Running

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘Were they ever blue?’ he said.

  His father looked up, a wry smile on his face. ‘I don’t remember. But to answer your question … I’m an American and, in view of what’s happening in the world today, it makes good sense to take a few precautions.’

  Scott wished he could say: I hate being American, Dad. I hate keeping secrets and I hate being the dumb one at school. All I want is to be like everyone else – except that was stupid, because they never would be like everyone else. Instead he said, ‘Dad, when I spoke to George Beale, he told me he’d not had a single lamb show positive, yet the Ministry still ban all movement; so he can’t shift his lambs until they’re confirmed as clear. Don’t you think that’s a bit weird? Although to be fair,’ Scott added more cheerfully, ‘George was more upset they’d sent a foreigner to do an Englishman’s job, than he was about having his lambs tested. He was going-on about how useless they were …’

  A buzzer rang out, cutting across their conversation, the television screen abruptly erupting into life with images of the lane.

  ‘What’s that?’ Scott said, sounding startled.

  His father moved to the window. Pulling back the blind he peered out, his face completely expressionless as if he were wearing a mask. To Scott, this was more alarming even than the buzzer.

  The only things to be seen were a scattering of sheep in the distance and the blue ministry van; the men packing their instruments away, their work over for the day.

  ‘Why the buzzer, Dad?’

  ‘Front door bell,’ Bill said, his tone casual. ‘I like to know if anyone comes up the lane when I’m in here working – like double-glazing salesmen, for example.’ The rigid lines in his father’s face began to relax. ‘So they were testing George’s sheep, were they? I expect they triggered the beam by accident. It’s happened before.’

  That’s when Scott should have told his dad what the men had said, about the field being radioactive when the lambs weren’t. It was after all the sort of thing he asked to hear about. Tell me if anything unusual happens, Scott. That’s what his dad always said. Still, it would be better to check with George first; no point worrying him for nothing.

  Bill smiled, answering Scott’s earlier question. ‘George will never accept that England is simply a part of Europe. He’s the type to have a photo of the last king hanging on his wall. Come on – let’s get some supper.’

  Bill wandered round the workroom, clicking off screens and backing the computers down into safe mode.

  ‘Why did the king go?’

  ‘Not only ours, Scott – they all went. Parliament voted for a Presidency.’

  ‘You mean the European Parliament, right?’

  ‘Hell, yes! Ours lost its teeth and was demoted to council status years ago. Come on.’

  He closed and locked the door, handing Scott his specs from the table. ‘After dinner let’s go for a spin.’

  ‘On the bike?’

  ‘On the bike and I’ll ride pillion. But first it’s your turn to cook, so wha’dya want to eat?’

  ‘I’ll do stir-fry and pasta, if that’s okay.’

  ‘You always do stir-fry and pasta. Surprise me one time by cooking something else.’

  Scott washed the vegetables while his father chopped them, but even though they were chatting about things that had happened at school that day, things that concerned Scott, the image of his father’s face, the moment the buzzer sounded, refused to vanish. For a moment there, his dad had been scared.

  Why do you need to know if anyone comes up the lane, Dad?

  That was another question he should have asked – but didn’t. And once they were roaring round the country lanes, eating up the miles on the menacing red monster, its immense power controlled by a fingertip, Scott forgot about it. The bike swooped into bends, their combined weight laying it almost horizontal before he opened the throttle to accelerate out again. Now it was simply another puzzle to be added to the list and hopefully, one day, solved.

  THREE

  Bill watched Scott wheel his bike across the yard – no lights – but he’d only get an argument if he insisted; Scott swearing that any animal on the path would have felt the vibration in the ground and vamoosed, long before his wheels appeared. Bill knew only too well his son would free-wheel the slope all the way down to the main road, a mile away, and not using lights was part of the game.

  He clicked the kettle on for coffee, watching light creep into the sky. It wasn’t long after six, Scott had left in plenty of time to catch the tide, and it looked like being a fine spring day – the birds already beginning to sing, a good sign.

