through which, moments before, they had fled for their lives and, beyond that, not fifty metres away, the hostel with its intruder asking questions and demanding answers. Just visible, behind the broken brickwork of the wall and half that distance again – sanctuary – the heavy wooden doors of the garage, its sun-blasted green paint peeling off in long wispy curls.

  Scott hesitated, his foot poised to take the next step. He put out his hand to stop Hilary going further and touched the snub nose of the Colt in her hand.

  ‘I’ll check,’ she said grimly.

  ‘No!’ Unexpectedly, a feeling of light-heartedness overtook him and he broke into a jog. ‘Same format as before. You shoot – I’ll steer.’ He pulled open the garage door, confidence powering through him at the sight of the Suzuki. It felt like coming home. He w
as already wearing his leather jacket, reluctant to be parted from it in the keen Scottish air. Quickly strapping on his helmet, he pulled the keys from his pocket, feeling safe again. ‘We have to see Mr Nicely. He’s the key to all this I know. Besides we’ll be safe there.’ He shifted sideways on, speaking confidently. ‘If we couldn’t find his house without a guide, neither can anyone else; so we make our way to Balloch as planned.’

  ‘No! We need the police,’ Hilary said, climbing up behind him.

  ‘And say what? And what happens if they’re in on it?’

  ‘I don’t think they are, Scott. At least you’d be safe.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ he shouted angrily, his feeling of euphoria vanished. ‘In any case, I doubt if they’d listen, even to me our story sounds crazy.’ He waited a moment for Hilary to come up with some argument but she remained silent. ‘Nothing’s changed, unless you know something I don’t.’

  He felt Hilary flinch as if he’d hit her. ‘Oh for pity’s sake, Scott,’ she snapped. ‘And I still think you should go to the police.’

  ‘No, I’m going to keep that appointment.’ The Suzuki roared into life. ‘You don’t have to come, Hilary. The offer still stands. I’ll drop you at the bus stop.’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ she growled sullenly. ‘It’s my job, remember.’

  Two seconds later the narrow alleys of Arden had been left behind. In a blur of speed, the bike headed south, a streak of red surrounded on both sides by the menacing darkness of the hills overlooking the loch.

  TWENTY

  How the hell did they find us this time? The thought pursued Scott relentlessly, his mind replaying the events of the past two days over and over, hardly noticing his surroundings except as a check they were heading in the right direction.

  He braked sharply, almost cannoning into a sheep nibbling the grass at the side of the road, a gap in the dry-stone walling creating an avenue of escape from the arid moorland. Up ahead, half a dozen animals milled about, searching for fresh green stems.