The Camel Trail

by Merrigan, Peter J

  And Kevin was yanked away from the door, back into the middle of the barn.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Frankie demanded. He had grabbed Kevin just as the door was ready to swing open.

  Kevin stumbled, fell onto his back, raised his hand in defence from the blow that he knew would come, and said, ‘Sorry! I wasn’t doing anything!’

  Frankie kicked him in the side and Kevin yelped. He reached down and pulled his son up by the hair, screaming wildly in his face. ‘Won’t you ever learn, you little shit?’ He slapped the back of his hand across Kevin’s face. ‘I told you before not to try anything stupid, and what do you go and do? Eh? You pull a fucking stunt like this!’

  ‘Come on, Frank,’ Robert said.

  Frankie ignored him. ‘You keep taking chances, that’s what you do.’ He slapped again, drew blood and snot from Kevin’s nose. He gripped him by the neck with one hand, squeezed, punching him square in the face.

  Kevin felt numb and queasy. He retched. His vision blurred.

  Frankie threw him on the ground and kicked him in the stomach. ‘I told you what would happen if you tried to pull something like that again, didn’t I? Didn’t I?’

  ‘Frankie, that’s enough!’

  ‘I’ll say when it’s enough.’ He kicked again.

  ‘Leave him alone,’ Robert shouted.

  Kevin curled into a ball, clenched his eyes against the jabbing pain in his head, clutched at his stomach, took a kick in the chest and lost all air from his lungs. He thought something snapped inside his body, like a rib or his breastbone. He was going to die. He was going to die and there was nothing he could do to defend himself.

  He opened his eyes, silently pleading with his dad, and saw the sole of Frankie’s shoe coming down on his face.

  Suddenly, Frankie was gone and Robert was standing over him. Uncle Robert had pushed Frankie out of the way. Robert stooped and pushed Kevin away. Kevin screamed in pain. He watched as Robert turned and faced Frankie.

  ‘I said that was enough.’

  ‘Who’s the fucking tough man, eh?’ Frankie said. His breath came in short, sharp bursts. He wiped his own saliva from his cheek.

  ‘You can’t beat your kid like that,’ Robert said, his voice faltering only slightly.

  ‘I’ll beat my fucking kid any way I want.’

  ‘You want to kill him?’

  ‘It’d teach him a lesson, wouldn’t it? Get out of my way.’

  ‘I thought you’d changed,’ Robert said. ‘I thought you were trying to make things better.’

  Frankie laughed. ‘That’s a joke. I kidnapped the little bastard, didn’t I? What makes you think that’s fucking better? Get out of my way.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Back off, you little pervert.’

  ‘I won’t let you hit them anymore,’ Robert said. ‘I don’t care if you knife me in the gut, but you’re not hitting either of these two again.’

  Frankie surged forward and Robert quickstepped aside, twisting his body and ramming his shoulder into Frankie’s oncoming chest. Frankie was knocked backwards but didn’t fall.

  ‘Go!’ Robert shouted, and it took Kevin a second to realise he was talking to him. ‘Get out of here!’

  Uncle Robert pounced on Frankie.

  He pulled up beside the unmarked car and stared out at the ditched vehicle. David Ellis didn’t need to confirm it was the stolen car from Congresbury. He got out and ran over, but the Ford was dark and abandoned. With a handkerchief, he tried the driver’s door. It was unlocked and the keys were still in the ignition. He felt the bonnet but if the engine had been used recently it was chilled from the wind and sleet.

  ‘We haven’t touched it,’ the officer said.

  ‘Good lad.’ Catchpole could be anywhere by now. David’s only hope was that the boy—the one with muscular dystrophy—was as deteriorated as his mother suspected. It was a horrible thought, wishing pain on such a young person, but he would slow Catchpole down. Even if he picked him up and carried him, in this weather, they wouldn’t get far in a hurry.

  He sat now in his quickly cooling car, engine off, darkness creeping around him, the cold penetrating the very fibre of the unmarked cruiser. He rubbed his hands together and blew into them to warm his fingers.

  When he had first approached the abandoned car, he had quietly called the boys’ names, Kevin and Martin, searching the ditch for twenty feet in either direction, the officer along the other side, but found nothing. Catchpole wouldn’t have given them up that easily. He scanned the neighbouring fields but could see very little.

