Blood Sun

by David Gilman

Sayid was in Jackson’s study. The door closed firmly behind him. Were there any letters anywhere for Max? Satisfied there were not, Jackson gave Sayid strict instructions not to mention the intrigue of the men who had visited.

  As if.

  Mr. Jackson would decide when to tell Max.

  Yeah. OK.

  Did Sayid understand?

  Of course he did. What? He wasn’t going to tell his best friend everything the moment he laid eyes on him? Maybe Mr. Jackson had never been young.

  “You’ve done extremely well, Max,” Mr. Jackson said as the major delivered his soggy charge back to Dartmoor High. “Away with you now and sluice off that muck. Are you hungry?”

  Despite the army stew, Max’s stomach felt like a punctured football. “Starving, sir.”

  “Right. We’ll rustle something up once you’re in a more civilized condition. Off you go.”

  The major shook hands with Max. “Well done, son. I bet your parents will be proud of you.”

  He didn’t catch the flicker in the boy’s eye. Max’s dad, Tom, was in a specialist nursing home, unable to distinguish between dream and reality. Max was desperate to see and speak to him. There were tough questions that needed answering, but he could do that only when the nursing home contacted Mr. Jackson. It had to be the right time for a visit—a time when the father might recognize his own son. Mr. Jackson understood. He saw Max’s momentary hesitation and gave him a brief nod of encouragement.

  “Thanks, sir,” Max said to the major. “It was great fun, but I’m glad it wasn’t for real.”

  He squelched up the granite stairs. He heard Mr. Jackson offer a nightcap to the major, who declined, saying he needed to get his men back to barracks.

  Sayid peered round the balustrade, careful not to be seen by Jackson.

  “Hey!” he whispered urgently as Max reached the top of the stairs. He quickly fell into step down the long corridor that led to their rooms. “There’s been some really spooky stuff going on! What have you been rolling in? Anyway, something’s up, but I’m not sure what yet. All I know is these two men came here, really tough-looking blokes, and Jacko was acting like he was in the end-of-year play. He’s not exactly Johnny Depp, but he had them convinced.”

  “Me? I’m fine. Hundred percent. Oh, did I mention I was the last one to stay out there, so I won the competition? Thanks for asking, Sayid.”

  “All right, keep your shirt on. Well, perhaps not. You know you’re gonna have to burn your kit. You’ll clog the washing machines with sludge.”

  “Sayid, stop beating around the bush and let me shower, get some nosh and sleep for a week.”

  “Who’s Danny Maguire?”

  “Why?” Max became immediately more alert.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s dead.”

  * * *

  Grime sluiced away around Max’s feet. The hot water pummeled his muscles. He stood in the shower, head down, watching the muck swirl and disappear down the drain. Scratches and abrasions stung, but the pain helped drive away the numbness he felt after hearing about Danny’s death—and made Max feel alive. Very alive and very anxious. Max’s heart had gone up a gear. Had Maguire sent him something? Sayid hadn’t known much about the details other than that those men were looking for a letter or a packet. But where was it? Maybe he hadn’t managed to post it before he’d died. If he had, how many days for it to get here? Danny Maguire’s death shocked him, because Max’s instincts yelled at him that it was not suicide, as Sayid had said.

  Maguire had been murdered.

  Max’s thoughts swirled like the water. Was he being irrational? There was no evidence that Danny had been murdered. Sayid had told him there had been no mention of violence. No one had raised any alarms—except Max’s gut feeling, which told him otherwise.

  Max had barely known Danny Maguire when he was still at Dartmoor High. He was four years older and a senior boy. Almost two years ago, he had left for an extended field-experience trip in Central and South America before continuing his studies at university in England, where he hoped to graduate as a forensic anthropologist—digging up the past and finding the truth behind ancient civilizations and the way their people had died. Max hadn’t known any of this until quite recently, when he’d delved into Danny’s background after receiving an email from him that promised the only real lead to finding out the truth behind Max’s mother’s death. Danny had answered Max’s cry for help over the Internet. A hundred others had plagued Max’s alias mailbox—eagle@high-tor.co.uk—that he had set up on a server, but this one meant something.

