Running

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘Tall and thin, dark hair with designer stubble,’ Hilary said, from behind her flowers.

  Scott crouched down against the wall, his head in his hands. The nightmare had resurfaced; he could sense it crowding in on him, making him want to run, to get away. He hated feeling like that. His dad had always encouraged him to face what frightened him. But this? There was nothing rational about this fear. It was like a black mass hovering just out of sight with Sean Terry at its core, leaving him shaking and sick at the sight of him.

  Hilary opened her mouth to speak. She hesitated, a curious expression on her face. ‘It’s okay, Scott, we’ve had worse.’ She bent down and put her arm round his shoulder.

  ‘Not right on our heels,’ he muttered.

  Travers and Mary reappeared.

  ‘He’s still there,’ Travers called. ‘Talking to someone. Can’t see who – a load of tourists in the way.’

  ‘That really puts paid to wandering round the town,’ Scott’s voice took on a bleak, empty tone. ‘I wish I was brave enough to go right up to him and demand to see Dad. You can bet your life if I did confront Terry, he’d deny everything – say he was looking for Dad too. Next minute some big black car would appear and bundle me into it.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Hilary argued.

  ‘You willing to give me guarantee?’ Scott hurled at her. ‘If you’re that convinced – you walk up to him ’cos I’m not risking it. The only way I know to save Dad is by staying alive and free.’

  Mary, seeing that Scott was close to losing it, slipped her arm through his. ‘She didn’t mean it like that, Scott.’ She screwed up her face at Hilary. ‘What she really meant was … er … that we don’t know anything for certain. But we have to hang together – don’t fall out now.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  A motley collection of bars and coffee houses had replaced the pertly smiling shops of the main street projecting a seedy image, with fresh paint and clean windows left at the top of the alley. The dingy buildings huddled together, destroying what little light the rain-filled clouds had allowed through. No one was about, the bars tightly shuttered till night; only a beggar sheltering from the drizzle under a wall, Atarpaulin draped over his head to keep him dry. He called out, holding his hand in the air and Mary, grateful for anything that relieved the tension between Scott and Hilary, dropped some coins into it.

  ‘I agree.’ Travers put an arm round Scott’s shoulders. ‘No good falling out.’ He stopped, glancing casually at the shop windows, selling liquor and tobacco and cheap souvenirs. Some appeared deserted, the shop windows empty except for a string of light bulbs round the edges of the window pane and a chair; a backdrop of material obscuring the shop floor itself. ‘Strange-looking shops,’ he said and burst into laughter.

  ‘What’s up?’ Scott said.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘You’re not going to find anything much down here though, unless you want to get laid.’

  ‘Travers! Honestly!’ Mary broke into a relieved giggle.

  ‘What! But the shops are empty,’ Scott said, gazing round.

  ‘They could be busy,’ Travers smirked.

  ‘Will somebody tell me what you’re all talking about?’ Hilary demanded, her tone indignant.

  ‘Only that Scott has led us straight into the red-light district.’

  ‘Prostitutes, you mean,’ Hilary said, her voice disapproving, as if it was a word she found difficult to say. She glared and grabbed Mary’s arm. ‘In which case, if you don’t mind, I’d quite like to get away from here.’ She peered up and down the small alleyway, as if undecided which way to go.’ You may find it funny, Travers, but I know Mary doesn’t and I’m damn sure I don’t,’ she said pompously.

  Mary laughed. ‘I’m just cross Travers knew about it.’

  ‘You do, too.’ Her boyfriend grinned at her.

  ‘That’s different,’ Mary said. ‘They’re women and I should know what happens to women, but I don’t think you should.’

  ‘That’s cock-eyed logic if ever I heard it,’ Travers protested, forcing a reluctant laugh from Scott.

  ‘I can see why you two are so devoted, you never stop quarrelling. Hang on, Hilary,’ Scott grabbed her by the sleeve. ‘I know that man.’

  The door to one of the shops had opened and a man appeared, lighting a cigarette. Of medium height, his brown hair was thinning and receding from the temples and although his raincoat was smart, and obviously expensive, it fitted rather too snugly, as if its wearer was carrying a few unwanted pounds. He buttoned his coat; the air still filled with a fine drizzle left from the earlier rain storm, his cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth.