  Moving across to the breakfast bar he plugged in his laptop, networked to the main computer in the studio, in case there was anything he wanted to check after he’d closed up for the night, and settled down to read the day’s news.

  The Iran fiasco had been responsible for a great many crazy laws; in hindsight, proving the perfect opportunity for Europe to flex its muscles. Rabinovitch, their President, had stormed to power on a tide of hysteria, which had resulted in the sweeping away of the monarchies. When protests followed, Rabinovitch had responded by creating a European strike force answerable, so it appeared, only to him.

  The continuing erosion of civil liberties, forced through parliament under the guise of radioactive fall-out, had been misguidedly welcomed with open arms. How else had the wearing of spectacles come about? A blanket publicity campaign, highlighting the need to wear special lenses designed to deflect radioactive beams and avoid tumours and melanomas, had left the entire population of Europe clamouring for the product; despite research proving the government’s safeguards to be a knee-jerk reaction. A dozen years later, with radioactivity now mainly confined to small areas of Europe – Turkey and Greece in particular, plus more generalised mountainous regions – the wearing of glasses still remained mandatory, with a fine for a first offence and imprisonment for a second.

  Bizarrely, the practice of presenting a child with its first pair of regulation specs, on its eighth birthday, had become a ceremony almost as meaningful as the Bar Mitzvah or first communion.

  After a couple of hours, Bill closed the laptop down. Stretching, he stood up and tucked the case out of sight in the cupboard, housing the ironing board and electric cleaner. Clicking on the coffee machine, he had opened the fridge to take out the milk before remembering there wasn’t any. He picked up the empty carton, a drizzle of semi-skinned milk still lingering in its corners. Making a mental note to keep a spare carton in the deep freeze, he switched the machine off again and, grabbing his jacket, headed for the garage; his hand automatically reaching down to pick up his specs from their case.

  The day had carried out its promise of early dawn, the sun warming steadily. It wasn’t far to the village and, if Bill hadn’t been denied his second cup of coffee, he would have walked across the fields. Now, with a blur of red movement he zoomed down the lane; the roar from the bike’s twin carbs still capable of startling the sheep however often they heard it, vociferously protesting the interruption to their grazing, before making a panicky dash to the far side of the field.

  Swinging into the high street, he dawdled along and stopped outside the supermarket. He was surprised to see the figure of George Beale push open the door, a large box of chocolates held in one of his work-scarred hands. He was wearing his town clothes and appeared to have both bathed and shaved, a far cry from his usual getup; a thick piece of string keeping his trousers in place, several moth-eaten sweaters and a bright yellow plastic jacket, with a green bobble hat and mud-caked wellingtons.

  Bill dismounted and took off his helmet, smiling. ‘You must have been their first customer.’

  The farmer ambled over to the bike. ‘Ay – off to Falmouth, the bus’ll be along in a minute,’ he muttered conversationally. Bill was amused to see the occasion also warranted the wearing of a denture, the farmer’s usual smile missing everything from the canines backwards.

  ‘Special occasion?�
��

  ‘Always go to me sister’s once a year arter I sell me lambs. I take her chocolates and she gives me a bite of dinner, then I has a bevy in the pub on the way home. It’s a nice day out, I looks forward to it. Time was …’ George’s voice took on a more serious tone, his friendly good nature vanished. ‘When this bloody radiation malarkey started, I wondered if I’d ever sell a lamb again.’

  ‘That reminds me.’ Bill leaned comfortably against the black upholstered seat of his bike and crossed his ankles. ‘I wanted to ask. Scott told me you’d never had any contamination?’

  ‘That’s true enough. Only last year the ministry sends me a letter with one of them exemption stifficates, to say my farm be free from contamination for ten year. So I thought no more testing. Then this bloody ministry man shows up – polite as you please – asks if I farm the fields at lower Oddisham ’cos they want to test ’em. I showed ’em my paper …’ the burly farmer glowered, his lower lip pursing with indignation. ‘An’ I pointed out where it said I’d be exempt. But he told me the flock had to be tested. Bloody foreigner telling me my business.’