  A cryptic message. Of no interest to anyone—unless they were deliberately looking for it.

  Eagle. Dr. HG. Something unusual. Have last known location. Will be in London, 1 month. Will contact. Wolfman

  One email out of hundreds and it had taken his breath away. It could have been from anyone or anywhere, but its source was an ex-Dartmoor pupil.

  There were four houses at Dartmoor High: Otter, Badger, Eagle and Wolf. Max belonged to Eagle House, and when he’d first arrived at the school and found his natural ability to compete in long-distance races across the moor, one older boy had stood head and shoulders, both physically and academically, above the others. Danny Maguire. He could have been an Olympic runner, but he had planned a life of adventure. Two years later and Maguire had grown a beard, and that, combined with his long hair, amazing running abilities and position as head boy of Wolf House, earned him the sobriquet of Wolfman.

  Dr. HG was Helen Gordon, Max’s mum.

  Max’s father had met Max’s mother in South America, where she had been researching environmental damage caused by illegal logging in the rain forests. Tom and Helen Gordon both had reputations for fearlessness. Their integrity made them many enemies. They and the privately funded organization they worked for challenged governments to reassess their environmental credentials and forced many companies that endangered the environment to close. Max’s parents were known and respected by everyone associated with science and ecology. These brave, pioneering trouble-shooters were quietly acknowledged as being at the forefront of the fight against corruption. But four years ago, Max’s mum had died in the Central American rain forest. His father had barely spoken of it, other than to explain to Max that she had fallen ill and that they had been so isolated he could not reach help in time to save her. His father’s pain seemed even deeper than his own, and their shared grief brought father and son emotionally closer together. Until Tom Gordon’s closest and best friend, Angelo Farentino, betrayed him.

  Max had recently been caught up in a violent conflict in the French Alps, and fate had brought him face to face with Farentino. The Judas bargained for his life when Max could have abandoned him to a cruel death in the desolate mountains. Max could see his face, hear his screams as Farentino begged the boy to save him.

  Your mother! I know how she died. How she really died!

  The memory inflicted the same cutting pain now as when he had first heard the bitter accusations.

  She died alone, Max, because your father saved himself! And he can’t live with the shame! Why do you think he stuck you away in that boarding school? Why do you see so little of him? WHY? Because he ran and left her to die! He knows he killed your mother!

  “No!” Max yelled, unable to keep the shout of denial in his head.

  Was it the hot water or the tears that stung his eyes? He slid down the shower wall and sat huddled, arms round his knees.

  Max had endured a lot of violence when he’d tried to save his father in Africa. Now the tormented whisperings of his mind—that his dad, whom he loved so much, might have betrayed them both by lying to him and abandoning his mother to die—was a poison eating away his insides.

  Max stayed hunched until the racking sobs and tears ended; then he washed the snot from his face and turned off the shower.

  The open window allowed steam to escape. Cold air prickled his skin. He didn’t mind. He felt better now. Cleansed of the
moor’s grime. Emptied of self-pity. Stronger.

  He needed food and sleep.

  Then to find out if his dad had really lied to him.

  And why Danny Maguire had been killed.

  Max fell asleep at the long, scrubbed table in the school’s kitchen before he’d finished his meal. Fergus Jackson left him where he sprawled, threw an old multicolored blanket from his study over the boy and let him be.

  He’d been relieved when Max had volunteered to take part in the Dartmoor exercise when an older boy could not compete due to an injury, because Max Gordon had started behaving erratically. His temper was short, his attitude often sullen. Jackson knew teenagers got like that: all part of “growing into your skin” is what he told them. But this was something different. Max was carrying a burden, and he wasn’t sharing it. It was probably something to do with his injured father.

  Sayid Khalif and Max were as thick as thieves, but Jackson’s questioning of Sayid had yielded nothing to explain Max’s recent behavior. And Jackson suspected that Max Gordon had not shared whatever was bothering him with even his best friend.

