Running

by Barbara Spencer

  Hilary didn’t speak, not even bothering to reprimand him for riding so fast, her face buried between his shoulder-blades; the wind piercing even with a helmet. Scott set the bike in motion again, slowly manoeuvring round the four-legged obstacles, before opening the throttle.

  Eventually the wall, that had run beside them all the way from the village of Arden, fizzled out and was replaced by tiers of terraced cottages; lines of washing flapping in their windswept gardens. Scott slowed to thirty as he spotted the fuel station, the sole tenant of a patch of scrubby wasteland, exactly as Chris had described it.

  ‘Can’t miss it,’ he smiled cheerfully at Hilary. ‘And it’s part way.’

  In his late forties, almost bald with thick lenses, there was nothing memorable about him except his continued cheerfulness, despite a series of vivid-looking bruises on his shins, and his genuine astonishment that a young person, “and a lassie at that”, had worked out they were driving round in circles.

  The fuel station was busy, but they saw no sign of Chris or his van among the patrons using the pumps.

  ‘We’re way too early,’ Scott said, the dial of his watch pointing just past ten. He shook it, hoping it had stopped. ‘What time do you make it?’ He removed his helmet.

  ‘Ten-fifteen. We’d better wait.’

  ‘Not here, it’s too visible. Anyone could see us.’

  ‘But they couldn’t get at us,’ Hilary insisted, staring round at a dozen people busily filling up their vehicles. As she spoke, a police car drove on to the forecourt and parked by the flower stall, its driver putting on his cap before heading purposefully into the mini-mart.

  Scott eyed him nervously, aware he couldn’t afford an inspection of his driving licence. ‘I’d rather wait somewhere else, if you don’t mind. Besides I need something to eat, I can’t think straight till I’ve had breakfast.’ He tried to make his voice sound upbeat, hoping for Hilary’s flashing smile to come back at him.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ she said, not meeting his eyes, her voice monotone. ‘You can go if you want.’

  ‘That’s okay. We’ll stay together. I’ll eat later. But I’d better get the bike out of sight.’

  Hilary shrugged and climbed off. Huddled in her padded jacket, she walked across the forecourt and sat down on the low wall next to the road, as if she had withdrawn from knowing him. Scott couldn’t blame her. From the moment they had met in the motel in Birmingham they’d been running. Then, all of sudden, a lifeline had been thrown. Mr Nicely with his tea and scones, firelight glinting on his glass of whisky, had made the nightmare recede. That is, until the face had appeared at the hostel window.

  Scott flicked a glance at the scudding grey clouds. A cup of tea would really have hit the spot right now, particularly after being hauled out of bed and chased halfway round Scotland. He shivered, feeling the cold even through his leathers. Pushing the bike out of sight behind the car wash, he crossed the road heading for an outlet selling second-hand cars, leaving Hilary to wait alone.

  ‘I told you he wouldn’t come.’

  Scott jumped. For the past half-hour he’d been trying not to watch the road and hadn’t noticed Hilary leave her post. He ran his fingers lightly over the gleaming chrome on the vehicle next to him; strings of brightly coloured streamers, designed to focus the attention of passing traffic on the elegant models for sale, fluttering in the breeze above his head.

  ‘You okay?’ he said, his insides churning miserably with hunger and disappointment.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ the girl snapped, glaring at Scott as if he was a piece of dirt that had stuck to her shoe. ‘I told you to go to the police. I just knew they wouldn’t come. And there’s nowhere to go from here. It’s a dead end.’

  Scott flushed red at the put down; overcome by a feeling of abandonment, like a speck of flotsam trying to link up with another speck and being repulsed at every turn. He knew nothing about girls and their moods. How could he having never had a sister? All of a sudden Hilary had changed and he didn’t have a clue why. He’d done something to upset her – that much was obvious – but what? He felt furiously angry with himself, tears of frustration not far from the surface. He had become used to her cheerfulness and, stupidly, even begun to like her bossy attitude. If only girls were like boys, and could come out with what was bothering them, life would be that much simpler. Of course she felt tired and defeated – he did, too. But she could have said, not leave him to think she hated him.

