Running Page 22

  ‘Where’s he going?’

  ‘That house?’ Travers pointed towards the distant silhouette.

  The bicycle stopped. Casually dropping it to the ground, the man strode out into the field.

  ‘Where’s he going now?’ Travers said, repeating Scott’s question.

  A lack of cover kept them well back, the figure in front simply a distant blur, bobbing up and down as he stepped over the greenish-grey ridges. He came to a halt, carefully checking all about him. Scott and Travers ducked, hugging the ground. They waited a few seconds before cautiously raising their heads. The field was empty.

  Behind them, lights burned on every floor in the factory but too far away to pose any threat. Dumping their bikes, they traced the muddy footprints, deep impressions in the wet earth taking them towards the centre of the field.

  ‘Nothing!’ exclaimed Scott. He peered at the ground, which was heavily scored as if an animal had been scratching about. ‘But there has to be something; people don’t vanish into thin air.’

  Taking care not to slip in the mud, Travers inspected the ridges on either side of them, scrabbling about in the earth.

  ‘Got it!’ he exclaimed triumphantly and pulled at a ring. A circular manhole cover swung upwards, exposing a short ladder.

  ‘Dad!’ Scott made to climb down.

  Travers grabbed him round the waist and hauled him back, lowering the cover back into place. Once down it was impossible to distinguish it from the earth, unless you knew it was there.

  ‘No, you’re flaming-well not,’ he grunted keeping tight hold, as Scott struggled to free himself. They struggled and Scott toppled to the ground, dragging Travers with him.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ Travers yelled.

  Scott flushed. ‘Dad’s down there. I know it.’

  ‘Even if he is ….’ Travers climbed back onto his feet, standing astride the manhole cover. ‘You can’t just barge in. I’ve seen far too many movies where the hero walks into a strange place and, next second, he’s wishing he hadn’t.’

  ‘You mean you’re just going to stand there and do nothing?’ Scott wanted to scream aloud his frustration. ‘Why the hell did I ask you, if this is all the help you’re going to be.’

  ‘Nice try!’ Travers grinned, his even temper not the slightest bit dented. ‘That was so crazy! Arm wrestling in a mud pool! We need the police.’

  ‘How can we go to the police? We’ve no evidence, nothing to go on. Where is Hilary?Now, when she could really be useful, she’s nowhere about.’ Angrily, Scott got to his feet, brushing the wet earth from his jacket.

  ‘Hilary? How can she help?’

  ‘She’s carries a gun and …’

  Travers tugged at his ear-lobe. ‘I know I get kicked about a bit in rugby, but did you say gun?’

  Scott grinned, his anger gone and, despite the uncertainty, grateful that Travers was there – so totally unfazed by anything.

  ‘Did we forget to tell you that bit?’ Travers nodded. ‘That’s how we got away. She’s a good shot, too.’

  ‘Sorry! No Hilary. But the next best thing – man’s best friend.’

  ‘A dog?’

  ‘No! A mobile, you wally,’ Travers glowered.

  ‘Not here! The sound’ll carry.’ Scott glanced nervously towards the factory.

  ‘Okay, we call them from the lane. Tell them where we are. Then we go back and collect reinforcements.’

  ‘No, I’m staying.’ Scott indicated the mess of muddy footprints crowded round the manhole. ‘If there’s rain in the night we’ll never find it again.’

  ‘It’s twenty-six rows from the lane.’

  ‘That doesn’t help much, the rows are miles long.’

  ‘Oh, for crying-out-loud!’ Travers pointed towards the wrought-iron railings separating the house from the field. ‘From here to there is about eighty yards. And we’re exactly in line with that corner rail. Don’t bother to argue. I’ve kicked enough drop goals to know what I’m talking about.’

  Scott nodded his thanks. ‘But it still doesn’t make it any easier to leave.’

  ‘Well, I’m not camping out here all night.’

  ‘If it was your dad …’

  ‘I’d probably go charging in – like you want to – and end up a prisoner like him. But since you’re not thinking straight, you’d better leave that to me.’

