Running

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘I was going over some details with Agent Stone here,’ Sean explained. ‘She’s going to stay. I’ll leave one of the men, too. But first I need you to tell me everything you can about your father’s work.’

  ‘Sorry about before.’ Scott smiled at Hilary, keeping his voice casual sounding. ‘It was all a bit much. Do you get to carry a real gun?’

  Hilary’s hand automatically dropped to check the holster against her right hip. ‘Of course. Colt M-Nineteen eleven, Service issue.’

  ‘Did you bring your gun to school?’ he said, knowing the question was bound to annoy her and glad of it. He tried again. ‘Good disguise by the way, I’d never have guessed. Have you been an agent long?’

  Hilary flashed a hurt glance at Sean. See, it said, what I had to put up with.

  ‘Not long,’ Sean said, answering for the girl. ‘Now, about your dad?’

  Scott twisted round to stare at the reporter, still lounging in the doorway. He came all the way in, perching once more on the stool, leaving Hilary to stand.

  ‘I told you, you know more about Dad than me – even his real name. All I know, he’s a great dad,’ Scott’s voice broke, his resolve of the moment before vanished. ‘And if you really are the Secret Service, you’d better find him.’ Or I will, he added to himself. ‘Look,’ he stood up. ‘I can’t think anymore tonight, I’ve got to sleep, and you’re losing time. Shouldn’t you be following whoever took him?’

  ‘We are,’ Sean’s reply was brusque. ‘Okay, I know when I’m beat. Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.’

  Pete came into the house, a key dangling from his hand. ‘You want this?’

  Scott nodded. ‘I’ll put it back. Thanks. Find anything?’

  ‘Prints, but I expect they’re your dad’s. The door’s arrived. And we boarded up the window at the back with some cardboard we found in the garidge.’

  Scott was impressed. It was almost one o’clock. He listened to the gears grinding their way up the steep incline towards the gate into the yard. How do you get a door in the middle of the night? ‘How …’ he began.

  Pete grinned. ‘Pinched it. We left an IOU. It’s not painted though, only primed – still it’ll do for now. Tell you what, boss,’ he said to Sean Terry. ‘Why don’t I stay? Yo u can take the girl back with you. I’ll be hanging out in the kitchen anyway, fixing the door.’ He pointed to the chair where Scott was sitting. ‘I can doze in that. It’ll be fine. I’ll keep the kid safe.’

  Sean Terry took a sip of his coffee, pouring the remainder down the sink. ‘Nice of you to offer, Pete, but no deal. I can’t afford to take chances with Scott. I’d feel happier with both of you here.’

  ‘Okay. Get some sleep, kid. It’s surprising how different you can feel after a night’s kip.’

  The muscles in Scott’s face relaxed enough for a reluctant smile to take over. There was something about this black-clad agent, who appeared to find standing on his own two feet impossible, that filled him with confidence. Sean Terry certainly didn’t, an impenetrable sheet of steel, you’d never second-guess him. And Hilary? Patronising and opinionated – and what was worse, it looked like he was stuck with her.

  NINE

  Scott slept; the noise of hammering, accompanied by a dull thud as the door was hung and a lock fitted, mingled with the abrasive tones of the reporter’s voice, except he wasn’t a reporter, and the softer, broader, more casual speech of Pete. Scott caught the sound of a vehicle revving its engine – the sounds meshing together inside his brain, as he dived headfirst into a deeply exhausted unconsciousness.

  He was awake again before seven, nagging his eyelids at their refusal to cooperate and stay open. For a moment he lay there half-expecting to hear the radio or even the sound of his dad whistling. The cottage felt eerily silent and empty. Then he remembered. Dad! A wave of misery stormed over him.

  Wide-awake now, he tiptoed down the corridor and peeped into the kitchen. Pete was asleep, stretched out between the two armchairs, facing the new door. Its rough-hewn rawness, with its pile of wood shavings awaiting a dustpan and brush, jarred angrily against the elegantly smooth surface of the surrounding frame. Pete’s arms were crossed over his chest, a handgun clasped in his right hand, his automatic in plain sight tucked in the angle between his body and the chair. He didn’t stir; his breathing slow and regular.