  ‘I’m going to phone the post office.’ He pointed to the garage. ‘They’ll have a directory.’

  ‘It won’t do any good; they’re not coming, I tell you.’

  Ignoring her, he ran back across the road and into the shop, where the shop assistant obligingly scribbled the number on a piece of paper for him.

  The connection clicked in and Scott heard the brisk voice of the post mistress.

  ‘Arden Post Office, may I help?’

  ‘Can I talk to Sandy? I’m a friend. We spent the evening together.’

  ‘In Balloch was it, then you’ll won’t be knowing what’s happened?’

  ‘Er … yes. Balloch, that’s right. Um … what do you mean?’ He screwed up his face at Hilary, who was standing two paces away, her expression impatient. ‘Has something happened to him?’

  ‘Aye, in a manner of speaking. He was asleep in his bed when burglars broke in. I don’t know the details but he was shot!’

  ‘Shot! No, I don’t believe it!’

  Hilary grabbed the handset. Angrily, he wrestled it out of her grasp. ‘Wait!’ he hissed, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

  ‘Who’s been shot?’ she demanded, trying to listen.

  He waved his free hand to stop her talking. ‘Shush!’

  ‘As well you might sound surprised,’ came the lilting voice over the wire. ‘I certainly was; I found the police waiting on my doorstep when I arrived for work. They said they couldn’t believe it either; a remote farmhouse on the moor – robbed.’ Scott heard her sniff. ‘They airlifted him to Glasgow,’ the postmistress said, her voice unsteady.

  ‘But he is going to be all right, isn’t he?’

  ‘They don’t know yet. The bullet entered a lung. They said they’d phone when they had some news.’

  ‘What about the others?’ Scott said, ‘the other people in the house?’

  ‘What other people? He lives alone with his mother. She phoned the police … would you hold a moment?’ The voice at the other end of the line abruptly changed tone. ‘Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?’

  Scott heard muttering in the background and pressed his ear into the handset, hoping to eavesdrop on the conversation. The post mistress’s voice sounded loud in his ear.

  ‘Mr Nicely? How strange! You’re the second set of people that have asked for him in two days. As I told the other people – he died, you know.’

  Scott listened, riveted to the phone.

  He heard more muttering, then, ‘No, sir, I’d forgotten that notice was even there. He died years ago – ask anyone in town. Nice old gentleman, he was too. Ran this shop … ooohf … nigh on twenty years. A chain store bought it. I work for them now. Sorry I can’t help. Good day to you.’

  Silence fell. Scott closed his eyes imagining feet crossing the floor towards the door. He heard the door close, its movement stirring the bell into life, and let go the breath he’d been holding.

  The voice sounded again in his ear. ‘Is there anything else, sir?’ The postmistress said. ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘No, no message. Just tell him to get better quick.’ He clicked the end switch on his mobile. ‘They’ve got Mr Nicely,’ he said, his face grey.

  ‘You can’t know that!’ Hilary yelled and punched him hard in the chest.

  Scott’s mouth dropped open in surprise. He rubbed the spot where she’d hit him, adding lamely, ‘But Sandy was shot; and Sandy was guarding him.’

  ‘When – when was he shot?’ she demanded.

  ‘Does it ma
tter?’

  Hilary glared. ‘Of course it matters; when was he shot?’

  ‘She didn’t say, sometime in the night after we left,’ he said in a sulky voice.

  ‘Scott, tell me exactly.’

  Impatiently, Scott repeated the words parrot-fashion. ‘Sandy was shot and his mother phoned for the police. Then, while I was talking to the post lady, some men came into the shop. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but they asked for Mr Nicely. She said he was dead.’

  Hilary grabbed his arm and bounced it up and down. ‘That’s okay then!’

  Her eyes blazed at him, her expression fierce. ‘Don’t you get it? They haven’t got Mr Nicely because they were asking for him!’

  Scott stared at the face full of energy, unable to believe what he was seeing. This was Hilary at her best. But what had happened to carry her off like that and what had brought her back? He could feel the confusion in his head, like a hive of angry wasps, questions buzzing round and round without means of escape.

  ‘And she said he’d been dead for years,’ Scott said hope lighting up his eyes. ‘Right! Let’s get going.’

