The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue

by Heneghan, Lou

  The shriek of the whistle was a complete shock. In his trancelike state, Ralf had missed the end of the clock chimes and runners either side of him surged forward, leaving him standing. He jumped as if stung and bolted. He didn’t just run – he practically flew.

  His feet thudded on to the cobbles and his lungs filled with fresh, sea air. In six long strides he’d closed the gap between himself and the leaders and by the eighth he was inching ahead. His body adjusted itself; he relaxed his arms and found his rhythm. He’d always been good. But, since he’d woken up to the fact that he was a Turnarounder, he realised with fierce pride that, for him, running was only slightly more complicated than breathing.

  He’d been jogging for about half an hour and had got seven of his ten boxes stamped. He was clutching his card in a rather sweaty palm as he approached the eighth checkpoint at the gate to Sefton’s field. The old bull was pacing restlessly and snorting in a field that was more mud than grass. Ralf stamped his card and murmured a few quiet words to the unsettled animal before risking a look back the way he’d come.

  Most of the runners were bunched in a tight group about two hundred yards away, bar a few stragglers who were dotted at intervals further behind. At the front of the lead group King and Fred Cheeseman were neck and neck. The village boy wore a pained expression and his arms looked tight. King, on the other hand, looked comfortable – too comfortable. Ralf had to widen the gap. He took a deep breath and cut down a puddled track towards the spiral of wood smoke that rose from the gypsy camp.

  There were calls of encouragement and good-natured jokes as he passed the painted caravans but he didn’t take much notice. His attention was entirely focussed on the next marker at the very edge of the trees where Kat, Leo, Val, Alfie and about fifteen King’s Hadow Primary kids were huddled, waiting. They saw him and streamed out to flank him either side.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There are twenty Crispin’s boys hidden in the woods,’ said Kat jogging beside Ralf. ‘They didn’t look friendly, so I went and fetched the others.’

  ‘It’s an ambush, innit!’ gasped Alfie.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Kat.

  ‘Me and me Crew’ll back you,’ said Alfie indicating ‘The Crew’ who were silent and grim faced as they ran, just concentrating on keeping their legs moving.

  Ralf stopped suddenly and the others stumbled to a halt next to him.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Valen cried.

  ‘I’m stopping,’ said Ralf. ‘What’s the point? It’s only a race. If having his name on a cup means so much to King, let him have it.’

  ‘You can’t give up now!’ Leo exclaimed. ‘You’ve got to beat them, Wolf, you know you have!’

  ‘Leo, it’s not just a race any more!’ Ralf shouted, angrily. ‘They’re out to get us. One of you might get seriously hurt!’

  ‘Stuff that,’ said Alfie.

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking,’ said Leo. ‘Come on Ralf. We’re wasting time! This is important – not just for King’s Hadow but for everything!’

  Ralf nearly laughed. ‘Everything?’

  ‘Just trust me, alright,’ said Leo. ‘I don’t know why, but it’s important that you finish this race.’ Leo shook him gently. ‘And it’s important you win!’

  ‘You could Shift round ‘em while we keep ‘em busy?’ Alfie suggested quietly so Kat wouldn’t hear.

  Ralf shook his head. ‘If I’m going to win this thing I’m going to do it fairly.’ Then he smiled, eyes shining. ‘But, you lot aren’t actually competing so whatever you do won’t be cheating,’ he said.

  They grinned at each other.

  ‘Just don’t get caught!’

  The next eleven minutes and twelve seconds lasted exactly that – eleven minutes and twelve seconds, but things happened so quickly it felt like Time itself was part of the race.

  One minute Ralf was running in sunshine, the next everything was tinged green as he crossed under the leaves of Tarzy Wood. A second later he was drenched in moss flecked shadows and tangy sap smell as he passed under the older trees. His feet slapped into puddles and sheets of water flew up each side. Leo was to his right and Val to his left, matching him stride for stride, whilst Alfie had dashed in front to set the pace. The kid was fast – really fast. The wiry ten year old snapped orders at the trailing Primary kids who instantly accelerated and fanned out into the wood. Kat joined them, keeping her eyes on two of the smallest girls.

