Running

by Barbara Spencer

  ‘North,’ he admitted reluctantly.

  ‘So head towards Birmingham, we’ll stop off at an all-night café somewhere. Okay? But even if we did have helmets we’d have to stay away from motorways.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t know? God, you Brits! You’re so naive!’

  Scott flinched, furious with himself for not riding off while he still had the chance. If that’s what Americans were like – thank heavens he no longer was one. Gun or no gun he’d ditch her at the first opportunity. ‘If I knew, why would I ask?’

  Hilary spoke over his shoulder. ‘Police posts – like the one you saw near the hotel. They’re computer centres. They tag every vehicle passing beneath them. If it’s stolen, or the owner wanted for something, the computer picks up on it and informs the police. I expect that’s how they traced you. The bike must have been reported stolen.’

  ‘So how did you find me?’

  ‘I bugged your bike.’

  TWELVE

  The all-night eatery alongside the northbound carriageway of the Shrewsbury road was packed with shift workers. After an eight-hour stint in one of the factories, sited in a nearby industrial park, they enjoyed an early breakfast before heading home to sleep; although mostly it was the long-distance lorry drivers, who ploughed from north to south along the main arteries of England, that kept the eateries open. Five days a week, large men with protruding bellies occupied their own personal table, an early-morning edition of a tabloid newspaper spread out in front of them; bare boobs and long legs competing for attention with plates piled high with bacon, eggs, fried bread, tomatoes and sausage; a mug of tea at their elbow.

  It wasn’t a particularly salubrious place. Years of frying had coated the light-cream walls with a dirty yellow sheen, while dark-brown nicotine stains encircled the lights. Even at six in the morning the air was blue; no one in the least bit bothered about laws banning smoking in public places – and the owner of the café realistic enough to admit that had he insisted, ninety percent of his clientele would have vanished overnight. The toilets, too, were a health hazard – at least the Gents had been – Scott not daring to ask such a personal question of Hilary.

  Scott had kept going, finding his way around the vast suburban metropolis, the majority of residents still asleep, only an unlucky few facing an early start up and about. Finally, they had stumbled across a road that mirrored the route of the motorway, passing through an unending sprawl of main road housing, occasionally broken up by blocks of small shops – a bookie, a fruit and veg, an undertaker. For the next hour, Scott had followed it, his bike the solitary occupant of a road where, almost the only other things moving were stray cats on the prowl.

  A straight run through to Worcester, only to see a black tower barring their entrance to the town of Kidderminster. Escaping round a traffic island, they had backtracked along secondary roads before rejoining the Shrewsbury road again. It was slow going. In desperate need of sleep, Scott had to will his eyes to stay open, fighting against his brain and body’s desire to shut down. No way could they stop, at least not until they’d put a few more miles between them and their pursuers, and while it was still dark.

  The bacon, eggs and fried bread were good, the tea hot and strong. No one took any notice of them and gradually Scott began to relax, his breakfast all at once tasting fabulous. But not too much, he told himself sternly. Find out all you can, make an excuse to go to the Gents and leave.

  He kept his voice low, leaning forward to talk, although he needn’t have bothered. Loud crashing sounds, capable of drowning out anything less than a full-blown rocket attack, constantly erupted from the kitchen, augmented to a deafening quality by blasts of bellicose laughter from men, for whom the words softy spoken belonged to a foreign language.

  ‘So why are you travelling north? Know something I don’t?’ Under cover of the plastic tablecloth, Hilary casually removed the clip from her gun, checking it before clicking it back into place.

  It was a neat trick and one, Scott knew, designed to keep him in line. ‘How many bullets does it have?’ he said, peering over the table.

  ‘For Pete’s sake, you’re doing it again!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Asking questions! It drives me nuts.’

  Scott grinned – his face all of a sudden lighting up, his grey eyes springing to life. He took a large bite out of the crispy-brown sausage dangling on the end of his fork. ‘Does me too.’

  Hilary glowered then laughed. ‘We did get off on the wrong foot, didn’t we,’ she said, her tone frank. She held her hand out across the table.

