Knowles passed Bull as they made their way up the stairs, looking almost as though he were hovering as he glided silently over the expensive carpet. As Bull reached the top of the stairs, Knowles was already at the door to Ravensbrook’s private quarters. He knocked twice and entered.
‘Your Lordship, I apologise for the intrusion; Mr Bull is here on urgent business.’ Knowles waited for a response. However important Bull was in the grand scheme of Lockmead House, no one got to see His Lordship without Knowles opening the door for them.
‘Very well,’ came the groggy response.
Knowles stood back and held the door for Bull, who straightened the cuffs on his shirt and walked into the dark bedroom. The curtains were thick and lined, so despite it being daytime, there was no light in the room besides the dim glow coming through the open door. Ravensbrook was barely a silhouette to Bull, leaning up on his elbows, his thick, floppy hair tousled from sleep.
‘I apologise, I wouldn’t have insisted you were woken unless…’
‘I’m awake now, so say what you have to say, there’s a good chap.’
‘Yes,’ Bull swallowed nervously. ‘Caretaker is missing, and…’
‘Caretaker? Missing?’ Ravensbrook interrupted him and sat bolt upright.
‘…that’s not all. Unfortunately, there seems to have been an attack on Hornet.’
‘But Hornet had the boy.’
‘Yes, she did.’
Ravensbrook swept his legs out of the bed and turned on the lamp. Suddenly the old-fashioned four-poster bed and the antique wooden cabinet beside it were illuminated. He reached out to it and picked up his red-framed, round spectacles and slid them into place. ‘Then we really do have a problem.’ He picked up the old black telephone by the bed and pressed a single button. ‘We have a very big problem indeed, don’t we, Mr Bull?’
PART TWO
Stowaway
Boyd was underneath bags and coats behind the backseat of Pixie’s people carrier. He had run as fast as he could, grabbed the scarecrow from just inside the field next to the pub and propped it up against Harry’s truck, then stowed himself away. Just as he had closed the boot, Pixie and her mum had come out of the pub, followed by her dad and brother, and they had set off.
Boyd had no idea how long they had been on the road but he did know that since they had departed, they had spent pretty much the whole journey arguing and blaming each other for their ‘fun family weekend’ coming to a premature end. He suddenly didn’t feel so bad that he and his father didn’t spend much time together outside of car journeys and boxing.
He felt a sharp stab of worry thinking about his dad – he had to do something; he had to find a way to help him. But how? He had absolutely no clue where he was or what kind of danger he was in. The only thing he did know for sure was that it had something to do with Miranda Capshaw, that woman who went missing from the plane. But who even was she? And if his dad was looking for her, why didn’t he mention it when Boyd had put on the YouTube video about her on FrakeNews? Then there was the attack last night and Aurora acting so strangely… This was getting so far beyond nuts that he knew he couldn’t just go to someone and ask for help; no one would believe him.
So, he was on his own then.
Unless, maybe not… Maybe there was someone who would believe his story, but would he even speak to Boyd if he asked him? There was only one way to find out.
An awkward silence had descended in the people carrier after the last round of arguments, so it was a relief when Pixie’s mum put some music on. Boyd felt like he could breathe out. It also gave him a chance to carefully feel around in his pocket for his mobile without worrying too much about being heard. Strange, it wasn’t in the pocket of his joggers or his hoodie. Then he suddenly remembered he’d thrown the phone back down next to his pillow in Aurora’s van, and it was still there. That was it then, his only chance of reaching out for help was at Bloomfield beach and he couldn’t risk going back there.
‘Pixie! Put down the iPad now, please!’ Pixie’s dad bellowed, turning off the music.
‘Hey, turn the music back on!’ her brother squealed.
‘You said I couldn’t have my phone, you didn’t say anything about the iPad, though,’ Pixie argued back.
‘Listen to your father,’ Pixie’s mum chimed in, wearily.
‘God’s sake, you always take his side, though,’ Pixie protested.
‘Put the iPad in the back or you won’t have any electronics all weekend. I won’t say it again!’
Wow. Her dad wasn’t playing around now.
