Running

by Barbara Spencer

  Keeping his face blank, and his body like that of someone having a spot of bother staying upright, Bill flicked a glance down over the safety rail. Immediately beneath his feet, a heavy granite slab folded itself into the edge of the roof space. The inspection lasted no more than a second or so, but it was enough. It had to be. When you climbed mountains, you became used to entrusting your life to the accuracy of your eyesight. Six granite pillars swooped down the side of the building. Mimicking the fold of a wave, they generously formed Aninety-degree angle with the white-panelled fascia.

  He looked up, his eyes watering in the biting wind.

  Two people were already seated in the helicopter; its engines revving, its rotor blades swaying awkwardly under the torrent of air, as if unsure which way they should go. The German bodyguard, Arnulf, was positioned by the door, his right arm held up across the front of his jacket, a pistol in his hand.

  Waiting to escort me in, Bill thought ruefully. He turned, hearing the whine of the lift.

  ‘Scott!’

  The barrel of the small pistol lodged in his ribs, stopping him in his tracks.

  Scott, ignoring the gun in his escort’s hand, Atall, rangy fellow wearing green reflective shades, flung himself into his dad’s arms; the man making no attempt to stop him.

  ‘They’re coming, Dad, we’ve got to hang on.’ Scott whispered, his face buried in Bill’s jacket.

  Letting go of his son’s arm, Bill stood aside to force AquillAto pass in front of him. The man hesitated then took a step towards the helicopter, gesturing with his gun for Bill to follow.

  Bill glanced pointedly at the guns fixed on him, then at their owners, and gave a wry smile. Backing-up towards Aquilla, he raised his hands.

  ‘Look,’ he said, keeping his expression carefully neutral. ‘We’re on a roof. We’re not going anywhere except in this helicopter. Come on, chaps, put away the fire power.’ He made his voice as persuasive as the buffeting wind permitted.

  There was a lessening of tension. That was all. But it had to be enough. In a blur of speed Bill brought down his elbows, knocking AquillAto the ground.

  ‘This way, Scott!’

  Grabbing his son’s hand, they fled towards the lift. Pete raised his arm, squinting along the barrel already aimed at the centre of Bill’s back. As his trigger finger moved, Arnulf sprang forward, fast for such a large man, his weapon raised. He cannoned heavily into Pete, and the shot spun harmlessly off into the air.

  ‘NO!’ Aquilla yelled at the same time. ‘We need him!’

  ‘Get him,’ Seagar instructed from the helicopter. ‘Wound him with pleasure, but take him alive. Hurry!’

  ‘Dad?’ Scott yelled as they reached the shelter of the lift housing, only to hear footsteps clattering below them on the staircase.

  Bill shouted back, the wind whipping away his words. Ducking the open entrance, he ran on. ‘We’ll have to climb,’ he repeated. ‘The staircase is out. And we’d never make the lift before they reached us.’ His words sounded staccato in the swirling wind.

  ‘But we’re on the top of a building, Dad!’

  ‘I know. It’ll be a great climb. Checked it out. It’s easy. Slopes like mad and the windows all have great ledges.’

  Scott looked down over the edge, hesitating. No way was it easy. On the ground, foreshortened by the drop and looking no bigger than ants, dozens of people appeared to be milling about.

  ‘No time to think, Scott.’

  Scott risked a glance over his shoulder at the two men chasing after them. A shot whistled b y, so close he jumped with fright.

  ‘That was a warning shot,’ Bill called out. ‘That lot, if they want to kill, don’t miss. Come on.’ His head vanished below the fascia, his hand reaching upwards to help Scott.

  At that moment, the air blew apart with an explosion, the violence and force of it stopping their pursuers. They ducked as shards of glass were blown upwards, like a shower of rose petals, landing on the roof.

  That decided it. Lowering himself on his arms, Scott concentrated all his thoughts into his feet, feeling his toes scrape against the smooth surface of the top-floor window.

  ‘ To your left, Scott.’