  ‘But where?’ Hilary said.

  ‘I don’t know yet. But as far away from here as possible,’ Scott repeated.

  Hope was brief, despair taking over as the full understanding of the situation struck Scott. The Suzuki growled contentedly, eating up the miles, the bike once again heading towards Glasgow; except this time it was powering south towards the borders with England – not travelling north. Scott wondered how long it would be before Hilary also realised that they had led the men to Mr Nicely’s door. But how? As Hilary had said before – no towers and no glasses.

  Abruptly, he pulled the Suzuki to a halt. Behind them stretched miles of road like a long piece of string, the high, barren moorland melting into the horizon; its windswept outcrops of spiky heather home to birds and sheep. Anyone pursuing them would be visible from miles away. He studied the car cruising towards him. But how would they know who that was? And would there be one man or several? The car swept past full of eager tourists, presumably gossiping about the wonders of Loch Lomond. He looked round as another car approached, travelling north, its occupants eagerly anticipating those same wonders. Impatiently, he pulled off his gloves, tugging at his helmet.

  ‘Why have we stopped?’ Hilary called over his shoulder.

  ‘Because!’

  Puzzled, Hilary climbed down. She wrapped her arms round her, shivering. ‘Because what?’

  Ignoring her, Scott pulled the bike back on to its stand and climbed off. ‘It’s not the bike,’ he muttered and, pulling off his jacket, undid the button on his jeans. Remembering the cuffs were too tight to go over his trainers he yanked them off, not bothering to untie the laces first.

  Hilary gazed at him, stunned into silence. ‘What are you doing?’ she squeaked, as his second shoe hit the ground.

  ‘Stripping, what does it look like?’

  ‘But we’re on a main road!’

  A car passed them. Its horn blared appreciatively and heads leered out of the window.

  ‘I don’t care if we’re on the blasted motorway,’ Scott swore, pulling the legs of his jeans inside out. ‘There’s a bug somewhere on me and I’m going to find it.’ He laughed as the absurdity of the situation struck him. Another car passed to the accompaniment of wolf whistles.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he grinned at Hilary. ‘It’s not in my underwear. They’re new, remember, so’s my T-shirt. You’ve got Dad’s jacket. Start with that. I’ll do my sweater and jeans.’

  ‘I checked the jacket before, Scott, there was nothing, but I’ll do it again, if you want.’

  A stream of interested motorists passed; most of the cars slowing right down to gawp more closely at the youth wearing only his shirt, briefs and socks, while his companion, although fully dressed, was also coatless. This was eccentricity carried way too far, a keen wind off the moors keeping their car heaters at full blast.

  ‘There’s got to be something,’ Scott insisted. ‘Here, check my jeans.’ He tossed them across. ‘I can’t find anything but you have to know what we’re looking for better than me. There’s got to be something,’ he repeated. ‘We got rid of Dad’s specs – so how do they keep finding us?’

  He got to his feet staring at his clothes on the ground; his legs naturally tanned rapidly taking on a bluish tinge. ‘It’s not my leathers, we’ve checked my jeans, nothing in my sweater,’ he said. He picked up each item of clothing, examining it closely before dropping it back down on the ground.

  They heard a sudden squeal of brakes and a horn blasted out. Hilary swung round to see what was happening. ‘You’d better get your clothes back on fast before we cause an accident,’ she giggled. ‘That car almost tailgated the one in front, they were that interested.’

  Scott grabbed his jeans, thrusting one leg into them. ‘Check my trainers will you?’

  Hilary picked up the left shoe. ‘Oh no!’ she gasped.

  ‘What?’ Scott impatiently zipped up his jeans.

  ‘I feel sick!’ Hilary pointed to a piece of gravel buried between the ridges in the sole of the trainer.

  ‘Hilary, it’s a piece of gravel, okay. They get stuck between the ridges.’

  The girl shook her head slowly. ‘No, it’s a bug.’ Her voice sounded flat and, to Scott’s amazement, she burst into tears.

