by Tim Flanagan
I had run for five solid minutes, twisting and turning down random roads in an attempt to make it impossible for anyone to follow me, until I realised that I was completely lost.
Alive, but lost.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Transport Home
It was the evening. I had run towards a bright glow in the sky and found myself on a small street of shops. My run turned into a rapid walk as I dashed along the pavement. It was not so late in the evening that everyone had gone to bed. There were still cars on the road and people milling about. At the first shop that still had its lights on and looked open, I stumbled through the door and quickly glanced behind me to see if any old cronies were searching the street.
‘I’m just about to close,’ said the man behind the counter without even looking up from the newspaper he was reading.
‘Do you know where I can get a bus back to Maidenbury from?’ I asked.
The man sighed. ‘Try the end of the road.’ He nodded to the left side of the shop. ‘The number seven normally passes there every thirty minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, jumping nervously as the shop door opened behind me and a young lady walked in.
‘Now, was there anything you wanted? Only, I’m just about to close,’ the man asked me.
‘No, thank you.’
Cautiously, I stepped out onto the pavement, checked up and down the road, then began walking in the direction the shopkeeper had indicated. Opposite the end of the road was a tall red bus stop. Before crossing, I cautiously looked up and down, checking for the unmistakable hunched figure of a pensioner on the prowl.
It looked safe.
I crossed, stood at the bus stop, and checked the timetable. I decided it would be safer to wait hidden amongst the shadows of the bushes that bordered the pavement since I was desperate to keep out of sight as much as possible. However, lurking in the bushes on a dark night and wearing a long coat did not give the right impression, and upon reflection, I realised that this was probably not the wisest thing to be doing. I might avoid discovery by a gun-swinging pensioner (also known as Lipstick Lady), but I drew unwanted attention from pedestrians, who gave me a wide berth or pulled their children protectively away from me.
Thankfully, the bus didn’t take long to arrive. I stepped out from my hiding place amongst the bushes and surprised a lady whose dog had been just about to relieve itself up my leg. To add to the lady’s surprise, the pocket of my trench coat snagged on a branch and pulled it wide open as I moved forward. The shock of seeing me lurching from the bushes with my coat open resulted in a sharp slap across my cheek from the lady and a growl from the dog. I stumbled onto the bus, desperate for the day to end and eager for the safety of my bedroom. The bus driver, who had witnessed my encounter with the dog walker, eyed me suspiciously as I showed him my Young Persons Adventure Travel Pass.
‘No funny business,’ he warned, wagging his finger at me.
I sank into a seat and finally began to relax, despite the dog walker now banging her fist on the nearest window. I pulled up the collar of my coat and tried to avoid eye contact as the bus hissed and lurched its way towards home.
As soon as I turned the key in the garage and removed my dead grandfather’s clothes, I walked through into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of milk, and breathed a sigh of relief. Being a SPY was more dangerous than I had first realised. I had been so busy watching Arthur Longsocks that I hadn’t realised that his crime syndicate had also been watching me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Setting the Trap
The next morning didn’t begin to look any more promising than the previous day. I awoke early with a stiff neck and went immediately into the garage to find the coat I’d been wearing and retrieve the fake twenty-pound notes that I’d “borrowed” from Arthur Longsocks’s shed.
I picked the coat up off the floor and delved into the pockets but couldn’t find anything. It was vital that I had the evidence before reporting back to Mr Burbridge, who would then be able to call in the local police force and close down Arthur’s criminal gang. I checked another pocket, also empty, and another. The notes had gone! Had the old ladies searched my coat after I’d been knocked out? Or had they fallen out when it got caught on the bush beside the bus stop? Whatever the reason, my investigation was now hanging by a thread, just like the old, torn seams of the coat.
I sat down in the deckchair and planned my next move. I needed evidence, but the pensioners knew what I looked like and would be extra cautious from now on to avoid being discovered. The only thing that could prove what was going on would be a raid on Arthur’s shed, but it was doubtful whether any of the counterfeit conveyor belt was still assembled. During the time I had been unconscious in the attic, Arthur could have dismantled the equipment or relocated it somewhere else. If the police went round to see Arthur, the shed would undoubtedly contain nothing more than average, mundane gardening equipment, and MI6 would look like a bunch of fools. It seemed that Arthur had got the better of me, and my first assignment as a SPY had been a failure. I wondered if Mr Burbridge would follow up with his threat to make me chief poo inspector of the elephant enclosure at London Zoo once he received my report.
But I wasn’t about to give up yet. I wasn’t about to let a group of grannies or a posse of pensioners get the better of me. I still had a debt to pay to the two old ladies who had held me captive. At the back of my head, a spark of an idea had ignited that might just allow me to come out on top.
I opened the door from the garage and went back into the kitchen.
‘Morning,’ I said to my dad, who was standing in the kitchen in a pair of pink boxer shorts, ironing his trousers. Back in my room, I pulled my laptop out from under my bed and connected to the Internet.