  Scott turned away reluctantly, unable to bear the thought of chucking in the towel. Innocent people didn’t duck into holes in the ground. He stopped, staring back at the manhole. ‘Okay, so it’s stupid, it makes no sense, it’s dangerous, it’s crazy – I agree with all that,’ he said, his voice trembling. ‘But, we’ve got to take a look. Unless we have evidence, no one’s going to believe us. You stay. If I don’t reappear…’

  ‘Honestly, Scott, I’ve known you dozens of years and never …’

  ‘Come off it!’

  ‘Well, eight anyway! Never once, in all that time, have you ever been anything but cautious. You never speak without thinking first and then you don’t say much. So why now?’ Travers saw Scott hesitate and glance over his shoulder, as if the words he was going to say were so special he didn’t want anyone overhearing them.

  ‘’Cos there’s only Dad and me.’

  Travers sighed. ‘I never thought of it like that. Okay then. But we go down, check round and leave. No risks! Promise?’

  ‘Okay, thanks!’

  Leaving the cover open, the two boys slid silently down the steps. Their trainers were muddy, leaving pats of impacted soil on the rungs but the man they’d been following would have left Atrail too. Six steps took them to the bottom; Anarrow box, its walls solid to the touch.

  ‘Feels like a cupboard,’ Travers whispered, scrunching his shoulders to make way for Scott. He swiped his hand over the wall in front. Silently it swung back; red-glowing safety lights allowing them to identify stacks of linen piled on shelves. ‘I’ll go and check,’ he pointed to the door. ‘You stay here.’

  ‘No, I’m going,’ Scott insisted. ‘It’s my dad, no contest.’

  Tiptoeing over to the door, he edged it open.

  At first it was difficult to decide what he was seeing. On the face of it, it could have been a hotel – a long carpeted corridor with dozens of doors on both sides – although it was highly unlikely that anyone would build a hotel under a field. Scott took another step, craning his neck. The corridor emptied into a brightly-lit concourse, with trees and shrubs. There were glass-fronted offices, furnished with computers, and a cafeteria where people were eating. Others wearing casual dress were hanging round the lounge area, chatting. It looked relaxed and friendly.

  Scott stared down at his leather jacket. Without that on he could easily pass as one of them. Rubbing his trainers on the carpet to clean them, he slipped it off. Immediately, he felt Travers breathing down his neck.

  ‘I was only going to look,’ he protested, standing back behind the half-closed door.

  ‘I don’t care what you were just going to do,’ Travers said. ‘We agreed. If necessary I’ll drag you out by force. So what is it?’

  ‘It’s like an underground city. Let me, please. Just a couple of minutes more,’ Scott pleaded. ‘I promise.’

  ‘No way! Now we go and get help.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Scott crept out of the bedroom clutching his muddy trainers. From all five floors of the tall house silence reigned; the rest of the guests still fast asleep.

  The four friends hadn’t come across any of the people staying there. The owner had explained, in her faultless English, that she had room for ten people, most of whom returned every spring to see the flowers. And when Mary feeling curious asked, the owner laughed, not at all put out.

  ‘My dear, Dutch is such a beast of a language. Whatever else we are, as Anation we are exceedingly practical. We have never expected foreigners to learn our language. I speak German, of course, and a little French.’

  The decision to contact Doug Randal had been a majorit
y one; Hilary declaring that she might take on the man they’d followed if forced to, but not stick her head into a hornets’ nest without help.

  ‘It’s not a hornets’ nest,’ Travers grinned at her. ‘A den of thieves perhaps.’

  ‘Whatever! I’m not that stupid.’

  Travers’s quip had been almost the only instance of light-heartedness that had appeared in their sometimes heated discussion. If there had been joshing about, Scott would have found himself resenting it; his nerves jagged like broken glass, eating only because it helped pass the time, wincing at the slightest thing, not understanding that his friends were doing their best to help.

  Mary had grabbed at the lifeline of calling Doug Randal, her face pale and worried at the thought of Travers even contemplating anything more dangerous than an exploratory cycle ride. It was Scott who resisted the plan – because of the time it would all take. No one had been at home when Travers had phoned and his dad’s mobile had been on answer-phone. Even if they found him, Scott argued, it would be at least lunchtime before Mr Randal could possibly reach Lisse. By the time a rescue had been organised, yet another day would have passed.