‘Fine,’ Pixie muttered.
‘Music!’ her brother squealed again. The stereo surged back into life and round five of the argument was done, all over in seconds.
Boyd watched as Pixie’s perfectly manicured fingernails appeared over the back seat, clutching the iPad. She tucked it on top of the open rucksack, right in front of him. Boyd waited a moment before freeing his right arm and carefully easing the iPad back out of the bag. Pixie hadn’t locked it and she was still signed into Facebook; perfect. Boyd opened her friends list, clicked on the search bar and typed ‘Tork’.
Fitz and Pixie were not exactly best friends, but he knew that everyone in his class pretty much had everyone else on their friends’ list. Fitz’s profile appeared and gave Boyd the option to view his posts or write him a message; Boyd clicked the message icon.
He stopped.
Okay, how was he going to play this? Simple, he needed help and he had no one else – Fitz was his only hope. He tapped out the message.
The Hero with Two Faces
The Lockmead Learning Lab was a vast white building on the Lockmead estate. It wasn’t far from Lockmead House and you could see it from all over Bloomfield Downs. But where Lockmead House was stately and old-fashioned, the Lab, as it was known, looked like a cross between an ice-cream and a spaceship. In the middle of the ground floor were several exhibits and information bases that introduced visitors to some basic but exciting elements of science throughout history. It traced the evolution of the planet, from the Big Bang Theory to the discovery of electricity and all the way up to Artificial Intelligence. A walkway around the inside of the building climbed up to the top, which housed an observatory with a huge telescope. Everything in the building was pristine white, just like the outside.
It was lunchtime and, like most days, the Lab was filled with visitors. Today it was a group of over 100 Scouts from all over the world. They were working their way around the facility, listening to talks and watching demonstrations from various scientists.
Just as they were about to have lunch, Lord Ravensbrook appeared. He had been all over the internet recently after leading an acclaimed archaeological dig in Brazil that had unearthed a new species of carnivorous dinosaur, and the bones were on display at the Lab. Alongside them were the pictures that had been beamed all over the world: Ravensbrook in his Indiana Jones-style hat, covered in dust, holding up the huge jawbone of the dinosaur – named the Megalovenator. It had not only made Ravensbrook famous, it had made him a global hero, with the media calling him a modern Indiana Jones.
Professor Reginald Yip, who had been on the dig with Ravensbrook, was talking to the group when the His Lordship came in through a door at the back of the main hall. He was dressed in a pair of cargo trousers and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. His hair was a thick, sandy-grey, swept back from his head. He was waving the hat he wore on the dig, smiling as his visitors began to clap and cheer. Everyone took out their phones and started shooting videos or snapping pictures of the real-life celebrity in front of them.
‘Oh my, thank you!’ Lord Ravensbrook said, bowing his head in appreciation. ‘You are too kind. Thank you, gang, really.’
The noise started to quieten down.
‘We love you Lord Ravensbrook!’ someone shouted, then everyone laughed, including Ravensbrook himself.
‘Bless you, I love you too. And welcome to the Lab, I hope you’re enjoying your day.’
Everyone settled down in anticipation.
‘This project is still a work-in-progress – it’s not finished, and it probably never will be. Can anyone guess why?’
There was a moment of quiet before anyone put their hand up.
‘Yes, young lady.’ Lord Ravensbrook pointed to a tall, nervous-looking girl.
‘Because there’s more to do?’
‘Yes, yes, I’d say you’re right. There is always more to do, because we’re still learning, all the time, so how can we ever be finished? Science is about learning from the past but also about building a future for mankind; the best kind of future, and I want to make sure we’re right there, you and I, leading from the front.’
Everyone clapped. As they did so, Knowles entered through the door at the back of the hall and walked up behind Lord Ravensbrook. He smiled and leant in close. ‘Hornet has been located; we will debrief her tonight. Your presence is required.’
‘And the boy?’ His Lordship asked urgently.
Knowles shook his head. Ravensbrook nodded. He then turned and smiled to the crowd.