  He felt Bill’s hand steering his foot. It touched the rough surface and held on, his brain informing his foot muscles to remain in place. He swung his second foot to join the first. A shot flashed past his hand. Automatically he flinched and his hand sprang away from its grip so, momentarily, only his feet were keeping him anchored; his left arm still moving, in the process of searching for a handhold.

  Bill was talking, his voice steady.

  ‘Ten floors, Scott. Identical, except there’s a gradient. Not much but it’s still a bonus – and the pillar is rough granite which is great for climbing, no different from climbing on Snowdon.’

  Except it was. Scott moved his hand, not saying a word. They had climbed so many times together his dad knew he listened, their lives depended on it.

  ‘Two floors behind us now. Take the next the same way. Hang from the ledge at the corner of the window, while your feet gain a purchase.’

  Scott simplified his thoughts. Nothing of importance now, not even counting the number of the floors as he passed them; letting his dad do that. All that was important was steady, safe movement; repeating the same action, not allowing his brain to become over-confident simply because he had safely manoeuvred his way past two floors.

  ‘Eight floors left, that’s all. Feel the slope yet? Lean into the rock, it’ll hold you.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Scott spotted movement. A window in the white wall had opened and a figure leaned out. He daren’t look to see, the figure remaining a blur, only the rock face in front of him in focus.

  ‘Dad!’ he shouted, hesitating in his next step.

  ‘I’ve seen him. Take no notice.’

  He heard the sound of a shot and a blast of wind whipped past his cheek.

  ‘Damn!’ Bill yelled out.

  There was a scraping sound; the noise a body makes when it grinds over a rough surface. At the same time a roar of noise rose up from the ground and a shower of bullets patterned against the windows, rupturing the reinforced glass. Scott became aware that the head had vanished, the window slammed shut.

  ‘Dad! You okay?’ he shouted, his voice panicky.

  He let go his breath when he heard the words come back to him. ‘Lucky shot, hit me in the shoulder. Bleeding like a pig.’

  ‘Stay there. I’ll get you!’

  He heard Bill chuckle, wiped out by a grimace of pain. ‘Can’t go anywhere – hanging on, though.’

  Closing his ears to the sound of his father’s breathing, Scott tried to visualise the face of the building, aware he had to detour round his body, which was blocking his path down. He dropped his hand, his fingertips gluing themselves to the window ledge, his second hand joining them. Leaning his weight into the windowpane, he stretched out his foot, his toe brushing the surface of the ledge below. He pulled it back up – resting. He had to drop onto that ledge. To skirt round his father’s body tucked into the corner of the granite, he had to sidestep down that panel, trusting his entire weight to a single hand. Not daring to think he wouldn’t do it right, his toes reached down for the sill; then his left hand stretched towards the roughness of the granite, fastening on to it, the fingers of his right hand slowly following.

  ‘Great manoeuvre, Scott. Proud of you.’

  Bill’s face, now on a level with his own, shone with sweat, his colour already patchy.

  ‘I’ve got you, Dad,’ Scott said and, using his body as a counter weight, shielded Bill’s crumpled form from the pull of gravity. ‘I won’t let you drop.’

  ‘How long till help gets here?’ Bill gasped, leaving Scott to imagine the warmth of the blood soaking his dad’s back.

  ‘If that was an automatic I heard firing from the ground, Dad, any second now. So hang on. Take some deep breaths.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Scott waited, not d
aring to talk, in case the energy needed proved too much for his father’s body, teetering between hanging on and plunging to the ground. Unable to see anything, he concentrated on holding his dad steady.

  He heard the sound of a helicopter overhead, seeing the machine gain height before it accelerated forwards, the sound of its engines masking any noises from above. There were shouts from the ground too but he ignored them, knowing that to keep his dad safe meant he couldn’t afford to let his attention waver for a second.

  After a minute or two, Scott heard scratching noises coming from the roof and the sound of people talking. He no longer cared if it was Pete or one of the other men; merely relieved that someone – anyone – was coming to help. He could feel the weight of his father’s body, increasingly unable to hold itself upright, pushing him out from the safety of the rock face. He heard feet against the glass of the window and Sean Terry came into view.

  Scott held his breath, not knowing what to think or believe.

