Blood Fever

by Charlie Higson

  ‘There he is,’ James yelled and put on a burst of speed.

  ‘Be careful,’ Perry shouted after him as James sprinted across the road and threw himself into the path of the oncoming car, which came to a shuddering halt.

  Mark sounded the horn and cursed. There was a wild fury in his eyes. His hands were gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

  ‘Get out of the way, James,’ he said, his face screwed into an ugly scowl.

  ‘No,’ said James. ‘You’ve got to go back. This is crazy.’

  ‘Get out of my way,’ Mark repeated. ‘Or I’ll run you down.’

  ‘You wouldn’t do that,’ said James, but even as he said it, he was not so sure.

  ‘Move,’ Mark yelled, and he pressed his foot down on the accelerator, gunning the engine.

  ‘I’m not moving,’ said James, stepping backwards warily. ‘Don’t be stupid, Mark. Let’s take the car back.’

  With that Mark slipped the engine into gear and the car jerked forward. James just managed to dodge to the side, and, as the vehicle passed him, he made a quick decision and threw himself over the door into the passenger seat.

  The car screamed down the road. Mark Goodenough was not an experienced driver and he had it in too low a gear. The engine was complaining; at this rate it would overheat.

  ‘Shift up,’ said James. ‘You’ll burn her out.’

  Mark wrenched the gear lever and it churned and grated through the change. The noise of the engine settled down, but the car was far from being under control. Mark was veering all over the road as he fought to contain the powerful machine. There was the blast of a horn as another car sped past them on the other side, only a few inches away.

  ‘Slow down,’ said James. ‘You’ll get us both killed.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Mark yelled. ‘I didn’t ask you to get in, did I?’

  They skidded round a corner, careering across the road into the right-hand lane. If there had been anyone coming the other way they would have had a head-on smash.

  ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten,’ said James, trying not to sound either angry or scared, even though he felt both keenly, ‘but this is my car.’

  ‘I told you, I don’t care,’ said Mark. ‘I don’t care about anything any more.’

  James looked at him. There were tears streaming down Mark’s cheeks, made worse by the wind battering their faces. He was blinking and shaking his head to try to clear his eyes, but he obviously couldn’t see too well.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked James.

  ‘Away… Anywhere… I don’t care. Maybe when I’ve got up enough speed I’ll drive straight into the first wall I come to and put an end to it all.’

  ‘That would be stupid,’ said James.

  ‘Shut up,’ shouted Mark. ‘Just shut up, won’t you?’

  They were out of Windsor now, driving through farmland. Mercifully the roads were quieter, but they still passed the occasional alarmed motorist. Mark was driving faster and faster and, even if he didn’t stick to his threat of driving into a wall, he was dangerously out of control and could spin off the road at any moment. James hung on to the side of the car for all he was worth.

  ‘All right, Mark,’ he said at last, ‘you may want to die, but I don’t. Stop the car and let me out.’

  ‘No,’ said Mark.

  ‘Then at least slow down,’ said James. ‘I’m scared. You’re not thinking straight.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Mark screamed. ‘I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care…’

  ‘It’s your family, isn’t it?’ said James and Mark screwed his head round briefly to glare at him.

  ‘What would you know about it?’ he shouted, his voice hoarse. ‘What would you know about anything?’

  ‘My parents were killed when I was eleven,’ said James bluntly.

  Mark looked round again, frowning now, unsure; but he had taken his eyes off the road for just a moment too long and when he turned back there was a bus heading straight for them. Mark froze and James grabbed the wheel, desperately turning it to the left. They swerved round the bus. James was aware of a blur of hot metal thundering past them, sucking the air away, too close, and too loud. He caught a glimpse of startled faces at the windows, then the bus was gone. Mark wrestled the wheel back off James, but turned the car back too sharply. The momentum forced the rear end of the car round and they spun off the road into a field, narrowly avoiding a huge oak tree. The car rotated two or three times, the tyres throwing up dirt behind them, and then it stalled and rocked to a halt.