I was searching for information on a property website, looking for any new-build retirement housing in the local area. After a few minutes, I found what I was looking for—Acorn Community, a new development of houses built for the elderly. There were floor plans and street maps as well as photographs of the building site as it developed. There, on one of the photos, was a picture of two old ladies I recognised—one plump with tightly permed grey hair, the other red lipped with overly large glasses. And behind them was the house I had run from the previous night.
I grabbed a pad of paper from my table and made a note of the address. Then, on a second piece of paper, I began to write a letter to my knitting-loving kidnappers.
I also needed to get in touch with Mr Burbridge, and speed was important if Arthur Longsocks and his forgery operation were to be successfully shut down. I had been told to leave a coded message for Mr Poodle inside The Times newspaper, but I couldn’t wait.
I ran downstairs, past Dad with his slightly steaming trousers where the iron had been on too high, and into the kitchen. I opened the cupboard, looking for the breakfast cereal, pulled out the already opened packet I had found the blue earpiece in, and discarded it on the worktop. Back in the cupboard, I searched towards the back, where I knew mum always kept more supplies for when we ran out. Next to an unappealing box of muddy-brown bran twigs was another box of chocolate puffed balls, unopened and hopefully containing another blue torpedo. I took a large mixing bowl from another cupboard and began pouring a stream of puffed balls into it, watching for the small blue capsule.
And there it was.
Small and blue, with white writing along the side, just as the first one had been. But by itself, the torpedo was useless. I grabbed a pen and began deciphering the code word on the back of the packet. Within a few minutes, I’d solved it and retired to my SPY office in the garage, ready to have a private conversation with MI6.
I put the torpedo inside my ear and spoke clearly:
‘S N A I L.’
As before, a faint crackling sound suddenly erupted inside my ear.
‘Please hold the line while we try to connect you,’ said the operator politely.
After only a few seconds, anot
her voice answered, one I was already familiar with.
‘State your name,’ demanded the gruff voice.
‘Mr Burbridge, it’s S—’ I tried to interrupt.
‘Well what are the chances of that? Now listen carefully. My name is also Mr Burbridge, and I am the commander of a new initiative programme managed by the Secret Intelligence Service in MI6—’ he began reeling off his speech.
‘No,’ I interrupted again. ‘I’m Sam Trowel; I’m already part of SPY.’
‘Sam Trowel... ah, yes. Your instructions were to leave a message for Mr Poodle in The Times when your mission was complete.’
‘But time is running out,’ I explained. ‘You need to move on Arthur Longsocks this afternoon.’ I explained to Mr Burbridge everything I had found out about how Arthur had been making and distributing the fake twenty-pound notes but omitted the rather embarrassing kidnapping episode. I also didn’t tell him about my lack of evidence or that Arthur probably had removed the equipment from the shed, but if my plan worked, Arthur’s crime syndicate was about to be wrapped up. But, if it failed, I’d be delivered to London Zoo with an extra-large shovel before the elephants had a chance to ingest a whole bushel of apples.
‘Very well. Mr Longsocks will receive a visit from a small SQUAT team this afternoon.’
‘SQUAT team? I thought they were called SWAT teams.’
‘Your mistake,’ replied Mr Burbridge in a superior voice. ‘You will never know my men are hiding in the bushes until it’s too late. They are highly trained squatters. It would be ridiculous to call them SWAT teams.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
The clarity of Mr Burbridge’s voice in my ear began to break up slightly, as if something was interfering with the connection.
‘Mr Trowel? Can you still hear me?’
‘Just about,’ I replied. I put my finger to my ear to try and cut out any outside noise. The torpedo felt warm inside my ear.
‘Don’t forget your earpiece will explode,’ said Mr Burbridge.
I quickly pulled the blue torpedo from my ear, together with a sticky covering of wax, and threw it across the garage.
Phut!
It was more of a deflation than an explosion. Thin wisps of smoke curled from the blue casing, but it remained intact.
So far, everything was coming together as planned. Now I needed a new disguise—someone that no one would take any notice of. I searched through the collection of clothes in the cardboard boxes, found dark-blue trousers and a shirt, and pulled them on. I also found an old satchel, emptied the contents into a box, and stuffed it full of old newspapers and magazines that were waiting to be used to line the cat’s litter tray.
A baseball cap was hanging from a hook beside the kitchen door; I pulled it low over my forehead and put the letter I’d written for the knitting ladies into the satchel together with a pair of binoculars. I raised the garage door, automatically reaching for my bicycle before remembering that I had lost it when I’d been kidnapped. Instead, I grabbed my skateboard and began to make my way back towards Acorn Community.
As I stood beside the promotional board to Acorn Community, I suddenly felt an uncomfortable feeling in my stomach that I recognised as nerves, but I knew I had to do this. I tucked my skateboard amongst the manicured bushes and began to stroll confidently along the pavement, whistling tunelessly as I went, like all good postmen did. I pulled a magazine from my satchel and slid it into the first letter box I passed. I acted the part of a postman and hoped that no one paid me any attention until I reached the front door of the knitting ladies’ house. I hesitated, worried about the gun they had hidden in the table drawer. Nervously, I reached into my satchel, removed the letter I had written, and slid it through the letter box. I walked back down the path towards the pavement then back towards the oversized advertising board and breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Morning,’ said a postman that passed me as I pulled my skateboard out from the bush.
