Running

by Barbara Spencer

  Three men were waiting, one of whom closed the door politely behind the reluctant figure.

  It was no good trying to run. Bill’s heart slid to a stop and a muscle tightened in his cheek, but otherwise he showed no sign.

  ‘This is rather unusual,’ he said, ‘to find burglars in daytime.’

  ‘Meester Masterson?’

  Bill raised his eyebrows. ‘Can’t help there. Yo u must have the wrong place. No one of that name here. Name’s Anderson – very close – easy mistake to make.’

  ‘You disappoint me. May I call you Bill?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said lightly. ‘Only my friends do that.’

  Ignoring the man standing behind him, he crossed to the computer console and leaned back, attempting an appearance of nonchalance.

  ‘Meester Masterson – we ’ave been looking for you for fifteen years …’

  Bill relaxed against the console and crossed his ankles, his left hand resting on the keyboard behind. The dormant engine in the processor immediately woke; power surging soundlessly through every corner of its printed circuitry, its screens switched off at night remaining blank and dark. Bill’s fingers crept upwards, the span of his hand sufficient to hold down control, at the same time depressing two keys on the top right-hand corner of the keyboard with his fourth finger – the number ‘8’ followed by the letter ‘l’. Praying the software still worked, after so many years on standby, he touched them lightly once and then twice more in quick succession, allowing the message to flash by electronic pulses across the landscape.

  ‘And now we ’ave found you.’

  Bill said casually, ‘So Terry phoned you, did he?’

  ‘Terry?’

  ‘Yeah – you probably know him by another name – weedy individual, needs a shave and a bath, or so I heard.’

  The three men exchanged glances and the man that had spoken shook his head. ‘Now it is my turn to be mystified. We did not ’ave proof that you lived ’ere until yesterday.’

  His front door bell! ‘You mean you’re the Ministry men? Why did I not guess? The farmer said you were rubbish at your job.’

  The speaker flushed at the sarcasm. ‘Stop playing games, Masterson. The name is Gerard Davois. I expect you ’ave heard of me.’ Bill kept silent. ‘No? No matter. Since we will be accompanying you to your new ’ome, we might as well become acquainted, but first …’ he indicated with his hand, ‘Arnulf will search you.’

  Bill flinched as the muscle’s rough fingers batted his feet into the spread position, spinning him like a top to check his back and shoulders; turning him round again to check under his jacket, sliding his hands down over his hips. Fingers dug themselves into the small of Bill’s back indicating they were finished. They pushed him roughly against the edge of the bench, as if contemptuously throwing away a piece of garbage, and knocking him off balance.

  ‘French and German – multinational. How politically correct,’ he said, trying to keep his tone normal-sounding. ‘So where am I being taken?’

  ‘A journey – and one for you, for which there will be no return – but you may choose ’ow you travel. Give me your word not to escape and it will be in style. But, of course,’ Davois shrugged, the gesture typically Gaelic, using his face and hands as well as his shoulders. ‘First there ’as to be a gesture of goodwill. The names of your colleagues?’

  ‘Colleagues?’ Bill kept his voice bland, camouflaging his relief. So David hadn’t talked but that silence had cost him his life. Thank God the electronic traces on David’s computer led only to him. He closed his eyes briefly, aware his computer would hand the enemy another link, praying his warning would be in time. ‘Don’t work with anyone. Should I?’

  ‘But of course you do. Never mind – we ’ave your friends; someone will talk.’

  ‘Sorry, don’t have any friends.’

  ‘No, but you ’ave a son.’

  ‘You touch him and I’ll kill you.’ Bill’s tone was savage. Instantly anger flooded over him for being so gullible.

  While they’d been talking the third man had left the room. He reappeared, shaking his head. ‘No sign of him, boss.’

  ‘Meester Masterson – where is your son? ’E was with you last night and we ’ave been watching the house since daybreak. We would ’ave seen him. We saw you.’

  Thank God for Travers’s invite. ‘What a pity – he’s away for the week. Tr y again later,’ Bill said lightly. This was the time – the time he had been preparing Scott for; hoping it would never happen but fearing it would. All the lectures and drills, the climbing of the mountains, surfing, riding his bike – all of them preparing Scott for just this situation. And how many times, in the course of fifteen years, had he said to his son, remember this and you’ll stay safe.

