The kid went on, pausing long enough to watch a close-packed bunch of cars zip past, on with the Loop behind him, down the bank behind Druids and then across the footbridge over Pilgrim’s Drop.
The Loop, glancing back, gave a thumbs-up.
“What’s that for?” Ag demanded.
“Means the kid’s heading nice. Bit of luck, is that. Action soon now.”
“Hope that Bernie Harris knows what he’s doing.”
“He knows all right.”
They plunged on. Over the bridge, the kid turned down in the direction of Clearways, then cut left along a footpath through thick woods towards Stirling’s. Once again the Loop looked back and this time halted.
Mr Blundy and Ag caught up.
“Well?” Mr Blundy puffed. He looked at Ag: she was in a bath of sweat, dress stuck to her bottom and halfway up the crack.
“This is it,” the Loop said. “In the woods, he is, sooner than I thought he might. In you go, the two of you. Quick now, I don’t want to see your arse for dust, Ern, and again I ask your pardon, Mrs B.”
“If Bernie Harris says that again,” Ag said in a fierce whisper between her teeth, “it’ll be him that gets duffed up.”
They overtook the boy in the shady security of the woods with no one around.
“’Scuse me, lad …”
The boy turned and looked Mr Blundy up and down — cheeky look it was and all. “Yes, what is it?”
“You lost, eh, son?”
“’Course not.”
“Well, we are.” Mr Blundy, red in the face from his exertions, puffed and spluttered. “This is the way to Clearways, isn’t it?”
“No, it isn’t. You’ve taken the wrong path.” The boy pointed. “You’ll have to go back the way you’ve come, then turn left. Keep ahead after that and you’ll come to Clearways … more or less.”
“Thanks, son.”
“That’s quite all right.”
Mr Blundy looked around, somewhat idly. No sign of the Loop, and the boy had to be retained where he was. Mr Blundy delved in his pocket and brought out a slab of chocolate. “Like a piece, would you?”
“That’s awf’lly decent of you.” The boy examined the offering: it had suffered from the heat of Mr Blundy’s body and was all squashy and there were teeth marks where Ag had taken a bite. “But I won’t. Thanks all the same.”
Just as the Loop thankfully came in sight, Mr Blundy recognised the Kensington Gardens accent all over again. That accent had never come from scrap iron, not by a long chalk it hadn’t. Mum and Dad were very likely dreadful embarrassments to the kid when they showed up at that posh school, what with dropped aitches and a lot of blimeys, notwithstanding the Rolls, the chauffeur and the mink … withdrawing the disdained chocolate from the emergent upper classes, Mr Blundy turned to face the oncoming Loop in his pit marshal’s gear.
“Hey!” the Loop yelled as per plan. “You hear anything, did you?”
They all shook their heads. “No,” Mr Blundy said.
“You, son?”
“Only the cars.” The boy was looking gratified at being spoken to by a track official. “What sort of thing d’you mean?”
“Sounded like a crash.” The Loop, who had now reached the group, looked all around as if baffled. “Over by Stirling’s, I’d say. Quick — short cut this way.” Energetically the Loop plunged into the trees and bushes. The boy’s eyes gleamed and he did precisely as expected: he raced after the official-looking Loop. Mr Blundy and Ag followed. Mr Blundy, who had gone into all this with the Loop earlier when using his knowledge of Brands in his advisory capacity, knew what to do next, though his heart was in his mouth at the prospect of actually doing it. Away ahead, the Loop vanished suddenly; that was in itself the signal. The Loop would now be beating it direct for the straight between Stirling’s Bend and Clearways, hot-footing it for his ready-rigged ambulance.
Mr Blundy increased speed.
Ahead, the boy plunged on through the bushes, eager to see what was to be seen, big thrill. Too bloodthirsty, Mr Blundy thought as he puffed and panted along, not right for a fan. Mr Blundy closed the gap. He was short of wind but as compared with the boy he had long legs. Coming up behind, he threw himself upon Harold Barnwell, who went down on his face — thump. Mr Blundy inhibited all cries by thrusting him deep into the tangled undergrowth. Up behind thundered Ag with the hypodermic outfit. And up into Mr Blundy’s sweat-streaked face came an elbow, very effectively used in a hard backwards thrust.