  Scott hadn’t slept much, the night black and airless and the narrow bedroom he shared with Travers chock-a-block with dark-brown mahogany; its small windows camouflaged with thick lace, over which heavy velvet curtains had been draped.

  He’d got up once or twice in the night for a drink of water, the effort of trying to relax and sleep leaving him hot and restless. Eventually he had fallen into an uneasy doze, waking again as light crept into the sky, knowing exactly what he was going to do.

  They had replaced the bikes in the square, relieved to find no police or angry owners waiting for them. It was left to Travers to suggest that perhaps the town possessed a pool of bikes that anyone could ride, as their gesture towards global warning. Unwilling to test this hypothesis, in case they found themselves spending the night in a police station, they had taken Ataxi to the house where Hilary and Mary were anxiously waiting for news.

  The small landing was gloomy, the lights on a timer from eleven. Any later than that, and guests were forced to fumble around for a switch that gave just enough time to complete a single flight of stairs, before plunging the stairwell into darkness again. Hilary, tucked into the shadows on the staircase above, her mobile buried in the folds of her borrowed dressing gown, recoiled in horror at seeing the silent figure. She drew back, scarcely breathing, and shut her eyes.

  Scott didn’t look up. Ignoring the light switches – which puffed loudly as they blinked out – he used what little natural light was creeping up the stairwell to make his way down the precipitously-narrow stairs. He glanced at his watch, as he gently closed the door behind him. It said six fifty-nine.

  ‘That was close,’ Hilary whispered into the handset. ‘I’ll get dressed and follow. You can guess where’s he’s gone. You have to pick him up now. You can’t put it off any longer.’

  Scott shivered as the wind struck him, the air tipped with ice blowing in from the North Sea. It had rained in the night, the pavements wet, and the canal looked forlorn and unappetising, with an oily film streaking the surface of the dark-grey water.

  As far as he was concerned, almost the only positive to come out of their endless discussions of the previous night, had been the realisation that several miles could be cut from the journey back to the lane. The street map, thoughtfully purchased by Mary, showed the main road to The Hague as a straight red line. Bypassing the industrial centre, it connected with the road at the traffic island. Even on a bicycle, it would take only about twenty minutes.

  Crossing the cobbled roadway over the canal, Scott followed the bus route. He wished now they’d had time to travel over by ferry so he could have brought the motorbike. The act of walking, even with no one around, left him feeling exposed and vulnerable, whereas riding the Suzuki empowered him with enormous confidence. At that moment a couple of workman passed him, doing what he desperately wanted to do – cycle. He had already passed several dozen bikes, decorating the railings and kerbs, without a single chain in sight. The temptation was there. It would have been so easy to lift one. But Travers’s theory about a pool of courtesy bikes, remained exactly that – a theory. They should have asked their landlady but it had been forgotten in the furore of deciding on a plan of action.

  His route to the main square would have been dull, even on a sunny day but under the early morning drizzle, every attempt at colour on the facade of houses and offices was reduced to monotones of beige. Gradually the street opened out into the wide pavements of the centre.

  Scott still felt cold, the walk failing to warm him up. In the square the cafés remained tightly closed-up, their patio heaters locked away in some back room, the awnings and tables as cold and forlorn as Scott felt. He needed something hot. Tea was out; the stuff he’d tried last night, when they went out for something to eat, quite disgusting.

  A solitary truck crawled into the square, stopping at its far edge. Workmen jumped down and began unloading lengths of green and white canvas which would, in a matter of minutes, be transformed into gaily-striped market stalls.

  He walked over to them. ‘Excuse me, do you speak English?’

  The men paused and pointed towards one of their workmates who was busily sorting out the metal pieces of the framework, passing them down to the men on the ground. Noticing Scott, he jumped down off the lorry and came towards him. He was tall and fair, like so many of the people Scott had seen in Holland and, although he appeared very little older than Scott, his face was already set, laughter lines permanently established at the corner of his eyes.

