They celebrated their triumph with a brief war-dance in each other’s arms. Then they set off for Richard’s house, where Richard had stowed Stephen’s clothes in a holdall of his own — “keep it”, he said, “it’ll be something to remind you of me.”
“I’ll never need anything to remind me of you, my darling”, said Stephen, meaning it. “No-one ever had a better friend than you.”
Richard shot back inside and emerged with Stephen’s cricket bag, with the bat that Graham had given him protruding at each end, tucked under the flap. Stephen had forgotten it. “Oh, Richard”, he breathed, trying not to cry, and failing. On second thoughts, however, they decided that it would be an unnecessary burden, so Richard agreed, more than willingly, to take care of it for him, against his return one day.
They set off to Bill’s house, each carrying one of the heavy, over-full holdalls. When they reached the house they clung together in the back garden, saying their farewells as best they could. “I’ve got an exam in the morning”, said Richard sadly, “and I must take it…”
“Of course you must”, hissed Stephen fiercely. “But I’ll be seeing you again soon, don’t worry. This is only goodbye for a while, you know. And as soon as we’re settled in France, you’ll have to come and stay with us. You really must. But I’d better go in now. Goodbye, my darling, and thanks for everything. I couldn’t have done it without you, couldn’t even have started. You deserve someone better than me, with the amount you give.”
But Richard had other ideas. He began fondling Stephen in one of the numerous ways he knew that Stephen was quite unable to resist, and a short while later they made love, oblivious of the discomfort of the situation, on Bill’s lawn, hidden from the blind eyes of the house by a large clump of flowering shrubs. Then at last Richard had to go, and Stephen went out into the road to say goodbye. They embraced and kissed, a last, frenzied, desperate kiss that threatened to go on for the rest of the night. They were both crying silently, big, racking sobs like hiccups, that came in spasms and made breathing difficult. Then Richard worked himself out of Stephen’s arms, and fled silently into the night. Stephen turned, feeling more desolate than he had ever felt in his life, and feeling also a deep, reproachful glow of remorse, almost of treachery, within himself, and crept in through the back door, left unlocked as Bill had promised.
He groped for a light switch, flicked it, and found himself in the kitchen. The first thing his eye lit on was a note, in Bill’s heavy handwriting, propped prominently on the table. Steve, it ran, Help yourself to tea/coffee — things left out for you by kettle. S/wiches in fridge if you want them. Your room’s up stairs, second door on right. Hope all’s well. Do you want waking? If so put time on this note. Good luck. Bill. After Bill’s name, Stephen was touched to see and Christine, added in a neat feminine hand. It was clearly done positively, a small but unequivocal gesture of support, and it touched him more than he could have said. He made himself a mug of coffee and found that he was ravenously hungry, so he ate the sandwiches. Then he used the felt-tipped pen left with the note to write “7.00 a.m. Thanks for everything” on the bottom of the piece of card, and went silently up to his room.
* * *
Stephen sat looking happily out of the windows of the train as it rocketed through Kent, hardly able to believe that the adventure was proceeding so smoothly.
He had woken with a start that morning, still fully dressed as he had dropped onto the bed a few hours before. There was a fleeting moment of dislocation as he stared round the unfamilar room and wondered where he was. Then he saw Bill looming above him, shaking him briskly, and remembered. “You’re a champion snorer, son”, said Bill, grinning. “I thought I was never gonna wake you. That were a coma, not just asleep.”
“Didn’t get to sleep till late”, he said, grinning sleepily up at him. “What time is it?”
“Ten past seven. How’s the enterprising burglar?”
“All right”, said Stephen, sitting up with the instant wakefulness of youth.
“Wish I could still do that”, commented Bill. “Takes me half an hour to wake up after a late one.”
“I got everything I wanted”, Stephen said. “And Graham’s phoned, so I’m off this morning.”
“Where’ll you go?”
“I dunno which station the boat train leaves from. But I’ll have to get a train to London. I’ll ask at the station here.”
