Running

by Barbara Spencer

  Scott groaned loudly, before remembering there were people nearby. He squinted across at the nearest table and was relieved to find no curious eyes staring back. Being followed was way down his list of problems. The theory of riding up to Scotland might sound simple; but putting it into practice? He’d never ridden fifty miles in one go, never mind five hundred. He groaned – more quietly this time – before closing the laptop, reluctant to take the first step into the unknown.

  ELEVEN

  He had to stop, both hands so cramped and stiff he daren’t stretch them; his fatigue so overwhelming that the slightest shift in weight distribution and the delicate machine would veer out of control, with him unable to stop it.

  The motorway had taken him through the sunny pasturelands of Devon and Cornwall, populated mostly by sheep and cows. Scott concentrated on maintaining his speed and staying safe among motorists that found it amusing to play dare and catch- me-if-you-can, staying dangerously close behind him. At Taunton, the debris from road works – a heap of dust-ridden, weed-infested shale, broken concrete posts and barren landscaping – accompanied the motorway inland through to Shepton Mallet, before heading north towards Bath. Hastily constructed to replace the pathway over the Somerset levels and the Bristol Channel corridor, which had been destroyed by the giant wave, it remained in a constant state of repair.

  Now he was nearing Birmingham. A slip road swung left round a light-controlled traffic island. Frozen to the bone he followed it, heading for an outcrop of concrete and glass buildings set back off the road, where rows of shiny new cars were displayed under a vast concrete canopy. Throttling back to twenty, he inspected the conglomeration of motorcar sales, DIY, carpet and bed stores that usually clung to the outskirts of towns, where taxes were less onerous. Among them was a more modest building, heavy plate glass protecting its stock of two-wheeled power machines from creative shoplifters.

  Leaving his bike tucked out of sight of the road, Scott entered the shop. Twenty minutes later he emerged feeling a mile high, wearing black leather trousers over his jeans and a blouson jacket, which made him appear all at once older and heavier; grateful that the assistant in the shop had been more interested in selling the expensive outfit, than analysing the age of his customer.

  Cramming his dad’s jacket into the box with the computer, he headed back towards the motorway. In the distance a police post appeared, guarding the approaches to a motorway exit. Scott had heard about them but this was the first he’d seen. It had a pitiless air about it; a forbidding mass of black reflective glass stretching from one side of the motorway to the other. He wasn’t exactly sure of its powers; only that its flashing lights and klaxons were there to alert the traffic below to an immediate and rapid descent of steel curtains, designed to drop down over all-six carriageways, if necessary, and block them off. As terror alerts had become more frequent, so had these barriers. Firstly, surrounding only major cities, their function had been to isolate and prevent any escape by road, by closing all major arteries in and out of the city. Now, they were gradually spreading across the landscape.

  He shivered, feeling himself under inspection, as he swooped under the black bridge. Ahead was Junction three – Halesowen. The next signpost – coloured dark green – displayed the symbol for a hotel with a restaurant attached. Watching out for the one-hundred metre sign, he slowed slightly. Then, taking the slip road, ran down onto an urban freeway, heading directly into the densely populated area of the Midlands metropolis.

  The Stop and Rest chain of motels operated comfortable rooms based on any six, twelve or twenty-four-hour period; a team of domestics on hand to service vacated rooms, quickly and efficiently, in time to accommodate the next exhausted traveller. With modest rates and a fast-food restaurant next door, the formula had quickly spread countrywide. To some self-confessed enthusiasts, the chain had single-handedly been responsible for lowering the accident rate on major roads and motorways.

  Scott booked a twelve-hour stay, figuring he could leave again by eight in the morning. He set the alarm, courtesy of the management, and an integral part of a bedside console that also contained a reading light.

  Before checking in, Scott had eaten and taken a long walk to stretch his legs. There wasn’t much to see, only the paraphernalia of suburban living; streets of houses and rows of parked cars. But a picturesque view was not part of the deal. In any event, Scott was only interested in restoring circulation and working out his next move, not gazing at ponds with swans floating on them or glorious vistas of ruined castles surrounded by moats.

