James Long - Sixth Column

Going in to his father’s house this time was so different. There was no temptation now to look in drawers however much he wanted eventually to know all there was to know of the missing years. Mrs Thompson had left cheese, eggs, milk and bacon in the kitchen for him with a note. She must have made a special trip to the shop after they phoned. He was touched and knew that it was a sign of her regard for Sir Michael.

He made an omelette and ate it outside on a stone-paved patio watching the last of the sun over the edge of the moor. He phoned his answering machine at the flat and used the tone codes to record a new message, giving Sir Michael’s number just in case, then he went into the study and sat down to get to know his father at second hand by dipping into his books. He was still there when midnight struck resonantly on the long-case clock and sleep called.

Mrs Thompson had prepared the same bed he’d used before. He threw the window open and leaned out, breathing in the scent of the high ground. The waning moon made the thinnest of crescents. The window looked down the long curving length of the drive and far away, through the trees at the end of it, he saw headlights.

They seemed to be stationary, right down there by the stone gateposts at the entrance from the road, a good half mile away. He watched them for a few seconds wondering idly what they could be doing, then stiffened as he saw the beams swing slightly, unmistakably, into the driveway. The next second, the lights blinked off leaving only spots of their after-image dancing, violet, in his eyes.

He leaned out, staring hard into the darkness, scanning his eyes from side to side to make the most of his night vision. Then he heard it on the very fringe of his ears’ range, but without any doubt – an engine, turning over slowly and the crunch of a wheel into a pothole. Whoever they were, they were coming up the drive with their lights off.

He went quickly downstairs and picked up the phone, unsure who to ring. The police? Heather at the Hall? It didn’t matter. As soon as he picked it up he could hear an engaged tone, even before he’d tried to dial. That meant they had to be professionals and they must surely mean him harm. He pulled on a jacket and took a torch then he went outside into the yard, looking for a place where he could see them but they couldn’t see him. He could hear engines clearly now and from where he was, unable to see the drive without risking silhouetting himself against the house in faint moonlight, he had no sense of how far off they were.

There were outbuildings across the yard. He opened a door, smelt cut wood and stumbled on the edge of the pile of split logs. Pulling the door almost closed behind him, he peered through the narrow gap.

A big vehicle, some kind of Japanese four-wheel-drive, crept quietly into the yard. The doors opened and men climbed out almost silently. Five of them. They split, fanning out around the house, and he shivered at the efficient look of it all. Two men stood by the door, waiting, giving time for the rest to get into position, then they opened it and one went inside.

He knew they would soon be back and would certainly check the sheds. He grabbed his chance while the man at the door was concentrating on what was going on inside the house. He pushed the door carefully open, trying to move it as slowly as he possibly could to keep the rusty hinges quiet. There was gravel outside. He moved sideways along the front wall of the shed, away from the house towards the bushes. His foot just tipped a larger stone – a tiny noise but it was enough. He saw the man at the door turn his head and abandoned caution, leaping forward to sprint across the lawn in front of him and hurdle the fence.

A voice behind him shouted, ‘Down here! He’s running for it!’ and the accent was unmistakably American.

Beyond the fence was a descending stretch of meadow, the long grass getting in his way, threatening to trip him as he leapt through it. He shot a hurried glance over his shoulder as he ran, saw figures come running back to the car, heard the engine start. He angled to the right, to get as far from the drive as possible, searching his memory for any record of gateways, any clue as to whether or where they could get in to the field. They were trying, using their headlights now. The vehicle tore down the drive, turned halfway, lurched down a slope a few hundred yards away and into a field but in the lights he could see it was a separate field with a long fence cutting them off.

He veered more to the right, running for all he was worth, the bruising on his face starting to pulse. A crash of splintering wood came from behind and he knew they must have driven straight through the fence. Something dark loomed up ahead and a branch whipped painfully across his cheek. He slowed to a walk, feeling more branches and knew he was in a copse of trees. A wooded slope fell away to the right and he followed it down, knowing it was taking him further and further out of their sight. At the bottom, he jumped a stream, ran into a stone wall in the darkness and hurdled it to find himself in a rough track.

He ran again, blessing his fitness, putting the yards behind him with every second, pounding at the track with his feet as if he were running on the spot and slow, heavy danger could be moved a tiny bit further away with each impact. Three minutes and half a mile later, he ran out on to a tarmac lane, looked all around for signs of pursuit and turned in the direction that felt as though it should take him away from the house. A mile or so further on, he came to a church, dark against the sky and at first seeming to stand all by itself. When he got to it, he could see ahead, some way further down the road, the loom of a small cluster of houses. There was no sign of life in any of them but next to the church, in a lay-by, stood a telephone box.

Directory Enquiries took an age to answer but when they did, he asked for Tinderley Hall and memorized the number that the robot voice repeated for him. All he had in his pocket was a pound coin so he put it in the slot and dialled.

It rang for a long time before a man’s voice answered and the voice was sleepy. ‘Hello?’

‘Tinderley Hall?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m very sorry. Would you mind getting Heather Weston for me. It’s an emergency.’

‘She’s asleep.’

‘I know she is. I said it’s an emergency.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Just tell her it’s Johnny.’

It took a couple of minutes and she sounded shocked and a little muddled.

‘Johnny? What on earth’s wrong?’

‘Listen. A bunch of guys arrived at the house. Americans. I got out. I’ve been running over the fields and—’

‘OK, OK. Stop. Where are you?’

‘Hang on.’ He peered at the notice on the box. ‘I can hardly see. There’s no light in here. It looks like… Red something? Red Gate?’

‘Red Gill?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you by a church?’

‘That’s it.’

‘OK, I know it. I’ll be a few minutes.’

‘Great.’

‘I’ll come in the van, the Hall’s van, OK?’

He stood in the graveyard, out of sight behind the church wall, and waited. It didn’t take her very long at all. It was barely five minutes before he heard the van coming. It drove round the corner and slowed to a stop with its headlights on him and he walked into the dazzle with relief, up to the driver’s door, heard the other door open and realized far too late as his eyes adjusted that this was no van. This was a Mitsubishi Shogun, the same four-wheel-drive that he had last seen plunging into the field in pursuit of him. By that time, though, there was nowhere to go and the men who’d come round from the other side had his arm clamped up behind his back. The driver’s window, close to his face, whirred down and a deep American voice said, ‘Mr Kay. Please. Let us give you a ride.’