by Julia Hughes
‘Quick – help me – I’ve got it – get the other side. Quick!’
Wren plunged his hands opposite Rhyllann’s. Together they strained to haul the box from its moorings. With a louder shorter slurp, the box shot up towards them.
Disappointment flooded through Rhyllann. The rusted box didn’t look anywhere large enough to hold the kind of fortune he’d expected from Wren’s talk of crown jewels. Diamonds! Let it be diamonds; or sapphires, or rubies he prayed under his breath; even a solid gold crown would do. The engine vibrations increased. There was more than one of them. Jumping to his feet, Rhyllann snatched the shovel. Hoisting it over his head, he smashed it down against the box, sparks flying upwards. Once, twice three times. The lid sprung open. He stole a quick glance towards Wren, whose face glowed; his smile one of total satisfaction.
Rhyllann watched in disbelief then anger as his cousin knelt reverently. Moving as though he feared it would break, he reached inside the chest to pull out a smaller wooden box. He held it like an offering, examining it from all sides. Then noticed Rhyllann.
‘Annie. We did it! We did it!’ His eyes gleamed with demonic triumph, inviting Rhyllann to share his excitement, holding the box aloft like a trophy. Rhyllann gripped the shovel handle fighting a sudden urge to smash the spade over his head.
‘What! We’ve been to hell and back for that?!’
Wren started to speak then stopped. Engine revs could be felt through the ground now.
‘Quick. Throw that chest back in the hole, and cover it over. We’ve gotta get outta here!’
Wren shrugged off his army tunic jacket as he spoke. What was the point? Rhyllann fumed. It was obvious someone had been digging here. Well, he was gonna make damn sure they knew they were too late. Drawing his mobile from his back pocket – chucking it inside the rusted metal chest he began shovelling earth over. That would give the Arseholes something to think about! Wren finished wrapping the inner wooden box in his jacket. Giving it a last tender pat, he turned to help. Hell, they’d never get out of sight in time. They’d left it too late to run. Rhyllann dragged Wren back to the gorse he’d hidden in earlier.
With Wren’s heels two inches from his nose, Rhyllann wriggled through a claustrophobic tunnel formed by gorse, meant only for rabbits or foxes. Woody stems towered above ground before growing spiteful thorns along with luscious green leaves and sweet smelling yellow flowers. If they kept their nerve, unless someone actually entered the maze like tunnel, they were undetectable in their borrowed camouflage. They reached the edge of the thicket, which bordered the boulders they had crouched on previously. They could either remain under gorse cover, or clamber back up to the craggy overhang. They opted to stay put.
They had enough time to pick out an excellent spot. A perfect circle where the stalks didn’t grow underneath, but soared above them to form dense cover. A ballroom for rabbits. Enough for two skinny kids to sprawl in comfort and watch without being seen. Rhyllann wondered who’d find his mobile first – Stern or the rugby player. He giggled at the thought. Wren pinched him.
‘Pack it in – what’s so funny?’
He sniggered. ‘Nothing. I left a little surprise for our friends!’
‘What d’you mean?’ Wren asked, an edge to his voice.
‘I left my mobile inside the metal chest! Imagine their faces.’
‘You did what?’ Wren sounded incredulous. ‘Are you completely mad?’ Not for the first time, Rhyllann decided his cousin had no sense of humour.
‘C’mon – chill – it’s jokes! They’re digging for ancient treasure – they come up with a modern mobile.’ A new thought struck Rhyllann, so funny he struggled to get the words out: ‘They might think … Wren – they might think the mobile’s thousands of years old – you know like finding a bus on the moon. It’ll drive them crazy!’ He rocked with silent laughter, hugging himself.
Wren hit him. Hard. ‘Fool. You might just as well have left a note saying Rhyllann Jones Was Here. Oh and by the way – here’s the phone number of all my friends!’
Rhyllann's glee deflated like a balloon. ‘There’s no sim card. You don’t think?’