  Scott put down his knife resting it on the edge of his plate. ‘Thanks for saving my life,’ he said, and shook her hand.

  ‘But?’

  ‘I still don’t know if I dare trust you.’

  ‘That’s crazy. We have to be on the same side. Why else would I go to all that trouble?’

  ‘I overheard Sean Terry saying he was going to lock me up.’

  Scott stretched his arm for the ketchup. He shook a large dollop on to the side of his plate, admiring the neat way Hilary was eating, cutting her food into small squares before using her fork. She’d obviously done the same at school and no one had noticed. Or if they had, not realised this was an American habit – at least they always did it in American films.

  ‘No, he wasn’t. It might have come out like that. He wanted you safe, that’s all.’

  Scott studied the girl’s face. He wanted to believe her. After all they’d been schoolmates for the last month. ‘What happened after I left?’

  ‘The boss was furious. He stamped off with Pete, leaving me at the house in case you came back.’

  ‘You didn’t tell him about the bug?’

  ‘After being bawled out. No thanks. Anyway, I wanted to impress – you know – by finding you first.’

  ‘So how did you get here?’

  ‘I used my car.’

  ‘Car! But you’re too young to drive,’ Scott protested.

  Hilary pursed her lips frowning. ‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ she accused.

  ‘Sorry.’

  The girl laughed. ‘So you should be. So what’s it going to be? You going to let me in on what you know?’

  Scott hesitated. He could tell her enough to keep her happy – but that wouldn’t stop him ditching her. ‘Are you going to tell the others?’

  Hilary shook her head, her ponytail flipping from side to side. ‘Not if you don’t want me to. I only hope I don’t live to regret it.’

  Scott made up his mind. ‘Dad left clues,’ he said and briefly outlined the various connections that were sending him north.

  Hilary gaped. ‘Is that all?’ She pointed her fork at him. ‘You’re going to the north pole based on a couple of posters?’

  Scott flushed angrily. ‘So you’d have stayed at home and done nothing?’

  ‘No! But I’d have told my boss and let him handle it. That would have been the sensible thing to do,’ she snapped back. ‘It’s a long way to go if you’re wrong.’

  Scott glared at the table. ‘I know. But then it’s not your dad that’s missing.’ Defiantly, he shovelled in a large forkful of egg and began to chew. There was a moment or two of silence. ‘But I’m not wrong so I’m heading for Scotland,’ he said boldly. ‘What you do is your own business. If you still want to come … I can’t stop you, you’ve got the gun.’ He paused and the tone of his voice changed. ‘You know those men?’

  ‘The ones at the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, those! They weren’t cops – they came along later, so who were they?’ He picked up his fork again, scooping up a large portion of savoury toast covered in egg yolk and bacon, the extreme corners of his empty belly beginning to fill up.

  ‘I don’t know – that’s been puzzling me too.’ Hilary leaned closer her hands spread out on the table. ‘How did they find you?’

  ‘You said it was the tower south of Birmingham,’ Scott reminded.

  ‘So it mig
ht have been,’ Hilary said, sounding irritated as if Scott were a six-year-old who kept repeating the same question. ‘But that doesn’t totally explain it. As far as I know, all the computer does is relay info into a central office. If the vehicle’s stolen,’ she continued, ‘local police follow it up – tracking it on CCTV. But …’ She paused. ‘No one knew you’d taken the bike, only us. And the boss never works with your police, so why would they believe it stolen?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. You’re the expert. All I know is they weren’t police. Still, if the information can only be accessed by government agencies …’ Scott sat up straight and stared at Hilary, his breakfast all of a sudden forgotten. ‘Does that mean they were …?’

  Hilary drummed her fists furiously on the table. ‘No way! That’s silly! They can’t be government, can they? Oh,’ her tone changed. ‘Hang on, before I forget, I found your specs.’ She fished in the pocket of her jacket. ‘I must have left them in the car.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Scott. ‘I don’t need them. I’ve got Dad’s.’ He patted his pocket.