“Ouch. Little bugger.” Mr Blundy clasped a hand to his face and Harold Barnwell swivelled and sat up.
“What’s the idea?” he asked, white faced. “You —”
“Tripped like. Now —”
“Bollocks you tripped.”
Mr Blundy clicked his tongue. So that was how they talked at posh schools. “Now take it easy, son. We don’t mean no harm. We —”
“What do you mean, then?”
Mr Blundy’s mouth opened and shut again. Cor, it was all going to go wrong now and they’d be inside in a brace of shakes. He stood over the boy, wishing he could summon the will to bash him one. It was what he ought to do, of course, what any kidnapper would do, it coming naturally to such, but it didn’t come naturally to Mr Blundy, in fact it didn’t come at all. The little kid looked too defenceless. Mr Blundy dithered a bit then the big idea came. Came as though from heaven. Hoping Ag would have the savvy to back him he said, “It’s your dad,son.”
“What about him?”
“He don’t like you going to motor races.” This was safe: the Loop had spoken of the old man taking a hard line on visits to Brands. “You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. My father says it’s a waste of time. I ought to spend my free time studying. My father wants me to be a barrister, you see, and that means good exam results, GCSE … which I say is for later on. But I don’t understand where you two come in. Perhaps you’d better explain.”
Talk about composure. There was that kid, who’d been brought down in an apology for a rugby tackle, sitting up, apparently unafraid, and lecturing his attacker. Well, he had guts. Mr Blundy sucked in air and said, “Well, first like, I didn’t mean to knock you arse over — knock you down, son. Like I said — I tripped up.”
No actual answer; just a sardonic stare.
Mr Blundy proceeded. “Your dad, he hired me to take you back to that school of yours.”
“Are you from the police?”
“Not the police, no. Sort of private dick, like. See?”
“Or private thug. Well, in a way it makes sense. My father won’t forbid me to go to Brands. He knows, and this I give him credit for, that my generation won’t take that sort of approach. I’d come just the same, you see. I s’pose he sees this as more effective, does he?”
“I reckon he does, son, yes.”
“Well, it’s stupid.”
“Why’s that, eh?”
“He won’t be able to try it on again, will he?” Eyes stared widely, all innocence.
“You mean it’s a kind of one-shot?”
“Yes, obviously that’s what I mean.” There was impatience in the kid’s tone now, suggesting he thought this bumbling private dick was a right nit. “One doesn’t fall for it twice, does one? Next time I’ll save up for a stand seat and stay in company … and set the fans on any old fool who tries to get his hooks in me, won’t I?”
“Reckon so,” Mr Blundy agreed half-heartedly.
“Which, of course, is what I shall do today, the moment anyone comes along — you’ll not be able to keep me hidden indefinitely, will you? There’s plenty of people outside these woods, you know. Don’t you think you’d better clear off while you can?”
Mr Blundy felt the horrible hand of the law reaching for his shoulder. Bloomin’ little classroom lawyer. Make a fine barrister, he would … cold-blooded, unemotional, concise — prosecution rather than defence. Mr Blundy could already see himself in the dock, being prosecuted by the l
ittle sod. By his side, Ag stirred. “Wasting time, is this,” she snapped. “Get him on his face, Ern. Go on.”
“I can’t,” Mr Blundy mumbled.
“He’ll yell else.”
Taking the tip, he almost did. His mouth opened but Ag reacted like greased lightning. Shoving the hypodermic pack at Mr Blundy, she lunged, lost her balance and flopped down, smack on Harold, like a whale. The yell was stillborn. Harold was, in fact, badly winded; but not too winded to lash out with his feet, one of which took the hypodermic pack hard as Mr Blundy bent to examine him. The pack flew out of control and into some bushes. Giving a low moan of despair, Mr Blundy retrieved it and ferreted inside.
“All right?” Ag asked.
“No. One of the bloody phials has bust.”
“Only need one for now. Hurry up, Ern.”