  Scott squatted down and awkwardly put his arm round her. ‘But why are you crying? If it really is a bug, that’s good, isn’t it? At least we know how they found us – it wasn’t the towers – it wasn’t the government – it …’

  Hilary knocked his arm away. ‘Good! How wrong can you get, Scott! This bug is designed to come on line with movement – you know walking and such – which explains why we managed to keep ahead of them.’ Hilary gazed wildly down the road as if expecting their enemy to appear round the bend at any second. ‘But it doesn’t change anything. Number plate recognition still located us and that means either the government is involved, or there’s someone in their computer centre passing on information.’ She shrugged. ‘Take your pick.’

  She took a hairclip trying to hook out the small plastic-pebble. It didn’t move. ‘That’s confirms it’s a bug,’ she said. ‘This has been stuck in, anything else would fly out.’ She searched for a piece of stick, viciously digging into the rubber tread. The grey circular object shot into the air and disappeared among the shards of glass and fine stone at the side of the road.

  Scott peered at the mound of dust. ‘Well, we’ll never find that again.’ He sat down, carefully inspecting his trainers before putting them on again. ‘We’d better get going before they do get here. Oh come on, Hilary, look on the bright side,’ he tried to quip. ‘We can actually get lost now and no one will ever find us.’

  Hilary wiped her wet cheeks with the palm of her hand and picking up her jacket, cuddled herself into it. ‘Thanks.’ She smiled briefly.

  ‘For what?’ Scott asked.

  ‘For not getting on your bike and leaving me here.’ Hilary’s blue eyes gazed directly into his. ‘Sorry about before, we’re in enough of a mess, without me taking it out on you.’

  Scott watched the precise way she turned towards the wind, carefully smoothing her hair before retying her pony tail, and smiled happily. The cool was firmly back in place. She was in control again.

  ‘I was so looking forward to this being over, you’ve no idea.’

  Scott quickly put on his jacket and zipped it up. ‘Yes, I have,’ he admitted. ‘I want it to be over just as much as you.’ He took out his phone.

  ‘Who are you calling?’

  ‘Travers. I don’t know why I never thought of him before. Great guy in an emergency.’ His thoughts flew back to the cottage, where his overriding emotion had been to find his father. And he had, he thought – well almost. The engaged tone rang out. ‘Look, knowing Travers he’s likely to be on a while and I’m freezing after that strip search. We’ll lose ourselves in Glasgow
and get some lunch. Then we’ll try him again.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  It was ridiculous how easily everything slipped into place, as if the mention of his friend’s name had instantly smoothed out the many difficulties that still stood in their way.

  Remembering the black towers that held the city so tightly in their grip, Scott left his bike parked at a commuter station where it would be safe, boarding a local train that would take them into the heart of Glasgow. A few minutes walk had brought them into an area thronging with art students and coffee shops, the gaunt outline of Glasgow’s famous art college casting its avuncular eye over the busy scene.

  Despite knowing they were safe, Scott found it impossible to relax; the question he couldn’t keep away from, that clutched his head in its vice-like grip – how did that bug get on his trainers?

  Travers, on the other hand, had been the personification of calm. His greeting: having fun tiptoeing through the tulips, flew straight over Scott’s head when finally, after a series of coffees and two tortilla wraps, they managed to contact him.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get you for hours,’ Scott said indignantly. ‘Don’t you ever do anything but talk on the phone?’

  Travers chuckled. ‘Mary does the talking, I add an occasional, yes, no or that’s exciting. So what’s up?’

  ‘What did you mean – tulips?’ Scott said, picking up on his friend’s opening gambit.

  ‘Aren’t you at the Keukenhof with your dad? You said you were going.’

  ‘You must be psychic,’ Scott muttered. ‘That’s why I’m calling. I need to get to Holland. Hilary’s with me.’

  ‘Well, I never!’ Travers let out a whistle of astonishment. ‘Thought you and she hated one another.’

  ‘We do – well, we don’t. Well, not any more,’ Scott’s voice sounded exasperated.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Hilary whispered.

  ‘Wait!’ he hissed. ‘Attend, Travers, this is serious. I’m in real trouble. I have to get to Holland and I’ve never been there. How do I do that?’

  ‘You catch a ferry from Harwich.’

  ‘I don’t even know where that is.’