  “Get your elbows off the table, bog rat!” A boot kicked the chair and Max tumbled onto the floor. He rolled instinctively, protecting his head, and quickly found his balance.

  Baskins!

  The older boy grinned—it was what he would have done to his best mate, Hoggart, if he’d been there instead of Max. But Hoggart’s parents had dragged away their protesting son to spend time together on a stupid holiday, on a beach somewhere abroad where there was nothing, absolutely nothing, to do. Baskins had managed to avert a similar fate with his family and had opted to spend the half-term at Dartmoor High, where at least there were enough boys remaining for seven-a-side.

  “Don’t bog rats’ mothers teach them table manners?” Baskins teased as he raided the fridge, foraging for breakfast.

  Sometimes when you open your mouth and say something, the warning bells don’t ring loudly or quickly enough. Baskins just about managed a look of regret before Max’s lunge took the heavier boy rolling across the kitchen floor. Pans clattered. The big milk jug on the table couldn’t resist gravity and shattered on the stone floor. A chair splintered.

  Max straddled Baskins’s chest, twisting his rugby shirt in a double grip that threatened to choke him. Baskins was stronger than Max, but he couldn’t kick free. Giddying splodges of light blurred his vision. He was starting to black out. Spittle rattled in his throat; his eyes were bulging. He hit Max on the side of the head with his fist. It made no impression.

  Max Gordon was going to kill him!

  Fergus Jackson burst in, grabbing one of Max’s arms as Mr. Roberts, the sports master, held the other.

  “Max! Enough! Let go, Max!” Jackson shouted. For a moment, they could not loosen his grip, and Max shot a look at him, which sent a shudder through Jackson. Something other than rage and intent glinted in Max’s eyes—it was as if a wild animal had been snared and was about to fight for its life.

  Then Max eased his grip slightly, Jackson’s commands breaking through his blinding haze of anger. Between them, Jackson and Roberts hauled Max off the gasping boy.

  Max crouched, ready to attack. Jackson was scared. He had never seen Max behave in such an uncontrolled, aggressive manner. No one moved; then Roberts put himself between Max and Baskins, a warning hand raised.

  “Enough!” Roberts shouted.

  “Max,” Jackson said more quietly. “Max, it’s all right, boy. It’s all right.” They could see Max physically relax and come out of whatever zone he’d been in. He nodded.

  “Sorry, Baskins,” he said dutifully, but the look he gave Baskins as he left the room allowed no doubt in anyone’s mind that the fight had been stopped just in time.

  “What did you say to him?” Jackson asked.

  “Nothing, sir. Well, I just gave him a poke to wake him up and asked if his mother hadn’t taught him any manners.” He pulled a face. “I forgot about his mum.”

  * * *

  Max walked down the corridor with Mr. Jackson. He really hadn’t wanted to apologize, but his parents’ influence and his own sense of shame pushed those feelings aside. His dad had always told him that only unthinking thugs attacked without provocation. Baskins mentioning his mum seemed perfect justification to Max, though he knew it wasn’t. Besides, he hadn’t wanted to let Mr. Jackson down.

  “Apology accepted,” Mr. Jackson said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “All right. Well, you know you can whenever you wish.”

  Max nodded.

  Mr. Jackson pulled a coat from a long row of hooks. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

  Max grabbed his jacket and followed Mr. Jackson, who had already pulled open the side door to the cobbled yards at the back of the school. It was ear-nippingly cold, but the various outbuildings broke the wind’s direct assault.

  “I want to tell you something, Max, and I don’t want to be interrupted while I do so.”

  Max waited. Jackson looked as though he was about to break bad news. “One of our ex-pupils died a few days ago. His name was Danny Maguire.”

  Max had to fake it: “Sorry to hear that, sir.” He listened as Jackson recounted the visit by the MI5 impostors. Was Max in trouble? Was there any connection between Maguire, these men and Max? Did he know anything about drug smuggling? Max denied all knowledge of anything Jackson asked him. Telling the truth might hinder his investigation into what had really happened to his mother—and why Maguire had died.

