‘There’s still me,’ Shane utters, trying to grab me, to wrestle me down. I pull away, leaping up onto the nearby windowsill and propelling off and over Shane, kicking him into the wall. His head strikes brick and he tumbles on top of his cronies. All three are moaning in pain.
‘See you next time, lads,’ I say, leaving them all on the ground as I pick up the football and begin to walk away.
‘What’s going on here, boys?’ asks a voice, stopping me in my tracks.
‘Nothing, Sir,’ I reply, turning to face Mr Beckett. He makes no effort of hiding his lighter and cigarettes, eyeing us coldly with contempt; me in particular.
‘It doesn’t look like nothing,’ he says. ‘Mr Hunter, is that Duncan Bowen’s football in your hands?’
‘This ball, Sir?’ I reply with a voice as innocent as I can make it. ‘No, Sir. Brand new this one is.’
‘Funny. It looks exactly like the one I confiscated today,’ he says with suspicion.
‘Can’t be, Sir,’ I say, holding back a smile. ‘Duncan’s ball is locked in your desk, third drawer down, Sir. Next to your mostly empty bottle of whiskey.’
‘How do you know…’ he begins to ask, but I don’t give him a chance.
‘Got to go, Sir,’ I say, hurrying away, leaving Mr Beckett, Shane, and his moronic thugs behind me.
Emerging onto the playing field, my friends cheer again as they see my success. I kick the football high into the air towards them.
‘Thought you wouldn’t manage it this time,’ yells Duncan, a tall and broad boy, always the joker, and my best friend. Thick, dark hair, a nose broken many times playing sports and the typical looks that all the girls fall for. He likes to think of himself as the most popular guy in school; he’s captain of the football and athletics teams. He’s probably right. Despite all that, Duncan and I are good friends, best friends even, always up to some kind of trouble.
‘I haven’t let you guys down yet, have I?’ I grin.
‘We’ll see,’ he replies. ‘You about tonight? Thought we could head over the green and see what we can stir up.’
‘Wish I could, mate, but not tonight,’ I reply, my mood quickly sinking. ‘Busy with… family stuff.’
‘Your mother?’ he asks, jokey tone now turned serious.
‘Yep,’ I say, revealing little as always. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘Okay. You change your mind about tonight, give me a call, or if things are… bad. You can kip round mine again if you want.’
‘Thanks, mate,’ I say, trying to shake the bad feeling. Why did he have to ask about my mother?
‘Here comes trouble,’ Duncan says, pointing towards a group of girls walking towards us.
‘I hope you haven’t forgotten about me,’ a voice calls from among them.
The girls chat and giggle, but I only look to the one at their lead. She has long blonde hair, green eyes, and I have to admit, quite a nice smile despite her high and mighty attitude. Just like the rest of the girls, she wears her most flattering clothes to impress. Her name is Sara Starr, and if Duncan is the most popular guy, then she is most certainly the most popular girl. Pretty and always confident, I have to admit I have thought about asking her out on a date a few times, not that she would ever say yes.
‘You sure took your time,’ she calls over to me.
‘I never thought I’d need to break into college,’ I reply. ‘Always planned how I’d break out.’
‘What happened to you? Walk into a wall?’ she asks, seeing the graze at my cheek and the growing bruise.
‘Something like that,’ I say, explaining away my run-in with Shane and the others.
‘Guessing you found what I wanted?’ she asks, showing a little too much eagerness to know of my success.
‘Maybe,’ I tease her.
‘You want your motorcycle keys back then?’ she says, taking my unclear answer as a yes.
‘Keep them,’ I tell her, trying my luck. ‘How about you go to the End of Year Ball with me instead?’
‘Trying to bribe a date out of me,’ Sara taunts, her friends laughing with her. ‘Not a chance, loser!’
‘It was worth a shot,’ I reply with a grin.
‘So do you have it or not?’ she asks, twirling a set of keys – my set of keys – around a finger.
I pretend to search through my pockets, showing empty hands before turning one over, an apple resting in my fingers.
