by Tom Hoyle
It took me two or three frantic seconds to realize that there was no way I could manoeuvre the trailer in place to hold the door shut, so I burst out into the damp, dark air, skidding past a parked Land Rover.
I had three choices. Down the hill towards the road: surely the best and logical option – certainly the fastest route to the road and a passing car. To the right, away from Timberline and further into the woods: probably the best place to hide. To the left, towards Timberline.
I immediately went left. Yes, left – towards the lair, and possibly towards their father and who-knows-what else.
After I turned the corner out of sight of the boat shed, I heard the Land Rover trundle away from me, down the hill, a glinting light searching in the trees. Sam must have been at the wheel.
As soon as my head turned, I saw lights coming towards me, beaming into the air as they approached the brow of the hill. There was no choice but to throw myself left, down the slope, into the undergrowth. Arms to my side, I buried my face in the mud.
The Mercedes, I presume driven by Mr Thatcher, squelched past, flicking specks of mud over the edge and on to my head. I thought of how it all started with a spinning wheel firing mud at Will.
My lungs were bursting and calf muscles rock-solid as I reached Timberline. Perhaps I could hear car engines in the distance, or it might have been the wind droning through the trees. The house was dark and silent. Empty?
The nearest phone was inside.
I put my elbow through the glass in one of the old-fashioned twelve-pane windows, cutting my hand with a Z-shaped slice as I eased back the latch. The rumbling and squeaking of the window sounded like Bullseye’s bark – but no one was looking for me here. A smudge of blood in the shape of the letter T was left on the door.
My muddy footsteps made their way to the most unlikely place: the nearest telephone was in Mr Thatcher’s study.
Dialling tone.
999.
Police.
Help.
Come quickly.
The portrait of the Ward of Hintersea – Games Master of yesteryear – stared down at me.
Missing boy.
Captive.
Possible murder.
A police car passing along the main road at the head of the valley was sent racing towards Timberline.
I hid at the back of the house in the trees until pale blue emergency lights dimly lit the trees and I heard police radios. Then I edged round the side of the house and, hoarsely pleading for help, waving my arms frantically, I ran towards the nearest policeman.
Early the next morning, when the police came to Lakeside House, and Mrs Winter told the Games Master, allegedly my birth father, that the police were waiting downstairs, a shotgun blast rang out and his blood was seen against the windows of the Lantern Room. I felt no sense of loss and never have. I’ve never tried to confirm that he was actually my father. I’m happy to doubt that The Twins were my cousins.
I heard a few weeks later that Lakeside House was mine. A prize that brought no joy. If ‘Mr Winter’ thought it brought obligations, he was wrong.
There were multiple arrests and weeks of forensic unpicking. The remains of a man who went missing in 1968 were discovered in the Timberline woods. Mr Thatcher insisted that he knew nothing about that – he would only have been sixteen at the time.
Waist-high weeds stand like guards on the drive.
Timberline sits empty.
Jack was never found.
And that is where the story officially ends.
But I want to be honest about what really happened.
When I opened the door of Mr Thatcher’s study to hide in the trees outside I saw headlights shine through the glass in the front door and down the hallway.
I crept forwards and then peered out of the window to the right. Sam was partially hidden, standing in front of the Land Rover, infrared binoculars searching for me from the best vantage point.
The engine of the Land Rover ticked over; I eased open the front door of the house.
Hidden behind the vehicle, I tiptoed my way forward, desperate not to make a noise on the gravel. The slightest hint of a police siren echoed up the valley as I crouched down and peered around the side.
Sam scanned with the binoculars.
I ran, fast. It was between the second and third strides – of five – that I heard Jack’s voice shout from my left.
‘Behind!’
Sam turned as I arrived and threw my weight into him. I don’t understand why he didn’t stop himself if he could. Perhaps he truly thought he was indestructible. He went over the edge, silently, gracefully, head between his arms like a diver. I think he glanced at me. Branches were beaten off trees as he fell and then I heard a dull thud. His body was not discovered at the bottom of the cliff: he was found at the end of a bloody trail two hundred yards into the lower woods. The police supposed that Jack had moved him. They didn’t know The Twins.
I fell to the ground a few inches short of the drop, then stood up to see sirens and blue lights turning the corner into the Timberline drive.