  ‘Thank you,’ Davois said with a mocking bow. ‘We will. Meanwhile are we to ’ave your word?’

  ‘Sorry … can’t give my word unless I know where I’m going. Now you tell me that and I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Meester Masterson, you think we are born yesterday?’ His hand moved.

  Bill struggled automatically as he felt his arms gripped tightly. He took a deep breath, knowing what was going to happen, and aware he could do nothing about it – not one against three. It was of some comfort, though not much, that he wouldn’t be nursing a bullet like David. He felt the needle enter his arm, and he had just time to hope that help would come – then there was nothing.

  ‘Bring the van.’ Davois instructed the two men as they laid the unconscious figure on the ground. ‘Load this stuff in.’ He indicated the bank of computers. ‘You will stay ’ere and wait. ’E can’t ’ave gone far.’

  FOUR

  The motor launch had taken them way up-river; Doug Randal insisting the chill factor cruising the open bay would be quite significant, since the sea hadn’t begun to warm up yet. They had idled along, the day fine enough to festoon the fore and aft decks with a collection of bodies; his wife, out of long habit, consulting the radiation monitor in the cruiser’s cabin, before agreeing to her charges sunbathing.

  The monitors, one of the more expensive knee-jerk reactions to the Iran blast, had been declared obsolete three years earlier; nevertheless the population as a whole remained nervous about exposure to sun. Catherine Randal anxiously checked her four charges for sun block, before allowing them to lie around and absorb the warming rays, so inviting after a long cold winter.

  It was full spring, the trees not yet at that bloated, slightly flat look of summer, and the sunlight created delicate patterns of dappled shadow on the moving water. The river bank bristled with willow and poplar, their supple stems elbowing one another out of the way in a pursuit of light and space; while tightly curled leaves adorned the polished bark with fresh green frills, like a muslin tutu bursting out of a paper bag.

  ‘I love rivers,’ Hilary trailed her hand in the water. ‘We had nothing like this where I lived before.’

  ‘I thought you lived in London. That’s got a river right slap-bang in the middle of it.’

  Hilary’s hand jerked. She stared at Scott with a guilty expression. ‘Forgot the Thames,’ she hastily amended.

  ‘Honestly, Hilary,’ Travers murmured lazily. ‘How can you forget something as big as the Thames, even I’d find that difficult?’

  ‘Don’t know, just did. Shame your dad isn’t here, Scott,’ the girl said changing the subject.

  ‘He hates water.’

  ‘But I thought he taught you to sail.’

  Scott flushed, annoyed at being caught out in such a stupid lie. Except – how would Hilary know he and his dad went sailing, unless she’d been asking questions about him. The thought made him feel instantly more cheerful and his eyes brightened. ‘It was a joke,’ he said. ‘He hates parties.’

  ‘Pity, he sounds interesting. Travers said he rides a bike.’

  ‘So do I! So you’ll have to make do with me,’ he said, preparing to flash his best smile but her face remained resolutely turned in the di
rection of the water.

  ‘Come off it, Scott,’ Mary smiled kindly, aware of his efforts. ‘Poor Hilary, I invited her for a nice day out.’

  Scott fixed his gaze on the river bank, wracking his brains for something to say; wishing, and not for the first time, that he could be like Jameson whose garrulous chattering could jump-start a dozen conversations. He began chasing sentences round his head, hoping to come up with something dynamic, only too aware that dynamic was impossible at the best of times – and ten times harder today. Hilary had arrived at the Randal’s house looking totally stunning; her skin and hair polished to a fine silky sheen, which had left him with spaghetti for brains. Why couldn’t it be Mary he was talking to. With her it was easy. It might not be scintillating but at least words flowed out of his mouth, no problem.

  ‘So what’s it like, living in London?’ he managed, hoping the sentence wasn’t really as boring as it sounded.

  ‘It’s a town – you know like living in a town.’

  Scott winced and hesitated a second before adding, ‘But London has to be different. I mean there’s so much history.’ He leaned forward eagerly. ‘Did you ever go to the London Eye? I’ve always wanted to do that.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Well, what about Tower Bridge? Do boats still go underneath?’