  Hilary peered over Scott’s shoulder. ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

  As if he had sensed their interest, the man glanced over his shoulder, giving the alley a cursory inspection. Scott quickly buried his face in the flowers pretending to smell them.

  ‘Hey, watch my flowers will you!’ Hilary yelped.

  ‘I’ll buy you some more. He didn’t see me, though, did he?’ Scott said, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘I could swear he was the man checking George’s sheep. Holy crap! This is getting weird.’

  ‘Sheep!’ Mary exclaimed.

  Scott spoke into the air, keeping his back firmly turned. ‘Yes, Mary. Sheep! The day before Dad disappeared there were these ministry men checking the farmer’s sheep for radiation. I spoke to them. What’s he doing now?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Travers reported. ‘You’re safe.’

  Scott looked after him eagerly, his face vividly alive. ‘It’s him all right, I’d know him anywhere. Come on, let’s follow him.’

  ‘But …’ began Hilary.

  ‘It’s the clue we’ve been waiting for, Hilary, and for that I’d risk meeting your boss any day of the week. Come on. But keep back, he mustn’t spot us.’

  Scott studied the broad back, now more than fifty metres away, memorising his shape, what he was wearing, the way his feet clipped neatly on to the pavement, even though he was walking quite leisurely. Flimsy trails of smoke rose into the air from his cigarette, each step the man took leaving Scott more and more convinced that this was the man that had taken his father.

  Hilary grabbed his arm, pulling him back. ‘You sure, Scott?’ she murmured staring intently at him.

  He watched the strolling figure and pictured him wearing the navy overalls, a gold crest over the pocket, absolutely positive he was right.

  ‘One hundred percent! There were three men.’ He paused remembering the incident of the alarm. If only he’d spoken out! ‘That man – he had an accent. George Beale called him a foreigner.’

  The man appeared to know exactly where he was heading – zigzagging through the narrowing streets; his head constantly half-turned to check for oncoming cyclists and cars, making him difficult to follow. They emerged onto a highway, a sudden break in traffic allowing their quarry to cross unhindered. Scott swore loudly, teetering on the edge of the pavement and stepped carelessly into the road. A car swerved, banging its horn as Hilary hauled him back out of danger.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ she shouted.

  ‘But he’s getting away.’

  He pointed despairingly towards the figure, now vanishing into an underpass, and yanked his arm free.

  On the far side, the outline of Atypical inner-city estate could be seen, a series of apartment blocks huddled together, their tall silhouettes angled into the sky like upended dominoes. At intervals along the kerbside, ugly steel barriers had been erected to prevent small children wandering into the busy thoroughfare.

  Throwing himself almost under the wheels of some approaching cyclists, Scott dived across the road. Travers, grabbing Mary’s arm, followed leaving Hilary to bring up the rear, shouting an apologetic, ‘sorry,’ to the leading group – their brakes screeching in protest. A lorry coming in fast on the far side slowed, its driver impatiently waving the hurrying figures across in front of him.

 
Scott tore through the underpass, closely followed by Travers, loudly protesting that bunches of flowers and a heavy bag weren’t exactly the right gear for a cross-country run.

  He slowed down, allowing his friends to catch up with him.

  ‘Sorry, but he mustn’t escape.’

  ‘We know,’ said Mary, ‘but if he disappears again, you and …’

  ‘Hang on!’ Scott hastily dragged his friends behind the rust-spotted remains of a white van that had been dumped on the grass verge, its wheels no longer in existence.

  Their quarry had stopped by a group of small children, who were squatting on the kerbside playing some game; the girls, with black headscarves covering their hair, adding to sombreness of the atmosphere. As the man passed they had called out, holding up their palms beseechingly. He laughed tossing coins down into their eager hands and casually glanced back over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh hell! Now he’s seen us!’ Scott said, ducking down.