‘I’ll leave you in the hands of the professor. Thank you so much for visiting us, your support means everything to our little lab. Goodbye – and remember; never stop learning!’
As Ravensbrook turned away from his audience, his smile evaporated. He whispered to Professor Yip, ‘Give the insufferable brats whatever their little hearts desire and charge them full price. Oh, and make sure they’re out the door by six. We’re not a bloody charity.’
Knowles held open the door and they hurried out.
Crime & Punishment
Fitz’s mum hadn’t taken the news of his suspension very well. Marjorie Tork seemed constantly worried that her son was going to fail at school, ruin his life and be miserably unhappy. Up to this point, there was no reason for her to think that, but now he had been caught in the Head’s office during Parents’ Evening and been part of an escapade that involved a fellow student almost falling through the roof of the school, Fitz had to admit that she had sort of been proved right.
Fitz’s dad, Roger, had told her that everything would be okay. Fitz had never been in trouble before and he would have a chat with Mr Providence to see if he could get the incident removed from Fitz’s school record. Roger Tork was a short man, with brown hair slicked down onto his round head. He worked for the government doing something or other, Fitz didn’t know exactly what. All he knew was, it meant his dad had to go to London every day and didn’t get back until late.
His mum was of a nervous disposition. Even shorter than his dad, with tight, curly hair, her face twitched when she was anxious, and since Fitz’s suspension, that was pretty much most of the time. Marjorie was a therapist who helped people talk through their problems and she saw her clients in a cabin in the back garden. She was trying to work now as Fitz was mowing the grass. Fitz hated mowing the grass at the best of times but pulling and pushing the huge mower all over the garden in a heatwave was really starting to get on his nerves.
‘You need to have that done in the next 15 minutes, young man, I’ve got a client coming over,’ his mum said, poking her head out of the cabin.
‘15 minutes? You’re joking?’
‘I suggest you watch your tone and get it done.’ Her disappointment was so great that she struggled to look at her son; every time she did, she whimpered and cried. He’d tried telling his mum that it was all Boyd’s idea but that hadn’t gone down well either. ‘Then you’re too easily led,’ she had said.
His dad said that maybe it was a good thing Fitz had ‘gone off the rails’ now and no one had really got hurt. Roger was sure that he’d learnt his lesson.
‘Oh, I have,’ Fitz thought as he blitzed the big old lawn mower around in the sweltering sun. ‘I’ve learnt not to go anywhere near Boyd ever again.’
Fitz sat at the desk in his bedroom, draining a pint of water. He finished it, then started panting like a Labrador. He was absolutely shattered; he had never done so much manual labour in his life. So far, his mum had made him wash the car, clean his mountain bike and mow the lawn. He had been given tomorrow off, thank god, but on Monday morning he had to paint the front room. He usually got worn out painting Airfix models, so he was fairly sure that a week of this kind of punishment was going to kill him. He had even told his mum the songs he wanted played at his funeral, which she didn’t find at all funny.
Fitz’s room was pretty unique, and it was out of bounds for everyone else. It was always locked, even when he was in there. Inventing was his hobby, so he would take things apart, see how they worked, then adapt them and build something new. His room was littered with half-finished projects, various tools and notepads covered in ideas. A wetsuit hung on the open door of his built-in wardrobe; he’d told his parents he was going to take up canoeing, and they didn’t even question the fact that he didn’t own a canoe. The wetsuit had little bits of glass and mirror glued onto it and it was currently drying off under an old heat lamp.
At the end of the bed was a long desk. One half of it was taken up with piles of paper, a laptop and a desktop computer, along with three big monitors; while the other served as a work bench, with a soldering iron, a magnifying lamp and stacks of other tools. Four different-sized radio-control cars rested on the bench, all at various stages of rebuilding and each one with distinct modifications: one had a large mesh bucket attached to the top of it, and the wheels of the smallest car were under the large magnifying lamp. There were also two chests of drawers that had large technical drawings laid out on them. It wasn’t like any other teenager’s room Fitz had seen, but then, to be fair, he hadn’t really seen that many except on TV.