  “And you have received nothing in the post from Maguire?”

  “Like what, sir?” Max said, hoping Jackson might know something more.

  “I don’t know. Anyway, I shall be speaking to the police about this matter, so think hard and long about whether there is anything that might tell us who those men were. I’m not at all sure what’s going on. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but I want you to stay in school for a couple of weeks.”

  “Like a prisoner, sir?”

  “Only until I have some answers. I appreciate that your life is not how you would like it to be, but you have good friends here, and I hope you know that all the staff, myself included, hold you in the highest regard.”

  Max nodded. There was no denying that Dartmoor High had become his home. There was nowhere else for him to be.

  Mr. Jackson put a fatherly arm on the boy’s shoulder. “If I can arrange it, would you like to speak to your father on the phone?”

  He was surprised to see a look of doubt touch Max’s face. The boy idolized his father.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” He knew he had to speak to his dad soon—in fact, he really needed to see him—but he was dreading it.

  “I’ll see what I can do. All right, Max. Off you go.”

  Max’s dad had endured mind-wrecking torture at the hands of a madman in Africa. The fist of trepidation thumped into Max’s stomach at the thought of challenging his own father, who had become a stranger with only fleeting moments of recognition of his son. Max would confront him to dig out the truth from his mind, as a firefighter digs through the rubble to save a victim’s life. Max needed to know everything about his mother’s death.

  He left Mr. Jackson wandering around the courtyard. He was obviously thinking about matters—he seemed impervious to the cold.

  Max headed to Eagle House’s common room. Some of the boys were playing computer games. He could hear the electronic crackle of gunfire and the hoots of joy as the boys made a “kill.” It all felt so phony. After what Max had been through in the past, having experienced real violence where people had done their best to kill him, Max couldn’t bring himself to play anymore.

  The boys had noticed this and just thought he was going through some sort of rough time. Except Sayid. The common bond he and Max shared was that each had experienced the terror of real gunfire, the swirling confusion of attack and the heart-crushing loss of a loved one. As Max came acro
ss the room toward him, Sayid was wedged into a window seat reading a book, but was now distracted by the leaden sky that had sunk lower across the high ground. The forecast was for snow.

  “Hello, mate,” Max said quietly, pushing himself into the narrow space next to Sayid.

  “You all right?” Sayid asked.

  “Yeah. Just a bit strung out—one thing and another. Sorry if I’ve been a bit of a pain.”

  “Easier having a tooth out than being around you these last few weeks.”

  “You want a written apology?”

  “That’d do, yeah. Sure you’re OK?”

  Max nodded. “I need your help.”

  Sayid didn’t know whether to smile or cry. Helping Max could be bad for your health—but he really wanted to be back in his best friend’s confidence after these weeks of him being withdrawn and uncommunicative. Despite the conflicting thoughts, he realized he was already nodding.

  The day Danny Maguire died, Jasmina Dhokia had run down the escalator to catch her train for work. Her usual bus was delayed by roadwork, and she was not familiar with the Underground station. She took a wrong turn, realized her mistake and went back just in time to see her train move smoothly away.

  The deserted platform was a lonely place. Fingers of cold air sneaking out of the tunnel tugged at her coat. She wished she could be home with her family, where it was warm and dry and people laughed and smiled more easily than they did here. But this country had been good to her and she was grateful. She was very fortunate to have a good-paying job that allowed her to send money back to help her family. Curiosity made her pick up the small padded envelope that lay on the edge of the platform near the mouth of the tunnel. It was already stamped. Someone must have dropped it. She tucked it into her shoulder bag. She would post it as soon as she could, as she trusted someone else would do if she had dropped an envelope.

  Like her own letters, this one might be carrying words of love between a parent and a child.

  Where the land rose in the fold of hills, the Range Rover nestled against a tor’s slabs of precariously balanced granite. Black sheen against black rock. At first glance, the big 4×4 would be indistinguishable from the boulders around it. In the distance, Dartmoor High was shrouded by the confused mist and rain, but the wet tarmac that ribboned its way around the vales and rock outcrops was still visible.