  The sudden silence was startling. James let out his breath. He tasted blood in his mouth. He had bitten his tongue. Mark was slumped forward on the steering wheel. His whole body was shaking and he was sobbing uncontrollably and swearing over and over again – the worst words he knew.

  ‘It’s all right,’ said James, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’re alive and the car’s in one piece.’

  Mark lifted his head from the wheel. His face was streaked with snot and saliva. He had hit his head, and a bruise was already rising on his brow. His eyes were red, but the fire had gone out of them and he looked ashamed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t know about your parents.’

  ‘I don’t talk about it,’ said James. ‘But would you like to, you know, tell me about… what’s happened?’ he said.

  ‘A fisherman from Rhodes…’ said Mark, looking into the distance and sniffing. ‘He found wreckage, floating, bits of the boat, burnt… and bodies… floating… my father –’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your sister? Have they found her?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘She may be safe, then?’

  ‘It’s been ten days,’ Mark sobbed. ‘If there was anyone alive, they would have been found by now.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said James. ‘There is still some hope.’

  Mark looked at James, and James saw that there was no hope left in his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said James, and Mark tried to smile.

  ‘Thank you, James,’ he said. ‘I think maybe I just needed someone to talk to. But I can’t believe this is happening…’

  ‘I know the feeling,’ said James quietly. ‘Now, we’d better get back before someone sees us.’

  ‘Yes.’ Mark sniffed and sat up straighter in his seat. ‘Do you think the car’s all right?’

  ‘Only one way to find out… But I think you’d better let me drive. When we get back near town we’ll park somewhere out of sight and work out what to do with the car later, when there’s not so many people around.’

  Mark nodded mutely. All the life had gone out of him; he seemed numb and exhausted.

  They swapped seats and James drove carefully back towards Windsor.

  ‘I couldn’t stand it,’ said Mark flatly. ‘Seeing all the other boys strolling through Eton with mama and papa. So happy, so normal. It was bad enough when my mother died, but now this… My father should have been here today. He always came back for the Fourth of June, every year. But not any more… Never again.’

  ‘Listen, Mark,’ said James. ‘I don’t know how I can help, but if there’s anything I can do – anything – I will. OK? That’s a promise’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mark, his voice barely audible over the roar of he engine.

  When they reached the outskirts of Windsor they went even more cautiously, keeping to obscure back streets. James was just beginning to think that they might have got away with it when he heard the honk of a horn behind him. He turned round to see a young master, wearing his black robes, following him in a car and angrily gesticulating for him to stop.

  ‘Watch out,’ James muttered. ‘It’s a beak. This could be trouble.’

  Cursing under his breath, he pulled over and got out of the car.

  This was not turning out to be a good day after all.

  The beak was driving a smart green Lagonda sports. He
climbed out and slammed the door so hard the car rocked on its springs.

  ‘What on earth do you two boys think you’re doing?’ he shouted and James stopped on the pavement.

  ‘This is my aunt’s car,’ he said, trying to sound confident.

  ‘Explain yourself,’ said the beak.

  ‘It had to be moved, sir,’ James said, looking the beak straight in the eye. ‘It was causing an obstruction. I couldn’t find my aunt so I moved it for her.’

  ‘So just what exactly are you doing all the way over here in Windsor?’ There was a dangerous note of scorn in the man’s voice.

  ‘It was too crowded in Eton, sir,’ said James. ‘I’ve been driving around trying to find a decent space to park. I got lost… She lets me drive it, sir…’

  James ran out of steam. He knew that his story sounded feeble, but it was all that he could think of in the time.

  He looked at the master. He was younger than most, perhaps thirty, with an athletic build, and, despite his anger, he had a kind, open, face. He reminded James a little of the American film star Gary Cooper.

  ‘What is your name?’ said the beak. He was still fuming, but James could sense that he was calming down a little.

  ‘Bond. James Bond.’