  ‘Madame Tussauds?’ Travers raised his head from the deck. ‘Trafalgar Square?’

  ‘Oh, for crying-out-loud, give over on the third degree, can’t you.’

  Mary, who was sitting next to Travers her arms clasped round her knees, made eye contact with him. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulder in the direction of his mother. She was standing by the rail enjoying the placid scene, after handing out Cokes and crisps for elevenses – even though it was only ten o’clock. With breakfast served at seven, she knew only too well Travers would already be hungry again.

  ‘Mum?’ Travers, taking the hint, called across the deck. ‘What was it like before the blast?’

  Catherine Randall looked up from her inspection of the river. ‘Seriously, Travers – on such a nice day?’

  ‘We’re studying it in school, Mrs Randal,’ Mary explained. She prodded Travers with her elbow to stop him dropping into a doze, before his mother had a chance to even answer the question.

  ‘We still wore sun block, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

  Catherine Randal was dark like her son but tall and finely built; her clothes giving off an appearance of extreme elegance, the colour of her tailored cut-offs mirroring the stripes in her jersey, with matching rope-soled shoes. She sat down and crossed her legs. ‘Global warming was talked about, so was the hole in the ozone layer. Both were regarded as a threat although, at that point, all they’d done was cause freaky weather – you know like drought and floods.’

  Travers sat up and rubbed his thigh where he’d been prodded. ‘Not that stuff, Mum, ordinary life.’

  ‘Surely you don’t want me to get profound, it’s a bit early?’

  ‘My dad can get profound at any hour,’ Scott said, without thinking. Glancing up, he caught the interested expression on Hilary’s face. What was her problem? She liked older men? He’d read about girls like her in magazines. Besides his dad was real old too, years older than Travers’s, and she didn’t appear interested in him.

  ‘You should have dragged him along.’ Catherine Randal smiled.

  Scott returned the compliment and smiled back. Mrs Randal was definitely far too attractive to be anybody’s mother. Jay’s mother was nice but not in the same league. Anyway he’d known Mrs Brody forever, ever since he and Jay hooked up at primary. And Mary’s parents – they were the original starchy drawers – at least that’s what Mary called them. She said they disapproved of everything young people did, constantly going on about how things were different in their day.

  ‘Ok-ay, so life what was it like? M-mm. Seriously? So … it was simpler … easier … better … yes, definitely better – except I wonder if all generations believe their time was the best. What do you think, Doug?’ she called out.

  Doug Randal, catching the sound of his name, stuck his head round the cockpit; the face which had adorned television screens for twenty years still handsome, although now showing traces of a decade away from sport.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Life when we were young – was it better?’

  ‘Yeah – definitely – I weighed a hundred and ninety-six then. I weigh two hundred and twenty now.’ He laughed and stuck his head back inside.

  ‘Dad! So what Mum?’

  ‘Leaving aside the rose-coloured specs, we had the monarchy which made things very stable. Although the monarch had no actual political role, they acted like a fulcrum.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Thank God you can play rugby, Travers.’ Catherine Randal smiled mischievously. ‘It’s the pivot around which both sides of a lever balance. The monarchy was held in high regard and politicians lived in fear that, if push came to shove, the people would back the monarch, not them. That’s what made our country so stable. Great Britain, as it was known then, had tremendous influence around the world. Partly because of its history as an industrial nation, but also because the monarch was head of the Commonwealth – a league of a hundred and fifty-one nations – all independent – rather like a large, squabbling family of brothers and sisters.

  ‘The years after the blast were bad, pretty chaotic. And, as a result of radiation, life has changed. There weren’t as many rules; like not being able to leave England, even to visit the mainland, if you’re an ex-con. To-day the Federation controls every aspect of our lives. For instance, the company making our protective glasses ...’ she put her hand up to touch the lenses, which had now darkened in the sunlight. ‘They have a monopoly and have to be making trillions of Euros. In the olden days there would have been action groups besieging parliament. Now we don’t even have much of a parliament. Some years back, when they were contemplating rebuilding the UK’s nuclear programme, there were huge protests. Since the Federation came into existence, no one bothers.’