  He smiled and nodded, taking the question seriously. ‘Ja! Always in Holland.’

  ‘I need some coffee.’

  The young man grimaced and called out to his workmates. From the sounds he made, he could have been insulting them. They laughed.

  ‘I asked my friends if they would like a cup, too. It is cold, no?’

  ‘Yes,’ Scott agreed.

  ‘Go down there.’ The young man gestured to a street across the square. ‘Good coffee. My name is Gerrard – in Dutch that is pronounced Hheracht.’

  Scott started at the guttural sound. He laughed and held out his hand. ‘I’m Scott! Now I can see why you don’t expect us to learn your language. You sure I can’t get you anything?’

  ‘Ja, sure, I was joking. We had breakfast and we are finished by three in time to watch the football.’

  Scott waved goodbye. Crossing the forlorn stretch of pavement that centred the square, he headed down the narrow street, a lighted shop already in view. Its windows were steamed up, reminding Scott of the all-night café they had used north of Birmingham and he hoped this would be cleaner.

  It was. Sparkling blue Delft tiles formed a frieze round the walls and lined the table tops, the fogging of the windows due only to the bitterly cold wind outside. A middle-aged woman, plain but cheerful looking, stood behind the glass-topped counter; she smiled a welcome.

  ‘Coffee, please.’ Scott rubbed his hands, trying to restore their circulation.

  ‘Well, look what the wind’s blown in.’ The voice was American.

  Scott spun on his heel, feeling the blood drain from his face.

  ‘Hey, kid.’ It was Pete. Sunglasses still firmly in place, he looked as if he belonged there; comfortably relaxed, with a cup of coffee in front of him.

  ‘Is Sean Terry, with you?’ Scott gasped, wondering if he could reach the door before Pete reached him, praying for Gerrard’s friendly face to appear.

  ‘Kid, for crying-out-loud, you look like a startled rabbit. Sit down and take the weight off.’ Pete moved one eyebrow. ‘It’s good to see you. We’ve missed you.’

  ‘Is Sean Terry with you?’ Scott repeated, rolling on the balls of his feet.

  ‘Don’t see him anywhere, do you?’ Pete swung round deliberately to take in the whole café. ‘Your coffee’s ready.’ He flipped the index finger of his right
hand, as if firing a gun at the counter. ‘Hey, why not sit down, you’re quite safe, it’s a public place.’

  Scott quickly counted the number of people in the café – at least a dozen, most of them heavy-set, burly working men.

  Quickly shoving some coins across the counter, he sat down in the seat opposite Pete, his mind still playing leapfrog. How? Why? When?

  ‘So what’s your problem with my boss? I know he’s a shit, but I don’t normally get this reaction when his name comes up.’

  Scott leaned forward. ‘I don’t know and that’s the truth.’

  Pete sighed. ‘Okay, so tell me what you do know. The last time I saw you, you were tearing out of the drive at ninety miles an hour. Great escape! I figured you out all wrong. And it isn’t often I do that. You struck me as the silent, no action type. But that took real guts. The boss was furious.’

  Scott laughed and took a sip of his coffee. ‘I know, Hilary said.’

  ‘So she and you palled up, did you? And you’ve been having adventures. So how did you get here?’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Kid, we’ve had people at headquarters searching for your dad for fifteen years. They followed the trail to Lisse. Got here yesterday. The boss, Pearson, and me – all looking like tourists.’

  Scott felt as if bands of steel were encasing his chest. ‘Who’s Pearson?’

  A puzzled frown crossed Pete’s face. ‘He’s from headquarters, why?’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘A haulage firm in Exeter – only a couple of guys left there now. The boss sent Tulsa and Arizona back to the States. He only brought Pearson along because he happens to know what a flower looks like.’ Pete grinned, his smile self-mocking. ‘So how did you get here?’

  Scott ignored the question. He burst out, ‘I know where Dad’s being held, but you can’t tell Mr Terry.’

  Pete’s glance was gimlet and searching. Without his sunspecs it would have drilled right through you, Scott decided, flinching away.