  ‘And did they know their business?’ Bill said, a knot of unease beginning to stir.

  ‘That’s just the point. Proper rubbish they were. I began to wonder if they knew which end was which. Bloody ministry people. I’ve a good mind to make a fuss.’ The hum of a distant engine came within earshot and a single-decker bus swung round the corner. ‘There’s me bus.’ He stuck his arm out, seemingly oblivious to the pulsing amber light indicating the driver’s intention to stop. ‘Nice chattin’ to you, Bill. So long.’

  Bill watched as the old man paid his fare, collapsing into the first available seat as the bus lurched into motion again; the day’s ration of buses to Falmouth already half-full with eager shoppers.

  George Beale could be an awkward customer but despite his oddities of speech and dress, there was little wrong with his powers of reasoning. The childless widower would most likely leave his nephews and nieces a tidy inheritance. But a newcomer, meeting the country farmer for the first time, was presented with an awkward and frequently truculent character. From there it was but a small step to getting on the wrong side of him, the friendly chat something that appeared only after several years’ acquaintance.

  Bill pushed open the supermarket doors. Still, it was curious that George should comment on their inefficiency, as if they’d never done the job before. To his knowledge the same tests were repeated each year. He’d been there more than ten and, in the early years, had frequently watched the whole process. They used the fields at the bottom of the lane, where the sheep spent the summers. Even if they were double-checking the fields, there should be no need to stray on to his driveway at the top. Bill made a mental note to check the ministry website as soon as he got home.

  Five minutes later, clutching eggs, milk, fresh bread and a delicious-looking Brie, he was back on the pavement. More people were about now, the bright weather encouraging local residents to get their chores done early and make the most of the day. He wandered across the road to where Jean, the landlady from the pub, her long hair in curlers, was taking in the morning’s papers.

  ‘I’m not on public display,’ she growled at him. ‘Come back at eleven.’

  ‘Mrs Roper, you always look fantastic.’

  Jean laughed. ‘Flattery, Bill! Coffee?’

  ‘Great idea! My wretched son forgot the milk, so I haven’t had my usual quota,’ Bill said with an amused grimace. He followed Jean into the restaurant which, geared for night-time entertainment, appeared shabby and neglected in daylight.

  Jean bustled about behind the bar and, within seconds, a steaming cup of coffee was perched on the table in front of Bill. He eyed it covetously.

  ‘By the way,’ she called over to him. ‘Someone was asking for you.’

  Bill’s head jerked up but he kept his voice relaxed. ‘When?’

  Jean frowned. ‘Yesterday. A reporter? Hang on I’ve written it down somewhere.’ She disappeared. Bill fingers unconsciously beat a tattoo on the table.

  The door opened, Jean wafting a slip of paper. ‘No number. Sean Terry, Exeter Chronicle.’

  ‘Important?’

  She shook her head. ‘Didn’t say. Weedy bloke – scruffy – looked like he needed a damn good wash. Still most reporters look like that, don’t they? Never get enough to eat, I s’ppose.’ She smiled. ‘See you tonight?’

  ‘Not sure, yet,’ Bill got to his feet. ‘Scott’s gone on the river with some school friends and might be late, so I’m celebrating my freedom with some sandwiches and a trip to a coastal pub.’ He lifted his hand in acknowledgement. ‘Thanks for the coffee – lifesaver.’

  Leaving the pub, he strolled back across the road to the bike, carefully stowing away his groceries. The kernel of anxiety remained. He could feel it struggling to expand, to overtake rational common sense and become paranoid. Why should a series of unrelated incidents still, after almost fifteen years, create such a furore in his guts? It was no good he’d have to go back and check, he’d get no peace until he did. He glanced down at his watch. It was still only a little after nine, plenty of time to go out afterwards.