  Scott returned to his room and stood by the window, staring out – trying to unravel the events of the day before and arrange them in sequence. The morning was grey, as different from the previous one as only England could be, and a wet mist hung low over the ground, making it seem cold and desolate. He shivered and, climbing up on his bed, tucked his legs back under the duvet.

  Why had his dad phoned him at the river? It had already been agreed that Scott would cycle home, so his dad could go out if he wanted. And was that before or after he went to the village? Scott picked up his mobile from the bedside table and checked the time of the call: nine forty-nine. So what had happened to change things? He pictured his dad at the breakfast bar sipping his coffee while he read the news on the laptop. Was that it – something he’d read?

  He jumped out of bed and slid the divan away from the wall, anxious now to boot up the laptop. Not bothering to shut the drawer again, he plugged it into the computer terminal next to his desk, watching the familiar pattern of icons appear down the left-hand side of the desktop, waiting impatiently for the egg timer to cease fluttering. He clicked into Network Neighbourhood before remembering that the hard drive had gone. Without it, the laptop had access only to its own operating programme. Wretchedly, he stared at the square-framed message that had appeared on the desktop: unable to access. So now what? He was about to close the machine down again when, in the corner of the screen, a white post-it flashed: Printer’s Folder. Paper Jam.

  Paper jam! So his dad had come back to check something – something that was important enough to print out. Not bothering to shut the laptop down, Scott left it hidden under the bedcover; anxious now to get into the studio and access the printer – without being seen. He needed a shower but that had to wait. Dressing rapidly, he grabbed his padded jacket from the wardrobe and, flipping open the top of the laundry hamper, stuffed in his other jacket – covered in mud and grass stains – on top of his jeans and underwear.

  The new lock clicked loudly. Instantly he felt eyes – and possibly a gun – trained on his back.

  ‘Going somewhere?’

  As casually as his pounding heart would permit, Scott swung round, sketching a brief smile. ‘Sorry, did I wake you? I wanted to check – you know?’ He kept his voice light.

  ‘In case somehow your dad’s turned up?’ Scott shrugged. ‘Mind if I go with you?’ Pete was already on his feet, no longer requiring a handy wall to lean against, his gun steady in his hand.

  Damn!

  The muzzle of the automatic poked its nose into the yard. Nothing stirred, everywhere quiet, not even the sound of a tractor or the whoosh of a speeding car, everyone that could grasping the opportunity for a Sunday lie-in.

  Scott’s bike stood against the kitchen wall. For a moment he wondered what it was doing there. ‘So much going on, I forgot about it,’ he admitted.

  ‘I guess.’ Pete smiled amiably. ‘Midge brought it up before they left.’

  ‘That was kind. I’d have remembered eventually.’ Scott wandered across the yard. A brightly shining padlock and chain adorned the upper rail. ‘You locked us in?’

  ‘No,’ Pete scooped up a piece of wood from the pile in the yard. ‘We locked them out.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Scott leaned over the top rail facing out towards the fields, tracing his route of the night before. ‘But no one would come here in the daylight,’ he said, naively forgetting it had been daylight when his dad went missing.

  Pete didn’t reply, seemingly inspecting the fields spread out before them, a low mist still hanging about the hedgerows.

  ‘Can I go in?’ Scott indicated the studio.

 
‘Why?’

  ‘Habit!’ He passed Pete the key from his pocket.

  ‘You okay this morning?’ The lean figure propped himself up against the diagonal length of planking that formed the crossbar. Propping his automatic against the gate, he pulled out a penknife and began whittling at the sliver of wood.

  ‘I slept. You were right, it helps, but I still feel pretty helpless. And whatever Mr Terry says, I have to inform the police – and school, but that can wait until after half-term.’

  ‘You on holiday?’ Pete looked up.

  Scott nodded. ‘A week.’

  ‘Don’t worry with the police. We’ll find your dad. For what it’s worth, I’m sure he’s okay.’

