by Tom Becker
You can run, but you can’t hide.
Adam dashed to the doorway and scanned the high street. There was a steady stream of people going in and out of the shops, but the man handing out the flyers had vanished. A group of teenage girls were gathered around a bench, talking excitedly with one another as they ate fast food. Seeing the look of alarm on Adam’s face, one of the girls burst out laughing.
“Adam?”
He whirled round, only to see his mum standing behind him.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” she exclaimed. “You’ve been like a cat on a hot tin roof all morning. What’s the matter?”
For a second Adam was tempted to tell her. Then he shoved the card back into his pocket and shook his head. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Thought I saw a mate, that’s all.”
As he trailed after his parents back to the car, Adam made up his mind: he had to end this. Which meant that there was only one place to go. He waited until after lunch before slipping out of the house, pulling up the hood on his tracksuit top when it began to spit with rain. Adam followed a familiar route through residential streets, cutting through the back of the old people’s home and on to a patch of waste ground, where a tall, broad-shouldered boy with cropped hair was sitting on top of a skateboard ramp, staring moodily out into space.
For years the skate park had provided a retreat for all the kids in the area, until a young boy had fallen off a ramp and smashed his head on the ground. As he lay in hospital in a coma, the council had declared the skate park unsafe and closed it. Now the ramps were pitted and scarred, covered in graffiti and broken glass, and thick weeds flourished in the cracks of the concrete. But as everyone else had drifted away, Adam and his best friend had secretly adopted the place as their own, marking out their overgrown territory like New World explorers.
Now, at the sight of Adam threading his way through the undergrowth, the other boy stood up angrily.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he spat. “I told you to stay away from me.”
“I know, Danny,” Adam replied. “Had to talk to you.”
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.”
“Yeah? Then why are you following me around?”
Danny frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Adam clambered up to the top of the ramp until he was standing face to face with Danny. There was a grim set to the boy’s jaw, and his fists were clenched. Everyone in the town was wary of Danny’s temper, but Adam had been his best friend for over a decade, and at that moment he didn’t care.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said. “I know you were in town this morning, and outside my house last night.”
“You’re crazy!” Danny replied, breaking out into bitter laughter. “I’ve only just got up. And I was at my dad’s last night. You think I’ve not got anything better to do than stalk you?”
“What about the letter, then?” Adam persisted. “And that trick with the radio? It had to be you – no one else knows. . .”
He trailed off.
“No one knows what?” Danny asked, pushing his face into Adam’s. “Why I smashed up the lab? Why I got kicked out of school? Why I was so angry?”
Adam took a step backwards. “Have you spoken to Carey?” he asked quietly.
Danny’s face darkened. “I don’t need to talk to her. We’re finished. You two can have each other.”
“I know what you saw looked bad, Danny, but it wasn’t her fault,” Adam protested. “She was upset and I was just trying to make her feel better. It was a stupid mistake. It didn’t mean anything. Honest!”
“Yeah?” Danny kicked a stone off the ramp and into the tangle of weeds. “Well, it did to me.”
“You can’t stay angry with me for ever. We’ve been best mates for years!”
“I know. But it was my best mate I caught kissing my girlfriend. Be grateful the lab got it instead of you.”
Adam rubbed his face wearily. “But it doesn’t make any sense,” he murmured. “If you’re not doing any of this stuff, who is?”
“Don’t know.” Danny shrugged. “Don’t care. It’s your problem.”
As his friend turned away, Adam reached out and grabbed his wrist. Danny spun round, his eyes blazing with menace. Slowly, very deliberately, he prised Adam’s fingers from his arm.
“You’re really pushing it, you know that?” he said softly. “If anyone else had done to me what you did, I would have beaten the hell out of them. And now you come round here accusing me of all this crazy stuff?” He pushed Adam firmly backwards. “Get out of here before I lose it.”
With a shake of his head, Adam climbed down the ramp and walked out of the skate park without looking back. He drifted aimlessly towards the seafront, where fierce gusts of wind were blowing sand in off the beach, forming dirty brown eddies on the esplanade. Wet ropes slapped desultorily against the flagpoles. Slipping through the barriers, Adam dropped down on to the sand and began trudging along the shore. Whenever he was depressed or confused, he always gravitated towards the beach. To him, the roaring of the waves felt as comforting as an arm around the shoulder.
The town fell away into the distance, before disappearing behind the row of dunes rearing up steeply on Adam’s left-hand side. Dark clouds fomented in the sky, above a flat horizon of sea broken only by the outline of an offshore oil rig and a ghostly army of wind turbines. A seagull perched at the water’s edge gave Adam a baleful glare.
Lost in thought, Adam trudged along the beach for hours, until the joggers and the dog-walkers had long since turned back and he was completely alone. By the time he had turned round and headed back for home, the coastal dunes were shrouded in gloom. The rain was coming down more heavily now, dappling the sand with fat drops.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Adam’s neck prickled in warning, and he was assailed by the feeling that someone was watching him. Adam scanned the dunes for movement, the wind whipping his blond hair into his eyes.