“Hmmm”, said Bill. “Might be a bit dodgy. They might realize you’re doing a bunk, and if they do they’re bound to keep a watch on the station. First place they’d look, isn’t it?” He stood in thought for a moment. “Look, I’ll be going to work in ten minutes. If you can be ready I’ll run you in. You can get your ticket when you get there.”
And that had been that. He chattered animatedly to Bill as he fought his way through the dense traffic, and thanked him profusely when he got out of the car at Victoria, which Bill thought was where the boat train for France left from. After that it had been easy. It had been the work of five minutes to ascertain that Bill had been right about the station, and that the boat train left in half an hour, at nine o’clock. The clerk had hardly glanced at him as he had sold him his one-way ticket to Strasbourg and taken sixty-two pounds out of the money he had drawn out the previous day. He had fidgeted nervously while he sat on the train waiting for it to pull out of the platform, his eyes darting this way and that in search of familiar faces or police uniforms. But as soon as it eased itself silently away he relaxed, and was almost instantly asleep.
It was only when he woke, halfway through the sunny Kent countryside, that he remembered the money he had “borrowed” in the burglary the night before — though it now seemed as if it had happened in some distant epoch, almost a previous life. He counted the remaining thirty-odd pounds of the money he had drawn out of the building society the day before, and zipped it up again in the breast pocket of his light windcheater. Then he dug deep in his trouser pocket, where he had thrust the burgled money, and brought it out in a crumpled wad. His eyes opened wide as he saw big fifty-pound notes. He dropped his hands beneath the table and counted four fifties, six twenties, eleven tens. Four hundred and thirty pounds. It was a sum beyond his wildest expectations, far more money than he had ever possessed or imagined possessing. He dug in the other trouser pocket, and brought out the oddments he had found elsewhere in the house. There was another fifteen pounds in five-pound notes. He put the fifteen, and the tens and twenties from the big wad, with his own money. The fifties he zipped up in the other breast pocket, making a mental resolution to put them in an envelope and return them to his father before leaving Dover.
His conscience salved to some extent by this resolution, he devoted half an eye to the paper he had bought on the station, while he watched England flying past outside the hurrying train with most of his attention.
Almost before he knew it the train was slowing down on the approach to Dover West Dock. He stood up and got his bag down from the rack. He had spent a few minutes before Bill hurried him out to the car carefully emptying and repacking his belongings, and had found with satisfaction that when his clothes had been neatly folded and compressed they all fitted into Richard’s big holdall, so he had left his own behind, and asked Bill’s wife if she would telephone Richard and give it to him. Christine, a pretty, down-to-earth young woman from Sheffield, who had mothered him in an unobjectionable manner during the few minutes of their acquaintance, and who was quite clearly entirely on his side in his adventure, had agreed cheerfully.
He got off the train and sauntered out of Dover West Dock station feeling confident and exhilarated. It was the first real adventure he had ever had, and the first time he had travelled alone, and he was determined to savour every moment. He followed complicated signs, looking everywhere with interest, and was soon within sight of the big P&O ferryboat. Following crowds of other travellers, he tagged on the end of a queue passing before some desks with uniformed men in shirtsleeves checking passports. He cr
aned his neck to see what was happening, and saw that a few passports were being inspected and stamped, the great majority simply given a cursory glance before their owners were waved on.
* * *
“This looks like your boy”, said the immigration officer. The Special Branch detective constable on duty at the immigration desk reluctantly took his eyes off the bosomy young woman traveller he had been ogling and followed the immigration officer’s casual wave. “Bout five back”, murmured the man. He saw a tall, well-made boy with a shaggy mop of dusty-blond hair. He was in his late teens, casually dressed, wearing sunglasses and carrying a bulging holdall. “That’s him, for a pound”, said the policeman, brightening up at the prospect of something to do to relieve the interminable boredom of watching the movements of undesirables that made up his duties “on ports”. “Slow ’em down a bit, Dave”, he said. The immigration man nodded, and began to read every passport as if it held a deep fascination.