  He felt exhausted, the excitement which had spurred him into action long since drained away. Now inside him was a deep well of misery, mixed with bewilderment. The realisation that this could be a wild goose chase was not long following. He might well be … Scott frowned, as the clichés: “barking up the wrong tree”, “jumping to the wrong conclusion”, sprang to mind. For that’s exactly what he might be doing if he pinned all his hopes on the hypothesis that somewhere, on the banks of Loch Lomond, he would find a huge sign: this way to the next clue. Still, it was all he’d got. Besides this fragile kernel of hope, he had no one and nothing. If he didn’t find his dad, that would be the situation that existed for the rest of his life. How would he manage when he could only cook stir-fry with pasta?

  Scott paused, his foot hesitating in the middle of its step, struggling to accept the premise that his father had taught him the skills necessary to survive, because he had anticipated just such a day.

  His room had been created for sleeping; Aneat cell with a single bed, its shower and loo enclosed in a polystyrene bubble, a style of furnishing which represented a significant departure from more traditional hotels. Here, everything possible was built-in or bolted-down to minimise vandalism and deter petty thieves; some guests still believing that payment for a room justified stealing anything that could be carried in a suitcase. And, since towels, sheets and bath mats were pretty much the only things not bolted-down, these were of a plain-white commercial quality, unlikely items for souvenir hunters.

  The hundred or so rooms were identical, except for those on the first floor overlooking the car park. These possessed a small balcony, screened off by heavy net curtains. Scott had pulled them aside glancing down at the neatly parked cars in their white flagged bays. In theory, it was perfectly possible to step outside and take the air, in practice rarely done; the noise and fumes of passing traffic bestowing the air with an unpalatable opaque quality. The Suzuki was nowhere in sight. Had he been too cautious? Scott had even surprised himself by arguing for greater seclusion. The manager, courteously agreeing that his bike was probably considerably safer in Aneglected underground staff car park, rather than a high visibility area with both lights and cameras, had even permitted Scott to use the staff elevator to access the space.

  He crashed into oblivion, ahead of him hours and hours of blissful slumber, so that the key card swiping the door lock to gain entry, failed to waken him. Neither did the first intruder.

  He glanced down at the boy deeply asleep and grinned across the room at his colleague, who was leaning back against the closed door. He wore overalls – the words Service Personnel emblazoned on the breast pocket. One of the sleeves had a small tear in it, where it had caught on the wall in his struggle with its original owner, now helplessly pounding on the laundry room door, in the forlorn hope that someone, in a building designed for guests to sleep undisturbed, would hear him.

  ‘Don’t you just love it when they’re already sleeping like babies,’ he said. He yelled, ‘Wakeup !’ directing his voice at the sleeping boy and roughly shaking him.

  Scott heard the sound, struggling upwards against a tide of sleep into consciousness. ‘You want something?’ he muttered. ‘I’ve paid for twelve hours, it can’t be checking out time already.’ He gazed wearily at the window. It was pitch black outside.

  ‘Yes, you! Get dressed. We’re taking you to see your father.’

  Instantly wide awake Scott
stumbled out of bed, checking that his helmet and leathers were still where he’d left them, on the floor near the door. He glanced up at his attackers, forcing himself not to react at the sight of a gun loosely clasped in the second man’s hand. Not having pyjamas, he’d slept in his underwear. Now, he fumbled his way into his jeans, pulling on his shirt and sweater; making each movement clumsy and slow, his mind frantically racing round and round. He forced himself to slow down, breathe deeply, watch and wait.

  Wait for a chance to get away. He had no doubt that’s what he was going to do – even with a gun pointing at him. Slowly and carefully, he checked his few belongings and slid them into his jacket pocket; loose change and the keys to the bike. Thank God he’d left his laptop and the photo of his mother in the Suzuki.

  Judging it was about time he asked the question, Scott said: ‘Where is my dad?’