  Impatient, they waited for Gwen Thomason and her men. When he told her his location, her broken response from the radio was that she was close enough, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes away. He instructed her to approach silently, in case Catchpole was close.

  When his radio crackled, he reached for the receiver. ‘Gwen, where are you?’

  ‘Creeping up behind you,’ she said.

  He turned and looked out the rear window and saw a number of cars in single file crawling along the road with their headlights off. It was a dangerous manoeuvre in this weather, but he praised her wit.

  He stepped out of the relative comfort of his vehicle and approached the lead car, stood back as Thomason got out, and smiled warmly at her. ‘Boy am I glad to see you.’

  She was tall, almost as tall as David, with dark auburn hair pulled back from her round face into a tail. The rain seemed to be attracted to her as she moved towards him, instantly soaking her navy suit. ‘Nice to see you, too,’ she said in her Welsh singsong voice.

  He gave her a quick rundown of the situation and they decided between them that the best course of action was to inspect the immediate area, some men taking the road north on foot, the others taking the fields on either side. It was agreed that David and three constables would go into the marshy fields on the left, and Thomason would take some others to the right.

  David took a belt-radio from his glove compartment and hooked it on, clipping the receiver to his lapel.

  Thomason shook his hand and said, ‘Good luck. And remember—you still owe me a drink.’

  ‘Only if we catch him tonight,’ David said.

  ‘We will,’ was all Thomason said before turning and issuing directions to her colleagues.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Kevin stood, legs unstable, chest and head pulsating. He tasted blood in his mouth from his nose. ‘Get out of here,’ Uncle Robert had shouted. Now he and Frankie were punching and hugging and pushing each other around, yelling incomprehensibly at each other.

  Kevin turned to Martin, knelt down beside him. ‘We have to go,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Come on, Martin, get up, okay?’ he nudged Martin but the boy lay as he was, tense and shivering and coughing. ‘Please, Martin, come on.’

  Kevin stood, looked at his father again.

  ‘Get over here, you little bastard!’

  Robert punched Frankie in the stomach. Frankie swung a right hook at Robert.

  Kevin sucked his lower lip into his mouth, hot tears stinging his eyes. He stooped, gently shook Martin again. ‘Please, Martin. Please.’ When Martin gave him no more reaction than before, Kevin gripped his coat and pulled. Martin was heavy and uncooperative, but inch by inch Kevin hauled him towards the small side door that he had moments before unlocked.

  Martin coughed, choked, and Kevin lost his grip. He reached down again. ‘I’m not leaving you here,’ he said.

  ‘Stay where you are, Kevin,’ Frankie shouted.

  ‘Run!’ Robert said.

  Frankie picked up a small plank of wood, swung it wildly, and Kevin knew that if he didn’t get out and get help now, it could be too late. Robert twisted into the blow from the wood, took the full force of the swing on his back. His legs buckled and he went to his knees. Frankie started towards Kevin but Robert thrust a leg out, pushed at Frankie with his hands, tripped him. Robert rolled, fell on top of Frankie.

  ‘Get out of
here. Now!’

  Kevin seized Martin’s coat with both hands and pulled, struggling backwards toward the exit. Martin’s trouser leg snagged on something and tore. Kevin pulled hard, freed the material, and moved closer to the door.

  He swung it wide—‘No!’ Frankie shouted—and dragged Martin over the threshold into the storm.

  He could no longer see his father or Uncle Robert but he could hear them, shouting and calling each other names, and he could hear the noise of wood against flesh.

  He kept moving, dragging Martin as best he could over the marshy terrain. Heavy rain beat down on him, stung him, and his shoes were sinking into the mud with every step. The frigid wind thumped him like the leathery wings of demons.

  The side of the barn through which they had exited backed onto a hedge that separated one field from the next. Kevin struggled through it, forcing a path with his body. Sharp thorns clawed at his arms and face and legs. When he had battled his way through, he pushed back to the other side and gripped Martin again.

  ‘You’re going to have to help me out, this time,’ Kevin said. Martin groaned. ‘I can’t pull you through the hedge without your help.’