‘Your cheap tricks don’t impress me,’ she mocks.
‘If it doesn’t impress you then why are you smiling?’ My grin broadens before I take a bite of the apple. Speaking sideways out of a full mouth, I attempt to be smooth, like one of those bad-boy movie stars from a time ago. ‘Besides, it’s a Granny Smith apple, the best of them all. Hardly cheap.’
I lift my other hand towards Sara, turning it slowly. Across the palm lays the silver necklace and its rose pendant.
‘Thank you,’ she says, quickly taking the necklace and inspecting it closely, forcing the keys into my hand. ‘I should’ve known better than to wear it here with the no jewellery rules. It was my grandmother’s before she…’
Tears well in her eyes, startling me. I have never seen her like this - sincere. I have no idea what to do, always uncomfortable around emotional girls like any guy my age. She surprises me by reaching out and hugging me tightly. The others tease us but I don’t care. Sara lets go quickly.
‘That means nothing you know,’ she says, hurriedly wiping her face of tears. ‘You’re still a loser.’
‘I know,’ I reply with a grin.
I sometimes catch her looking my way, a smile on her lips before hastily sticking out her tongue or raising a solitary finger my way. She is like me, rebellious in her own way; thinks for herself and cares little for what everyone else thinks – or at least that’s the impression she likes to give. When Mr Beckett confiscated her necklace, I promised her I’d get it back for her. That was one of my biggest faults – making promises.
‘Thank you, Adam,’ she whispers to me when no one else is looking. ‘This means more to me than you know.’
‘Any time,’ I say, always eager for a challenge and a chance to impress.
‘MR HUNTER!’ The screech echoes across the playing field.
‘Yes, Sp… I mean, Mrs Rhodes!’ I yell back in annoyance as Sara paces away, back towards her friends, Duncan and the others are laughing loudly at my near use of our teacher’s nickname.
‘You are needed in the staffroom!’ she yells with a face turning redder by the moment.
‘Now?’ I dare to ask.
‘Yes, now! Before I drag you and the rest of your delinquent friends into detention again!’
‘If it’s about the football and Mr Beckett’s desk drawer, I can tell you now I know nothing about any of that, honest!’ I protest, unable to conceal a grin. Everyone is laughing around me.
‘It is not about any of that,’ Mrs Rhodes says. ‘Although, I am sure Mr Beckett would like a word with you later. No. This is about your brother.’
3
ADAM—Richmond, London, England
I don’t slow for cars or red lights, weaving my way home without ever releasing the throttle. The bike is a 250cc Honda military bike, all of it painted black; over fifty years old, yet still roaring like it has just been built. It belonged to my father, restored and repaired when he was my age. The helmet is black and emblazoned with a silver arrowhead. The faded grey biker jacket had been his, too.
Cutting across streets and down alleyways, no apology shouted to pedestrians I scare as I mount pavements, I am focussed only on getting home, not caring for my own safety as Spike’s words echo in my head. He’s missing.
Hurtling around the final corner, drawing a cry of anger from a startled pensioner, I reach my house and skid to a halt in the stony drive as near to the entrance as possible. Beside my mother’s car, a beat up blue Ford Focus, is another vehicle in the drive, a spotless black BMW with darkened windows. Propping my bike against the
wall of the garage – the stand broken weeks ago – I hurry in.
I hear her voice first before I see any of them. The anger I recognise all too well, usually directed my way though. Even for her, this sounds bad.
She stands in the doorway, dark hair showing signs of greying, wrinkles around her tired eyes, but still strong, still healthy and more than capable. Her face is redder than I have seen in weeks, the anger unleashed. There are tears in her eyes, but her fury is unending. She is Jane Hunter, my mother.
‘Get out!’ she yells. ‘Get out! This is on you, Charles! Haven’t you done enough to this family already?’
The targets of her rage stumble away, my mother slamming the door behind them. One is a young woman, only a year or two older than me at a guess. Brown hair tied back, slightly pale skin, wearing glasses, faded jeans and a t-shirt emblazoned with a slogan from some show or a reference I don’t recognise. She looks on aghast, hands still clutching the cup of coffee my mother must have made her.