The Special Branch officer slipped into an office behind the desk, picked up the telephone there and rang the local police. “Hi. Roger Atherton, Special Branch”, he said when the station officer answered. “I think we’ve got your runaway here.” He spoke for a few moments, then returned to the desk. The willowy boy was next but one in the line, looking about him apparently unconcernedly as he held his passport ready to show it. “Okay Dave, thanks”, murmured Atherton.
Dave handed back the passport he was affecting to scrutinize and waved the next on without a glance. The boy proffered his passport. Dave opened it and looked up over his shoulder at Atherton. “Stephen Francis Hill?” Atherton nodded.
“Will you go with this officer, please”, said Dave, shifting to allow Atherton to open a flap beside the desk. “Just routine”, lied Dave, noting the instant tightening of the boy’s mouth and the bunching of his muscles. The boy relaxed a little, and went through the door indicated by Atherton, who followed, taking the passport from Dave on the way.
“You’re Stephen Hill?” said Atherton, closing the door of the small, stifling office. “Yes”, said Stephen. “Is anything wrong?”
“Is your address…” went on Atherton, reading Stephen’s address from a small gold-clasped notebook. “Yes, it is”, said Stephen. “But what…”
“I’m a police officer”, Atherton interrupted him. “We’ve had a message from the Dover police about you. I gather you’ve run away from home?”
Stephen took his sunglasses off, feeling that they were faintly ridiculous in the dusty, sunless cubbyhole of an office. Atherton looked shrewdly at him. The deep fear in the boy’s large grey eyes was plainly visible. He had even started trembling, Atherton noted. Poor little sod, he thought dispassionately. “Sit down”, he invited, waving at a hard chair with a broken strut that stood against the far wall. The boy crossed to it and sat on the edge of the seat, keeping his holdall beside him, Atherton noticed, instantly preparing himself for a possible attempt to make a break for it.
“I’m eighteen”, said the boy. Atherton logged the deep, pleasant voice and the well-spoken accent in his mental file on the boy.
“I said, I’m eighteen”, repeated the boy. “I’m officially an adult. Have you got the right to stop me for leaving home?”
“Nope”, said Atherton. “Not if you’re eighteen as you say. But don’t ask me what this is about. I’m only doing the Dover police a favour. They’re the people who want you, so you’d better save any questions you’ve got till they get here. They should be here soon. They’re sending a car.” He lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall, bored.
A few minutes later, as he had forecast, the door opened and two uniformed constables walked in. “This him?” asked the older of the two. Atherton nodded. “Okay, mate. Thanks very much”, said the uniformed man. Atherton nodded, handing Stephen’s passport over. “We aim to please”, he said, and went back to scanning the crowds of Continental-bound tourists for terrorists, known drug-runners, undesirable aliens and women without bras.
“You’re Stephen Francis Hill?” asked the older of the two PCs. Stephen nodded sullenly, glaring at him in mingled fear, despair and anger.
“I gather you’ve run away from home”, the PC said, extracting a ballpoint and a notebook in a dark-blue leather case from the breast pocket of his jacket
“I’m eighteen, as I’ve already told your CID man outside”, snapped Stephen.
“Him? He’s nothing to do with us”, chuckled the PC. “Special Branch, he is, watching for terrorists. You’ve had the honour and privilege of being detained by Her Majesty’s Brylcreem Boys, son. Anyway, you say you’re eighteen. Got anything to prove it?”
Stephen pointed to his passport in the PC’s hand. “If you look in the back of that you’ll find my birth certificate”, he said. The PC looked, and unfolded a long official form, printed in red. “Hmmm. So you are”, he murmured. “Oh, well, you don’t count as a runaway then.”
“Good”, said Stephen, brightening immediately. “I can go, then?” He stood up and picked up his holdall.
“Not so fast, son”, said the PC, laying a restraining hand on his shoulder. “There’s more to it than that Will you turn out your pockets, please.”