Wren hit him again as a warning to keep quiet. Rhyllann couldn’t believe how stupid he had been. It wasn’t his fault. All that build up – the anticipation. And then to find a cruddy wooden box like the one gran kept her jewellery in. It had been a small rebellious act. Leaving something just as useless for those bastards to find and puzzle over. In fact, Rhyllann decided, this was Wren’s fault for building his hopes up. But he couldn’t even tell Wren that, because the gang were back. They simmered in silence – glaring at each other.
*
Engines stilled, doors slammed and voices sounded.
‘Jesus – look at the mess here!’
‘No wonder that conservation guy was so upset Sir!’
‘Mmm. These are our boys Sergeant Tiller. Good thing our man played innocent and backed off. Can we get a photo of that – and those weird markings?’
Rhyllann could only glimpse legs sweeping past but he recognised that voice. He nudged Wren.
‘Crombie!’
Wren held an imaginary phone to his cheek with a grimace. Crombie would discover the mobile. Crombie would know immediately where Rhyllann was hiding because Crombie had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to Rhyllann. Crombie’s boots turned in their direction; catching his breath Rhyllann wriggled deeper into the dirt, trying to bury himself. Wren hissed at him to keep still.
‘Ok – Rodgers – looks like they dug over there – get your fat lazy arse down there and dig.’
Buses on the moon and mobiles in ancient chests seemed less and less funny.
Crombie’s voice boomed again carrying clearly:
‘Superintendent Bates – You’re in position? Yep. We’re at Taffy’s Folly – it’s deserted. Guess our master race are all holed up in the farmhouse. Probably taking a powernap. Tell your boys it’s a go!’
Rhyllann buried his face in the dirt. Crombie had tracked down Stern and his gang, it seemed armed police were up for a shoot out. If he hadn’t been so stupid! Stern’s gang would have been taken care of, and no-one would ever have known he and Wren were even here.
‘Sir! Look! A spade!’ A woman’s voice called excitedly.
‘That’s great – good work Chrissie! Tell you what – you and Tiller get over there and search those rocks.’
‘Sir?’
‘We’ll charge ‘em first with desecrating an ancient monument while we hold ‘em for Interpol. After you’ve searched those rocks, search that thicket – the whole area. Anything else that can tie them to this place – sweet wrappers – cigarette packets – understood? And photograph everything.’
The undergrowth shuddered as someone began probing with a spade, batting the gorse first one way then another. The boys shrunk back, vicious little spikes piercing their flesh. Rhyllann held his breath. Any moment now they’d be discovered. But we’ve done nothing. He told himself. We’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, but we’ve done nothing. I’ll stand up – tell Crombie we thought … he felt fingers of steel grasp his arm, as Wren read his mind.
‘Sir! Sir!’ Rodgers was calling. ‘I’ve found something.’ There was a stampede in his direction. Rhyllann counted four pairs of legs.
‘A mobile Sir – that’s strange.’
The female voice spoke. ‘Maybe there’s a text message – or a phone number to call …’
‘I’ll take it back to Bodmin Station – they might be able to unlock it!’ That sounded like Sergeant Tiller.
A faded leather jacket flapped into view as its owner bent to scoop up the mobile.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Crombie shouted. ‘For godsake Bates – stand down weapons.’ He yelled into the radio. ‘Hostages! They’ve got hostages. STAND DOWN! At least one, maybe two kids hostage! Abort! Abort! Abort!’
He yelled over to Rodgers again – Hewes and Tiller began speaking at once.
‘Are you sure Sir –
how do you know?’
‘I recognise this mobile – the cracked screen, the sellotape. It belongs to Rhyllann Jones!’
‘What! That mouthy little git? You think they’ve got him?’
‘Yes. He might be a mouthy little git – but he’s street smart. He dropped the phone in there unnoticed. Hoping someone would find it. Rodgers – come on! We’ve gotta get going. Make sure Bates doesn’t get trigger happy.’
Rhyllann groaned. Wren’s eyes burnt into the back of his neck. Doors slammed, engines roared, wheels churned and silence returned.
*
Rhyllann wished himself a thousand miles away. But because he had nowhere else to turn, he faced his cousin.
‘Don’t say anything.’ He warned. ‘Don’t say anything because it’s not as though you never muck up.’ He nearly shrivelled under Wren’s scorn. He should have saved his breath. It was going to be a long long time before Wren spoke to him again. If ever.