‘Well, that went brilliantly,’ her older companion mutters through his moustache. He hadn’t seen me and is now painfully aware that he shouldn’t have said that. He fidgets awkwardly for a moment with his walking cane. Dapper. Old school. As if to punctuate the whole unfortunate incident, he sighs heavily. He’s disappointed in me already.
‘You must be Adam,’ he says, forcing a smile and offering a handshake, which I ignore.
‘And you must be the people who have pissed off my mother,’ I reply back with as forced a smile. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Charles Lovell, and this is my associate, Abbey,’ he says.
‘Hi,’ she says, a slight Irish accent to her voice. She still holds the coffee cup and avoids my gaze, awkward and still embarrassed.
‘We work for the British Museum,’ Charles says, as if that explains everything.
‘That’s lovely,’ I reply sarcastically. ‘What are you doing here, and why are you upsetting my mother? That’s usually my job.’
‘We are here about Matthew,’ Charles explains.
‘Your brother,’ Abbey adds, before blushing and looking away, realising how pointless her words were.
‘When was the last time you saw or spoke with your brother?’ Charles asks.
‘How do you know Matt?’ I ask, stubbornly ignoring his question.
‘We worked… work with your brother,’ Abbey explains, changing her words and avoiding my gaze.
‘How? Matt works in some stuffy office in central London. Something to do with stocks or finances. I don’t know. It was all very boring whenever he tried to explain it. Whatever it was, I really doubt it had anything to do with museums.’
‘Well, that is where you are wrong,’ Charles says with a smugness that I really don’t like. ‘Matthew actually worked for me – sort of incognito – hence the alter-ego.’
‘Matt never spoke of any of this, nor of you two,’ I reply, distrustful of the strange pair. ‘Nor did he like being called Matthew.’
‘You very much are brothers,’ he replies, sighing heavily again. ‘In looks and attitude. Matthew hid the truth for your own protection. Why you’d need protection is something I cannot explain at this moment.’
‘Matt was a…’ Abbey begins to explain, her voice uncertain before looking to Charles.
‘A consultant for us,’ he finishes. ‘He has been in our employ for a little over two years now. Matthew travels to dig sites and excavations and makes acquisitions on behalf of the museum.’
‘He’s good at it, too,’ Abbey abruptly adds, before blushing and then looking away into her empty cup. I see in that moment that Abbey is soft on him. Matt always did have a way with girls.
‘So, where is he?’ I ask, unable to make sense of it all. ‘I assume you know he is missing?’
‘Yes, we do,’ Charles states. ‘That is exactly why we are here.’
‘Matt went north to Scotland,’ Abbey explains. ‘A chamber was uncovered in the Highlands that was of historical importance. We lost contact with him three days ago.’
‘How did you lose contact with him?’ I ask angrily. ‘Surely he wasn’t doing that kind of thing alone. He must have had a team with him? Back up?’
Abbey and Charles exchange a look that fills me with instant dread.
‘Matt was on his own, wasn’t he?’ I realise. ‘No wonder my mother was angry with you.’
‘It was… is Matt’s way, to travel alone when he can,’ Abbey stutters.
‘Despite my protests,’ Charles adds.
I want to punch him in that moment. The old codger is already trying to wheedle his way out of his responsibility.
‘And from the rest of the team,’ Abbey adds.
‘I thought you said there wasn’t a team?’ I ask, but my question is ignored.
Abbey looks up again at Charles, who now looks like he’s chewing on a bee.
‘Look,’ he says, getting irritated with both Abbey and me. ‘It wasn’t an official project. Matt can be… impetuous.”
I laugh. Yeah, I guess he does know my brother.
‘He headed up to Scotland under his own steam and without proper authority.’ Charles stiffens. He’s an arrogant sod. Probably more pissed at Matt not asking him permission than actually concerned over him being missing. Met his kind before – like Spike. They’re all the same.
Abbey hurriedly explains, ‘We didn’t know he was there until he made contact, three days ago, already descending into the caverns.’