“Danny?” he called out uncertainly. “That you?”
The heathery tufts on top of the hillocks swayed silently in response. Adam picked up his pace, silently cursing himself for having walked so far. He hadn’t taken more than ten paces when a voice called out above the wind:
“Adam!”
There was a loud, fuzzy quality to the voice that suggested it was coming through a megaphone. He stopped in his tracks and looked around again, but the dunes refused to reveal their secrets.
“Adam Wilson!” the cry came again.
A voice in Adam’s head was screaming at him to run away as fast as he could. He ignored it. Whatever danger he was in, he was sick of all these games. All he wanted to do was see whoever was tormenting him.
“What?” he yelled.
There was a long pause, and then the voice gleefully replied:
“Nowhere to hide now, traitor. You’re ours.”
Adam didn’t wait for the voice’s owner to reveal himself. His trainers churned up the sand as he sprinted off down the beach. Feeling dangerously visible on the deserted shoreline, he scrambled up into the dunes, plotting a tortuous course through the shallow valleys and waist-high beach-grass. This had to be some kind of sick joke, Adam told himself frantically as he ran. There was no way this could be happening for real.
A guttural bark brought Adam to a halt; diving behind the nearest dune, he peered over the top. His heart sank at the sight of a line of men fanning out across the dunes between him and the main road, the beams from their torches sweeping methodically over the hillocks.
“Anyone see him?” one of them called out.
“I lost the little bleeder in the dunes,” another replied, a large German shepherd straining at the leash in his hand. “But he’s here somewhere. Rex’ll sniff him out.”
Fear trickled like cold water down Adam’s spine. Danny had bee
n telling the truth – this was nothing to do with him. It was much, much worse than that. Who were these men? And what did they want with him? Panicking, Adam fumbled for the mobile phone in his pocket, only to discover that there was no signal: he was too far from town. Adam cursed and crept away from the dunes, trying to stay as low as possible. With the main road blocked off, his only hope of making it back to safety lay along the beach. Adam scrambled down on to the shore and was jogging towards the distant lights of town when a movement out over the sea caught his eye. He stopped in his tracks, a look of horror on his face.
The rain clouds had parted, revealing a black behemoth of a craft flying towards him. It was a long, cigar-shaped balloon fashioned from leathery canvas, powered by two giant propellers affixed to its rear.
“Help!” Adam shouted desperately, at the top of his lungs. “For God’s sake someone help me!”
There was a loud clank, and a searchlight burst into life on the airship’s prow, the froths of the waves glinting in the glare of its powerful beam. Adam stumbled away, racing full-pelt along the beach until his lungs were near bursting, too scared to look back at whatever might be following him.
There was a loud bark to Adam’s right; a low shape bounded out on an interception course from the dunes. Automatically Adam zigzagged away from the dog towards the sea. He made it knee-deep into the shallows before the German shepherd barrelled into him, knocking the pair of them underwater. Freezing cold seawater rushed into Adam’s mouth and nose as he sank below the
surface. He struggled up for air, only for a wave to break over him before he could take a breath, knocking him back underwater.
The dog pressed down on him, barking triumphantly. Adam’s head was growing woozy, and his limbs were weakening. Suddenly a strong hand reached down, grabbed him by the hood and dragged him out of the water. Adam collapsed in a sodden heap on to the sand, coughing violently. He was aware of a group of men dressed in dark clothing standing over him. The German shepherd had followed them out of the shallows and was waiting obediently by their feet, its eyes warily fixed upon Adam.
“This one’s a bit of a sorry state,” a man’s voice said.
“Serves him right,” another replied, panting. “I hate it when they run. Come on, let’s get him out of here before someone sees us.”
As Adam was hauled to his feet, he saw the airship swoop in over the beach like some giant mythological bat, its searchlight sweeping over the sands. Summoning his remaining strength, Adam lashed out with his foot, and was rewarded with a shout of pain and an oath.
“He’s still kicking!” someone warned.
A scrum of hands descended upon him, each grabbing for a limb. As he was hoisted into the air, Adam twisted his neck and clamped his teeth down on the hand near his left shoulder.
“Aah!” a voice howled. “The little sod bit me!”
“Right,” came the grim reply. “Enough messing around. Hold him steady.”
Adam blinked as someone shone a bright shaft of light into his eyes. The last thing he saw was a man’s arm coming sharply down, and then something heavy cracked into his temple, and he spiralled into unconsciousness.
Adam sat bolt upright, spluttering and coughing. In the abrupt shock of waking, it took him several seconds to register the water streaming down his face and soaking his tracksuit top. Wiping his eyes, he saw a small red-headed boy standing over him. The boy was holding an upturned bucket over Adam’s head, and there was a mocking grin on his face. He was dressed in matching dark-blue trousers, cap and jacket, with a yellow armband tied tightly around his sleeve.
“Wakey, wakey,” he squeaked. “Mr Pitt wants to see you.”