Wordlessly Wren extracted himself from the gorse thicket, dusted himself down and began walking. The camouflage jacket containing the wooden box tucked under his arm. Rhyllann chased after him.
‘Brawd – brawd – where are we going?’
Wren shot him a dirty look and carried on walking over bumpy ground. Rhyllann got in front of him again.
‘C’mon brawd, please – don’t be like this.’ Rhyllann was forced to walk backwards as Wren continued marching.
‘At least tell me where we’re going!’ He wailed. But Wren’s lips remained in a thin tight line.
The route they took followed a slight decline and Rhyllann guessed they were finished with the moors. Wren probably wanted to find public transport, maybe even a library for more research. The pure gentle air gave way to a heavier muggy atmosphere. Rhyllann pulled at his t-shirt feeling uncomfortably sticky and oppressed. Glancing up he saw that while the upper moors still bathed in sunshine, thick heavy clouds were rolling in from the direction they were headed, and that was strange, as there was no wind about. Although Rhyllann reminded himself it might be a different story a couple of miles above ground level.
After an hour of tramping in silence across barren moor land, the scenery began to change. Ahead of them lay a belt of trees. Wren skirted around until they came across a sandy path through the woods which led to a series of lakes. Pulling out the OS map from his side trouser pocket, Wren studied it, turning it this way and that. Rhyllann immediately began blowing smoke.
‘Bloody smart of you to nick those bikes brawd, I mean – and those pasties too.’ His stomach clenched at the memory. Rhyllann hurried on. ‘Lucky you’re so good at reading maps. I mean – we’d be really lost without you.’
This got him a derisive look from eyes that were slits of blue. Folding the map away Wren turned on his heel to splodge around the lake, the water to his left, moors to the right, tree branches arching upwards to form a canopy.
Muttering under his breath Rhyllann had no choice but to follow slipping and sliding in his wake. Wren was being totally out of order, he told himself, dragging him all over the country, dropping him right in it with Crombie, making him hi-jack planes…They were lost now, and hungry and tired …Just as Rhyllann decided his life could not get any worse, rain fell in bucket loads from the sky. No gentle summer shower – this was torrential deafening rain, ricocheting from the water like gravel on glass, drenching Rhyllann’s world within seconds, sending moorhens and ducks skittering for shelter. Where their lake ended another began. A wide muddy track separated the two bodies of water. Turning left Wren began walking between the lakes. His blond hair turned dark, the khaki t-shirt clinging sodden to his ribs. From time to time Wren slipped or stumbled awkwardly, clutching the combat jacket and box to his chest.
Rhyllann had his own battle. Every piece of clothing drenched and clinging to his skin, weighing him down pushing him into the mud so that every step meant uprooting a sodden trainer before swinging it forward. And all this time the rain pelted down, finding every exposed pore, forcing him to screw up his eyes, blinding and deafening him. Up ahead Wren stumbled again. This time he didn’t manage to save himself; sprawling full length. Rhyllann hurried to help him up. His cousin’s teeth chattered between bloodless lips, his hair plastered against his skull. Rhyllann’s feet skidded as he hauled him upright; for a moment it seemed they would both tumble over. They clutched at each other like two novice skaters. Rhyllann's own teeth started chattering as he took the box from Wren. They tried supporting each other as they walked, but that didn’t work. If one tripped the other stumbled too. It was easier to splodge side by side in silence. Even if Wren wanted to speak, Rhyllann wouldn’t be able to hear him. The rain bounced up from the lakes and puddles that were rapidly forming across their path. They needed to get off this flat bridge of land quickly, before the lakes met. It became a desperate struggle; if they quickened their pace, they stumbled more frequently. Rhyllann found himself clutching the box against his chest so hard it physically hurt. He welcomed the pain, using it to spur himself on, ploughing through sheets of rain – falling from the sky – from over hanging branches – from his hair. The only thought he allowed was the next step and the next step, and the next, judging every inch of the barely visible path in the terrifying knowledge that one wrong move could be their last.