  There were four violent bursts of ear-splitting noise. The door crashed open and jagged slivers of light and sound echoed round the room. The light bulb in the ceiling exploded, plunging the room into darkness but not before Scott had seen the man at the door knocked sideways clutching his arm, his gun spinning across the room; while the man at the bedside collapsed in a messy heap on the floor.

  A hand tugged at his sleeve and a voice whispered, ‘This way.’

  Hesitating only long enough to grab his precious leathers, he was running. The door slammed shut behind him, the corridor dark; the burst light bulb triggering a trip-switch that controlled all the lights on the first-floor.

  ‘Your bike?’

  ‘Basement garage.’

  He ran, spitting the words out between breaths, heading now for the service elevator. It was stationary on their floor, clearly the mode of entry for the men in the grey polyester jackets. The figure beside him punched a button. Then safety lights swung into action, flaring dimly, but sufficient for Scott to recognise who had saved him.

  Hilary Stone!

  Speechless, he glanced down at the gun that had wreaked so much damage. The girl tucked it away in her holster, smiling at the shocked expression on Scott’s face.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised, Scott. Don’t forget I’m supposed to be looking after you.’

  ‘How …?’

  The elevator juddered to a halt, the doors opening into the silence and eeriness of a deserted car park, only a handful of cars belonging to night-staff dotted around.

  ‘Later. Where’s your bike?’

  He pointed. Echoing footsteps, taking the stone stairs three at a time, came from the stairwell behind them.

  ‘Run!’ Scott fished in his pocket with his free hand and pulled out his keys. ‘No helmet!’ he gasped.

  He heard a crack of noise and the plaster in the wall beside them exploded, showering them with white concrete dust.

  ‘No time!’ came the breathless response. ‘Just get away.’

  Scott tore round the pillar and leapt for his bike, fumbling for the ignition; his hands shaking so much the key jerked sideways in the curved aperture and jammed. He swallowed nervously, beating his clenched fists against his knee. Taking a slow and deliberate breath he tried again, inching the key into place against the ignition.

  Another crack of sound! He winced as fast-moving air brushed his cheek. Hilary, behind him on the bike, ducked.

  ‘For Pete’s sake, hurry,’ she hissed.

  He ignored her, concentrating on sliding the bike off its stand. The engine fired, its roar of noise muffling the sound of a third bullet, which twanged against the hubcap of Anearby car. Then, they were moving. He accelerated towards the ramp and felt Hilary’s arm clutch at the fabric of his jacket. A dark figure had appeared from nowhere barring their exit, his arms extended at chest height. The man took careful aim. An earth-shattering blast resounded in Scott’s ear as Hilary fired, the motion of the bike spinning the bullet harmlessly over their assailant’s head.

  Scott braked and swerved; his foot skidded against the concrete floor, as he swung the red monster round in a half-circle. The returning bullet bit into the space where the bike had been less than a second before and he heard the sound of glass shattering.

  ‘For crying out loud,’ Hilary yelled, both arms clutching him round the chest. ‘You’ll get us killed.’

  Scott laughed excitedly. ‘You concentrate on shooting and leave the bike riding to me,’ he yelled over his shoulder.

  Pulling the bike back upright he paused, gunned the engine and headed at top speed for the shooter, already poised to take his second shot. Scott didn’t care. He’d back his bike against a bullet any day. And the man had better get out of the way, if he didn’t want to get killed. Hilary screamed and pulled on his arm; Scott ignored her. At the last moment, the figure cartwheeled to one side and then they were racing up the ramp and out into the road, too absorbed in their flight to hear a car start up and begin to follow.

  The bike accelerated along the empty road, flying over the bumpy patches in the camber. Scott caught sight of a large blue metal sign overhanging the side of the road.

  ‘Where to?’ he shouted, half-turning his head.

  He caught the muffled response, the wind quickly blowing away any sound. ‘Not the motorway! Lose them in the town.’

  Ahead, in the distance, he could already make out the dark shape of the police control post. From here it resembled an eagle, its wings outstretched as it hovered menacingly over the lighted carriageway. He cast round for an alternative and spotted Anarrow lane, almost completely hidden by a car-lot, on the far side on the road.