  Never at a loss, Travers wrapped his free arm around Mary’s shoulders and, hugging her towards him, walked slowly out from behind the body of the van, the man still gazing curiously towards them. Travers bent his head and planted a lingering kiss on his girlfriend’s cheek.

  ‘What?’ she exclaimed, startled.

  ‘Acting,’ he whispered. ‘Keep walking,’ he added, his voice stern. ‘He doesn’t know us and, if you’re a good girl, you can have a real one later.’

  ‘Ugh!’ She smiled coyly, nestling her head into his shoulder. ‘Acting,’ she repeated, ‘and don’t you dare think I’m doing this all the time.’

  The man gave a brief smile and, waving to the children, took off across the deserted play area; its scrubby blades of grass battling with winter mud and broken bottles for survival. Against the dark brown of the sky, its metal and wood shapes looked strangely alien. Idly, he tugged at the chains of the solitary swing, setting it in motion.

  Scott waited, his thoughts nagging impatiently, convinced he was the only one totally aware of the magnitude of the clue.

  ‘They won’t let him disappear,’ said Hilary, reading his mind. She peeped round the edge of the van. ‘Okay, we can go now but stick to the paths.’ She tugged on Scott’s arm pointing towards the last of the apartment blocks, their quarry still visible on the far side.

  Sounds of traffic, with bicycle bells ringing out, alerted Scott to a busy main street ahead. He broke into a run, keenly aware that in a street full of people wearing raincoats, their quarry could easily vanish without trace. They arrived in time to see the man enter a coffee house, a plate-glass window giving them a clear view of its interior.

  A waiter had looked up as the door opened, his gesture clearly inviting their quarry to sit down and take the weight off. The two men exchanged words; then the waiter disappeared from view only to reappear a moment later with, what looked like, coffee and a beer on a tray.

  The square was awash with light and movement, its bistros and bustling shops busy; bicycles and cars constantly manoeuvring in and out of parking bays – a far cry from the air of poverty that had hung over the housing estate.

  Travers beckoned. He and Mary were already seated on one of the benches in the busy square, hidden from the coffee shop by several dozen bicycles piled higgledy-piggledy in a bike rack.

  Scott smiled, a sense of excitement lifting his spirits. Once again luck had been on their side and now he felt almost grateful to Sean Terry. If they hadn’t seen him and dived down that alley, they’d still have been looking.

  After ten minutes or so their quarry stood up. Dropping a coin on the table, he strolled out of the café and, casually mounting one of the bicycles parked against a lamppost, rode off down the street.

  Startled, Scott jumped to his feet; the moving silhouette quickly diminishing in the gloom. Then, he was across the square and, grabbing the first bike, set off after him.

  ‘What do think you’re doing?’ Hilary yelled.

  Travers broke into a run. ‘Come on.’

  ‘But the flowers and the bag,’ wailed Mary.

  Travers grabbed one of the machines from the bike stand. ‘I’m borrowing it,’ he called, ‘in case someone asks. I’ll put it back. I’ll follow Scott. You stay here.’

  He pushed down on the pedals and, waving to the two figures staring forlornly after him, sped off. Quickly accelerating, he closed the gap on Scott.

  ‘Well, I like that, leaving us here,’ Mary protested. She swung round in a circle taking in the square. ‘In the middle of nowhere, too.’

  Hilary glared resentfully. ‘I was all set to follow,’ she said, ‘but Travers beat me to it. It infuriates me that boys automatically think girls are useless at anything that requires a bit of action.’

  ‘I don’t expect Travers actually thought,’ Mary defended her boyfriend. ‘It’s the same in a match. His auto-pilot clicks in. And since he looks on us as Ateam – if someone’s in trouble, the one nearest to him goes to help, which usually means Travers. In any case you had your arms full of flowers.’

  ‘You really like him, don’t you?’

  Mary blushed. ‘They’re A nice family,’ she said not committing herself. ‘I adore his mum. His dad’s strange though.’

  ‘Why strange?’ Hilary said, beginning to calm down. ‘He looked fine on the boat – really nice. So funny.’

  ‘He’s that all right. Travers says he’s always flying off to meetings – most of them in Europe. Travers says they’re nothing to do with television either. He gets a phone call and off he goes.’