Finally they could see an end. Ahead of them the land rose steeply. Here the path diverged – if they turned left they would be circling the first lake, turn right and they’d be walking along the edge of the second lake. With a feeling of dread, Rhyllann remembered they’d approached the lakes down a gentle incline. If they wanted to continue forward they would have to scale an almost vertical bank of earth. Rhyllann cast a glance over his shoulder, the path behind was already underwater. They were at the bottom of a basin which was filling fast.
Thrusting the box into Wren’s hands, he ran at the bank, propelling himself towards one of the scrubby bushes clinging to the side. Rhyllann seized handfuls of shrubbery, scattering collected rainwater and loose earth. Heaving himself upwards, he wedged one foot against the plant, balancing precariously. From here, the bank became even steeper, stretching upwards for another twenty feet at least. At best he had managed to scrabble five feet. Feeling the ground beneath him crumble as roots tore loose, he gave up and allowed himself to slide back onto the path.
Wren watched, with eyes screwed up against the rainwater streaming down his face, convulsing with shivers. Now without a flicker of emotion he turned to his right and waded forward.
Rhyllann knew he must have been in more pain before this day. But this was torture. His skin felt so tender that every drop of rain stung as though being pelted with small gun shot. He’d scraped his hands and knees; his ears throbbed with cold, his jaw ached from clenching against chattering teeth. But far worse was the certainty that this was never going to end. He wanted to curl up in a ball, to find some warmth. But already water batted against his feet. If he lay down, he might never get up. Because Wren somehow found the strength to forge onwards, Rhyllann forced himself to move.
Like a reward for his bravery, the rain softened, then stopped. Rhyllann splashed ankle deep in water, but being able to raise his head, to see where he was going felt luxurious. He lengthened his stride, determined to catch up with the diminutive figure sploshing ahead like a clockwork toy. They were going to get through this he told himself. They would look back at this and laugh. He’d almost caught Wren up, in a moment, he’d slap his shoulder and Wren would give that dorky smile and they’d be friends again. After Rhyllann roasted him for sulking. With a burst of energy he surged forward, water churning, splashing to his hips. Wren cast a glance over his shoulder then disappeared.
Flinging himself head first into murky ice cold blackness, gasping as the air flumped from his lungs, Rhyllann groped blindly with outstretched hands, frantically fishing for Wren. His mind gabbled wildly, this was a bottomless pit, some lurking tentacled creature had snatched Wren, it would come back for him … and no one knew
they were here … icy fingers clawed the back of his neck, clinging limpet like. With a supreme effort Rhyllann pushed down against the path to jerk backwards dragging Wren’s body with him. Wren rolled over onto his hands and knees to retch. Rhyllann struggled upright, only to topple against a bramble bush. He had pulled every muscle in his back. Groaning in agony he extracted himself from the brambles. At least Wren was safe from that icy murky pit. Wiping a hand across his mouth, he watched Wren scrabbling around frantically. Then with a despairing glance at Rhyllann he plunged back into the lake.
Dropping to his haunches, squatting in the mire, Rhyllann buried his head in his knees and howled. He couldn’t – just couldn’t – submerge himself in those waters again. It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t. He would wait here for rescue. And if rescue didn’t come – he would never have to explain why he had let his cousin drown. He howled louder then squealed in terror.
A hand appeared in front of him, slapping down a small wooden box, followed by Wren’s head shoulders and torso emerging from the lake like a wraith. He swiped hair back from his face, shook water from his hands, stooped to retrieve the box and marched off without a word. The urge to kill him overcame the urge to abandon hope. Rhyllann struggled to catch up, careful to keep a decent gap between them. He didn’t trust himself.
Eventually they reached the far edge of the lake and a deserted carpark. But there was a lane leading back to civilisation – away from these dreadful lakes. Wren waited for Rhyllann to reach his side, then finally broke his silence.
‘Annie. We made it. Thank god.’
He hadn’t spoken before not through temper or spite. He’d needed to conserve all his strength and by sheer will power alone he’d managed to carry them both. Without him, Rhyllann would be an exhausted heap sobbing at the lake’s edge. Wren’s teeth chattered in a face gaunt with exhaustion.
‘I didn’t realise the waters would rise so quickly – they must have opened the barriers up country – we’re in the middle of a flood plain.’