  ‘Hang on!’

  Pointing the nose of the Suzuki at a stretch of grass on the central reservation, he wove the bike through Anarrow gap in the bank of accident-absorbing shrubs. He heard a screech of brakes and a car door slammed. He ignored it, more concerned with avoiding scratches to the scarlet paintwork, that would land him in trouble with his dad, than their pursuers, who he knew were stuck unable to get through the bushes.

  Clumsily, he bounced the bike back on to the roadway and opened the throttle. The front wheel, heavily coated with mud from the wet grass, shifted sideways and, without thinking, Scott braked. The rear wheel locked and the bike slid round in a half circle, spinning out of control. Hilary screamed. Scott felt a spur of fear as, almost in slow motion, the bike slewed across the carriageway and veered towards the oncoming traffic. There came the sound of tyres squealing and the car that had been accelerating away from the slip road screeched to a halt, the driver’s fist thumping the horn. Scott heard the horn and the abuse that followed but ignored it, more concerned with regaining control. He rammed his feet hard into the ground, struggling to manhandle the bike back upright. Its tyres gripped and they stopped.

  ‘Oh you beauty,’ he murmured and let out the breath he’d been holding.

  Slowly he opened the throttle and moved off again, carefully checking the bike’s reactions were back to normal. He accelerated and, with a burst of speed, they were into the lane, the bike gobbling up metres of road as if they were chocolate drops.

  ‘Jeez, you can ride,’ Hilary spat out.

  ‘Told you, I could,’ Scott said, feeling his face break into a grin.

  The road was unlit and, surprisingly, in such a densely populated area, ran through an area of scrub. A minute later they emerged into an elegant avenue, with mature homes on one side, their double-garages surrounded by low walls and neatly mown grass. Opposite, coloured flags hung limply from tall poles, and a brightly-lit hoarding announced a forthcoming, luxury housing development. Street lighting was already in place, shining down on mud-strewn paths, connecting a row of dark skeletal structures in the early stages of becoming new homes.

  After five minutes they found themselves, once again, facing the dual-carriageway and, like a homing pigeon coming back to roost, with the motel only a few hundred yards away. Scott gazed at the flurry of activity in dismay. Police cars were milling about in the parking area and, above the sound of early-morning traffic, he detected another siren heading p
urposefully in their direction.

  ‘No ambulances,’ Hilary said. ‘So whoever it was left before the police arrived. Let’s leave them to it. You fit?’

  Scott said firmly, ‘Sorry – not us, me! This is where we part company. Thanks for saving my life and all that, but I’m going on alone.’

  Something sharp dug into his backbone making him flinch.

  ‘You forget I’ve got the gun. So I suggest you start thinking in terms of us from now on, because I’m going nowhere.’

  Scott shrugged. ‘You’ll regret it; you’ve not even got a helmet.’

  ‘Neither have you. And I’ll get one.’ Hilary’s voice sounded crisp, emotionless.

  ‘But not at four in the morning. Besides you’ll freeze,’ Scott argued, half-heartedly wondering if it really was possible to escape with a gun digging into your back.

  ‘So I’ll freeze, but wherever you’re going, I go too. Understand.’

  He shrugged again and, pulling the bike off the road, cut the engine. Dismounting, he motioned Hilary to get off, her fair hair blown wildly about her face with the speed of their escape. He saw her carefully holster her gun before moving. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He hesitated then, making up his mind, unlatched the box at the rear of the bike. ‘You’d better wear Dad’s jacket, I don’t want to be responsible for you catching your death,’ he said, tugging at the material tucked round his laptop. ‘At least it’ll protect you from the wind.’

  ‘What about you?’

  He picked up the bulky leather top, which he’d sat on to stop it blowing away, pulling the trousers on over his jeans. ‘I’m organised,’ he said. He hastily closed the box lid, adding, ‘But we have to keep away from main roads till the shops open. And, if you really are determined to come with me, I want some answers.’

  ‘Okay – sounds fair. I’ll tell you what I know if you tell me what you know. So which way are we going?’