  ‘You’ve …’

  Hilary stared over Scott’s shoulder, her pupils dilating with shock. The colour drained from her face. Silently, she stretched out her fingers and touched his hand.

  ‘Don’t look round,’ she warned. ‘Get up and leave by the side door. But casual.’ Her eyes flicked towards the fire door at the back of the café. ‘I’ll follow.’

  Scott didn’t argue. He slid from the table, trying to stop himself breaking into a run; to get out, to be safe. Fighting his panic, he walked at a steady pace between the crowded tables, saluting the man behind the counter, to say thanks and cheers. He reached the narrow door that led out into the yard behind the café and pushed it open. The plate glass swung to behind him.

  Pulling his keys from his pocket, he hurtled round the corner to where he’d left his bike; safely tucked out of sight between two giant plastic-recycling bins full of bottles and tins.

  Hilary appeared. ‘Go – go – go!’ she screamed and leapt for the pillion.

  Scott hesitated. It was pretty stupid riding out at full blast, when you didn’t know what was waiting for you. Cautiously, he rolled the machine softly forwards until they reached the corner of the building.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Hilary’s voice was sharp and he felt her fist dig into his back. ‘I said go!’

  ‘Who’s riding this bike, me or you,’ he retorted.

  Dropping his feet for balance, he peered round the brickwork. Three men were standing at the café entrance. They were staring in through the glass window their car, with its engine still running, left in full view outside the eatery. The door opened, forcing them to step aside as a twenty-stone trucker, busily hitching up his trousers, appeared. He paused, his vast bulk blocking the doorway. Ignoring the three men, trying to get past him, he turned and called something over his shoulder. His riposte was rewarded with a burst of raucous laughter.

  A loud roar came from the car park as an engine started up. The three men spun round to inspect its driver, the café forgotten. They watched intently as he manoeuvred the cab of the forty-foot trailer in the narrow space, slowly pulling out towards the road. Reassured, one of the men leaned into the car to switch off its engine, before following the others into the building.

  Scott also watched the artic pulling out. It was moving at a snail’s pace and in a few seconds the entire building, with its length of glass frontage, would be masked by its great bulk. For anyone looking out, that was all they would see. He slid the Suzuki silently into its shadow, screened from curious eyes.

  Hilary prodded him in the back. ‘Your specs quick,’ she said.

  ‘But …’

  ‘But nothing!’

  He fished in his pocket and held them up. She grabbed them out of his hand and leapt off the bike.

  ‘Where’re you going now?’ he hissed impatiently.

  Not bothering to reply, Hilary darted across to the lorry, patiently waiting for a long column of approaching vehicles to clear, before turning into the dual-carriageway. Quickly hooking the frames through its webbing straps, she sprinted back to the bike.

  ‘Now go!’ she shouted, grabbing hold of his jacket.

  The forty-footer pulled out into the roadway, making a wide turn. Scott, on its near side, opened the throttle and, with a roar, the bike to do what it was built for – nought to seventy in a couple of seconds.

  A few minutes later he swung on to the by-pass skirting Shrewsbury and pulled the bike to a halt in a lay-by, camouflaged by a vehicle-transporter that had parked up for the night. He watched the steady stream of traffic thundering up the adjacent road. Finally the artic passed them, its sides a blur of speed, making it impossible to check if the specs were still in place. Seconds later it was gone and another had taken its place.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  Hilary followed the line of his gaze. ‘You Brits! You can’t even see what’s happening in your own back yard.’

  Scott flushed angrily. What gave her the right to insult him and his country whenever she felt like it? She might have saved his life but she was still patronising and opinionated – that hadn’t changed.

  Hilary felt the muscles tense in Scott’s back. ‘Sorry, that was a stupid choice of words. Put it down to being tired and cross and an American. I so wish we had my car, I really ache.’

  Scott opened his mouth to retort.

  ‘Yeah, I know – the place was full of cops,’ she recited. She eased her legs, tapping him on the shoulder by way of an apology. ‘I’m surprised you actually bought that stuff about government-issue specs giving the only genuine protection against radiation. I bet your dad didn’t.’