‘Why postpone what can be done today?’ I murmur under my breath.
‘That’s what your brother always says,’ Abbey replies with a brief smile.
‘That’s what our father always said,’ I correct her. ‘So what happened to Matt down in those caverns? What was he looking for?’
‘I cannot divulge that information,’ Charles says, receiving a brief look from Abbey. ‘As to what happened to him in the caverns, we cannot say either, and not because we don’t have authority, but because we don’t know.’
‘Communication was cut and we have been unable to reach him for days,’ Abbey interjects. Charles sighs with irritation and flashes her a look that tells her to rein it in.
‘But you are looking for him?’ I ask.
This time, before she answers, she looks to Charles, who nods his approval. She begins, ‘We have teams searching for him, but the series of caverns are a maze, a total honeycomb. There are hundreds of passages built upon a river network making many unstable and unsafe for use. Two members of the search parties have already been badly injured. It’s a slow process and as of yet there is no way to tell which passages he took.’
‘Have you told the police he is missing?’ I ask. ‘Surely they should be helping with the search?’
‘All available and suitable resources have been mobilised to search for Matthew,’ Charles informs me snottily. I really don’t like this guy.
‘He could still be down there, trapped, injured…’ I yell at them. This pair are idiots. Matt hasn’t got a hope.
‘We will find him,’ Abbey stops me, placing a hand upon my arm for a moment. I shake her off. Who does she think she is?
‘We will find him,’ Charles agrees, though his tone gives me no reassurance, as if this whole matter is of annoyance to him. ‘With your help, we can find him.’
Abbey pulls a notebook from her bag. Its cover is scarred in hundreds of scribbles, markings, and sketches, and the pages are thick with notes. I recognise the tattered book instantly.
‘Matt’s journal!’
Matt is old-school, using a paper notebook instead of anything electronic. By his thinking, electronic journals and tablets are too easily damaged, the possibility of records being erased or hacked and stolen too great to risk. He used his own hand written journal all his life, the same cover used over the years as fresh pages were tied in.
Suspicion grows in my mind. Why would this man and woman, strangers to me except for their word they work with Matt, have the one possession he alwa
ys kept on him, no matter where he went? My doubts grow.
‘He never went anywhere without it,’ I say, unable to hide the suspicion from my voice.
Abbey nods her head. ‘He always had it with him at work.’
‘It was found at the entrance to the caverns, along with his rucksack,’ Charles states. ‘We came here to ask for help in deciphering his notes. Everything he has written in the journal is encrypted. We believe his notes might include clues on how to find him down there.’
‘I’ve tried everything I know, every code breaking system,’ Abbey explains. ‘Nothing has worked.’
I can’t help but smile – I’m weirdly proud of him. Cryptology, using codes and cyphers, communicating in secret, numbers, letters, and symbols encoded to mean something completely different, to keep the true meaning hidden. The Enigma machines used by the Germans in World War Two, the best example, ever changing encryptions for their coded messages, unbreakable by anyone until the British at Bletchley Park cracked the sequences.
Ever since we were little, Matt and I had spoken in codes, sending messages our parents could not read; plans, mischief and wind-ups all concealed in the combinations of letters, numbers, and symbols. The combinations always changed; that was what made the codes unique, just like the Enigma machines, but the patterns were there if you knew what to look for. No one had ever managed to decipher our codes except our father. He taught us the tricks in the first place.
‘We have spoken with Kathryn Berry already but she was unable to help us.’ Charles taps his cane against the stones, his irritation clear
Matt’s girlfriend, Kat. I wonder if she knew what Matt’s real job was. Unreasoned jealousy suddenly burns within.
‘Your mother was unable to help us too,’ Abbey says.
Before she threw you out, I add in my head.
‘She has… issues,’ I say defensively, finally taking the cup out of Abbey’s hand and placing it on the ground. Abbey hands me Matt’s journal and I flick through the pages. To the untrained eye, it would simply look like the scribbles of a mad-man or child. Not to me.
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