  Ralf’s heart quickened as he moved deeper into the trees. It was quiet – unnervingly so. His eyes flicked to either side, seeking signs of attack but it was hard to see in the dim light. Everything was in shadow, apart from an odd patch of haze to their right. Haze? Ralf craned his neck as they ran past it. A triangular patch of shimmer hung in the air about a foot from the ground by the side of a patch of nettles.

  ‘A Fall!’ he gasped.

  Leo pointed ahead and to their left. ‘And there’s another one!’

  They spotted three more Falls in as many minutes but had neither the opportunity nor desire to examine them further.

  ‘Keep going,’ Leo urged. ‘And keep your eyes open!’

  They pressed on and, over the sound of his own tense breathing, Ralf now heard the slap of running feet not far behind. King and the other runners had entered the wood.

  Even though they knew it was coming, the first attack took them completely by surprise. Ross Childs darted out of the bushes to the left, knocking two of the Crew down like skittles. Childs dodged Val’s initial move, but not her second, and Ralf just glimpsed his wild face contort in pain as he was thrown away from them. There was a yelp and a thud behind and then Val was back.

  Movement in the undergrowth up ahead gave away the next ambush and Leo and Val Shifted mid-step to tackle Aston and Barclay. There was scuffling and blows were exchanged but Ralf kept his eyes on the figure of Alfie who was whipping his head from side to side, pointing and shouting instructions.

  Ralf paused and shoved his card down the front of his shorts. It wasn’t hygienic, or even very comfortable, but it was the only thing he could think of that would keep it safe and allow him to run with his hands free.

  Four seconds later he was really glad he’d done this because a fist came sailing towards his face, seemingly out of nowhere. And that was when things started to get really hairy.

  The fist was attached to the arm of a positively demonic Peter Mallison whose unfortunate face looked even more purple than usual. Ralf’s mind told him to duck. Fortunately, his body ignored this ridiculous advice and he flung both arms out. He enclosed Mallison’s hand in both of his own and, taking a quick step backward, twisted his wrists sharply to the right. Mallison shrieked, pitched forward drunkenly and Ralf let go a second before the boy’s face made contact with the muddy forest floor.

  Ralf was congratulating himself on this move, marvelling at how his body knew exactly what to do even though his brain had no idea, when something large sideswiped him into a nearby tree. His head smashed into the bark with such force that he actually saw stars, (little twinkly ones in lots of different colours).

  He was under a great weight and somewhere, it seemed like a long way away, a voice like King’s was screaming: ‘NO! I didn’t want this! Stop! Stop!’ desperately, over and over again.

  Suddenly, the weight was off him and when he opened his eyes he could see sky through the leaves. It was quite nice lying down and he thought he might stay for a while until someone dragged him roughly to his feet and shouted at him

  ‘Go Wolf! Go! They’re getting away from you!’

  There was an egg-sized lump protruding above his left ear. He touched it gingerly, winced and shook himself. Chaos surrounded him. The main group of runners had passed them; some hesitated, looking at the fight but soon they were off again running for the far side of the wood. Two King’s Hadow Primary girls were being dragged along the ground as they held on tenaciously to Alloway’s legs. Kat was engaged in a pitched battle, throw
ing sticks, pine cones and whatever she could lay her hands on at a flinching Ward, whilst Alfie had given up trying to hold Benson any other way, and was just sitting on him.

  ‘Where’s Tank?’ Leo roared, Shifting back and forth across the path in a red blur.

  ‘I thought you had him!’ Alfie shouted back. Valen materialised an inch from Ralf’s face. ‘GO!’ she bellowed.

  It was only then, when he took his first shaky steps, that Ralf saw it.

  There was a hazy blotch of light in the bushes ahead. Another Fall! As he watched, the patch darkened and a second later, two Roundheads stepped from it into the wood. The two soldiers were in mid conversation but stopped talking, and walking, when they registered the sounds of the fight around them. Like two kids coming into the wrong classroom, they shared a look of embarrassed surprise, then turned and stepped back into the Fall they’d come through.