  He pulled anyway, pushing backwards through the hole he had tried to make, snagging Martin’s clothes and skin as they went through.

  Martin got caught on a vicious thorn and no matter how hard Kevin pulled, he wouldn’t budge. He pushed his way back into the bush, found the thorn, and unhooked Martin’s leg. He pulled him on through into the next field and let go, exhausted and tearful, pain bursting around his chest and side. He had forgotten about his own injuries in his attempt to get Martin out of the barn.

  He dropped to his knees beside Martin, gripping his side, and wiped blood from his face with is coat sleeve.

  Martin was pale, his eyes flickering under the constant barrage of rain on his face. His breathing was shallow, his shivering constant.

  ‘We have to keep going,’ Kevin said. ‘We can’t stay here. He’ll find us.’ He thought about Frankie beating Uncle Robert with a wooden plank, could imagine that piece of wood hammering against Robert’s head until his uncle was no longer recognisable. Frankie could do that.

  Kevin put his hand on Martin’s chest, barely felt the rise and fall as he laboured for breath. ‘Come on, Martin, you have to get up. We have to keep moving before it’s too late.’

  Martin choked. Thick, dark—blood red?—phlegm flung from his mouth onto the grass.

  ‘Please, Martin,’ Kevin cried. ‘You have to get up. I can’t carry you, you’re too heavy. Get up. Pretend we’re on the Camel Trail. We have to walk the Camel Trail, okay?’ He nudged Martin, smiled at him. ‘The Camel Trail,’ he repeated. ‘It’s only eleven miles long. That’s easy, okay? We can do that, no problem. Please, Martin. You have to get up.’

  Martin stopped coughing and his eyes rolled maddeningly in their sockets.

  Kevin cried, his voice a whisper. ‘Please, Martin. We’ll walk the Camel Trail. We’ll walk the Camel Trail.’

  Rain pummelled them, splashing mud up from the ground onto Martin’s pale cheeks and lips.

  Suddenly a wild boar crashed through the hedge, but not a wild boar: Frankie.

  Kevin fell backwards. ‘No,’ he screamed. ‘Please, no!’

  Frankie rose over him, the length of bloodied wood still in his hand. He raised the wood, his eyes wide and feral, mouth curled in a fierce snarl, and screamed incoherently.

  Kevin covered his head with his arms for protection. But the blow never came. A shadow passed over him and when he looked, a man, a stranger, had lunged at Frankie and knocked him to the ground, grappling the wood from him and throwing it away. He pinned Frankie down in the mud. Frankie kicked wildly.

  ‘It’s over, Catchpole,’ the stranger said. ‘It’s over.’

  Suddenly the field was swarming with policemen. Two of them had picked Frankie up and handcuffed him, held him tightly between them.

  The man crouched down beside Martin, looked at Kevin. ‘It’s okay, son. It’s all over now.’ He ruffled his sodden hair.

  Kevin blinked tears and rain from his eyes, stared at the stranger who must have been a policeman but who wasn’t in a policeman’s uniform. He touched Martin’s chest. ‘Please help my friend get better,’ he cried.

  David Ellis radioed for an ambulance and had now moved the boys to his car to get them out of the fierce storm. Frankie Catchpole was locked in the back of Thomason’s car.

  He didn’t know of Robert Catchpole’s involvement until Kevin, who had obviously sustained some fractured ribs, had mentioned his uncle. David, Gwen had a couple of men had entered the barn in the next field cautiously, but their concern was superfluous. Robert Catchpole was still alive but badly beaten, his face a bloody pulp, his right arm broken and twisted. He was covered in small puncture wounds as though the plank with which Frankie had beaten him had a nail in it. The light of their torches had revealed vast spills of blood on the floor and walls around him.

  By the look of it, though David never claimed to be a medical expert, Robert Catchpole would live. But his disfigured face might serve always as an awful reminder of his association with his older brother and the failed kidnap of his nephew.

  ‘What would you do for your brother?’ Thomason asked David as they stepped away from Robert Catchpole and the constables standing guard over him until he could be moved.

  David shook his head. ‘If I had one, I doubt I’d go this far to help him out. Not with something like this. The man must be stupid.’

  ‘Stupid,’ Thomason said, ‘or loyal?’