“All right, all right. Let me hold the kid, you take this lot.” Mr Blundy thrust the syringe and the remaining phial into Ag’s hands, feeling sick in the gut and also feeling somewhat personal about the probing needle of the injector apparatus. As Ag levered herself to a kneeling position, Mr Blundy took the boy over, holding him down by almost lying on him like Ag had. “Kick out again, sonny,” he said, “and you’ll get hurt. Not that I want to. Do as you’re told and you’ll be okay. That’s a promise. Now — take your trousers down.”
The boy’s cheeks went a deep red. “You filthy beast,” he said.
“Not that,” Mr Blundy snapped. “What do they teach you little perishers in them posh schools?” In despair again he looked round at Ag.
Give her her due, she was quick and handy.
Already she had the hypodermic filled and, with all the expertise of a Registered General Nurse, was holding it up and squinting at it and drooling out some of the liquid until she was sure there was no air to give the kid an embolism or whatever. While she waited with the needle poised, Mr Blundy managed, with difficulty, to drag the boy’s pants down and turn him on to his face so that the bared reception area was uppermost. This was the worst moment of all. It needed only some Bill with his eyes on stalks to come pushing into the undergrowth, and Mr Blundy had had it on the nastiest charge imaginable, one he would hate to go over the wall for. But now, thank God, Ag was moving into action.
“Keep him still, can’t you?”
“Doing me best, aren’t I.” Mr Blundy was badly puffed. “Have to give me a hand, you will. One hand for the needle like. Other for the legs.”
Ag muttered something beneath her breath and came down like a hefty cushion on the kid’s legs. She felt around for a good entry point as practised on Mr Blundy, and from Harold there came another protest.
“Leave my bum alone, you bitch.”
“I wouldn’t mind betting,” Ag said, “your dad pays around ten thousand nicker a year to have you taught them sordid words.” Having found her spot, she shoved the needle in hard and pressed the plunger. There was a jerk and a frightened squeak, another jerk and squeak more subdued than the last one, and then silence and a notable lack of movement. Mr Blundy looked at Ag in horror.
“You put it in right?”
“’Course. In right, and right in.”
“I bloody hope so and all.” Mr Blundy was shaking like a leaf. “He’s gone all limp, Ag — all limp like he’s dead!”
“Let go of him, let me have a look.”
Mr Blundy got up and Ag bent. “See what you mean,” she said. She rolled Harold over and pulled his pants up decently while Mr Blundy awaited her verdict. When it came, it was reassuring. “He’s breathing, so don’t panic. He’s alive. Nasty colour, though.” She lifted one of the eyelids. “All rolled round like, just the whites showing.”
“Oh, God. What does that mean, Ag?”
“Means he’s unconscious.”
“I could have told you that,” Mr Blundy said viciously. His own face was white with sheer fright. He gave a groan and looked all round the thickly growing trees as if hoping to find medical comforts, operating tables, consultants and sympathetic nurses emerging antiseptically from behind the exhaust-fume-weary bushes draped with wind-blown plastic beer cups, crisp packets and ice-cream wrappers. His heart was thumping so hard he believed he too needed a quack. If that poor kid should go and die … it just didn’t bear thinking about. He and Ag would be done for murder. If it hadn’t been for that needle, it could have been manslaughter, kid died of fright thinking mistakenly that he and Ag had been up to no good. But of course if it hadn’t been for the needle the kid would have been okay anyhow. Oh dear, oh dear.
“The Loop, he said the kid’d just get sleepy, no more than that — that’s the point, see? I don’t like this, Ag —”
“He’s not as bad as you think he is, Ern. That Bernie, he’s too big for his boots, I don’t deny, but he must have known what he was asking you to do. Wouldn’t want to kill the boy, would he? Stop wetting yourself. Bernie’ll be here any minute.”
The Loop was not long in coming. He looked down at Harold, prodded at him, sucked his teeth a little and pronounced.
“He’ll be okay, nothing to worry about. But no time to waste now.” From now on till they reached the Granada in Farningham, the Loop said, he was in charge.