  In spite of everything that was going on, Ralf couldn’t help a snort of laughter. He looked to see if any of the others had seen but they were all immersed in their separate battles. Ralf’s smile died when he realised that only one other person in the wood was still.

  King.

  The tall boy was standing a short way ahead on the path, staring at Alloway’s struggles with an expression of disgust on his face. Ralf shook his head to clear it then ran. A moment later, King saw him approaching and he was off too.

  King was only six yards ahead as they cleared the trees. The ninth marker was a little further down the lane and, oblivious to what had just happened in the wood, the main group of runners had stamped their cards and were moving off. King marked his own card quickly and tore off round the corner. Ralf increased his pace. He didn’t like not being able to see the leading pack but he was feeling surprisingly all right, head throbbing only slightly. He told himself he’d catch up by Sparra’s Pond.

  Ralf pulled his card from his shorts mid-stride and was feeling confident, when Tank burst from his hiding place behind a towering elm tree and snatched up the stamp. His beady little eyes twinkled with malice.

  A bellowing cry thundered down the lane sending birds squawking in the trees and rodents scurrying from the underbrush. Will Tomkins exploded from a bush and took a flying leap at Tank. He was too small to make a dent in the big lad’s body so he’d done the sensible thing and gone for his legs. Tank’s weight carried him forwards even though his feet were no longer moving and he and Will slithered through mud and crumpled in a heap on the ground. The stamp went flying.

  ‘Stamp your card and go!’ Will shouted happily.

  Too stunned to do anything but obey Ralf did as he was told, so he didn’t see Will’s little victory dance or hear him yelling: ‘Not so tough now, are you, you big donkey!’

  Ralf caught up with King at the top of the High Street. King stamped his card and Ralf followed a second later. Ahead lay the rest of the runners and the long hill down to the finish. Soaked and splattered with mud, they ran side by side, their legs pounding in unison as they overtook the other runners one by one.

  They caught up with Fred Cheeseman two hundred yards from the finish line and raced abreast into the final straight. The crowd were beside themselves. One side of the lane was a sea of Crispin’s burgundy and green, the other a navy wave of colour as villagers flapped scarves and hats. Those sitting got to their feet. Those already standing, jumped up and down.

  Ralf’s choice of white clothing had been attempt to take some of the pressure off, to not take ‘sides’ but now, sandwiched between the two clashing colours, he realised it just made him feel more alone. He scanned the crowd for a friendly face but saw no one. Both villagers and schoolboys were in a frenzy of shouting, their eyes fierce and hard. Feeling strangely isolated Ralf tore his eyes from the unfamiliar faces and fixed them on the finishing line.

  By the last hundred yards, Fred Cheeseman was tired, his feet dragging and he was sweating freely. When Ralf and King powered by on either side of him he just didn’t have any fight left. His pace slowed. He’d settle for third.

  Did King have enough left in him to make a final dash? Ralf knew he shouldn’t, but he stole a glance at the boy next to him. King responded with a smirk and broke for the finish line.

  Ralf matched him step for step. He was starting to feel it now. The bump above his ear pounded with every footfall and his left eye was watering madly. King, on the other hand, looked like he could run all day.

  At fifty yards Ralf thought he was going to lose. At twenty he was sure of it. At ten yards King shot him a huge, exultant smile. But then, miraculously, Ralf inched ahead. He sailed over the line, tape fluttering, looking over his shoulder in complete disbelief. He’d won.

  King jogged over the line a second later but all eyes were on Ralf who thought he’d drown in the joy of it. Fred Cheeseman came in next and all three boys were surrounded.

  A little while later when the others had made it down to the finish and Ralf had had his card checked and been officially declared the winner, there were twenty shouted conversations going on all at once. To his left Val was singing in wild celebration. To his right Will was explaining things to Leo (‘it’s all about fair play, you see -’) and Alfie was prancing about with seven or eight battered looking Primary kids who were giggling delightedly. A bit further away he heard snatches of King’s conversation with his father (‘- better for everyone this way -’). What the heck did that mean?

  ‘Village or School?’

  Reverend Denning’s question caught Ralf by surprise. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Village or School? On the cup? What would you like it to read, Osborne?’