  ‘How can you possibly know that?’ Scott said angrily. Noticing the black streaks on Pete’s face were smeared and partially rubbed off, he added, ‘You need a shower. Dad’ll kill you if you got that black stuff on his chairs.’

  Pete grinned, his smile twisted up as if chewing a straw. Closing the penknife, he slipped it back in his pocket, tossing the strip of wood away. ‘You have a strange way of saying, thanks for keeping me safe.’ He unlocked the studio door. ‘I’ll go and drag Stone out of bed. She can keep you company, while I shower.’

  Flicking the light switch, he poked his gun into the main room, then stood back for Scott to enter first.

  Trying to conceal his frustration, Scott took off his specs and placed them on the table. ‘But why? I’m okay on my own and there’s no one about, you’ve checked.’

  ‘I know Sean might seem like a tight bastard ...’

  The change of subject startled Scott.

  ‘But he really is one of the good guys. You can trust him to find your dad, only he’s going to need your help.’

  The words sounded casual, without importance. Scott didn’t react, recalling the innocence of his dad’s feints while playing chess, almost always unexpectedly ending in checkmate. ‘He’s got an odd way of showing it,’ he said, his tone almost apologetic.

  ‘Yeah! Hasn’t he just – lips sealed tighter than a clam. Still, give it a whirl. Just talk, doesn’t matter how trivial; let the big guys sort out what’s important. You’d be surprised how much kids pick up.’

  Mimicking the action of the secret service agent, the night before, Scott wandered over to the window. He pulled back the blinds peering out. The countryside felt like him – empty.

  ‘Pete?’ Dropping the curtain back into place, Scott picked up a pencil rolling it aimlessly backwards and forwards across the empty desk. ‘If there really is someone stealing computer geeks, I could understand them wanting somebody like my pal Jameson, ’cos he’s the greatest, but why were those men waiting for me? I know nothing about computers – I told Dad that.’

  ‘That what?’

  Scott’s hand froze. Damn! Hiding his anger at his own stupidity as best he could, he said casually: ‘Dad read about kids disappearing. He told me to warn my classmates.’

  ‘So you do know stuff,’ Pete propped up the door frame. ‘Read where?’

  Careful now! ‘An internet site but don’t ask me which one.’ Scott shrugged. ‘Anyway, it makes no difference, the computer’s gone. You’re right; it won’t hurt to wrack my brains.’

  ‘Okay then on your own for a couple of minutes?’ Pete smiled. ‘I’ll get Hilary. And just in case you’re wondering, she took first watch.’

  Scott stared in astonishment. ‘But you were sleeping when I came through the kitchen.’

  Pete grinned. ‘Like hell I was! I heard you first time round. I only opened my eyes on your second visit.’ Tipping the barrel of his machine gun towards Scott in a friendly salute, he disappeared through the door.

  Minutes – it had to be enough. Leaving the door ajar, he hurried over to the mirrored glass, pressing his fingers firmly against the surface to release the hidden catch. There was a gentle click and the mirror swung open to reveal a shallow cupboard, piled high with the paraphernalia associated with computers; books of technical data, ink cartridges, spare discs, and wires – feeding in and out of the small server connected to both printers – one coloured, the other black and white – its on-off switch flashing indignantly.

  Scott opened the machine, carefully teasing out the tangled piece of paper and clicked the printer into life. For a second or two nothing happened then, with a gentle swishing noise, a sheet of paper appeared, the printer reproducing line by line the last instructions of his dad.

  Reading upside down, he transcribed the headline: From our Reuters Correspondent.

  Impatiently he waited for the page to finish printing. It seemed to take forever. There – it was done. Snatching it up, he quickly folded the A4 sheet into four and slid it carefully into his pocket.

  ‘She’s in the kitchen making coffee.’ Pete’s voice sounded from the annexe.

  Scott started nervously and hastily clicked the mirror-door shut. It was like a game of cat and mouse – with him as the mouse. How much easier it would be, if he could hand the sheet over and let Pete do his thinking for him. He wanted to, desperately, yet something held him back. He could almost hear his dad’s voice: Trust only what you know for definite, Scott. So what did he know? Nothing – except they didn’t want him contacting the police.