  Above him, he heard the whine of a rope being paid out and a second set of feet jumping their way down the side of the building.

  Then a cheerful voice said, ‘Cavalry’s here, Scott.’

  Attached to a heavy climbing belt and several ropes, Beau’s head, with its dark hair and crooked jaw, appeared. Momentarily Scott closed his eyes to stop the moisture leaking from them.

  ‘I thought you were in Belgium?’ he gasped.

  ‘I was! But Dad thought this little party much more interesting. He was right, too. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. You okay, Mr Anderson?’

  Bill raised his head, his face grey with pain and fatigue.

  ‘If you really are the cavalry, I’m fine.’

  ‘That’s brilliant! Now we’re going to pass a belt round you. Hold on a couple more seconds, Scott, okay.’ Beau sounded as cheerful as if he was demonstrating a move in the gym, with mats below to catch you if you fell.

  ‘Can you move your arm at all, Bill?’ the grating tones of Sean Terry’s voice cut across the air.

  ’Who are you?’

  ‘Name’s Terry.’

  ‘The reporter?’ The voice sounded exhausted, the two words using up vital strength.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. We can work on that once we’ve got a few pints of blood into you. All you need to know right now is – I climb.’ The abrupt tone flew back at Bill, the stick-like figure on the end of the rope walking across the face of the building. Nonchalantly, he passed a heavy belt round Bill Anderson’s waist and clipped it to his own.

  ‘Let go now, youngster.’

  Scott let out a strangled cry as he felt his father drop, before understanding it was simply his father’s body relaxing into the belt, experienced enough to know it would hold.

  ‘I thought you were one of them,’ he admitted, glancing timidly at the steel-blue eyes, watching his father like a hawk.

  ‘And very proper, too,’ Beau broke in; the tones of his voice absurdly cheerful for someone marooned eighty feet in the air. ‘I would have felt exactly the same had I not seen him abseiling down the face of this building.’

  Scott felt a belt pass round his own body and heard a clunk as the clip snapped shut.

  ‘Any man who climbs like he does, you can definitely trust with your life. Okay, Scott, relax. I’ve got you and there’s Anumber of very-chunky, ex-rugby players who’ve got me.’

  Scott felt an insane desire to giggle, wondering if he dare ask who had got them.

  ‘What’s happening on the ground, Terry?’ Bill said his voice faint.

  ‘The Dutch police are up to their eyeballs in water and they’re not best pleased. Where did they get you?’

  ‘Shoulder, splintered the bone, I think.’

  ‘Careless, for someone they wanted alive.’

  ‘They’re the sort to reason you can always operate a computer with one hand.’

  Now he could move his head, Scott saw his father not making any attempt to keep a hold, his feet simply resting on the rough granite surface. He’s hurt bad, but I’ve got him back, he thought, delight momentarily overpowering his anxiety.

  Sean Terry’s voice cut across the air like a knife. ‘I’ll have to strap it tight. This may hurt but you’ve lost a lot of blood. I need to get you down without delay. There’s an ambulance standing b y, it’ll get you to hospital.’

  ‘But the men?’ Scott interrupted.

  ‘They’ve gone. And if that blast was anything to do with them, blew the place apart, too.’

  ‘So it’s not ended,’ Bill whispered.

  Scott saw Sean Terry studying his father closely. ‘No! Not for me. But it is for you, pal.’

  Bill lifted his head painfully. ‘Got a lot to say. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.’

  Scott watched anxiously, gasping with sympathy as he saw his father flinch and turn very white, a second strap fixing his arm into place across his chest.

  Sean Terry tugged on the rope. Slowly the two figures began their descent, the reporter cradling Bill’s body with his own.

  Beau waited a moment. ‘Let them get clear,’ he confided. ‘Don’t want a traffic jam on the ground. Right, off we go.’

  It was the strangest of sensations and one Scott wasn’t quite sure if he liked. It was different abseiling yourself. Here, he had no control; the only thing needed was total belief in the person you were strapped to. Seconds later, his toes bounced on the ground. Simultaneous bear hugs almost knocked him to the floor, despite Beau’s remonstrations, as Travers, Mary and Hilary, seeing Scott safe and sound, rushed up to greet him.