  Bill headed back along the main road and into the lane, the powerful engine making light work of the steep gradient. Switching off the engine, he cruised up the final stretch of slope towards the gate. Nothing stirred; only the odd crow or magpie foraging for food and a wandering sheep in the lower field – the house and yard basking in the spring sunshine. Still, his feeling of unease refused to abate. Dismounting, he rolled the Suzuki into the garage and parked, pulling the heavy machine onto its stand. Despite knowing no one ever came near the house, he still moved cautiously and, leaving his jacket and helmet on the saddle, hurried into the kitchen, dropping his shopping on the worktop. Pulling the laptop from its cubby hole, he flicked up the Internet searching for Reuters – the only independent news site left. It took him a few minutes. Finally the column flashed up; its heading, “Ministry Warns of Surge in Radiation Levels.”

  Bill scrolled quickly down over the paragraph. He had already seen the report in the newspaper. In any case this was Reuters’ usual opening – something dull that few people would persevere with.

  He scrolled down again and gasped, his face becoming ashen under its tanned skin. An obituary – dated that morning, April ten. He read it carefully. This time his antennae had not played him false. For years he had scanned Reuters every day, making sure he wouldn’t miss the warning when it came. The relief, when the page remained blank, leaving him drained. Now they’d been found. At least, one of them had – and dealt with.

  Momentarily, Bill stared blindly at the screen: a friend dead, a man asking questions in the pub? Was he the forerunner of those they’d been watching for all these years? Bill didn’t know, but he had to find out before the man located their hilltop sanctuary. Or had he already done that, wrapped in a neat package of idle gossip in the pub?

  ‘Bill Anderson? Got a boy, Scott?’

  ‘Of course I know them. My girl goes to the same school; Falmouth comprehensive. Nice chap. Has a cottage on the hill overlooking the village.’ And the interested and well-meaning individual, no doubt encouraged to talk with a pint of best bitter in front of him, would jerk his head in the general direction. ‘Bill works from home, computers or something.’

  The obituary was timed at eight that morning. What a day to pick to damp down his alert module, sandbagging his antennae with platitudes: it’s a coincidence, you’re imagining it. If he had listened, as he had done countless times before, he wouldn’t have wasted two hours.

  Bill hastily scanned the final report, knowing this was Reuters’ signature card; the reporting of something that would make the dailies a little later. It was an eye-witness account of a monarchist rally in Norway; severe enough for the Federation to send in Polish troops from the Strike Force to crush it, the National Guard refusing to fire on citizens of their own country.

  It�
��s spreading, he thought. Pulling out his mobile he dialled Scott’s number. It was picked up immediately and he felt his racing pulse begin to slow.

  ‘Hey, Dad, changed your mind?’

  ‘No, just checking.’ Bill forced himself to adopt his normal casual tone. ‘You arrived safely?’

  ‘And how!’

  Bill heard the laughter in the background. ‘Scott, is Jameson with you?’

  ‘No, he’s gone to a family wedding. Why?’

  Bill hesitated. ‘Thought you’d probably like to spend the night. What time will you be back? I’ll pick you up.’

  ‘Okay! Hang on.’

  He heard his son’s voice in the background repeating the question.

  ‘Sixish, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Scott. And take care.’

  ‘I always do, Dad. Bye.’

  The phone clicked off. Bill stood silently for a moment, the mobile still in his hand, staring at the screen. He pressed print then, closing down the laptop, put it away.

  Scott would get his wish to see Holland. But first things, first. Remove everything of value. His phone was clean; constantly renewed through a series of clumsy accidents, like letting it slip out of his pocket halfway up a cliff. Still. He took out the sim card, grinding it under his heel. No paper, not a single sheet capable of betraying information about him; only the computer files on his work and he’d deal with those now. After that, he’d get lost in Falmouth for the day.

  Closing the kitchen door behind him he crossed the yard, the sunshine warm on his face, the air taking on a tinge of blue that often heralded settled weather. In the distance came the faint sound of a tractor, hard at work. Lambs bleated plaintively in the fields and birds sang about nothing in particular. It was ironic how bad things could happen on such a peaceful day. Ye t it had been a day like this, the air warm and friendly, when an earthquake had struck in California. He unlocked the door to the studio and, leaving his specs on the low table in the annexe, pulled open the inner door.