Stephen stared at him. “No, I won’t! Not unless you tell me what this is all about. You’ve seen for yourself that I’m old enough to travel on my own. I’m not some silly kid running away from school or something. What right have you got to…”
“Sonny”, said the PC in an ominously quiet voice, “when I ask someone to turn out their pockets, I’m not actually asking them at all. It’s more like a kinda royal invitation — it’s in the nature of a command, see? I mean, what I’m actually doing is telling you to empty your pockets, right now, or I’ll arrest you and you can do it for the station officer at the nick. Take your pick. Only it just might save us a lot of time if you co-operate and do it here, right?” He was watching the boy keenly, and noted a shifty, hunted expression gradually creeping into his face to join the baffled incomprehension there. “I can tell you this much, son”, he said. “We have reason to think you may be in possession of a substantial sum of money. Stolen money”, he said with an ominous note.
Stephen saw that there was no help for it. He turned out his pockets, laying the contents on the chair. Last of all, very reluctantly, he unzipped the top pockets of his windcheater. The PCs exchanged meaningful glances as the pile of ten- and twenty-pound notes was added to the small pile of belongings, and again when Stephen produced the fifty-pound notes from the other pocket. “I think we’ll take care of those for you for the moment, Stephen”, said the PC, picking up the money. He counted it quickly, recorded it in his notebook, then turned to the back of the book and wrote again. He handed the book to his colleague, who had so far watched in silence. “Here y’are, Tim. Just countersign it for me, mate”, he said. Stephen watched uncomprehendingly as the younger officer signed the book and handed it back.
“Ta”, said the older man. He tore out the page and handed it to Stephen. “Look after it”, he said. “It’s a receipt, signed by me, PC Stanley Hubbard, and countersigned by my friend and constant companion, PC Timothy Metcalfe, for four hundred and seventy-nine pounds in notes, and two pounds and eighty-four pence in change. You’ll get it all back against that receipt if we find you’re in legitimate possession of it. If you are, which, frankly, sonny, I fear is somewhat unlikely.
“And now, Stephen Hill, I’m arresting you for the theft of money, suspected to be the property of Mr Anthony Charles Hill. I should advise you that you’re not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but what you say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. In other words, son, button it and keep it buttoned till we get to the station and get this thing sorted out. You can put the rest of your bits and pieces back in your pockets for now. And as soon as you’re ready, your carriage awaits.”
It had taken a minute or two for his brain to assimilate properly the subterfuge that his parents had employed to stop him in his tr
acks. When it finally penetrated, he swung round on the PC who had done the talking and gave him a hard, concentrated stare. “So that’s how they did it, is it?” he said in a quiet, cold voice. “My father went to the police and reported the theft of his money, and named me as the thief, did he? The bastard. I knew all sorts of things he was, but I never thought he’d turn out to be a police informer, let alone that he’d grass on his own son. Well, well, well. We live and learn, don’t we? Well, it’s lucky he’s not here with you. Because if he was, officer, you’d be arresting me for breaking his fucking neck.”
The PC had been working things out for himself, and thought he saw roughly how things stood. He looked away from the boiling rage and contempt in the grey eyes in some embarrassment. “I must say”, he remarked later on to his partner, “if a son of mine looked like that when he spoke about me, I don’t think I’d be trying to stop him from leaving the country, even if he had nicked a monkey of my money. I’d say it was cheap at the price!”
What he said for the moment was “Well, I must say, it seems a bit sneaky”, he said, “using us to stop you from leaving home. But the complaint has been made, and we’re obliged to follow it up. Come on, now. We’d better get back and sort it out. We don’t have to hook you up, do we son? Handcuff you, that is?”
Stephen looked at him in horrified anger, then slowly shook his head. “Good boy. Now, if you’ll carry the gentleman’s bag, Mr Timothy, I’ll assist him to his conveyance.” He took hold of Stephen’s wrist, not roughly but firmly enough, and opened the door.
The crush of passengers for the ferry had dispersed by this time, so Stephen was at least spared the indignity of being goggled at by hundreds of inquisitive eyes as he was led across the concourse and outside, put firmly into the back seat of a police car with PC Timothy Metcalfe for company and driven, in a state of almost incandescent fury, to Dover police station.
Out of Bounds Page 31
