Peter Dickinson - Shadow of a Hero

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘No time. He’ll want a number to call you back. He’ll have to get out to a call box, because his line’s going to be tapped too. Have you got a friend you can ask, a neighbour? Think of someone. And when you give him the number subtract six from it. Right?’

‘I suppose so, but . . .’

‘This is for Varina, Sis.’

‘All right.’

‘And you’re going to do this by yourself. You’re not going to tell anyone – anyone at all – what you’re up to?’

Letta looked at him and didn’t speak.

‘Varina, Sis. Varina,’ he whispered.

‘All right.’

‘Promise? Bones of St Joseph?’

‘Promise.’

She saw him relax. His eyes closed but his mouth fell open. His breath came in small sighs. She thought he’d fainted until he spoke again.

‘That’s a load off my mind,’ he whispered. ‘Now you can go and tell that nurse to give me something to stop it hurting. I had to make as if it wasn’t too bad till I’d seen you, or I might have been too dopey to explain.’

Letta found Momma listening to the Ward Sister. Without a word Momma hugged her to her side and went on listening. Van’s life wasn’t in danger, but his right foot was badly crushed and might need to be amputated. That was the worst thing, but his arm was broken in three places too, and his collar-bone, and he’d got several broken ribs, one of which had gone into his lung, so they’d had to drain a lot of blood out of it. Letta didn’t interrupt. It wasn’t easy with Momma there. She couldn’t explain about Van not wanting drugs till he’d seen her, and if she just said he’d started to hurt badly, they might think something new was wrong. To her relief Momma thanked the Sister and let go of her.

‘Do you mind waiting here, darling?’ she said. ‘I think one at a time’s enough.’

As soon as she’d gone, Letta explained, just saying it was something family Van had wanted to tell her about.

‘I’m sorry,’ she finished. ‘You see, I can’t explain, but he doesn’t want to bother Momma with it. It isn’t really that important, but . . .’

‘Don’t you worry, dear,’ said the Sister. ‘I knew he’d got something on his mind, and as long as he stops fretting about it now, it’s all the same to me. That’s what matters, keeping him quiet, isn’t it? Good looker, isn’t he, though? Broken a few hearts in his time, I’ll be bound.’

She almost winked. Obviously she thought the ‘family’ problem must be something to do with Van’s love-life. Letta managed to smile.

She wanted to be alone, to try to think, so she went slowly out to the waiting area by the main doors and settled into a corner. She was worried sick. There was only one thing she could think of that might be in the packets . . . two of them . . . absolutely safe if they were kept separate . . . he must have been a bit delirious to tell her that much . . . she’d promised on the bones of St Joseph . . . he was her brother . . . it was for Varina . . .

She hadn’t got anywhere when Momma came out and sat beside her, stiff and controlled.

‘I knew this was going to happen,’ she said. ‘I’ve had nightmares about it. I’ve hated that bloody bike from the moment I saw it. Let’s hope it’s a write-off.’

‘But he’s going to be all right?’ said Letta.

‘All right? With that foot? Oh, darling! You’ve seen little boys running? Lumps with legs? Van wasn’t like that, ever. When he was only five he ran properly, like a deer, beautiful . . . Get me some tea, darling. It’ll be disgusting, but I can’t drive like this.’

‘Why don’t we walk home and come back for the car?’

Momma stared into space. Letta guessed she was remembering what Van had looked like, a small, dark child running like a deer.

‘All right,’ she said suddenly. ‘Let’s do that.’

There was a young policeman in the hall, talking to Grandad, loud and slow, because he was bothered by Grandad’s accent and had decided he must be stupid. He turned with relief to Momma, who took him into the living-room, while Letta went into the kitchen with Grandad and told him about Van’s accident. She put an extra mug onto the tray, but by the time she carried it through, the voices had stopped and the policeman had gone.

Momma drank her mug in silence, standing by the window and staring out at the shaggy old rose bushes.

‘He could be dead,’ she said, not turning round. ‘He was coming down the outside lane when a van pulled out in front of him and forced him into the central barrier. They don’t think he was going desperately fast. The woman in the car behind him saw it all. He was thrown off his bike and landed half on the roadway and half on the central barrier and then the bike came slithering along and went over his legs. She managed to stop just in time, and there was a doctor in another car which stopped too. The ambulance was there in twenty minutes.’

‘I’m sorry,’ was all Letta could think of to say. ‘Would you like some more tea?’

Momma shook her head and went on staring out of the window. Grandad came across and put his arm round her shoulders. She didn’t seem to notice. She sighed, shook her head and tried to laugh.

‘God, I wish I hadn’t given up smoking,’ she said. ‘I bet there isn’t a cigarette in the house. Never mind. They want us to go and get his stuff from the bloody bike. I don’t think I can bear to look at it.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Letta. ‘You can just sit in the car.’

‘Oh, would you, darling? You don’t mind?’

‘Of course not. Where’s the bike?’

‘At a garage in King’s Worthy. He must have been almost home.’

‘We could get a taxi if . . .’

‘No, I’ll be all right. We’ve got to collect the car in any case.’

‘Are you going to ring Poppa?’

‘I can’t till – oh, God – at least ten o’clock tonight. He’s on a survey.’

‘I will call Steff and Mollie if you like,’ said Grandad.

‘Oh, yes, please. And if you could wait by our telephone, in case . . . in case . . . Oh, I’ll call you from the garage.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Grandad. ‘Oh, my dearest child, I am grieving for you.’

‘It’s all right. That’s what we’ve got to hang on to. It’s all right. He could be dead, and he isn’t!’

Momma drove more slowly than usual, but perfectly calmly. They found the garage and knew at once it was the right one, because the bike in its unmistakable colours was parked in a side-area behind the forecourt, next to an old yellow Mini with its bonnet stove in. The bike itself looked almost all right, apart from having a smashed headlamp. Momma stared ahead, trying not to see it.

‘Why don’t you go and phone Grandad?’ said Letta.

‘I’m going to. In any case, we’ll have to go and tell them who we are or they’ll think we’re stealing.’

They found a young man in oily overalls who didn’t even ask for identification. Only as they were turning away he said, ‘Them panniers is locked, you know. You’ll be needing the keys.’

Momma stared at him, not seeming to understand.

‘It’s all right,’ said Letta quickly. ‘Van gave them to me.’

Momma didn’t seem to notice anything odd, and started asking about telephones. Letta went round to the bike. She’d brought a grip and a carrier-bag. Trying to stand so that what she was doing was screened from the road – the Mini was a help – she unlocked the right-hand pannier. It was scraped and dented but the key turned easily and the lid opened. She took out two plastic bags full of clothes and a pair of trainers, put them in the grip, closed the lid, locked it, swapped the keys, turned the new one twice the wrong way, heard a sharp click from inside, swapped the keys back and opened the pannier again. What had seemed to be the bottom of it had opened up on a spring, and underneath was a yellow packet about the size of a thick paperback. She took it out and slipped it into the grip beneath the bags of clothes.