He tapped the space bar on his keyboard and the computer screen came to life. Fitz hovered his thumb over a scanner that he had plugged into the desktop and the lock screen melted away. He immediately saw he had a Facebook notification, which was strange because he had social-media notifications set to only alert him if he got a direct message and he rarely got any of those. Fitz clicked on the little box in the right-hand corner of the screen and it opened up Messenger. There, at the top of the pile was a picture of Pixie Thorn – that Pixie, the girl from school. Her name was next to a carefully selected image and Fitz could see the first line of text from her message.
‘Help me Obi-Wan, you’re my only hope.’
His eyes grew wide. Okay, so what could he surmise from this? Firstly, Pixie Thorn liked Star Wars, which was a surprise in and of itself. Fitz never really thought of Pixie as a ‘Galaxy Far, Far Away’ kind of girl, but it showed you never really knew someone. Secondly, she needed his help, on a Saturday, which meant she had been thinking of him at the weekend. In fact, now he thought about it, maybe that was the first and most important thing and the Star Wars reference came in a distant second. ‘Keep it cool, Tork,’ Fitz said out loud to himself.
Once he opened this message, Pixie would see that he had read it, so he had to compose himself. Not replying to someone because you hadn’t read their message was one thing but reading it and not replying because you were so hideously uncool you had no idea what to say was another thing entirely. Fitz now realised that he was sat there, looking at a message he hadn’t opened and trying to work out what his reply should be without having read it. Time to man up – he opened the message.
‘Help me Obi-Wan, you’re my only hope. I’m in trouble, mate, and I need you. It’s Boyd, in case you hadn’t guessed, sorry about that. I don’t have my phone. I know you hate me, but I’ve got nowhere else to go, please.’
Wonderful. Fitz desperately wanted to go back 30 seconds to when, in his head, this was still a message from Pixie Thorn. He found himself typing a reply straight away. ‘Right. So how are you in Pixie’s messenger?’ He could see a response was being typed.
‘I don’t have my phone; long story and you can’t tell anyone I’m in contact with you.’
‘But you DO have Pixie’s phone?????’
‘I’ll ex
plain when we meet. Please.’
Fitz took a moment. He had spent the last two days being so angry at Boyd, he didn’t think he ever wanted to set eyes on him again. He knew his mum only wanted the best for him and he had so badly let her down. It felt horrible seeing her hurt and he had convinced himself it was all down to Boyd. But now, sitting here, he knew the truth.
It had been his decision to follow Boyd into that tunnel; he could have said no. He got himself into that mess and he had to own it. He had always done as he was told, and he liked the excitement of going against the rules.
Plus, Boyd was in trouble, and if he had learnt one thing in the last few days, it was that the kind of trouble Boyd attracted was always the serious kind.
Parklife
Fitz walked into the Bloomfield Recreation Ground at 4:30pm. Boyd had said to be at the Rec for five that afternoon but in every spy movie Fitz had seen, you always got there early so you could stake out the meeting place and stay one step ahead. Boyd had told him to sit at an outside table at the community-centre café and wait for him, but seeing as Fitz was early and the only thing waiting for him at home was the job of dusting every single china nick-nack on his parents’ dresser in the dining room, he decided to enjoy himself. He was wearing his dad’s old Bloomfield Cricket Club tracksuit top over his usual shorts and trainers. On his head was Roger Tork’s flat cap, along with a pair of large aviator sunglasses that stuck out from the side of his small, round face.
The only way Fitz could convince his mum to let him leave the house was an offer to walk their cockapoo, Tinker, who was currently pulling him through the car park much like a speedboat pulls a water-skier. If Fitz was trying to stay under the radar, he was failing miserably; Tinker Tork dragged him over to the football and cricket pitches, where he immediately decided he needed a comfort break. Luckily, his dad always had poo bags in his tracksuit top. He made his way over to the nearest suitable bin, which was under some trees next to the old Scout hut. This gave him the perfect view of the community centre café, plus both entrances to the park, so he would see Boyd approaching and be able to casually walk right over to him.
Operation Hurricane: The Evan Boyd Adventures #1 Page 9