  Hilary glanced down at her watch. ‘Oh help! It’s gone five. We’d better find a taxi. I don’t feel like finding my way back to the town – not carrying this lot. Only hope the rooms are still there. You got your phone?’

  ‘Yes, Travers will get in touch. Oh!’ Mary groaned. ‘I hope they’re safe.’

  ‘They’d better be,’ Hilary said. ‘I can’t believe Scott left me behind. He, of all people, should have remembered how useful my gun has been.’

  ‘Gun! You’ve got a gun!’ Mary’s eyebrows disappeared into her hair.

  Hilary laughed. ‘How do you think we escaped from the motel?’

  ‘You told us they were shooting at you,’ she said, ‘but you never said you shot back.’

  ‘We must have forgotten to tell you that bit!’

  ‘It seems you and Scott only told us half what’s going on. While we’re waiting, I’m going to hear the rest.’

  Scott wasn’t thinking; his gazed fixed on the dark shape ahead. If he had been he’d never have stolen the bike, particularly not in a foreign country, without a clue as to its laws or what might happen to someone caught breaking them. Holland and England might both belong to the Federation and share the same laws, but Holland was dramatically different from anything Scott had ever experienced; its flatness, its flowers and windmills, driving on the wrong side, carpets on tables in the restaurant – those things alone were enough to convince him – he didn’t need to hear the language, with its guttural-sounding vowels or view the general use of pedal power instead of cars.

  ‘Do you think we can find our way back?’

  Scott swerved, startled to hear Travers’s voice. ‘Where’s Mary and Hilary?’

  ‘Back at the square. I don’t suppose it occurred to you to look at its name?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve got to put the bikes back.’

  Scott gazed down at his bike, as if seeing it for the first time and his anxious expression faded into a grin. ‘Dad’s always telling me I’m too law abiding, that I need to take an occasional risk. Except that’s generally when we off camping, or something to do with school. He might even approve of this. Does it bother you?’

  ‘Not much,’ Travers said. ‘Dad’ll bail me out if we get arrested. I’ll get a lecture but … no.’

  On either side of the road streams of cyclists, their work over for the day, queued at the factory gates, waiting for a break in the traffic to feed into the circulation. Cars added to
the congestion, forced to crawl behind the dozens of bicycles spread across the entire width of the carriageway. Fortunately, the road was straight and the figure riding ahead of them seemingly content to stay on it, which suited Scott fine; knowing their chances of finding the small square again lessened with every turn he took.

  A few minutes later, the wrought-iron railings that marked the boundary of the industrial park disappeared, allowing a main road to cut in from the left. The by-now familiar shape turned across the traffic island and vanished into a small lane bordered by a lone factory building, its sculptured shrubberies investing the site with an air of extreme affluence.

  Scott, checking the name on the building so they could find it again, swerved violently.

  ‘Look out,’ Travers shouted in alarm, steering his bike into the kerb to avoid him.

  Scott stopped and took off his glasses, peering at them. He swore and put them back on.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Travers sounded concerned.

  ‘I’ll explain in a minute. Lend me your specs first.’

  ‘What’s the matter with yours?’

  ‘Not regulation.’ Scott held up his hand. ‘Forgot to tell you that bit.’

  ‘Strikes me you only told us half a story,’ Travers handed across his glasses. ‘So what?’

  ‘Fredericé et cie. That’s the place that makes our glasses.’ Scott pointed to the building, its elegant façade of glass and white panelling interrupted by swirling pillars of dark-grey granite, like the curve of a wave. ‘How weird!’

  ‘What?’

  Scott heaved a sigh. ‘Don’t know. Strange coincidence, that’s all. Come on.’

  The road dwindled into a muddy track. Scott, furious with himself for losing precious minutes, pushed his bike hard until the figure came into view again; although, in the bad light, it was no longer possible to tell if it was even the same person. On either side open fields bordered the lane, with rows of dreary-looking stalks reduced to shades of brown and grey in the half-light. Scott wondered if they could be tulips, although there were no flowers only stalks and leaves.