  ‘Well, Mister Bond, this won’t do, will it?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Leaving aside the fact that you are too young to be driving a car, there is the reputation of the school at stake.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I know, sir, it was stupid of me. But the car was blocking a road and –’

  ‘So you say,’ the beak interrupted impatiently. ‘And who is that other boy with you? What is his involvement in all this?’

  ‘His name’s Mark Goodenough, sir, he’s –’

  ‘Goodenough?’ The beak appeared shocked, then his expression softened and he looked unsure of himself. He walked over to the car and saw the condition that Mark was in.

  ‘Are you all right, Mark?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mister Haight.’

  James closed his eyes and let out a long slow breath. So the two of them knew each other. That might help.

  Mr Haight leant over the car and put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. ‘I heard about the…’ he paused, searching for the right word, ‘accident. I’m very sorry.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. But I’m all right, really I am. Bond has been helping me, sir… I just…’ But Mark couldn’t go on. He broke down again and crumpled in his seat.

  Mr Haight looked embarrassed. He glanced up and down the street, then made up his mind about something and walked over to James, out of earshot of Mark.

  ‘Listen to me, Bond. I don’t know what you two boys are up to, and maybe it’s for the best that I don’t try to find out, but I do know that Mark has had a nasty upset. So, as long as there’s no harm done, I’ll let you off this time.’ Haight stopped and nodded back towards the car. ‘How is he?’ he asked, gently.

  ‘He’s not well, sir,’ said James. ‘I didn’t think he should be left alone.’

  ‘I understand that his grandfather’s on his way down from the family estate in Yorkshire. In the meantime I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll take him to the sanatorium, and stay there with him until his family arrives. Leave the car here, Bond, and we’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’

  ‘And Bond…’ Mr Haight looked searchingly into James’s eyes. ‘You’ve a reckless look about you… Be careful.’ So saying, Mr Haight offered him a grim, tight-lipped smile, turned on his heel and strode off to fetch Mark.

  5

  The Tombs of the Giants

  ‘Good evening,’ said Mr Haight. ‘I’m delighted to see such an excellent turnout. But first, I hope you won’t be disappointed when I tell you that although tonight’s lecture is entitled “In Search of Sardinian Bandits”, it’s not really about bandits at all.’

  There were a few groans and catcalls from the assembled boys.

  James was sitting with Pritpal and Perry in Upper School, one of the oldest of the school buildings. The bench they were on was hard and cold. James hoped that Haight’s talk was going to be entertaining, because it would be a long and very uncomfortable evening otherwise.

  It was Perry who had persuaded him to come. When James had found him back at the garage and told him what had happened, he’d gushed excitedly about what a great sport Haight was and how popular he was with the boys.

  ‘ “Love-Haight” we call him,’ Perry had said with a laugh. ‘I’m up to him for history. He’s excellent on the Romans, knows his stuff, and knows how to put it over, m-more’s the point, but he’s interested in all sorts of stuff – art, architecture, m-music – his lessons are great fun. I’ll tell you what, I wish he would actually teach art, I love art, something of a buff. I was very fond of our collection at home, before someone pinched it. He’s giving a talk this weekend to the Archaeological Society, you should come along, bound to be interesting.’

  James had resisted at first, but it was a Sunday evening and he had nothing else to do. Pritpal had tagged along, even though he had a lot of work to finish before the morning. So now here they were in Upper School with a horde of other boys. This was only Mr Haight’s first year at the school but it was obvious that he had already attracted a large and devoted following.

