Peter Dickinson - Shadow of a Hero

SEPTEMBER 1990

‘I THINK THAT’S absolutely horrible,’ said Letta, putting the book down. ‘I mean, she was only eight! She didn’t know what she was doing! She didn’t choose! Her mother stuffed her into this barrel and threw her in the river and it went wrong and she got drowned, only she lived just long enough to give the message. And I bet she didn’t even know she was doing that, or what it meant, or anything. It was just something she had to get rid of before she could die. So they blub over her and think how noble they are and decide to go and fight the Turks after all. They just used her! It’s disgusting!’

‘One of the functions of legend is to make the disgusting tolerable,’ said Grandad. ‘There is in fact a poem by my great-grandfather about the daughter of Olla which makes much the same point. It’s called “Patriotism”. In fact it’s a difficult and obscure poem, very gloomy in tone, but I think what he’s saying is that patriotism is like the child’s message, something we don’t understand but we’ve still got to pass on, at whatever cost.’

‘He was using her too.’

‘I suppose so, but in his case . . .’

‘Hold it. That’s the telephone.’

Letta jumped up and ran downstairs. She and Grandad were alone in the house. It was the last day of school holidays. Momma was at work. Poppa was back in Bolivia, and Van was off on his bike somewhere up north. In fact he was supposed to have been back for lunch, and Letta was a bit cross with him for not letting her know, as she’d got it all ready, and she and Grandad had waited for him, too, when she’d been really hungry. She guessed the telephone would be him now, saying where he’d got to, all charm. She picked the receiver up, ready to snap, and gave the number.

‘May I speak to Letta Ozlins?’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Ozolins,’ said Letta automatically. ‘That’s me.’

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,’ said the voice. ‘Will you please sit down?’

Letta’s heart gave a desperate thud and her throat went dry. She groped for the chair and sat.

‘All right,’ she managed to say.

‘This is the Royal Hospital,’ said the voice. ‘It’s about your brother Van. Is that his full name?’

‘Yes. Is he all right? What’s happened?’

‘He’s had a serious accident. I don’t know the details, but I understand he was wearing motor cycle gear when he was brought in. His condition is stable. He’s now conscious, and he’s asking to see you.’

‘Me? Has anyone told Momma? My mother?’

‘Your mother?’ said the voice, surprised. ‘We understood . . . Hold on a moment . . . No, it’s Letta, his sister, he’s asking us to get hold of.’

‘He probably didn’t know her work number. I’ll call her, then I’ll come. It’s only five minutes. Which ward?’

‘Nightingale.’

‘All right. Thanks.’

Letta rang off, gave herself a few seconds to calm down, and rang IBM. Momma was in a meeting, said the man who answered. He’d ask her to call back. He made it sound like a favour. Letta said no, it was urgent, and told him about Van and the accident. Grumpily the man said he’d see what he could do. Letta sat waiting, watching the secondhand swing round the clock, until Grandad’s head poked round the door.

‘Something bad?’ he said. ‘I heard the tone of your voice.’

‘Van’s had an accident. Serious. He’s in the Royal. He wants to see me. I’m trying to get hold of Momma, but she’s in a meeting.’

‘Yes, that is bad. Shall I wait at the telephone, and you can go now?’

‘Oh. Yes. Thanks. I said I’d be there in five mins and it’s almost that now. Tell her he’s in Nightingale.’

She gave him the receiver, took a carrier-bag from the hook, ran up to Van’s room, snatched up a few things she thought he might need, stuffed them into the bag and ran down. Grandad was still waiting at the telephone. He waved reassuringly to her as she went past.

She reached the hospital in a sweat of hurry, panting and with her heart racing, stood in the main lobby to steady herself and went straight to the ward. The Ward Sister was obviously surprised to see that she was nothing like grown-up.

‘You’re Letta?’ she said. ‘There isn’t another one?’

‘No. We’re trying to get hold of my mother . . .’

‘It’s you he wants. He’s a bit delirious. It’s something about his motor cycle. I’ve got to give you the keys. In my office.’

Letta followed her. The telephone was ringing. The Sister answered it and began to talk about some other patient, but at the same time took a set of keys from a drawer and passed them over, then made signs about which way Letta should go to find Van. She walked anxiously up the long ward, peering at beds. He was in the furthest left-hand corner, curtained off. She slipped into the narrow space between the bed and the curtains.

He was lying half-propped on his back, with his eyes closed. There was a tube going in through his nose, but his face seemed undamaged, though it was a horrible grey beneath the tan. His right arm was splinted and strapped across his chest so that he couldn’t move it. There was a drip going into his other arm, and the blankets were supported clear of his body by some sort of framework, so Letta guessed there must be something badly wrong there, too. She touched his hand and he opened his eyes, looked puzzled for a second, saw her and smiled.

‘Hi, Sis,’ he whispered. ‘She gave you the keys?’

Letta held them up.

‘Grandad’s calling Momma at work,’ she said. ‘I’m sure she won’t be long.’

He frowned, then nodded. The tiny movement must have hurt, for he closed his eyes and paused before he spoke.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I want to keep her out of this. That’s why I asked for you. Listen.’

They were talking in Field, and since no other Varinians lived within twenty miles of Winchester there wasn’t a chance of anyone who overheard them understanding what they were saying, but even so he lowered his voice still further, so that she had to crane to hear.

‘This is complicated,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to get it right first time. Find my bike.’

‘Where is it?’

‘Don’t know. Last thing I knew, I was bombing down the M3. The cops will know. Say you want to get my stuff out of the panniers before it’s stolen. Now, look at the keys. See the one with two notches in the rubber? That’s the ignition. Unlock the panniers with the other one. Take everything out . . . hold it . . .’

Once again he closed his eyes. His lips went taut as a spasm of pain came and died away.

‘Shall I get someone?’ Letta whispered.

His grip closed on her hand. After almost a minute his face relaxed and he let out a sigh.

‘I’m OK,’ he whispered. ‘Right, you’ve taken everything out. Close the panniers and lock them. Now take the ignition key – got that? – put it into the locks and turn it twice in the wrong direction. You’ll hear a click. Unlock the panniers again with the other key. They’ve got false bottoms. You’ll find two packets, one yellow, one black. Take them out. Keep them separate if you can. Don’t let anyone see them. Push the false bottoms shut – they’ll latch – and lock the panniers. Take the packets home and hide them somewhere. Separate. They’re quite safe if they’re separate. They’re safe anyway, Sis, but you can be dead sure if they’re separate. Got all that?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Good girl. Now the next thing is to ring Hector – number’s in my address book in the panniers. Do it from a call box. Chances are our phone’s tapped. Tell him you’re Vivian’s sister. Not Van, Vivian. Don’t say anything about bikes or accidents. He’ll ask you a question. When you answer, if you’ve got the packets OK, get “yellow” into your answer. He’ll make it easy. But if something’s gone wrong, “red”. Got that?’