  ‘You don’t pity him, do you?’ David asked.

  ‘I pity all my arrests, what they must feel, what they must go through to get to where they are in their lives.’

  ‘Stop it,’ David teased. ‘You’ll give cops a bad name.’

  Outside, over the sound of the wind rattling the barn, they heard the wailing siren of an ambulance. David left Thomason and her men with Robert Catchpole and went to meet it.

  A second ambulance pulled in shortly after the first. David directed the first crew to his car. ‘Nine-year-old boy, muscular dystrophy. Been off his meds for a while and he’s obviously caught a bad flu or something. I’ve given him blankets and laid him out in the back of the car. I suspect the other boy has a broken nose and at least one fractured rib.’

  ‘I hope you caught the bastard that did it,’ the lead paramedic said. ‘I’d have fractured each and every one of his ribs in return, if I were you.’

  ‘If I’d been alone,’ David said, winking at the paramedic. He opened the rear passenger door of his car.

  ‘Help,’ Kevin said. ‘I don’t think he’s breathing.’

  A police car had picked Sarah and Tessa up from their hotel in Bristol and took them at speed through late rush-hour traffic and along motorways to the Royal Shrewsbury Hospital. They had been told very little on the phone by DI Ellis, only that both boys were alive, although maybe not doing so well. Martin was being taken to the emergency unit even as Ellis was on the phone to Tessa.

  In the back of the police car, Sarah and Tessa held each other’s hands and Sarah heard Tessa whisper prayers along the way. ‘Please, God,’ she would say. Then, ‘Let him be okay.’

  Sarah bit her lip, felt some of Tessa’s anxiety and pain, but knew also the relief of getting Kevin back alive, her sweet little boy, and knowing that Frankie would be locked up again, possibly for a very long time.

  Tears rolled freely down her cheeks as they pulled up in front of the hospital in Shrewsbury and got out. They rushed into the foyer and spoke to the receptionist who directed them up to the next floor. As they pushed through the swinging doors at the top of the stairs, she saw Kevin sitting in a plastic chair next to a policeman. He had a small thin blanket draped over his shoulders like a shawl and he looked so thin and vulnerable under it.

  When he saw her, he stood, dropped the blanket, and ran to her. She scooped him up in her arms, crying and kissing him, sayi
ng sorry when he yelped in pain and told her he’d fractured two ribs, saying sorry for not looking after him, sorry for letting this happen.

  ‘It’s okay, Mum,’ he kept saying. ‘It’s okay. I’m all right now.’

  Tessa had stood beside Sarah and now she touched Kevin’s head, his shoulder. ‘Where’s Martin, Kevin?’

  Kevin pointed down the corridor. ‘Put me down, Mum. I’ll show you.’

  Sarah let her son slip back down to the floor but refused to let go of him completely. She took his small white hand and held it firmly and she and Tessa followed him towards a door near the end of the hall.

  They entered.

  Looking tiny in the huge hospital bed, boxed in behind a plastic screen, Martin was covered in blankets up to his chest and he had a clear plastic mask over his nose and mouth. The breathing apparatus beside his bed hissed and spat and an oscilloscope traced a green angry line up and down.

  ‘No,’ Tessa whispered. She pushed through the plastic screen and went to his side, picked up his hand and kissed his forehead. ‘Oh, baby, I’m here. I’m here.’

  A nurse came into the private room and cleared her throat. ‘Mrs Boaden? You can’t be in there before being prepped.’

  Tessa looked up, tears standing on her lashes.

  ‘Would you mind coming with me? The doctor asked to speak with you as soon as you arrived.’

  In the waiting room, Kevin sat in his mother’s lap even though he was too big to do so. She hugged him gently, careful of his fractured ribs, and he hugged her back even though it hurt.

  He knew Sarah was happy at being reunited with him, but she was also very sad. The doctor had spoken privately with Tessa and when Tessa came back she had been crying. She whispered to Sarah and Kevin couldn’t make out the whole conversation. He heard that Martin had acute pneumonia, complicated by something called pleural effusion. When Tessa had left them in the waiting room and gone back to Martin’s room alone, Kevin had asked Sarah to explain what it meant. He had got some fluid in his lungs and it made it harder for him to breathe.