  Scott blushed. He had.

  ‘It’s rot – it’s a lie – pure and simple. Any transitional lenses will do the job. It was the Federation’s way of ensuring everyone carried identity cards, without knowing about it. Every piece of info about you is stored in those frames. There’s even a coded signal with a ten-mile radius. It started off as a means of tracing illegal immigrants. Then, shortly afterwards, the towers began to appear.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because the Federation is fast becoming a totalitarian regime. Every other nation in the world knows it – except Europe. Radio, T V, newspapers – they’re all censored.’

  Scott pulled off his gloves, listening.

  ‘Scott, we’re not safe yet,’ Hilary objected.

  He ignored her. ‘Go on.’

  Angrily, Hilary climbed down off the bike and began swinging her arms vigorously across her chest, stamping her feet to get warm. The early morning air was biting, made worse by the absence of anything remotely resembling a tree or bush; the vast concrete platform of the adjoining motorways creating one long wind tunnel.

  ‘It might not look that way, if you live in England, but from outside you see things differently.’

  ‘So,’ he said slowly, staring at Hilary. ‘If you’re right – and I’m not saying you are – when a car passes the tower, the vehicle is logged but so is the driver. That means, within seconds, there’s confirmation that the car is stolen or whatever, and it can be tracked. I was wearing Dad’s specs so …’ He paused, staring at nothing. ‘But that still means …’

  Hilary nodded. ‘Whoever’s behind this has access to government records and that, to be honest, freaks me out.’

  THIRTEEN

  Scott slept, his mind cleansing itself of the detritus of the day, tossing out a string of jumbled phrases and meaningless numbers: A49 Whitchurch, avoiding the A534 – wrong way – goes to Crewe. Tiverton, Tarporley, stay on the A49 – safer. Hilary to buy helmets and sunglasses – easy for a girl. Pick up the motorway at junction twenty-two. Nearly caught at junction twenty-eight. B5253 – where does it lead? It has to go somewhere. A582 through Preston – pick up the motorway again at junction thirty-two.

  The list was endless: Lancaster, Kendal, Penrith. Need money. Hilary tired – no
t saying anything though. Have to stop – eyes blurring. Need a shower. Carlisle – Glasgow. Towers blocking the road! Get off – get off!

  He murmured in his sleep, replaying once again the nightmare scenario of the last few miles; the black eagles, with their wings outspread and hovering, eager to pounce, controlling every slip road in and out of Glasgow. Forced to turn back, worrying about how long they could keep going in the wrong direction.

  The day had been grey with low cloud producing a light drizzle, making it necessary for motorists to keep their sidelights on for safety; and dusk had fallen early under the thick pall of cloud. Scott fixed his gaze on the vehicle in front, his speed slowing as he tried to control his fatigue. He blinked and a myriad of lights, from oncoming traffic, blurred into a single circle of brightness. He had to stop before they had an accident but daren’t, not until they were safely past the towers.

  ‘Scott!’ Hilary cried out. ‘Cones! Look! There’s a digger, too, and lorries. There’s got to be a way off.’

  Scott had seen the cones merging four lanes into three, but only as something to avoid. He slowed, squinting through the gloom towards the area under repair; a digger left with its jaws open, in the middle of devouring its next mouthful of earth, its driver presumably unwilling to give his job a single second unpaid.

  The dense rush-hour traffic passed him with a monotonous swish of tyres as he slowed still further, zigzagging his bike through the long line of cones onto the hard shoulder, now a dumping place for hard core.

  Hilary thumped him on the back. ‘There!’

  In the poor light Scott had not noticed the hastily constructed mud track, deeply scored with tyre marks. Gratefully, he swung the bike round and, slowing right down, bumped it carefully over the rim of the carriageway and on to the track, trying to avoid the worst of its rain-filled puddles. Two hundred yards later they emerged onto a minor road.

  He stopped, resting his head on the handlebars. ‘I’ve had it,’ he said, his voice barely audible. ‘I’ve got to stop.’