  ‘To be fair, though,’ Haight went on, ‘how many of you would have come tonight if I’d called my talk “In Search of the Ancient Nuraghic Monuments of Sardinia”?’ Again there were more catcalls. ‘Exactly,’ said Haight. ‘But fear not, bandits will feature. Bandits are an important part of Sardinian history. What I mostly want to tell you about, though, are the extraordinary prehistoric monuments that litter the island. Yes. Prepare to be amazed as I show you ruined castles and towers built a thousand years before the birth of Christ, and Le Tombe dei Giganti – the Tombs of the Giants! But, before all that… Who here knows anything about Sardinia?’ He looked around at the eager but blank faces. ‘Anyone…? No? Nothing. I knew it!’ Haight clapped his hands together. ‘We all know about Corsica, birthplace of Napoleon and home to fierce bandits. And Sicily, the “football” of Italy, with its volcano and Roman ruins… and, yes, its fierce bandits. But what of Sardinia? Sitting there below Corsica, halfway between Europe and Africa, how can it be so unknown to the rest of the world? Because it is a fascinating place, with a fascinating history and…’ he paused, looking round at his audience, ‘the fiercest bandits in Europe, the Barbati…’

  James listened as Haight told a bloody history of invasions and warfare, and of how the Sardinians were forced inland, up into the mountains, where they lived a remote life of banditry and feuding. And he talked of the mysterious ancient civilisation that had existed on the island thousands of years ago and left behind extraordinary stone monuments, known as Nuraghi.

  James wasn’t very good at sitting still and as Haight talked he looked around the room. It had been the custom for boys to carve their names here when they left the school and every inch was covered in writing. The wood panelling on the walls, the benches, the upright desks, even the block at one end that the Head Master used to flog boys on had been scratched and chiselled over the centuries. There were hundreds and hundreds of names, with more recent additions overlaying the older carvings.

  James had spotted the names of two prime ministers, Pitt and Walpole, the poet Shelley and, on one panel, at least twenty-eight members of the Gosling family.

  Sitting along one wall beneath a row of marble busts were some beaks. They were sticking together, nodding their heads and smoking. James cast a casual glance over them and recognised the beetroot face of John Cooper-ffrench, the classics master who Charmian had teased on the Fourth of June. He was wearing a faded tweed jacket and a striped tie and sat with his arms folded across his chest.

  James marvelled at how it was that once you’d met someone you’d never seen before you suddenly saw them everywhere.

  When the lecture ended Pritpal dashed
off to finish his work, and Haight came over to where James and Perry were chatting.

  ‘Have you heard?’ he said, clapping Perry on the shoulder. ‘There’s been another burglary.’

  ‘M-more art stolen?’ said Perry. ‘Where from this time?’

  ‘Tatsmere House. Belongs to the family of a dry bob I coach, Nicholas Cresswel. I don’t think you know him. He told me on the way here this evening. Quite a haul, I’m afraid. Two Gainsboroughs, a Titian and a Canova.’

  ‘Do you think it m-might be one gang doing it all, sir?’ asked Perry. ‘A gang of m-murderous art thieves.’

  ‘That might very well be the case,’ said Haight. ‘Though, luckily, so far they haven’t murdered anyone, of course. You must tell all your friends to be on the lookout. None of these great houses that your families own are terribly secure. You must be en garde!’ So saying, Haight struck a dramatic pose with an imaginary sword and managed to crash into Cooper-ffrench, who was hurrying out of the room.

  As the two men collided Cooper-ffrench was nearly knocked off his feet. Haight gabbled an apology and Cooper-ffrench tutted irritably and mumbled something about clumsiness.

  James glimpsed a flash of silver and looked down to see a thin bracelet on the floor.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, picking it up. He turned it in his hand. With a start of surprise he saw the letters MM inscribed on it.

  ‘Someone’s dropped a bracelet,’ said Haight, looking around.

  ‘Maybe Mister Cooper-ffrench,’ said James. But Cooper-ffrench had gone.

  ‘I’ll look after it,’ said Haight, taking it off James. ‘See if anyone claims it –’

  ‘The double M, sir,’ James blurted out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘On the bracelet there are two Ms. I’ve seen them before.’

  Haight studied the bracelet, frowning. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘I see what you mean.’

  But James stopped himself from saying anything more. He could hardly tell Haight about the chase over the rooftops and breaking into the house, so he decided to change the subject.