Mr Blundy knew he would never forget the move out from the woods with Harold’s inert body being carried between himself and Ag, with the Loop leading the way to the ambulance drawn up ready on the path beyond the trees. All the comments from the gawping fans.
“Poor little kid, overcome by the heat, I s’pose.”
“Looks dead to me.”
“Don’t like the look of the bloke carrying him. Could be a nutter.”
“Wonder if the police have been told.”
No one, however, interfered. The pit marshal’s gear and the St John’s uniforms on the ambulancemen were the absolute guarantees of propriety and officialdom. With Harold aboard, the ambulance was driven slowly past Clearways, through the throngs of sweaty T-shirts and mouths taking in refreshment from more plastic cups amid the roar and fumes from the circuit, down behind the hoardings with Mr Blundy suffering the awful fear of a pounce from the Bill, an arrest as they reached the exit from Brands.
He need not have worried.
The ambulance was not queried, nor was the driver’s statement, made to a policeman at the gate, that he had a casualty aboard, nothing too serious, and he was taking the said casualty to his parents’ car parked in Farningham for convenience of getting away after the races.
Nothing could have gone better and the Loop was beaming with pride in a job well done. Reaching the Granada, the ambulance pulled in behind, backing up, and Harold Barnwell was shoved, still unconscious, on to the back seat. Then, with the Loop aboard and heading for safety, the ambulance was driven away in the general direction of Sevenoaks. Mr Blundy took the Granada on a circuitous route for the M25, the Dartford Tunnel and the M1 for the remoteness of North Yorkshire and the hospitality of Ag’s Aunt Ethel. Before reaching the motorway he pulled into a lay-by nicely shielded from the road by trees. Here Harold was bound by the arms and legs with the rope brought as a precaution, one that Mr Blundy thought it advisable to make use of from the start, seeing as the kid looked the sort to be obstreperous when he came round, if he did, and then shoved through the removable seat-back into the boot. The kid would, Mr Blundy said to Ag, be comfortable enough on his bed of pillows, blankets and eiderdown, but as he resecured the seat-back in position, Mr Blundy felt like an undertaker screwing the lid down on the coffin.
Six
Mr Blundy drove very carefully, not wishing to shake up the contents of the boot by any lurching stops. He drove with chattering teeth, eyes staring, fingers gripping the wheel like a set of vices.
“Don’t forget what that Bernie Harris said, Ern.”
“When?”
“Before he left in the ambulance. He said mind to ring him after we get to Auntie’s.”
“I won’t forget.” Mr Blundy knew there was a phone box down in the village, about a perishing
mile from Aunt Ethel’s cottage which was itself isolated in a field behind a dry-stone wall. Once they were through the Dartford Tunnel, Ag said, “Feel like a cup of something after all that, I do.”
Mr Blundy wondered how she could be thinking of cups of anything, what with what was in the boot and all. But he said, “No service areas till we’re on the M1, Ag. Stop then, if you want. If you think it’s safe, like. S’pose he wakes up?” He added, “I don’t trust the Loop’s medical know-how, Ag. Could wake any time. That’s if he’s not dead.”
Ag considered the point. “Yes, well. Leave the cuppa, then. But there’s other things in service areas. Toilets. And you’d best top up with petrol. Yorkshire’s Yorkshire, not so many filling stations as down south. Not off the main roads.”
“All right, then.” When later a service area loomed, Mr Blundy flicked and moved into the slow lane. He pulled into the service area and circled round into the car park. Ag went off to the toilet, leaving Mr Blundy on guard, in charge of what was in the boot. Mr Blundy lit a fag and dragged on it as though it were a lifeline. His hands were shaking still. He got out of the car. His eyes, drawn as if by a magnet, stared at the boot. He wanted to open it up, to take a look, give the kid some air, but he didn’t dare do that. Somebody might see, even if he grubbed through from inside, via the seat-back — you never could tell, even though he had drawn up well clear of the other parked cars, over by the railway line that ran past the car park, there were people around, mums chasing kids who had got hold of a ball, that sort of thing. People were so nosey. It would be too big a risk. Besides, come to think of it, plenty of air got into the boot. So did water, when it rained. The Granada was well past its first flush of youth.
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