  Scott, remembering the monarchist rally in Belgium, could have disagreed but as usual he kept silent.

  ‘I know we never talk about the USA,’ Catherine continued, ‘but lots of people in this country have really fond memories of the Americans. Nice people – lousy leaders.’ She got to her feet in one graceful moment. ‘Now I’m going to join the grown-ups for some adult conversation, such as the price of an elegant blue number I saw in a boutique on the way here.’

  With a grimace, she vanished into the cockpit, where a clinking of ice cubes showed that the party had got down to the serious business of the day.

  ‘She’s beautiful,’ said Hilary, smiling round as if apologising for her outburst.

  ‘She used to be a model,’ Travers said proudly. ‘Do you believe that stuff about each generation …?’

  ‘Thinking their youth was best?’ Mary completed the sentence and, rolling over, gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘When we’re old and grey, Travers, we can ask ourselves.’

  ‘By the time you’re old and grey, he’ll have forgotten the question. Look at him,’ Scott prodded the comatose figure, half asleep already. ‘Sorry about before,’ he apologised to Hilary. ‘I mean I’ve always wanted to go to London.’

  ‘And I hate talking about myself,’ she said. ‘So why not tell me about you. For instance, what about your family?’

  ‘There’s only Dad and me.’

  ‘Oh yes, sorry. I heard you lost your mother. So what does he do?’

  ‘Some boring job,’ Scott said. ‘He’s pretty boring, too. I made up the bit about him being profound.’ Scott wanted to say: change the record can’t you. Instead he said, ‘He’s always doing housework or gardening – that’s why he didn’t come today – you know pruning roses.’

  Mary leapt up. ‘Come on, Hilary, I want to explore below. Come with me in case we meet up with any spiders on the way.’

  Travers grin
ned. ‘Rats.’

  ‘What do you mean, rats?’

  ‘You get rats on boats not spiders.’

  Mary grabbed Hilary by the hand and dragged her to her feet. ‘In that case you have to come.’

  Scott gazed after the two girls making their way along the deck. ‘What’s with her? She isn’t like this at school.’

  ‘I expect it’s some girl thing. Leave it to Mary, she’ll sort it. But she certainly snapped about London. She obviously doesn’t like talking about herself.’

  ‘No, she prefers talking about my dad. I only wish she wasn’t so great looking then it wouldn’t matter. Help me out here, Travers. Give me something to talk about.’

  Travers shrugged. ‘You’ve got the wrong person, I never bother. If they don’t like me as I am, that’s their problem. I don’t care.’

  Scott glared. ‘You don’t need to care. Every time you set foot on the blasted rugby pitch half the girls in the school fall into a dead faint.’

  Travers gave a shout of laughter. ‘No, they don’t and Mary wouldn’t let them. You’re good at plenty of stuff – you know – like climbing. I’d never get off the ground. Talk about that.’

  ‘Knowing my luck, she hates mountains too.’

  Scott flicked a glance towards the twisting lane, not much more than a pot-holed track that wound down through woods from the main road; a long line of parked cars ample proof of the popularity of that particular stretch of water.

  He prayed his dad had brought the bike, desperately in need of a head rush, like driving fast to lift him out of his gloom; the Four by Four simply one of a dozen dotted about. Scanning the queue of vehicles, he searched for the familiar face among the gawping pedestrians, as the cruiser slid silently and efficiently into its berth. Barefoot, he and Travers leapt athletically onto the quayside, securing the heavy ropes to the solid brass capstan, the boat swaying slightly as it pulled against its restraints.

  It had been a lousy day as far as impressing Hilary went and, halfway, Scott had stopped caring. He had really tried too; thought up all sorts of subjects – her family, friends she’d left behind, what sort of house she’d lived in, music she liked, her favourite shops – only to have her shut up tighter than a clam. Okay, so she’d been quiet at school but he’d put that down to being new. Besides, she’d not had any bother talking to Mary. But with him … She might be pretty with a dazzling smile but they were wasted on her. He groaned miserably facing the obvious, that her acceptance of the invitation had been to go out on the river and not because she fancied him. Well, if she did, she had a funny way of showing it.