Jack looked towards the blue lights and then me. He took four paces forward and I readied myself to run. Instead, he said, solemnly: ‘You will never know when we’re going to come and get you. Worry every night that we’ll come in your sleep. If not before, we’ll see you on Christmas Eve, 2016. The middle of London, next to Big Ben. Midday.’ The sirens were loud now, nearly at the top of the drive. ‘Be there – or we will find you.’
Jack ran into the woodland and I ran back into the house, to return seconds later as the police Volvo drew up on the gravel outside Timberline.
A FEW HOURS TO GO
Sent Email
To: Carolineterm95
Cc:
Subject: The Past
SENT WITH ATTACHMENT
Hi Caroline
Someone else has to know the whole truth.
‘Christmas Eve, 2016. The middle of London, next to Big Ben. Midday,’ he said. Then I watched him disappear into the woodland. With anyone else, they’d be empty words.
It was so far in the future I thought we’d never get here.
I came close to telling you everything when we went to Compton for Gran’s funeral. You mentioned the view from the houses in Compton across Lake Hintersea and how it must be full of memories. ‘Yeah,’ I said. Just Yeah – not I can remember what we did as if it was yesterday. Not I can remember the faces of those who died.
Someone else has to know the truth in case it all goes wrong.
I’m not sure when it all started to change. Maybe that night at the party. It was the first time I’d set out to hurt someone else.
Now you see why I have a dog, despite the hassle that Ewok is. And you understand why he had to be a Leavitt Bulldog.
I still have all the documents from the story – they’re here in my bedroom in a small black metal case bound up with brown tape. You’ll know it when you see it.
I can’t believe this is about me. Please read the whole thing before judging me. I want you to know all of it.
I know you’ll understand. You were there.
I’m going to meet Jack. You wonder why I’m not going to the police?
I’m going to punish him for what he did to Will and to Mike and to Blake and to others. And to me. There – now you know the whole story.
No one will be sorry. No one who really knows him.
If not – if you go to the police – I’ll take whatever justice has for me.
With my love,
Ben
AFTER THE MEETING WITH JACK
Sent Email
To: Carolineterm95
Cc:
Subject: Right now
To Caroline:
I thought you’d like to know what happened earlier today.
I left home about eleven this morning and caught the Tube. I like the Tube – all of those lives coming together like little trickles of water and pouring into a great river. A torrent. T
he closer people come together, the less they notice one another.
I took a weapon with me, just in case. What sort of weapon do you think it was? Candlestick? Knife? Revolver? Rope? Poison?
I wanted to keep my promise. Christmas Eve, 2016. The middle of London, next to Big Ben. Midday. Not empty words.
He stood out from the crowd. The same hawk-like appearance. He didn’t see me. I look different now.
The homeless woman told him to go down to the river, by the statue of Boudicca. The man there told him to get on the boat to Greenwich. I arranged all that.
I was sure he was alone.
I met him at Greenwich.
Jack.
Hi, Ben.
We stared at one another for a minute.
Why did you come? I was going to give nothing away, in case he was wired – the same trick as on the lake.
He wanted me to come here, to his fancy riverside flat bought with Lakeside House money. To talk.
But he had other plans. He told me he had written to you.
Ben always was different. One of us.
I’m going to take his laptop and destroy it. I hope you enjoy reading the story he has written. Interesting how he saw it.
I’d keep quiet, if I were you.
It would be an easy Challenge to come for you. I remember you well.
Ben can’t come to the computer right now. He’s a bit tied up and can’t seem to move too well.
What do you think I should do with my cousin?
Maybe leave him for another five years?
Maybe not.
Kisses,
Jack
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tom Hoyle is the pseudonym of a London head teacher.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to all who have helped The Challenge reach the page, especially those who have been there since Book One – three wonderful ladies: AW (from that soaking-wet day onwards), Venetia Gosling at Macmillan and Gillie Russell at Aitken Alexander. Thank you also to CH and CP for confirming that the story had mileage. And thank you very much to Macmillan editor Lucy Pearse (wisdom and tolerance – and the most essential person to The Challenge), cover designer Rachel Vale (great, again), Jess Rigby and Kat McKenna (for organizing marketing), and Catherine Alport (for arranging publicity).
Books by Tom Hoyle
Thirteen
Spiders
Survivor
The Challenge
First published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2017 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-4472-8678-3
Copyright © Tom Hoyle 2017
Cover Art: Sam Hadley
The right of Tom Hoyle to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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