  Over the crowd Ralf locked eyes with King. Leo whirled to say something but he didn’t have to. Ralf understood. ‘Both please,’ he said. ‘If that’s allowed, I mean.’

  Denning patted him on the back. ‘Good lad.’

  King’s eyes met Ralf’s once more and then he stalked off.

  Later, Ralf was sitting quietly on the harbour wall with a kipper on his head. (It was a frozen fillet and was, Val explained, to reduce the swelling.)

  He and the other Turnarounders were drinking bottles of squash, rehashing the race and comparing wounds. Val had skinned both knees, ripped another skirt and both sets of knuckles were grazed. Leo was sporting a fat lip and Alfie was struggling to find parts of himself that weren’t damaged. Ralf scrutinised his mottled face.

  ‘Alfie?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Why have you got lots of little circles all down one of your cheeks?’

  ‘Er, yeah – sorry about that,’ said Valen, pointing to the studded underside of her hockey boot.

  ‘No worries.’

  Val snorted suddenly as she had a thought.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Ralf asked.

  ‘I hope that the vicar is going to wash his hands before supper, that’s all,’ she said giggling.

  ‘I don’t get you.’

  ‘He must have checked over your card for at least ten minutes and I don’t think he knows where it’s been.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Extra Hour

  It took them a while to stop laughing but, when they’d finally got their breath, Valen got to her feet.

  ‘I’d better get back,’ she said. ‘I need to do something about this skirt before Mrs Hatcher sees it.’

  ‘I gotta split too,’ said Alfie. ‘I have to find Charlie Duke.’

  ‘Why?’ Ralf asked.

  ‘The Lot's Lady’s not in the harbour. I want to know what time they left and Charlie was on watch during the run.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Leo offered. ‘Just in case any of the Crispin’s boys’ve got hard feelings about this afternoon. Let’s make it quick, though,’ he added glancing at the dark clouds above.

  Ralf and Seth watched them go.

  ‘Valen’s limping,’ Seth observed. ‘She hurt her foot?’

  ‘Impact injury,’ Ralf grinned. ‘Ross Child’s backside is harder than it looks.’

  �
�It was a good day,’ Seth sighed. Then he too strolled back up into the village towards home.

  It had been a good day and as Ralf sat alone nursing his injuries, watching the rain clouds roll in from the sea he felt a deep sense of contentment. It was only when the sky darkened and the heavens opened a few minutes later that he stood and tossed the frozen fish fillet into the water. There was a rumble of thunder. Despite his aching legs, Ralf set off running. He left the village, a sixth sense guiding him in the gloom.

  As he rounded the bend that led to Fox Earth Cottages, a flash of lightening illuminated something on the horizon. Ralf’s step faltered.

  His heart hammered until a second flash revealed a little rowing boat, bobbing on the waves some distance out to sea. Ralf just had time to take in the hunched figure of the man on board, the glint of moonlight off the blade of a scythe. His heart leapt in his chest. Ambrose!

  Ralf strained to see the small boat battling the waves and the figure at the oars straining to bring the vessel in to shore, his heart thumping in time to the drumming rain. Gradually the boat drew closer until finally Ralf was able to confirm his hopes.

  ‘Ambrose!’ he yelled joyfully.

  ‘Dear boy!’ Ambrose called back across the water. ‘You’re going to have to wade out to me, I’m afraid. I can’t come ashore.’

  Ralf launched himself into the chopping water and grabbed on to the prow of the boat. At that touch the world stilled. The waves died. A muffled silence fell. Hand still clutching the wood, Ralf looked around in wonder.

  ‘Time Stop,’ said Ambrose. ‘Get in quick. We have a great deal to discuss and only an hour in which to do it.’

  Ralf did as he was told and sat facing Ambrose who was sitting with a picnic basket on his lap in the stern of the boat. Propped next to his leaning scythe and a strange wheel-like contraption, was his hourglass and it was as still as the sea around them. Ambrose pulled a packet of sandwiches, flask and two tin cups from the basket. He poured steaming liquid into the mugs and handed one to Ralf.