  ‘You lot go with Scott to the hospital. And get him something to drink. We’ll clear up this mess here.’

  Scott stared round at the number of vehicles homing-in on the factory forecourt; a half-a-dozen people closeted against the side of an official-looking car, deep into some serious conversation. An army truck appeared, soldiers adding to the general confusion.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Scott listened to the questions; most of them he never heard, Athick blanket of exhaustion like a rain cloud in front of his eyes. Those he did hear, most he was unable to answer. He concentrated on the things he did know and could remember – like being in a hospital; although the language spoken by its staff left him with a feeling of immense bewilderment, despite the sparkling-white surfaces and an appearance of efficiency. The doctors, switching from English to Dutch, only added to the confusion; as did his friends. While one stayed the others ate, bringing him food that wouldn’t go down. Yet, when he opened his eyes, to take in something other than the still figure lying in the hospital bed, someone different was always sitting there, keeping him company.

  Doug Randal had appeared, his larger than life persona bulldozing his way through the fog that surrounded Scott.

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ he had said. ‘Beau’s about if you need him. If you will trust me with your dad’s bike, I’ll get it shipped back from Glasgow. It’ll be waiting for you although I don’t think Bill will be riding it for a while, Scott.’

  Scott remembered that bit, handing over the keys; grateful to think he didn’t have to leave his dad’s bedside in order to ride the bike back to Cornwall.

  ‘It’ll take more than a bullet to stop me, Scott, don’t worry,’ had been his dad’s final words, as they wheeled him into the operating theatre. Since then he hadn’t uttered a word; a red streak of blood, coursing through the drip hanging from the top of his bed, the only indication he was alive; except, of course, he had to be alive otherwise he wouldn’t be all bandaged up.

  A nurse bustled in. Scott tried to count how many times she had come in since the operation. And was that a good sign or a bad? She bent over the bed.

  ‘Your fader, he is waking.’

  Scott stared out through the fog. How could his dad be waking? He’d only looked at him a second ago and he was still unconscious then.

  ‘Here! Look!’ She handed him a stick of iced water. ‘He is thirsty. You give it.’

  Sco
tt bent over the bed. ‘Dad?’ He moistened the cracked lips.

  ‘Told you!’ Bill mouthed the words.

  Scott grinned. ‘Yeah, you told me. Here, have this. A couple of these and you’ll be giving me a lecture, a mile long.’

  ‘Get some sleep,’ the voice a little stronger. ‘Leave the talking till morning.’

  ‘Okay, Dad. Dad?’

  The figure stirred, the blue eyes drooping with pain and fatigue. ‘Mmm?’

  ‘It’s great,’ Scott said and was answered by the ghost of a smile.

  The mist suddenly cleared. For the first time, he noticed the room in which he had spent the last fourteen hours, its large windows overlooking the street; Travers sitting silently in a chair.

  ‘Travers ! You here? Whatever time is it?’ he said, forgetting he was wearing a watch.

  ‘Gone twelve.’

  ‘At night?’

  Travers nodded.

  ‘And you’ve been here all this time?’

  ‘No, Mary and Hilary were here too. We were worried about you.’

  ‘I’m okay, now. So where are they?’

  ‘Sleeping, I hope.’ Travers yawned. ‘Bad day all round. What the devil were you doing, going off like that?’ he accused Scott angrily. ‘And after all I said, too. Frightened us half to death. If you’d been a member of my squad, I’d have given you the boot.’

  ‘You were right,’ Scott apologised. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘Damn good job Hilary couldn’t sleep either. She saw you leave. We came after you in time to see you being bundled into a black car. I hailed Ataxi and followed.’

  ‘But how did Mr Randal get here? It was him I saw a little while back, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Dad? He was already here.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. Gosh, I’m tired. Ask Beau. He’s around somewhere. He’s organised storm troopers at the entrance. Went off for a long chat with that American guy. Ever since they shinned down that factory wall they’ve been joined at the hip. Wouldn’t be at all surprised to hear they’d got hitched.’