  ‘What’s up? Find anything?’ the agent said, his glance penetrating.

  Scott shook his head. ‘You never said why I’m so important?’

  ‘I guess if you went along too, your dad would find it that much easier to co-operate.’

  After a big breakfast Scott disappeared off to his room, making the excuse that he had to get his jacket and trousers washed from the previous night. The talk had been general, Pete asking questions about his daily life and Scott glad to answer them. It helped pass the time but it didn’t make him feel any better. Nothing would, until he found out where his dad was being held. And was anyone actually looking? It was all so frustrating – this waiting.

  ‘Thanks, Hilary,’ he said politely. She had made quite a good job of breakfast and kept the kitchen tidy, putting away the eggs and bacon in the fridge and wiping the surfaces as soon as she used them. But he still felt uncomfortable with her about. How could you think of Hilary, the new girl at school, as a Secret Service Agent? It was ridiculous and, under any other circumstances, laughable. But with Dad missing, nothing was laughable. He still didn’t like her, though, not after the way she had acted on the river.

  ‘Glad to help.’ She was back in ordinary jeans and the shirt she had worn the day before and looked quite normal, except for the gun at her side.

  ‘You still expecting trouble?’ Scott’s eyes were drawn to the cylindrical black dullness of the gun barrel. One like that had killed a man, the night before.

  ‘Not really. It’s just routine. If you’re washing, mind if I add stuff?’ Hilary pointed to the stain on her shirt, where hot fat from the frying pan had splattered her.

  She was being friendly all right – no doubt under orders.

  With the laptop once again hidden, Scott nervously unfolded the last message sent by his dad. It was a Reuters’ article. Puzzled, he read the opening paragraph. Radiation levels up again. He gazed at it in bewilderment, quickly scanning the second paragraph. An obituary? He read it carefully.

  Sudden Death of Famous Writer

  It is with sadness and regret that we learned early this morning of the death of Damon Runyon, aged 62, at his home in London. Damon Runyon, well known both as a journalist and writer, rose to fame through his sketches on daily life amongst the gangster community in New York, peopled by a motley collection of characters with such colourful names as Harry the Horse and Nathan Detroit. His most famous work, Guys and Dolls became both a stage play and a motion picture.

  Runyon died in the milieu in which he had lived and worked, a single gunshot wound to the head, following a struggle with an unknown assailant.

  What was so important about an obituary? Scott read on, hoping there would be something there – something obvious.


  A violent monarchist rally took place in Oslo last night. Protestors stormed the old parliament building demanding the return of their King and home rule. The National Guard, called out to quell the riot, disobeyed orders to fire on the people, remaining in barracks. Acting swiftly, the Federation has sent for troops from Poland. They are expected to land within the next two days. Meanwhile the protest has spread to neighbouring Sweden and Denmark, with people taking to the streets in Brussels in sympathy.

  Nothing struck a chord. So which one was it? The obituary or the rally?

  He heard footsteps, followed by a knock on the door. Panicking, Scott shoved the sheet of paper under his bedclothes and grabbed the laundry basket.

  It was Hilary. ‘Sean’s on his way up the lane.’

  ‘OK, a minute.’

  Slipping the folded sheet back in his pocket, he followed her out to the garage, where the washing machine lived. An old black Citroen drew up alongside and Sean Terry slid out from behind the wheel. He looked as if he hadn’t slept – his face ravaged with fatigue, his stubble speckled with grey.

  ‘Pete?’ he bellowed, ignoring Scott.

  The rangy figure stuck his head round the kitchen door. ‘Yo?’

  ‘Give Stone that stuff.’ Sean indicated the hamper of washing clutched in Scott’s arms. ‘I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Did you find my dad?’ Scott dumped the washing basket down. ‘Use programme E.’ He followed the thin figure into the house.

  ‘No!’ The tone cut through the air, like a guillotine through paper.

  ‘But what about your prisoner? Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘When we got to headquarters, he was dead on the floor of the van.’

  ‘Oh!’ Scott subsided into a chair, and a feeling of utter helplessness swept over him. ‘So there’s no clue.’