‘Morning,’ I replied to his retreating back. He approached the first house just as I had done and pushed several letters through the door, which was immediately opened by a balding man in a pair of shorts.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ said the balding man, holding the letters in one hand and waving a rolled-up magazine in the other.
‘It’s your mail,’ replied the postman politely. He was about to continue to the next house, but the old man hadn’t finished.
‘This magazine is out of date,’ he continued. ‘Just because I can’t see very well doesn’t mean I’m stupid. You think I’m going to pay for a magazine that’s two years out of date?’
The postman held his hands open. ‘I don’t know anything about that magazine,’ he replied.
It was way past my time to disappear. The next part of my plan was complete—now all I had to do was be patient and wait. But until it was time to go back to Arthur Longsocks’s house, I decided it would be safer to hide at an out-of-town supermarket to avoid any of his cronies.
There is only so long you can sit nursing one cup of coffee and nibbling tiny dormouse-sized bites of a chocolate brownie before the café staff begin to get a bit impatient.
At two o’clock, I made my way back to Wensleydale Drive, checking every corner before I turned it to make sure I didn’t bump into any old person. I was fairly certain that not every old person was part of Arthur’s gang, but I couldn’t be sure, so whenever I saw one, I leapt into a shop doorway, crouched behind a pram, or squeezed behind a lamppost, all to avoid being spotted. It took much longer than I had anticipated, but finally, just before three, I reached my destination. Once again, I pretended to be a postman making some late deliveries but kept my cap pulled down over my face as much as possible.
Fortunately, Wensleydale Drive was empty.
I approached Arthur’s neighbour’s house, where I had waited the previous day behind the gate. I could feel the suspicious-looking gnome that stood in the centre of Arthur’s lawn watching me. I folded a newspaper that was yellow with age and slid it into the letter box then waited, pretending to check the rest of the contents in my satchel. As I’d hoped, there was no sign of anyone at home, so I stepped over to the side gate, pushed it open, and went to find my friendly tortoise that lived beside the fence that bordered Arthur’s garden.
‘Hello again… Barney,’ I whispered to the tortoise, reading his name that was painted on his bowl of water. The wizened face looked back at me from the safety of his shell. ‘You don’t mind if I share this space with you, do you? Just for a little while.’
Barney didn’t respond. Although, if he had, I might have changed my plan and run in the opposite direction.
I pulled some small branches from a bush and threaded them into my cap in an attempt to camouflage myself then reached into my satchel for the binoculars. Very slowly, I raised my head until I could see over the top of the fence then brought my binoculars up to my eyes. Through the window of the lounge at the front of the house, I could see small, slow shadows moving within. I looked down at my watch and checked the time then looked back towards Arthur’s house and saw him standing at the window.
I froze on the spot. Had I walked into another ambush? Was I about to feel the wrath of a thousand walking sticks against my head?
Arthur was looking at the bed of flowers beneath the window and didn’t seem to have noticed me. Trying to avoid any sudden movements, I lowered my head below the top of the fence and scanned the garden I was hidden in just to make sure I was alone. Barney slowly munched on a piece of spinach.
My attention was suddenly aroused by the sound of voices that seemed to be arguing about something, coming from the road.
‘I told you we should have bought a new battery,’ said one of them.
I carefully lifted my head above the fence to see what was happening. Arthur had moved away from the window and couldn’t be seen. I looked towards the road and, with a shudder of nervousness, recognised the two old la
dies who had kidnapped me the previous day. Lipstick Lady was driving a mobility scooter that seemed to keep lurching forward uncontrollably.
‘You’re never happy,’ Lipstick Lady shouted from beneath her crash helmet to the knitting lady, who was standing on the back of the scooter.
‘False economy,’ Knitting Lady shouted back.
The scooter stopped outside Arthur’s door with the two ladies still muttering at each other under their breath. Arthur had obviously seen them coming and had already opened the door, welcoming them into his house.
I raised the binoculars to my eyes once again and watched as the two old ladies talked to Arthur in his lounge. It was a shame I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but as soon as Knitting Lady pulled a white sheet of paper from her leather jacket, I smiled to myself, knowing that my letter had had the desired effect.
Arthur was just about to read the letter when his attention was drawn to another knock at the front door. I glanced towards where the old ladies had abandoned the scooter. Three men now stood on the doorstep, looking slightly uneasy. One kept checking behind them, making sure they hadn’t been followed.
Arthur opened the door and let them in. He didn’t look happy, and he too checked Wensleydale Drive to make sure no one was watching. He closed the door behind him, and I waited for him to reappear in the lounge.
The six pensioners began discussing things in an animated fashion, pointing to one another as if shifting the blame. Then one of the men pulled out a bundle of banknotes from his pocket and dropped it on a table. Lipstick Lady did the same. Arthur’s face turned a pale and ghostly colour that was even more pale and ghostly than his usual blood-starved skin.