Adam’s head was pounding, and there was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was sitting on the floor of a tiny windowless room, in the narrow gap between a cot and a washbasin. A single light bulb hung down from the ceiling, dyeing the other boy’s features a grimy orange. There was a low rumbling noise in the background, and the cold floor beneath Adam’s palms was trembling.
“Where . . . where am I?” he asked, bewildered. “Who are you?”
“Save your questions for Mr Pitt,” the boy retorted. “He’ll throttle me if we keep him waiting. Come on.”
The boy helped Adam up and ushered him out of the room. In the dingy corridor outside, the rumbling noise was loud enough to make Adam’s head throb. He paused to get his bearings, only for the boy to push him sharply, sending him stumbling forward. As they walked past a series of identical wooden doors, Adam thought he heard a low whimper emanate from behind one of them. He wondered whether other people were trapped here too, or whether this was his own, entirely private, nightmare.
Fixing his eyes upon a circular window set into the wall, Adam broke away from the other boy and pressed his face against the glass. His cry for help died in his throat. He stared in shocked silence at a world of pitch-black night. Vague, wispy shapes slid past the window like forgotten memories. With a jolt, Adam realized they were clouds.
“We’re flying!” he said, a note of wonder in his voice.
The boy clapped sarcastically.
“What gave it away?”
Adam was too busy trying to digest this new information to acknowledge the boy’s derisory tone.
“So we’re on a plane?” he asked.
“Zeppelin,” the boy corrected. He snorted at Adam’s look of incomprehension. “Airship? You know – big balloon thingy?”
“I know what an airship is,” Adam said defensively.
“Good for you. Then I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that we’re in the gondola. It’s the cabin beneath the balloon, where all the crew and the . . .” a smirk spread across the boy’s face “. . . passengers stay during the flight. It’s nearly two hundred metres in length from prow to stern.”
Seeing Adam’s underwhelmed expression, the little redhead stopped and grabbed him by the arm.
“This isn’t any old airship, you know,” he said. “This is the Quisling – pride of the Dial.” The boy glanced up and down the deserted corridor before continuing in a whisper: “They reckon in the olden days the Commandant himself used to fly it.”
The boy’s eyes widened at the thought. Adam’s brain was deluged by questions, but he didn’t want to give his infuriating captor the satisfaction of answering any of them. Though he was a head shorter than Adam, and at least a couple of years younger, there was a casual superiority about the redhead’s manner that made him seem a lot older. It was easy to act that way, Adam supposed, when you had all the answers. Inspecting the smaller boy out of the corner of his eye, Adam wondered whether it was time to teach him a lesson.
As if reading his mind, the boy jabbed him sharply in the back.
“Don’t even think about it. I’ve worked on this ship for ten years now, and I’ve taken care of bigger and meaner kids than you.”
Despite everything, Adam smiled. Did this boy think he was an idiot? Ten years ago, he would still have been in nappies!
When they reached the door at the end of the corridor, the redhead stopped and carefully adjusted his cap in the window.
“It’ll be all right, you know,” he told Adam, in the friendly, knowing tones of an elder brother. “Even I was worried when they first came for me. But if you keep your head down and don’t cause any trouble, things become much easier.” He tapped his armband. “I’m a trustee now. I get taken on all the Quisling’s flights. You follow my advice, maybe one day you’ll be allowed up here too.”
“Um . . . OK. Thanks,” said Adam, utterly bemused. As he went to grasp the door handle, the boy stayed his hand.
“One more thing – a piece of advice from an old hand.”
“What?”
“For God’s sake, don’t make him angry.”
Before Adam could ask who he was talking about, the boy knocked on the door. From inside the room,
a clipped voice called out, “Come!” The boy opened the door and peered inside.
“Mr Pitt?” he asked nervously. “I’ve got one of the new arrivals for you here.”
“Very well, Carstairs. Send him in.”
“Yessir.”
With a farewell poke in the ribs, the boy shoved Adam through the door and closed it softly behind him.
To his surprise, Adam found himself in a plush lounge area, his feet sinking into a deep maroon carpet. Slanting, rain-splattered windows ran the length of two of the walls, providing a panoramic view of the shifting landscapes of the night sky. In the middle of the room, a circular bar stood unattended, bearing rows of spirit bottles that glinted in the light. Beyond the bar, a door was marked with the sign “Control Room – No Unauthorized Access”.
Mr Pitt sat alone at a table in the corner, leafing through a stack of brown files, shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke. He was a tall, angular man with slicked-down black hair and brisk, economical movements. A pencil-thin moustache sat in haughty residence on his upper lip, and a monocle was wedged over his left eye. There was a silver ashtray by his elbow, filled with a pyramid of cigarette stubs. As he flicked through his files, Mr Pitt scribbled notes in the margins, the light catching on a pair of chunky gold sovereign rings adorning his fingers.
Unused to the fug of smoke, Adam coughed. Mr Pitt didn’t look up.
“Come on over then, lad,” he said finally, not unpleasantly.
Adam stepped hesitantly towards the table.
“Name?”
“What?”
Mr Pitt looked up sharply. Behind the monocle, his left eye was filmy and unfocused. His right eye narrowed.